17764	----	[Transcribers note: This project has some lovely illustrations that are best enjoyed by viewing the HTML edition.] King Winter Published by Gustav W. Seitz Hamburg. ENTP at Stationer's Hall [Illustration] The sky is dull and grey, Piercing and chill the blast, Each step resounds on the frosty ground, Winter is come at last. * * * * * Mamma sits by the fire Her little ones round her knees. "How cosy we are, Mamma," they cry, "Tell us something, if you please." [Illustration] [Illustration] "Tell us about King Winter, And about Jack Frost, his man; We'll not be noisy or naughty at all, But as good as ever we can." * * * * * "Well then;" says mamma, "you, Jenny, May knit and listen, my dear; And Johnny may split up wood, to make The fire burn bright and clear." [Illustration] [Illustration] King Winter dwells in the North; Far away in the Frozen Zone, In a palace of snow he holds his court, And sits on an icy throne. * * * * * He has cushions of course: his Queen Made them out of her wedding gown. Stuffing them well with snowflakes fine, And soft as eiderdown. [Illustration] [Illustration] The King has a trusty servant, Jack Frost is his name; his nose Is raspberry red, his beard is white, And stiff as a crutch it grows. * * * * * Old Jack is a sturdy good fellow, And serves their Majesties well; He's here and he's there, and he's everywhere, And does more than I can tell. [Illustration] [Illustration] Each year, as the day comes round, The king and his royal train Set off on a tour through the wide wide world, And sweep over mountain and plain. * * * * * His Majesty fails not to visit Every clime that's not too hot, To look in upon both high and low, From the palace down to the cot. [Illustration] [Illustration] Jack Frost has a busy time then, But he's helped and advised by the Queen, That all may be right when the King goes forth, And everything fit to be seen. * * * * * That the King may have pleasant travel, And no stone hurt his royal toe, Her Majesty spreads all over the earth, A carpet of downy snow. [Illustration] [Illustration] Fine mirrors the King delights in: None are finer than Jack can make: And in matchless sheets of crystal clear He lays them on river and lake. * * * * * The trees, all naked and drear, He robes in the purest white, And with icicles shining with rainbow hues, He makes their branches bright. [Illustration] [Illustration] And for want of buds and blossoms To strew in his Majesty's way, With magic flowers of his own device He makes the windows gay. * * * * * These wonders wrought in a single night May well excite surprise; Amazed is the sun when he gets up at dawn, And he stares with all his eyes. [Illustration] [Illustration] Then out come all the boys and girls, Jack's handiwork to view, And their noses and cheeks turn red with cold, Some of them even turn blue. * * * * * They pelt each other with snow, Roll it up in a mighty ball, And shout and laugh and scamper about, And heels over head they fall. [Illustration] [Illustration] They make a huge man of snow, As grand as a Russian Czar, A wooden sword in his hand, in his mouth, A carrot to serve for cigar. * * * * * His eyes, his hair, and his beard, They paint as black as my shoe With burnt stick, but they spoil his nose, For they stick it rather askew. [Illustration] [Illustration] Then what do you think? For a cockshot They take him; they pelt him and hit; They knock of the snowman's ears and nose, But he does not mind it a bit. * * * * * Hurrah! for the good thick ice. Oh! isn't it jolly? They slide, They skate, and in sleighs so fine they go, And swift as the wind they glide. [Illustration] [Illustration] King Winter laughs at the sport, Cries "Bravo!" and claps his hands, And calling in haste for his man, Jack Frost, He gives him these commands: * * * * * "Go see the papas and mammas, And bring me word what they say: Have the children been good and well behaved, Since last I came this way?" [Illustration] [Illustration] The King trims Christmas trees, To give to good girls and boys, With tapers and trinkets of silver and gold, And all sorts of dainties and toys. * * * * * The Queen cuts twigs of birch, Of birch so supple and keen, And daintily ties them up into rods The finest that ever were seen. [Illustration] [Illustration] Soon with this word to the King Jack Frost comes back at a trot: "Good have most of the children been, But some of them have not." * * * * * The King gives him the pretty trees, The Queen the rods so smart, And away goes Jack again with his load, Till every house has its part. [Illustration] [Illustration] Cakes, mince-pies nuts and apples, Good children get from the King. You can guess what the naughty get, The rods are the only thing. * * * * * "Oh dear mamma," cries Jenny, "Johnny's been good, and so have I! Pray tell Jack Frost we don't want the rod, Oh! do ask him to put it by." [Illustration] [Illustration] Mamma smiles on her darlings, They run to her, kiss her, and say: "How long do you think will it be, Mamma, Ere King Winter goes away?" * * * * * "He will lay upon Baby's cradle The snowdrops that early come forth; And then, my dears, he will bid us good bye And go back to his home in the North." [Illustration] 
10220	----	DADDY TAKES US SKATING By HOWARD R. GARIS 1914 CHAPTER I A COLD NIGHT "Oh, how red your nose is!" cried little Mabel Blake, one day, as her brother Hal came running out of the school yard, where he had been playing with some other boys. Mabel was waiting for him to walk home with her as he had promised. "So's your's red, too, Mab!" Harry said. "It's as red--as red as some of the crabs we boiled at our seashore cottage this summer." "Is my nose red?" asked Mab of some of her girl friends. "It surely is!" replied Jennie Bruce. "All our noses are red!" she went on. "It's the cold that makes 'em so. It's very cold to-day, and soon it will be winter, with lots of snow and ice! Oh! I just love winter!" "Come on, Hal!" called Mab. "Let's hurry home before it gets any colder!" "Let's run!" suggested Hal. "When you run you get warm, and you don't mind the cold." "What makes us get warm when we run?" his sister inquired, as she took hold of his hand and raced along beside him. "I don't know," Hal answered, "but we'll ask Daddy when we get home. He can tell us everything." "Huh! Not everything!" cried Sammie Jones, one of the nice boys with whom Hal played, "Your father doesn't know everything." "Yes he does, too!" exclaimed Hal. Doesn't he, Mab?" "Yep!" answered the little girl, shaking her head from side to side so fast that you could hardly tell which were her curls and which was her hair ribbon. "Huh! Does your father know what makes a steam engine go?" asked Sammie. "Sure he does!" said Hal. "And he told us about it once, too; didn't he, Mab?" "Yes, he did," the little girl answered. "I know, too. It's hot water in the boiler that makes it go. The hot water swells up, and turns into steam, and the steam pushes on the wheels, and that makes the engine go." "And our Daddy knows what makes an automobile go, too," went on Hal. "He knows everything." "Huh! Well, I guess mine does then, too!" spoke Sammie. I'm going to ask him what--what--makes it lightning!" "And then will you tell us?" asked Mab, for she and Hal wanted to know about everything they saw. "Yes, I'll tell you," promised Sammie. "And we'll ask Daddy Blake what makes us warm inside when we run," went on Hal, "and then we'll tell you that, Sammie." The children ran home from school, and, thought it was cold, for it was almost winter now, they did not mind it. Their noses got more and more red, it is true, but they knew when they were in the house, near the warm fire, the red would all fade out. Hal and Mab said good-bye to Sammie, as he turned down his street, and then the little Blake boy and girl, hand in hand, ran on to their house. As they reached it they saw their mamma and their Aunt Lolly out in the front yard, bringing in pots of flowers and vines. "Quick, children!" called Mamma Blake, "You are just in time! Here, Hal, you and Mab put down your books" and help us to carry in the flowers. Take only the small pots, and don't drop them, or get any dirt on your clothes." "Oh, I'm sure something will happen if you let the children carry any of the flowers!" cried Aunt Lolly, who was a dear, fussy little old lady. "They'll drop them on their toes, or spill the dirt on the floor--or something." "Oh, I guess not," laughed Mamma Blake. "Anyhow we need help to get all the plants in before dark. There is going to be a very heavy frost, and everything will freeze hard to-night. It will be very cold!" "Is that why you are bringing in the plants, mamma?" asked Mab. "Yes, so they will not freeze and die," Mrs. Blake answered. "Flowers freeze very easily." The children were glad to help their mother and Aunt Lolly. Roly-Poly, the fat little white poodle dog, tried to help, too, but he upset more plants than he carried in, though he did manage to drag one pot to the steps. Besides, Roly-Poly was always running off to look for a clothespin, or something like that, to bury under the earth, making believe, I suppose, that it was a bone. "The ground will soon be frozen too hard for you to dig in it with your paws, Roly-Poly," said Mamma Blake, when it was nearly dark, and all the plants had been brought into the warm kitchen. "Come, now children," she called. "Wash your hands, and supper will soon be ready. Then Daddy will be here, and he will shake down the furnace fire, and make it hot, for it is going to be a very cold night." A little later, when supper was almost ready, a step was heard in the front hall. "Oh, here comes Daddy now!" cried Mab, making a rush for the door. "Let's ask him what makes the cold," exclaimed Hal, "and why we get warm inside when we run." Hal was very curious. "Ah, here we are!" cried Mr. Blake, with a jolly laugh, as he came in rubbing his ears. He caught Hal up in one arm, and Mab in the other. "Oh, how cold your cheeks are, Daddy!" cried Mab as she kissed him. "Yes, it is going to be a frosty night, and freeze," he said. "And if it freezes enough I will tell you a secret I have been keeping for some time." "Oh Daddy! Another secret!" cried Mab. "Tell us what it is, please!" "Wait until we see if it freezes hard enough to-night," replied her papa. CHAPTER II THE ICE IN THE BOTTLE Hal and Mab were so excited at hearing their father speak about a new secret, that they could hardly eat their supper. There were so many questions they wanted to ask. But they managed to clear their plates, and then, when Mr. Blake had on his slippers, and had put plenty of coal on the furnace, Hal climbed up on one knee, and Mab on the other. "Now, Daddy, please tell us the secret," begged the little girl. "And tell us what makes water freeze, and how it gets cold, and what makes us warm when we run," added Hal. "Sammie Jones is going to ask his father what makes it lightning in a thunder storm." "My goodness me sakes alive, and some peanut candy!" cried Daddy Blake with a laugh. "What a lot of questions!" "But the secret first, please," begged Mab. "Well, let me see if it is going to be cold enough for me to tell you," said Mr. Blake. "It must be freezing cold, or the secret will be of no use." Daddy Blake went to the door, outside of which hung an instrument called a thermometer. I guess you have seen them often enough. A thermometer is a glass tube, fastened to a piece of wood or perhaps tin, and inside is a thin, shiny column. This column is mercury, or quicksilver. Some thermometers have, instead of mercury, alcohol, colored red, so it can easily be seen. You see mercury, or alcohol, will not freeze, except in much colder weather than you ever have where you live, unless you live at the North Pole. Up there it gets so cold that sometimes alcohol will became as thick as molasses, and then it is not of any use in a thermometer. But mercury will not freeze, even at the North Pole. The word thermometer means something by which heat can be measured. "Thermos" is a Greek word, meaning heat, and "Meter" means to measure. Though of course a thermometer will measure cold as well as heat. "Is it cold enough?" asked Hal, as Daddy Blake came back from looking at the thermometer. "Not quite," his father answered. "But the mercury is going down the tube." "What makes it go down?" asked Mab. "Well, let me think a minute, and I'll see if I can make it simple enough so you can understand," said Daddy Blake. Those of you who have read the other "Daddy" books know how many things Mr. Blake told his children, and what good times Hal and Mab had with him. He was always taking them somewhere, and often one or the other of the children would call out: "Oh, Daddy is going to take us walking!" Sometimes perhaps it might not be for a walk. It might be for a trip in the steam cars. But, wherever it was, Hal and Mab were always ready to go with their father. In the first book I told you how Daddy Blake took Hal and Mab camping. They went to live in the woods in a white tent and had lots of fun. Once they were frightened in the night, but it was only because Roly-Poly, their poodle dog-- But there, I'm not going to spoil it by telling you, when you might want to read the book for yourself. In the second volume, called "Daddy Takes Us Fishing," I made up a story about how Hal and Mab went to the seashore cottage, and learned to catch different kinds of fish; even the queer, pinching crabs, that turned red when you boiled them. Once Mab fell overboard, and the children nearly drifted out to sea, but they got safely back. After that they went to the big animal show. And in the book "Daddy Takes Us to the Circus," I told you how Hal and Mab were accidentally taken away in one of the circus wagons, and how they traveled all night. And the next day they rode on the elephant's back, and also on a camel's and they went in the big parade. Oh! it was just wonderful the adventures they had! Hal and Mab lived with their papa and mamma, and Aunt Lolly, in a fine house in the city. But they often went to the country and to other places where they had good times. In the family was also Uncle Pennywait. That wasn't his real name, but the children called him that because he so often said: "Wait a minute and I'll give you a penny." Hal and Mab used to buy lollypops with the pennies their uncle gave them. And then--Oh, yes, I mustn't forget Roly-Poly, the funny, fat, poodle dog who was always hiding things in holes in the ground, thinking they were bones, I guess. Sometimes he would even hide Aunt Lolly's spectacles and she would have the hardest work finding them. Oh, such hard work! "Well, Daddy," asked Mab, after Mr. Blake had sat silent for some time, "have you thought of a way to tell us what makes the shiny stuff in the--in the--in the--Oh! I can't say that big word!" she finished with a sigh. "The mercury in the thermometer!" laughed Daddy Blake. "You want to know what makes it go down? Well, it's the cold. You see cold makes anything get smaller and shrink, and heat makes things swell up, and get larger. That's why the steam from hot water swells up and makes the engine go, and pull the cars. "And in hot weather the mercury swells, puffs itself out and creeps up inside the little glass tube. In winter the mercury gets cold, and shrinks down, just as it is doing to-night." "But will it get cold enough so you can tell us the secret?" Hal wanted to know, most anxiously. "Perhaps," said his father. "We will try it and see. I will fill a bottle with water, and we will set it out on the back porch to freeze. If it freezes by morning I will know that I can tell you the secret." "Oh, do we have to wait until morning?" cried Mab, in disappointed tones. "That won't be long," laughed her father. "You can hardly keep your eyes open now. I guess the sand man has been here. Go to bed, and it will soon be morning. Then, if there is ice in the bottle, I'll tell you the secret." Daddy Blake took a bottle, and filled it with water. He put the cork in tightly, and then twisted some wires over the top. "What are the wires for?" asked Hal. "So the ice, that I think will freeze inside the bottle, will not push out the cork," explained Daddy Blake. "Now off to bed with you!" You may be sure Hal and Mab did not want to go to bed, even if they were sleepy. They wanted to stay up and watch the water in the bottle freeze. But Mamma Blake soon had them tucked snugly under the covers. Then Daddy Blake fixed the furnace fire for the night, as it was getting colder and colder. Next he opened a package he had brought home with him. Something inside jingled and clanked, and shone in the lamplight as brightly as silver. "What have you there?" asked Aunt Lolly. "That's the children's secret," answered Daddy Blake, as he wrapped the package up again. Hal was up first in the morning, but Mab soon followed him. "Daddy, where is the bottle?" called Hal. "May we get it?" asked Mab. "Oh, it is much too cold for you to go out until you are warmly dressed!" cried Daddy. "I'll bring the bottle in so you can see it." He went out on the porch in his bath robe and slippers, and quickly brought in the bottle of water he had set out the night before. "Oh, look!" cried Hal. For the bottle was broken into several pieces, and standing up on the board on which it had been set, was a solid, clear piece of ice, just the shape of the glass bottle itself. "Oh, somebody broke our bottle!" cried Mab. "Now we can't hear the secret!" CHAPTER III THE NEW SKATES Daddy Blake laughed when Mab said that. "Yes, the bottle is broken," he said, "but it was the ice that broke it." "How could it?" Hal wanted to know. "I told you last night," said Daddy Blake, when the children were at breakfast table a little later, "that heat made things get larger, and that cold made them get smaller. That was true, but sometimes, as you see now, freezing cold makes water get larger. That is when it is cold enough to make ice. "As long as there was only water in the bottle it was all right, the glass was not broken. But in the night it got colder and colder. All the warmth was drawn off into the cold air. Then the water froze, and swelled up. The ice tried to push the cork out of the bottle, just as you would try to push up the lid of a box if you were shut up inside one." "I guess the wires over the cork wouldn't let the ice push it out," spoke Hal. "That's it," Daddy Blake answered. "And so, as the ice could not lift out the cork, it swelled to the sides, instead of to the top, and pushing out as hard as it could, it broke the bottle. The glass fell away, and left a little statue of ice, just the shape of the bottle, standing in its place. "How wonderful!" cried Mab, her blue eyes open wide. "Yes, the freezing of ice is very wonderful," Daddy Blake said, as he passed Hal his third slice of bread and jam. "If the cracks in a great rock became filled with water, and the water froze, the swelling of the ice would split the great, strong stone. "There is scarcely anything that can stand against the swelling of freezing ice. If you filled a big, hollow cannon ball with water, and let it freeze, the ice would burst the iron." "It burst our milk bottle once, I know," said Aunt Lolly. "Yes," spoke Daddy Blake. "That is why, on cold mornings, the milkman raises the tin top on the bottle. That gives the frozen milk a chance to swell up out of the top, and saves the bottle from cracking." "One morning last winter," said Mamma Blake, "when we had milk bottles with the pasteboard tops, the milk froze and there was a round bit of frozen milk sticking up out of the bottle, with the round pasteboard cover on top, like a hat." "And that's what saved the bottle from breaking," said Daddy Blake, "If I had not wired down the cork of our bottle the water would have pushed itself up, after it was frozen, and would have stuck out of the bottle neck, like a round icicle." "But what about our secret?" asked Hal. "Is it cold enough for you to tell us about it?" "I think so," answered Daddy Blake, with a queer little twinkle in his eyes. "As long as the water in the bottle was frozen, the pond will soon be covered with ice," he said. "And we need ice to make use of the secret." "Oh, I just wonder what it is?" cried Mab, clapping her hands. "I think I can guess," spoke Hal. Daddy Blake went out in the hall, and came back with two paper bundles. He placed one at Mab's place, and gave the other to Hal. "I want something, so I can cut the string!" Hal cried, and he laid his package down on the floor, while he searched through his pockets for his knife. Just then Roly-Poly came into the breakfast room, barking. He saw Hal's package on the floor, and, thinking, I suppose, that it must be meant for him to play with, the little poodle dog at once began to drag it away. Though, as the ground was frozen, I don't know how he was going to bury it, if that was what he intended to do. "Hi there, Roly!" cried Hal. "Come back with that, if you please, sir!" "Bow-wow!" barked the little poodle dog, and I suppose he was saying: "Oh, can't I have it a little while?" By this time Mab had her package open. "Oh!" she cried. "It's skates! Ice skates! Oh, I've always wanted a pair!" "Ha! That's what I thought they were, when Daddy talked so much about ice and freezing," said Hal. He had managed, in the meanwhile, to get his bundle away from Roly-Poly. Opening it, Hal found in the package a pair of shining ice skates, just like those Mab was trying on her shoes. "Oh, thank you, Daddy!" Hal cried. "And I thank you, too!" added Mab. I'd get up and kiss you, only my mouth is all jam. I'll kiss you twice as soon as I've washed." "That will do," laughed her father. "Do you like your skates, children?" "Oh, do we?" they cried, and by the way they said it you could easily tell that they did. "And Daddy's going to take us skating; aren't you?" asked Hal as he measured his skates on his shoes to see if they would fit. They did. Oh! Daddy Blake knew just how to buy things to have them right, I tell you. "Yes, I'll take you skating, and show you how to stand up on the ice--that is as soon as it is thick enough on the pond to make it safe, and hold us up," promised the children's father. Just then Mamma Blake came running up from down the cellar. She was much excited. "Oh, come quickly!" she called to her husband. "Something has happened to the stationary wash-tubs. The water is spurting all over the cellar. Oh, do hurry!" CHAPTER IV THE FROZEN POND Daddy Blake hurried down cellar. Hal and Mab carefully putting away their new skates, followed their father. Roly-Poly, the little fat poodle dog looked around to see if he could find anything to drag off and hide, but, seeing nothing, he went down cellar also, barking loudly at each step. "Hal! Mab!" called Aunt Lolly. "Come back here, dears!" "We want to see what has happened!" answered Hal. "Oh, you'll get hurt! I'm sure you will!" exclaimed the dear, little, fussy old lady aunt. "No, it isn't anything serious!" called Daddy Blake when he saw what had happened. "Only one of the water pipes has burst. We must send for the plumber. Wait, children, until I shut off the water, and then you can come down. It is like a shower-bath now." Daddy Blake found the faucet, by which he could shut off the water at the stationary wash-tubs, and then, when it had stopped spurting from the burst pipe, he called to Hal and Mab: "Now you may come and see how strong ice is. Not only does it burst glass bottles, but it will even crack an iron pipe." "Just like it cracked a cannon ball!" cried Hal, and he was in such a hurry to get down the cellar steps that he jumped two at a time. That might have been all right, only Roly-Poly, the little fat poodle dog, did the same thing. He became tangled up in Hal's legs, and, a moment later, the little boy and the dog were rolling toward the bottom of the steps, over and over just like a pumpkin. "Oh!" cried Mab, holding fast to the handrail, a little frightened. "Oh my!" exclaimed Mamma Blake at the top of the cellar steps. "What has happened?" "Oh my goodness me sakes alive and some orange pudding!" exclaimed Aunt Lolly. "I just knew _something_ would happen!" But nothing much did, after all, for Daddy Blake, as soon as he heard Hal falling, ran to the foot of the stairs, and there he caught his little boy before Hal had bounced down many steps. "There you are!" cried Daddy Blake, as he set Hal upright on his feet. "Not hurt a bit; are you?" "N-n-n-n-no!" stammered Hal, as he caught his breath, which had almost gotten away from him. "I'm not hurt. Is Roly-Poly?" Roly was whirling about, barking and trying to catch his tail, so I guess he was not much hurt. The truth was that both Hal and Roly were so fat and plump, that falling down a few cellar steps did not hurt them in the least. "Well, now we'll look at the burst water pipe," said Daddy Blake, when the excitement was over. The water had stopped spurting out now, though there was quite a puddle of it on the cellar floor by the tubs. Mr. Blake lifted Hal across this, and showed him where there was a big crack in the water pipe. Then he showed Mab, also lifting her across the little pond in the cellar. "You see the pipe was full of water," Mr. Blake explained, "and in the night it got so cold down cellar that the water froze, just as it did in the glass bottle out on the back porch. "Then the ice swelled up, and it was so strong that it burst the strong iron pipe, splitting it right down the side." "But why didn't the water spurt out when I came down cellar earlier this morning?" asked Mamma Blake. "It did not leak then." "I suppose it was still frozen," answered her husband. "But when the furnace fire became hotter it melted the ice in the pipe and that let the water spurt out. But the plumber will soon fix it." Hal and Mab watched the plumber, to whom their papa telephoned. He had to take out the broken pipe, and put in a new piece. Afterward Hal looked at the pipe that had been split by the ice. "Why it's just as if gun-powder blew it up," he said, for once he had seen a toy cannon that had burst on Fourth of July, from having too much powder in it. "Yes, freezing ice is just as strong as gunpowder, only it works more slowly," said Daddy Blake with a smile. "Powder goes off with a puff, a flash and a roar, but ice freezes slowly." "Oh, but when are we going skating?" asked Mab, as she and her brother started for school, a little later that morning. "As soon as I can find a frozen pond," said Daddy Blake with a smile. Well wrapped up, and wearing warm gloves, Hal and Mab went to their lessons. It was so cold that wintry day, though there was no snow, that they ran instead of walking. Running made them warm. "Is my nose red?" asked Mab, when they were near the school. "Oh, it's awful red!" cried Hal. "Is mine?" "As red as a boiled lobster!" laughed Mab. "Let's run faster!" So they ran, and soon they were in a glow of warmth. "Oh!" cried Mab, as she and her brother entered the school-yard, "we forgot to ask Daddy why we get warm when we run." When the two children reached their house, after lessons were over for the day, they found their father waiting for them. He had his skates over his shoulder, dangling from a strap, and he had Hal's and Mab's in his hand. "Come, we are going to look for the frozen pond!" he said. Then Hal and Mab forgot all about asking why they became warm when they ran. They cried out joyfully: "Oh, Daddy is going to take us skating! Daddy is going to take us skating!" Across the fields they went, and in a little while they came to a place where was a pond, in which they used to fish during the summer. But now as they looked down on the water, from the top of a small hill, they saw that the pond was all frozen over. A sheet of ice covered it from edge to edge. "Oh, now we can skate!" cried Hal in delight, "Now we can try our new skates." CHAPTER V POOR ROLY-POLY "Come on!" cried Mab, as she started to run down the slope of the hill toward the frozen pond. "Come on, Hal!" "Hold on!" called Daddy Blake. "Wait a minute, Mab! Don't go on the ice yet!" Mab stopped at once. So did Hal, who had just begun to run. You see the children had gotten into the habit of stopping when their uncle called: "Wait a minute and I'll give you a penny," so it was not hard for them to do so when their father called. "Why can't I go on the ice?" asked Mab, "I must first see how thick it is," answered Daddy Blake. "What difference does that make?" Hal wanted to know. "Oh, a whole lot," said Mr. Blake. "If the ice is too thin you will break through, and go into the cold water. We must be very careful, I will see if it is thick enough." Mab waited for her father and Hal to come to where she was standing. Roly-Poly did not wait, however. Down he rushed to the frozen pond. "Oh, come back! Come back!" cried Mab. "You'll go through the ice, Roly!" But Roly-Poly paid no attention. Out on the slippery ice he ran, and then he turned around and, looking at Daddy Blake and the two children, he barked as loudly as he could. Roly-Poly was a queer dog that way. Sometimes he would mind Mab, and then, again, he would not. "I guess the ice is thick enough to hold up Roly," said Mr. Blake. "It doesn't need to be very strong for that, as Roly is so little." "How thick must it be to hold us up?" Hal wanted to know. "Well, on a small pond, ice an inch thick might hold up a little boy or girl," explained Mr. Blake. "But not very many children at a time. On a large pond the ice should be from six to eight inches thick to hold up a crowd of skaters." "Oh, does ice ever get as thick as that?" asked Hal. "Oh, yes, and much thicker. On big lakes it gets over two feet thick in cold weather," Mr. Blake said. "Then it will hold up a whole regiment of soldiers, and cannon too. Ice is very strong when once it is well frozen. But always be sure it is thick enough before going on." "How are you going to tell?" asked Mab. "By cutting a little hole through the ice," her father told her. "You can look at the edges of the hole and tell how thick the ice is. We will try it and see." With the big blade of his knife, Mr. Blake cut and chipped a hole in the ice, a little way from shore. Hal and Mab stayed on the ground watching their father, but Roly-Poly ran all about, barking as hard as he could. "I guess he is looking for something to bury in a hole," spoke Hal. But Roly could not dig in the hard ice, and the ground was also frozen too solidly for him to scratch. So all the little poodle dog could do was to bark. "There we are!" cried Mr. Blake, after a bit. "See, children, the ice is more than six inches thick. It will be safe for us to skate on!" Hal and Mab ran to look into the little hole their father had cut in the ice. It went down for more than half a foot, or six inches, like a well you dig in the sand at the seashore. But no water showed in the bottom of this hole in the ice. "The ice is good and thick," said Mr. Blake. "It will hold up all the skaters that will come on this pond." But the children and their Daddy were the only ones there now. Mr. Blake showed Hal and Mab how to put on their skates. He made the straps tight for them, and then put on his own. "Now we will see how well you can skate," said Mr. Blake. "I can!" cried Hal. "I've watched the big boys do it. I can skate!" "It's just like roller skating," said Mab, "and I can do that, I know." "Well, you may find it a little different from roller skating, Mab," her papa answered with a laugh. "Here I go!" cried Hal. He struck out on the ice, first with one foot, and then with the other, as he had been used to doing on his roller skates. And then something happened. Either Hal's feet slid out from under him, or else the whole frozen surface of the pond tilted up, and struck him on the head. He was not quite sure which it was, but it felt, he said afterward, as though the ice flew up and struck him. "Oh, be careful!" cried Daddy Blake, as he saw Hal fall. But it was too late to warn the little boy then. "Oh, he's hurt!" exclaimed Mab with a little sob, as she saw that her brother did not get up. Daddy Blake skated over to Hal, but there was no need of his help. For Hal got up himself, only he was very careful about it. He did not try to skate any more. He did not want to slip and fall. "Are you hurt?" asked Mr. Blake. "N-n-no; I guess not," Hal answered slowly. "The ice is sort of soft, I guess." "No quite as soft as snow, however," laughed Daddy Blake. "Now you had better not try to skate until I take hold of your hand. I will hold you up. Come, Mab, well take hold of hands and so help each other to stand up." Roly-Poly was rushing here and there, filled with excitement, and he was barking all the while. He was having fun too. "Now strike out slowly and carefully," directed Daddy Blake to the children. "First lean forward, with your weight on the left foot and skate, and then do the same with your right. Glide your feet out in a curve," and he showed them how to do it, keeping hold of their hands, Mab on one side and Hal on the other. In this way they did not fall down. Slowly over the ice they went. "Oh, we are skating!" cried Mab, in delight. "Isn't it fun!" shouted Hal. "At least you are beginning to skate," said Mr. Blake. Roly-Poly kept prancing around in front, running here and there, and barking louder than ever. "Don't get in our way, Roly!" called Mr. Blake with a laugh, "or we might skate right over you!" "Bow-wow!" barked the little poodle dog. And I suppose that was his way of saying: "No, I won't! I'll be good." Hal and Mab were beginning to understand the first simple rules of skating. It was not as easy as they had thought--nor was it the same as roller skating. The ice was so slippery. "Oh, look at Roly!" cried Hal, when they had stopped for a rest. "He's skating, too." A boy who had no skates had come down to the frozen pond, and, seeing the poodle dog, and knowing him to be Hal's pet, this boy wanted to have some fun. He would throw a stick on the ice, sliding it along, and Roly would race after it. He would go so fast, Roly would, that he could not stop when he reached the stick, and along he would slide, almost as if he were skating. Just as Hal called to Mab to look, Roly cook a long run and a slide. Then, all of a sudden, there was a cracking sound in the ice. A hole seemed to open, close to where the poodle dog was, and, a moment later, Roly-Poly went down, out of sight, into the cold, black water. "Poor Roly-Poly!" cried Mab. "He's drowned!" Roly-Poly had gone under the ice. Hal and Mab were ready to cry. But listen. This is a secret. Roly-Poly was not drowned! A wonderful thing happened to him, but I can not tell you about it until the end of the book. And mind, you're not to turn over the pages to find out, either. That would not be fair. Just wait, and I'll tell you when the times comes. CHAPTER VI FISHING THROUGH THE ICE "Come on, Mab," cried Hal, to his sister. "We've got to get him out! We've got to save Roly-Poly!" Letting go his father's hand, Hal started to skate toward the place where the little poodle dog had last been seen. "Wait--don't go," said Mr. Blake quickly, but there was no need. For, as soon as Hal let go of his Daddy's hands, his feet, on which were still the slippery skates, slid out from under him, and down he went again. "Oh dear!" cried Mab. "Everything is happening! Can't we save Roly, Daddy?" "Yes, perhaps," he said slowly. "But we must not go too near. Roly went down through an air hole in the ice. The ice is thin near there. It might break with us. I will go up carefully and look." Telling Hal and Mab to stay together, in a spot where he knew the ice was thick, Mr. Blake skated slowly toward the place where poor Roly-Poly had gone under. As he came near the ice began to crack again. Mr. Blake skated back. "It would be dangerous to go on," he said. "I am sorry for Roly-Poly, but it would not be wise for us to risk our lives for him. It would not be right, however much you love him." "Oh, we do love him so much!" sobbed Mab. "I'll get you another dog," said Mr. Blake, and then he had to blow his nose very hard. Maybe he was crying too, for all I know. Mind, I'm not saying for sure. "No other dog will be like Roly-Poly," said Hal, who was trying not to cry. "I'm awful sorry I threw the sticks for him to chase after," said Charlie Anderson, the boy who had been playing with the poodle dog while Hal and Mab were learning to skate. "Oh, it wasn't your fault," said Daddy Blake. "Poor Roly! I will see if I can break the ice around the hole. Maybe he is caught fast, and I can loosen the ice so he can get out." Daddy Blake took off his skates, and then, with a long piece of fence rail, while he stood on the bank, the children's papa broke the ice around the edges of the air hole. But no Roly-Poly could be seen. "Oh dear" cried Mab. "He is gone forever!" "Yes," spoke Hal, quietly, and then he put his arms around his little sister. But don't you feel badly, children. We know something Hal and Mab do not know, and we'll keep it a secret from them until it is time for the surprise. The two Blake children were so sorry their doggie had been lost through the ice, that their father thought it best to take them home. "We will have another skating lesson to-morrow," he said. "But this shows you how dangerous air holes are." "What is an air hole in the ice, Daddy?" asked Hal. "I'll tell you," said Mr. Blake. This interested Mab, and she stopped crying. Besides, if you cry when it's cold, the tears may freeze on your cheeks, like little pearls, and fall off." "An air hole," said Mr. Blake, as he walked on home with the children, "is a place where the ice has not frozen solidly. Sometimes it may be because there is a warm spring in that part of the pond, or a spring that bubbles up, and keeps the water moving. And you know moving or running water will not freeze, except in very, very cold weather. "But always be careful of air holes, for the ice around them is easily broken, and you might go through." "Poor Roly-Poly!" sighed Mab. "I wish he had been careful." "So do I," spoke Hal. "How would you like to go fishing through the ice?" asked Daddy Blake, so the children would have something new to think about, and not feel sorry about Roly. "Fishing through the ice?" cried Hal. "How can we do that? Aren't the fish frozen in the winter?" "I saw some frozen ones down at the fish store," Mab said. "Well, I don't mean that kind," laughed Daddy Blake. "There are live fish in the waters of the lakes, rivers and ponds, down under the ice. You can not catch all kinds of fish through the ice in winter, but you may some sorts--pickeral for instance." "Oh, Daddy, and will you take us fishing?" asked Mab. "I think I will, some day soon, if the cold keeps up," he said. And, surely enough he did. The weather was still very cold, and the ice froze harder and thicker. Several times Daddy Blake took the children down to the pond, and taught them about skating. They were doing very well. Then, one Saturday, when there was no school, Daddy Blake called out: "Now we'll go fishing through the ice. We'll go over to the big lake, so wrap up well, as it is quite cold. We'll take along some lunch, and we'll build a fire on the shore and make hot chocolate." "Hurray!" cried Hal. "Oh, how lovely!" exclaimed Mab. Well wrapped up, and carrying with them their fishing things, as well as lunch, while Mr. Blake had a small axe, the little party set off for a large lake, about two miles away. When they reached it, Hal wondered how they could ever get any fish, as the water was covered with a thick sheet of ice. But Daddy Blake chopped several holes in the frozen surface, so Hal and Mab could see the dark water underneath. The holes however, were not large enough for the children to fall through. "Now we'll fish through the ice!" said Daddy Blake. "Oh, I see how it's done!" exclaimed Hal with a laugh. CHAPTER VII LEARNING TO SKATE "Now we'll bait our hooks," said Mr. Blake, when he had put the lunch, which they had brought along, safely away in a sheltered place. "And after that we will have a little skate practice to get warmed up, for it is colder than I thought." "But if we bait our hooks, and leave them in the water, won't the fish run away with our lines if we are not here to watch them?" asked Mab. "We'll fix the lines so the fish that bite will ring a little bell, to tell us to come and take them off the hook!" replied Daddy Blake with a laugh. "Oh, now I know you're fooling us!" said Hal. "No, really I am not," replied his father, but Mr. Blake could not keep the funny twinkle out of his eyes, and Hal was sure there was some joke. From a small satchel, in which he had put the things for fishing, Mr. Blake took several pieces of wire. On the ends were some bits of red cloth, and also, on each wire, a little brass bell, that went "tinkle-tinkle." "Oh, they are really bells!" cried Mab, as she heard them jingle. "Of course they are" said her father. "Now I'll tell you what we'll do. We'll bait our hook, and lower it into the water through a hole in the ice. Then, close to the hole, we'll fasten one of these pieces of wire each one of which has, on the upper end, a bell and a bit of red cloth. "When the wires are stuck in the ice we'll fasten our lines to them, and then, when the fish, down in the cold water, pulls on the baited hook he will make the piece of red cloth flutter, and he will also ring the bell." "Oh, now I see!" cried Hal. "And if we are off skating we can look over here, and if we see the red rag fluttering we'll know we have a bite, and can come and pull up the fish." "That's it," said Daddy Blake, smiling. "And if we don't happen to see the red rag fluttering, we will hear the bell ring," added Mab, clapping her hands. "How nice it is to fish this way!" The hooks were soon baited, and lowered into the water through the holes in the ice Then the other end of each fish line was made fast to a wire sticking up, with its bit of red rag, and the little brass bell. "Now we'll go skating," said Daddy Blake. "The fish themselves will tell us when they are caught. Come along." Hal and Mab had, by this time, learned to put on their own skates, though of course Hal helped his sister with the straps. "You must begin to learn to skate by yourselves," said Daddy Blake, after he had held the hands of the children for a time. "Don't be afraid, strike out for yourselves." "But s'pose we fall?" asked Mab. "That won't hurt you very much," her father said. "Be careful, of course, not to double your legs up under you, and when you tumble don't hit your head on your own skates, or any one's else. But when you feel that you are going to fall, just let yourself go naturally. If you strain, and try not to fall, you may sprain and hurt yourself more than if you fall easily. Now strike out!" Hal and Mab tried it. At first they were timid, and only took little strokes, but, after a while, they grew bolder, and did very well. They were really learning to skate. "Oh, look!" suddenly cried Hal. "My red rag is bobbing; I must have a bite!" He started in such a hurry toward the ice-hole where his line was set that he fell down. But he did not mind that, and was soon up again. However, Mab, who did not stumble, teached her line first. "Oh dear! I haven't a bite!" she sighed, for her bell was not jingling. "But I have!" cried Hal, pulling his line in. "A big one, too!" "I'll help you," said Daddy Blake, as he skated up to his little son, and when Daddy had felt of the tugging line he remarked: "Yes, that is a large fish! Up he comes!" And he pulled up Hal's fish. Just as the big, flopping pickerel was hauled out on the ice, Mab cried: "My bell is tinkling! My bell is tinkling! I've got a fish, too!" And indeed her piece of wire was moving to and fro where it was stuck up in the ice, and the bell was jingling merrily. "Wait, Mab, I'll help you!" called Daddy Blake, and, leaving Hal to take care of his own fish, the children's papa went to pull in Mab's catch. Her fish was not quite as large as was Hal's, but it was a very nice one. Then Mr. Blake called out: "Oh ho! Now there's a bite on my line!" His bell jingled quite loudly, and when the string was pulled up through the hole there was a fine, large pickerel on the hook. The fish were placed in a basket to be taken home, after having been mercifully put out of pain by a blow on the head. Then the hooks were baited again. In a little while each one had caught another fish and then Daddy Blake said: "Now we have all the fish we can use, so there is no need of catching any more. We will practice our skating a little longer, and then go home. For I am sure you children must be cold." "Oh, but aren't we going to eat the lunch we brought, before we go home?" cried Hal. "I was just wondering if you would think of that!" laughed Daddy Blake. "Yes, we will eat lunch as soon as we get a little warm by skating around, or by running." CHAPTER VIII THE SKATING RACE Daddy Blake and the two children glided to and fro over the ice of the frozen lake on their sharp steel skates. Soon all their cheeks were red and rosy, and they felt as warm inside as though they had taken some hot chocolate at the corner drug store. "Daddy," asked Hal, "what makes you warm when you run fast, or skate?" "It is because your heart pumps so much more blood up inside your body," explained Daddy Blake. "Our blood is just the same to our bodies as coal is to a steam engine. The more coal the fireman puts under the boiler (that is if it all burn well, and there is a good draft) the hotter the fire is, and the more steam there is made." "Is our blood like steam?" asked Mab, as she tried to peep down at her red nose and cheeks. But she could not see them very well so she looked at Hal's. "Well, our blood is something like steam," said Daddy Blake, with a laugh. "That is if we didn't have any blood we could not move around, and live and breathe, any more than an engine could move if it had no steam. "You see we eat food, which is fuel, or, just what coal and wood are to an engine. The food is changed into blood inside our bodies, and our heart pumps this blood through our arteries, which are like steam pipes. Our heart is really a pump, you know; a very wonderful pump." "My heart is pumping hard," said Hal, putting his hand over his thumping chest. "Well," went on his father, "the reason for that is, that when we run, or skate fast, our body uses more blood, just as an engine which is going fast uses more steam than one going slowly. The heart has to pump faster to send more blood to our arms and legs, and all over, and whenever anything goes fast, it is warmer than when it goes slowly. "If you rub your finger slowly over the window-pane, your finger will _not_ be very warm, but if you rub it back and forth as _fast_ as you can, your finger-tip will soon be almost warm enough to burn you. "That is something like what happens when you run quickly. The blood goes through your body so much faster, and your heart beats so much harder, trying to keep up, that you are soon warm. And it is a good thing to exercise that way, for it makes the blood move faster, and thus by using up the old blood, you make room for new, and fresh. "But I guess we've had enough talk about our hearts now," spoke Daddy Blake with a laugh. "We'll eat some lunch and then take home our fish." Daddy Blake built a little fire on the shore, near the frozen lake, and over this blaze, when the flames were leaping up, and cracking, he heated the chocolate he had brought. Then it was poured out into cups, and nice chicken sandwiches were passed on little wooden plates. "Isn't this fun!" cried Mab as she sipped the last of her chocolate. "Indeed it is," agreed Hal. "I'm coming skating over to this lake every day!" "Well, I guess not every day," spoke Daddy Blake with a smile. "But we'll come as often as we can, for I want you to learn to be good skaters. And besides, there may be snow soon, and that will spoil the ice for us." "Oh, I hope it doesn't snow for a long time," sighed Mab. "So do I!" echoed her brother. "But, if it does, we can have some other fun. Daddy will take us coasting; won't you?" "I guess so," answered Mr. Blake. The lunch things were packed in the basket, and then Hal and Mab went back to where the pickerel fish they had caught were left lying on the ice. "Why, they're frozen stiff!" Hal cried, as he picked up one fish, which was like a stick of wood. "That shows you how cold it is," said Mr. Blake. "But mamma can thaw out the fish by putting them in water, and we can have them for dinner to-morrow." "When are we coming skating again?" asked Hal as they were on their way home. "Oh, in a few days," his father promised. "Meanwhile you and Mab can practice on the pond near home, and then you can have a race." "Oh, good!" cried Mab. "And I'll win!" "Huh! I guess not!" exclaimed Hal. "Boys always win races; don't they, Daddy." "Well, not always," said Mr. Blake. "And Mab is becoming a good little skater." "Well, I'll win!" declared Hal. "You see if I don't!" The next day was too cold for the children to go skating with their Daddy, but a little later in the week it was warmer, and one afternoon, coming home early from the office Mr. Blake said: "Come on now. I hear you two youngsters have been practicing skating on the pond, so we'll go over there and have a race." "Hurray!" cried Hal. "Oh, I do hope I win!" exclaimed Mab. There were not many other skaters on the ice when the children and their father reached it Mr. Blake marked off a place, by drawing two lines on the ice with his skate. The space between them was about as long as from the Blake's front gate to their back fence. "Now, Hal and Mab," said Daddy Blake, "take your places on this first line. And when I call 'Go!' start off. The one who reaches the other line first will win." Hal and Mab took their places. They were so eager to start that they stepped over the line, before it was time. "Go back," said Daddy Blake, smiling. Finally they were both evenly on the line. The other skaters came up to watch. "Go!" suddenly cried Daddy Blake. CHAPTER IX A WINTER PIC-NIC Hal and Mab started off on their race so evenly that neither one was ahead of the other. The two children had learned to skate farily well by this time, though of course they could not go very far, nor very fast. And they could not cut any "fancy figures" on the ice such as doing the "grape-vine twist," or others like that. "I--I--I think I'm going to win," said Mab as she skated along beside her brother. "You'd better--better not talk," Hal panted. "That takes your breath, and it's hard enough to breathe anyhow, when you're skating fast, without talking." "You're talking," said Mab. "But I'm not going to talk any more," Hal answered, and he closed his lips tightly. On and on they skated, side by side. "Oh, Hal's going to win!" cried some of the children who had gathered around to watch. "No, Mab is!" shouted a number of little girls who were her friends. "Mab will win!" Sometimes Mab would be in the lead, and then Hal would come up with a rush and pass her. It was not very far to the "finish line," as the end of the race is called. "Oh, I do hope I get there first!" thought Mab, her little heart beating very fast. "I hope I win!" thought Hal. And that is always the way it is in races--each one wants to be first. That is very right and proper, for it is a good thing to try and be first, or best, in everything we do. Only we must do it fairly, and not be mean, or try to get in the way of anyone else. And, if we don't win, after we have done our best, why we must try and be cheerful about it. And never forget to say to the one who has come out ahead: "Well, I am sorry I lost, but I am glad you won." That is being polite, or, as the big folks say; when they have races, that is being "sportsman-like," and that that is the finest thing in the world--to be really "sportsman-like" at all times. "Go on! Go on!" cried Daddy Blake. "Don't stop, children! Finish out the race!" But Hal and Mab were getting a little tired now, though the race was such a short one. Gradually Hal was skating ahead. "Oh dear! He's going to win!" thought Mab, but, just then, all of a sudden, Hal's skate glided over a twig on the ice, and down he went. "Ker-bunk-o!" Before Mab could stop herself she had slid over the finish line. "Oh, Mab wins! Mab has won the race!" cried her girl friends. Poor Hal, who was not much hurt, I am glad to say, got up. He looked sorrowfully at his sister who had gone ahead of him, when he stumbled. He did want so much to win! But Mab was a real "sportswoman," for there are such you know--even little girls. "Hal, I didn't win!" she exclaimed, skating back to her brother, "It isn't a fair race when some one falls; is it Daddy?" "Well, perhaps in a real big race they would count it, even if some of the skaters fell," he said. "But this time you need not count--" "Well, I'm not going to count this!" interrupted Mab. "I don't want to win the race that way. Come on, Hal. We won't count this, and we'll race over again!" Now I call that real good of Mab. Don't you? Hal looked happy again. He didn't even mind the bruise on his knee, where it had hit on the ice. "Well, I'd be glad to race over again," Hal said. "Next time I won't fall." "Very well, race over once more," said Daddy Blake. So Hal and Mab did, and this time, after some hard skating, Hal crossed the finish line a little ahead of his sister. Poor Mab tried not to look sad but she could not help it. "You--you won the race, Hal," she said. "Well, maybe I got started a little ahead of you," he replied kindly. "Anyhow, I'm older and of course I'm stronger. Oughtn't I give her a head-start, Daddy?" "I think it would be more fair, perhaps," said Daddy Blake with a smile. He was glad his children were so thoughtful. "Then let's race again," suggested Hal. "Oh, hurrah!" cried all the other children. "Another race! That's three!" This time Hal let Mab start off a little ahead of him, when Mr. Blake called "Go!" This "head-start," as we used to call it when I was a boy, is called a "handicap" by the big folk, but you don't need to use that big word, unless you care to. "Oh, Mab is going to win! Mab is going to win!" shouted the children. And she did. She crossed the line ahead of Hal. And Oh! how glad she was. "Now we've each won a race!" cried Hal, as he helped his sister take off her skates. A few days after that Daddy Blake asked the children: "How would you like to go on a winter picnic?" "A winter pic-nic!" cried Hal. "What is that?" "Why we'll take our skates, and a basket of lunch, and go over to the big lake. We'll have a long skate, and at noon we'll eat our lunch in a log cabin I know of on the shores of the lake. That will be our winter pic-nic." "Oh, how fine!" cried Mab. "When may we go?" "To-morrow," answered Daddy Blake. "Oh, I'm sure something will happen!" cried Aunt Lolly. And something did, but it was something nice, and soon you will know all about it. CHAPTER X CUTTING THE ICE Hal and Mab Blake were awake very early the next morning. Mab jumped out of bed first and ran to the window. "Is it raining?" asked Hal, from his room. He put one foot out from under the covers to see how cold it was--I mean he wanted to see how cold the air in his room was--not how cold his foot was; for that was warm, from having been asleep in bed with him all night. "No, it isn't raining," said Mab, "but it looks as if it might snow." "I hope it doesn't snow until we have our pic-nic on the ice," exclaimed Hal, as he jumped out of bed, and began to dress. Mamma Blake was very busy cooking breakfast, and so was Aunt Lolly. They had to get the meal and also put up the lunch for the printer pic-nic. A large basket was packed full of good things to eat. I just wish I had some of them now, I'm so hungry! "Well, are you all ready?" asked Mr. Blake of the children, after breakfast. "I am, Daddy," answered Hal, pulling on his red mittens, and swinging his skates by a strap over his shoulder. "I'm all ready." "And so am I," replied Mab, as she tied her cap strings under her chin, so it would not blow away--I mean so the cap would not blow away, not Mab's chin; for that was made fast to her face, you see, and couldn't blow off, no matter how much wind whistled down the chimney. "Well, then we'll start," said Daddy Blake. Just then there came a ring at the front door bell, and into the hall tramped Charlie and Mary Johnson, who lived next door to the Blake family. The visitors were warmly dressed, and Charlie had two pairs of skates slung over his shoulder by the straps. "Oh, we're going on a pic-nic, Mary!" cried Mab, thinking perhaps her little girl friend had come to ask her to go skating. "So are we!" exclaimed Charlie, and he smiled at Daddy Blake, who laughed heartily. "Oh, how funny!" cried Hal. "Are you going to where we are going, I wonder?" The Johnson children looked at Mr. Blake and giggled. "Yes," he answered with a smile, "they are going to the same place we are, Hal and Mab. I invited them to go with us, as I thought you would like company. And I guess mamma put up lunch enough for all of us; didn't you?" he asked, turning toward his wife. "Indeed I did!" cried Mamma Blake. "There's a fine lunch." "Oh, how lovely of you to come with us!" cried Mab, as she put her arms around Mary. "It's just dandy!" shouted Hal, clapping Charlie on the back. Then, as he saw that Charlie was carrying his sister Mary's skates, Hal took Mab's and put them on a strap with his own, saying: "I'll carry them for you, Mab!" "Thank you," she said, most politely. "You are very kind." "Well, do you like my little surprise?" asked Daddy Blake as they started off toward the lake, to hold their winter pic-nic. "Surely we do!" answered Hal. "It's fine that you asked Mary and Charlie to come with us." It was quite cold out in the air, and, as Mab had said, it did look like snow. There were dull, gray clouds in the sky, and the sun did not shine. But the children were happy for all that. In a little while they reached the big frozen lake, and, putting on their skates they started to glide over the ice. "We will skate about a mile, and then we will rest, and have a little skating race, perhaps, and afterward we can eat our lunch." "And what will we do after that?" asked Charlie. "Oh, skate some more," answered Daddy Blake. "That is if you want to." The children had much fun on their skates. And once, when Charlie sat down on the ice, to punch with his knife a hole in his strap, so that it would fit tighter, something happened. Charlie laid down his knife, and when he went to pick it up, he found that it had sunk down in the ice, making a little hole for itself to hide in. "Oh, look here!" he cried. "My knife has dug down in the ice just like your dog Roly-Poly used to dig a hole for a bone." "Poor Roly!" sighed Mab. "I wish we had him now!" "But he's gone," said Hal. "Well never see him again," and he looked at Charlie's knife down in the ice. "What made it do that, Daddy?" he asked. "What made it sink down?" "The knife was warmer than the ice, and melted a hole in it," explained Mr. Blake. "The knife was warm from being in Charlie's pocket. "I read once about some men who went up to the North Pole," he continued. "They had with them a barrel of molasses, but it was so cold at the North Pole that the molasses was frozen solid. When the men wanted any to sweeten their coffee they would have to chop out chunks with a hatchet. They had very little sugar and so used molasses. "Once one of the men, after chopping some frozen molasses for breakfast, forgot what he was doing, and left the hatchet on top of the solid, frosty sweet stuff in the barrel. The next time he wanted the hatchet to chop with he could not find it. The hatchet had melted its way down through the frozen molasses, until it came to the bottom of the barrel, inside, and there it stayed until all the sweet stuff was chopped out in the spring." The children laughed at this funny story, and a little later they began skating around. They had races among themselves. Hal raced with Charlie, and once he won, and once Charlie did. But Mab, who raced with Mary, won both times. Mab was becoming a good skater, you see. And such fun as it was eating lunch in the log cabin. The little building kept off the cold wind, and Daddy Blake built a fire on the old hearth. Hot chocolate was made; and how everyone did enjoy it! After lunch they all went skating again. As they glided around a little point of land, that stuck out in the lake, Hal, who was skating on ahead, cried out, in a surprised voice: "Oh, look at the men and horses on the ice! What are they doing?" "Cutting ice," said Daddy Blake. "Come, we will go over and see how it is done," and away they all skated to where the men were gathering the harvest of ice, just as farmers gather in their harvest of hay and grain. CHAPTER XI A COLD HOUSE "Will you please show these children how you cut ice, and store it away, so you can sell it when the hot summer days come?" asked Daddy Blake of one of the many men who, with horses and strange machinery, were gathered in a little sheltered cove of the lake. "To be sure I will," the man answered. "Just come over here and you will see it all." "Oh, but look at the water!" cried Mab, as she pointed to a place where the ice had been cut, and taken out, leaving a stretch of black water. "I won't let you fall in that," promised the man. "The ice is so thick this year, on account of the cold, that you could go close to the edge of the hole, and the ice would not break with you. See, there is a man riding on an ice cake just as if it were a raft of wood." "Oh, so he is!" cried Hal, as he saw a man, with big boots and a long pole, standing on a glittering white ice-raft. The man was poling himself along in the water, just as Daddy Blake had pushed the boat along when he was spearing eels in the Summer. "He looks just like a picture I saw, of a Polar bear on his cake of ice, up at the North Pole," spoke Charlie, "only he isn't a bear, of course," the little boy added quickly, thinking the man might think he was calling him names. The head ice man, and several others, laughed when they heard this. "Now, I'll show you how we cut ice, beginning at the beginning," said the head man, or foreman, as he is called. "Of course," the foreman went on, "we have to wait until the ice freezes thick enough so we men, and the horses won't break through it. When it is about eighteen inches thick, or, better still, two feet, we begin to cut. First we mark it off into even squares, like those on a checker board. A horse is hitched to a marking machine, which is like a board with sharp spikes in it, each spike being twenty-four inches from the one next to it. The spikes are very sharp. "The horse is driven across the ice one way, making a lot of long, deep scratches in the ice, where the scratches criss-cross one another they make squares." "What is that for?" Hal wanted to know. "That," the foreman explained, "is so the cakes of ice will be all the same size, nice and square and even, and will fit closely together when we pile them in the ice house. If we had the cakes of ice of all different shapes and sizes they would not pile up evenly, and we would waste too much room." "I see!" cried Mab. "It's just like the building blocks I had when I was a little girl." "That's it!" laughed the foreman. "You remember how nicely you could pile your blocks into the box, when you put them all in evenly and nicely. But if you threw them in quickly, without stopping to make them straight, they would pile up helter-skelter, and maybe only half of them would fit. It is that way with the ice blocks." "What do you do after you mark off the ice into squares?" Charlie Johnson asked. "Then men come along with big saws, that have very large teeth, and they saw out each block. Sometimes we cut the marking lines in the ice so deeply that a few blows from an axe will break the blocks up nice and even, and we don't have to saw them. "Then, after the cakes are separated, they are floated down to a little dock, and carried up into the store house. Come we will go look at that store house now. But button up your coats well, for it is very cold in this ice store house." The foreman led Daddy Blake and the children to a big house, five times as large as the one where the Blake family lived. Running up to this ice house from the ground near the lake, was a long incline, like a toboggan slide, or a long wooden hill. And clanking up this wooden hill was an endless chain, with strips of wood fastened across it. The chain was something like the moving stairways which are in some department stores instead of elevators. Only, instead of square, flat stairs there were these cross pieces of wood, to hold the cakes of ice from slipping down the toboggan slide back into the lake again. Men would float the ice cakes up to the end of the wooden hill. Then, with sharp iron hooks, they would pull and haul on the cakes until they were caught on one of these cross pieces. Then the engine that moved this endless chain, would puff and grunt, and up would slide the glittering ice, cake after cake. At the top of the incline other men were waiting. They used their sharp hooks to pull the ice cakes off the endless chain, upon a platform of boards, and from there the cakes were slid along into the store house, where they were stacked in piles up to the roof, there to stay until they were needed in the hot summer, to make ice cream, lemonade and ice cream cones. "Oh, but it is cold in here!" cried Mab as they went in the place where the ice was kept. And indeed it was, for there were tons and tons--thousands of pounds--of the frozen cakes. From them arose a sort of steam, or mist, and through this mist the men could hardly be seen as they stacked away the ice. The men looked like shadows moving about in a cold fog on a frosty, cold, wintry morning. "Bang! Bang! Clatter! Smash! Crash!" went the cakes of ice as they came up the incline, and slid down the long wooden chutes, where the men hooked them off and piled them up. Pile after pile was made of the ice, until it was stacked up like an ice berg, inside the store house. "Why doesn't the ice melt when the hot summer comes?" asked Hal. "Because this building keeps the hot sun off the ice," explained the foreman. "Very little heat can get in our ice house, and it takes heat to melt ice. Of course some of it melts, but very little. Then, too, the building has two walls. In between the double walls is sawdust, and that sawdust helps to keep the heat out, and the cold in. It is like a refrigerator you see. Ice melts very slowly in a refrigerator because the cold is kept in, and the outside heat kept out." "Oh, but it's cold here!" cried Mab shivering. "Let's go outside." And outside something very strange happened. The children never would have believed it had they read it in a book. But as it really happened to them they knew that it was true, no matter how strange it was. CHAPTER XII A GREAT SURPRISE "How do you get the ice out of this big house when you want it in the summer time?" asked Hal, as the foreman led them along the wooden platforms out of the big, cold storehouse. And how much warmer it was outside; even if the sun did not shine, than it was in the ice house. The children were glad to come out. "We load the ice from here into freight cars," the man explained. "See, the ice house is built in two parts, with a passage-way between. And is this passage is a railroad track. The engine backs a freight car in here, the big doors of the car are opened, and the ice is slid in on wooden chutes, something like the iron chutes the coal man uses. Then, when the car is full, it is pulled down to the city in a long train, with other cars." "And then the icemen come with their wagons, get the ice and bring it to us," finished Mab. "I've seen them." "That's right, little lady!" said the foreman with a laugh. And sometimes ice comes to the city by a boat, instead of in freight cars, and the men with wagons go down to the boat-dock to get the cold, frozen cakes. And now you have seen how ice is cut in winter, and stored away until we need it in the summer." "My!" exclaimed Hal, as he looked up at the big ice store-house. "There must be enough ice in there for the whole world!" "Oh, no indeed!" cried Daddy Blake. "No enough for one city. And besides this ice, which is called natural, because Jack Frost and Mother Nature make it, there is other ice, called artificial. That is what is made by machinery." "Why, can anybody make ice by machinery?" asked Mab in surprise. "Oh, yes, even on the hottest day in summer," her papa told her. "But it takes a lot of machinery. It is done by putting water into small metal tanks, and then by taking all the warmth out of the water by dipping the tanks into a big vat of salt and water which is made very cold by something called ammonia. It is too hard for you to understand now, but when you get older I will explain. Now I think we had better be skating home," said Daddy Blake. As they walked down to the frozen lake, there was a barking sound from a small shed under which was an engine, that hauled up the ice cakes. Out from the shed rushed a little dog, spotted black and white, and straight for the Blake children he rushed, barking and wagging his tail so that it almost wagged off. "Look out!" cried Daddy Blake. "Don't be afraid!" called the engineer, laughing. "He's so gentle he wouldn't hurt a baby!" And how strangely the dog was acting! He would jump up first on Hal, and then on Mab, trying to lick their faces and hands with his red tongue. "Oh dear!" cried Mab, who was a little bit frightened. "He won't hurt you!" exclaimed the engineer. "Here, Spot!" he called. "Leave the children alone. Be good, Spot!" But the dog would not mind. He jumped up on Hal, barking as loudly as he could, and wagging his tail so hard that it is a wonder it did not drop off. The animal seemed wild with delight. "Why! Why!" cried Mab, as she looked carefully at the dog when he stood still a moment to rest after all the excitement. "That dog looks just like our Roly-Poly, only Roly was white and not spotted black and white," said Mab. "Well, when I got this dog he was all white," explained the engineer. "He got spotted black by accident." "I wonder if that could be Roly?" spoke Daddy Blake thoughtfully. "Here, Roly-Poly!" he called. "Come here, sir!" In an instant the dog made a jump for Daddy Blake, barking joyfully, and almost turning a somersault. "I believe it is Roly!" shouted Hal. "It's our dog!" "But how could it be?" asked Mab. "Roly was lost under the ice." "And that's just where I got this dog," the engineer explained. "Out from under the ice. One day, after the first freeze this winter, I was Balking along a little pond. I came to a thin place in the ice, and looking through, from the shore where I stood, I saw a little white dog down below, just as if he were under a pane of glass. "I broke the ice with a stick and got him out. I thought he was dead, but I took him home, thawed him out, gave him some hot milk, and soon he was as lively as a cricket. And I've had this dog ever since. When I came here to work at ice cutting I brought him with me." "But you said he was pure white when you got him out," said Daddy Blake wonderingly. "Yes, that's right," answered the ice engineer. "So he was. And how he got spotted was like this. I was blacking my boots one day, and I left the bottle of black polish on a low bench. The dog grabbed it, playful like, and the black stuff spilled all over him. That's how he got spotted. He was worse than he is now, but it's wearing off." "Then I'm sure this is our Roly-Poly!" cried "Oh, you dear Roly!" she cried, and the spotted poodle dog tried to climb up in her arms and kiss her, he was so glad to see her. "I believe it is Roly," said Daddy Blake. "It is all very wonderful, but it must be our Roly." "Well, if he's yours, take him," said the engineer kindly. "I always wondered how he got under the ice. But of course he could not tell me." "We were skating, the children and I, one day," explained Daddy Blake. "Poor Roly slipped through an air hole in the ice. Then he must have floated down the pond underneath the ice, until he came to another thin place, where you saw him." "I guess that's it," the engineer agreed. "He was almost drowned and nearly frozen when I found him. But I'm glad he's all right now, and I'm glad the children have him back." "Oh, and maybe we aren't glad!" cried Mab. "Aren't we, Hal?" "Well, I guess!" he cried. "The gladdest ever!" Roly-Poly was happy too. He was so glad that he did not know whom to love first, nor how much. He raced back and forth from the children to Mr. Blake, and then over to the kind engineer, who had saved his life. "Oh, let's hurry home!" cried Mab. "I want to show mamma and Aunt Lolly and Uncle Pennywait that Roly-Poly is still alive." And so Daddy Blake and the children skated down to the end of the lake, Roly-Poly running along with them. He had barked his good-byes to the engineer, and Daddy Blake and Hal and Mab had thanked the nice man over and over again. "Don't fall through any more air holes, Roly!" cautioned Hal, as he skated along with Charlie, while Mab glided slowly at the side of Mary. "Bow-wow!" barked Roly, which meant, I suppose, that he would be very careful. Soon they were all safely home, and Roly-Poly barked louder than ever, and almost wagged off his tail, sideways and up and down. "Oh, how wonderful!" cried Aunt Lolly when she heard the story. "I knew something would happen. Something wonderful has happened." And so it had. And it was really wonderful that Roly had floated down beneath the ice, and that the engineer had come along just in time to get him out alive. And so Roly came back, just as I told you he would. In a few weeks the black spots wore off him, and he was all white again, and as lively and frisky as ever, hiding anything he could find, and barking and wagging his tail like anything. "Won't all the boys and girls be surprised when they see our dog back again?" asked Mab. "I guess they will," agreed Hal. "It is just like a fairy story; isn't it?" "Oh, it's better than a fairy story, for it's true!" exclaimed Mab. "If it was a fairy story we would wake up and Roly-Poly wouldn't be here. Oh! I am so glad!" Hal and Mab had many more days of skating on the pond with Daddy; Blake. And then, one morning, when they woke up, the ground was deeply covered with white snow. "No more skating right away!" cried Daddy Blake, "The ice has gone to sleep under white blankets." "But we can have other fun!" said Hal. "Lots of it!" cried Mab, joyfully. "Oh we'll have more fun!" And what fun they had with Daddy Blake I will tell you about in the next book, as this one is all filled up. So I will say good-bye to you for a little while, only a little while, though. THE END The next volume in this series will be called "Daddy Takes Us Coasting." It will be about Santa Claus and Christmas. 
20226	----	* * * * * SNOW-BOUND * * * * * SNOW-BOUND A Winter Idyl By JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER _With Illustrations_ [Illustration: Portrait] Boston JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY, Late Ticknor & Fields, and Fields, Osgood, & Co. 1872 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the years 1865 and 1867, by JOHN G. WHITTIER, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. [Illustration: Publisher's Device] In the present edition of "Snow-Bound," the Illustrations are drawn by Mr. HARRY FENN from sketches made by him during a visit to the scene of the poem. The engraving has been done by Mr. A. V. S. ANTHONY, under whose supervision the book has been prepared, and Mr. W. J. LINTON. The Publishers are confident that the drawing, engraving, and printing will commend themselves to the approval of the critic and the connoisseur; while to those unfamiliar with the _locale_ of the poem, the following note from the author will be the best guaranty of the artists' fidelity. _It gives me pleasure to commend the illustrations which accompany this edition of "Snow-Bound," for the faithfulness with which they present the spirit and the details of the passages and places that the artist has designed them to accompany._ J. G. W. To _The Memory_ Of The Household It Describes, _This Poem Is Dedicated_ By The Author. "As the Spirits of Darkness be stronger in the dark, so Good Spirits which be Angels of Light are augmented not only by the Divine light of the Sun, but also by our common VVood Fire: and as the Celestial Fire drives away dark spirits, so also this our Fire of VVood doth the same." COR. AGRIPPA, _Occult Philosophy_, Book I. chap. v. "Announced by all the trumpets of the sky, Arrives the snow; and, driving o'er the fields, Seems nowhere to alight; the whited air Hides hills and woods, the river and the heaven, And veils the farm-house at the garden's end. The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed In a tumultuous privacy of storm." EMERSON. [Illustration] SNOW BOUND. The sun that brief December day Rose cheerless over hills of gray, And, darkly circled, gave at noon A sadder light than waning moon. Slow tracing down the thickening sky Its mute and ominous prophecy, A portent seeming less than threat, It sank from sight before it set. A chill no coat, however stout, Of homespun stuff could quite shut out, A hard, dull bitterness of cold, That checked, mid-vein, the circling race Of life-blood in the sharpened face, The coming of the snow-storm told. The wind blew east: we heard the roar Of Ocean on his wintry shore, And felt the strong pulse throbbing there Beat with low rhythm our inland air. Meanwhile we did our nightly chores,-- Brought in the wood from out of doors, Littered the stalls, and from the mows Raked down the herd's-grass for the cows; Heard the horse whinnying for his corn; And, sharply clashing horn on horn, Impatient down the stanchion rows The cattle shake their walnut bows; While, peering from his early perch Upon the scaffold's pole of birch, The cock his crested helmet bent And down his querulous challenge sent. [Illustration] Unwarmed by any sunset light The gray day darkened into night, A night made hoary with the swarm And whirl-dance of the blinding storm, As zigzag wavering to and fro Crossed and recrossed the wingéd snow: And ere the early bedtime came The white drift piled the window-frame, And through the glass the clothes-line posts Looked in like tall and sheeted ghosts. [Illustration] So all night long the storm roared on: The morning broke without a sun; In tiny spherule traced with lines Of Nature's geometric signs, In starry flake, and pellicle, All day the hoary meteor fell; And, when the second morning shone, We looked upon a world unknown, On nothing we could call our own. Around the glistening wonder bent The blue walls of the firmament, No cloud above, no earth below,-- A universe of sky and snow! The old familiar sights of ours Took marvellous shapes; strange domes and towers Rose up where sty or corn-crib stood, Or garden wall, or belt of wood; A smooth white mound the brush-pile showed, A fenceless drift what once was road; The bridle post an old man sat With loose-flung coat and high cocked hat; The well-curb had a Chinese roof; [Illustration] And even the long sweep, high aloof, In its slant splendor, seemed to tell Of Pisa's leaning miracle. A prompt, decisive man, no breath Our father wasted: "Boys, a path!" Well pleased, (for when did farmer boy Count such a summons less than joy?) Our buskins on our feet we drew; With mittened hands, and caps drawn low, To guard our necks and ears from snow, We cut the solid whiteness through. [Illustration] And, where the drift was deepest, made A tunnel walled and overlaid With dazzling crystal: we had read Of rare Aladdin's wondrous cave, And to our own his name we gave, With many a wish the luck were ours To test his lamp's supernal powers. [Illustration] We reached the barn with merry din, And roused the prisoned brutes within. The old horse thrust his long head out, And grave with wonder gazed about; The cock his lusty greeting said, And forth his speckled harem led; The oxen lashed their tails, and hooked, And mild reproach of hunger looked; The hornéd patriarch of the sheep, Like Egypt's Amun roused from sleep, Shook his sage head with gesture mute, And emphasized with stamp of foot. All day the gusty north-wind bore The loosening drift its breath before; Low circling round its southern zone, The sun through dazzling snow-mist shone. No church-bell lent its Christian tone To the savage air, no social smoke Curled over woods of snow-hung oak. A solitude made more intense By dreary voicéd elements, The shrieking of the mindless wind, The moaning tree-boughs swaying blind, And on the glass the unmeaning beat Of ghostly finger-tips of sleet. [Illustration] Beyond the circle of our hearth No welcome sound of toil or mirth Unbound the spell, and testified Of human life and thought outside. We minded that the sharpest ear The buried brooklet could not hear, The music of whose liquid lip Had been to us companionship, And, in our lonely life, had grown To have an almost human tone. As night drew on, and, from the crest Of wooded knolls that ridged the west, The sun, a snow-blown traveller, sank From sight beneath the smothering bank, We piled, with care, our nightly stack Of wood against the chimney-back,-- [Illustration] The oaken log, green, huge, and thick, And on its top the stout back-stick; The knotty forestick laid apart, And filled between with curious art The ragged brush; then, hovering near, We watched the first red blaze appear, Heard the sharp crackle, caught the gleam On whitewashed wall and sagging beam, Until the old, rude-furnished room Burst, flower-like, into rosy bloom; While radiant with a mimic flame Outside the sparkling drift became, And through the bare-boughed lilac-tree Our own warm hearth seemed blazing free. The crane and pendent trammels showed, The Turks' heads on the andirons glowed; While childish fancy, prompt to tell The meaning of the miracle, Whispered the old rhyme: "_Under the tree, When fire outdoors burns merrily, There the witches are making tea._" The moon above the eastern wood Shone at its full; the hill-range stood [Illustration] Transfigured in the silver flood, Its blown snows flashing cold and keen, Dead white, save where some sharp ravine Took shadow, or the sombre green Of hemlocks turned to pitchy black Against the whiteness at their back. For such a world and such a night Most fitting that unwarming light, Which only seemed where'er it fell To make the coldness visible. Shut in from all the world without, We sat the clean-winged hearth about, Content to let the north-wind roar In baffled rage at pane and door, While the red logs before us beat The frost-line back with tropic heat; And ever, when a louder blast Shook beam and rafter as it passed, The merrier up its roaring draught The great throat of the chimney laughed, The house-dog on his paws outspread Laid to the fire his drowsy head, The cat's dark silhouette on the wall A couchant tiger's seemed to fall; And, for the winter fireside meet, Between the andirons' straddling feet, The mug of cider simmered slow, The apples sputtered in a row, And, close at hand, the basket stood With nuts from brown October's wood. [Illustration] What matter how the night behaved? What matter how the north-wind raved? Blow high, blow low, not all its snow Could quench our hearth-fire's ruddy glow. O Time and Change!--with hair as gray As was my sire's that winter day, How strange it seems, with so much gone Of life and love, to still live on! Ah, brother! only I and thou Are left of all that circle now,-- The dear home faces whereupon That fitful firelight paled and shone. Henceforward, listen as we will, The voices of that hearth are still; Look where we may, the wide earth o'er, Those lighted faces smile no more. We tread the paths their feet have worn, [Illustration] We sit beneath their orchard-trees, We hear, like them, the hum of bees And rustle of the bladed corn; We turn the pages that they read, Their written words we linger o'er, But in the sun they cast no shade, No voice is heard, no sign is made, No step is on the conscious floor! Yet Love will dream, and Faith will trust, (Since He who knows our need is just,) That somehow, somewhere, meet we must. [Illustration] Alas for him who never sees The stars shine through his cypress-trees! Who, hopeless, lays his dead away, Nor looks to see the breaking day Across the mournful marbles play! Who hath not learned, in hours of faith, The truth to flesh and sense unknown, That Life is ever lord of Death, And Love can never lose its own! We sped the time with stories old, Wrought puzzles out, and riddles told, Or stammered from our school-book lore "The Chief of Gambia's golden shore." How often since, when all the land Was clay in Slavery's shaping hand, As if a trumpet called, I've heard Dame Mercy Warren's rousing word: "_Does not the voice of reason cry, Claim the first right which Nature gave, From the red scourge of bondage fly, Nor deign to live a burdened slave!_" Our father rode again his ride On Memphremagog's wooded side; [Illustration] Sat down again to moose and samp In trapper's hut and Indian camp; Lived o'er the old idyllic ease Beneath St. François' hemlock-trees; Again for him the moonlight shone On Norman cap and bodiced zone; Again he heard the violin play Which led the village dance away, And mingled in its merry whirl The grandam and the laughing girl. Or, nearer home, our steps he led Where Salisbury's level marshes spread [Illustration] Mile-wide as flies the laden bee; Where merry mowers, hale and strong, Swept, scythe on scythe, their swaths along The low green prairies of the sea. We shared the fishing off Boar's Head, And round the rocky Isles of Shoals The hake-broil on the drift-wood coals; The chowder on the sand-beach made, Dipped by the hungry, steaming hot, With spoons of clam-shell from the pot. [Illustration] We heard the tales of witchcraft old, And dream and sign and marvel told To sleepy listeners as they lay Stretched idly on the salted hay, Adrift along the winding shores, [Illustration] When favoring breezes deigned to blow The square sail of the gundalow, And idle lay the useless oars. Our mother, while she turned her wheel Or run the new-knit stocking-heel, Told how the Indian hordes came down At midnight on Cochecho town, And how her own great-uncle bore His cruel scalp-mark to fourscore. Recalling, in her fitting phrase, So rich and picturesque and free, (The common unrhymed poetry Of simple life and country ways,) The story of her early days,-- She made us welcome to her home; Old hearths grew wide to give us room; We stole with her a frightened look At the gray wizard's conjuring-book, The fame whereof went far and wide Through all the simple country side; We heard the hawks at twilight play, The boat-horn on Piscataqua, The loon's weird laughter far away; [Illustration] We fished her little trout-brook, knew What flowers in wood and meadow grew, What sunny hillsides autumn-brown She climbed to shake the ripe nuts down, Saw where in sheltered cove and bay The ducks' black squadron anchored lay, And heard the wild-geese calling loud Beneath the gray November cloud. Then, haply, with a look more grave, And soberer tone, some tale she gave From painful Sewell's ancient tome, Beloved in every Quaker home, Of faith fire-winged by martyrdom, Or Chalkley's Journal, old and quaint,-- Gentlest of skippers, rare sea-saint!-- Who, when the dreary calms prevailed, And water-butt and bread-cask failed, And cruel, hungry eyes pursued His portly presence mad for food, With dark hints muttered under breath Of casting lots for life or death, Offered, if Heaven withheld supplies, To be himself the sacrifice. Then, suddenly, as if to save The good man from his living grave A ripple on the water grew, A school of porpoise flashed in view. "Take, eat," he said, "and be content; These fishes in my stead are sent By Him who gave the tangled ram To spare the child of Abraham." [Illustration] Our uncle, innocent of books, Was rich in lore of fields and brooks, The ancient teachers never dumb Of Nature's unhoused lyceum. In moons and tides and weather wise, He read the clouds as prophecies, And foul or fair could well divine, By many an occult hint and sign, Holding the cunning-warded keys, To all the woodcraft mysteries; Himself to Nature's heart so near That all her voices in his ear Of beast or bird had meanings clear, Like Apollonius of old, Who knew the tales the sparrows told, Or Hermes, who interpreted What the sage cranes of Nilus said; A simple, guileless, childlike man, Content to live where life began; Strong only on his native grounds, The little world of sights and sounds Whose girdle was the parish bounds, Whereof his fondly partial pride The common features magnified, As Surrey hills to mountains grew In White of Selborne's loving view,-- He told how teal and loon he shot, [Illustration] And how the eagle's eggs he got, The feats on pond and river done, The prodigies of rod and gun; Till, warming with the tales he told, Forgotten was the outside cold, The bitter wind unheeded blew, From ripening corn the pigeons flew, [Illustration] The partridge drummed i' the wood, the mink Went fishing down the river-brink; In fields with bean or clover gay, The woodchuck, like a hermit gray, Peered from the doorway of his cell; The muskrat plied the mason's trade, And tier by tier his mud-walls laid; And from the shagbark overhead The grizzled squirrel dropped his shell. Next, the dear aunt, whose smile of cheer And voice in dreams I see and hear,-- The sweetest woman ever Fate Perverse denied a household mate, Who, lonely, homeless, not the less Found peace in love's unselfishness, And welcome wheresoe'er she went, A calm and gracious element, Whose presence seemed the sweet income And womanly atmosphere of home,-- Called up her girlhood memories, The huskings and the apple-bees, The sleigh-rides and the summer sails, Weaving through all the poor details And homespun warp of circumstance A golden woof-thread of romance. [Illustration] For well she kept her genial mood And simple faith of maidenhood; Before her still a cloud-land lay, The mirage loomed across her way; The morning dew, that dries so soon With others, glistened at her noon; Through years of toil and soil and care From glossy tress to thin gray hair, All unprofaned she held apart The virgin fancies of the heart. Be shame to him of woman born Who hath for such but thought of scorn. [Illustration] There, too, our elder sister plied Her evening task the stand beside; A full, rich nature, free to trust, Truthful and almost sternly just, Impulsive, earnest, prompt to act, And make her generous thought a fact, Keeping with many a light disguise The secret of self-sacrifice. O heart sore-tried! thou hast the best That Heaven itself could give thee,--rest, Rest from all bitter thoughts and things! How many a poor one's blessing went With thee beneath the low green tent Whose curtain never outward swings! As one who held herself a part Of all she saw, and let her heart Against the household bosom lean, Upon the motley-braided mat Our youngest and our dearest sat, Lifting her large, sweet, asking eyes, Now bathed within the fadeless green And holy peace of Paradise. O, looking from some heavenly hill, Or from the shade of saintly palms, Or silver reach of river calms, Do those large eyes behold me still? With me one little year ago:-- [Illustration] The chill weight of the winter snow For months upon her grave has lain; And now, when summer south-winds blow, And brier and harebell bloom again, I tread the pleasant paths we trod, I see the violet-sprinkled sod Whereon she leaned, too frail and weak The hillside flowers she loved to seek, Yet following me where'er I went [Illustration] With dark eyes full of love's content. The birds are glad; the brier-rose fills The air with sweetness; all the hills Stretch green to June's unclouded sky; But still I wait with ear and eye For something gone which should be nigh, A loss in all familiar things, In flower that blooms, and bird that sings. And yet, dear heart! remembering thee, Am I not richer than of old? Safe in thy immortality, What change can reach the wealth I hold? What chance can mar the pearl and gold Thy love hath left in trust with me? And while in life's late afternoon, Where cool and long the shadows grow, I walk to meet the night that soon Shall shape and shadow overflow, I cannot feel that thou art far, Since near at need the angels are; And when the sunset gates unbar, Shall I not see thee waiting stand, And, white against the evening star, The welcome of thy beckoning hand? Brisk wielder of the birch and rule, The master of the district school Held at the fire his favored place; Its warm glow lit a laughing face Fresh-hued and fair, where scarce appeared [Illustration] The uncertain prophecy of beard. He teased the mitten-blinded cat, Played cross-pins on my uncle's hat, Sang songs, and told us what befalls In classic Dartmouth's college halls. Born the wild Northern hills among, From whence his yeoman father wrung By patient toil subsistence scant, Not competence and yet not want, He early gained the power to pay His cheerful, self-reliant way; Could doff at ease his scholar's gown To peddle wares from town to town; Or through the long vacation's reach In lonely lowland districts teach, Where all the droll experience found At stranger hearths in boarding round, The moonlit skater's keen delight, The sleigh-drive through the frosty night, The rustic party, with its rough Accompaniment of blind-man's-buff, [Illustration] And whirling plate, and forfeits paid, His winter task a pastime made. Happy the snow-locked homes wherein He tuned his merry violin, Or played the athlete in the barn, Or held the good dame's winding yarn, Or mirth-provoking versions told Of classic legends rare and old, Wherein the scenes of Greece and Rome [Illustration] Had all the commonplace of home, And little seemed at best the odds 'Twixt Yankee pedlers and old gods; Where Pindus-born Araxes took The guise of any grist-mill brook, And dread Olympus at his will Became a huckleberry hill. A careless boy that night he seemed; But at his desk he had the look And air of one who wisely schemed, And hostage from the future took In trainéd thought and lore of book. Large-brained, clear-eyed,--of such as he Shall Freedom's young apostles be, Who, following in War's bloody trail, Shall every lingering wrong assail; All chains from limb and spirit strike, Uplift the black and white alike; Scatter before their swift advance The darkness and the ignorance, The pride, the lust, the squalid sloth, Which nurtured Treason's monstrous growth, Made murder pastime, and the hell Of prison-torture possible; The cruel lie of caste refute, Old forms remould, and substitute For Slavery's lash the freeman's will, For blind routine, wise-handed skill; A school-house plant on every hill, Stretching in radiate nerve-lines thence The quick wires of intelligence; Till North and South together brought Shall own the same electric thought, In peace a common flag salute, And, side by side in labor's free And unresentful rivalry, Harvest the fields wherein they fought. [Illustration] Another guest that winter night Flashed back from lustrous eyes the light. Unmarked by time, and yet not young, The honeyed music of her tongue And words of meekness scarcely told A nature passionate and bold, Strong, self-concentred, spurning guide, Its milder features dwarfed beside Her unbent will's majestic pride. She sat among us, at the best, A not unfeared, half-welcome guest, Rebuking with her cultured phrase Our homeliness of words and ways. A certain pard-like, treacherous grace Swayed the lithe limbs and drooped the lash, Lent the white teeth their dazzling flash; And under low brows, black with night, Rayed out at times a dangerous light; The sharp heat-lightnings of her face Presaging ill to him whom Fate Condemned to share her love or hate. A woman tropical, intense In thought and act, in soul and sense, She blended in a like degree The vixen and the devotee, Revealing with each freak or feint The temper of Petruchio's Kate, The raptures of Siena's saint. Her tapering hand and rounded wrist Had facile power to form a fist; The warm, dark languish of her eyes Was never safe from wrath's surprise. Brows saintly calm and lips devout Knew every change of scowl and pout; And the sweet voice had notes more high And shrill for social battle-cry. Since then what old cathedral town Has missed her pilgrim staff and gown, What convent-gate has held its lock Against the challenge of her knock! Through Smyrna's plague-hushed thoroughfares, [Illustration] Up sea-set Malta's rocky stairs, Gray olive slopes of hills that hem Thy tombs and shrines, Jerusalem, Or startling on her desert throne The crazy Queen of Lebanon With claims fantastic as her own, Her tireless feet have held their way; And still, unrestful, bowed, and gray, She watches under Eastern skies, [Illustration] With hope each day renewed and fresh, The Lord's quick coming in the flesh, Whereof she dreams and prophesies! Where'er her troubled path may be, The Lord's sweet pity with her go! The outward wayward life we see, The hidden springs we may not know. Nor is it given us to discern What threads the fatal sisters spun, Through what ancestral years has run The sorrow with the woman born, What forged her cruel chain of moods, What set her feet in solitudes, And held the love within her mute, What mingled madness in the blood, A life-long discord and annoy, Water of tears with oil of joy, And hid within the folded bud Perversities of flower and fruit. It is not ours to separate The tangled skein of will and fate, To show what metes and bounds should stand Upon the soul's debatable land, And between choice and Providence Divide the circle of events; But He who knows our frame is just, Merciful, and compassionate, And full of sweet assurances And hope for all the language is, That He remembereth we are dust! At last the great logs, crumbling low, Sent out a dull and duller glow, [Illustration] The bull's-eye watch that hung in view, Ticking its weary circuit through, Pointed with mutely-warning sign Its black hand to the hour of nine. That sign the pleasant circle broke: My uncle ceased his pipe to smoke, Knocked from its bowl the refuse gray, And laid it tenderly away, Then roused himself to safely cover The dull red brands with ashes over. And while, with care, our mother laid The work aside, her steps she stayed One moment, seeking to express Her grateful sense of happiness For food and shelter, warmth and health, And love's contentment more than wealth, With simple wishes (not the weak, Vain prayers which no fulfilment seek, But such as warm the generous heart, O'er-prompt to do with Heaven its part) That none might lack, that bitter night, For bread and clothing, warmth and light. Within our beds awhile we heard The wind that round the gables roared, With now and then a ruder shock, Which made our very bedsteads rock. We heard the loosened clapboards tost, The board-nails snapping in the frost; And on us, through the unplastered wall, Felt the light sifted snow-flakes fall. But sleep stole on, as sleep will do When hearts are light and life is new; Faint and more faint the murmurs grew, Till in the summer-land of dreams They softened to the sound of streams, Low stir of leaves, and dip of oars, And lapsing waves on quiet shores. [Illustration] [Illustration] Next morn we wakened with the shout Of merry voices high and clear; And saw the teamsters drawing near To break the drifted highways out. Down the long hillside treading slow We saw the half-buried oxen go, Shaking the snow from heads uptost, Their straining nostrils white with frost. Before our door the straggling train Drew up, an added team to gain. The elders threshed their hands a-cold, Passed, with the cider-mug, their jokes From lip to lip; the younger folks Down the loose snow-banks, wrestling, rolled, Then toiled again the cavalcade O'er windy hill, through clogged ravine, And woodland paths that wound between Low drooping pine-boughs winter-weighed. [Illustration] From every barn a team afoot, At every house a new recruit, Where, drawn by Nature's subtlest law, Haply the watchful young men saw [Illustration] Sweet doorway pictures of the curls And curious eyes of merry girls, Lifting their hands in mock defence Against the snow-ball's compliments, And reading in each missive tost The charm with Eden never lost. We heard once more the sleigh-bells' sound; And, following where the teamsters led, The wise old Doctor went his round, [Illustration] Just pausing at our door to say, In the brief autocratic way Of one who, prompt at Duty's call, Was free to urge her claim on all, That some poor neighbor sick abed At night our mother's aid would need. For, one in generous thought and deed, What mattered in the sufferer's sight The Quaker matron's inward light, The Doctor's mail of Calvin's creed? All hearts confess the saints elect Who, twain in faith, in love agree, And melt not in an acid sect The Christian pearl of charity! So days went on: a week had passed Since the great world was heard from last. The Almanac we studied o'er, Read and reread our little store, Of books and pamphlets, scarce a score; One harmless novel, mostly hid From younger eyes, a book forbid, And poetry, (or good or bad, A single book was all we had,) Where Ellwood's meek, drab-skirted Muse, A stranger to the heathen Nine, Sang, with a somewhat nasal whine, The wars of David and the Jews. [Illustration] At last the floundering carrier bore The village paper to our door. Lo! broadening outward as we read, To warmer zones the horizon spread; In panoramic length unrolled We saw the marvels that it told. Before us passed the painted Creeks, And daft McGregor on his raids In Costa Rica's everglades. [Illustration] And up Taygetos winding slow Rode Ypsilanti's Mainote Greeks, A Turk's head at each saddle-bow! Welcome to us its week-old news, Its corner for the rustic Muse, Its monthly gauge of snow and rain, Its record, mingling in a breath The wedding knell and dirge of death; Jest, anecdote, and love-lorn tale; The latest culprit sent to jail; Its hue and cry of stolen and lost, Its vendue sales and goods at cost, And traffic calling loud for gain. We felt the stir of hall and street, The pulse of life that round us beat; The chill embargo of the snow Was melted in the genial glow; Wide swung again our ice-locked door, And all the world was ours once more! Clasp, Angel of the backward look And folded wings of ashen gray And voice of echoes far away, The brazen covers of thy book; The weird palimpsest old and vast, Wherein thou hid'st the spectral past; Where, closely mingling, pale and glow The characters of joy and woe; The monographs of outlived years, Or smile-illumed or dim with tears, Green hills of life that slope to death, And haunts of home, whose vistaed trees Shade off to mournful cypresses With the white amaranths underneath. Even while I look, I can but heed The restless sands' incessant fall, Importunate hours that hours succeed, Each clamorous with its own sharp need, And duty keeping pace with all. Shut down and clasp the heavy lids; I hear again the voice that bids The dreamer leave his dream midway For larger hopes and graver fears: Life greatens in these later years, The century's aloe flowers to-day! Yet, haply, in some lull of life, Some Truce of God which breaks its strife, The worldling's eyes shall gather dew, Dreaming in throngful city ways Of winter joys his boyhood knew; And dear and early friends--the few Who yet remain--shall pause to view These Flemish pictures of old days; Sit with me by the homestead hearth, And stretch the hands of memory forth To warm them at the wood-fire's blaze! And thanks untraced to lips unknown Shall greet me like the odors blown From unseen meadows newly mown, Or lilies floating in some pond, Wood-fringed, the wayside gaze beyond; The traveller owns the grateful sense Of sweetness near, he knows not whence, And, pausing, takes with forehead bare The benediction of the air. [Illustration] 
15655	----	FOUR LITTLE BLOSSOMS AND THEIR WINTER FUN BY MABEL C. HAWLEY AUTHOR OF "FOUR LITTLE BLOSSOMS AT BROOKSIDE FARM," "FOUR LITTLE BLOSSOMS AT OAK HILL SCHOOL," ETC. THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY Akron, Ohio New York Copyright MCMXX THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY Four Little Blossoms and Their Winter Fun Made in the United States of America CONTENTS CHAPTER I THE FIRST SNOW-STORM II BOBBY IS RESCUED III AUNT DOROTHY'S LOCKET IV WHEN THE BOBSLED UPSET V MEG IN TROUBLE VI THE ORANGE AND THE BLACK VII A BIRTHDAY PARTY VIII DOWN ON THE POND IX A NEW KIND OF JAM X WORKING FOR THE FAIR XI BOBBY'S MEANEST DAY XII BUILDING A SNOW MAN XIII THE TWINS HAVE A SECRET XIV LOST IN THE STORM XV GREAT PREPARATIONS XVI OVER THE CROSS ROAD XVII MR. MENDAM XVIII AT LAST THE FAIR FOUR LITTLE BLOSSOMS AND THEIR WINTER FUN CHAPTER I THE FIRST SNOW-STORM "Where's Mother?" Meg and Bobby Blossom demanded the moment they opened the front door. It was the first question they always asked when they came home from school. Twaddles, their little brother, looked up at them serenely from the sofa cushion on which he sat cross-legged on the floor at the foot of the hall stairs. "Mother and Aunt Polly went uptown," he informed his brother and sister. "They're going to bring us something nice. They promised." Meg pulled off her hat and unbuttoned her coat. "I'm starving," she announced. "It's awfully cold out. What are you doing anyway, Twaddles?" "Sliding down the banisters," answered Twaddles calmly. "See, we spread down sofa cushions so 's we wouldn't hurt ourselves. It's Dot's turn now. Hi, Dot!" he ended in a shout. "Here I come--look out!" With a swish of pink gingham skirt a small, plump little girl came flying down the banister to land luckily on a red satin sofa cushion ready to receive her. "Well, I must say," announced Meg with dignity, "that's a fine way to do--using Mother's best sofa cushions! Where's Norah?" "Gone to the movies," replied Dot, pushing the hair out of her eyes and smiling sunnily. "She waited till she saw you turn the corner, 'cause she said she wouldn't leave us alone." Twaddles, who had been pressing his short nose against the glass in the door panel hoping to see his mother coming with the promised gift, suddenly wheeled and tried to stand on his head. That was Twaddles' way of expressing delight. "It's snowing!" he cried. "Little fine snowflakes, the kind that Daddy says always last. Oh, I hope we have coasting. I'll bet it snows all night." "You said that Thanksgiving," retorted Bobby gloomily, "and it just snowed enough to cover the ground one night and melted 'fore we were up the next morning. And here it is January, and it hasn't snowed since." "'Sides the sled is busted," agreed Twaddles mournfully, quite willing to be melancholy if some one would show him the way. "Even if it did snow, we couldn't have any fun without a sled." "I guess we can mend it, maybe," interposed Meg cheerfully. "I'm going out and get some bread and peanut butter. Who wants some?" They all did, it seemed, even Dot and Twaddles, who were too young to go to school, but who managed to have famous appetites as regularly as the older children. Mother Blossom allowed them to have what Norah called a "snack" every afternoon after school, and Meg was always careful to see that they ate only the things permitted and that no one dipped into the cake box. "Look how white!" cried Dot, finishing her bread and butter first, and kneeling on a kitchen chair to see out of the window. "The ground is all covered already and you can see feetsteps." "Footsteps," corrected Bobby, taking a last large bite of his lunch. "Shoesteps," insisted Meg, closing the pantry door and putting away the bread. "That isn't a shoestep," argued Bobby, pointing to a particularly clear and distinct print in the snow just outside the window. "'Tis, too," scolded Meg. "That's where Sam went out to the garage." "'Tisn't a shoestep, 'tisn't a shoestep!" chanted Bobby, bent on teasing. Meg's fair face flushed. She was exasperated. "What is it, then?" she snapped. Bobby measured the distance to the hall door. "A rubberstep!" he shouted triumphantly. "Sam wore his rubbers! Yah!" "You think you're smart!" said Meg, half laughing and half frowning. "Just you wait, Bobby Blossom!" She darted for him, but Bobby was too quick. He dashed out into the hall, Meg following, and Dot and Twaddles trailing after them. Shrieking and shouting, the four raced into the dining-room, tore twice around the table, then into the long living-room, where Meg managed to corner Bobby under the old-fashioned square piano. They had forgotten to be angry by this time, and after she had tickled him till he begged for mercy--Bobby was extremely ticklish--they crawled out again, disheveled and panting, and were ready for something new. "I'm going to get some snow," declared Dot, beginning to raise one of the windows. "Don't! You'll freeze Mother's plants," warned Meg. "Dot Blossom, don't you dare open that window!" For answer Dot gave a final push and the sash shot up and locked half way. "Oh, it's love-ly!" cried Dot, leaning out and scooping up a handful of the beautiful, soft, white stuff. "Just like feathers, Meg." "You'll be a feather if you don't come in," growled Bobby sternly. "Look out!" Dot, leaning out further to sweep the sill clean, had slipped and was going headlong when Bobby grasped her skirts. He pulled her back, unhurt, except for a scratch on her nose from a bit of the vine clinging to the house wall and a ruffled disposition. "You leave me alone!" she blazed. "You've hurt my knee." "Want to fall on your head?" demanded Bobby, justly indignant. "All right, if that's the way you feel about it, I'll give you something to be mad about." Before the surprised Dot could protest, he had seized her firmly around the neck and, holding her tightly (Bobby was very sturdy for his seven years), he proceeded to wash her face with a handful of snow he hastily scooped from the window sill. Dot was furious, but, though she struggled and squirmed, she could not get free. "Now you'll be good," said Bobby, giving her a sounding kiss as he let her go, for he was very fond of his headstrong little sister. "Want your face washed, Twaddles?" There was a sudden rush for the window and Meg and Twaddles and Dot armed themselves with handfuls of snow. Dot made for Twaddles, for she saw more chance of being able to capture him, and Bobby had designs on Meg. "Glory be! Where to now?" Norah's cry came from the pantry as four pairs of stout shoes thundered through her kitchen and up the back stairs. Norah, if the children had stopped long enough to hear, would have told them that she had hurried home to start supper after seeing the "episode" of the serial picture she was interested in at the motion picture house. Dot sounded like a husky young Indian as she hurled herself upon Twaddles in the center of Aunt Polly's carefully made bed in the guest-room and rubbed what was left of her handful of snow into his eyes and mouth. "My, it's wet," he sputtered. "Let go, Dot! Ow! you're standing on my finger." Meg had dashed into her mother's room, and, banging the door in Bobby's face, turned the key. She was safe! Bobby had no intention of being defeated. When he heard the key turn in the door he looked about for a way to outwit Meg. He might be able to climb through the transom if he could get a ladder or a chair. His own room was next to his mother's, and, turning in there to get a chair, he saw the window. It opened on the roof of the porch, as did the windows in his mother's room. What could be simpler than to walk along the roof of the porch, raise a window and get in? He could gather up more snow, too, as he went along, and just wouldn't he wash Meg's face for her! "What you going to do?" asked Twaddles, as Bobby hoisted his window. Dot and Twaddles, tiring of their own fracas, had come in search of Meg and Bobby. "You wait and you'll see," answered Bobby mysteriously, putting one leg over the sill. Dot and Twaddles crowded into the open window to watch him as he picked his way along. There was a linen closet between the two rooms, so Bobby had some space to cover before he came to the windows of the room where Meg was hiding. "My goodness!" whispered that small girl to herself, parting the white curtains to look out as she heard footsteps on the porch roof. "He might fall; it's ever so slippery!" It was slippery; in fact, the roof was much harder to walk on than Bobby had suspected. For one thing, the roof sloped, and he had to cling to the side of the house as he walked; then, too, the fine driving snow almost blinded him; and a third reason that made it hard going was the way the snow caked and clung to his shoes. He had reached the window where Meg was waiting, so interested in watching him that she had forgotten why he was coming, and he stooped for a handful of fresh snow. Meg grinned cheerfully at him as he straightened up. "I'll let you in," she called through the glass, beginning to push up the window. Bobby reached out to get a good grip on the window frame, missed the ledge and lost his balance. His foot slipped as he threw out his arms to save himself. CHAPTER II BOBBY IS RESCUED Before the frightened gaze of three pairs of eyes Bobby slid backward over the edge of the porch roof, out of sight. "He'll be killed!" sobbed Meg, dashing for the door. She unlocked it and fled down the hall, followed by Dot and Twaddles. "What is it? What is it?" screamed Norah, as she caught a glimpse of Meg's white face from the dining-room where she was beginning to set the supper table. "Has anything happened to any of ye?" Meg was already out of the front door. Norah caught up her red shawl and ran after her. Norah had lived with the Blossoms ever since Bobby was a baby. He was now seven years old. There were four little Blossoms now, and never a dispute about the "baby of the family," for there were two of them! Dot and Twaddles were twins, you see. They were four years old, but liked to be considered older, as many of the younger children do. If you have read the first book of this series, called "Four Little Blossoms at Brookside Farm," you already know many of their friends, and above all their Aunt Polly Hayward, who was their mother's older sister. Brookside Farm was Aunt Polly's home, and the four children spent a beautiful summer there with her and learned about farm life and were given a calf, "Carlotta," for their very own. This first book, too, explains about the real names of the four little Blossoms. Bobby was Robert Hayward Blossom, Meg's right name Margaret Alice, like her mother's, and Dot's, Dorothy Anna. Twaddles had a very nice name, too, Arthur Gifford Blossom, and no one ever knew why he was called Twaddles. It seemed to suit him, somehow. The Blossoms, Father and Mother Blossom and the four children, lived in a town called Oak Hill, where Father Blossom owned a large foundry at one end of the town. Meg and Bobby, of course, went to school. You may have read the book before this one, called "Four Little Blossoms at Oak Hill School," which tells about the troubles Bobby encountered and how he came safely through them, and of how the twins were so eager to go to school that they finally did in spite of the fact that they were only four years old. If you read that book you will remember that Aunt Polly came down to visit Mother Blossom over Thanksgiving and went to the school exercises to hear Meg and Bobby recite. She stayed for Christmas, too. And finally, because every one loved her very much and because she had no little people of her own at Brookside, she yielded to the persuasion of Father and Mother Blossom and promised to spend the rest of the winter in Oak Hill. Besides Norah, there lived with the Blossoms Sam Layton, who ran Father Blossom's car and did all the outside work about the place; Philip, a very intelligent and amiable dog, and Annabel Lee, an affectionate and much beloved cat. Dear me, Twaddles had some rabbits, too. He would want you to know those. And now that you are properly introduced, let us go and see what happened to Bobby. Meg fell down every one of the front steps in her anxiety to reach her brother, and Norah alone saved the twins from a like fall. They tumbled into her and the three held each other up. At least that is the way Twaddles explained it. "Bobby! Oh, Bobby, are you dead?" wailed Meg, looking, for some inexplicable reason, toward the porch roof. Of course Bobby couldn't be up there when he had fallen off. "Of course I'm not dead," the indignant voice of Bobby assured her. "I'm all right, not hurt a bit. But I'm stuck in this old bush." He had had the good fortune, for he might have been seriously hurt if he had struck the ground, to tumble into a large bush planted a short distance from the porch. This bush had not been trimmed for years, and new shoots had grown up and mingled with the old branches until it was very tough and tangled and strong. Plunged in the middle of this sturdy old friend, was Bobby. "Why don't ye come out?" demanded Norah, relieved to find that he was not hurt. "I left the teakettle boiling over to come and see if ye were killed." "I can't get out," said Bobby, struggling. "Lend us a hand, can't you, Twaddles?" Bobby had fallen with enough force to wedge himself tightly into the heart of the bush, and indeed it was no easy matter to dislodge him. Norah took one hand and Meg the other, and they tugged and pulled till Norah was afraid they might pull him out in pieces. "Where's Sam?" panted Meg. "He could bend down some of the branches." "Sam," said Norah, "has gone to meet your father with the car." "Here comes Mother!" shouted Twaddles, as a familiar figure came up the path. "Oh, Mother, Bobby's stuck!" Mother Blossom was used to "most anything." She said so often. The four little Blossoms had heard her. So now, though Aunt Polly gasped to see the front door wide open and the hall light streaming out over the snow, three children dancing about in the cold with no wraps on and a fourth nearly buried in a tall bush, Mother Blossom merely put down the two or three bundles she carried, leaned her weight against the bush and directed Norah how to bend down other branches. Then, holding on to his mother's arm, Bobby crawled out. "Run in, every one of you, before you take cold," commanded Mother Blossom quickly. "What have you been doing? Dot looks as though she had been through a mill." Sweeping them before her, Mother Blossom soon had them marshaled into the house. Aunt Polly closed the door and Norah flew to her neglected kitchen. It was dark outside by this time, and the steadily falling snow had spread a thick carpet on the ground. "Did you bring us something?" asked Dot expectantly, her hair-ribbon over one eye and both pockets torn from her apron. "Did you bring us something?" inquired Twaddles, shaking Mother Blossom's packages to try to find out what was in them. "Did you bring us something?" said Meg and Bobby together, each holding out a hand for overshoes. Mother Blossom gave hers to Bobby, and Aunt Polly handed hers to Meg, to be put away in the hall closet under the stairs. Just as Meg closed the door of the closet the doorbell rang. "There's the boy now," announced Mother Blossom. "He's bringing you the something nice I promised." The boy from Gobert's, the hardware store uptown, probably had never received a more enthusiastic welcome in his life than that he experienced at the Blossom house. Four children flung open the door for him and fell upon him crying: "Where is it? Who's it for? Let me see it!" He was a tall, thin boy, with a wide, cheerful grin, and four children pouncing upon him at once could not shake his self-possession. "Got two sleds," he said impressively. "Mrs. Blossom said to send 'em right up. Where do you want them?" "Put them down there on the rug," directed Mother Blossom, smiling. "Don't you want to come in and get warm, Ted?" "No thanks," replied Ted, putting on his cap, again. "Want to hustle right home to supper. Looks like a big storm." He stamped down the steps into the snow, and Meg closed the hall door. "Two sleds!" Twaddles was round-eyed with admiration. "Now I won't have to wait all afternoon for my turn." "Unwrap them," said Mother Blossom. "They're just alike, one for the girls, and one for you and Bobby. Aunt Polly bought one as her gift." Aunt Polly had gone upstairs to take off her hat, but the shouts of excitement brought her back quickly. "Flexible flyers!" cried Bobby. "Oh, Mother, can't we go out to-night?" "Mercy, no," answered Mother Blossom. "To-morrow's Saturday, and you'll have plenty of time to play in the snow. Hurry now, and get ready for supper. I shouldn't want Daddy to come home and find his family looking like wild Indians." It was too much to expect that the children could think or talk anything but sleds and snow that evening, and many were the anxious peeps taken through the living-room windows after supper to see how deep the feathery stuff was. "Still snowing," reported Sam, as he brought in a great armful of wood for the fireplace. "Looks like real winter at last." Mother Blossom was mending the twins' mittens, for their thumbs had a way of coming through, no matter how often she knitted them new pairs or darned the old. "I'm going upstairs to hunt my muffler," said Meg. "I think I left it in the bureau drawer, but I'd better look." Father Blossom laughed. "You all evidently plan to start out right after breakfast, don't you?" he teased them. "Where is the best coasting, Bobby?" "On Wayne Place hill," replied Bobby. "My, I'm anxious to let Fred Baldwin see the new sled." Aunt Polly folded up her embroidery. "I'll go upstairs with you, Meg," she said. "I've something I want to show you. Come into my room after you find your scarf." As they went upstairs they met Twaddles coming down, carrying the cat, Annabel Lee, in his arms. "Going to give her a ride on the sled--just in the hall," he informed them. "If she gets used to sleds in the house, maybe she'll like to take a ride outdoors. Philip could pull her." Aunt Polly was doubtful about Annabel Lee's feelings toward sleds, but Twaddles was sure she would learn to like coasting. CHAPTER III AUNT DOROTHY'S LOCKET "Aunt Polly?" Meg tapped lightly on her aunt's door. "Yes, dear, come in," called Aunt Polly. "You found your muffler? That's good. Come over here and see this." Aunt Polly was seated before her open trunk, a little white box on her knees. Meg came and stood beside her. "This was your great-great Aunt Dorothy's," said Aunt Polly, opening the little box. It was lined with blue velvet and on the velvet lay a little gold locket. "Oh, how pretty!" exclaimed Meg. The locket was round and set with tiny blue stones that formed three forget-me-not flowers. In the center of each flower sparkled a tiny diamond. "The blue stones are turquoises," explained Aunt Polly. "Great Aunt Dorothy wore her locket on a bit of black velvet, but I bought this chain for you. Do you like it, dear?" "Is it for me?" asked the surprised Meg. "For me, Auntie? Can I wear it to school and show it to the girls? Oh! can I?" "It is for you," Aunt Polly assured her small niece, kissing her. "But, honey, you must be careful of it. Wear it to school one day, if you want to, and then keep it for special times. You see, you must save it for your little girl." "My little girl?" echoed Meg, wonderingly. "Why?" "Because," explained Aunt Polly seriously, "this locket has always been handed down to the oldest daughter. Great-great Aunt Dorothy gave it to her daughter, and she gave it to her oldest daughter and so on. Some might say I should give it to Dot, because she is named for great Aunt Dorothy, but you are the oldest daughter. I had it instead of your mother for that reason. And as I have no daughter, it goes to you." Meg ran downstairs to show her gift, and the sleds were forgotten while the children crowded around to examine the pretty locket. "You must be very careful of it, Daughter," said Father Blossom. "You know you've lost two or three trinkets. This is the kind of thing you can't replace if you lose it." "I'll be careful," promised Meg, clasping the fine gold chain around her neck again and dancing off to the kitchen to show her treasure to Norah. The next morning it had stopped snowing, but there was, as Sam remarked, "enough and to spare" of snow for coasting. The minute breakfast was over the four little Blossoms, warmly bundled up, were out with their sleds. Wayne Place hill was a famous coasting hill, and all kinds of children with all kinds of sleds were on hand to enjoy the first real sledding of the winter. "Trade with you, Bobby," called a freckle-faced boy, dragging an old tin tray. Bobby grinned. "Won't trade," he called back. "But you can go down with me." So the freckle-faced boy, whose name was Palmer Davis, took turns coasting downhill on his tray, which he managed very skilfully, and going down with Bobby on the brand-new sled. Bobby taught Meg how to steer, and he usually pulled Twaddles up the hill, while Meg gave Dot an extra ride. They coasted the whole morning and went back for the afternoon. "I'd never get tired," declared Twaddles, as they were starring home. "I could go sledding all my life!" "I never get tired, either," announced Dot, from the sled where she was comfortably tucked on and being pulled along by patient Meg. "That's 'cause you're too young to work," said Meg bluntly, giving the rope such a sudden pull that Dot nearly went over backward. "She isn't too young," cried Twaddles, who always disliked any allusion to age; he and Dot wanted to be thought just as old as Bobby and Meg. "Hi, Meg, listen! I'm telling you----" Twaddles twisted around to catch Meg's attention and fell over into a snow drift that lined the edge of the walk. When he had been fished out and brushed off, he had forgotten what he had meant to tell. Sunday it snowed more, and a high wind whirled the flakes about till the older folk shook their heads and began to talk about a blizzard. However, by Monday morning the wind had died down and the snow had stopped, though the sun refused to shine. "Sam says it's awful cold," said Norah, bringing in the hot cakes for breakfast. "He's got the walks cleaned off, but maybe the children shouldn't go to school." "Nonsense!" said Mother Blossom briskly. "Meg and Bobby both have rubber boots and warm mittens and coats. A little cold won't hurt them." "And sledding after school, Mother?" urged Twaddles. "Dot and I have rubber boots, too." "And in summer we can't go coasting," said the practical Dot. "That's so, you can't," laughed Father Blossom, kissing her as he hurried out to the waiting car to go to his office. "Waiting for warm weather for coasting is a pretty poor way to spend one's time." Meg wore her locket to school, and long before the noon hour every girl had heard about great-great Aunt Dorothy, had tried on the locket, and had wished she had one exactly like it. "Wouldn't it be awful if you lost it!" said Hester Scott. "Then your little girl never could have a locket." "But I'm not going to lose it," insisted Meg. "Mother says I have to take it off as soon as I come home from school. Then I'll wear it Sundays and birthdays and when we have company." Many of the children had brought their lunch, and Meg and Bobby had theirs with them. Mother Blossom thought they should be saved the walk home at noon when the deep snow made walking difficult. The afternoon period rather dragged, though Miss Mason, the teacher, read them stories about the frozen North and their geography lesson was all about the home of the polar bear. "My, I was tired of listening," confided Bobby, hurrying home with Meg at half-past three. "What do we care what polar bears do when we've got snow all ready to use ourselves?" "Feels like more, doesn't it?" said the scarlet-cheeked Meg, trotting along in her rubber boots, her blue eyes shining with anticipated fun. "Can't I steer good now, Bobby?" "'Deed you can," returned Bobby. "You steer better than most girls. There the twins are out with the sleds." Dot and Twaddles, rubber-booted and snugly tied into mufflers and coats, greeted the arrival of the other two with a shout. "Sam says it will snow more to-night," reported Twaddles gleefully. "Maybe it will be as high as the house, Bobby." "And maybe it won't," said Bobby practically. "Where's Mother?" Meg and Bobby went into the house to leave their lunch boxes and tell Mother Blossom they were at home. "Be sure and take off the locket, Meg," called her mother, as Meg went up to her room to get a clean handkerchief. "Meg!" shouted Bobby, "where's my bearskin cap?" This cap was an old one Father Blossom had worn on hunting trips when a young man. It was several sizes too large for Bobby, and made him look like a British Grenadier, but he thought it was the finest cap in the world. He liked to wear it when playing in the snow because it was warm. "It's in the blue box on your closet shelf," answered Meg. She was an orderly little sister, and the boys counted on her help to remind them where they had left their things. "Meg!" This time the call came from Norah, who was putting away clean sheets in the linen closet. "Down on the kitchen table I left four drop cakes--one apiece for ye. Your mother said 'twas all right." "Meg! Bobby! Hurry up!" shrieked the twins. Bobby crammed his cap on his head and dashed down the front stairs. Meg seized her clean handkerchief, ran to the kitchen and got the cakes and went out by way of the back door. "Thought you were never coming," grumbled Twaddles. "Cake, Meg?" "One for you. One for Dot," said Meg dividing, and giving Bobby his. "Now aren't you sorry you were cross?" "He wasn't," Dot assured her; the twins had a way of standing up for each other. "He was just afraid the others would use up all the snow 'fore we got there." Really, there didn't seem to be much danger of that. Wayne Place hill was alive with coasters when the four little Blossoms reached it. The snow was still deep and soft on the sides, and packed hard and smooth in the center of the road. "Here comes a bob!" cried Bobby, as the children began their walk up. "Look how she goes! Dave Saunders is steering." The big sled shot past them, filled with high-school boys and girls. "Ours is just as nice," said sunny-tempered Meg, catching Twaddles in a wistful stare. CHAPTER IV WHEN THE BOBSLED UPSET "Our sleds are ever so much nicer," declared Bobby sturdily. "Bobs are no fun, Twaddles. You can't see a thing 'less you're steering. Come on now; we're going down." Bobby took his place on the sled, Twaddles grasped the belt of his coat tightly, and Meg pushed. Away they went! "Hurry up, Dot," cried Meg excitedly. "Let's get down before they start to walk up." "Can you steer it?" asked Dot cautiously. "What a question!" Meg was indignant. "Didn't I steer it all day Saturday, silly?" But Dot, for some reason, did not want to coast. To tell the truth, Meg had narrowly missed a tree Saturday afternoon, and after that Dot had shut her eyes tight every time they went down the hill. "You go too fast," she complained now. Meg looked at her little sister, genuinely surprised. "Why, you have to go fast," she said. "You can't stop the sled after you get to going. And if you did all the others would run into you. Come on, Dot, you'll like it after the first ride." By this time Bobby and Twaddles, rosy and panting, had reached the top of the hill. "The snow's packed fine," said Bobby enthusiastically. "What are you waiting for, Meg? Feet cold?" "No, they're warm enough," answered Meg, absently stamping her feet in the snow to prove it. "Dot's afraid." "I am not!" cried Dot indignantly. "I just said Meg went too fast." "And she wanted to know if I could steer," said Meg scornfully. "There's nothing to steering, is there, Bobby?" "Well, of course, you have to be careful," answered Bobby. "Suppose I take Dot down? Want to go with me?" Dot nodded. "All right," said Bobby. "Meg, you'll give Twaddles a coast or two, won't you? If he kicks you in the back just shove your elbow into him." Twaddles looked abashed. He had a habit, when excited, of kicking with his sharp little right foot, and Bobby strongly objected to being punched in the back when he was centering all his mind on the steering bars of his sled. Dot settled herself comfortably behind Bobby and glanced back at Meg uncertainly. "You don't mind, do you, Meg?" she asked timidly. "Mind?" echoed Meg. "Oh, no, of course not. Silly Dot!" Meg, Father Blossom had once said, saved a good many minutes that other people wasted in grumbling or envying or being cross. Meg seldom had mean little feelings. "One, two, three--go!" shouted Dave Saunders suddenly. A whole fleet of little sleds with shrieking youngsters on them shot down the hill. "Gee!" cried Twaddles, forgetting and using his right foot vigorously. "Gee, isn't this fun!" "There, did I steer to suit you?" asked Bobby of Dot, as he ran gently into a sloping snow bank and the sled stopped. "It was lovely," sighed Dot. "Do it again, Bobby." "All right," agreed Bobby. "You stay on, Dot, and we'll give you a ride back. But Twaddles, you walk." "I should think he'd better," declared Meg severely. "Kicking me in the back like that!" Twaddles was sure that he would remember the next time, and Meg forgave him. At the top of the hill they lined up again, and Bobby found Tim Roon and Charlie Black on one side of him. "Packs good, doesn't it?" said Tim affably. During the fall and winter Tim and Charlie had occasioned a good deal of trouble for Bobby in one way or another, and he was not at all desirous of having much to do with them. In school, especially, they had landed him in a sad scrape, and Meg, too, had had to endure their teasing. Still, coasting was another matter. "Have you been here long?" asked Bobby, as Dot tucked in her skirts and Twaddles planted himself behind Meg. "Why didn't you come to school?" "Didn't want to," grinned Tim. "Charlie and I coasted all the morning, 'cept once when we saw old Hornbeck's buggy and horse coming. Had the whole hill to ourselves." Dave Saunders shouted, and Meg and Bobby started. Down, down, they flew, Meg's small hands steering capably, Twaddles' right foot prodding her as enthusiastically as ever. Dot clung a little tighter to Bobby and gasped with cold air and delight. They were almost at the end of the coast when a loud roar of laughter made them look back. A few rods behind, Tim and Charlie had upset, Tim falling head over heels into the snow at the side of the road and Charlie tumbling almost directly into the path of a coming sled. The boy steering, however, managed to swing out and avoid the limp and flattened Charles. "Some spill," commented Bobby, using the slang he was learning in the school yard and putting out his foot as a brake, bringing his own sled to a standstill. "I'll bet that torn piece of runner caught on something." They stood for a moment watching Charlie crawl out of the road and Tim scrambling out of the snow. Then they walked slowly up the hill for a last grand coast. "'Cause it's getting dark," said Meg, "and Mother said we must come in at five o'clock. Let's ask Dave what time it is." "Twenty minutes to five," said Dave, when they asked him. "Want to go down on the bob?" "Oh, Bobby, can we?" Meg clapped her hands with delight. "I've never been on one. Come on, let's." "What'll we do with our sleds?" asked Bobby doubtfully. "Let Hester and me coast down on 'em, and then we'll keep 'em at the big tree till you come," suggested Palmer Davis. Palmer had been using his tin tray cheerfully all the afternoon, but he did wish for a sled like Bobby's. If Bobby consented to his plan, he would have at least one good ride. "All right, take 'em," said Bobby, giving his sled to Palmer. Meg handed hers over to Hester Scott, who likewise had none of her own and had to watch her friends coasting, or hang on wherever there was room. She and Palmer immediately started down the hill on the borrowed sleds. "Now pile on, kids," ordered Dave cheerfully. "Here, Dot, you and Meg will just fit in here between Rose and Louise. Bobby, get in here by Harold Cross. And, for goodness' sake, keep a tight grip on Twaddles. If he falls off we can't stop to pick him up. All set?" This was to be the last trip of the bobsled before supper, and Dave packed on his passengers with extra care, desirous that they should each one have a final perfect trip. He was to steer, and took his place after the others were on. He sat before Rose Bacon, a pretty girl with dark eyes and a scarlet cap, and her cousin Louise Lathrop. Back of Louise sat Meg and Dot. Bobby and Twaddles were almost at the end of the load. "Yah! yah! bet you upset!" taunted Tim Roon, who had watched enviously as Dave arranged his passengers. "You keep still!" shouted the boys on the big sled. "All ready, Dave!" With a sudden rush, the bobsled started. Dot clutched Meg frantically, and even Twaddles was startled. They had no idea it would seem so "different." The wind almost took their breath away, but they still had enough to scream with. You've noticed, haven't you, how every one on a bobsled just naturally screams when it is flying down a steep hill? It is partly the fun and partly the excitement, we suspect. Laughing and shouting, they whizzed on, till, just as Dave was ready to shout to Fred Graves, the last boy, to put out his foot and Meg had a confused glimpse of the big tree they were passing where Palmer and Hester waited for them, something happened. The bobsled upset! No one was hurt, though for a moment it was quite impossible to sort out the arms and legs and wildly waving feet and decide to whom they belonged. The boys were up first, and soon had the girls on their feet, some of them speechless from laughter. The four little Blossoms came up smiling, and though Dot had a scratch on her finger from a nail in some one's shoe, it was trifling and did not bother her. "All right? Everybody accounted for?" asked Dave, like the good general he was. "All right then. Now I say we'd better streak it for home. I've got some good stiff Latin to study to-night." "What's the matter, Meg?" asked Bobby suddenly. Meg's eyes were frightened, and she was feeling around the neck of her dress. She had unbuttoned her coat and opened her gray muffler. "My gold locket!" she gasped. "I've lost it!" She began to cry. "Lost something?" asked one of the older girls kindly. "What was it? Don't cry, Meg, we'll help you find it." "It was her Aunt Dorothy locket," explained Dot, for Meg was already on her knees brushing the snow away. "Mother said she should take it off, and now it's gone." CHAPTER V MEG IN TROUBLE "I did mean to take it off," protested Meg, frantically digging in the snow about the bobsled. "I went upstairs to put it in the box, and then Norah called me about the cakes. Oh, dear, what will Mother say?" The news soon spread among the others that little Meg Blossom had lost her gold locket, and all the boys and girls turned to with a will to help her search for it. They looked up the road a way, because some thought the locket might have flown off before the sled upset; they hunted over every inch of the ground where they had been spilled out, for Dave was sure it must be there. But though they looked in possible and impossible places, no sign of the dainty gold locket with the turquoise forget-me-nots and the diamond dewdrops in their centers could the children find. "Half-past five," announced Dave presently. "Awfully sorry, Meg, but your locket must be lost in the snow. It's too dark and too late to hunt any more now. You run along home and don't worry; maybe you'll get another one next Christmas." "He doesn't know that this was great Aunt Dorothy's," said Meg sadly. A very solemn little procession turned in at the Blossom front gate, for Dot and Twaddles were depressed, too. Bobby was towing both sleds and looked as sober as a judge. "How late you are!" Aunt Polly, reading by the fireplace in the living-room, called to them as she heard the front door open. "Your mother began to worry about you. Is the coasting good?" "Yes, I guess so," answered Bobby vaguely. Twaddles sat down on the floor to pull off his rubber boots. "Meg lost her locket!" he announced, seeing no reason why bad news should be concealed, especially when he was not to blame for it. Mother Blossom came downstairs just in time to hear this. "Meg lost her locket!" she repeated. "Not great Aunt Dorothy's? Oh, Meg, and I told you not to wear it out coasting!" Poor Meg's tears came faster. "I did mean to take it off," she sobbed. "An' then Norah called me and the twins were in a hurry, and Bobby wanted his cap, and I forgot about the locket. My darling little gold locket!" Aunt Polly had come out into the hall, and now Father Blossom opened the front door to find Mother Blossom sitting on the last stair-step, Meg crying in her lap, and the rest of the family standing about with serious faces. "Hello, anything happened?" he asked anxiously. "Is Meg sick?" "She lost her locket," answered Dot. "Well, well, that's too bad," said Father Blossom sympathetically. "Don't cry like that, Daughter. No locket is worth all those tears." "Mother," confided Twaddles impartially, "is scolding her." "Twaddles Blossom, march upstairs and get ready for supper," said Mother Blossom, half sternly, half smilingly. "I'm not scolding Meg. I want her to realize, though, that forgetting is a poor excuse, and that no matter how sorry we are after something has happened it is too late to do the right thing then." "I'm so hungry," declared Dot, who couldn't bear to see Meg in trouble. "Couldn't we eat pretty soon?" Mother Blossom went upstairs with Meg and helped her bathe her eyes, and at supper every one was careful not to mention the lost locket. Meg wasn't scolded any more, but every time she saw the empty blue velvet box in her bureau drawer she was reminded of her carelessness. Aunt Polly said nothing at all, but Meg wondered if she was sorry she had given it to such a heedless girl. Meg thought a good deal about the many "oldest daughters" who had kept the locket safely for her. "We'll go and look for it after school," Bobby promised the next day; and though they did, they found no trace of it. That night it snowed again, and Sam and Philip--Philip always assisted at cleaning the walks--had their work to do over again. "Sleigh bells!" exclaimed Bobby, as the children were in the hall putting on their things for the walk to school. "Some one's calling." He ran to look out of the dining-room window. "Mother, it's the feed-store man," he shouted. "He's got a sleigh. Can we go?" Mother Blossom stepped to the door. The "feed-store man" was Mr. Wright, and the four little Blossoms knew him very well. "Morning!" They heard him greet Mother Blossom. "Nice winter weather we're having. Anybody going to school this morning? I'm driving around that way." Meg and Bobby danced out on the front porch. "Take us?" they cried excitedly. "We're all ready." "Sure, I'll take you," was the hearty response. "Send Dot and Twaddles along, too. I'm going to the station and back, and I'll drop you at the school house and take them on with me. I'll have them back inside an hour, Mrs. Blossom." Mother Blossom said Dot and Twaddles could go, and in another minute they were climbing into the sleigh, which was a low box wagon on runners, drawn by two lively bay horses. The twins sat down cozily in the straw that covered the floor on the sleigh, but Bobby rode up on the seat with Mr. Wright, and Meg did, too. She usually did everything Bobby did. "Had any snowball fights yet?" asked Mr. Wright, his breath coming out of his mouth like white smoke. "No. We've been coasting," replied Bobby, "but we haven't had a snowball fight. Miss Wright won't let you throw snowballs near the school. She's afraid you'll break a window." Miss Wright, the vice-principal of the Oak Hill primary school, was the feed-store man's cousin. "That so?" he asked interestedly. "Well, now, I'll have to speak to Cousin Lelia. When I was a boy and went to school we had regular snowball fights. Built forts, you know, and chose a captain for each side and had real exciting times. You tell her you won't throw toward the school, and I shouldn't be a bit surprised if she let you build forts in the school yard and have a good battle." "The snow's fine there," said Meg, catching Mr. Wright's enthusiasm. "It hasn't been touched since the first storm, only where the janitor dug out the walks. I'd love to have a snowball fight." "Girls don't snowball fight, do they?" Bobby was quite scandalized, and appealed to Mr. Wright. "Well, now, I don't believe they did when we were boys," admitted the feed-store man slowly. "But times have changed, you know. I should say that the side that lets girls have a place stands the best chance of winning this snowball fight you're planning." "Can we stay?" begged Twaddles and Dot, who had overheard. "I should say not!" declared Bobby crushingly. Meg might win her point, but he hoped he could still handle the twins. "You go straight home. And you can tell Mother, if we don't come in early, that we're having a snowball fight at school." "You always have all the fun," grumbled Dot. "Why can't we stay a little while?" "They'll have to say lessons right up to recess time, before they can even roll a snowball," Mr. Wright comforted the twins, driving the sleigh up to the curb before the school-house yard. "You and I are going to have a nice little ride while they're pegging away at their books. How's that?" Dot and Twaddles were cheered by this thought, and they were able to see Meg and Bobby and the lunch-boxes go up the school walk without another protest. "You go and ask her now," suggested Meg, as she and Bobby went into the hall. "Go on, Bobby. Ask her if we can have a fight right after school." Bobby stood a little in awe of Miss Wright, the vice-principal, but the vision of snow forts, and perhaps himself as one of the captains, decided him. "All right, I will," he said recklessly. "You wait for me, Meg. It's only quarter of." Bobby hurried down the hall to the door marked "Office" and opened it. Miss Wright was nowhere in sight. There was no one in the office, and the clock ticked very loudly indeed. "I'll wait a little," thought Bobby. "She has to come back to ring the assembly bells." He studied the complicated system of bells that sounded the signals in each classroom for a minute, and suddenly the telephone rang shrilly. It startled him, and he jumped. He looked about uneasily. The bell kept ringing. "I s'pose I'd better answer it," he said aloud, doubtfully. "Hello!" he called, taking down the receiver. "Hello," answered a strange voice. "Take this message, please. Miss Wright has a severe cold and will not be in to-day. Have Miss Garrett take charge of the assembly. That's all, thank you. Good-by." Bobby blinked. Whoever had telephoned had spoken so quickly that he had had no chance to say a word. CHAPTER VI THE ORANGE AND THE BLACK Bobby put the receiver back, and at that moment the door opened and Mr. Carter walked into the office. Mr. Carter was the principal of the primary and grammar schools, but usually spent most of his time at the grammar school. Bobby had been afraid of him once, but that was before he had learned to know him. "Good morning, Bobby," said Mr. Carter pleasantly. "Has Miss Wright come in yet?" "No, Mr. Carter. Some one telephoned," answered Bobby slowly, anxious to get the message delivered correctly. "She said Miss Wright had a solemn cold and wouldn't be in this morning." "What kind of cold did you say?" asked Mr. Carter curiously. "Solemn? What kind of complaint is that?" Bobby looked perplexed. He thought for a moment. "Oh!" He had remembered. "It wasn't a solemn cold; it was a severe cold." "That sounds more like it," said the principal smiling. "Was that all, Bobby?" "She wants Miss Garrett to take charge of the assembly and she said that's all thank you good-by," repeated Bobby glibly, just as the speaker had rattled it off to him over the telephone. "All right," agreed Mr. Carter. "I might as well stay the day out here. Let's see, it's about time for the assembly bell, isn't it?" Bobby had almost forgotten what he had come to the office for. As Mr. Carter moved toward the bells, he recollected. "I was going to ask Miss Wright," he hurried to say. "Could we--do you think we could, have a snowball fight out in the yard after school? With forts and everything? We wouldn't break any windows." "I don't see any reason why you shouldn't have a snowball fight," said Mr. Carter promptly. "Remember about the windows and don't aim at any of the girls, and you should have no trouble." "I guess the girls will be in it," said Bobby sadly. "My sister Meg wants to play, and I s'pose half the girls in school will want to come in." Mr. Carter laughed, but offered no advice or sympathy, as he pressed the signal for the assembly. Girls, Bobby thought, joining the patient Meg in the hall, always managed to have their way; a fellow might as well give up to them from the first. After assembly came lessons, and, finally, recess. "Go out into the fresh air," ordered Miss Mason, who taught the room Meg and Bobby were in. "It isn't cold out--not too cold. No, Frances, you can't stay in and draw." Miss Mason believed in fresh air, and she usually drove her class out into the yard, no matter what the weather, telling them that exercise would keep them warm. Those who tried to stay in the warm schoolroom were invariably disappointed, for Miss Mason opened every window as wide as it would go and let in the fresh cold air. "Come on, Frances," called Meg from the doorway. "We're going to play something new." Frances Smith followed Meg reluctantly, but when she heard about the snowball fight, she was immediately interested. "Mr. Carter said we could," announced Bobby to the boys. "We must remember and aim away from the windows and not hit the girls. Let's begin to build the forts now." "We'll have to have a general," said Tim Roon quickly. "I'll be general of the Americans." "Huh," retorted Bobby. "What do you think the other side is going to be? My men are Americans, too." "Who said you were a general?" jeered Tim. "Well, he is," replied Palmer Davis heatedly. "Isn't he, fellows? I guess Bobby proposed this. Come on, who wants to be on Bobby's side?" "I do," cried Meg instantly. "So do I," said Frances Smith. "Girls!" Tim Roon's tone was one of deepest disgust. "For goodness' sake, who ever heard of girls being in a snowball fight?" "Well, we're going to be in this one," Meg assured him with spirit. "You can't," said Tim. "Can, too," insisted Meg. "We don't want to fight on your side, anyway." The bell rang before they had this settled, and when Mr. Carter stopped Bobby in the hall to ask him how the plans were going, Bobby had to confess that they had done little beyond dispute over the names for the sides and whether the girls should be allowed to play. "It's the girls' school, after all, as much as it is yours," said Mr. Carter thoughtfully. "Some of them, I imagine, will prefer to look on from the windows; but, if I were you, I would be glad to have those who want to play on your side." "But Tim can't be American," insisted Bobby. "We won't be any other country." "Then choose colors," suggested Mr. Carter, "Why not Black and Orange?" Mr. Carter, you see, was a Princeton man, and he thought those colors very beautiful, as indeed they are. Bobby overtook Tim Roon on the stairs and asked him about the colors. "I'll be general of the Orange side," decided Tim promptly. Tim never thought to ask any one his opinion. He always took what he wanted for himself and did not bother to consult the wishes of others. "Then I'll be the Black," said Bobby. "We'll have to do a lot of work this noon to get ready. I'm glad we brought our lunch." Tim's head was so full of snowball fights that he missed outright in spelling, and Bobby was discovered drawing a plan of a fort when he should have been studying his geography lesson. "There," said Miss Mason when the noon bell rang, "now do try to get this wonderful fight out of your minds by the time the one o'clock bell sounds. And don't let me hear of any one going without his lunch to play in the snow. Eat first, and then play." Bobby looked a little guilty. He had planned to hurry out and start the building of his fort and eat his lunch as he worked. He sat down with Meg and bolted the good sandwiches Norah had packed, very much as Philip sometimes ate his dinner. But then this was an exceptional occasion. Bobby didn't usually forget his manners. "Come on, fellows!" called Tim, as the children streamed out into the yard. "Choose your sides--hurry up!" As they chose their sides, Tim found, to his disgust, that he would have to have some girls under him. These were mostly sisters of the boys who lived in Tim's neighborhood, and though he had often pulled their braids and otherwise teased them, still they felt that for the honor of their home streets they were bound to fight on Tim's side. After every one was enrolled on the Black's side or on that of the Orange, they set to work to build the forts. Such scrambling for snow! Such frantic scouring of corners for drifts from which to pack the walls! And mercy, such screaming and shouting! No game was ever played without a noisy chorus, and this was the most exciting game the Oak Hill children had found in a long time. "Well, how is it going?" asked Miss Mason, as they came up, damp and rosy, in answer to the noon bell. "I watched you from the window for a few moments, but I couldn't tell what you were building." Couldn't tell what they were building! If that wasn't like a woman! For a second Bobby was completely discouraged, and then he thought that of course Miss Mason couldn't be expected to know. She probably had no idea what a really good snow fight was. "We were making forts," he explained. "Tim's is down by the gate and mine is under the chestnut tree. We've got a lot of ammunition made, too." School was out at three o'clock, and a good many of the teachers came upstairs to Miss Mason's room to watch the fight from her windows. Only first and second grade pupils were supposed to take part, but the third and fourth grade children seemed naturally to drift in the direction of the piled up snowballs. "We'll help you make 'em," they offered. "That's fair enough," said Mr. Carter, who was to be referee. "You fourth graders help the first, and the third grade can be a reserve force for the second." When enough snowballs were ready to begin with, the general of the Blacks retired behind the white walls of his fort and the forces of the Orange did the same. Mr. Carter blew shrilly on his whistle, and the battle raged. Whenever a head popped up over the wall of either fort, whiz! a snowball would be flung toward it. Sometimes the head ducked, sometimes it was caught fairly. "Gee, don't they sting!" Palmer Davis danced about, holding one hand to his ear. "Just you let me have a whack at 'em!" The girls were aiming furiously, if blindly. And though Meg closed her eyes tight every time she threw a snowball, Bobby reported that several of her shots had hit a victim. Thanks to the good work of the fourth grade pupils, the supply of ammunition held out well. Suddenly Bobby, who was standing on a little snow mound that raised him slightly above the wall, received a snowball squarely in the eye. He cried out with the pain, though he tried to smother the sound with his hand over his mouth. "That was dipped in water and packed!" said Palmer angrily, picking up the ball and examining it. "That's no fair. Mr. Carter said packed snowballs weren't to be used. Let's see your eye, Bobby. Is it swelling?" "Don't say anything," begged Bobby, letting Palmer inspect his eye, which was rapidly swelling. "Mr. Carter would stop the fight if he heard about the ball." CHAPTER VII A BIRTHDAY PARTY Palmer knew this to be true, for Mr. Carter had expressly said that at the first sign of unfair play the battle would be called off. He made few rules for his pupils, but those he did make were never to be lightly broken. "I'll bet that Tim Roon threw it!" stormed Meg. "You wait!" Meg was very quick to think and to act, and the sight of her favorite brother, one blue eye almost closed, roused her to strong measures. "Come on, and rush 'em!" she cried, her little arms waving like windmills. "Don't stand here, throwing balls. Let's capture their old fort!" For an instant they stared at her, and then, the idea appealing, the whole Black army poured over the side of the fort, and charged on the enemy, shrieking wildly. Bobby, who could barely see where he was going, was swept along with the rest. Upstairs in the schoolhouse, the teachers looked at each other in surprise, and Mr. Carter was equally astonished. "Surrender!" shouted Meg, the first to leap the wall of the Orange fort. The Orange army simply backed. It was very funny to see them. They had not expected an open attack, and they were too taken by surprise to guard their piles of ammunition. As the opposing forces climbed their wall they dumbly gave way and moved back, back, till, with a cry of joy, the Black fighters swooped upon the orderly mounds of snowballs. With their ammunition gone, of course the Oranges could do nothing less than give in. Mr. Carter came up laughing. "Well, Tim, that was a surprise attack for fair, wasn't it?" he asked pleasantly. "I think we'll have to say the Black side won. Congratulations, Bobby. And now, Generals, shake hands, and the biggest fight in Oak Hill school history will be over." Tim put out his lip stubbornly. "I didn't know it was fair to play like that," he argued sourly. "We could have taken their fort easy, if you'd said that was the way to play. 'Sides Meg Blossom put 'em to it. Bobby hadn't a thing to do with that." "Yes, Meg did," said Bobby hurriedly, trying to edge out of the crowd. "She really won the war." "Just one moment," Mr. Carter spoke coolly, and yet there was an odd little snap in his voice that made every boy and girl turn toward him. "Look at me, please, Bobby. What happened to your eye?" "Oh, gee," mumbled Bobby unhappily. He had hoped to get away unnoticed. "I guess--I guess a snowball hit it." "A packed ball, probably dipped in water first," announced Mr. Carter, gently touching the poor sore eye. "Tim, do you know anything about such a ball?" "No, I don't," said Tim hastily. "Nobody can say our side packed balls." "No one can prove your side threw a packed ball," corrected the principal pointedly. "Still, it is hardly likely that Bobby's men would have hit their own general with a frozen ball. I don't intend to try to find out any more, Tim. But I'm sorry that in every game there must always be some one who doesn't play fair." Mr. Carter said that Bobby should go home at once and let his mother put something on his eye. It was a real victory for the Black's side, he announced firmly. And Bobby, going home with Meg, his handkerchief tied over his puffy eye, felt like a real general, wounded, tired, but successful and happy. Mother Blossom always knew what to do for the little hurts, and she bandaged Bobby's eye and listened to the account of the snow fight with great interest. "Meg, Meg!" Dot's voice sounded from the front hall, as Mother Blossom finished tying a soft handkerchief around Bobby's head to hold the eye-pad in place. "Is Meg home yet?" Dot appeared in the doorway of Mother Blossom's room. "What's the matter with Bobby?" she asked. Bobby explained, but Dot was too excited to pay much attention to the story of the fight. She had other matters on her mind. "Meg, you've got a letter," she announced. "We all have. Only Twaddles and I opened ours." "A letter!" repeated Meg, delighted. "Who wrote it?" "Give Bobby his," directed Mother Blossom. "Open them, dears. That is the only sure way to know what is inside." Meg and Bobby tore open the square pink envelopes together, but Meg read hers first. "Marion Green's going to give a birthday party!" she exclaimed. "Isn't that fun! I can wear my white dress. What'll we take her, Mother?" Mother Blossom said that they would think up something nice before the day for the party came, and then they heard Father Blossom come in, and down the four little Blossoms rushed to tell him about the snow battle and the party. "I'm glad," announced Dot with a great deal of satisfaction at the supper table that night, "there's something in this town they don't say Twaddles and I are too young to go to!" Everybody laughed, and Father Blossom said that Dot shouldn't worry about her age, for she was growing older every year. Marion Green's party was the next Saturday afternoon, and Mother Blossom and Aunt Polly helped the children to get dressed. "If I only had my locket," sighed Meg. "It would look so pretty with this white dress. Oh, dear! I wish I had remembered about taking it off." Bobby and Meg had hunted often after school for the locket, but though they were sure they had been over every inch of ground where Meg had coasted, they could not find the pretty ornament. "Don't sigh for things gone," said Aunt Polly, giving Meg a kiss. "We all know you will be more careful another time, dear. Now I'm sure you look very nice. And, as your grandmother used to say, 'behave as well as you look.'" Meg wore a white dress with blue sash and hair-ribbons, and Dot was all in pink--dress, ribbons and socks. "I hope," remarked Twaddles, as they started for Marion's house, "that the ice-cream will be chocolate." "I don't think you should think about what you're going to get to eat," reproved Meg primly, feeling very much the older sister because she was wearing gloves, kid ones. "It's colder, isn't it?" It really was very cold, and the four little Blossoms were glad when they reached Marion's house. "The party's going on," observed Dot, as they went up the steps. She was seized with a sudden fit of shyness, and pressed close to Meg. Meg and Bobby were experienced in the matter of parties, and they knew you went upstairs to take off your things and then came down to present your birthday present. "See my new locket and chain," said Ruth Ellis, a little girl Meg knew, who was fluffing out her hair-ribbon before the glass in Marion's mother's room where the girls were told to leave their wraps. "My uncle gave it to me." Poor Meg remembered her lost locket again. She thought it much prettier than Ruth's, and she would have been so glad to have it around her neck to show the other girls. The four little Blossoms met in the hall and went down together. They had brought Marion a knitting set, two ivory needles with sterling silver tops, which folded into a neat leather case, and Marion, who was a famous little knitter, was delighted. All the presents were put on the center table after they were opened and admired, and then the children played games till Mrs. Green announced that there was something in the dining-room to interest them. "Gee, it is chocolate," whispered Twaddles shrilly, as the plates of ice-cream followed the sandwiches. The cake was white with eight pink candles, and if anything looks prettier or tastes better than chocolate ice-cream and white cake, do tell me what it is. "Now we can fish," remarked Marion, as they left the table. Back of the wide deep sofa in the parlor, Marion's mother had fixed a "fish pond," and now she gave each guest a rod and line with a hook at the end, and told them all to try their luck. Twaddles fished first. His hook mysteriously caught something right away, and he drew up a tissue paper parcel that proved to contain a little glass jar of candy sticks. Twaddles liked them very much. Meg caught a pretty silk handkerchief, and Dot found a soap bubble set on the end of her line. Bobby's catch was a box of water-color paints. After every child had fished and caught something, it was five o'clock and the party was over. They said good-by to Marion and her mother, and told them they had had the nicest time, which was certainly true. "My, but isn't it cold!" exclaimed Mrs. Green, as she held open the door for a group of the party guests to go out. "We'll have skating next week if this weather keeps up." The four little Blossoms hurried home, for the cold nipped their noses and the tips of Meg's fingers in her spandy new kid gloves. "I like a party," said Dot suddenly, running to keep up with Bobby, "where you get presents, too." Father Blossom opened the door for them, and they were glad to see the fire blazing cheerily in the living-room. "Well, well, how did the party go?" asked Father, pulling off Meg's gloves for her, and drawing her into his lap. "Presents, too? Why, Twaddles, I thought this was Marion's birthday." Twaddles unscrewed the top of his candy jar and offered Father Blossom a green-colored stick. "We took Marion a present," he explained serenely. "But I guess her mother thought it wasn't fair for her to get 'em all. Everybody fished for something, Daddy." CHAPTER VIII DOWN ON THE POND "A penny for your thoughts, Daughter," said Father Blossom presently. Meg's lip quivered. "I want my locket!" she sobbed, hiding her face against her father's shoulder. "All the girls have lockets and mine was nicer than any of them." "Yes, it was," agreed Dot judicially, from her seat on the rug before the fire. "It had such a cunning snap." "I don't care about the snap," retorted Meg, sitting up and drying her eyes on Father's nice big white handkerchief. "The forget-me-nots were so lovely and besides it was great Aunt Dorothy's." Father Blossom now proposed a plan. "I'll advertise for your locket, Meg," he said. "We'll offer a reward, and perhaps some one will find it. At any rate, it will encourage them to look for it. Right after supper we'll get pencil and paper and write out an advertisement for the _Oak Hill Herald_." Father Blossom did not really believe that offering a reward for the lost locket would bring it back. He thought likely that it was buried under the deep snow beyond the sight of every one. But he knew that Meg would feel better if she thought that everything possible was being done to recover the pretty trinket. After supper that night they wrote an advertisement, describing the locket, telling where it was lost, and offering ten dollars reward to the person who should bring it back. This advertisement was printed for three weeks in the Oak Hill paper, but though a number of people who read it did go out and scuffle about a bit in the snow on Wayne Place hill, partly in the hope of earning the reward, partly with a good-natured wish to help Meg, no one found the locket. The Blossom family were forced to conclude that it was gone forever. The Monday afternoon following the party Meg and Bobby came rushing home from school with great news. "Mother! Mother!" they shouted, flinging down lunch boxes and books in the hall and tearing upstairs like small cyclones. "Oh, Mother!" Mother Blossom, sewing in Aunt Polly's room, looked up at them and laughed. "Is there a fire?" she asked calmly. Bobby was almost out of breath, but he still had a bit left to tell the news. "They've swept off Blake's pond!" he gasped. "Everybody's going skating. The ice is great, Mother. Just like glass." "Where are our skates? Can we go?" chimed in Meg. "It isn't a bit cold, Mother." "Just cold enough to skate, I suppose," smiled Mother Blossom. "Well, of course you can't miss the first skating of the season. But I don't believe they want such little folks on the pond, dear. Some of the big boys will be likely to skate right over you." "We'll keep near the edge," promised Bobby. "Come on, Meg. Where are our skates?" Meg and Bobby had double runner skates, which are very good to learn on, and they had used them only once or twice because the winter before there had been practically no skating. Mother Blossom said the skates were in a dark green flannel bag, hanging in the hall closet, and the children tumbled downstairs to find them. You would have thought that they were afraid the ice would melt, if they didn't hurry. Presently Mother Blossom and Aunt Polly heard sounds of argument. "You can't go," cried Bobby. "You're too little." "You haven't any skates," said Meg crossly. "Mind your own business," shouted Twaddles, apparently making a rush at some one, for there was the sound of a scuffle and then a wail from Dot. Mother Blossom dropped her sewing and went out into the hall. "Children!" she cried warningly, leaning over the railing. "Oh, Mother!" Bobby's voice was filled with protest. "The twins want to go skating!" "Can't we, Mother?" said Dot eagerly, looking up at her mother imploringly. "Bobby and Meg always have all the fun. Can't we go?" "They're too little," insisted Meg. "They haven't any skates, either. And Dot will get her feet cold and want to come home right away." "Won't either," scolded Dot. "I am too going! Can't I, Mother?" "Well, suppose you go till four o'clock," proposed Mother Blossom, who could always see both sides of a question. "If Bobby and Meg do not get cold, they may stay till half-past four. And you'll have to promise to do as Bobby says, twinnies, and keep out of the path of older boys and girls. You mustn't spoil good fun for other people who really know how to skate." "I suppose you might as well tag along," conceded Bobby rather ungraciously. "Nobody let us go skating when we were only four years old, did they, Meg?" "No, they didn't," agreed Meg. "Next year we're going to have skates," announced Twaddles importantly. "Daddy said so." Before they reached the pond, however, all ill feelings were forgotten, and the sight of the glassy oval, well-filled with skaters, completely restored the four little Blossoms to their usual good humor. "Whee!" cried Dot, skipping with excitement. "Look how smooth! Let's make a slide, Twaddles." Meg and Bobby sat comfortably down in a snowbank to put on their skates, and as they were working with the straps, Dave Saunders glided up. "You kids want to keep out of the center of the pond," he advised them, not unkindly. "All the high school folks are out to-day, and when a string of them join hands the line goes almost across the pond. If you once slip, you're likely to be stepped on." Meg and Bobby promised to stay near the outside edges of the pond, and Dave skated off with long, even steps that carried him away from them swiftly. "It looks so easy," sighed Meg, standing up on her skates and wobbling a little. "I wish I could skate the way Dave can." "Well, we have to practice," said Bobby sensibly. "Daddy says if you keep at it, by and by you find you're a good skater. Come on, Meg, let's take hold of hands." Twaddles and Dot stood watching their brother and sister skate for a few minutes, and wished that they, too, had skates. Then they wisely decided to have as much fun as they could without. "Smooth the snow down on this bank," suggested Twaddles, "and we can play it's a toboggan slide. I wish we had brought the sled." Dot helped him to smooth down the snow, and then they joined hands and tried the first slide. It was rather rough in spots, but a good slide for all of that, with a thrilling break at the end where they fell from the bank down on to the ice. "Let me slide, too?" asked Ruth Ellis, coming up to them after the twins had been enjoying their slide for a few minutes. Of course they were glad to have company, and in a short time a number of the younger children who had no skates were enjoying the slide. Some of the girls were afraid of the tumble at the end, but Dot, who had always done everything Twaddles did, thought that was the best part of the fun. Meg and Bobby skated back to them now and then to see that they were all right, and Bobby took off his skates once to try the slide while Twaddles tried to use the skates. They were too large for him, and a fall on the ice dulled his interest. He decided he would rather slide. "They're going to have a big bonfire to-night," reported Bobby, on one of his trips back to the twins. "Things to eat--oh, everything! I wish Mother would let us stay up to skate." "She won't, though," said Twaddles absently. He was busy with a sled Marion Green had loaned him. Marion had tired of playing with her sled, and Twaddles had exhausted all the thrill of sliding down his slide on his feet. He wanted to play toboggan-riding, and when Marion offered him her sled he accepted gratefully. "You'd better not try that," said Bobby seriously, watching Twaddles carefully drag the sled into the position he wanted. "Look out, Twaddles--you're foolish. How are you going to stop it when you get down on the ice?" Twaddles, seated on the sled, looked down the glistening slide to the clear ice below the bank. "With my foot, of course," he said carelessly. "It's just as easy. You watch." Bobby watched, and so did Meg. So did a dozen of the children who had been playing on the slide. They saw Twaddles start himself with a little forward push, skim down the slide like a bird, take the jump at the end of the bank, and shoot out into the pond among the skaters. "I knew he'd make a mess of it," groaned Bobby. Twaddles apparently had forgotten all about using his foot. His sled swept across the ice, crashed into a skater, and Twaddles was sent flying in the opposite direction. The sled brought up against a tree on the other side of the pond, but Twaddles continued to skim over the pond directly toward a patch of thin ice. His cry, as he broke through, was heard by every one on the pond. "He'll be drowned!" wailed Meg. "Oh, Bobby, hurry!" "He can't drown in that water. It isn't deep," said a man, skating past them and stopping to, reassure Meg. "Come on, youngster, you and I can get him out." Bobby put his hand into that of the stranger and was pulled along rapidly toward the spot where the howling Twaddles stood in icy water up to his knees. CHAPTER IX A NEW KIND OF JAM As the man said, there was no danger that Twaddles would be drowned. Cold and wet and miserable, he certainly was, but the stranger rescued him easily, stretching out a long, thin arm across the ice and lifting the boy bodily out of the water, over the thin ice, and on to thick, firm foothold. "There, there, you're just as good as ever," he assured the shivering Twaddles. "You want to run home as fast as you can go and get into dry shoes and stockings, and then you won't ever know you fell into the pond. Scoot, now!" But Twaddles delayed. "Is it--is it--four o'clock?" he asked, his teeth chattering. "Mother said we could stay out till four o'clock." "It's five minutes after four," announced the stranger, consulting his watch. "You'll have to run every step of the way to make up for lost time. Run!" Dot, of course, would run with Twaddles, and Meg and Bobby promised to return the sled to Marion. They had to walk all the way around the pond to get it for her. "I fell in," said Twaddles beamingly, when he and Dot reached home. Mother and Aunt Polly rubbed him dry and had him in dry stockings and sandals in a hurry, and then Aunt Polly and Dot decided to walk uptown and match some wool for the sweater auntie was finishing. Twaddles wanted to go, but Mother Blossom decided he had done enough for that day and had better stay at home with her. "What are you doing, Mother?" asked Twaddles, watching her curiously, after his sister and aunt had gone down the walk. "Could I do that?" "Now, Twaddles, you've seen me fill my fountain pen hundreds of times," answered Mother Blossom patiently. "You always ask me that, and you know I can't have you spilling ink all over my desk. Run away and find something pleasant to do till I finish this letter, and then we'll toast marshmallows over the fire." Twaddles set out to amuse himself. He wished he had Philip to play with, but the dog was out in the garage and Twaddles had been forbidden to make the journey through the snow in his sandals. To be sure there was Annabel Lee, but the cat was in a sleepy mood and refused to wake up sufficiently to be amusing. "Oh, dear," sighed Twaddles. "There's nothing to do. I wonder where Norah is?" He scuttled down to the kitchen, which was in beautiful order, but no Norah was in sight She was up in her room changing her dress, but Twaddles did not know that. "I'm hungry!" he decided, opening the pantry door. "Skating always gives you such an appetite." He had heard some one say this. As in most pantries, the favorite place for the Blossom cake box was on the highest shelf. Why this was so, puzzled Twaddles, as it has puzzled many other small boys and girls. "I should think Norah might leave it down low," he grumbled, dragging a chair into the pantry with some difficulty and proceeding to climb into it. By stretching, he managed to get his fingers on the cake box lid and pull it down. He opened it. The box was perfectly empty. "Why, the idea!" sputtered the outraged Twaddles, who felt distinctly cheated. "I wonder if Mother knows we haven't any cake. I'd better go and tell her." But he didn't--not right away. For there were other boxes on the various shelves, and Twaddles felt it was his duty to peep into these to see what he could find. He was disappointed in most of them because they held such uninteresting things as rice and barley and coffee, nothing that a starving person could eat with any pleasure. Then at last he thought he had found something he could eat. It was in a smooth, round glass jar with a screw lid and was a clear jelly-like substance that looked as though it might be marmalade or honey or some kind of jam. He opened the jar without trouble and sniffed at the contents. It smelled very good indeed. Twaddles plunged in an investigating finger. The jam stuck to his finger. Still, Twaddles could not get enough off to taste, and he had liberally covered all the other fingers on that hand before he pulled away from the jar. "That certainly is funny jam," he puzzled, trying to scrape his fingers clean with the other hand. "Twaddles!" called Mother Blossom. "Oh, Twaddles, where are you? Aren't you going to help me toast marshmallows?" Twaddles backed out of the pantry, into Norah who had come downstairs, freshly gowned, to start her supper. "Glory be!" she ejaculated. "Twaddles, what have you been up to now? If you've been messing in my pantry, I'll tell your mother. What's that all over your hands?" "Jam," said Twaddles meekly. Norah eyed him with suspicion. "There's no jam there," she said. "Come over here to the light where I can see ye." Norah took Twaddles' wrists in her hands gingerly, for he was a very sticky child, and turned his hands over to examine them. "Jam, is it!" she snorted indignantly. "You just go and show yourself to your mother. See what she says about the jam. I declare, you can't keep a thing from the young ones in this house!" Twaddles was glad to escape from the kitchen before Norah should discover the many things out of place in her pantry, and he went into the living-room, carefully holding out his gummy hands before him, to find his mother. "Now, Mother," he began hesitatingly, "I was real hungry, so I thought I'd eat a little piece of cake. I knew you wouldn't mind." "I didn't know we had any cake in the house," said Mother Blossom, in surprise. "We haven't," explained Twaddles hastily. "So then I thought bread and jam would be nice. But I never saw such funny jam; I can't get it off." Then, as Norah had exclaimed, Mother Blossom cried: "What in the world have you been into, Twaddles?" She looked at his sticky fingers and then burst out laughing. "My dear child," she said seriously, "I'm afraid you've found Daddy's pot of glue!" And that is just what Twaddles had been into, and a fine time he and Mother had getting the sticky stuff off his fingers. It took them so long, using hot water and sand soap, that Mother Blossom declared they could not toast marshmallows that afternoon, and then Twaddles was sorry he had not waited. "Such a lot of fuss about a little glue," he complained to himself, for Father Blossom scolded when he came home and found half of his glue wasted and he said that Twaddles should have no dessert for his supper; and Norah was very cross because she had to give her pantry an extra scrubbing, Twaddles having managed to track the floor with glue. "I have bad luck all the time," sighed poor Twaddles, blaming every one but the one small boy who was responsible for the bad luck. "Daddy," said Bobby that evening, "I'd like to earn some money." "Yes, Son?" answered Father Blossom encouragingly. "What do you want money for?" "I heard Miss Mason saying to Miss Wright to-day at noon that Mrs. Jordan and her son are having an awful hard winter," explained Bobby. "Folks want to send Paul to a home, but Mrs. Jordan won't let 'em. She wants to go out doing day's work. But she's too old. Miss Mason says old people are so heady." Father Blossom smiled. "I think almost any mother, old or young, would fight to keep her son from being placed in a home," he said gently. "Do you want to earn money for the Jordans, Bobby?" "Yes, sir," replied Bobby sturdily. "If you'd lend me the snow shovel, Daddy, Palmer Davis and I figured out we could earn a lot shoveling walks." "Oh, no, Daddy," interposed Mother Blossom from the piano where she was helping Meg with her music lesson and yet listening to the conversation between Bobby and his father. "He's too little for that heavy work, isn't he?" "I can, too," argued Bobby heatedly. "Can't I have the shovel, Daddy? Mother's always afraid I'm going to hurt myself. I'm not a girl." "Well, Mother happens to be right," said Father Blossom firmly. "You and Palmer are altogether too little to try shoveling snow from walks; it's packed now and is work for a grown boy or man. If you had a shovel of your own, I shouldn't consent to any such scheme for earning money." "There are other ways, Bobby," Mother Blossom assured him brightly. "I'm sure the other children will want to help when they hear about the Jordans. Why don't you, and some of the boys and girls in your class, give a little fair? We'll all help, won't we, Daddy?" "But I don't know how to give a fair," objected Bobby. CHAPTER X WORKING FOR THE FAIR "I do," said Meg, turning around on the piano bench. "You have tables, and on 'em things to sell, and everybody comes. Where could we have the fair, Mother?" "I think here in the house," answered Mother Blossom thoughtfully. "We live near enough to the center of town for people to get here easily." "But how do you have a fair?" persisted Bobby. "Where do we get things to sell? Can we do it all ourselves?" "Certainly you can," declared Father Blossom. "You want the money to be your own gift, so you boys and girls must do the work. We older folk will help with advice. Mother can tell you all about it. Her church society gives two fairs every year." Mother Blossom smiled as Bobby looked at her expectantly. "You want to know how we do it?" she asked. "Well, first we choose our committees and plan the tables. There is usually a refreshment table; a table for fancy work, aprons, bags, and pretty handkerchiefs; if the fair is held in summer, we have a flower table; then a grab-bag table for the little people. After we plan how many tables we will have, the committees set out to collect the things to be sold. They go to the baker and ask for cake donations; and to ladies and ask them to bake cakes; they ask other ladies to make aprons and bags; Mr. Barber, the grocer, usually gives us something for the canned goods table. You see, the idea is to ask people to give all these things and then whatever they are sold for can go outright to the purpose for which the fair is held." "Like new carpets for the church," put in Meg wisely. "Yes, new carpets for the church, or new books for the Sunday-school library," agreed Mother Blossom. "Your fair will be for the Jordans, and the money you raise will help them through the winter." Bobby was silent a long time, puzzling over the idea of a fair. Before his bed hour came he had decided that perhaps that was the best way to raise money, and anyway he would talk it over with the boys at school. "I've been thinking," announced Mother Blossom at the breakfast table the next morning. "As our living-room isn't very large, I think three tables will be all we can comfortably arrange. As an extra attraction for the fair, why don't you give a little play?" "A stuffed animal play," suggested Aunt Polly mysteriously. "If the children like the idea, don't you say another word. I'll make the costumes and drill them." A stuffed animal play and a fair sounded delightfully exciting, and when Bobby mentioned his plans to a group of close friends at recess he found them most responsive. "There's nothing much to do 'round now," said Palmer Davis. "I'm dead tired coasting every day. I'd like to help Mrs. Jordan." Mrs. Jordan was an old woman who lived in a tumbled-down house. She had a crippled son, and had supported herself, since the death of her husband, by going out to work by the day. As she had always worked faithfully and never complained, Oak Hill people really did not know that this winter she had had a hard time to get enough to eat and coal enough to burn. Her son was unable to earn anything, and Miss Mason, for whom Mrs. Jordan washed, had thought that it would be a kindness to put him in a home where he would be well taken care of at no expense to his mother. "I'll not hear of it!" declared Mrs. Jordan angrily, when the teacher mentioned this plan to her. "He's going to live at home with me as long as I have a roof to cover us." Miss Mason, who, like many kind-hearted people, did not like her well meant offers to be refused, had told Mrs. Jordan plainly that she was ungrateful, and that she need not bother to come for the wash any more. So the poor old woman, who counted on this dollar and a half weekly, was deprived of that money. In Oak Hill so many housewives did their own work that there was not a great deal of extra work to be had. Two or three of the boys backed out when Bobby explained that they must ask people for the things to be sold at their fair. But enough promised to go with him after school that afternoon to make it worth while to go on with the planning. "Aunt Polly and Mother and Norah have promised to fix the 'freshment table," explained Bobby. "We're going to sell ice-cream and lemonade and cake. And Meg and Dot and the girls are going to get the things for the fancy work table. So we only have to get enough for one table." "What kind of table?" asked Bertrand Ashe practically. "All kinds I guess," returned Bobby. "Let's go to all the stores. And, oh, yes, we're going to rehearse the stuffed animal play to-night. Aunt Polly says as many as can, come over to our house." After school that afternoon Bobby and his committee started out to get the things to sell at their fair. Now, no one likes to ask for things, perhaps, but Father Blossom had explained that it was very different when one is asking for something for some one else and not for one's own gain or pleasure. "When you go into a store, remember that you are doing something for poor Paul Jordan and think bow you would feel if you were poor and lame," he had said to Bobby. "When you ask Mr. Barber for something from his shelves you're not asking for Bobby Blossom, but for Paul. That will make asking easy for you." The first store the boys went into was the hardware store. Mr. Gobert, the proprietor, came forward when he saw the six boys. "Want your skates sharpened?" he asked cheerfully. The committee looked hopefully at Bobby. He had promised to "ask first." "We're going to have a fair," gulped Bobby, his cheeks red, but his blue eyes looking at Mr. Gobert squarely. "It's for Paul Jordan and his mother. And we thought maybe you'd give us something we could sell." "For that lame Jordan and his mother?" repeated Mr. Gobert. "Do you mean to tell me they need help? Is Mrs. Jordan sick?" "She has rheumatism in her hands," said Bobby earnestly. "And she's so old and slow lots of folks don't have her wash any more. She's chopped down all the fence to build a fire with. And she doesn't want to put Paul in a home." "Well, well," Mr. Gobert stared at Bobby thoughtfully. "So you're going to help her out by giving a fair, are you? Where's it going to be? Can I come?" "At our house. Three weeks from Saturday," answered Bobby, wishing his committee would back him up with a few words and not stand by with their mouths and eyes so wide open. "We're going to have a play, too." "I'm busy Saturday afternoons," said Mr. Gobert regretfully, "but I'll send Mrs. Gobert up to buy something. Now I wonder what I have you would like? How about a couple of nice penknives?" Bobby thought knives would be very good indeed, and Mr. Gobert led them over to the case where all the penknives were displayed and let the boys choose any two they wanted. On his advice they chose a pearl-handled knife for a woman and a stag-handle which would please a boy or a man. "Stop in at Hampton's," said Mr. Gobert when they thanked him warmly, the knives neatly wrapped and safe in Bobby's reefer pocket. "He ought to have something nice for you." Mr. Hampton kept the stationery store, and when he heard about the fair he promptly gave the committee two boxes of writing paper, a pad of bright new blotters, and a bottle each of red, white, and blue ink. "To be patriotic," he said. "They all want to know what it's for, then they're all right," said Bobby, as the boys hurried along to another shop. "Talking takes a lot of time, though." The boys were really surprised to find how interested people were, and how generous. The grocer gave them six glasses of bright red jelly which, he said, would make their table look pretty as well as sell readily. The baker promised them a plate of tarts the morning of the fair. Steve Broadwell, the druggist, and a special friend of Bobby's, not only gave them three fascinating little weather-houses, with an old man and woman to pop in and out as it rained or the sun shone, and two jars of library paste, but told Bobby that he would save some bottles of cologne for Meg's table. The jeweler gave them four small compasses. Even kind Doctor Maynard, whom they met driving his car out toward the country, when he learned what they were doing, promised them a dollar as his admission to the fair "whether I get a chance to come or not." "I'll bet we had better luck than the girls," boasted Palmer, as they started for their homes. "And we have more places to go to next week. What kind of play is it going to be, Bobby? Can we all be in it?" "Aunt Polly said as many as wanted to could," replied Bobby. "She calls it a stuffed animal play. I don't know what that is, but Aunt Polly is lots of fun." The boys promised to be over "right after supper," and Bobby ran in to find his family and tell them his afternoon experiences. He had to wait a few moments, because Meg and Dot were busy telling what had happened to them. "We've got ever so many things," bubbled Meg enthusiastically. "The drygoods store gave us yards of ribbon; and Miss Stebbins said she had six pin-cushions she didn't want." (Miss Stebbins kept a small fancy-work store in the town.) "We saw Miss Florence, and she is going to dress two dolls for us. And we've got belt buckles, and sachets, and bags, and aprons, and, oh, ever so many things." "Mr. Broadwell says to tell you he is saving some cologne for you," reported Bobby. "Say, isn't getting ready for a fair fun? And the boys are coming over to-night to see about the play, Aunt Polly." "I'm all ready for you," said Aunt Polly capably. CHAPTER XI BOBBY'S MEANEST DAY Four boys and four girls rang the Blossom door-bell that night after supper, eager to take part in the stuffed animal play. With the four little Blossoms, that made twelve children, a most convenient number, Aunt Polly said. "I'll show you what we're going to do," she promised them, beckoning to Twaddles and Dot to follow her. "Since the twins will have to go to bed in half an hour, we'll let them be the first demonstrators." Aunt Polly and the twins went out of the room, and in three minutes there pranced back the cunningest little bear you ever saw. He wobbled about on his four legs, opened a red flannel mouth and yawned, shook hands with the delighted boys and girls and behaved altogether as a well-brought-up bear should. "Let me do it!" shouted the other boys and girls. "Let me! Let me!" The bear was unbuttoned down his back by smiling Aunt Polly, and the flushed and triumphant twins stepped out. "Didn't we do it right?" they demanded happily. "Isn't it fun? But you can't be a bear--Aunt Polly said so. There's only one of everything." Then Aunt Polly, who had cut out and stitched the white muslin case for the bear and painted his nose and lined his red flannel mouth, explained that for every two children there could be an animal. The play would be an animal play. They would act and talk as people would, only the actors would be lions and tigers and other animals. "Choose what you would like to be to-night, and I will measure you and start work on the cases," she said. "And if you do not tell outsiders what kind of an animal you are going to be, that will double the fun." So the other children, long after the twins had gone reluctantly up to bed, paired off and argued about their choice of an animal and changed their minds and finally decided. Then they were measured by Aunt Polly, and it was announced that three rehearsals a week would be held till the Saturday set for the fair. Mother Blossom brought in a plate of cookies and a basket of apples, and after these were eaten it was time to go home. With all the preparations for the play and fair, school went on as usual. The children sometimes thought that it might be interrupted for a week or two without loss to any one, but the school committee never took kindly to this idea. They were sure that nothing in the wide world could be of more importance than regular attendance at school. "I know enough now," grumbled Bobby one morning, scowling at his oatmeal. "We could stay at home and play with the animal bags," said Meg, who never tired of trying on the muslin cases that so quickly transformed them into different animals. "It's really snowing ever so hard, Mother." "Not half as hard as it often has when you have plowed cheerfully through it," Mother Blossom reminded her. "Come, Bobby, finish your oatmeal. Norah has your lunches packed." Dot and Twaddles stared at the two older children in astonishment. They wanted to go to school with all their hearts, and the idea that any one could tire of that magical place, where chalk and blackboards and goldfish and geography globes mingled in riotous profusion, had never entered their busy minds. "It's an awful long walk," mourned Bobby. "I'll take you in the car," said Father Blossom quickly. "Hurry now, and get your things on. I think there's been too much staying up till nine o'clock lately, Mother." "I think so, too," agreed Mother Blossom. "We'll go back to eight o'clock bedtime beginning with to-night. What is it, Dot?" "Can we go, too?" urged Dot. "Sam will bring us back." "Oh, for goodness' sake!" frowned Bobby, pulling on his rubber boots and stamping in them to make sure they were well on. "Why do you always want to tag along every place we go?" Dot looked hurt, and Bobby was really ashamed of himself. He wasn't cross very often, but nothing seemed to go right this morning. No one said anything, but Mother Blossom sent the twins out into the kitchen on some errand, and then the car came around and Meg and Bobby and Father Blossom tramped through the snow and climbed in under the snug curtains. Bobby would have felt better if some one had scolded him. "Guess we're going to have enough snow this winter to make up for last," remarked Sam Layton cheerfully. He was not cross, and he was blissfully unconscious that any one else had been. "Fill-Up and me is getting kind of tired of clearing off walks every single morning," he went on, giving the dog his nickname. Philip, who sat beside Sam on the front seat, wagged his tail conversationally. "Maybe we'll have another snow fight," suggested Meg. "That would be fun, wouldn't it, Bobby?" "No, it wouldn't," snapped Bobby ungraciously. For the life of him, he did not seem able to feel pleasant. Meg talked to Father Blossom and Sam after that, and in a few moments they were set down at the school, and the car rolled on to the foundry office. Bobby had bad luck--bad luck or something else--all the morning. He blotted his copy book; he had the wrong answer to the example he was sent to work out at the board; at recess he was so cross to Palmer Davis that that devoted friend slapped him and they had a tussle that ended in both being forced to spend the remainder of the play time sitting quietly at two front desks under Miss Mason's eye. Altogether Bobby seemed to be in for a bad day. "Everybody's so mean," he scolded, going off in a corner by himself to eat his lunch at noon. "I never saw such a lot of horrid folks." To add to his unhappiness, Norah had forgotten that he didn't like tuna fish sandwiches and had given him all that kind. Bobby knew that very likely she had packed egg or some other good mixture in Meg's box and that by merely asking he could trade with his sister. But no, it suited him to feel that Norah had deliberately spoiled his lunch for him. "Robert, you haven't been out of the room this morning," cried Miss Mason, swooping down on him. "Go out and get some fresh air and see if you can't be pleasanter this afternoon. What you need is to play in the snow." Bobby dashed downstairs and out into the yard, wishing violently that he could punch some one. He even rolled several snowballs in the hope that some of his friends would come along and offer themselves as targets. Then a mischievous idea popped into his mind. "I'll fill up Miss Mason's desk," he chuckled. "She needs to play in the snow, too." This very bad boy proceeded to fill his arms with snowballs and stole up the back stairway, where he would be less likely to meet any one, into his classroom. The room was empty, and Bobby arranged his snowballs neatly in Miss Mason's desk, which happened to be an old-fashioned affair with a hinged lid. "She can play with it," murmured Bobby, closing the lid softly and running downstairs again so that he might come in with the others when the bell rang. It had stopped snowing, and the sun was shining warm and bright, dazzling to the eyes. Bobby felt better already, for some mysterious reason, and he plunged into a hilarious game of tag that lasted until the signal rang. When he went into his classroom he glanced quickly at Miss Mason's desk. It looked as usual, and when the reading lesson was given out, he quickly forgot the hidden snowballs. Palmer Davis was standing up to read a paragraph when the class first heard something. "Drip! drip! drip!" went a soft little tapping noise. Miss Mason heard it, too. She thought the pipes in the cloak room had sprung a leak perhaps. "Teacher!" Tim Roon's hand waved wildly. "Teacher, your desk's leaking!" Tim, for once, did not have a guilty conscience in connection with a piece of mischief, and he was delighted to have an opportunity to call attention to the fact. "It's leaking all over!" he volunteered. "That will do, Tim," said Miss Mason calmly. She raised her desk lid and peered in. Then she closed it and surveyed her class. Bobby could feel his face getting red. He looked down at his book. "Robert Blossom," said Miss Mason, "come here to me." Bobby went up the aisle which seemed at least two miles long. Miss Mason did not ask him if he had put the snow in her desk. She merely raised the lid again and pointed to the half melted snowballs. "Take those out," she commanded coldly. "Throw them out of the window. Then get a cloth and dry the inside of this desk and mop up the floor. And you may stay an hour after school to-night." Bobby had to make a separate trip for each mushy snowball, the eyes of the class following him from the desk to the window and back again with maddening interest. When he came back from a trip to the cellar to get a cloth from the janitor, for Miss Mason refused to help him, and began to dry the inside of the desk, they snickered audibly; but when he got down on his hands and knees and mopped the floor under the desk, they seemed to think it was the biggest kind of joke. They did not dare laugh aloud, but Bobby could feel them smiling and nudging one another. "Next time, I hope, you will leave the snow outside where it belongs," said Miss Mason, when he had stayed his hour after school that night and she dismissed him. "Yes'm," murmured Bobby meekly. "My, it's been the worst day," he confided to Father Blossom that evening. "Nothing went right. I had the meanest time!" CHAPTER XII BUILDING A SNOW MAN The rehearsals for the play went on merrily, and the children were faithful in attendance. Meg, though, was an hour late getting home from school one afternoon, and as Bobby could not practice without her, he was very much put out. "Where have you been?" he demanded. "Everybody's been waiting for you. Miss Mason didn't keep you in, did she?" Meg looked uncomfortable. "No, I didn't have to stay in," she admitted. "Then where were you?" insisted Bobby. "I was hunting for my locket," confessed Meg. "I heard Daddy say the snow melted a lot last night, and I thought maybe I could find it. But I didn't." She sighed deeply. Meg still clung to the hope of finding her locket, though the rest of the family had long ago given up the idea that it would ever be found. A day or two later when the children came into the school yard they were surprised to find a small army of snow soldiers drawn up to receive them. There were six men in a row, headed by a captain, wearing a rakish snow hat and carrying a fine wooden sword. "Who did it?" asked every one. "Did Mr. Carter make 'em?" Miss Wright was ready to tell them. "Some poor tramp who was once a sculptor made them for you," she told the wondering pupils. "John, the janitor, tells me that he was here all last night keeping the fires going because he was afraid the pipes would freeze. This poor artist saw the light, and knocked at the door to ask if he might come in and get warm. I'm glad to say John asked him in and shared his midnight lunch with him. Then he took him home to breakfast with him. But first the artist made these snow men to please you, and perhaps to see if his old skill still was left to him." "Let us make a snow man in our back yard," proposed Bobby to Meg on the way home from school that afternoon. "Dot and Twaddles tried it, but there wasn't enough snow then. We can make a good one." They found the twins ready to help them, and in a very short time they had rolled a huge snowball that was pronounced just the thing for Mr. Snowman's body. "We can't make long thin legs like the soldiers," said Bobby regretfully. "I wonder how the man made 'em like that. We'll have to have short roundish legs for ours." The short "roundish" legs finished, they had still to make the head. This was done by rolling a smaller snowball and mounting it on the large round one. "Now he needs a face," said Dot, gazing with admiration on their work. "How'll you make his eyes and nose, Bobby?" "With coal," said Bobby. "Meg, will you go and get some lumps of coal? And ask Mother if there is an old hat we can have. He ought to have a hat." Meg ran info the house, and was back again in a few seconds, carrying a handful of coal done up in a bit of newspaper. "Mother's hunting up an old derby hat," she reported. "She'll throw it to us. Oh, Bobby, doesn't he look funny?" The snow man was a bit cross-eyed, but he had a cheerful, companionable look for all of that, and the children were well pleased with him. "But arms!" cried Meg suddenly. "He hasn't any arms, Bobby." Sure enough, they had forgotten to make him any arms. This omission was quickly remedied. Mother Blossom called to them, as they were putting the finishing touches on the right hand. "Here's an old hat of Daddy's," she said, stepping out on the porch. "Will it do? Here, Meg, catch." She tossed the hat over to Meg. "Wait and see how it looks, Mother," begged Dot. "Want a chair, Bobby? I'll get it." The snow man was so tall that Bobby could not reach the top of his head, and when Dot came back, dragging a chair for him to stand on, even then he had to get up on his tiptoes to place the hat. "He's a beauty, isn't he?" said Mother Blossom enthusiastically. "We'll keep him there to guard our yard as long as the snow lasts. You haven't built him where he will bother Norah when she wants to hang out clothes, have you?" The four little Blossoms were sure they had not; and Norah herself, when she came to the door presently to have a peep at the wonderful snow man, declared that he wouldn't be in her way at all. "'Tis fresh cookies I've been baking," she announced smilingly. "I don't suppose any one will be after wanting to sample 'em? Ye do? Well, then, wipe your feet on the mat and come in. And, for the love of goodness, leave the kitchen door open. I'm near perishing for a breath of cool air." The kitchen was very warm, for Norah had been ironing. She was a thrifty soul, and when she had a big fire to heat her irons she liked to bake good things to eat in the oven at the same time. A basket full of beautifully ironed and starched clothes sat on the table, ready to be carried upstairs, and a bowl of crisp sugar cookies sat beside it. "Leave the door open," ordered Bobby, his eyes on the cookies. "My, they look good, Norah. How many may we have?" "Two apiece, and no more," said Norah firmly. "'Tis blunting your appetite for supper if ye take more than two. Are they good, Twaddles?" Twaddles' mouth was too full for an answer, but his eyes spoke for him. Those cookies were simply delicious. "Bobby!" cried Meg from the window where she had wandered with her cakes. "Oh, Bobby, here's that horrid Tim Roon and Charlie Black. Look! They're going to throw snowballs at our snow man." There was a rush for the window. Sure enough there stood Tim Roon and Charlie Black, just outside the fence, and as the four little Blossoms watched, Tim flung a snowball smack at the poor defenseless snow man. "Leave 'em alone," counseled Norah, putting a restraining hand on Twaddles, who was making for the door. "As long as 'tis only the snow man they're aiming at, let 'em be." But as Norah spoke, whiz! through the kitchen door came a big snowball. It landed right on top of the basket of wash, and lay wet and dirty on top of a ruffled guimpe of Dot's. "The dirty ragamuffins!" The angry Norah snatched the slushy ball and flung it into the coal-scuttle. "The miserable spalpeens!" Bobby seized his cap. "I'll fix them!" he muttered, as he dashed out of the house. Tim Roon and Charlie Black saw him coming, and they judged that it would be better to run. They didn't want to fight Bobby, even two to one, so close to his own house. Some one might come out and help him. The two boys tore up the street, Bobby after them. Unfortunately, Bobby ran head-first into an old gentleman who, before he let him go, collared him and read him a lecture on the rights of people in the street. This gave Tim and Charlie a chance to hide behind some bushes on a vacant lot. "Jump on him when he comes along," advised Tim, who was not a fair fighter. So when Bobby came running by, for he did not know how far up the street the boys had gone, Tim and Charlie pounced on him and rolled him in the snow. "None of that," said a strange voice. "Two to one's no fair. One of you leave off, or I'll stop the fight." The strange voice belonged to a high-school boy, Stanley Reeves, and both Tim and Charlie knew he was a member of the gymnasium wrestling team and quite capable of stopping any small-boy fight. "You're too old to fight a boy of that size, anyway," declared Stanley, surveying Tim with disgust. "But I'm going to punch him," announced Bobby heatedly. "Oh, you are?" said Reeves with interest. "Go ahead, then, and I'll sit here and keep an eye on this chicken to see that he doesn't pitch in at the wrong moment" Reeves took a firm hold on Charlie's coat collar and backed him off to one side. "Wash his face for him--it needs it," the high-school lad went on to Bobby. Like a small but angry bumble bee, Bobby flew at Tim. They clinched and plunged head-long into the snow, where they pounded and wrestled and grunted and gasped as all boys do when they are fighting a thing out. Tim was not a fair fighter, nor a very brave one, and most of his victories had been won over smaller boys or by using unfair methods. Now with Stanley Reeves looking on, he did not dare cheat, and so Bobby unexpectedly found himself, after perhaps five minutes of tussling, sitting on Tim's chest, with Tim breathless and beaten. "Wash his face," insisted Stanley, suddenly scooping up a handful of snow and beginning to rub it thoroughly into Charlie's eyes and mouth. CHAPTER XIII THE TWINS HAVE A SECRET Bobby seized a double handful of snow and began to give Tim the same treatment. "Quit!" yelled Tim in anguish. "Quit, I tell you, Bobby! Ow, now you've cut my nose!" A small twig in the snow had scratched poor Tim rather violently on his small pug nose, but it was not cut. "Say you've had enough," ordered Bobby, thumping about on the fallen lad's chest like a particularly well-packed bale of hay. "Say you've had enough!" "Had enough," murmured Tim obediently. Bobby got up at once, and Tim rose and shook himself. At the same moment Stanley Reeves let go of Charlie. The two boys slouched off without a word. "Now that ought to last them for some time," said Stanley cheerfully. "Any time you need any advice on training up Tim Roon in the way he should go, you just apply to me, Bobby." Bobby grinned, showing his even, white teeth, and said he would. Then Stanley went on to join the other high-school boys who were bob-sledding, and Bobby ran home to tell his family the result of his chase. That night it snowed again. Father Blossom said winter was a habit, like anything else, and that after the weather made up its mind to send one snow-storm it couldn't stop but had to send them right along. "I want Dot to stay in the house to-day," said Mother Blossom, after Meg and Bobby had started for school. "She coughed a good deal last night and I think she'll have to keep out of the snow for a while." "Oh, Mother!" wailed Dot. "I want to go coasting with Twaddles. Everybody's out on Wayne Place hill in the afternoons, and when we go in the morning we have the nicest time! Please, Mother, just this once; and I will take the nasty cough medicine to-night, just as good." Mother Blossom shook her head. "Mother said no," she said firmly. "Now, Dot, you're too big a girl to cry. Why, dearest, you haven't missed a day since there has been sledding. Can't you and Twaddles find something pleasant to do in the house?" "Just suppose you hadn't any house to stay in," remarked Twaddles severely. "Then you'd have something to cry about." Twaddles was usually very good indeed just when Dot felt like being naughty. And when Twaddles was bad, Dot was generally as good as gold. But sometimes they were naughty together, and now and then as good as gold at the same time, but not often. "There's nothing to do," sobbed Dot, using her pretty handkerchief to sop her tears with and finding it not half large enough. "I'm tired of paper dolls and I don't want to play school. Oh, dear, oh, dear!" Aunt Polly, coming into the room in search of her pet thimble, discovered the disconsolate Dot huddled on the sofa, and Twaddles standing by her suggesting one amusement after the other. "Never mind, honey," comforted Aunt Polly, sitting down on the sofa and cuddling Dot into her lap. "I know something you haven't done and that will be heaps of fun." "That I never did?" asked Dot, sitting up to look at Aunt Polly. "That you've never done," repeated Aunt Polly. "Indoors or out?" asked Twaddles, standing on one foot excitedly. "Out," answered Aunt Polly. "Mother won't let me go out," wailed Dot, the tears starting again. "I think it's mean." "Mean?" said Aunt Polly. "Goodness, lambie, suppose you should be sick when we had the play and the fair? No indeed, you mind Mother like a good girl and you'll be glad when the cough is all gone. But this thing I have in mind can nearly all be done in the house, and then we'll get Sam and Twaddles to do the outdoor work. Then, when Bobby and Meg come home this afternoon, maybe they won't be surprised!" Aunt Polly and Dot and Twaddles put their heads very close together and whispered for five minutes or so. The twins were delighted at the idea of having a secret from Meg and Bobby who, of course, were often into things that did not interest or held no place for Dot and Twaddles. "Well then, that's settled," announced Aunt Polly, after they had whispered their plan. "Now we'll go down to the kitchen and see Norah." Norah was glad to see them, and when she heard what they wanted she brought out a plate of stale bread and a thick chunk of clean white suet. "Sure ye can cut it up yourselves," she said to Dot and Twaddles, who eyed the big carving knife fearfully. "Get your scissors. I cut the stuffing for the Sunday chicken with the scissors, entirely." So for half an hour the twins, under Aunt Polly's direction, snipped bread crumbs and suet happily and then busily tied strings to other pieces of fat. "We're going to have company, Norah," explained Dot, opening and shutting her cramped little fingers when the bread and fat were all nicely snipped. "Company, is it?" asked Norah, glad to see Dot had stopped crying. "Is it food for company you're fixing now?" "Yes, it's their dinner," answered Dot, nodding her head. "Isn't it, Twaddles? And we're going to set the table. You watch, Norah." Aunt Polly went down into the cellar and came back, carrying a broad, smooth board, the top of a packing box. She emptied the bread and suet crumbs into a paper bag and put the fat tied to the pieces of string in another. Then Twaddles slipped on his cap and coat, took the two bags in one hand, tucked the board under his arm, and ran out to the garage. "Put a chair here in the window, Dot," said Aunt Polly. "There, I'll pin back the curtains. Now you can see everything they do." Norah peered curiously over Dot's shoulder, interested, too. In a few minutes Sam came out of the garage, carrying a hammer and the little short step-ladder that conveniently turned into a chair if you knew how to do the trick. He and Twaddles marched over to the clothespole that Norah seldom used. She preferred to wind her clothes-line around three, and the fourth pole, to Dot's fancy, always seemed to feel slighted. "Now that poor pole won't be lonesome any more," she murmured to herself. Sam set up his stepladder, and, taking the board from Twaddles and a couple of long, strong nails from his pocket, he nailed the board firmly to the top of the pole. "See, Norah?" cried Dot. Then Sam took the bags, and the fat and crumbs of bread he scattered all over the top of the board. All around the edge of the board he drove in smaller nails, and to these he tied the pieces of fat, there to dangle on their strings. Dot clapped her hands. "It's our bird table!" she explained to Norah. "Where's Mother? I'm going to tell her." Mother Blossom came and admired the bird-table, and the grocery boy, when he came with the packages, noticed it right away. "Annabel Lee can't get up there, can she?" he grinned. "Looks like you'd have plenty of company, Dot." Indeed, the few sparrows that came first must have told the other birds, for in less than an hour there was a throng of feathered creatures eating at the twins' table. Chippies and snowbirds came as well as the sparrows. "I only wish we had built one before," said Aunt Polly, watching the hungry little crowd eat. "I've thrown out bread crumbs every morning, but half the time they were buried in the snow. We can keep this swept off and always filled with food." Dot spent the rest of the morning watching the birds, and how she did laugh at those who picked at the fat hanging on the strings. They flew at it so fiercely it seemed as though they thought it was alive and they must kill it. "What's that out in the yard?" asked Bobby the first thing when he came home from school at noon. "That's our bird table," Twaddles informed him. "Aunt Polly thought of it and Dot and I fixed it. Sam nailed it up for us. You ought to see the birds eat the stuff." "Let me put some food out to-morrow morning?" asked Meg. "Doesn't Aunt Polly think of the loveliest things!" Dot didn't want to leave the window to eat her own lunch, but the sight of the rice pudding decided her, especially as Mother Blossom said she didn't think her table should be slighted when the birds showed such appreciation of the one set for them. "They have such good manners," said Mother Blossom pointedly. "I wonder if Bobby and Meg couldn't go over to Mrs. Anson's right from school, Mrs. Blossom?" asked Norah, a few minutes before it was time for the children to put on their boots again. "We haven't an egg in the house, and Sam is going to be gone with the car all the afternoon." "But, Norah, I hate to have them go so far in this kind of weather," objected Mother Blossom. "Don't you think it feels like more snow?" "Oh, no, Mother!" Bobby's voice was eager. "They were sweeping off the pond this noon, weren't they, Meg? They never sweep it till it's stopped snowing for good, so there'll be skating. Meg and I can skate up the pond to the creek and up that as far as Mrs. Anson's house. Then we'll come home by the road, so we won't break any eggs. My, Mother, that will be such fun!" Meg's eyes danced with pleasure. "It won't snow, Mother," she said positively. "It doesn't feel that way a bit, really it doesn't. And we do need eggs." Mother Blossom laughed. "Very well, then," she agreed. "But you must carry my muff and Bobby shall have the little hand-warmer stove." CHAPTER XIV LOST IN THE STORM Of course the twins were wild to go, too; but even if Dot had not had a cold, the walk would have been much too long for them. Aunt Polly promised to help them make molasses candy that afternoon, and that cheered them up somewhat. "Now if it snows between now and the time school is out, come home without going to Mrs. Anson's," said Mother Blossom, following Meg and Bobby to the door. "It gets dark early you know, and you mustn't be out alone in that deserted section in a storm or after dark. Remember, won't you, Bobby?" "Yes'm," answered Bobby, squinting knowingly at the sky as he had seen Sam do. "It isn't going to snow, Mother. Make Dot and Twaddles save us some candy, will you?" "Course we will," called the twins, who had followed Mother Blossom. "A whole plateful, Bobby." "I hope it doesn't snow," said Meg, trotting along beside Bobby, her hands deep in Mother's soft, furry muff. "Got the hand-stove, Bobby?" "Yes. But it isn't lit," her brother said. "I'm not going to burn it for this little walk. Hurry, or we'll be late." They reached the school house just as the first bell rang, and all that afternoon first Meg, then Bobby, would glance at the windows, fearful lest they see the whirling white flakes that would mean they could not go after the eggs. But three o'clock came and still no snow. "I said it wouldn't!" announced Bobby triumphantly, meeting Meg at the door, for he had had to go down to the cellar and borrow a match from the janitor to light the little charcoal stove Mother Blossom had given him to carry in his pocket. "Feel how warm." Bobby held out the stove for Meg to hold in her hand. "John had to light it for me, 'cause he was afraid I'd set myself on fire. Silly! I guess I've lit matches before!" As a matter of fact, Bobby had had very little to do with matches unless an older person was about, but he did not like the janitor to think he never had matches in his pocket. Bobby had their skates over his arm, and the two children hurried down to the pond. Already a number of skaters were out, and the ice was in perfect condition. Bobby helped Meg buckle on her skates and then in a few minutes he had adjusted his own, and they set off. "Next year, maybe, we can have real hockey skates," said Meg. "The twins are going to have double runners. But we've had fun on these, haven't we?" Bobby looked at his sister. She wore a bright red tam-o'-shanter cap on her yellow hair, and her blue eyes sparkled like sapphires. Her cheeks were rosy above the dark fur collar of her coat, and even if she was his sister, Bobby had to admit that she was very pretty. "Sure we've had fun on these skates," he agreed heartily. "You skate fine now, Meg, honest you do." Meg was pleased, as what little sister would not be? "Well I'm glad I learned," she answered. "What's that over there, Bobby?" She pointed to something fluttering from a bush on the other side of the pond. "Let's go and look," said Bobby. And then, as they came up to it, he said: "Oh, it's an old skating cap. Guess some one lost it and they've hung it there so he'll see it." At the head of the pond they came to the creek. This, too, was frozen over solidly, and, joining hands, Meg and Bobby began to follow its winding way. "'Member how it looks in the summer time?" asked Meg. "These bushes meet across it then." Great high banks of snow rose on either side of the creek, and when they reached the twin oaks, so called because the two trees had grown together to form one trunk, where they must turn off to reach Mrs. Anson's house, Meg and Bobby had trouble finding a foothold. They took off their skates and managed to scramble up the bank, however, and then found themselves in a field of snow, unbroken save for a few little dots and dashes that they recognized as rabbit tracks. "They don't clean off their walks, do they?" giggled Meg. "How do you tell where Mrs. Anson's house is?" "See the chicken wire sticking up?" replied Bobby. "And there's smoke coming out of her chimney." Sure enough, at a distance across the field the children could see rough posts sticking up which they knew were part of the chicken-yard fence. Soft, black smoke was coming out of a chimney, too, and drifting against the sky. Walking single file, and glad of their rubber boots, the two children tramped over the field and came presently to the shabby, lonesome little house where Mrs. Anson lived. "My land!" she cried when she saw them. "I was just thinking about your Ma this morning. My man's been away all week cutting wood, or I'd have sent him down with some eggs. I suppose you want two dozen and a half, Bobby?" While Mrs. Anson bustled about packing the eggs in a neat box, the children warmed their hands and drank the hot cocoa she had ready for them. "Made it for my man, but he sent word he won't be back till to-morrow morning," she explained. "There's your eggs, now, and you'd better hurry. We're going to have more snow to-night." Mrs. Anson spent half her time alone in the lonesome little house, with three big tabby cats for company and her hundreds of chickens to keep her busy. She liked to be alone, and she always seemed contented and happy. "I don't see why she says it's going to snow," said Bobby to Meg, as they took the eggs and went out of the narrow gate which creaked dismally. Mrs. Anson had gone directly to her chicken yard, and they could see her feeding her hens and shutting them up for the night, evidently in great haste. "Well, I guess she knows," returned Meg doubtfully. "I heard Daddy say she and Mr. Anson knew more about the weather than most folks, 'cause they've lived 'way out here so long and watched it. Let's hurry." As they hurried on suddenly snow flakes began to fall. Gently at first, then faster and faster, till the children could not see a foot before them. Meg nearly walked into a tree. "We won't go home the creek way," said Bobby decidedly. "Come on over here, Meg, and we'll get down on to the road. It'll be easier walking, and perhaps some one will give us a ride." Both Meg and Bobby knew where the road was. They had driven over it with Sam in the car, and they had walked it many a time in the summer. Then why it should perversely disappear just at the time when they needed it most was something neither one was ever able to explain. But disappear it did--that ill-natured country road completely ran away from them. "We've walked awful far," sighed Meg, breathless from fighting against the wind which blew the snow into their faces so sharply that each flake stung. "Where do you suppose that road is, Bobby?" Bobby was carefully carrying the eggs. He had no intention of losing those. "I guess we'll find it," he assured his sister cheerfully. "Are your hands cold, Meg? Here, hold this heater a minute." Meg's hands in her muff were quite comfortable, and she opened her mouth to say so to Bobby. But without warning she slipped down out of sight before she had time to say a word. "Meg!" shouted Bobby. "Meg! Are you hurt?" Meg's delighted little laugh bubbled up to him. "Oh, Bobby," she gurgled. "I guess I've found the road. Look out for that bank I fell down. I'm sure this is a road. You come and see." Bobby cautiously scrambled down the bank, over which Meg had slipped, and joined his sister. Meg was on her feet again, and trying to brush the snow off her coat and out of her collar. "It is a road, isn't it?" she asked anxiously. "Yes, it's a road; but it can't be the one near Mrs. Anson's house," answered Bobby, puzzled. "We've walked too far. What's that sticking up?" It proved to be a signboard, and, giving Meg the eggs to hold, Bobby tried to reach up high enough to brush the snow off so that they could read the lettering. The board was far above his head. "Shinny up," urged Meg. "Or stand on my shoulders." The pole was too wet for the first, and Bobby did not want to use his sister for a stepping stone. He finally managed, by jumping up and flirting his cap across the board at each jump, to knock off enough snow to enable them to read the letters. "M-E-R-T-O-N, six miles" spelled Bobby. "R-I-C-E-V-I-L-L-E, four miles." Meg looked at him, troubled. "Where does it say Oak Hill is?" she asked. "It doesn't say, but we'll find it," said Bobby stoutly, "Come on, Meg, we'll go the way that's four miles." Meg had gone some distance down the road before she discovered that she had left her muff at the sign post. There was nothing to do but to go back for it. As they came up to it, nearly buried in the snow already, so fast it was falling, a little rabbit started up and hopped away over the road in a panic of fear. "Guess he thought it was another rabbit," commented Bobby. He walked ahead, carrying the eggs, and Meg followed him closely. Suddenly he stopped and gave a shout. CHAPTER XV GREAT PREPARATIONS "Meg!" he called. "What do you think? Here's the old skating cap!" "Skating cap?" repeated Meg stupidly. "Yes! The skating cap we noticed when we were going to Mrs. Anson's," said Bobby. "Don't you remember? We must be clear on the other side of the pond. That was the back road we followed." Meg was too tired, with tramping through the deep snow, to care very much about which road they had followed. She wanted to get home. "My coat collar's all wet on my neck," she complained fretfully. "How can we get over the pond, Bobby?" "Have to walk it," said Bobby. "The snow's too thick to try to skate. Give me your hand, and you won't slip." Meg didn't slip, but half way across Bobby did, his feet going out from under him without warning and sending him sprawling. It was so dark now, for they had walked a long distance since leaving Mrs. Anson's house, that Meg could hardly see him. "Bobby! where are you?" she cried. "Right here, don't step on me," giggled Bobby, scrambling to his feet and making sure the eggs were unharmed. "That dark thing over there must be the bank. Gee, doesn't that sound like Philip?" A dog on the low bank had barked, and indeed it did sound like Philip. "Why it is!" called Meg in delight, when they reached the edge of the pond and began to climb up. "You dear, old Philip! Were you looking for us?" Philip wagged his stumpy tail and frisked about, trying his best to tell the children that he had come out to look for them. Having Philip with them to talk to and pet made the rest of the way home seem shorter, and in less than fifteen minutes Meg and Bobby were shaking the snow off their clothes in the Blossom front hall. "Your mother has worried ever since the first snow flake," said Father Blossom, helping Meg shake snow from her wet hair. "Sam and I should have been out with a lantern if you had been much longer." "We're starving," declared Bobby, handing over the eggs which he had remembered to carry carefully all the time. "Isn't supper ready?" Supper was ready and Meg and Bobby were so hungry that Father Blossom pretended to be alarmed for fear there wasn't enough food in the house. He said he was afraid Norah would come in and say there was no more bread and that all the butter and baked potatoes were gone, and then what would they do? "Oh, I think they're only a little hungrier than usual," Aunt Polly said, smiling. Being lost in a snow storm didn't make either Bobby or Meg dislike the snow and the first thing they thought of the next morning was the weather. "I hope it snowed all night," said Meg cheerfully. "I would like to see snow up to the second-story windows, wouldn't you, Bobby?" Bobby thought that would be fun, too, but when he mentioned it at the breakfast table, no one seemed to like the idea. "Just about as much snow as I care for, right now," declared Father Blossom. "Our trucks are having trouble breaking the roads and this fresh fall is discouraging for people who want to work. I've a good mind to get out the old box sleigh and hire a horse and let Sam drive to Fernwood for that freight consignment," he said to Mother Blossom. But Meg's quick little brain understood at once. "Daddy!" she cried, the loveliest rose color coming into her cheeks. "Darling Daddy, can't we go in the box sleigh?" Mother Blossom and Aunt Polly laughed, but Bobby looked up from his oatmeal quickly and the twins began at once to ask if they could go, too. "Why, lambs, what about school?" Mother Blossom reminded them and that helped Meg with her argument beautifully. "It's a one-session day!" she said triumphantly. "The teachers have to go to a lecture this afternoon. Oh, Mother, you went riding in a sleigh when you were a little girl and I never did." "And you've been in automobiles and when I was a little girl I never did," Mother Blossom said gaily. "However, we'll ask Daddy." Father Blossom looked at Meg, a twinkle in his eye. "I was careless to mention 'sleigh'," he announced. "But I still think Sam will have to go with a horse, instead of a foundry truck; and if four children were ready and warmly dressed about quarter of one, I shouldn't wonder if that sleigh stopped before this house." My goodness, there was no more peace at the table after that. The twins nearly went crazy and they wanted to put their leggings on at once, while Bobby and Meg for some mysterious reason seemed to feel that the sooner they got to school, the earlier they would be dismissed and they hurried away a quarter of an hour before the usual time. "You don't think it will hurt Dot, then?" said Mother Blossom as her husband began to pull on his coat ready to go to the foundry. "Oh, it's a sunny day and she is about over that cold," he answered. "I think the fresh air will do her good." Dot and Twaddles, who had heard the question and were listening anxiously for the reply, sped away to the kitchen to tell Norah where they were going. You might have thought that the twins were setting out for the North Pole, the way they started to get ready. They got out their rubbers and brushed them carefully. They put their sweaters and scarfs and mittens on one chair, their warm coats on another and their hats on the table. Then they went out on the back porch and shook their leggings and put them on still another chair. How Mother Blossom did laugh when she saw everything spread out. "We don't want to keep Sam waiting," explained Dot seriously. "Bobby and Meg will have their things on, but Twaddles and I have a lot to do." At that moment Twaddles was out in the barn asking the patient Sam questions. "Yes, your father told me you could go," said Sam. "Yes, the dog can go too--the more the merrier, as far as I am concerned. No, you can't drive--I have to keep my mind busy some way and driving is a good plan." "Why are we going to Fernwood?" asked Twaddles. "Daddy said it was about freight." "And you don't see why we slight the Oak Hill station--is that it?" Sam returned good-naturedly. "Well, Twaddles, this consignment got side-tracked and it's some new office equipment your father wants right away; it is quicker to drive over and get it, than have it re-routed." Twaddles said "Oh," and immediately wanted to know how many miles it was to Fernwood. "Ten or twelve," said Sam. "And mind you dress warmly enough." "Oh, I have lots to wear," Twaddles assured him. "This is my last year coat, you know." "But you want to remember the wind blows pretty hard on that back road," said Sam. "If you think you're going to be the least bit chilly, you'd better put plenty of newspapers around you." "You think you can tease me, but you can't," Twaddles told him scornfully. "Paper isn't warm." "That's just where you make your mistake," declared Sam gravely. "There is nothing warmer than paper--fold two or three newspapers under your sweater and you can face the stiffest wind and be comfortable." Twaddles looked unconvinced. But when he went back to the house and asked Norah, she, too, said that newspapers kept out the cold. "Say, Dot," said Twaddles to his twin two minutes later. "Sam and Norah say newspapers will keep you warmer than--than anything. Let's fix some." Dot thought he was playing a joke on her, but when he finally made her understand, she was willing to wear a newspaper or two and be cozy. "Oh, we want more than one or two," said Twaddles, who liked a heaping measure of everything. "Come on down cellar and you fix me and I'll fix you." Norah kept all the old newspapers in the cellar, in a corner, and every three weeks a man came around and bought them. "I don't know exactly how to do it, but you stand still and I'll tie them on," directed Twaddles. He had brought a ball of cord with him and now he went to work to wrap the papers around the plump Dot. He opened them out wide and she held them around her by using her arms till he had a quantity of the sheets rolled about her. Then he took his string and wound that around her several times and tied it in a strong knot. "I don't see how I can get my sweater and coat on over this," objected Dot when she was declared "finished." "Oh, they'll go on all right," the cheerful Twaddles assured her. "Now do me--put on lots of papers, so I won't be cold." Dot obediently wrapped papers around him till he was twice his usual chubby size and looked very odd indeed. Then she tied several thicknesses of the cord about him and he too was ready for the long drive. "We rattle when we walk," said Twaddles, "but I guess that is all right." They found some pictures that interested them, in the papers remaining on the floor and they stayed in the cellar till, to their surprise, they heard quick feet running overhead and Meg's voice in the kitchen. "It must be noon!" said Dot, "Come on, we have to hurry." And as they started upstairs, Norah opened the door and called down: "Lunch is ready--are you still playing in the cellar?" Mother Blossom and Aunt Polly were just sitting down at the dining-room table and Meg and Bobby, who had been upstairs to wash their hands, were in the hall, when the twins marched through the kitchen and slipped into their chairs. That is, they tried to sit down, but something seemed to be wrong. "What on earth--" began Aunt Polly, staring. "My dears! What have you been doing?" Mother Blossom gasped. And Norah glanced in from the kitchen murmuring: "Is it entirely crazy they are at last?" while Meg and Bobby shouted with laughter and turned Dot and Twaddles round and round to get a good look at them. "What have you been doing?" Mother Blossom repeated. "Why, we're ready for the sleigh ride," explained Twaddles. "Paper is awfully warm, Mother. Sam said so." "It keeps the wind out," Dot added. "You look like bundles of waste paper," Bobby chuckled. "You'd better not go out on the street that way, or when the trash cart comes, the man will pick you up and throw you on top." "I do think you have more paper than you need," said Aunt Polly gently. And though Twaddles and Dot did not want to admit it, they had already begun to feel that way themselves. They could not sit down with any comfort and when Bobby ran out in the hall and brought in Dot's coat, she found she couldn't get it on at all. "You'll be warm enough without the paper, dears," Mother Blossom said positively. "Plenty warm and much more comfortable. Let Bobby and Meg help you get unwrapped and then hurry and eat lunch before it is cold." So Bobby and Meg untied the knots in the String and the papers slipped to the floor. The twins breathed a sigh of relief and became interested in the creamed potatoes. "But don't forget to take the papers down to the cellar and put them back on the pile, neatly," cautioned Mother Blossom. Bobby and Meg helped Dot and Twaddles take back the papers and then it was time to put on their coats and sweaters. Twaddles was just stamping his feet into his rubbers--he always shook the house, Norah declared, when he put on his rubbers--when the sound of jingling sleighbells was heard outside. "There's Sam! There's the sleigh!" shrieked the four little Blossoms, scattering kisses between Mother Blossom and Aunt Polly and rushing for the door. "Good grief, is the house on fire?" Sam demanded as they came running out of the house. "Where's Philip? I thought you wanted him to go." CHAPTER XVI OVER THE CROSS ROAD Philip could be heard barking madly in the garage and Meg volunteered to go and let him out. The others were too much absorbed in the horse and sleigh to offer to release the dog. "What's the name of the horse?" asked Dot. "I forgot to inquire," Sam answered. "So you may call him anything you like. He lives at the livery stable and you might name him after his master, Walter Rock. Call him Walt for short, you know." Philip, dancing and barking, came running over the snowy lawn and Meg raced after him. "The horse's name is Walt," Dot informed her importantly. "I think he looks kind, don't you, Meg?" "Of course he is a kind horse," said Meg. "He's a pretty color, too." Walt was a spotted horse, brown and white, not a polka-dot horse, of course, but with what Meg called a "pattern" of oddly shaped slashes of white on his brown coat. "He must be a foulard horse," Meg commented as the children climbed into the soft clean straw which filled the box of the sleigh. Sam shouted with laughter and Mother Blossom and Aunt Polly and Norah, who were all standing in the doorway to see them start, called out to ask what the joke was about. "Tell you when we come back," shouted Sam, taking up the reins. "All set back there? Then here we go, jingle bells!" The horse set off at a trot and the four little Blossoms grinned at each other delightedly. There were plenty of warm blankets in the sleigh and the livery stable man had put in a fur lap robe that made Twaddles think of a big black bear. None of the children had gone driving in a sleigh very often, for Father Blossom used his car practically all winter and kept no horses. Aunt Polly had horses and for all the children knew she might have a sleigh, though they had never seen one in the barn; but when they visited Aunt Polly at Brookside Farm, it was summer and snow was the one thing furthest from their thoughts. "Meg," said Sam soberly as they left Oak Hill and turned into a country road, "this kind of a horse is called a calico horse. I thought you'd like to know." "Well, foulard is something like calico--I mean the pattern is," Meg replied. "I like calico horses." "I wish I'd brought the sled," said Bobby. "We could tie on behind and ride on it." "It's more fun this way," Meg insisted, being a little girl who didn't always want something she didn't have. "Do you like to drive a sleigh, Sam?" "Sure," said Sam over his shoulder. "Always did. When I was a boy and lived in the country, we had a real old-fashioned sleigh, with red cushions in it and everything. We used to drive down the river on the ice then--that was sport, let me tell you." "Let us drive on the river," said the four little Blossoms with one voice. "That's nothing but a creek, where you go to skate," Sam answered a little scornfully. "This river I'm talking about was a real river--wide and deep; boats came up it in summer time. We lived two or three hundred miles north of here and it was three times as cold." "Well, it's cold enough now," said Dot wisely. "Isn't it, Meg?" "Yes," Meg agreed absently, "but look how pretty it is--I think snow is lovely. And the bells sound so pretty, too. Here comes another sleigh." The children stood up to look, holding on to the back of the seat, to steady themselves. Coming toward them were two horses, harnessed to a sleigh much like the one Sam was driving--a light box set on two sets of runners. "From the creamery," said Sam, as his quick eyes saw the heavy milk cans. The man driving the sleigh called "Howdy!" and shook his whip at them and Dot gasped and held on to Meg as Sam turned out for the other team. The road was fairly well trampled in the center, but when it became necessary for two vehicles to pass, they had to turn into the drifts. The four little Blossoms felt their sleigh tilt alarmingly, but before they had time to be frightened they were back on the level road again. "Do--do sleighs ever tip over?" asked Dot anxiously. "Oh, sometimes," Sam said cheerfully. "But if you are going to be turned over in anything, Dot, always pick out a sleigh for the accident; a motor car can pin you down and a railroad wreck is serious, but when a sleigh turns over, you just slip out into the snow and there's nothing to hurt you." This sounded comforting, but the children agreed that they would rather not be tipped over. "I think we'll take this cross road over," said Sam, when they came to a place where four roads met. "It may be a bit harder going and more drifts to get through, but we'll save time at that." "We don't have to save time, do we?" Bobby put in. "We're always saving time, Sam--at least you are. And I think it would be fun to drive as much as we want to, just once." Sam laughed good-naturedly as he turned the horse into the road he had chosen. "You'd like a good time to last as long as possible, wouldn't you, Bobby?" he said. "Well, with all the short cuts and all the time saving I can do, we won't be home before dark; does that suit you?" That suited Bobby exactly and he began to whistle. "Say," Twaddles cried, interrupting the whistling suddenly. "Say, Sam, I want to get out." "You do? Why?" asked Sam, without turning his head. "I saw a glove back there in the road," Twaddles announced. "A nice glove, Sam, that somebody lost." Sam said "Whoa!" to the horse and turned to look at Twaddles. "How far back--a mile?" he asked suspiciously. "Just a little way," Twaddles replied earnestly. "I want to go get it, Sam. Please. It's a good glove." "I suppose it is a worn-out mitten, but this is your trip, partly," said Sam, who was kindness itself and usually did all he could to make the four little Blossoms happy. "So run along, but if you're not back in an hour I am going on without you." Twaddles laughed and Bobby helped him down. They watched him running down the road, a small, sturdy figure, dark against all that whiteness. "He's got it!" cried Dot, as Twaddles stooped and picked something up. "Twaddles sees everything!" Her twin did not run all the way back, because he couldn't. It was hard going in the snow and his feet slipped. Besides, he was almost out of breath. "It's a good glove," the others heard him saying as he came within speaking distance. "It's a very good glove and somebody lost it." Bobby and Meg pulled him back into the sleigh and he held out the glove for them to see. Sam Layton whistled in surprise when he examined it. "Well, Twaddles, you were right and I was wrong," he said. "This is a good glove; it's fur lined and almost new. Somebody is out of luck--one glove is about as useless as one shoe lace." "Maybe we'll find the man," Twaddles declared placidly. "You believe in luck, don't you?" said Sam, starting the horse on his way again. "That glove must have been dropped from some wagon or car and probably last night. I think we're the first folks through here to-day." Bobby wanted to know how Sam could tell and when it was pointed out to him that there were no tracks through the snow, he understood at once. "Wouldn't it be nice if we found the other glove?" Dot suggested suddenly. She had been very still and thoughtful and this was what she had been thinking. Sam laughed and said that no one was ever as lucky as that. "Daddy could wear them," Dot went on. "But maybe they wouldn't be the right size." Walter, the horse, was walking now and the bells did not jingle. The road was drifted with snow and it was all even a very willing horse could do, to pull a sleigh through them. It was Bobby's sharp eyes that first spied something square and dark ahead. "There's a car!" he cried. "And I'll bet it's stuck!" The horse pricked up his ears and stared steadily, while Sam gave a low whistle. "Must have been there all night," he said. "There are no tracks through here. I suppose some one gave up the attempt and walked." When they came up with the car, they found that no one was in it. It was a small closed car and it was stuck in the drifts as Bobby had guessed. "I'll bet the glove belongs to the man who owns the car," said Meg. "Your mother doesn't like you to say 'I'll bet,'" Sam reminded her. "But perhaps the driver did drop the glove. I'll bet he's wondering where he lost it." The children shouted with laughter and Sam looked bewildered. Bobby explained to him they were laughing because he said "I'll bet." "Well you see, you set me a bad example," said Sam good-naturedly. "You'd better be more careful." "Why don't we tow the car along with us?" Bobby suggested. "One reason, we haven't a rope and another reason, Walt has all he can do to tow us and still another reason is that we don't want to be accused of making off with a stranger's car," said Sam, and stopped for breath. "Well, anyway, there's a sled--we can take that, can't we?" said Dot placidly. CHAPTER XVII MR. MENDAM "Sled!" chorused all the other Blossoms. "Where is there a sled?" Dot pointed to a drift at one side of the road. Sure enough, the runners of a sled were sticking straight out. "Perhaps there is a little boy in there," Twaddles whispered, awe-struck, and Sam hooted with laughter. "No little boy would stay quietly buried in a snow drift, Twaddles," said Sam. "But I begin to think this road is bewitched--we seem to be finding stray belongings every other yard or two." The children hopped out over the side of the sleigh and pulled out the sled. It was a good sled, but not new; the paint was worn off it in patches and one of the runners was a little bent. It had the name in faint gilt letters across the top, "The King." "Now what do you know about that?" said Sam. "What shall we do with the thing? It isn't yours, even if you did find it." "But let's take it with us," Meg urged. "We can put up signs in the Fernwood post-office--the way they do in Oak Hill when anything is lost and found. You know how, Sam?" "Bring it along, then," yielded Sam. "But after this we can't make any more stops; we'll be too late to get the freight if we dawdle and that happens to be what we were sent for." Bobby lifted the sled into the sleigh and the four children settled down cozily again, under the warm blankets and robe. Sam did not seem to be cold--he had heavy gloves and he whistled cheerfully when he wasn't talking. They were soon off the cross road and when they turned into the main highway, the going was much easier. There were many cars and a few other sleighs on this road and most of them were going toward Fernwood. The four little Blossoms had been to that town before, with their daddy in the car, and they knew where the post-office was. Meg wanted to go there first, but Sam was anxious to reach the freight station. "Well, let us get out at the post-office," Bobby begged, always eager to do whatever Meg wanted done. "We can print the signs--or maybe the post-office man will. Then when you come back we'll be ready to go." "Will you promise not to go away from the post-office, but wait for me there?" asked Sam. The children promised and he stopped the sleigh before the high flight of steps that led to the post-office. It was a square wooden building and built on such a tall foundation that it looked as though it stood on stilts. The fire house was in the basement, but the engine, when there was a fire, went out of a door on the other side. You couldn't expect a fire engine to come out under those wooden steps and turn around to go to the fire. Meg and Bobby carried the sled up the stairs and Twaddles carried the glove. Dot wished she had something to carry, but she found a way to be useful without that; she had to hold the door open for a stout old gentleman who came up directly behind them and who almost was knocked down the steps by the sled runners as Meg and Bobby tried to get it inside the doorway. "Thank you," said the stout old gentleman to Dot as she clung to the heavy door. "You're a thoughtful little girl." Once inside the post-office, the children found that it wasn't exactly like the office at Oak Hill. It was larger and the windows were so far from the floor that the twins couldn't see inside at all and Bobby had to stand on tiptoe to speak to the clerk. "We found some things in the road," said Bobby, holding on to the little window shelf with both hands when the clerk who had heard them come in asked him what he wanted. "We thought we could put them on the lost and found board," Meg added. "What sort of things are they?" asked the clerk kindly. "This sled," Bobby answered, while the stout old gentleman who was writing at the desk against the wall, looked up. "And a glove," chimed in Twaddles and Dot importantly. "Good gracious!" the stout old gentleman exclaimed and the clerk leaned closer to the window and shouted. "Did you hear that, Mr. Mendam?" he called. "They found a glove--maybe it is the one you lost." "It is, of course it is," Mr. Mendam replied, taking the glove from Twaddles and looking at it closely. "Where did you find it? Good gracious, I never was so pleased--never!" They explained to him where they had found the glove and the stout old gentleman said it was one of a pair his daughter had just given him for his birthday. He was so evidently delighted to have recovered his glove that the four little Blossoms forgot the sled for a moment. Dot was the first to remember. "Did you lose a sled, too?" she asked him eagerly. "Or an automobile?" Twaddles suggested, quite as though people were in the habit of losing their automobiles. "There's one stuck on the road," said Bobby. The post-office clerk laughed and said that wasn't a lost car. "It belongs to Mayor Pace, of Fernwood," he explained. "He couldn't get through last night and he left the car there. His son is going to tow it out this afternoon, I believe." "About the sled--it isn't mine," said Mr. Mendam. "I think we'd better have that on the lost and found board. Do you want to write the notice?" "We'd rather you did it," Bobby answered politely. "I can write, but some folks can't read it." Mr. Mendam wrote busily on a sheet of paper and then read aloud what he had written. "Found--a sled on the Hill Road," he read. "Finder may have same by describing and making application at the post-office window." "There--we'll paste that up and the child who is short one sled may see it and get it back," said Mr. Mendam and he pasted the slip of paper on the bulletin board which hung over the desk where he had been writing. "I'm pretty lucky to get my glove back, eh, Carter?" he said to the clerk. "Would you believe it, I was just going to write out a notice for the board myself, offering a reward for the return of it. And here it is placed in my hand. What do you think the reward should be, Carter?" "Something pretty handsome, sir," answered the clerk, smiling. The four little Blossoms looked uncomfortable. "We don't want any reward, thank you, Mr. Mendam," said Bobby bravely. "We just found the glove lying in the snow--Twaddles found it." "But I'd like to do something for you," the stout old gentleman insisted. "If you won't take a real reward--and I had intended offering ten dollars for the return of the glove--tell me something I can do for you." "There's the fair," whispered Meg, but Mr. Mendam heard her. "Fair?" he said briskly. "What fair? Where? Do you want me to come and buy things? Tell me where it is and I'll come and bring my daughter." But when Meg rather shyly said the fair was to be given in Oak Hill and not for a week or two, Mr. Mendam shook his head. "I'll be away then," he explained. "My daughter and I are going to Montreal for the winter sports. But why don't you let me give you the ten dollars for the fair? That will be just the same as though I had come there and bought that much." Meg looked uncertainly at Bobby. "Maybe Mother won't like it," she said. But Bobby was sure she wouldn't care and when he told Mr. Mendam about Paul Jordan and his mother and that the fair was for them, Mr. Mendam, too, was sure Mother Blossom wouldn't mind. "You put this in your pocket," he told Bobby, handing him a folded bill. "Mind you don't lose it. And if your mother, for any reason, isn't willing for you to keep it, you may send it back and I will not be offended." Bobby put the money away carefully, down deep in his pocket, and then Mr. Mendam said he was thirsty and wouldn't they go with him to the drug store and have an ice-cream soda? "I never saw a day too cold for ice-cream soda--did you?" he added, smiling. "We promised Sam to stay here till he came for us," Meg explained regretfully, for she was very fond of soda. "He won't be long, will he?" said Mr. Mendam. "I'll wait with you." And wait he did, till the sound of jingling sleigh bells announced that Sam was at the door. The sleigh was filled with boxes, tied on to keep them from falling off, and there was just a little space left for the children. Sam was surprised to see them come down the steps with a stranger with them, and more surprised to hear that he was the owner of the glove and that the "reward" was to go to Paul Jordan and that the four little Blossoms had been invited to the drug store for a treat. "Things just seem to happen to you, wherever you are," said Sam. "I wish I could lead as exciting a life as you do." Mr. Mendam insisted that he must come with them and Sam tied the horse and went. The four little Blossoms had a wonderful time, choosing their favorite sodas and for once no one said the twins were too young to have whatever they chose. Mr. Mendam wandered off before they had all quite finished and when he came back, he had a pile of small boxes under his arm. "Something to eat on the way home," he said, handing a box to each child. "Candy!" cried Twaddles blissfully. "It's just like Christmas!" Sam had tied the sleigh in front of the drug store and when they came out, Mr. Mendam helped him tuck the children in between the boxes and the seat and cover them up carefully. "I wouldn't have lost that glove for a good deal," he told them, as Sam was ready to start. "I value gifts from my daughter highly. Good-bye and good luck to your fair." "Oh, wait!" Dot wailed as Sam drove off. "Wait a minute, Sam; I want to ask him something!" CHAPTER XVIII AT LAST THE FAIR "We're late now," said the long-suffering Sam. "What do you want to ask Mr. Mendam, Dot? Hurry up." Mr. Mendam was still standing on the curb and Dot leaned out of the sleigh to call to him. "I wish I could know who the sled belongs to," she said earnestly. "If a little girl owns it, will you let me know? Or a little boy--please?" "I'll write you and tell you," Mr. Mendam promised. "Of course you're interested; I won't forget, Dot." You see, he knew them quite well by this time--their names and ages and what they did at home and in school. He was another friend, as Meg told her mother when she reached home. Sam said he hoped they could get home without any more exciting events, and he had his wish. Good old Walter trotted along sedately and the extra load made the sleigh slip along more evenly. They did not go through the cross road, but kept to the good roads all the way and almost before the four little Blossoms knew it, they saw the lights twinkling from their house. "Did you eat your candy?" asked Sam as he helped them out, before driving on to the foundry with the boxes. "Meg said to save it for Mother and Daddy and Aunt Polly and Norah, so we did," Bobby explained. "They didn't have any sodas." You may be sure they had a great deal to tell as soon as they were inside the house and when Bobby pulled out the money Mr. Mendam had given him, they were all surprised. Instead of one ten dollar bill, there were two, and Father Blossom said it would pay almost two months rent for Mrs. Jordan. Mother Blossom was quite willing for them to keep the money--since it was not for themselves--and she promised to write Mr. Mendam a note of thanks. She did the very next morning and it crossed a letter from him to Dot, telling her that the sled had been claimed by a little girl whose farmer father had let it fall out of his wagon on the way home from the creamery and never missed it. The little girl's cousin, who had outgrown the sled, had sent it to her and she was very glad to have it found. "Isn't supper ready?" asked Bobby hungrily, when they had told everything that had happened to them that afternoon. "Ready and waiting for you," answered his mother. "But first there is something on the table in the living-room for you to look at. You especially, Meg." The twins, who had been prevented from telling only by main force, rushed in with Meg and Bobby. There on the table, under the light of the lamp, lay Meg's lost locket! "Oh, Mother!" shrieked Meg. "Mother! Where did it come from? Who found it? Where was it? And it isn't hurt a bit, is it?" "Paul Jordan found it," said Dot, with satisfaction. "And Daddy's going to give you the reward to give him. It was in the snow all this time. Paul was digging out the gutter 'longside the road 'cause he thought maybe it might thaw. And he found it." "How perfectly lovely!" exclaimed Meg, her face bright with pleasure. "Now I'll put it in the velvet box, and never, never wear it again only when Mother says to. Aren't you glad, Aunt Polly?" "Yes indeed, darling," answered Aunt Polly, as Meg threw her arms around her. It was lucky Meg couldn't look forward and see when she would wear the locket the next time, or she would never have been able to eat her good supper so quietly. But she didn't know, and you will have to wait with her till you meet the four little Blossoms in another book. After the news spread about that Meg's locket had been found and that Paul Jordan had found it for her, the children were more interested than ever in the play and the fair which were to earn money for him and his mother. Poor Paul had been in bed since the finding of the locket, for digging in the snow had been work that was too heavy for him, and his lame leg pained him more than usual. Meg went to see him with Father Blossom and took him the ten dollars reward, which he was very glad to get. When the Saturday afternoon for the fair came, the Blossom house was crowded. The fair tables were arranged in the living-room, and Norah stood at the door to take the tickets. Aunt Polly had printed these, and one of them and ten cents entitled the holder to "walk in and look around." Another ten cents would entitle the visitor to a reserved seat for the stuffed animal play. They had the fair first, because in order to put in the chairs for the audience for the play, it would be necessary to remove the tables. In just exactly an hour and a half from the time the fair opened, every single thing was sold, cake, ice-cream, lemonade, fancy-work-table things, and all. "Gee!" said Bobby, preparing to help Sam carry out his table, "I wonder how much we made?" "Oh, ever so much," guessed Dot. "Doctor Maynard bought the pink pincushion, and I didn't know how much change to give him, an' he said never mind, he'd forgotten how arithmetic went. Did you see Miss Mason, Meg?" "Yes. And she's going to stay for the play. And Mr. Carter, too," said Meg. "Maybe we'll feel funny playing with them watching us." "No such thing!" Bobby was positive about it. "Anyway," he added, weakening, "we'll have on our animal cases." With much talk and laughter, the room was finally cleared. Mother Blossom had managed to save some ice-cream for the players, and they had this in great state in the kitchen while Sam was putting in the chairs for the audience. Then Aunt Polly came out and swept every child who was to take part into the dining-room, and said they must all get into their costumes. The living-room was long--it had once been two rooms--and a part of it had been reserved for the stage. Aunt Polly didn't bother with scenery, and yet no one had any difficulty in recognizing the first scene when two of the children jerked back the portière curtains. "Well, what do you know about that!" said a surprised father right out loud. It was the story of the Three Bears they were playing, and there they all were, the Big Bear and the Middle-Sized Bear and the Littlest Bear, with their bowls of porridge and their beds made by putting two chairs together. "Isn't that great!" said Miss Mason, when the curtain was pulled together again. She was so excited she never noticed she had used slang. "Who was the cunning littlest bear?" "Dot and Twaddles," Father Blossom informed her proudly. "But wait till you see the next." "A Day at the Zoo" came next, and Aunt Polly had planned this to give each child a chance to play. There were six animals on the stage--five besides the cinnamon bear that was Dot and Twaddles--a lion, a tiger, a polar bear, a great flapping seal, and a zebra. Each animal came forward and made a polite little bow, then recited some verses about what he thought of life in the Zoo. When it came the polar bear's turn, he ambled to the front of the stage with an easy lope that convulsed the audience and started off bravely with this verse, which you may have heard before. Perhaps your mother knew it when she was a little girl: "I'm a poor little bear, I belong to the show, I stand here and sulk, but it's naughty, I know. They want me to bow, to behave very nice, But I long to go home and sleep on the ice." The polar bear, wagging his red flannel tongue, recited very nicely till he came to the last line. Then a big sneeze suddenly shook him. "Oh, dear!" said part of him, most distinctly. And another section of him piped up quickly, "Please excuse me!" The audience clapped and clapped and laughed. They wanted the polar bear to recite again, but he backed off and refused to come out. So they drew the curtains together again and opened them in a few minutes for the lion and the tiger to dance a pretty little waltz for which Aunt Polly played the music. Then the entertainment was over. The animals, still in their covers, as Meg called them, came down among the audience and received many congratulations on their performance. "I never enjoyed anything more in my life!" Mr. Carter assured Bobby, smiling as though something had pleased him very much. Mother Blossom had asked all the players to stay for supper, and after the guests had gone twelve boys and girls sat down at the big, round table and enjoyed Norah's sandwiches and bouillon and more ice-cream and cake. "Just like a birthday," said Dot, trying not to show that she was sleepy. "Better than a birthday," replied Aunt Polly, coming into the room with a box in her hand. "I've counted the money, honeys, because I know you are all eager to know how much you have for poor Mrs. Jordan and her son Paul. Suppose you guess?" "Ten dollars?" ventured Meg. "Eleven?" said Bobby. "Fifteen?" shouted the twins recklessly, guessing from Aunt Polly's face that Meg and Bobby were wrong. "Twenty-three dollars and fifty cents," said Aunt Polly, shaking the box happily. "I think that is a good deal for twelve little people to make for such an entertainment." "Isn't that splendid!" sighed Marion Green. "That will pay the rent for their house for more than a month, I guess." "Maybe they can buy a new house with it," said Twaddles hopefully. Which made everybody laugh. THE END 
14546	----	BETTY GORDON AT MOUNTAIN CAMP Or, The Mystery of Ida Bellethorne by ALICE B. EMERSON Author of _Betty Gordon at Bramble Farm_, _Betty Gordon at Boarding School_, "Ruth Fielding Series," etc. Illustrated New York Cupples & Leon Company Publishers Books for Girls By ALICE B. EMERSON 12mo. Cloth. Illustrated BETTY GORDON SERIES BETTY GORDON AT BRAMBLE FARM BETTY GORDON IN WASHINGTON BETTY GORDON IN THE LAND OF OIL BETTY GORDON AT BOARDING SCHOOL BETTY GORDON AT MOUNTAIN CAMP RUTH FIELDING SERIES RUTH FIELDING OF THE RED MILL RUTH FIELDING AT BRIARWOOD HALL RUTH FIELDING AT SNOW CAMP RUTH FIELDING AT LIGHTHOUSE POINT RUTH FIELDING AT SILVER RANCH RUTH FIELDING ON CLIFF ISLAND RUTH FIELDING AT SUNRISE FARM RUTH FIELDING AND THE GYPSIES RUTH FIELDING IN MOVING PICTURES RUTH FIELDING DOWN IN DIXIE RUTH FIELDING AT COLLEGE RUTH FIELDING IN THE SADDLE RUTH FIELDING IN THE RED CROSS RUTH FIELDING AT THE WAR FRONT RUTH FIELDING HOMEWARD BOUND RUTH FIELDING DOWN EAST RUTH FIELDING IN THE GREAT NORTH-WEST RUTH FIELDING ON THE ST. LAWRENCE Cupples & Leon Co., Publishers, New York 1922 [Illustration: THE WHOLE PARTY TURNED OUT GAILY. "Betty Gordon at Mountain Camp."] CONTENTS CHAPTER I THE ORANGE SILK OVER-BLOUSE II THE FRUITS OF TANTALUS III OFF FOR A GALLOP IV A SECOND IDA BELLETHORNE V MEASLES VI A DISAPPEARANCE VII ALL MRS. STAPLES COULD SAY VIII UNCLE DICK MUST BE TOLD IX THE LIVE WIRE OCTETTE X BEAUTIFUL SNOW XI STALLED, AND WITHOUT A DOCTOR XII THE TUNNEL XIII AN ALARM XIV THE MOUNTAIN HUT XV THE LOST GIRL XVI THE CAMP ON THE OVERLOOK XVII OFF ON SNOWSHOES XVIII GREAT EXCITEMENT XIX THE EMERGENCY XX BETTY'S RIDE XXI BETTY COMES THROUGH XXII ON THE BRINK OF DISCOVERY XXIII CAN IT BE DONE? XXIV TWENTY MILES OF GRADE XXV ON THE DECK OF THE SAN SALVADOR CHAPTER I THE ORANGE SILK OVER-BLOUSE "This doesn't look like the street I came up through!" exclaimed Betty Gordon. "These funny streets, with their dear old-fashioned houses, all seem, so much alike! And if there are any names stuck up at the corners they must hide around behind the post when I come by like squirrels in the woods. "I declare, there is a queer little shop stuck right in there between two of those refined-looking, if poverty-stricken, boarding-houses. Dear me! how many come-down-in-the-world families have to take 'paying guests' to help out. Not like the Peabodys, but really needy people. What is it Bobby calls 'em? 'P.G.s'--'paying guests.' "I was a paying guest at Bramble Farm," ruminated Betty, still staring at the little shop and the houses that flanked it on either side. "And I certainly had a hard time there. Bobby says that these people in Georgetown are the remains of Southern aristocracy that were cast up on this beach as long ago as the Civil War. Unlike the castaways on cannibal islands that we read about, Bobby says these castaways live off the 'P.G.s'--and that's what Joseph Peabody tried to do! He tried to live off me. There! I knew he was a cannibal. "Oh! Isn't that sweet?" Her sudden cry had no reference to the army of boarding-house keepers in the neighborhood, nor to any signpost that pointed the way back to the little square where the soldiers' monument stood and where Betty was to meet Carter, the Littells' chauffeur, and the big limousine. For she was still staring at the window of the little shop. "What a lovely orange color! And that starburst pattern on the front! It's lovely! What a surprising thing to see in a little neighborhood store like this. I'm going to buy it if it fits me and I've money enough left in my purse." Impetuous as usual, Betty Gordon marched at once to the door of the little side-street shop. The most famous of such neighborhood shops, as described by Hawthorne, Betty knew all about. She had studied it in her English readings at Shadyside only the previous term. But there was no Gingerbread Man in this shop window! In the middle of the display window, which was divided into four not very large panes, was arranged on a cross of bright metal a knitted over-blouse of the very newest burnt orange shade. The work was exquisitely done, as Betty could see even from outside the shop, and she did hope it would fit her. On pushing open the door a silvery bell--not an annoying, jangling bell--played a very lively tune to attract the attention of a girl who sat at the back of the shop, her head bent close above the work on which she was engaged. Although the bell stopped quivering when Betty closed the door, the girl did not look up from her work. Sharp-eyed Betty saw that the stranger was knitting, and she seemed to be engaged upon another over-blouse like that in the window, save that the silk in her lap was of a pretty dark blue shade. Betty saw her full, red lips move placidly. The girl was counting over her work and she actually was so deeply immersed in the knitting that she had not heard the bell or realized that a possible customer had entered. "Ahem!" coughed Betty. "And that's twenty-four, and--cross--and two--and four----" The girl was counting aloud. "Why," murmured Betty Gordon, her eyes dancing, "she's like Libbie Littell when she is somnambulating--I guess that is the right word. Anyway, when Libbie walks in her sleep she talks just like that---- "_Ahem!_" This time Betty almost shouted the announcement of her presence in the shop and finally startled the other girl out of her abstraction. The latter looked up, winked her eyes very fast, and began to roll up her work in a clean towel. Betty noticed that her eyes were very blue and were shaded by dark lashes. "I beg your pardon," said the shopgirl. "Have you been waiting long?" She came forward quickly and with an air of assurance. Her look was not a happy one, however, and Betty wondered at her sadness. "What can I show you?" asked the shopgirl. She was not much older than Betty herself, but she was more self-possessed and seemed much more experienced than even Betty, much as the latter had traveled and varied as her adventures had been during the previous year and a half. But now the stranger's questions brought Betty to a renewed comprehension of what she had actually entered the shop for. "I'm just crazy about that blouse in the window--the orange one," she cried. "I know you must have made it yourself, for you are knitting another, I see, and that is going to be pretty, too. But I want this orange one--if it doesn't cost too much." "The price is twelve dollars. I hope it is not too much," said the shopgirl timidly. "I sold one for all of that before I left Liverpool." Betty was as much interested now in the other girl as she was in the orange silk over-blouse. "Why!" she exclaimed, "you are English, aren't you? And you and your family can't long have been over here." "I have been here only two months," said the girl quietly. There was a certain dignity in her manner that impressed Betty. She had very dark, smoothly arranged hair and a beautiful complexion. She was plump and strongly made, and she walked gracefully. Betty had noted that fact when she came forward from the back of the shop. "But you didn't come over from England all alone?" asked the curious young customer, neglecting the blouse for her interest in the girl who spread out its gossamer body for approval. "It took only seven days from Liverpool to New York," said the other girl, looking at Betty steadily, still with that lack of animation in her face. "I might have come alone; but it was better for me to travel with somebody, owing to the emigration laws of your country. I traveled as nursemaid to a family of Americans. But I separated from them in New York and came here." "Oh!" Betty exclaimed, not meaning to be impertinent. "You had friends here in Georgetown?" "I thought I had a relative in Washington. I had heard so. I failed to find her so--so I found this shop, kept by a woman who came from my county, and she gave me a chance to wait shop," said the English girl wearily. "Mrs. Staples lets me knit these blouses to help out, for she cannot pay large wages. The trade isn't much, you see. This one, I am sure, will look lovely on you. I hope the price is not too much?" "Not a bit, if it will fit me and I have that much money in my purse," replied Betty, who for a girl of her age had a good deal of money to spend quite as she pleased. She opened her bag hastily and took out her purse. The purse was made of cut steel beads and, as Betty often said, "everything stuck to it!" Something clung to it now as she drew it forth, but neither Betty nor the shopgirl saw the dangling twist of tissue paper. "And I'll buy that other one you are knitting," Betty hurried to say as she shook the purse and dug into it for the silver as well as the bills she had left after her morning's shopping. "I know that pretty blue will just look dear on a friend of mine." She was busy with her money, and the English girl looked on hopefully. So neither saw the twist of tissue paper fly off the dangling fringe of beads and land with a soft little "plump" on the floor by the counter. "Dear me!" breathed the shopgirl, in reply to Betty's promise, "I shall like that. It will help a good bit--and everything so high in this country. A dollar, as you say, goes hardly anywhere! And this one will fit you beautifully. You can see yourself." "Of course it will. Do it up at once," cried the excited Betty. "Here is the money. Twelve dollars. I was afraid I didn't have enough. And be sure and keep that blue one for my friend. Maybe she will come for it herself, so give me a card or something so she can find the place. Shall she ask for you?" "If you please," and the English girl ran to write a card. She brought it back with the neatly made parcel of the over-blouse and slipped it into Betty Gordon's hand. The latter thanked her and looked swiftly at the name the other had written. "Good-bye, Ida Bellethorne," she said, smiling. "What a fine name! I hope I can sell some more blouses for you. I'll try." The shopgirl made a little bow and the silvery bell jangled again as Betty opened the door. Betty looked back at the English girl, and the latter looked after Betty. They were both interested, much interested, the one in the other, and for reasons that neither suspected. Ida Bellethorne was not much like the girls Betty knew. She seemed even more sedate than the seniors at Shadyside where Betty had attended school with the Littell girls since the term had opened in September. Ida Bellethorne was not, however, in any such happy condition as the girls Betty Gordon knew. She might have told the warm-hearted customer who had bought the over-blouse a story that would indeed have spurred Betty's interest to an even greater degree. But the English girl was naturally of a secretive disposition, and she was among strangers. She turned back into the store when Betty had gone and the door, swinging shut, set the bell above it jingling again. A door opened at the end of the room and a tall, aggressive woman in a long, straight, gingham frock strode into the room. She had very black, heavy brows that met over her nose and this, with the thick spectacles she wore, gave her a very stern expression. "What's the matter with that bell, Ida?" she demanded, in a sharp voice. "It seems to ring enough, but it doesn't ring any money into my cash-drawer as I can see." "I sold my over-blouse out of the window, Mrs. Staples," said the girl. "Humph! What else?" "Er--what else? Why--why, she said she might come back for the one I am making." "Humph!" ejaculated Mrs. Staples a second time. "I don't see as that will fill my cellar with coal. Couldn't you sell her anything else out of the shop?" "She didn't say she wanted anything else," said Ida timidly. "Oh! She didn't? You'll never make a sales-woman till you learn to sell 'em things they don't want but that the shop wants to sell. And I was foolish enough to tell you that you could have all you could make out of those blouses. Oh, well! I'm always being foolishly generous. Come! What's that on the floor? Pick it up." Mrs. Staples was very near-sighted, yet nothing seemed to escape her observation. She pointed to the twist of white tissue paper on the floor which had been twitched out of Betty Gordon's bag. Ida stooped as she was commanded and got the paper. She was about to toss it into the waste-basket behind the counter when she realized that there was some hard object wrapped in the paper. "What is it?" asked Mrs. Staples, in her quick, stern way, as she saw Ida open the twist of paper. "Why, I--Oh, Mrs. Staples! look what this is, will you?" She held out in the palm of her hand a little, heart-shaped platinum locket with a tiny but very beautiful diamond set in the center of its face, and when she turned it over on the back was engraved the intertwined letters "E.G." "For the land's sake!" ejaculated Mrs. Staples, coming nearer and grabbing the locket out of Ida's hand. "Where did you get this?" "Why, Mrs. Staples, you saw me pick it up." "But how did it come there?" "Oh, I know!" Ida Bellethorne cried, with sudden animation. "That girl stood right there. She opened her bag to get out her purse and she must have flirted it out to the floor." "Humph!" said the storekeeper doubtfully. "Give it to me, Mrs. Staples, and I'll run after her," cried the English girl anxiously. "Humph!" This was Mrs. Staples' stock ejaculation and expressed a variety of emotions. Just now it expressed doubt. "And then you'd come back and tell me how thankful she was to get it, while maybe it doesn't belong to her at all. No," said Mrs. Staples, "let her come looking for it if she lost it." "Oh!" murmured Ida Bellethorne doubtfully. "Perhaps she will never guess she dropped it here." "That's no skin off your nose," declared the vulgar shopwoman. "You've no rights in this thing, anyway. What's found on the floor of my shop is just as much mine as what's on the counter or in the trays behind the counter. I know my rights. Until whoever lost this thing comes in and proves property, it's mine." "Oh, Mrs. Staples!" cried her employee. "Is that the law in this country? It doesn't seem honest." "Humph! It's honest enough for me. And who are you, I'd like to know, a greenhorn fresh from the old country, trying to tell me what's honest and what ain't? If that girl comes back----" "Yes, Mrs. Staples?" "You sell her that other blouse if you want to, or anything else out of the shop. But you keep your mouth shut about this locket unless she asks for it. Understand? I won't have no tattle-tales about me; and if you don't learn when to keep your mouth open and when to keep it shut, I'll have no use at all for you in my shop. Remember that now!" CHAPTER II THE FRUITS OF TANTALUS Betty Gordon had glanced hastily at her wrist watch as she went out of the little store. It was very near the minute appointed for her to meet Carter at the square. And she had forgotten to ask that girl, Ida Bellethorne (such an Englishy name!), how to find her rendezvous with the Littells' chauffeur. She hesitated, tempted to run back. Had she done so she would have been in time to see Ida pick up the little locket that Uncle Dick had given Betty that very Christmas and which she carried in her bag because it seemed the safest place to treasure it while she was visiting. Her trunk was at Shadyside. So it is that the very strangest threads of romance are woven in this world. And Betty Gordon had found before this that her life, at least, was patterned in a very wonderful way. Since she had been left an orphan and had found her only living relative, Mr. Richard Gordon, her father's brother, such a really delightful guardian the girl had been to so many places and her adventures had been so exciting that her head was sometimes quite in a whirl when she tried to think of all the happenings. Uncle Dick's contracts with certain oil promotion companies made it impossible as yet for him to have what Betty thought of as "a real, sure-enough home." He traveled here, there and everywhere. Betty loved to travel too; but Uncle Dick was forced to go to such rough and wild places that at first he could not see how Betty, a twelve year old, gently bred girl, could go with him. Therefore he had to find a home for his little ward for a few months, and remembering that an old school friend of his was married to the owner of a big and beautiful farm, he arranged for Betty to stay with the Peabodys at Bramble Farm. Her adventures as a "paying guest" in the Peabody household are fully related in the first book of the series, entitled "Betty Gordon at Bramble Farm," and a very exciting experience it was. In spite, however, of the disagreeable and miserly Joseph Peabody, Betty would not have missed her adventures at the farm for anything. In the first place, she met Bob Henderson there, and a better boy-chum a girl never had than Bob. Although Bob had been born and brought up in a poorhouse, and at first knew very little about himself and his relatives, even a girl like Betty could see that this "poorhouse rat" as he was slurringly called by Joseph Peabody, possessed natural refinement and a very bright mind. Betty and Bob became loyal friends, and when Betty, in the second volume, called "Betty Gordon in Washington," had fairly to run away from Bramble Farm to meet her Uncle Dick in the national capital, badly treated Bob ran away likewise, on the track of somebody who knew about his mother's relatives. Betty's adventures in Washington began with a most astonishing confusion of identities through which she met the Littells--a charming family consisting of a Mr. Littell, who was likewise an "Uncle Dick"; a motherly Mrs. Littell, who never found young people--either boys or girls--troublesome; three delightful sisters named Louise, Roberta, and Esther Littell; and a Cousin Elizabeth Littell, who good-naturedly becomes "Libbie" instead of "Betty" so as not to conflict in anybody's mind with "Betty" Gordon. The fun they all had in Washington while Betty waited for the appearance of her real Uncle Dick, especially after Bob Henderson turned up and was likewise adopted for the time being by the Littell family, is detailed to the full in that second story. And at last both Betty and Bob got news from Oklahoma, where Mr. Richard Gordon was engaged, which set them traveling westward in a great hurry--Betty to meet Uncle Dick at Flame City and her boy chum hard on the trace of two elusive aunts of his, his mother's sisters, who appeared to be the only relatives he had in the world. Betty and Bob discovered the aunts just in time to save them from selling their valuable but unsuspected oil holdings to sharpers, and in "Betty Gordon in the Land of Oil" one of the most satisfactory results that Betty saw accomplished was the selling of the old farm for Bob and his aunts for ninety thousand dollars. Uncle Dick decided that Betty must go to a good school in the fall, and they chose Shadyside because the Littells and their friends were going there. Bob, now on a satisfactory financial plane, arranged to attend the Salsette Military Academy which was right across the lake from the girls' boarding school, Uncle Dick, who was now Bob's guardian, having advised this. Hastening back from Oklahoma, while Uncle Dick was called to Canada to examine a promising oil field there, Betty and Bob met the girls and boys they previously got acquainted with in Washington and some other friends, and Betty at least began her boarding school experience with considerable confidence as well as delight. It was not all plain sailing as subsequent events prove; yet in "Betty Gordon at Boarding School," the fourth volume of the series, Betty had many; pleasant adventures as well as school trials. She was particularly interested in the fortunes of Norma and Alice Guerin, who had been Betty's friends when she was living at Bramble Farm; and it was through Betty's good offices that great happiness came to the Guerin girls and their parents. The hospitable Littells had invited their daughters' school friends (and, to quote Bob, there was a raft of them!) to come to Fairfields for the Christmas holidays, and at the close of the first term they bade good-bye to Shadyside and Salsette and took the train for Washington. Fairfields, which was over the river in Virginia, was one of the most delightful homes Betty Gordon had ever seen. It was closer to Georgetown than to the nation's capital, and that is why Betty on this brisk morning was shopping in the old-fashioned town and had come across the orange silk over-blouse in the window of the neighborhood shop. It was really too bad that Betty did not run back to the shop to ask for directions to the soldiers' monument square. She would have been just in season to interrupt the scene between Ida Bellethorne and Mrs. Staples and before the latter had threatened Ida with dismissal if she told Betty about the tiny locket. When she came to find it out, this loss of Uncle Dick's present, was going to trouble Betty Gordon very much. "Where in the world can that soldiers' monument be?" murmured Betty to herself as, after hurrying on for a distance and having turned two corners, she found herself in a neighborhood that looked stranger than ever to her. Not a soul was in sight at that moment, but presently she saw a small negro boy shuffling along, drawing a piece of chalk on the various houses and stoops as he passed. "Boy, come here!" called Betty to the little fellow. At once the colored boy stopped the use of his piece of chalk and stared at her with wide-open eyes. "I ain't done nuffin, lady, 'deed I ain't," he mumbled, and then began to back away. "I only want to know where the soldiers' monument is," she returned. "Do you know?" "Soldiers' monument am over that way," and the boy waved his hand to one side, where there was a hilly street, and then hurried out of sight. "Oh, dear! that's not very definite," sighed Betty. But now she ran down the hilly street at a chance, turned a crooked corner and came plump upon the square and the soldiers' monument. There was the Littells' big, closed car just turning into the square from another street. "What luck! Fancy!" gasped Betty, running swiftly to the place where the big car stopped. "You're better than prompt, Miss Betty," said the driver of the car. "I am glad I hadn't to wait for you, for Mister Bob told me particular to get you home for luncheon. You'll be wanted." "What for? Do tell me what for, Carter!" Betty cried. "I thought Bob Henderson was awfully mysterious this morning at breakfast. Do you know what is in the wind, Carter?" "Not me, Miss Betty," said the chauffeur, and having tucked the robes about her he shut the door and got into his own place. But before he started the car he said through the open window: "I have to delay a little, Miss. Must drive around by the bank and pick up Mr. Gordon. But I will hurry home after that." "Oh! Uncle Dick did go to the bank here," murmured Betty, nestling back into the cushions and robes. "I wonder if he is going to stop off at Mountain Camp on his way back to Canada. Oh!" and she sighed more deeply, "if we could only go up there with him----" The car stopped before the gray stone bank building. Uncle Dick seemed to have been on the watch for them, he came out so promptly. Although his hair was graying, especially about the temples, Mr. Richard Gordon was by no means an old looking man. He lived much out of doors and spent such physical energy only as his out-of-door life yielded, instead of living on his reserve strength as so many office-confined men do. Betty had learned all about that in physics. She was thoroughly an out-of-door girl herself! "Oh, Uncle Dick!" she cried when he stepped into the car, "are you really and truly getting ready to go north again?" "Must, my dear. Have still some work to do in spite of the ice and snow in Canada. And, as I told you, I mean to stop and see Jonathan Canary." "That is what I mean, Uncle Dick," she cried. "Will you go to that lovely Mountain Camp all alo-o-one?" "Mercy me, child, you never saw it--and in winter! You do not know whether it is lovely or not." "It must be," said Betty warmly, "You have explained it all so beautifully to us. The lovely lake surrounded by hills, and the long toboggan slide, and the skating, and fishing for pickerel through the ice, and--Oh, dear me! if we can't go----" "If who can't go?" demanded her uncle in considerable amazement. "Why, me. And Bob. And Bobby Littell and Louise, and the Tucker twins, and all the rest. We were talking about it last night. It--would--be--won--der--ful!" "Well, of all the--Why, Betty!" exclaimed Mr. Gordon, "you know you must go right back to school." "Yes, I know," sighed Betty. "It is like the fruits of Tantalus, isn't it? We read about him in Greek mythology--poor fellow! He stood up to his chin in water and over his head hung the loveliest fruits. But when he stooped to get a drink the water receded, and when he stood on tiptoe to reach the fruit, they receded too. It was dreadful! And Mountain Camp, where your friend Mr. Canary lives, is just like that. Uncle Dick. For us it is the fruits of Tantalus." Uncle Dick stared at her for a moment, then he burst out laughing. But Betty Gordon remained perfectly serious until they arrived at Fairfields. CHAPTER III OFF FOR A GALLOP The crowd at the Littell lunch table (and it was literally a "crowd" although the Guerin girls and some of the other over Christmas visitors had already gone home) hailed Betty's arrival vociferously. "How do you stand it?" asked Uncle Dick, smiling at Mrs. Littell who presided at one end of the table. "I should think they would drive you distracted." Mrs. Littell laughed jovially and beamed at her young company. "I am only distracted when Mr. Littell and I are here alone," she rejoined. "This is what keeps us young." "You've only a shake to eat in, Betty," exclaimed Bobby Littell, who was very dark and very gay and very much alive all of the time. "Do hurry. We're 'most through." "Dear me! what can I eat in a shake?" murmured Betty, as the soup was placed before her. "And I am hungry." "A milk-shake should be absorbed in a shake," observed Bob Henderson, grinning at her from across the table. "I need more than that, Bob, after what I have been through this morning. Such a job as shopping is! And oh, Bobby! I've got the loveliest thing to show you. You'll just squeal!" "What is it?" cried Bobby, eager and big-eyed at once. "Do hurry your luncheon, Betty. We've all got to change, and it's almost time." "Time for what?" demanded Betty, trying to eat daintily but hurriedly. But Mrs. Littell called them to order here. "Give Betty time to eat properly. Whatever it is, Betty, it can't begin until you are ready." "I'm through, Mother," said Bobby. "May I be excused? I'll have to help Esther, you know. You'd better forget your appetite, Betty," she whispered as she passed the latter on her way out of the room. "Time and tide wait for no man--or girl either." "What does she mean?" wondered Betty, and became a little anxious as the others began to rise, too, and were excused. "Have we got to change? What is it--the movies? Or a party? Of course, it isn't skating? Even if there was a little scale of ice last night, it would never in this world bear us," added Betty, utterly puzzled. Bob Henderson had slipped around to her side of the table and leaned over her chair back to whisper in Betty's ear: "You've got to be ready in twenty minutes. The horses won't stand this cold weather--not under saddle." "Saddle! Horses!" gasped Betty Gordon, rising right up from the table with the soup spoon in her hand. "I--I don't believe I want any more luncheon, Mrs. Littell. Really, I don't need any more. Will you please excuse me?" "Not if you run away with my spoon, Betty," laughed her hostess. "It was the dish that ran away with the spoon, and you are not a dish, dear." "She'll be dished if she doesn't hurry," called Bob from the door, and then he disappeared. "Sit down and finish your luncheon, Betty," advised Mrs. Littell. "I assure you that they will not go without you. The men can walk the horses about a little if it is necessary." "I haven't been in a saddle since I left the land of oil and my own dear Clover-pony!" cried Betty later, as she ran upstairs. "I know just where my riding habit is. Oh, dear! I hope I have as spirited a horse as dear Clover was. Are you all ready, Bobby? And you, too, Louise--and Esther? Goodness me! suppose Carter had broken down on the road and hadn't brought me back in time---- "Libbie! For goodness' sake don't sit down in that chair. That package has got the loveliest orange silk over-blouse in it. Wait till you see it, Bobby." She fairly dragged the plump girl, Libbie, away from the proximity of the chair in question and then began to scramble into her riding dress. The clatter of hoofs was audible on the drive as she fixed the plain gold pin in her smart stock. "Of course," Betty said with a sigh, "one can't wear a locket, with or without a chain, when one is riding. That dear locket Uncle Dick gave me! I suppose it is safe enough in my bag. Well, I'm ready." They all ran down to the veranda to see the mounts. Betty's was a beautiful gray horse named Jim that she had seen before in the Fairfields stables. "He's sort of hard-bitted, Miss," said the smiling negro who held the bridle and that of Bobby's own pony, a beautiful bay. "But he ain't got a bad trick and is as kind as a lamb, Miss." "Oh, I'm not afraid of him," declared Betty. "You ought to see my Clover. All right, Uncle Dick, I'm up!" They were all mounted and cantering down the drive in a very few minutes. Even plump little Libbie sat her steed well, for she had often ridden over her own Vermont hills. "I don't know where we're going, but I'm on my way!" cried Betty, who was delighted to be once more in the saddle. "We're going right across country to Bolter's stock farm," Louise told her. "Here's where we turn off. There will be some fences. Can you jump a fence, Betty?" "I can go anywhere this gray horse goes," declared Betty proudly. But Bob rode up beside her before they came to the first jump. "Look out for the icy places, Betsey," he warned her. "None of these horses are sharpened. They never have ice enough down here in Virginia to worry about, so they say." Which was true enough on ordinary occasions. But the frost the night before had been a hard one and the air was still tingling with it. In the shady places the pools remained skimmed over. A gallop over the fields and through the woodland paths put both the horses and riders in a glow of excitement. Perhaps Betty was a little careless--at least too confident. Her gray got the lead and sped away across some rough ground which bordered a ravine. Bob shouted again for her to be careful, and Betty turned and waved her hand reassuringly to him. It was just then that Jim slipped on the edge of the bank. Both of his front feet slid on an icy patch and he almost came to his knees. Betty saved herself from going over his head by a skillful lunge backward, pulling sharply on the reins. But the horse did not so easily regain his foot-hold. The edge of the bank crumbled. Betty did not utter a sound, but the girls behind her screamed in unison. "Stop! Wait! She'll be killed!" Betty knew that Bob was coming at a thundering pace on his brown mount; but the gray horse was on its haunches, sliding down the slope of the ravine, snorting as it went. Betty could not stop her horse, but she clung manfully to the reins and sat back in her saddle as though glued to it. Just what would happen when they reached the bottom of the slope was a very serious question. CHAPTER IV A SECOND IDA BELLETHORNE The ravine was forty feet deep, and although the path, down which the gray horse slid with Betty Gordon on his back, was of sand and gravel only, there were some boulders and thick brush at the bottom that threatened disaster to both victims of the accident. Swiftly and more swiftly the frightened horse slid, and the girl had no idea what she should do when they came, bumpy-ti-bump to the bottom. She heard Bob shouting something to her, but she did not immediately comprehend what he said. Something, she thought it was, about her stirrups. But this was no time or place to look to see if her stirrup leathers were the proper length or if her feet were firmly fixed in the irons, which both Bob and Uncle Dick had warned her about when first she had begun to ride. Although she dared not look back, Betty knew that Bob had galloped to the very edge of the ravine and had now flung himself from his saddle. She heard his boots slam into the sliding gravel of the hill. He shouted again--that cheery hail that somehow helped Betty to hold on to her fast vanishing courage. "Kick your feet out of the stirrups, Betty!" What he meant finally seeped into Betty's clouded brain. She realized that Bob Henderson, her chum, the boy she had learned to have such confidence in, was coming down that bank in mighty strides, prepared to save her if it was possible. The gray horse was struggling and snorting; he was likely to tumble sideways at any moment. If he did, and Betty was caught under him---- But she was not caught in any such crushing pressure. It was Bob's arm around her waist that squeezed her. She had kicked her feet loose of the stirrups, and now Bob, throwing himself backward, tore her out of the saddle. He fell upon his back, and Betty, struggling and laughing and almost crying, fell on top of him. "All right, Betty! All right!" gasped Bob. "No need to squeal now." "Who's squealing?" she demanded. "Let me up, do! Are you hurt, Bob?" "Only the wind knocked out of me. Woof! You all right?" "Oh, my dear!" shrieked Bobby at the top of the bank. "Are you killed, Betty?" "Only half killed," gasped Betty. "Don't worry. Spread the news. Elizabeth Gordon, Miss Sharpe's prize Latin scholar, will yet return to Shadyside to make glad the heart of----" "She's all right," broke in Tommy Tucker, having dismounted and looking over the brink of the bank. "She's trying to be funny. Her neck isn't broken." "I declare, Tommy!" cried Louise Littell admonishingly, "you sound as though you rather thought her poor little neck ought to be dislocated." "Cheese!" gasped Teddy, Tommy's twin. "You got that word out of a book, Louise--you know you did." "So I did; out of the dictionary. There are a lot more of them there, if you want to know," and Louise laughed. "Oh!" at this point rose a yearning cry. "Oh!" I just think he is too dear for anything!" "Cracky! What's broke loose now?" demanded Tommy Tucker, jerking back his head to stare all around at the group on the brink of the high bank. "Who is too expensive, Libbie?" asked Bobby, glancing at her cousin with a look of annoyance displayed in her features. "Robert Henderson. He is a hero!" gasped the plump girl. "I know that hero has torn his coat," Louise said, still gazing down into the ravine. Of course Bob had played a heroic part; but the rest of those present would have considered it almost indecent to speak of it as Libbie did. She continued to clasp her hands and gaze soulfully into the ravine. Bob, having made sure that Betty was all right, had gone down to the bottom of the slope and helped the gray horse to its feet. The animal was more frightened than hurt, although its legs were scratched some and it favored one fore foot when Bob walked it about. "Dear me!" cried Betty, coming closer. "Poor old Jim! Is he hurt much, Bob?" "I don't believe so," her friend replied. "Can we get him up the bank?" "I won't try that if there is any outlet to this ravine--and there must be, of course. Say! do you hear that silly girl?" "Who? Libbie?" Betty began to giggle. "She is going to make a hero of you, Bob, whether you want to be or not. And you are----" "Now, don't you begin," growled Bob. "I never saw such a modest fellow," laughed Betty, giving his free hand a little squeeze. "Huh! Libbie will want to put a laurel wreath on my brow if I climb up there. See! There is a bunch of laurels right over there--those glossy-leaved, runty sort of trees. Not for me! I am going to lead Jim out ahead, and you climb up, if you want to, and come along with the rest of the bunch. Ride my horse, if you will, Betty." "So you'd run away from a girl!" scoffed Betty, but laughing. "You are no hero, Bob Henderson." "Sure I'm not," he agreed cheerfully. "And I'd run away from a girl like Libbie any day. I wonder how Timothy Derby stands for her. But he's almost as mushy as a soft pumpkin!" With this disrespectful observation Bob started off with the gray horse and Betty scrambled up the bank down which she had plunged so heedlessly. Bobby was one of those who had dismounted at the brink of the ravine, and she held out a brown hand to Betty as the latter scrambled up the last yard or two of the steep bank and helped her to a secure footing. "Are you all right, Betty dear?" she cried. "No. One side of me is left," laughed Betty. "Wasn't that some slide?" "Now, don't try to make out that you did it on purpose!" exclaimed Esther, the youngest Littell sister. "It was too lovely for anything," sighed Libbie. "I'm glad you think so," said Betty. "Oh! you mean what Bob did. I see. Of course he is lovely--always has been. But don't tell him so, for it utterly spoils boys if you praise them--doesn't it Bobby?" "Of course it does," agreed Betty's particular chum, whose real name, Roberta, was seldom used even by her parents. "I like that!" chorused the Tucker twins. "Wait till we tell Bob, Betty," added Tommy Tucker, shaking his head. "If you try to slide downhill on horseback again, we'll all just let you slide to the very bottom," said Teddy. "Don't fret," returned Betty gaily. "I don't intend to take another such slide----" "Not even if your Uncle Dick takes you up to Mountain Camp?" asked Bobby. "There's fine tobogganing up there, he says. Mmmm!" "Don't talk about it!" wailed Betty. "You know we can't go, for school begins next week and Uncle Dick won't hear to anything breaking in on my schooling." "Not even measles?" suggested Tommy Tucker solemnly. "Two of the fellows were quarantined with it when we left Salsette," he added. "Oh! don't speak of such a horrid thing," gasped Libbie, who did not consider measles in the least romantic. "You get all speckled like--like a zebra if you have 'em." The twins uttered a concerted shout and almost rolled out of their saddles into which they had again mounted after assisting the girls, Betty being astride Bob's horse. "Speckled like a zebra is good!" Bobby Littell said laughingly to her plump cousin. "I suppose you think a barber's pole is speckled, Libbie?" These observations attracted the deluded Libbie sufficiently from her hero-worship, so that when Bob Henderson came up out of the ravine to join them a mile beyond the scene of the accident, he was perfectly safe from Libbie's romantic consideration. The boy and girl friends were then in a deep discussion of the chances, pro and con, of Betty's Uncle Dick taking her with him to Mountain Camp despite the imminent opening of the term at Shadyside. "Of course there is scarcely a possibility of his doing so," Betty said finally with hopeless mien. "Mr. Canary--Uncle Dick's friend is named Jonathan Canary, isn't that a funny name?" she interrupted herself to ask. "He's a bird," declared Teddy Tucker solemnly. "Nothing romantic sounding about that name," his brother said, with a look at Libbie. "'Jonathan Canary'--no poetry in that." "He, he!" chuckled Ted wickedly. "Talking about poetry----" "But we weren't!" said Bobby Littell. "We were talking about going to Mountain Camp in the Adirondacks. Think of it--in the dead of winter!" "Talking about poetry," steadily pursued Teddy Tucker. "You know Timothy Derby is always gushing." "A 'gusher,'" interposed Betty primly, "is an oil well that comes in with a bang." "Don't you mean it comes out with a bang?" teased Louise. "In or out, Betty and I have seen 'em gush all right," cried Bob, as they cantered on together along a well-defined bridle-path. "Say! I'm telling you something," exploded Teddy Tucker, who did not purpose to have his tale lost sight of. "Something about Timothy Derby." "Oh, dear me, yes!" exclaimed Bobby. "Do tell it and get it over, Ted." The twins both began to chuckle and Teddy had some difficulty in going on with his story. But it seemed they had been at the Derby place the evening before and Timothy had been "boring everybody to distraction," Ted said, reading "Excelsior" to the family. "And believe me!" interjected Tommy Tucker, "that kid can elocute." "And he's always been at it," hurried on his twin, giggling. "Here's what Mr. Derby says Timothy recited the first time he ever spoke a piece at a Sunday School concert. You know; the stuff the little mites cackle." "How elegant are your expressions, Teddy!" remarked Louise, sighing. But she was amused as well as the others when Ted produced a paper on which he had written down the verse Mr. Derby said his son had recited, and just as Timothy had said it! "Listen, all of you," begged Teddy. "Now, don't laugh and spoil it all, Tom. Listen: "'Lettuce denby uppan doing Widow Hartford N E fate, Still H E ving, still pursuing, Learn to label Aunty Waite.'" Libbie's voice rose above the general laughter, and she was quite warm. For Libbie's was a loyal soul. "I don't care! I don't believe it. His father is always making fun of Timothy. He--he is cruel, I think. And, anyway, Timothy was only a little boy then." "What did he want to label his Aunty Waite for?" demanded Bob. "You all be pretty good," called Betty, seeing that Libbie was really getting angry. "If you aren't I'll ask Timothy and Libbie to my party at Mountain Camp and none of the rest of you shall go." "Easy enough said, that, Betty," Bob rejoined. "You haven't very much chance of going there. But, crimpy! wouldn't it be great if Uncle Dick did take us?" "Remember our school duties, children," drawled Louise. "'Still H E ving, still pursuing.' We must not cry for the moon." Thus, with a great deal of laughter and good-natured chatter, the cavalcade trotted on and came finally to what Louise and Bobby said was the entrance to Bolter's Farm. "All our horses were raised on this farm," explained Louise. "Daddy says that Lewis Bolter has the finest stock of any horseman in Virginia. Much of it is racing stock. He sells to the great stables up north. One of his men will know what to do for your gray's scratched legs, Betty." For Betty had changed with Bob again and rode Jim, the horse that had slid down into the ravine. Betty was really sorry about the scratches and felt somehow as though she were a little to blame for the accident. She should have been more careful in guiding the gray. Once at the great stables and paddocks, however, Betty's mind was relieved on this point. Louise had an errand from her father to Mr. Bolter and went away with Esther to interview the horse owner. Mr. Littell was a builder and constructor and he bought many work horses of Mr. Bolter's raising, as well as saddle stock. If there was anything on four feet that Betty and Bob loved, it was a horse. In the west they had ridden almost continually; their mounts out at Flame City had been their dearest possessions and they would have been glad to bring them east, both Betty's Clover-pony and Bob's big white horse, had it been wise to do so. At Shadyside and Salsette, however, there had been no opportunity for horseback riding. They had found pleasure in other forms of outdoor exercise. Now, enabled to view so many beautiful and sleek horses, Betty, as well as Bob and the others, dismounted with delight and entered the long stables. While her gray was being examined by one of the stablemen, Betty went along a whole row of box stalls by herself, in each of which a horse was standing quietly or moving about. More than one came to thrust a soft muzzle over the door of the stall and with pointed ears and intelligent gaze seemed to ask if the pretty, brown-eyed girl had something nice in her pocket. "Hi, Miss!" croaked a hoarse voice behind her. "If you want to see a bang-hup 'orse--a real topper--come down 'ere." Betty turned to see a little crooked man, with one shoulder much higher than the other, who walked a good deal like a crab, sideways. He grinned at her cheerfully in spite of his ugly body and twisted features. He really was a dreadfully homely man, and he was not much taller than Betty herself. He wore a grimy jockey cap, a blue blouse and stained white trousers, and it was quite evident that he was one of the stable helpers. "This 'ere is the lydy for you to see, Miss," continued the little man eagerly. "She's from old Hengland, Miss. I come with her myself and I've knowed her since she was foaled. Mr. Bolter ain't got in 'is 'ole stable, Miss, a mare like this one." He pointed to a glossy black creature in the end box. Before the animal raised her head and looked over the gate, Betty knew that the mare from England was one of the most beautiful creatures she had ever seen. "Hi, now, 'ow's that for a pretty lydy, Miss?" went on the rubber proudly. "Oh! See! She knows you! Look at the beauty!" gasped Betty, as the black mare reached over the gate and gently nipped the blue sleeve of the crooked little man. "Knows me? I should sye she does," he said proudly. "Why, she wouldn't take her meals from nobody but me. I told 'em so w'en I 'eard she was sold to Hamerica. And they found Hi was right, Miss, afore hever they got 'er aboard the ship. They sent for me, an' Mr. Bolter gave me a good job with 'er. I goes with Ida Bellethorne wherever she goes. That's the----" "Ida Bellethorne?" interrupted Betty in amazement "Yes, Miss. That's 'er nyme. Ida Bellethorne. She comes of the true Bellethorne stock. The last of the breed out o' the Bellethorne stables, Miss." "Ida Bellethorne!" exclaimed Betty again. "Isn't that odd? A horse and a girl of the same name!" But this last she did not say audibly. The cockney rubber was fondling the mare's muzzle and he did not hear Betty's comment. The discovery of this second Ida Bellethorne excited Betty enormously. CHAPTER V MEASLES Betty Gordon's active mind could not let this incident pass without further investigation. Not alone was she interested in the beautiful black mare and the girl in the neighborhood shop, but she wanted to know how they came to have the same name. Betty was a practical girl. Bob often said it was not easy to fool Betty. She had just as strong an imagination as any other girl of her age and loved to weave fancies in her own mind when it was otherwise idle. But she knew her dreams were dreams, and her imaginings unreal. It struck her that the name "Ida Bellethorne" was more suitable for a horse than for a girl. Betty wondered all in a flash if the English girl who had sold her the silk sweater in the neighborhood shop that morning and who confessed that she had come from England practically alone had not chosen this rather resounding name to use as an alias. Perhaps she had run away from her friends and was hiding her identity behind the name of a horse that she had heard of as being famous on the English turf. This was not a very hard thing for Betty to imagine. And, in any case, her interest was stirred greatly by the discovery she had made. She was about to speak to the little, crooked man regarding the name when something occurred to draw her attention from the point of her first surprise. The mare, Ida Bellethorne, coughed. She coughed twice. "Ah-ha, my lydy!" exclaimed the rubber, shaking his head and stepping away from the door of the stall that the mare should not muzzle his clothing. "That's a fine sound--wot?" "Is it dust in her poor nose?" asked the interested Betty. "'Tis worse nor dust. 'Tis wot they call 'ere the 'orse distemper, Miss. You tyke it from 'Unches Slattery, the change in climate and crossin' the hocean ain't done Ida Bellethorne a mite of good." "Is that your name? 'Hunches Slattery'?" Betty asked curiously. "That's wot they've called me this ten year back. You see, I was a jockey when I was a lad, and a good one, too, if Hi do say it as shouldn't. But I got throwed in a steeplechase race. When they let me out o' the 'orspital I was like this--'unchbacked and crooked. I been 'Unchie ever since, Miss." "I am so sorry," breathed Betty Gordon softly. But the crooked little rubber was more interested in Ida Bellethorne's history than he was in his own misfortune, which was an old story. "I was working in the Bellethorne stables when this mare was foaled. I was always let work about her. She's a wonnerful pedigree, Miss--aw, yes, wonnerful! And she was named for an 'igh and mighty lydy, sure enough." "Named for a lady?" cried Betty. "Don't you mean for a girl?" "Aw, not much! Such a lydy, Miss! Fine, an' tall, and wonnerful to look at. They said she could sing like a hangel, that she could. Miss Ida Bellethorne, she was. She ought've been a lord's daughter, she ought." "What became of her?" asked the puzzled Betty. "I don't know, Miss. I don't rightly know what became of all the family. I kept close to the mare 'ere; the family didn't so much bother me. But there was trouble and ruin and separation and death; and, after all," added the rubber in a lower tone, "for all I know, there was cheating and swindling of the fatherless and orphan, too. But me, I kept close to this lydy 'ere," and he fondled the mare's muzzle again. "It's quite wonderful," admitted Betty. But what seemed wonderful to her, the stableman did not know anything about. "I suppose the pretty mare is worth a lot of money?" "Hi don't know wot Mr. Bolter would sell 'er for, if at all. But 'e paid four thousand pun, laid down at the stables where she was kep' after the smash of the Bellethorne family. She's got a pedigree longer than some lord's families, and 'er track record was what brought Mr. Lewis Bolter to Hengland when she was quietly put on the market. "Maybe they couldn't 'ave sold 'er to Henglish turfman," he added, whispering softly in Betty's ear, "for maybe the title to 'er would be clouded hand if she won another race somebody might go into court about it." Betty did not understand this; and just then the mare began to cough again and she was troubled by Ida Bellethorne's condition. "Is that the black mare, Slattery?" demanded a voice behind them. "Yes, sir," said the crooked little man respectfully, touching his cap. Betty turned to see a gentleman in riding boots and a short coat with a dog-whip in his gloved hand, whom she believed at once to be Mr. Bolter. Nor was she mistaken. "She's a beauty, isn't she, my dear?" the horseman said kindly. "But I do not like that cough. I've made up my mind, Slattery. She goes to-morrow to Cliffdale, and of course you go with her. Pack your bag to-night. I have already telephoned for a stable-car to be on the siding in the morning." "Yes, sir. Wot she needs is dry hair, an' the 'igher the better," said the crooked man, nodding. "They will put her on her feet again," agreed Mr. Bolter. "The balsam air around Cliffdale is the right lung-healer for man or beast." He went out and Betty heard the girls calling to her. She thanked Hunchie Slattery, patted Ida Bellethorne's nose, and ran out of the stable. But her head was full of the mystery of the striking name of "Ida Bellethorne." She felt she must tell somebody, and Bobby of course, who was her very closest chum, must be the recipient of her story as the cavalcade started homeward. It was Bobby whom Betty wanted to have the blue blouse just as soon as the shopgirl finished it. "Now, what do you think of that?" Betty demanded, after she had delivered, almost in a breath, a rather garbled story of the strange girl and the black mare from England. "Goodness, Betty, how wonderful!" exclaimed her friend. "I do so want to see that over-blouse you bought. And you say she is making another?" "Is that all you've got to say about it?" demanded Betty, staring. "Why--er--you know, it really is none of our business, is it?" asked Bobby, but with dancing eyes. "You know Miss Prettyman told us that the greatest fault of character under which young ladies labor to-day is vulgar curiosity. Oh, my! I can see her say it now," declared naughty Bobby, shaking her head. "But, Bobby! Do think a bit! A girl and a horse both of the same name, and just recently from England! I'm going to ask right out what it means." "Who are you going to ask--the horse?" giggled Bobby. "Oh, you! No, I can't ask the pretty black mare," Betty said, shaking her head. "For she is going to be sent away for her health. She's got what they call 'distemper.' She has to be acclimated, or something." "It sounds as though it might hurt," observed Bobby gravely. "Something ought to hurt you," said Betty laughing. "You are forever and ever poking fun. But I am going to see Ida Bellethorne in the shop and find out what she knows about the pretty mare." "Well, I'm sorry I didn't see the horse," confessed Bobby. "But I'll go with you to see the girl. And I do want to see the blouse." That, Betty showed her the moment they arrived at Fairfields and could run upstairs to the room the two girls shared while Betty visited here. The latter unfolded the orange-silk blouse and spread it on the bed. Bobby went into exstacies over it, as in duty bound. "Wait till you see the one she is making for you," Betty said. "You'll love it!" "What is that you are going to love?" asked a voice outside the open door. "Measles?" "Oh, Bob! Who ever heard the like?" demanded Betty. "Love measles, indeed. Why--What makes you look so queer?" "Greatest thing you ever heard, girls!" cried Bob, his face very red and his eyes shining. "I didn't really understand how much I had come to hate books and drill these last few weeks." "What do you mean?" demanded Roberta Littell. "If you don't tell us at once!" "Why, didn't you hear? Telegrams have come. To all our parents and guardians. Measles! Measles! Measles!" He began to dance a very poor imitation of the Highland Fling in the hall. The girls ran out and seized him, one on either side, and big as Bob was they managed to shake him soundly. "Tell us what you mean!" commanded Betty. "Who has the measles?" cried Bobby. "Everybody! Or, pretty near everybody, I guess. The chaps who had it and were quarantined when we came away from Salsette, gave it to the servants. And it has spread to the village. And Miss Prettyman's got it and a lot of the other folks at Shadyside. Oh, my eye!" "Are you fooling us, Bob?" demanded Betty. "Honor bright! It is just as I say. Of course, it all isn't in the messages the two schools have sent out to 'parents and guardians.' That is the way the messages are headed, you know. But the Shadyside _Mirror_ has come, too, and tells all about it. Opening is postponed for a fortnight. What do you know about that?" and Bob began his clumsy dance again. Betty broke away and darted down the stairs. She scarcely touched the steps with her feet she flew so fast, and if it had not been for the banister she surely would have come to the bottom in a heap. She ran out on the porch to find her Uncle Dick smoking a cigar and reading the paper in a warm corner. Like a stone from a catapult she flung herself into his arms. "Oh, Uncle Dick! Uncle Dick! Now we can go!" she cried, seizing him tightly around the neck. "Goodness, child!" choked Uncle Dick, fairly throttled by her exuberance. "What is it? Go where, Betty?" "To Mountain Camp! With you! All of us! No school for more than two weeks! Oh, Uncle Dick!" Then she suddenly stopped and her glowing face lost its color and her excitement subsided. "Dear me!" she quavered, "I 'member now I had 'em when I was six, and they say you can't have 'em but once." "What can't you have but once?" "Measles," said Betty, sighing deeply. "I suppose after all I can go back to Shadyside. Maybe Mrs. Eustice will expect all of us that have had 'em to come." CHAPTER VI A DISAPPEARANCE There was an exciting conclave at Fairfields that evening. Perhaps I should say two. For in one room given over by the good-natured Mrs. Littell to the young folks there was a most noisy conclave while the older members of the household held a more quiet if no less earnest conference in the library. There were eight in the young folks' meeting for Mrs. Littell insisted upon Esther's going to bed at a certain hour every evening "to get her beauty sleep." "And I'll say she is sure to be a raving beauty when she grows up, if she keeps going to bed with the chickens," giggled Bobby. "You know she can't go to Mountain Camp anyway," Louise said quietly, "for her school isn't measly and it begins again day after to-morrow." "Poor Esther!" sighed Betty. "We must make it up to her somehow. I was afraid she would cry at dinner this evening." "She's a good kid," agreed Bobby. "But are you sure, Betty, that we can go to the mountains? Just think! Eight of us!" "Some contract for Mr. Gordon," observed Tommy Tucker with unusual reflection. "How about it's being some contract for Mr. and Mrs. Canary?" suggested Bob Henderson. "Maybe they will shy at such a crowd." "I asked Uncle Dick about that," Betty said eagerly. "He told me all about Mr. and Mrs. Canary. He has known them for years and years. They must be awfully nice people and they have got a great, big, rambling bungalow sort of house, all built of logs in the rough. But inside there is a heating plant, and electric lights, and shower baths, and everything up-to-date. Mr. Canary is very wealthy; but his money could not keep him from getting tuber--tuber----" "'Tubers,'" said Bob with gravity, "are potatoes, or something of that kind." "Now, Bob! you know what I mean very well," cried Betty. "His lungs were affected. But they have healed and he is perfectly well as long as he stays up there in the wilderness. The air there has wonderful cur--curative properties. There!" "Look! Will it cure such a bad attack of poetry?" interrupted Bobby, drawing the attention of the others to Timothy Derby and Libbie who, with heads close together, were absorbed in a volume of verses the boy had brought with him from home. "It might help," said Bob. "It ought to be cold enough up there at Mountain Camp to freeze romance into an icicle." "I hope we all go then," Teddy Tucker agreed. "Our folks have said we could--haven't they, Tom?" "With suspicious alacrity," agreed his twin. "How's that for a fine phrase, Louise? Do you know, I think mother and dad were almost shocked when they got the telegram from Salsette and knew our vacation was to be prolonged. The idea of Mountain Camp seems to please them." "Goodness! I know dear Mrs. Littell doesn't feel that way about it," cried Betty. "She's got girls," said Ted dryly. "You know it is us boys who are not appreciated in this world." "Yes," said Bob, "you fellows are terribly abused, I'll say. But, now! Are we all sure of going? That's what I want to know." "Timothy----" began Louise; but Bob held up his hand to stop her. "I know from his father that Tim can go. Uncle Dick is sure to take us, Betty, isn't he?" "He sent off a telegram to Mrs. Canary this evening. If she sends back word 'Yes' we can go day after to-morrow." "That's all right then," said Bob, quite as eagerly. 'The thing to do then is to plan what to take and all that. It is cold up there, but dry. Much colder than it was at school before we came down. Furs, overcoats, boots, mittens--not gloves, for gloves are no good when it is really cold--and underthings that are warm and heavy. We don't want to come back with noses and toes frozen off." "Humph!" said Bobby scornfully, "what kind of underwear should you advise our getting for our noses, Bob Henderson?" "Aw--you know what I mean," said the boy, grinning. "Don't depend on a fur piece around your neck and a muff to keep the rest of you warm. Us fellows have all got Mackinaws and boots and such things. And we'll want 'em." And so they excitedly made their plans. At least, six of them did while Timothy and Libbie bent their minds upon the book. One thing about those two young romanticists, they agreed to the plans the others made and were quite docile. At ten Timothy and the Tucker twins went home and the others went cheerfully up to bed. While Betty Gordon remained at Fairfields Bobby insisted on sharing her own room with her. They were never separated at Shadyside, so why should they be here? When she was half undressed Betty suddenly went down on her knees before the tall chiffonier and opened the lower drawer. She dug under everything in the drawer until she came to her handbag, and drew it forth. "I declare!" chuckled Bobby, "I thought you were digging a new burrow like a homeless rabbit. What did you forget?" "Didn't forget anything," responded Betty, smiling up at her friend. "I remembered something." "Oh!" "My locket. Uncle Dick's present. I wanted to see that it was safe." "Goodness! Do you carry it in your bag?" "I've got a lovely chain at Shadyside, you know. I told Uncle Dick not to buy a chain. And I don't believe Mrs. Eustice will object to a simple little locket like mine, will she?" "M-m-m! I don't know," replied Bobby. "You know she is awfully opposed to us girls wearing jewelry. And your locket is lovely. Just think! Platinum and a real diamond. Why! what is the matter, Betty?" For Betty had begun scrambling in her bag worse than she had in the bureau drawer. Everything came out--purse, tickets, gloves, handkerchief, the tiniest little looking-glass, a letter or two, a silver thimble, two coughdrops stuck together, a sample of ribbon which she had failed to match, a most disreputable looking piece of lead-pencil---- But no twist of tissue paper with the locket in it! "What is the matter?" repeated Bobby, frightened by the expression of the other girl's face. "I--I----Oh, Bobby! It's gone!" wailed Betty. "Not your locket?" "Yes, my locket!" sobbed Betty, and she sat down on the floor and wept. "Why, it can't be! Who would take it? When did you see it last? Nobody here in the house would have stolen it, Betty." "It--it must have dropped out of my bag. Oh! what shall I do? I can't tell Uncle Dick." "He won't punish you for losing it, will he?" "But think how he'll feel! And how I'll feel!" wailed Betty. "He advised me to put it somewhere for safe keeping until I got my chain. And I wouldn't. I--I wanted it with me." "You should have put it downstairs in daddy's safe," said Bobby thoughtfully. "But that doesn't do me a bit of good now," sobbed Betty Gordon. "Don't you remember where you had it last?" asked her friend slowly. "In my bag, of course. And I carried my bag to town to-day. Yes! I remember seeing the paper it was in at the bottom of my bag more than once while I was shopping. Oh, dear! what shall I do?" "Then you are quite sure it was not stolen?" Bobby suggested. "No. I don't suppose it was. It just hopped out somehow. But where? That is the question, Bobby. I can't answer it." She rose finally and finished her preparations for bed. Bobby was very sympathetic; but there did not seem to be anything she could say that would really relieve Betty's heart, or help in any way. The locket was gone and no trace of how it had gone had been left in Betty's mind. When the light was out Bobby crept into Betty's bed and held her tightly in her arms. "Don't cry, Betty dear!" the other girl whispered. "Maybe your Uncle Dick will know how to find the locket." "Oh, Bobby! I can't tell him. I'm ashamed to," sighed Betty. "It looks as though I had not cared enough about his present to be careful with it. And I thought if I carried it about with me that there would be no chance of my losing it. And now----" "Then tell Bob," suggested her chum, hugging Betty tightly. "Bob?" "Tell him all about it," said Bobby Littell. "Perhaps he will know what to do. You can't really have lost that beautiful locket forever, Betty!" "Oh, I don't know! It's gone, anyway!" sobbed Betty. "Don't give up. That isn't like you, Betty," went on Bobby. "Maybe Bob can help. We can ask him, at least." "Yes, we can do that," was Betty's not very hopeful reply. CHAPTER VII ALL MRS. STAPLES COULD SAY The two girls sought out Bob Henderson before breakfast and told him of the disappearance of Betty's beautiful little locket. Betty's eyes, were a little swollen and even Bobby seemed not to have passed a very agreeable night. Bob was quite shrewd enough to see these evidences of trouble and he refrained from making any remark even in fun to ruffle the girls. "Here's a pretty mess!" exclaimed Bob, but cheerfully. "And we all going to Mountain Camp to-morrow if Mrs. Canary telegraphs 'Yes,' Hunted everywhere, I suppose?" "Yes, Bob," Betty assured him. "And there was but one place to hunt. In my bag." "Sure?" "Pos-i-tive!" "Carried it loose in your bag, did you?" he asked reflectively. "Wrapped up in white tissue paper. You know, the box it came in got broken." "I remember. Gee, Betty! that's an awfully pretty locket. You don't want to lose it." "But I have lost it!" "For keeps, I mean," rejoined Bob, smiling encouragingly. "Come on! Let's see the bag. Where did you carry it? When was the last time you saw the locket in the bag and where?" "Oh!" Betty cried suddenly. "I remember it was in the bag when I was shopping yesterday." "Shopping where? Let's hear about the last place you remember seeing it." Betty remembered very clearly seeing the twist of paper with the locket in it while she was at Purcell's where she had bought some veiling. "Then, Betty," said Bobby, "you went to that little store afterward, you said, where you got the over-blouse." "Ye--es. But I didn't notice it while I was there. I was so excited over the blouse and so interested in Ida Bellethorne that I don't remember of looking in my bag to see if my locket was safe." "'Ida Bellethorne'?" repeated Bob in surprise. "Why! that's the name of Mr. Lewis Bolter's new mare from England. I heard Mr. Littell and Uncle Dick talking about her." "And I met a girl named Ida Bellethorne. I'll tell you all about her later, Bob," said Betty. "Just now I want to know what to do about the locket." "I should say you did! And I'll tell you what," Bob said promptly. "Right after breakfast we'll borrow the little car and I'll take you over to Georgetown and we'll go to every place you went to yesterday, Betty, and inquire. I'm allowed to drive in the District of Columbia, you know." "Will you, Bob?" cried Betty. "Do you think there is any chance of our finding it?" "Why not? If it was picked up in one of the stores you went to. There are lots more honest people in the world than there are dishonest. Come on now, don't cry." "I'm not going to cry," declared Betty. "I've cried enough already. Don't tell the others, Bob. Nor Uncle Dick. I don't want him to know if I can help it. It looks just as though I didn't prize his present enough to take care of it." Somehow, Betty felt encouraged by Bob's taking hold of the matter. The small car was secured after breakfast and Bob and the two girls set off for the other side of the river. It was not alone because of Bob's advice that they stopped first at the little neighborhood shop on the hilly side street where Betty had bought her sweater. Bobby was anxious to see her blue sweater, and the two girls ran in as soon as the car halted before the door. The little bell over it jingled pleasantly at their entrance; but it was a tall and rather grim-looking woman who came from the back of the shop to meet them instead of the English girl with whom Betty had dealt on her former visit. "Humph!" said Mrs. Staples, for it was she, when she spied the over-blouse under Betty's coat. "You are the young lady who was to purchase the blue blouse when it was finished?" "For my friend here," said Betty, bringing Bobby forward. "I know she will like it." "I hope so," said Mrs. Staples. "It is finished. Ida sat up most of the night to finish it. Here it is," and she displayed the dark blue blouse for the girls to see. "How lovely!" ejaculated Bobby eagerly. "I like it even better than I do your orange one, Betty. It's sweet." "It's twelve dollars, Miss," said the shop woman promptly. "You can pay me and take the blouse. I paid Ida for it." "Isn't the girl who made it here?" asked Betty anxiously. "No, she ain't," said Mrs. Staples in her blunt way. "She left an hour ago." "Oh! Will she come back?" "I don't expect her. I am sure I cannot be changing help all the time. She left me very abruptly. I did not ask her to come back." "Why," said Betty, wonderingly, "I thought you were her friend. Isn't she all alone in this country?" "She is a girl who seems quite able to take care of herself," the grim shopwoman said. "Or she is determined to try. I advised her to write to her aunt----" "Then she has an aunt over here?" cried Betty eagerly. "So she thinks. An aunt for whom Ida was named. There was some family trouble, and Ida's father and her father's sister seem to have had nothing to do with each other for some years. The aunt is a singer--quite a noted concert singer, it seems. Ida came to Washington expecting to find her. She did not find the elder Ida Bellethorne----" "Then there are three Ida Bellethornes!" whispered Bobby in Betty's ear. "So she came here to help me," continued Mrs. Staples, all the time watching Betty with a rather strange manner. "She would better have remained with me, as I told her. But she found in the paper last night this notice," the woman produced a torn piece of paper from the counter and handed it to Betty, "and nothing would do but Ida must go right away to find the place and the person mentioned here." The two girls in great interest bent their heads above the piece of paper. The marked paragraph was one of several in the column and read as follows: "It is stated upon good authority that the great Ida Bellethorne will arrive at Cliffdale, New York, within a day or two, and will remain for the winter." "Why, how odd," murmured Betty. "And did this make Ida go away?" "She has gone to Cliffdale to meet her aunt. That was her intention," said Mrs. Staples. "Are either of you young ladies prepared to buy this blue blouse?" "Oh, yes, indeed!" cried Bobby, who had taken a fancy to the blouse. "I've got money enough. And it was nice of Miss Bellethorne to finish it for me before she went. I wish I might thank her personally." "I do not expect to see Ida again," the shopwoman repeated in her most severe manner, wrapping up the over-blouse. "Twelve dollars--thank you, Miss. Can I show you anything else?" "Wait!" gasped Betty. "I want to ask you--I wanted to ask Ida Bellethorne if she saw me drop anything here in the store yesterday?" "I am sorry she is not here to answer that question," said Mrs. Staples. "I was not here when you came, Miss." "No, I know you weren't. But somewhere while I was shopping yesterday I lost something out of my bag. If it dropped out here----" "I can assure you I picked up nothing, Miss," declared the shop woman. "If Ida----" "If Ida Bellethorne did, she is not here, unfortunately, to tell you," said Mrs. Staples in her same manner and without a change of expression on her hard face. "Oh, dear!" sighed Betty. "But you don't know that you dropped it here," Bobby said to encourage her. But perhaps it encouraged Mrs. Staples more! "I have nothing more to say, Miss," the woman declared. "Ida not being here----" "Oh, well," said Betty, trying to speak more cheerfully, "it is true I do not remember having seen it while I was here at all. So--so we will go to the other places. Of course, if Ida had found anything she would have told you?" "I cannot be responsible for what Ida Bellethorne would do or say," replied the shopwoman grimly. "Not having been here myself when you came, Miss----" "Oh, yes! I understand," said Betty hastily. "Well, thank you for keeping the blouse for us. Good-bye." She and Bobby were not greatly pleased with Mrs. Staples. But they had no reason for distrusting her. When they had gone the shopwoman smiled a most wintry smile. "Well, I am not supposed to tell people how to go about their own affairs, I should hope," was her thought. "That chit never told me what she had lost. It might have been a pair of shoes or a boiled lobster! Humph! Folks would better speak plain in this world. I always do, I am sure." CHAPTER VIII UNCLE DICK MUST BE TOLD The two girls did not tell Bob Henderson all that had happened in the little shop when they first came out. They were in too much haste to get to the other places where it might be possible that Betty had dropped her locket. Of all things, they did not suspect that Mrs. Staples knew the first thing about it. But they did tell the boy that Ida Bellethorne had gone away. "Where's she gone?" asked the inquisitive Bob. "Couldn't be that she found the locket and ran off with it?" "Why, you're almost horrid!" declared Betty, aggrieved. "You don't know what a nice girl Ida is." "Humph!" (Could he have caught that expression from waiting outside Mrs. Staples' shop?) "Humph! I don't believe you know how nice she is, or otherwise. You never saw her but once." "But she's seen the horse," giggled Bobby. "What horse?" demanded Bob. "Mr. Lewis Bolter's black mare, Ida Bellethorne." "Oh!" "And, oh, Bob!" cried Betty, "there's another Ida Bellethorne, and this Ida has gone away to see her. She's her aunt." "Who's her aunt?" grumbled Bob, who was having some difficulty just then in driving the car and so could not give his full attention to the matter the girls were chattering about. "Why, see!" cried Betty, rummaging in her bag. "Here's the piece of newspaper with the society item, or whatever it is, in it that made Ida go away so suddenly this morning. It's about her aunt, the great concert singer. Ida's gone to meet her where that says," and she put the piece of paper into Bob's hand. "All right," he said. "Here's Markham and Boggs' place. You said you were in this store yesterday, Betty." "So I was. Come on, Bobby," cried the other girl, hopping out of the car. "I suppose we shall have to go to the manager or the superintendent or somebody. Dear me! if we don't find my locket I don't know what I shall do." When Betty and Bobby came out of the store, much disappointed, they found Bob grinning--as Bobby declared--"like a Cheshire cat." "But never mind the cat," continued Bobby. "What is the matter with that boy? For boys will laugh at the most serious things. And this is serious, my poor, dear Betty." "Indeed it is," agreed her friend, and so they crossed the walk to the grinning Bob Henderson who had the scrap of newspaper Betty had given him in his hand. "Say," he drawled, "who did you say this aunt of Ida Bellethorne is?" "Mrs. Staples says she is a concert singer--a prima donna," replied Betty. "She's a prima donna all right," chuckled Bob. "Where now? Oh! To Stone's shoe shop? Well, what do you know about this notice in the paper?" and his smile grew broader. "What do you mean, Bob?" demanded Betty, rather vexed. "You can read the paragraph yourself. 'The great Ida Bellethorne'. That means she is a great singer of course." "Yes, I see," replied Bob, giving some attention to the steering of the car. "But there is one thing about you girls--you never read the sporting page of the newspaper." "What is that?" gasped Bobby Littell. "This string of items you handed me is torn out of the sporting page. All the paragraphs refer to racing matters. That particular one deals with Mr. Bolter's black mare, Ida Bellethorne. Cliffdale is the place he was shipping her to far her health." "Never!" cried Bobby. "Oh, Bob! Is that so?" gasped Betty. Bob burst into open laughter. "That's a good one on you and on your friend, Ida," he declared. "If she has gone to meet her aunt up in New York State she'll meet a horse instead. How's that for a joke?" Betty Gordon shook her head without smiling. "I don't see the joke at all," she said. "Poor Ida! She will be sadly disappointed. And she has lost her position here with Mrs. Staples. We could see that Mrs. Staples was angry because she went away." "Why," cried Bobby, likewise sympathetic, "I think it is horrid--actually horrid! You needn't laugh, Bob Henderson." "Shucks!" returned the boy. "I can't cry over it, can I? Of course it is too bad the girl has made such a mistake. But our weeping won't help her." "No," confessed Bobby, "I suppose that is so." "And our weeping won't find my locket," sighed Betty. "Dear me! If I did drop it in Stone's place I hope they have saved it for me." But the locket was not to be found in that shop, either. Nor in the two others which Betty Gordon had visited the previous day. This indeed was a perfectly dreadful thing! The plainer it was that the locket could not be found, the more repentent and distracted Betty became. "I shall have to tell Uncle Dick--I shall have to," she wailed, when Bob drove them away from the last place and all hope was gone glimmering. "Oh, dear! It is dreadful." "Don't take on so, Betty!" Bob begged gruffly, for he could not bear to see the girl actually cry. "I'll tell him if you are afraid to." "Don't you dare!" she flared out at him. "I'm not afraid. Only I dread it. It was the nicest present he ever gave me and--and I loved it. But I did not take proper care of it. I realize that now, when it is too late." Bob remained serious of aspect after that. That his mind was engaged with the problem of Betty's lost trinket was proved by what he said on the way back to Fairfields: "I suppose you spoke to all the clerks you traded with in those stores, Betty?" "Why, yes. All but Ida Bellethorne, Bob." "And Mrs. Staples said she didn't know anything about Betty's locket," Bobby put in. Of course, this was not so; but Bobby thought she was telling the exact truth. The two girls really had not explained Betty's loss to Mrs. Staples at all. "The English girl going off so suddenly, and on such a wild-goose chase, looks kind of fishy, you know," drawled Bob. "She thinks she is chasing her aunt!" Bobby cried. "Maybe." "You don't even know her, Bob," declared Betty haughtily. "You can't judge her character. I am sure she is honest." "Well," grumbled Bob, "being sure everybody is honest isn't going to get you that locket back, believe me!" "That's horrid, too! Isn't it, Betty?" demanded Bobby. "It's sort of, I guess," said Betty, much troubled, "But, oh, Bob! I don't want to think that poor girl found my locket and ran away with it. No, I don't want to believe that. And, anyway, it doesn't help me out a mite. I've got to tell Uncle Dick before he notices that I don't display his pretty present any more. Oh, dear!" "It's a shame," groaned Bobby, holding her chum's hand tightly. "Guess there are worse things than measles in this world," observed Bob, as he stopped the small car under the _porte cochère_ at Fairfields. CHAPTER IX THE LIVE WIRE OCTETTE It was not an easy thing to do; but Betty Gordon did it. She confessed the whole wretched thing to Uncle Dick and was assured of his forgiveness. But perhaps his serious forgiveness was not the easiest thing for the girl to bear. "I am sure, as you say, that you did not mean to be careless," Mr. Richard Gordon said gently. It was hard for him to be strict with Betty; but he knew her impulsiveness sometimes led her into a reckless path. "But mark you, Betty: The value of that locket should have, in itself, made you particularly careful of it." "I--I valued it more because you gave it to me, Uncle Dick," she sobbed. "And yet that did not make you particularly careful," the gentleman reminded her. "The main trouble with you, Betty, is that you have no very clear appreciation of the value of money." "Oh, Uncle Dick!" and she looked at him with trembling chin and tears welling into her eyes. "And why should you?" he added, laughing more lightly and patting her hand. "You have never been obliged to earn money. Think back to the time you were with the Peabodys. The money my lawyer sent you for your own use just burned holes in your pinafore pockets, didn't it?" "I didn't wear pinafores, Uncle Dick," Betty said soberly. "Girls don't nowadays." "No, I see they don't," he rejoined, smiling broadly again. "But they did in my day. However, in whatever pocket you put that money as you got it, the hole was figuratively burned, wasn't it?" "We--ell, it went mostly for food. Mr. Peabody was such a miser! And--and----" "And so when you wanted to come away from Bramble Farm you actually had to borrow money," went on Uncle Dick. "Of course, you were fortunate enough finally to get the lawyer's check and pay your debts. But the fact remains that you seem unable to keep money." "Oh, Uncle Dick!" "Now," continued her guardian still soberly, "a miser like Mr. Peabody for instance is a very unpleasant person. But a spendthrift often does even more harm in the world than a miser. I don't want my Betty-girl to be a spendthrift." "Oh, Uncle Dick!" "The loss of your pretty locket, my dear, has come because of that trait in your character which ignores a proper appreciation of the value of money and what can be bought with it. Now, I can buy you another locket----" "No, no, Uncle Dick! I don't deserve it," she said with her face hidden against his shoulder as she sat in his lap. "That is true, my dear. I don't really think you do deserve another--not right at once. And, anyway, we will advertise for the locket in the newspapers and may recover it in that way. So we will postpone the purchase of any other piece of jewelry at present. "What I have in my mind, however, and have had for some time, is the reorganization of your financial affairs," and now he smiled broadly as she raised her head to look at him. "I think of putting you on a monthly allowance of pocket money and asking you to keep a fairly exact account of your expenditures. Not an account to show me. I don't want you to feel as though you were being watched." "What do you mean, Uncle Dick?" "I want you to keep account for your own satisfaction. I want you to know at the end of the month where your money has gone to. It is the best training in the world for a girl, as well as a boy, to know just what she has done with the money that has passed through her hands. And in this case I am sure in time that it will give you a just comprehension of money's value. "If we do not recover the locket, why, in time, we will look about for another pretty trinket----" "No, Uncle Dick," Betty said seriously. "I loved that locket. I should have been more careful of it. I hope it will be found and returned to me. I do! I do! But I don't want you to give me another." "Why not?" he asked, yet giving her quite an understanding look. "I guess you know, Uncle Dick," she sighed. "I don't really deserve it. And it wouldn't be that locket that you gave me for Christmas, you see." "Well, my dear----" "Wait, dear Uncle Dick! I want to say something more," said the girl, hugging him tightly again. "If you give me a certain sum of money to spend for myself every month I am going to save out of it until I have enough to buy a locket exactly like that one I lost--If it isn't found, I mean." "Ah!" "You approve, Uncle Dick?" "Most assuredly. That would be following out my suggestion of learning to take care of money in the fullest sense, my dear." "Then," said Betty, bouncing happily on his knee, "that is what I am going to try to do. But I do hope my locket will be found!" This serious conference was broken up at this point by the arrival of the telegram Uncle Dick had been expecting from Mountain Camp. Mrs. Jonathan Canary had signed it herself and it was to the effect that the young friends of Mr. Richard Gordon would be as welcome as that gentleman himself. Bob immediately saddled a horse and galloped to the Derbys and the Tuckers to carry the news. Final plans were made for departure the next morning and in spite of a rather threatening change in the weather the party left Fairfields on time and in high spirits for upper New York State. A few flakes of snow had begun fluttering down as the train pulled out of Washington; and as it raced across the Maryland fields and through the hills which grace that State the snow blew faster and faster and thicker and thicker. But even in midwinter snow storms do not much obstruct traffic so far south, and the gay party from Fairfields had no suspicion that it was being borne into any peril or trouble. What was a little snow which scarcely, at first, caught upon the brown fields? They had engaged two whole sections for the young folks and an extra place for Uncle Dick. The latter did not interfere at all with the fun and frolic of his charges. He was--he should have been--used by now to the ridiculous antics of the Tucker twins and the overflowing spirits of the rest of the octette. Bachelor as he was, Mr. Richard Gordon considered himself pretty well acquainted with young folks of their age. The two sections occupied by the eight girls and boys were opposite each other and they had that end of the car pretty much to themselves. Of course, people sometimes had to go through the aisle--and others besides the conductor and the porter; but after running the gauntlet of that lively troop once the restless passenger usually tried to keep out of the "line of fire." The fun the party had was good-natured sport for the most part. Their practical jokes were aimed at each other rather than at their fellow passengers. But it was a fact that there was very little peace for a nervous person in that Pullman coach. "We're the live-wire octette, and we are going to let everybody know it," proclaimed Tommy Tucker vociferously. "Say! there's a chap up at the other end of the car, sprawled all over his seat--fresh kid, he is. Did you notice him?" "I did," replied his twin. "I fell over his foot twice when I went for a drink." "Why didn't you look where you were walking?" grinned Bob Henderson craning his neck to see up the aisle and mark the passenger in question. "Huh!" grumbled Ted, "he stuck it out for me to tumble over both times--and you know this train is joggling some." "Ill say so," agreed Bob. But Betty had jumped up to look and she said eagerly: "Do you mean the man with the silk handkerchief over his head? He must be asleep, or trying to sleep." "I tell you he is just a fresh kid," said Tommy Tucker. "And I'm going to fix him." "Now, boys, be careful what you do," advised Louise, who occasionally considered it her duty to put on a sober, admonishing air. Tommy, however, started for the nearest exit to the platform of the car. He was gone some time, and when he reappeared he carried in both hands a great soggy snowball, bigger than the biggest grapefruit. "Gee, folks!" he whispered, "it's snowing, and then some! I never saw such a snow. And the porter says it is likely to get worse the farther north we go. Suppose we should be snowbound?" There was a chorus of cries--of fearful delight on the part of the girls, at least--at this announcement. "Never mind," Bob Henderson said, "we have a dining car hitched to this train, so we sha'n't starve I guess, if we are snowed up. What are you going to do with that snow, Tommy?" The Tucker twin winked prodigiously. "I'm going to take it up the aisle and show it to Mr. Gordon. He doesn't know it's snowing like this," said the boy quite soberly. "Why, Tommy Tucker!" cried Betty, "of course Uncle Dick knows it is snowing. Can't he see it through the window?" But when she looked herself at the window beside her she was amazed to see that the pane was masked with wet snow and one could scarcely see through it at all. Besides, evening was falling fast. "I do hope," Teddy remarked, watching his brother start up the aisle, "he tumbles in the right place." "What is he going to do with that snowball?" demanded Louise. "I know! I know!" giggled Bobby, in sudden delight. "That man with the silk hander chief over his head is going to get a shower." "He isn't a man. He's just a fresh kid," declared Ted, but he said it somewhat anxiously now. "Stop him, somebody!" cried Louise. "He'll get into trouble." "If you ask me," drawled Bob Henderson, "I think that somebody else is going to get into trouble. I saw that chap stick his foot out and trip Ted before." "He did it unknowingly," cried Betty, under her breath. "He's asleep." "If he is he won't be long," whispered Bobby, clutching at Betty and holding her into the seat. "Let Tommy Tucker be. If that fellow trips him----" The next instant Tommy did trip. Without any doubt the well shod foot of the man lolling in the seat slid into the aisle as the boy with the snowfall approached, and Tommy pitched over it with almost a certainty of falling headlong. Indeed, he would have gone to the floor of the car had he not let go of the mass of snow in his hands and clutched at the seat arms. "Whoo!" burst out Teddy Tucker in delight. "Now that fresh kid's got his!" For the soft snowball in Tommy's hands landed plump upon the handkerchief-covered crown of the person sprawling so ungracefully in the Pullman seat! The victim uttered a howl audible above the drumming of the car wheels. And he leaped upright between the seats of his section, beat the fast-melting snow off his head and face, and displayed the latter to the young peoples' amazement as that of a very stern looking gentleman indeed with a bald head and gray side whiskers. "Oh, my aunt's cat and all her kittens!" gasped Bob Henderson. "Now Tommy has done it! See who it is, Ted?" Teddy Tucker was as pale as the snow his brother had brought in from outside and which now showered about the victim of the ill-timed jest. "Ma--Major Pater! From Salsette! He has an artificial leg, and that's why it was sticking out in the aisle whenever he nodded off. Oh, Jimminy-beeswax! what's going to become of Tommy?" CHAPTER X BEAUTIFUL SNOW The girls had heard the boys who attended Salsette Academy mention that martinet, Major Pater. Although his infirmity--or injury--precluded his having anything to do with the drilling of the pupils of the academy, in the schoolroom he was the most stern of all the instructors at Salsette. "Oh, poor Tommy!" gasped Betty, wringing her hands. "Served him right," declared Louise. "He should not have played that trick. A lame man, too!" "Oh, Louise!" exclaimed her sister Bobby, "Tommy didn't know it was an artificial limb he was stumbling over." "And I'm sure I didn't know it was his old peg-leg I tripped on twice," declared Teddy Tucker in high dudgeon. "What did he want to go to sleep for, spraddled all over the aisle?" He said this in a very low voice, however; and be kept well behind Bob and the girls. As for Timothy Derby and Libbie Littell they actually never heard a word of all this! They sat side by side in one of the sections and read together Spenser's _Faerie Queene_--understanding, it must be confessed, but an infinitesimal part of that poem. The other passengers near Major Pater, without any doubt, were vastly amused by his condition. The melting snow cascaded off his head and shoulders, and not a little of it went down his neck. Such a military looking and grim-faced man, standing so stiff and upright, seemed all the more ridiculous under these conditions. "H-r-r-rrp!" barked Major Pater, glaring at Tommy Tucker as though his eyes would burn holes right through that boy's jacket. Tommy sprang to attention. He was in citizen's dress, as was the major; but Tommy was sure the martinet knew him. "What do you mean, young man, by pouring a bucket of slush over my head and shoulders?" demanded the angry Major. "Please, sir, if you'll let me wipe it off----" Tommy had produced his own handkerchief and made a feeble attempt to attack the melting snow on the Major's shoulders. "H-r-r-rrp!" barked the Major again, and Tommy translated it as meaning "as you were" and came once more to attention in the middle of the aisle. One could not really help the angry gentleman, if one was kept standing in that ridiculous position. And the passengers near by were more amused than before by the attitude and appearance of the two engaged in the controversy. "Are you aware of what you have done?" demanded Major Pater, at last "Humph! Tucker of the Fourth, isn't it?" "Ye--ye--yes, sir," gasped Tommy. Then: "One of the Tuckers, sir." "Oh! Ah! Can there be two such awkward Tuckers?" demanded Major Paten "Humph! Is this your father, Tucker?" For by this time Uncle Dick saw what was going on and he approached, smiling it must be confessed, but with a towel secured from the men's lavatory. "I am acting in the capacity of guardian for the present, sir," said Mr. Gordon frankly. "This is a ridiculous thing; but I do not think the boy quite intended all that happened." At once he began flicking away the melted snow, and then rubbed Major Pater's bald head dry. All the time he continued to talk to the military academy instructor: "I grant you that it looks very awkward on Tucker's part. But, you see, Mr.--er--?" "Ma--Major Pater!" stammered Tommy Tucker. "Quite so. Major, of course. Major Pater, you will realize that the boy in coming along the aisle--Er, by the way, Tommy, what were you coming for?" "I was coming to you, Mr. Gordon, to show you how fast the snow was gathering. I--I scraped that ball of it off the step. The porter opened the door for me just a moment. I say, Mr. Gordon, it's a fierce storm!" Tommy came through this explanation pretty well. Uncle Dick's understanding smile helped him a good bit. "Quite so," said Mr. Gordon, and looking at Major Pater again. "Of course, I would never have known it was snowing if you had not undertaken to show me. But you see, Major Pater, your foot was sticking out into the aisle. I saw it. You have the misfortune to----" "Artificial leg, sir," growled Major Pater. "Quite so. Well, accidents will happen, you know. There! You are quite dry again. I don't think you will get much sleep here until the porter makes up the berths. Suppose we go into the smoking compartment and soothe our minds, Major?" "Ah--Humph! Thank you, Mr.--er----?" "Mr. Gordon," explained Tommy Tucker still standing as though he had swallowed a very stiff poker indeed. "Ah! Glad to meet you, Mr. Gordon." They shook hands. Then Major Pater shot another command at Tommy: "H-r-r-rrp!" (or so it sounded) and the boy with vast relief dropped his stiff military pose. The rest of the "live wire octette"--even Timothy and Libbie--were highly delighted by the outcome of Tommy's joke. For, if there is fun in such a practical joke as Tommy had tried to carry through, they thought there was double fun in seeing the biter bitten! "Now will you be good?" crowed his brother, Ted. "See what you get for being so fresh! Tumbling over his game leg and pitching a wilted snowball at the Major's head. Aren't you ashamed of yourself?" "Oh, hush!" grumbled Tommy. "You needn't say anything. He doesn't know which of the Tucker twins it was crowned him with that snowball, and you are just as much in his bad books as I am. Remember that." "Listen to him!" cried Ted, at once feeling abused. "And Major Pater is near-sighted, too, although he scorns to wear glasses. You've got me into a mess, too, Tommy Tucker." "There! There!" said Betty Gordon, soothingly. "Never mind. Uncle Dick will smooth him down. But I do think, boys, that you need not have got into trouble at all." "Huh! that's our natural state," observed Teddy. "Boys out of trouble are like fish out of water. So my dad says. And he ought to know," he grinned. "He has twins." Tommy considered, however, that he had got out of a bad box pretty easily. "Your Uncle Dick is fine, Betty," he observed. "Think of his getting on the blind side of Major Pater so easy. But cracky! how that snow did squash all over him," and he ended with a wicked giggle. "One of your instructors, too!" exclaimed Louise. "For shame!" "My!" chuckled Bobby, "what we'd like to do to Miss Prettyman at Shadyside!" "I am afraid Miss Prettyman is no more beloved than Major Pater is." "Never mind, you girls!" interrupted Tommy, with renewed interest in the storm and trying to peer through the window. "It's a regular blizzard. When the porter opened the door of the vestibule for me to get that snow, I thought he wouldn't get it shut again." "Suppose we get stalled?" questioned Louise, inclined to be the most thoughtful of the party. "Well, suppose we do?" returned Bob. "I tell you we are all right for food, for the dining car----" "Oh, I forgot to tell you," Tommy put in. "The porter let me into a secret. The diner was dropped about thirty miles back. Broken flange of one wheel and no time, of course, to put on a new wheel." "Goodness!" exclaimed Betty. "I begin to feel hungry already." "Of course, we'll pick up another diner?" asked Libbie, though rather doubtfully. "We'll hope so!" Bobby cried. "If we get through to Tonawanda, yes," said Tommy Tucker. "That's what the porter told me. But we don't get there, if we are on schedule, until eight o'clock." "There! I knew I was perishing of hunger," exclaimed Betty. "It's half past four already," she added, looking at her wrist watch. "Three and a half hours to dinner time?" wailed Bobby. "Oh! That--is--tough!" "That is, if we make the regular time," Bob said thoughtfully. "And right now, let me tell you, this train is just about crawling, and that's all. Humph! The soup sure will get cold in that dining car at Tonawanda, if it waits there to be attached to our train." "Oh! Oh!" cried Bobby. "Don't let's think of it. I had no idea that snow could be so troublesome." "Beautiful snow!" murmured Betty. "Say, Libbie. Recite that for us, will you? You know: the poetry about 'Beautiful Snow.' You or Timothy should remember it." "Pah!" exclaimed Bobby, grumblingly. "I'll give you the proper version: "Beautiful snow! If it chokes up this train, It certainly will give me a pain!" "Goodness me, Bobby!" retorted her cousin, Libbie, "your versifying certainly gives me a pain." CHAPTER XI STALLED, AND WITHOUT A DOCTOR The rapidity with which the storm had increased and the drifts had filled the cuts through which the rails were laid was something that none of the party bound for Mountain Camp had experienced. Unless Uncle Dick be excepted. As Betty said, Mr. Richard Gordon had been almost everywhere and had endured the most surprising experiences. That was something that helped to make him such a splendid guardian. "Yes," he agreed, when Betty dragged him down the car aisle to the two sections which he had wisely abandoned entirely to his young charges, "we had considerable snow up there in the part of Canada where I have been this fall. Before I came down for the Christmas holidays there was about four feet of snow on the level in the woods and certain sections of the railroad up there had been entirely abandoned for the winter. Horse sleds and dog sleighs do all the transportation until the spring thaw." "Oh, do you suppose," cried Libbie, big-eyed, "that we may be snowbound at Mountain Camp so that we cannot get back until spring?" "Not a chance," replied Uncle Dick, laughing heartily. "But it does look as though we may have to lay by for a night, or perhaps a night and a day, before we can get on to Cliffdale, which is our station." "In a hotel!" cried Betty. "Won't that be fun?" "Perhaps not so much fun. Some of these country-town hotels up here in the woods are run in a more haphazard way than a lumber camp. And what you get to eat will come out of a can in all probability." The boys groaned in unison at this, and even Betty looked woebegone. "I wish you wouldn't talk about eating, Uncle Dick. Do you suppose we will catch up with that dining car?" "I do not think we shall. But there is an eating room at the junction we are coming to. We can buy it out. I only hope there will be milk to be had for the little folks. There is at least one baby aboard. It's in the next car." "But we'll get to this place we're going to by morning, shan't we?" cried Bobby, very much excited. "We're two hours late already I understand," said Mr. Gordon. "We have little to fear, however I fancy if the storm does not hold up they will not try to push past the junction until morning. We've got to sleep in the car anyway; and if we are on short rations for a few hours it certainly will do you boys and girls little harm. At Cliffdale----" "Oh, Uncle Dick!" suddenly exclaimed Betty, "that is where Mr. Bolter has sent that beautiful black horse that he bought in England." "Oh, indeed? I heard of that mare. To Cliffdale? I believe there is a stockfarm there. It is some distance from my friend Canary's camp, however." "Do you suppose that girl got there?" whispered Bobby to Betty. "Even if she did, how disappointed she must be," Betty rejoined. "I am awfully sorry for Ida Bellethorne." "I don't know," said Bobby slowly. "I've been thinking. Suppose she did find your beautiful locket and--and appropriate it for her own use," finished Bobby rather primly. "You mean steal it," said Betty promptly. "No. I don't think she did. She didn't seem to be that sort of person. Do you know, the more I think of her the more I consider that Mrs. Staples would be capable of doing that." "Oh, Betty! Finding and keeping your locket?" Betty nodded with her lips pursed soberly. "I didn't like that woman," she said. "Neither did I," cried Bobby, easily influenced by her friend's opinion. "I didn't like her a bit." "But, of course, we don't know a thing about it," sighed Betty. "I do not suppose we should blame either of them, or anybody else. We have no evidence. I guess, Bobby, I am the only one to blame, after all." "Well, don't mind, Betty dear," Bobby said comfortingly. "I believe the locket will turn up. I told Daddy and he will telephone to the stores once in a while and see if it has been found. And, of course, we have no particular reason to think that you dropped it in Mrs. Staples' shop." "None at all," admitted Betty more cheerfully. "So I'll stop worrying right now. But I would like to know where Ida Bellethorne is in this blizzard." "Girl or horse?" chuckled Bobby. "Girl. I fancy that little cockney hostler, or whatever he is, will look out carefully for the mare. But who is there to care anything about poor Ida?" Gradually even Betty and Bobby were convinced that there were several other matters to worry about that were connected with neither Ida Bellethorne the girl nor Ida Bellethorne the horse. The belated train finally got to the junction where there was an eating place. But another train had passed, going south, less than an hour before and the lunch counter had been swept almost bare. Uncle Dick and Major Pater were old travelers, however; and they were first out of the train and bought up most of the food in sight. Others of the passengers purchased sandwiches and coffee and tea to consume at once. Uncle Dick and the military man swept the shelves of canned milk and fruit, prepared cocoa and other similar drinks, as well as all the loaves of bread in sight, a boiled ham complete, and several yards of frankfurters, or, as the Fairfields folks called them, "wienies." "We know what Mrs. Eustice and Miss Prettyman would say to such provender," said Louise when the party, the boys helping, returned with the spoils of the lunch-room. "How about calories and dietetics, and all that?" "We may be hungry enough before we see a regular meal in a dining-car or a hotel to forget all about such things," Uncle Dick said seriously. "There! We are starting already. And we're pushing straight into a blizzard that looks to me as though it would continue all night." "Well, Uncle Dick," Betty said cheerfully, "we can go to bed and sleep and forget it. It will be all over by morning of course." Uncle Dick made no rejoinder to this. They had a jolly lunch, getting hot water from the porter for their drink. Bob and the Tucker twins pretty nearly bought out the candy supply on the train, and the girls felt assured that they were completely safe from starvation as long as the caramels and marshmallows held out. By nine o'clock, with the train pushing slowly on, the head locomotive aided by a pusher picked up at the junction, the berths were made up and everybody in the Pullman coach had retired. Betty, as she lay in her upper berth with Libbie, heard the snow, or sleet, swishing against the side and roof of the car, and the sound lulled her to sleep. She slept like any other healthy girl and knew nothing of the night that passed. The lights were still burning when she awoke. Not a gleam of daylight came through the narrow ground-glass window at her head. And two other things impressed her unfavorably: The train was standing still and not a sound penetrated to the car from without. Libbie was sound asleep and Betty crept out of the berth without awakening the plump girl. She got into her wrapper and slippers and stole along the aisle to the ladies' room. Nobody as yet seemed to have come from the berths. She could not hear the wind or snow when she got into the dressing room. This convinced her at first that the storm was over. But she dropped one of the narrow windows at the top to see out, and found that a wall of hard-pack snow shrouded the window. She tried to break through this drift with her arm wrapped in a towel. But although she stood on a stool and thrust her arm out to her shoulder, her hand did not reach the open air! "My goodness me!" gasped Betty Gordon. "We're stalled! We're snowbound! What shall we ever do if the snow doesn't melt pretty soon, or they don't come and dig us out?" She washed in haste, and having brought her clothes with her, she dressed promptly. All the time she was considering what was to be done if, as it seemed, the train could not go on. Just as she opened the door of the dressing room excited voices sounded at the end of the car. The conductor and the porter were talking loudly. The former suddenly shouted: "Ladies and gentlemen! is there a doctor in this coach? We want a doctor right away! Day coach ahead! Child taken poison and must have a doctor." A breathless gabble of voices assured him that there was no physician in the coach. He had already searched the other cars. There was no doctor on the train. "And we're stalled here in this cut for nobody knows how long!" groaned the conductor. "That woman is crazy in the next car. Her two year old child got hold of some kind of poison and swallowed some of it. The child will die for sure!" Betty was terribly shocked at this speech. She wriggled past the conductor and the troubled porter, and ran into the car ahead. At first glance she spied the little group of mother and children that was the center of excitement. CHAPTER XII THE TUNNEL The baby was screaming, the little boy of four or five looked miserably unhappy, and the worn and meager-looking mother was plainly frightened out of her wits. She let the baby scream on the seat beside her while she held the little girl in her lap. That youngster seemed to be the least disturbed of any of the party. She was a pretty child, and robust. She kicked vigorously against being held almost upside down by her mother (as though by that means the dose of poison could be coaxed out of the child) but she did not cry. "The little dear!" cooed Betty, pushing through the ring of other passengers. "What has happened to her?" "She'll be dead in five minutes," croaked a sour visaged woman who bent over the back of the seat to stare at the crying baby without making an effort to relieve the mother in any way. "What is the poison?" demanded Betty excitedly. "It--it's----I don't know what the doctor called it," wailed the poor mother. "I had it in my handbag with other drops. Nellie here is always playing with bottles. She will drink out of bottles, much as I can do or say." Betty was sniffing--that may not be an elegant expression, but it is exactly what she did--and looking all about on the floor. "Something's been spilled here," she said. "It's a funny odor. Seems to me I remember smelling it before." "That's the poison," groaned the woman over the back of the seat. "Her ma knocked it out of the young one's hand. Too bad. She's a goner!" This seemed to Betty very dreadful. She darted an angry glance at the woman. "A regular Mrs. Job's comforter, she is!" thought Betty. But all the time she was looking about the floor of the car for the bottle. Finally she dropped to her knees and scrambled about among the boots of the passengers. She came up like a diver, with an object held high in one hand. "Is this it?" she asked. "That is the bottle, Miss," sobbed the mother. "My poor little Nellie! Isn't there a doctor, anywhere? They say milk is good for some kinds of poison, but I haven't any milk for baby even. That is what makes him cry so. Poor little Nellie!" Betty had been staring at the label on the bottle. Now she smelled hard at the mouth of it She held the bottle before the woman's eyes. "Are you sure this is the bottle the child drank out of?" she demanded. "Yes, Miss. That is it. Poor little Nellie!" "Why! can't you smell?" demanded Betty. "And can't you see? There is no skull and cross-bones on this label. And all that was in the bottle was sweet spirits of niter. I'm sure that won't do your Nellie any lasting harm." The mother was thunderstruck for a moment--and speechless. The gloomy woman looking over the back of the seat drawled: "Then it wasn't poison at all?" "No," said Betty. "And I should think among you, you should have found it out!" She was quite scornful of the near-by passengers. The mother let the struggling little girl slip out of her lap, fortunately feet first rather than head first, and grabbed up the screaming baby. "Dear me! You naughty little thing, Nellie! You are always scaring me to death," she said scoldingly. "And if we don't come to some place where I can buy milk pretty soon and get it warmed, this child will burst his lungs crying." Betty, however, considered that the baby was much too strong and vigorous to be in a starving state as yet. She wondered how the poor women expected to get milk with the train stalled in the snow. She had in her pocket some chocolate wafers and she pacified the two older children with these and then ran back to the sleeping car. She was in season to head off a procession of excited Pullman passengers in all stages of undress starting for the day coach with everything in the line of antidote for poison that could be imagined and which they had discovered in their traveling bags. "Baby's better. She wasn't poisoned at all," Betty told them. "But those children are going to be awfully hungry before long if we have to stay here. Do you know we're snowbound, girls?" This last she confided to the three Littell girls. "Won't they dig us out?" asked the practical Louise. "What a lark!" exclaimed Bobby, clapping her hands. "Just think! Buried in the snow! How wonderful!" murmured Libbie. "Cheese!" exclaimed Tommy Tucker, overhearing this. "You'll think it's wonderful. The brakeman told me that the drivers were clogged at six o'clock and the wheels haven't turned since. We're completely buried in snow and it's still snowing. Head engine's an oil-burner and there is plenty of fuel; but there isn't a chance of our being dug out for days." "How brutal you are," giggled Bobby, who could not be frightened by any misadventure. "How shall we live?" "After we eat up the bread and ham we will draw lots and eat up each other," Bob observed soberly. "But those little children can't eat each other," Betty declared with conviction. "Come on Bobby. You're dressed. Let's see what we can do for that poor mother and the babies." The two girls had to confer with Uncle Dick first of all. He had charge of the supplies. Betty knew there was some way of mixing condensed milk with water and heating the mixture so that it would do very well at a pinch--the pinch of hunger!--for a nursing child. Uncle Dick supplied the canned milk and some other food for the older children, and Betty and Bobby carried these into the day coach where the little family had spent such an uncomfortable night and were likely to spend a very uncomfortable day as well. For there was no chance of escaping from their present predicament--all the train crew said so--until plows and shovelers came to dig the train out of the cut. Of course the conductors and the rest of the crew knew just where they were. Behind them about three miles was a small hamlet at which the train had not been scheduled to stop, and had not stopped. Had the train pulled down there the situation of the crew and passengers would have been much better. They would not have been stalled in this drifted cut. Cliffdale, to which Uncle Dick and his party were bound, was twenty miles and more ahead. The roadbed was so blocked that it might be several days before the way would be opened to Cliffdale. "The roads will be opened by the farmers and teams will get through the mountains before the railroad will be dug out," Mr. Gordon told the boys. "If we could get back to that station in the rear we might find conveyances that would take us on to Mountain Camp. If I had a pair of snowshoes I certainly could make it over the hills myself in a short time." "You go ahead, Mr. Gordon," said Tommy Tucker, "and tell 'em we're coming." "I'll have to dig out of here and get the webs on my feet first," replied Uncle Dick, laughing. His speech put an idea in the head of the ingenious Tommy Tucker. While the girls were attending to the children in the car ahead, the twins and Bob and Timothy Derby went through the train to the very end. The observation platform was banked with snow, and the snow was packed pretty hard. But there were some tools at hand and the boys set to work with the two porters and a brakeman to punch a hole through the snowbank to the surface. It was great sport, although the quartette from Salsette Academy enjoyed it more than the men did. It was fun for the boys and work for the men, and the latter would have given it up in despair if the younger diggers had not been so eagerly interested in the task. They sloped the tunnel so that it was several yards long before it reached the surface. The snow underneath, they tramped hard; they battered their way through by pressing a good deal of the snow into solid walls on either side. When the roof at the end finally fell in on them, they found that it was still snowing steadily and the wind was pouring great sheets of it into the cut and heaping it yard upon yard over the roofs of the cars. They could barely see the top of the smokestack of the pusher a few feet away. That locomotive had been abandoned by its crew when the train was stalled. Keeping the boiler of the head engine hot was sufficient to supply the cars with heat and hot water. "Cricky!" cried Bob. "We've found the way out; but I guess even Uncle Dick wouldn't care to start out in this storm, snowshoes or not. Fellows, we're in a bad fix, just as sure as you live." "All right," said Teddy Tucker. "Let's go back and get something to eat before somebody else gets ahead of us. I suppose those girls have given all the milk to those kids up front, and maybe the ham sandwiches too." "Dear me!" sighed Timothy, "it is like being cast away on a desert island. We are Robinson Crusoes." "And haven't got even a goat!" chuckled Tommy Tucker. CHAPTER XIII AN ALARM Mr. Richard Gordon was not minded to allow the young folks to portion out the little store of food as they pleased. He and Major Pater, who had now joined the party from Fairfields quite as a matter of course, had considered the use of the supplies to the best advantage. There was not much else to eat on the train, for even the crew had devoured their lunches, and most trainmen when obliged to carry food at all are supplied with huge tin buckets that hold at least three "square meals." "Though why meals should be 'square' I can't for the life of me see," Betty observed. "Why not 'round' meals? I am sure we manage to get around them when we eat them." "Quite a philosopheress, aren't you?" joked Bob. "These rations are not to be considered with philosophy," complained Bobby. "They are too frugal." In truth, when the bread and meat and crackers and hot drink had been portioned to those needed food most, the amount each received was nothing to gorge upon. "If it stops snowing--or as soon as it does," Bob declared, "we've got to get out and make our way back to that station the brakeman says is only three miles away." "Uncle Dick won't let us try it, I am sure," sighed Betty. "How could we wade through such deep snow?" "If you had helped dig that tunnel," said Teddy Tucker confidently, "you'd know that the snow is packed so hard you wouldn't sink in very deep in walking." "But of course, you girls can't go," Tommy said. "We fellows will have to go for supplies." The girls did not much like this statement. Betty and Bobby at least considered that they were quite as well able to endure the hardships of a tramp through the snow as the boys. "I'd just like to see that tunnel, and see how hard it is snowing outside," said Betty privately to her chum. "Let's go look," exclaimed Bobby, equally curious. Libbie and Timothy had their heads together over a book. Louise and the boys were engaged socially with some of the other passengers in their coach. So Betty and Bobby were able to slip away, with their coats and caps, without being observed. There were two Pullman coaches and but one day coach besides the express and baggage and mail cars to the train. The passengers in the day coach were confined to that or to the smoker's end of the baggage car ahead. The occupants of the Pullman coaches could roam through both as they pleased; and had the weather been fine it is certain that the young folks from Fairfields would have occupied the observation platform at the rear of the train a good part of the daytime. They had been shut in by the storm the afternoon before, and now they were doubly shut in by the snow. The doors of the vestibules between the cars could not be opened, for the snow was banked up on both sides to the roofs. That tunnel the boys and train hands had made from the rear platform was the only means of egress for the passengers from the submerged train. Betty and Bobby passed through the rear car and out upon the snow-banked platform. They saw that several people must have thrust themselves through the tunnel since the boys had made it. Probably these explorers had wished, like the two girls, to discover for themselves just what state the weather was in. "Dear me!" gasped Bobby, "dare we poke through that hole? What do you think, Betty?" "The snow is hard packed, just as the boys say. I guess we can risk it," declared the more daring Betty. "Anyway, I can go anywhere Bob Henderson can, my dear. I will not take a back seat for any boy." "Hear! Hear!" chuckled Bobby. "Isn't that what they cry at political meetings? You have made a good speech, Bettykins. Now go ahead and do it." "Go ahead and do what?" "Lead the way through that chimney. My! I believe it has stopped snowing and the boys don't know it." "Come on then and make sure," Betty cried, and began to scramble up the sloping tunnel on hands and knees. Both girls were warmly dressed, booted, and mittened. A little snow would not hurt them--not even a great deal of snow. And that a great deal had fallen and blown into this railroad cut, Betty and Bobby soon realized when they had scrambled out through what the latter had called "the chimney." Only a few big flakes drifted in the air, which was keen and biting. But the wind had ceased--at least, it did not blow here in the cut between the hills--and it seemed only an ordinary winter day to the two girls from the other side of the Potomac. Forward they saw a thin stream of smoke rising into the air from the stack of the front locomotive. The fires in the pusher were banked. It was not an oil-burner, nor was it anywhere near as large a locomotive as the one that pulled the train. Rearward they could scarcely mark the roadbed, so drifted over was it. Fences and other landmarks were completely buried. The bending telegraph poles, weighted by the pull of snow-laden wires, was all that marked the right of way through the glen. "What a sight!" gasped Betty. "Oh, Bobby! did you ever see anything so glorious?" "I never saw so much snow, if that is what you mean," admitted the Virginia girl. "And I am not sure that I really approve of it." But Bobby laughed. She had to admit it was a great sight. It was now mid-afternoon and all they could see of the sun was a round, hazy ball behind the misty clouds, well down toward the western horizon which they could see through the mouth of this cut, or valley between the hills. At first they beheld not a moving object on the white waste. "It is almost solemn," pursued Betty, who possessed a keen delight in all manifestations of nature. "It looks mighty solemn, I admit," agreed Bobby. "Especially when you remember that anything to eat is three miles away and the drifts are nobody knows how many feet deep." Betty laughed. She was about to say something cheerful in reply when a sudden sound smote upon their ears--a sound that startled the two girls. Somewhere from over the verge of the high bank of the cut on their left hand sounded a long-drawn and perfectly blood-curdling howl! "For goodness' sake!" gasped Bobby, grabbing her friend by the arm. "What sort of creature is that? Hear it?" "Of course I hear it," replied Betty, rather sharply. "Do you think I am deaf?" Only a very deaf person could have missed hearing that mournful howl. It drew nearer. "Is it a dog?" asked Bobby, almost in a whisper, as for a third time the howl sounded. "A dog barks, doesn't it? That doesn't sound like a dog, Bobby," said Betty. "I heard one out West. I do believe it is one!" "One what?" cried Bobby, almost shaking her in alarm and impatience. "A wolf. It sounds just like a wolf. Oh, Bobby! suppose there should be a pack of wolves in these hills and that they should attack this train?" "Wolves!" shrieked Bobby. "_Wolves_! Then me for in-doors! I am not going to stay here and be eaten up by wolves." As she turned to dive into the tunnel there was a sharper and more eager yelp, and a shaggy animal came to the edge of the bluff to their left and, without stopping an instant, plunged down through the drifts toward the two girls where they stood on the hard-packed snow at the mouth of the tunnel. "It is a wolf!" wailed Bobby, and immediately disappeared, head first, down the hole in the snow drift. CHAPTER XIV THE MOUNTAIN HUT If Bobby had not gone first and had not stuck half way down the hole with her feet kicking madly just at the mouth of the tunnel, without doubt Betty Gordon would have been driven by her own fears back into the Pullman coach. That shaggy beast diving from the top of the embankment, plunging, yelping and whining, through the softer drifts of snow, frightened Betty just as much as it had Bobby Littell. The latter had got away with a flying start, however, and her writhing body plugged the only means of escape. So Betty really had to face the approaching terror. "Oh! Oh!" cried Betty, turning from the approaching beast in despair. "Hurry! Hurry, Bobby Littell! Do you want me to be eaten up?" But Bobby had somehow cramped herself in the winding passage through the snow, and her voice was muffled as she too cried for help. However, Bobby's demands for assistance were much more likely to bring it than the cries of the girl outside. The porter heard Bobby first, and when he opened the door of the coach several men who were near heard the girl. "Help! Help! A wolf is eating her!" shrieked the frightened Bobby. "Ma soul an' body! He must be a-chawin' her legs off!" cried the darkey and he seized Bobby by the wrists, threw himself backward, and the girl came out of the tunnel like an aggravating cork out of a bottle. "What's this?" demanded Mr. Richard Gordon, who happened to be coming back to the end of the train to look for his niece and her chum. "Oh, Mr. Gordon!" sputtered Bobby, scrambling up, "it's got her! A wolf! It's got Betty!" "A wolf?" repeated Uncle Dick. "I didn't know there were any wolves left in this part of the country." Major Pater was with him. Mr. Gordon grabbed the latter's walking stick and went up that tunnel a good deal quicker than Bobby had come down it. And when he got to the surface he found his niece, laughing and crying at once, and almost smothered by the joyful embraces of a big Newfoundland dog! "A wolf indeed!" cried Mr. Gordon, but beating off the animal good-naturedly. "He must be a friend of yours, Betty." "Oh, dear me, he did scare us so!" Betty rejoined, getting up out of the drift, trying to brush off her coat, and petting the exuberant dog at the same time. "But it is a dear--and its master must be somewhere about, don't you think, Uncle Dick?" Its master was, for the next moment he appeared at the top of the bank down which the "wolf" had wallowed. He hailed Uncle Dick and Betty with a great, jovial shout and plunged down the slope himself. He was a young man on snowshoes, and he proved to be a telegraph operator at that station three miles south. "Wires are so clogged we can't get messages through. But we knew that Number Forty was stalled about here. Going to be a job to dig her out. I've got a message for the conductor," he said when he reached the top of the drift that was heaped over the train. "Wasn't it a hard task to get here?" Mr. Gordon asked. "Not so bad. My folks live right over the ridge there, about half a mile away. I just came from the house with the dog. Down, Nero! Behave yourself!" "We are going to be hungry here pretty soon," suggested Mr. Gordon. "There will be a pung come up from the station with grub enough before night. Furnished by the company. That is what I have come to see the conductor about." "I tell you what," said Betty's uncle, who was nothing if not quick in thinking. "My party were bound for Cliffdale." "That's not very far away. But I doubt if the train gets there this week." "Bad outlook for us. We are going to Mountain Camp--Mr. Canary's place." "I know that place," said the telegraph operator. "There is an easy road to it from our farm through the hills. Get there quicker than you can by the way of Cliffdale. I believe my father could drive you up there to-morrow." "In a sleigh?" cried Betty delightedly. "What fun!" "In a pung. With four of our horses. They'd break the road all right. Ought to start right early in the morning, though." "Do you suppose you could get us over to your house to-night?" asked Mr. Gordon quickly. "There are a good many of us----" "How many in the party?" asked the young man. "My name's Jaroth--Fred Jaroth." Mr. Gordon handed him his card and said: "There are four girls, four boys, and myself. Quite a party." "That is all right, Mr. Gordon," said Fred Jaroth cheerfully. "We often put up thirty people in the summer. We've a great ranch of a house. And I can help you up the bank yonder and beat you a path through the woods to the main road. Nothing simpler. Your trunks will get to Cliffdale sometime and you can carry your hand baggage." "Not many trunks, thank goodness," replied Mr. Gordon. "What do you think, Betty? Does it sound good?" "Heavenly!" declared his niece. Just then a brakeman came up through the tunnel to find out if the wolf had eaten both the gentleman and his niece, and the telegraph operator went down, feet first, to find the conductor and deliver his message. "Then the idea of going on to Mountain Camp by sledge suits you, does it, young lady?" asked Mr. Gordon of Betty. "They will all be delighted. You know they will, Uncle. What sport!" The suggestion of the telegraph operator did seem quite inspired. Mr. Gordon and Betty reentered the train to impart the decision to the others, and, as Betty had claimed, her young friends were both excited and delighted by the prospect. In half an hour the party was off, Betty and her friends bundled up and carrying their bags while Mr. Gordon followed and Fred Jaroth led the way on his snowshoes and carrying two suitcases. He said they helped balance him and made the track through the snow firmer. As for Nero, he cavorted like a wild dog, and that, Bobby said, proved he was a wolf! Once at the top of the bank they found it rather easy following Jaroth through the woods. And when they reached the road--or the place where the highway would have been if the snow had not drifted over fences and all--they met the party from the station bringing up food and other comforts for the snowbound passengers. As the snow had really stopped falling it was expected that the plow would be along sometime the next day and then the train would be pulled back to the junction. "But if this man has a roomy sled and good horses we shall not be cheated out of our visit to Mountain Camp," Mr. Gordon said cheerfully. The old farmhouse when they reached it certainly looked big enough to accommodate them all. There was a wing thrown out on either side; but those wings were for use only in the summer. There were beds enough and to spare in the main part of the house. When they sat down to Mrs. Jaroth's supper table Bob declared that quite evidently famine had not reached this retired spot. The platters were heaped with fried ham and fried eggs and sausages and other staple articles. These and the hot biscuit disappeared like snow before a hot sun in April. Altogether it was a joyous evening that they spent at the Jaroth house. Yet as Betty and Bobby cuddled up together in the bed which they shared, Betty expressed a certain fear which had been bothering her for some time. "I wonder where she is, Bobby?" Betty said thoughtfully. "Where who is?" demanded her chum sleepily. "That girl. Ida Bellethorne. If she came up here on a wild goose chase after her aunt, and found only a horse, what will become of her?" "I haven't the least idea," confessed Bobby. "Did she return before this blizzard set in, or is she still up here in the woods? And what will become of her?" "Gracious!" exclaimed the sleepy Bobby, "let's go to sleep and think about Ida Bellethorne to-morrow." "And I wonder if it is possible that she can know anything about my locket," was another murmured question of Betty's. But Bobby had gone fast asleep then and did not answer. Under the radiance of the big oil lamp hanging above the kitchen table, the table itself covered with an old-fashioned red and white checked cloth, the young folks bound for Mountain Camp ate breakfast. And such a breakfast! Buckwheat cakes, each as big as the plate itself with "oodles of butter and real maple syrup," to quote Bob. "We don't even get as good as this at Salsette," said Tommy Tucker grimly. "Oh, cracky!" "I want to know!" gibed his twin, borrowing a phrase he had heard New England Libbie use on one occasion. "If Major Pater could see us now!" Libbie and Timothy forgot to quote poetry. The fact was, as Bobby pointed out, buckwheat cakes like those were poems in themselves. "And when one's mouth is full of such poems, mere printed verses lack value." Romantic as she was, Libbie admitted the truth of her cousin's remark. A chime of bells at the door hastened the completion of the meal. The boys might have sat there longer and, like boa-constrictors, gorged themselves into lethargy. However, adventure was ahead and the sound of the sledge bells excited the young people. They got on their coats and caps and furs and mittens and trooped out to the "pung," as the elder Jaroth called the low, deep, straw-filled sledge to which he had attached four strong farm horses. There were no seats. It would be much more comfortable sitting in the straw, and much warmer. For although the storm had entirely passed the cold was intense. It nipped every exposed feature, and their breath hung like hoar-frost before them when they laughed and talked. During the night something had been done to break out the road. Mr. Jaroth's horses managed to trample the drifts into something like a hubbly path for the broad sled-runners to slip oven They went on, almost always mounting a grade, for four hours before they came to a human habitation. The driver pointed his whipstock to a black speck before them and higher up the hill which was sharply defined against the background of pure white. "Bill Kedders' hut," he said to Mr. Gordon. "'Tain't likely he's there this time o' year. Usually he and his wife go to Cliffdale to spend the winter with their married daughter." "Just the same," cried Bob suddenly, "there's smoke coming out of that chimney. Don't you see it, Uncle Dick?" "The boy's right!" ejaculated Jaroth, with sudden anxiety. "It can't be that Bill and his woman were caught by this blizzard. He's as knowing about weather signs as an old bear, Bill is. And you can bet every bear in these woods is holed up till spring." He even urged the plodding horses to a faster pace. The hut, buried in the snow to a point far above its eaves, was built against a steep hillside at the edge of the wood, with the drifted road passing directly before its door. When the pung drew up before it and the horses stopped with a sudden shower of tinkling bell-notes, Mr. Jaroth shouted: "Hey, Bill! Hey, Bill Kedders!" There was no direct reply to this hail. But as they listened for a reply there was not one of the party that did not distinguish quite clearly the sound of weeping from inside the mountain hut. CHAPTER XV THE LOST GIRL "That ain't Bill!" exclaimed Jaroth. "That's as sure as you're a foot high. Nor yet it ain't his wife. If either one of them has cried since they were put into short clothes I miss my guess. Huh!" He hesitated, standing in the snow half way between the pung and the snow-smothered door of the hut. Sheltered as it had been by the hill and by the woods, the hut was not masked so much by the drifted snow on its front. They could see the upper part of the door-casing. "By gravy!" ejaculated Mr. Jaroth, "it don't sound human. I can't make it out. Funny things they say happen up here in these woods. I wouldn't be a mite surprised if that crying--or----" He hesitated while the boys and girls, and even Mr. Gordon, stared amazedly at him. "Who do you think it is?" asked Uncle Dick finally. "Well, it ain't Bill," grumbled Jaroth. The sobbing continued. So engaged was the person weeping in the sorrow that convulsed him, or her, that the jingling of the bells as the horses shook their heads or the voices of those in the pung did not attract attention. Jaroth stood in the snow and neither advanced nor retreated. It really did seem as though he was afraid to approach nearer to the hut on the mountain-side! "That is a girl or a woman in there," Bob declared. "Huh!" exclaimed Bobby sharply. "It might be a boy. Boys cry sometimes." "Really?" said Timothy. "But you never read of crying boys except in humorous verses. They are not supposed to cry." "Well," said Betty, suddenly hopping out of the sleigh, "we'll never find out whether it is a girl or a boy if we wait for Mr. Jaroth, it seems." She started for the door of the hut. Bob hopped out after her in a hurry. And he took with him the snow-shovel Jaroth had brought along to use in clearing the drifts away if they chanced to get stuck. "You'd better look out," said Jaroth, still standing undecided in the snow. "For what?" asked Bob, hurrying to get before Betty. "That crying don't sound natural. Might he a ha'nt. Can't tell." "Fancy!" whispered Betty in glee. "A great big man like him afraid of a ghost--and there isn't such a thing!" "Don't need to be if he is afraid of it," returned Bob in the same low tone. "You can be afraid of any fancy if you want to. It doesn't need to exist. I guess most fears are of things that don't really exist Come on, now. Let me shovel this drift away." He set to work vigorously on the snow heap before the door. Mr. Gordon, seeing that everything possible was being done, let the young people go ahead without interference. In two minutes they could see the frozen latch-string that was hanging out. Whoever was in the hut had not taken the precaution to pull in the leather thong. "Go ahead, Betty," said Bob finally. "You push open the door. I'll stand here ready to beat 'em down with the shovel if they start after you." "Guess you think it isn't a girl, then," chuckled Betty, as she pulled the string and heard the bar inside click as it was drawn out of the slot. With the shovel Bob pushed the door inward. The cabin would have been quite dark had it not been for a little fire crackling on the hearth. Over this a figure stooped--huddled, it seemed, for warmth. The room was almost bare. "Why, you poor thing!" Betty cried, running into the hut. "Are you here all alone?" She had seen instantly that it was a girl. And evidently the stranger was in much misery. But at Betty's cry she started up from the hearth and whirled about in both fear and surprise. Her hair was disarranged, and there was a great deal of it. Her face was swollen with weeping, and she was all but blinded by her tears. At Betty's sympathetic tone and words she burst out crying again. Betty gathered her right into her arms--or, as much of her as she could enfold, for the other girl was bigger than Betty in every way. "You?" gasped the crying girl. "How--how did you come up here? And in all this snow? Oh, this is a wilderness--a wilderness! How do people ever live here, even in the summer? It is dreadful--dreadful! And I thought I should freeze." "Ida Bellethorne!" gasped Betty. "Who would ever have expected to find you here?" "I know I haven't any more business here than I have in the moon," said the English girl. "I--I wish I'd never left Mrs. Staples." "Mrs. Staples told us you had come up this way," Betty said. Immediately the other girl jerked away from her, threw back her damp hair, and stared, startled, at Betty. "Then you--you found out? You know----" "My poor girl!" interrupted Betty, quite misunderstanding Ida's look, "I know all about your coming up here to find your aunt. And that was foolish, for the notice you saw in the paper was about Mr. Bolter's black mare." "Mr. Bolter's mare?" repeated Ida. "Now, tell me!" urged the excited Betty. "Didn't you come to Cliffdale to look for your aunt?" "Yes. That I did. But she isn't up here at all." By this time Uncle Dick and the others were gathered about the door of the hut. Jaroth, with a glance now and then at his horses, had even stepped inside. "By gravy!" ejaculated the man, "this here's a pretty to-do. What you been doing to Bill Kedders' chattels, girl?" "I--I burned them. I had to, to keep warm," answered Ida Bellethorne haltingly. "I burned the table and the chairs and the boxes and then pulled down the berths and burned them. If you hadn't come I don't know what I should have done for a fire." "By gravy! Burned down the shack itself to keep you warm, I reckon!" chuckled Jaroth. "Well, we'd better take this girl along with us, hadn't we, Mr. Gordon? She'll set fire to the timber next, if we don't, after she's used up the shack." "We most surely will take her along to Mountain Camp," declared Betty's uncle. "But what puzzles me, is how she ever got here to this, lonely place." "I was trying to find the Candace Farm," choked Ida Bellethorne. "I want to know!" said Jaroth. "That's the stockfarm where they pasture so many sportin' hosses. Candace, he makes a good thing out of it. But it's eight miles from here and not in the direction we're going, Mr. Gordon." "We will take her along to Mountain Camp," said Uncle Dick. "One more will not scare Mrs. Canary, I am sure." Ida brought a good-sized suitcase out of the hut with her. She had evidently tried to walk from Cliffdale to the stockfarm, carrying that weight. The girls were buzzing over the appearance of the stranger and the boys stared. "Oh, Betty!" whispered Bobby Littell, "is she Ida Bellethorne?" "One of them," rejoined Betty promptly. "Then do you suppose she has your locket?" ventured Bobby. To tell the truth, Betty had not once thought of that! CHAPTER XVI THE CAMP ON THE OVERLOOK Mountain Camp was rightly named, for it was built on the side of one mountain and was facing another. Between the two eminences was a lake at least five miles long and almost as broad. The wind had blown so hard during the blizzard that the snow had not piled upon the ice at all, although it was heaped man-high along the edges. The pool of blue ice stretched away from before Mountain Camp like a huge sheet of plate glass. The two storied, rambling house, built of rough logs on the outside, stood on a plateau called the Overlook forty feet above the surface of the lake. Indeed the spot did overlook the whole high valley. The hills sloped down from this height in easy descents to the plains. Woods masked every topographical contour of the surrounding country. Such woods as Betty Gordon and her friends had never seen before. "Virginia forests are not like this," confessed Louise Littell. "The pines are never so tall and there is not so much hardwood. Dear me! see that dead pine across the lake. It almost seems to touch the sky, it is so tall." This talk took place the next morning when they had all rested and, like all healthy young things, were eager for adventure. They had been welcomed by Mr. and Mrs. Canary in a way that put the most bashful at ease. Even Ida Bellethorne had soon recovered from that sense of strangeness that had at first overpowered her. The girls had been able to help her out a little in the matter of dress. She appeared at the dinner table quite as one of themselves. Betty would not hear of Ida's withdrawing from the general company, and for a particular reason. In truth, Betty felt a little condemned. She had considered a suspicion of Ida's honesty, and afterward she knew it could not be so! The English girl had no appearance of a dishonest person. Betty saw that Uncle Dick was favorably disposed toward Ida. If he did not consider her all right he surely would not have introduced her to Mr. and Mrs. Canary as one of his party. Nor did Uncle Dick allow Ida to tell her story the evening they arrived at the camp on the Overlook. "To-morrow will do for that," he had said. At breakfast time there were so many plans for exciting adventure discussed that Betty surely would have forgotten all about Ida Bellethorne's expected explanation had it not been for the lost locket. The possibility that Ida knew something about it had so impressed Betty that nothing else held her interest for long. Every one had brought skates from Fairfields, and the great expanse of blue ice--no ice is so blue as that of a mountain lake--was unmarked. Naturally skating was the very first pleasure that beckoned. "Oh, I'm just crazy to get on skates!" cried Bobby. "I think I'll be glad to do some skating myself," came from Libbie, who had been reading a book even before breakfast. "What do you say to a race on skates?" came from Tommy Tucker. "I think we had better get used to skating up here before we talk about a race," said Bob. "This ice looks tremendously hard and slippery. You won't be able to do much on your skates unless they are extra sharp." "Oh, I had 'em sharpened." "Don't forget to wrap up well," admonished Mrs. Canary. "Sometimes it gets pretty cold and windy." "Not to say anything about its being cold already," answered Bobby. "My, but the wind goes right through a person up here!" While the other seven ran off for skates and wraps, Betty nodded to Uncle Dick and then, tucking her arm through that of Ida Bellethorne, urged her to follow Mr. Gordon from the breakfast room to a little study, or "den," that was possibly Mr. Canary's own. "Now, girls," said Uncle Dick in his quiet, pleasant way and smiling with equal kindness upon his niece and the English girl, "let us get comfortable and open our hearts to each other. I think you know, Ida, that Betty and I are immensely interested in your story and we are hungry for the details. But not altogether out of mere curiosity. We hope to give you aid in some way to make your situation better. Understand?" "Oh, Mr. Gordon, I quite understand that," said the English girl seriously and without smiling. "I never saw such friendly people as you are. And you both strangers to me! If I were at home I couldn't find better friends, I am sure." "That's fine!" declared Uncle Dick. "It is exactly the way I want you to feel. Betty and I are interested. Now suppose you sit down and tell us all about it." "Where shall I begin?" murmured the girl thoughtfully, hesitating. "If I were you," returned Uncle Dick, with a smile, "I would begin at the beginning." "Oh, but that's so very far back!" "Never mind that. One of the most foolish mistakes which I see in educational methods is to give the children lessons in modern history without any reference to ancient history which comes to them in higher grades. Ancient history should be gone into first. Suppose, Ida, you begin with ancient history." "Before Ida Bellethorne was born, do you mean?" asked the English girl doubtfully. "Which Ida Bellethorne do you mean?" asked Mr. Gordon, while Betty stared. "I was thinking of my beautiful black mare. The darling! She is seven years old now, Mr. Gordon; but I think that in those seven years enough has happened to me to make me feel three times seven years old." "Go ahead, Ida," said the gentleman cheerfully. "Tell it in your own way." Thus encouraged, the girl began, and she did tell it in her own way. But it was not a brief way, and both Mr. Gordon and Betty asked questions and that, too, increased the difficulty of Ida's telling her story. She had been the only living child of Gwynne Bellethorne, who had been a horse breeder and sometimes a turfman in one of the lower English counties. She had been motherless since her third birthday. Her only living relative was her father's sister, likewise Ida Bellethorne, who had been estranged from her brother for several years and had made her own way on the continent and later in America on the concert stage. Ida, the present Ida, remembered seeing her aunt but once. She had come to Bellethorne Park the very week the black mare was foaled. When they all went out to see the little, awkward, kicking colt in the big box stall, separated from its whinnying mother by a strong barred fence, the owner of the stables had laughingly named the filly after his sister. "But," Ida told them, "father told Aunt Ida that the filly was to be my property. He had, I think, suffered many losses even then. He made a bill of sale, or something, making the filly over to me; but I was a minor, and after father died my guardian had that bill of sale. He showed it to me once. I don't see how Mr. Bolter could have bought my lovely mare when I got none of the money for her." This was not, however, sticking to the main thread of the story. Ida knew that although her aunt had come to the Park in amity, there was a quarrel between her father and aunt before the haughty and beautiful concert singer went away, never more to appear at Bellethorne, not even to attend her brother's funeral. Before that sad happening the mare, Ida Bellethorne, had come to full growth and as a three-year-old had made an astonishing record on the English race tracks. The year Mr. Bellethorne died he had planned to ship her to France for the Grand Prix. Her name was in the mouths of every sportsman in England and her fame had spread to the United States. The death of her father had signaled the breaking up of her home and the severing of all home ties for Ida. Like many men of his class, Mr. Bellethorne had had no close friends. At least, no honorable friends. The man he had chosen as the administrator of his wrecked estate and the guardian of his unfortunate daughter, Ida felt sure had been dishonorable. There seemed nothing left for Ida when the estate was "settled." One day Ida Bellethorne, the mare, had disappeared, and Ida the girl could learn nothing about her or what had been done with her. At that she had run away from her guardian, had made her way to Liverpool, had taken service with an American family sailing for the United States, and so had reached New York. "I found a letter addressed to Aunt Ida after my father died," explained the girl, choking back a sob. "On the envelope in pencil father had written to me to find Aunt Ida and give it to her. He hoped she would forgive him and take some interest in me. I've got that letter safe in here." She touched the belt that held her blouse down so snugly. "I hope I'll find Aunt Ida and be able to give her the letter. I remember her as a most beautiful, tall woman. I loved her on sight. But, I don't know----" "Cheer up!" exclaimed Mr. Gordon, beamingly. "We'll find her. I take it upon myself to say that Betty and I will find her for you. Sha'n't we, Betty?" "Indeed we will. If she is singing in this country of course it will be comparatively easy to find her." "Do you think so?" asked Ida Bellethorne doubtfully. "I have not found it so, and I have been searching for her for three months now. This is such a big country! I never imagined it so big until I began to look for Aunt Ida. It seems like looking for a needle in a haystack." CHAPTER XVII OFF ON SNOWSHOES Mr. Gordon encouraged the English girl at this point in her story by assuring her that he would, before returning to Canada, put the matter in the hands of his lawyers and have the search for the elder Ida Bellethorne conducted in a more businesslike way. "How did you expect to find your aunt," he asked, "when you first landed in New York?" "I knew of a musical journal published there which I believed kept track of people who sang. I went to that office. The last they knew of my aunt she was booked to sing at a concert in Washington," Ida said sadly. "The date was the very day I called at the office. I hurried to buy a ticket to Washington. But the distance was so great that when my train got into Washington the concert was over and I could do nothing more until the next day." "And then?" asked Uncle Dick. "She had gone again. All the company had gone and I could find nobody who knew anything about her. I--I didn't have much money left," confessed the girl. "And things do cost so much here in your country. I was frightened. I walked about to find a cheap lodging and reached that street in Georgetown where Mrs. Staples has her shop." "I see," commented Uncle Dick. "So I asked Mrs. Staples. She was English too, and she offered me lodgings and a chance to serve in her shop. I took it. What else could I do?" "You are a plucky girl, I must say. Don't you think so. Betty?" said Uncle Dick. "I think she is quite wonderful!" cried his niece. "And think of her making those blouses so beautifully! You know, Ida, Bobby bought the blue one of Mrs. Staples." "I am glad, if you like them," said the other girl, blushing faintly. "I had hard work to persuade Mrs. Staples to pay for that one on the chance of your coming back for it." "Well," interposed Uncle Dick, "tell us the rest. You thought you heard of your Aunt Ida up here, in the mountains?" "Yes, Mr. Gordon," said Ida. "I read it in the paper. But the notice must have referred to my dear little mare. I never dreamed she had been sent over here. I never dreamed of it!" "No?" "Of course I didn't! And when I got to Cliffdale there was nobody who had ever heard of my aunt. There are two hotels. One of them is closed at this time of year. At the other there was no such guest." "Dear me! How disappointed you must have felt," murmured Betty. "You can't imagine! But in talking with the clerk at the hotel I got news of my little darling." "Meaning the mare, of course?" suggested Uncle Dick. "Yes. She had arrived the night before and had been taken directly to Candace Farm. The clerk told me how to get there. I did not feel that I could afford to hire anybody to take me there. And I knew nobody. So I set out to walk day before yesterday morning." "Before it began to snow?" asked Betty. "Yes, Miss Gordon." "Oh, please," cried Betty, "call me Betty. I'm not old enough to be Miss Gordon. To a girl, anyway," she added. "With a strange boy it would be different." The English girl consented, and then went on with her story. "It was cloudy but I did not know anything about such storms as you have here. Oh, dear me, how it snowed and blew! I got to that little house and I could open the door. If I had had to go many yards farther I would have fallen down and been covered by the snow." "You poor dear!" murmured Betty, putting an arm around the other girl. Ida gave her a tearful smile, and Betty kissed her. And then the latter suddenly remembered again her lost locket. She gave a little jump in her chair. But she did not speak of it. Not for a moment did she believe Ida Bellethorne would be guilty of stealing her trinket. Uncle Dick evidently did not think of that possibility, either. Could Betty suggest such a matter when already Ida was in so much trouble? At least, she would wait and see what came of it. So she hugged Ida more closely and said: "Go on. What else?" "Not much else, Betty," said the English girl, wiping her eyes again and smiling. "I just stayed there in that house until you came along and saved me. There was nothing to burn but the furniture in the house, and I burned it. I suppose the poor man who owns it will want to be paid. Oh, dear!" "I wouldn't worry about that," said Mr. Gordon, cheerfully. "You seem to have come through a good deal. I'd take it easy now. Mrs. Canary and the girls are glad to have you here. When we go back to town we will take you with us and see what can be done." "Thank you, Mr. Gordon. You are very kind. I should like to know about my little mare. She is a darling! How this Mr. Bolter came to get her----" "Oh, Ida!" cried Betty, breaking in suddenly, "do you know a little man, a crooked little man, named Hunchie Slattery?" "My goodness, Betty! Of course I remember Hunchie. He worked in our stables." "He is with Ida Bellethorne, your pretty mare. He takes care of her. I talked with him at Mr. Bolter's farm in Virginia. The mare has a cough, and she was sent up here to get well. And I heard Mr. Bolter himself tell Hunchie Slattery that he was to go with her." "Dear me, Betty! if I could find Hunchie, too, I'd feel better. He might be able to tell me how it came that my mare was taken away and sold. She really did belong to me, Mr. Gordon. Mr. Jackwood, father's administrator and my guardian, showed me the bill of sale making me Ida's owner. And even if I was a minor, wouldn't that be a legal transfer paper?" "I am not sure of the English law, my dear. But it seems to me it would be in this country. At any rate, that will be another thing to consult my lawyers about. I understand Bolter paid somewhere near twenty thousand dollars for the mare. It would be quite a fortune for you, Ida." "Indeed it would. And the mare is worth all of four thousand pounds, I know. Father always said there was no better mare in all England than Ida Bellethorne, and Aunt Ida might be proud to have such a horse named after her." "We are not far from the Candace Farm and perhaps we can get over there before we leave Mountain Camp," Mr. Gordon said kindly. "Then you can see your horse and the man from home. I will get a statement from this jockey, or hostler, or whatever he is, and it may aid my lawyers in their search for the facts regarding the sale of the mare to Mr. Bolter." "Thank you very kindly, Mr. Gordon." The conference broke up and Betty ran out to join her mates on the lake. Ida could not skate. And, anyway, she preferred to sit indoors with Mrs. Canary. Ida had the silk for another sweater in her bag, and that very hour she began to knit an over-blouse for Libbie, who had expressed a desire to possess one like those Betty and Bobby had bought. The skating was fine, but the wind had risen again and this time it was a warm wind. The snow grew soft on the surface, and when the party came up the bluff for luncheon it was not easy to walk and they sank deeply into the snow. "This is a weather breeder," said Mr. Canary, standing on the porch to greet them. "I fear you young folks have come to Mountain Camp at the beginning of the roughest part of the winter." "Don't apologize for your weather, Jack," laughed Uncle Dick. "If it grows too boisterous or unpleasant outside, these young people must find their fun indoors." And this is what they did for the next two days. The temperature moderated a good deal, and then it rained. Not a hard downpour, but a drifting "Scotch mist" that settled the snowdrifts and finally left them saturated with water. Then back came the frost--sharp, snappy and robust. The air cleared like magic. The sun shone out of a perfectly clear sky. Just to put one's head out of the door make the blood tingle. Meanwhile both the girls and boys had found plenty of interesting things to do indoors, as Uncle Dick had prophesied. Especially the boys. Under the teaching of Uncle Dick and Mr. Canary they had learned to string snowshoes. Mr. Canary had the frames and the thongs of which the webs are woven. Even Timothy neglected the library to engage in this fascinating work. Of course, the girls must have webs as well. Betty and Bobby were particularly eager to learn to walk on snowshoes and, as Bob Henderson said, they "pestered" the boys until sufficient pairs of webs were made to enable the entire party to try walking on them when the time was ripe. On the third morning, just at dawn, there was a heavy snow squall for an hour. It left about four inches of downy snow upon the hard-packed and slippery surface of the drifts. "This is an ideal condition," said Mr. Gordon with enthusiasm. "My feet itch to be off on the webs myself. After breakfast we will try them out. Now remember the rules I have been telling you, and see how well you can all learn to shuffle over this snow." Thoughtful Bob had strung an extra pair of shoes for Ida. He knew that Betty did not want the English girl left out of their good times. And all the crowd liked Ida. Although she was in the main a very quiet girl, as one grew to know her she proved to possess charming qualities both of mind and heart. Ida was not as warmly dressed for venturing into the open as the other girls. But Mrs. Canary, one of the kindest souls in the world, mended this defect. She furnished Ida with a fur coat and gloves that secured her from frostbite. The whole party turned out gaily. Having been confined to the house for almost forty-eight hours, they were as full of life as colts. But in a few minutes the nine of them were on snowshoes and watched and instructed by Uncle Dick were learning their first lesson in the rather ticklish art of scuffling over the soft snow without tripping and plunging headlong into it. Not that there were not many laughable accidents. The capers both boys and girls involuntarily cut led to shouts of laughter, and sometimes to a little pain. For the frozen crust underneath the light surface snow offered a rather hard foundation when one fell flat. The necessary falls incident to learning the right trick of handling one's self on snowshoes soon cured the first enthusiasm of several of the party. Louise, for instance, found it too strenuous for her liking. And Timothy got a bump on the back of his head that no phrenologist could have easily described. The second day, however, Betty, Bobby and Ida, with Bob and Tommy Tucker, were just as enthusiastic on the subject of snowshoeing as at first. While the others swept off a part of the lake just below the Outlook, the snowshoeing party set off on their first real hike through the woods; and that hike led to an unexpected adventure. CHAPTER XVIII GREAT EXCITEMENT Mr. Richard Gordon was, as Betty and Bob often declared, the very best uncle that ever lived! One good thing about him they thought was that he never "fussed." "He isn't always wondering what you are going to do next and telling you not to," explained Bob to Ida Bellethorne as the party started out from Mountain Camp. "Not like a woman, oh, no!" "Hush, bad boy!" cried Bobby. "What do you mean, throwing slurs at women?" "You know even if Mrs. Canary had seen us start off she would have given us a dozen orders before we got out of earshot. And she's a mighty nice woman, too. Almost as nice as your mother, Bobby," finished Bob. "Bob doesn't like chaperons," giggled Betty. "Nor me," said Tommy Tucker, sticking close to Bobby Littell as he always did when Roberta would let him. "Uncle Dick suits me as a chaperon every time." Uncle Dick had let the party troop away on their snowshoes without advising them when to return or asking where they were going, and presently Betty and Bob formed a sudden plan about their hike. From one of the men working about the camp Bob had got directions regarding the nearest way to Candace Farm. Ida longed to go there. It was but seven miles away in a direct line, and now, when Betty spoke of going there, Bob said that, with the aid of his compass, he knew he could find it without difficulty. "We didn't mention it to Uncle Dick, but he won't be bothered about it," said Bob. "We've got all day. We can tell him where we have been when we get back, which will be just the same." "Will it, Bob?" the girl asked doubtfully. "But of course there is nothing really wrong in going." "I--should--say--not!" exploded Bob. "I'm sure it will be all right with Uncle Dick, Betty. Remember how he let us roam and explore in Oklahoma?" The others in the party were not troubled by doubts in the least. They went hurrying through the snow with shouts and laughter; and if any forest animals were astir that day they must have been frightened by the noise the party made scrambling along on snowshoes. Not one of them but fell at times--and the very "twistiest" kind of falls! But nobody was hurt; although at one point Bobby fell flat on her back at the verge of a steep descent and there was no stopping her until she plunged into a deep drift at the bottom. Tommy kicked off his snowshoes and ran down to haul her out while the others, seeing that she was unhurt, shouted their glee. Bobby was not often in a fix that she could not get out of by her own exertions. Being such an energetic and independent girl, she would not often accept help of her boy friends, especially of Tommy who hovered around her like a moth around a candle. But when she had lost her snowshoes she found the soft snow so much deeper than she expected at the bottom of that hill that she was glad indeed to accept Tommy's aid. He dragged her out of the drift and set her upright. Even then she found that she could not climb up again by herself to where her friends were enjoying her discomfiture. "Come on!" cried Tommy, who had kicked his own snowshoes off at the top of the slide. "Give us your hand, Bobby. We'll make it somehow." But they did not "make it" easily. It seemed as though they could climb only so high and then slide back again. Under the shallow top snow the frozen crust was like pebbled glass. Tommy could barely kick the toes of his boots into it to make steps, and just as he had secured a footing in a particularly slippery place, Bobby would utter a shriek and slide to the bottom again. Even Betty was almost ill with laughter as this occurred over and over again. But the Tucker twin finally proved himself to be master of the situation. He was determined to get Bobby to the top of the hill, and he succeeded. Tom Tucker was a strong lad. Stooping, he commanded the girl to put her arms over his shoulders so that he could seize both wrists with one hand. Then he bent forward, carrying Bobby on his back and her weight upon his aided in breaking through the snow-crust and getting a footing. He plodded up the slope, a little at a time, and after a while Betty and Bob helped them to the level brink of the hill. Tommy fell to the snow panting, and Bobby was inclined to scold for a minute. Then she gave Tommy one of her rare smiles and helped him up. She was not often so kind to him. "You are a good child, Tommy Tucker," she proclaimed saucily, as she beat the loose snow off his coat. "In time you may be quite nice." Betty and Ida Bellethorne praised him too; but Bob continued to laugh and when the party started on again the others learned why he was so amused. The way to Candace Farm lay right down that slope to the bottom of which Bobby had tumbled, and all the exertion Tommy had put forth to save her was unnecessary. Bob led them along a lane right past the spot where Tommy had pulled the girl out of the snowbank! "That's the meanest trick that was ever played on me!" declared Bobby, in high wrath at first. Then she began to appreciate the joke and laughed with the others. "I was going to tell the folks at home how Tommy saved me from the peril of being buried in the snowbank; but I guess I'd better not," she observed. "Don't blame me, Tommy. Give it to Bob." "Ill get square with Bob," grumbled the Tucker twin. "No fear of that." Bobby remained kind to him however; and as Tommy frankly admired her he was repaid for his effort. But every time Bob looked at Tom he burst out laughing. They had struck into a straight trough in the snow, with maples on either side standing gaunt and strong, and a windrow of drifted snow where the fences were supposed to be--a road which Bob said the man at Mountain Camp had told him led straight to Candace Farm. "Wish we had brought a sled with us," Tommy said. "We could have ridden the girls on it. Aren't you tired, Bobby?" "Not as tired as you are, I warrant," she said, laughing at him. "Poor Tommy!" "Aw, you go fish! I could carry you a mile and not feel it. Gee! What's this coming?" Far down the snow-covered road they first heard shouts, then a cloud of snow-dust spurted into the air and hid whatever it was coming along the way toward them. Bob immediately drew Betty and Ida to one side of the road and Tommy urged Bobby to follow. Suddenly out of the cloud of flying snow appeared a horse's head and plunging fore feet. Then another and another! They came along the road at a plunging, blundering pace, snorting and neighing. Behind them were men, evidently trying to stop the runaways. "Colts!" shouted Bob. "Yearlings. All young horses. And just about wild. Remember that bunch we saw in Oklahoma, Betty, that was being driven to the shipping station? They are wild as bears." Ida Bellethorne did not seem to be much disturbed by the possibility of the horses doing them any harm. She stood out before her companions and stared at the coming herd eagerly. The black mare she loved so, however, was not in this bunch of runaways. The young stock swept past the watching party from Mountain Camp, their pace rapid in spite of the hard going. They kept to the snow-covered road, however. Behind them came half a dozen men, wind-spent already and not a little angry. "Why didn't you stop 'em?" bawled one red-faced fellow. "If they spread out in some open pasture we'll be all day gathering them." "Easy to stop 'em, I guess," returned Tommy. "They'd have trampled us down." "Could stop a snowslide easier, I guess," Bob suggested. "But I tell you: We'll give you a hand collecting them. How did they get away?" "Went over the paddock fence like a flock of sheep. Snow is so deep, you know," said the red-faced man. "Come on, you boys, if you will. The girls can go on to the house and Mrs. Candace will let 'em warm up. It's only a little way." The "little way" proved to be a good two miles; but the three girls did not falter. They saw the big farmhouse and the great barns and snow-filled paddocks a long way ahead. "I'll be glad of that 'warm'," confessed Betty, as they turned in at the entrance to the lane. "And maybe Mrs. Candace will give us a cup of tea." At that moment Bobby clutched her arm and pointed up the lane. "See there! He'll fall! Oh, look!" Betty was as startled as her chum when she spied what Bobby had first seen. A little, crooked man was crawling out above the hay door of the main barn upon a timber that was here thrust out from the framework and to which was attached a block and fall. The rope had evidently fouled in the block and he was trying to detach it. "That's Hunchie Slattery!" gasped Betty, "What a chance he is taking!" For everything was sheathed in ice from the effect of the rain and frost of the night before. That timber was as slippery as glass. Ida Bellethorne set off on a run for the barn; but unlike Bobby she did not say a word. Had she thought of any way to help the crooked little man, however, she was too late. Hunchie suddenly slipped, clutched vainly at the rope, which gave under his weight, and he came down "on the run." The rope undoubtedly broke his fall. He would have been killed had he plunged immediately to the frozen ground beneath. As it was, when the three girls reached him, he was unconscious and it was plain by the attitude in which he lay that his leg was broken. CHAPTER XIX THE EMERGENCY "Poor Hunchie!" murmured Ida Bellethorne, "I hope it wasn't because he was surprised to see me that he fell." "His surprise did not make that timber slippery with ice," said Betty, looking up. "Oh! Here's a lady!" A comfortable looking woman with a shawl over her head was hurrying from the kitchen door of the Candace farmhouse. "What has happened to that poor man? He's been battered and kicked about so much, it would seem, there ain't much can happen to him that he hasn't already suffered. "Ah! Poor fellow!" she added, stooping over the senseless Hunchie. "What a deal of trouble some folks seem bound to have. And not another man on the place!" She stood up again and stared at the three girls. Her broad, florid face was all creased with trouble now, but Betty thought she must ordinarily be a very cheerful woman indeed. "They've gone chasing the young stock that broke away. Dear me! what is going to happen to this poor fellow? Bill and the rest may be gone for hours, and there's bones broke here, that's sure." "Where's a doctor?" asked Bobby eagerly. "Eleven miles away, my dear, if he's an inch. Dr. Pevy is the only man for a broken bone in these woods. Poor Hunchie!" "Can't we get him into his bed?" asked Betty. "He'll freeze here." "You're right," replied the woman, who afterward told them she was Mrs. Candace. "Yes, we'll take him into the house and put him into a good bed. Can you girls lift him?" They could and did. And without too much effort the three transported the injured man, who was but a light weight, across the yard, into the house, and to a room which Mrs. Candace showed them. He began to groan and mutter before they managed to get him on the bed. There was an old woman who helped Mrs. Candace in the house, and the two removed Hunchie's outer garments and made him as comfortable as possible while the girls waited in much excitement in the sitting room. "He saw one of you girls and knows you," said Mrs. Candace, coming out of the bedroom. "But he talks about that mare, Ida Bellethorne." "This is Ida Bellethorne," said Betty, pointing to the English girl. "I declare! I thought Hunchie was out of his head. How comes you are named after that horse, girl?" Ida explained her connection with the black mare and with Hunchie. "You'd better go in and talk to him. Maybe it will case his pain. But that shin bone is sticking right through the flesh of his leg. It's awful! And he's in terrible pain. If Bill don't come back soon----" "Isn't there any man on the place?" asked Betty, interrupting. "None but them with Bill hunting the young stock." "And the boys--our friends--have gone with them," explained Betty. "Somebody must get the surgeon." "How are we going to do it? The telephone wires are down," explained Mrs. Candace. "And there ain't a horse properly shod for traveling on this ice. I fear some of that young stock will break their legs." "We saw them skating all over the road," said Bobby. "But how gay and excited they were!" "A ridin' horse would have to go at a foot pace," explained Mrs. Candace, "unless it was sharpened. I don't know----" Ida had gone into the bedroom to speak with the injured man. She looked out at this juncture and excitedly beckoned to Betty. Betty ran in to find the crooked little man looking even more crooked and pitiful than ever under the blankets. He was groaning and the perspiration stood on his forehead. That he was in exceeding pain there could be no doubt. "He says Ida Bellethorne is sharpened," gasped Ida. "Oh! You mean she is fixed to travel on ice on frozen ground?" "I 'ad to lead 'er up 'ere from the station, Miss. Ain't I saw you before, Miss?" said Hunchie, staring at Betty. "At Mr. Bolter's?" "Yes, yes!" cried Betty. "Can the mare travel on this hard snow?" "Yes, ma'am. I didn't draw the calks for I exercised 'er each d'y, I did. I didn't want 'er to fall. An' now I failed myself!" The two girls looked at each other significantly. Ida was easily led out of the room. Betty put the question to her. "That's just it, Betty," said the English girl, almost in tears. "I never learned to ride. I never did ride. My nurse was afraid to let me learn when I was little, and although I love horses, I only know how to drive them. It's like a sailor never having learned to swim." Betty beat her hands together in excitement. "Never mind! Never mind!" she cried. "I can ride. I can ride any horse. I am not afraid of your Ida Bellethorne. And none of the boys or men is here. I'll go for the doctor." "I don't know if it is best for you to," groaned Ida. "Call Mrs. Candace." They were in the kitchen, and Ida ran to summon the farm woman while Betty got into her coat. Mrs. Candace came, hurrying. "What is this I hear?" she demanded. "I couldn't let you ride that horse. You will be thrown or something." "No I shan't, Mrs. Candace. I can ride. And Hunchie says the mare is sharpened." "So she is. I had forgotten," the woman admitted thoughtfully. "And the poor fellow suffers so. Some lasting harm may be done if we don't get a surgeon quickly. Where does Dr. Pevy live?" demanded Betty urgently. The fact that the injured hostler was really in great pain and possibly in some danger, caused Mrs. Candace finally to agree to the girl's demand. Betty ran out with Ida to get the mare and saddle her. Betty was not dressed properly for such a venture as this; but she wore warm undergarments, and stout shoes. The black mare was so gentle with all her spirit and fire that Betty did not feel any fear. She and Ida led the beautiful creature out upon the barn floor and found saddle and bridle for her. In ten minutes Betty was astride the mare and Ida led her out of the stable. Mrs. Candace had already given Betty clear directions regarding the way to Dr. Pevy's; but she now stood on the door-stone and called repetitions of these directions after her. Bobby waved her fur piece and shouted encouragement too. But Ida Bellethorne ran into the house to attend the injured Hunchie and did not watch Betty and the black mare out of sight as the others did. CHAPTER XX BETTY'S RIDE When Betty Gordon and her young friends had set out from Mountain Camp on their snowshoe hike the sun shone brilliantly and every ice-covered branch and fence-rail sparkled as though bedewed with diamond dust. Now that it was drawing toward noon the sky was overcast again and the wind, had Betty stopped to listen to it, might be heard mourning in the tops of the pines. But Ida Bellethorne, the black mare, gave Betty no opportunity of stopping to listen to the wind mourn. No, indeed! The girl had all she could do for the first mile or two to keep her saddle and cling to the reins. When first they set forth from the Candace stables the mare went gingerly enough for a few rods. She seemed to know that the frozen crust of the old drifts just beneath the loose snow was perilous. But her sharpened calks gave her a grip on the frozen snow that the wise mare quickly understood. She lengthened her stride. She gathered speed. And once getting her usual swift gait, with expanded nostrils and erect ears, she skimmed over the frozen way as a swallow skims the air. Betty had never traveled so fast in her life except in a speeding automobile. She could easily believe that Ida Bellethorne had broken most of the track records of the English turf. She might make track history here in the United States, if nothing happened to her! Betty was wise enough to know that, had Mr. Candace been at home, even in this earnest need for a surgeon he would never have allowed the beautiful and valuable mare to have been used in this way. But there was no other horse on the place that could be trusted to travel at any gait. Ida Bellethorne certainly was traveling! The speed, the keen rush of the wind past her, the need for haste and her own personal peril, all served to give Betty a veritable thrill. If Ida made a misstep--if she went down in a heap--Betty was pretty sure that she, herself, would be hurt. She retained a tight grip upon the reins. The mare was no velvet-mouthed animal. Betty doubted if she had the strength in her arms to pull the creature down to a walk now that she was started. The instructions Mrs. Candace had given the girl pointed to a descent into the valley for some miles, and almost by a direct road, and then around a sharp turn and up the grade by a branch road to the village where Dr. Pevy lived. Betty was sure she would not lose her way; the question was, could she cling to the saddle and keep the mare on her feet until the first exuberance of Ida's spirit was controlled? The condition of the road did not so much matter, for once the mare found that she did not slip on the crust she trod the way firmly and with perfect confidence. "She is a dear--she undoubtedly is," Betty thought. "But I feel just as though I were being run away with by a steam engine and did not know how to close the throttle or reverse the engine. Dear me!" She might well say "dear me." Uncle Dick would surely have been much worried for her safety if he could know what she was doing. Betty by no means appreciated in full her danger. Indeed, she scarcely thought of danger. Ida Bellethorne seemed as sure-footed as a chamois. Her calks threw bits of ice-crust behind her, and she never slipped nor slid. There was nobody on the road. There was not even the mark of a sledge, although along the ditch were the shuffling prints of snowshoes. Some pedestrian had gone this way in the early morning. This was not the road by which Betty and her friends had been transported by Mr. Jaroth. There was not even a hut like Bill Kedders' beside it. In places the thick woods verged right on the track on either side and in these tunnels it seemed to be already dusk. It flashed into Betty's mind that there might be savage animals in these thick woods. Bears, and wild cats, and perhaps even the larger Canadian lynx, might be hovering in the dark wood. It would not be pleasant to have one of those animals spring out at one, perhaps from an overhanging limb, as the little mare and her rider dashed beneath! "Just the same," the girl thought, "at the pace Ida Bellethorne is carrying me, such wild animals couldn't jump quick enough to catch me. Guess I needn't be afraid of them." There were perils in her path--most unexpected perils. Betty would never have even dreamed of what really threatened her. For fifteen minutes Ida Bellethorne galloped on and the girl knew she must have come a third of the way to Dr. Pevy's office. The mare's first exuberance passed. Of her own volition she drew down to a canter. Her speed still seemed almost phenominal to the girl riding her, but Betty began to feel more secure in the saddle. They reached the top of a steep hill. The hedge of tall pines and underbrush drew closer in on either side. The road was very narrow. As the mare started down the incline it seemed as though they were going into a long and steep chute. Before this Betty had noted the ice-hung telephone and telegraph wires strung beside the road. Sheeted in the frozen rain and snow the heavy wires had dragged many of the poles askew. Here and there a wire was broken. It never entered the girl's mind that there was danger in those wires. And, perhaps, in most of them there was not. But across this ravine into which the road plunged, and slantingly, were strung much heavier wires--feed cables from the Cliffdale power station over the hill. "Why, look at those icicles!" exclaimed Betty, with big eyes and watching the hanging wires ahead. "If they fell they would kill a person, I do believe!" She tugged with all her might at Ida Bellethorne's reins, and now, well breathed, the mare responded to the unuttered command. She came into a walk. Betty continued to stare at the heavily laden wires spanning the road, the heavier power wires above the sagging series of telephone and telegraph wires. In watching them so closely the girl discovered another, and even more startling fact. One of the poles bearing up the feed wires was actually pitched at such an angle from the top of the bank on the right hand that Betty felt sure the wires themselves were all that held the pole from falling. "There is going to be an accident here," declared the girl aloud. "I wonder the company doesn't send out men to fix it. Although I guess they could not prop up that pole. It has gone too far." Even as she spoke the mare stopped, snorting. Her instinct was more keen than Betty's reasoning. With a screeching breaking and tearing of wood and wire the trembling pole fell! Betty might, had she urged her mount, have cleared the place and escaped. But the girl lacked that wisdom. The pole fell across the deep road and its two heavy cables came in contact with the wires strung from the other poles below. Instantly the ravine was lit by a blinding flash of blue flame--a flame that ran from wire to wire, from pole to pole, melting the ice that clung to them, hissing and crackling and giving off shooting spears of flame that threatened any passer-by. The mare, snorting and fearful, scrambled back, swerved, and tried to escape from the ravine; but Betty had her under good control now. She had no spurs, but she yanked savagely at the bit and wheeled Ida Bellethorne again to face the sputtering electric flames that barred the road. Only a third of the way to the doctor's and the way made impassable! What should she do? If she turned back, Betty did not know where or how to strike into the thick and pathless forest. Hunchie, suffering from his injured leg, must be aided as soon as possible. Her advance must not be stayed. Yet there before her the sparking, darting flames spread the width of the ravine. Burning a black hole already in the deep drifts, the crossed wires forbade the girl to advance another yard! CHAPTER XXI BETTY COMES THROUGH Betty admitted that she was badly frightened. She was afraid of the crossed wires, and would have been in any case. The spurting blue flames she knew would savagely burn her and Ida Bellethorne if they touched them, and the wires might give a shock that would kill either girl or horse. But seven miles or so beyond those sputtering flames was Dr. Pevy's office. And Dr. Pevy was needed right away at Candace Farm. A picture of poor Hunchie lying white and moaning in the bed rose in Betty's memory. She could not return and report that it was impossible for her to reach the doctor's office. Afraid as she was of the crossed wires, she was more afraid of showing the white feather. If Bob Henderson were here in her situation Betty was sure he would not back down. And if Bob could overcome difficulties, why couldn't Betty? The thought inspired the girl to do as Bob would do--come through. "I must do it!" Betty choked, holding the mare firmly headed toward the writhing, crackling wires. "Ida! Get up! You can jump it. You--just--must!" The black mare crouched and snorted. Betty would have given a good deal for tiny spurs in the heels of her shoes or for a whip to lay along the mare's flank. Spirited as the creature was, and well trained, too, her fear of fire made her shrink from the leap. There was a width of six feet of darting flames. The electricity in the heavy cables was melting the other wires, and from the broken end of each wire the blue light spurted. The snow was melting all about, turning black and yellow in streaks. Betty did not know how long this would keep up; but every minute she delayed poor Hunchie paid for in continued suffering. "We must do it!" she shrieked to the horse. "You've got to--there!" She whipped off her velvet hat and struck Ida Bellethorne again and again. The mare crouched, measured the distance, and leaped into the air. Well for her and for Betty that Ida Bellethorne had a good pedigree; had come of a long line of forebears that had been taught to jump hedges, fences, water-holes and bogs. None of them had ever made such a perilous leap as this! The mare landed in softening snow, for the scathing flames were melting the drifts on either side. Betty had felt the rush of heat rising from the cables and had put her hat over her face. Ida Bellethorne squealed. Without doubt she had been scorched somewhere. And now secure on her feet she darted away through the ravine, running faster than she had run while Betty had bestrode her. Betty could not glance back at the sputtering wires. She must keep her gaze fixed ahead. Although at the speed the mare was now running it is quite doubtful if the girl could have retarded her mount in any degree. They came to the forks that Mrs. Candace had told her of, and Betty managed to turn the frightened mare up the steeper road to the left. There were few landmarks that the snow had not hidden; but the way to Dr. Pevy's was so direct that one could scarcely mistake it. Ida Bellethorne began to cool down after a while and Betty could guide her more easily. She had begun to talk to the pretty creature soothingly, and leaned forward in her saddle to pat the mare's neck. "I don't blame you for being scared, Ida Bellethorne," crooned Betty. "I was scared myself, and I'm scared yet. But don't mind. Just be easy. Your pretty black apron in front is all spattered with froth, poor dear! I wonder if this run has done your cough any harm--or any good. Anyway, you haven't coughed since we started." But Betty knew that if the mare stood for a minute she must be covered and rubbed down. She had this in her mind when she came to the blacksmith shop and the store, directly opposite each other. Dr. Pevy's, she had been told, was the second house beyond on the blacksmith side of the road. It proved to be a comfortable looking cottage with a barn at the back, and she urged Ida Bellethorne around to the barn without stopping at the house. The barn door was open and a man in greasy overalls was tinkering about a small motor-car. He was a pleasant-looking man with a beard and eyeglasses and Betty was sure he must be the doctor before he even spoke to her. "Hullo!" exclaimed the amateur machanic, rising up with a wrench in one hand and an oil can in the other. "Whew! That mare has been traveling some. And such a beauty! You're from Bill Candace's I'm sure. Did she run away with you? Here, let me help you." But Betty was out of the saddle and had led the mare in upon the floor, although Ida Bellethorne looked somewhat askance at the partly dismantled car. "Needn't be afraid of the road-bug, my beauty," said Dr. Pevy, putting out a knowing hand to stroke the mare's neck. "She must be rubbed down and a cloth put on her----" "I know," said Betty hastily. "I'll do it if you'll let me. But can you go back with me, Doctor?" "To the Candace Farm?" "Yes, sir. A man has been seriously hurt and there was nobody else to come." "Wonder you got here without having a fall," said Dr. Pevy. "She is sharpened. And she is a dear!" gasped Betty. "But I hope you can start right away. Hunchie is suffering so." "Can't use the road-bug, that's sure," said Dr. Pevy, glancing again at the car. "That's why I was doctoring her now while the snow is too deep. But I still have old Standby and the sleigh. I'll start back with you in a few minutes and we'll lead the mare. The exercise will do her good. My! What a handsome creature she is." "Yes, sir. She is quite wonderful," said Betty; and while they gave Ida Bellethorne the attention she needed Betty told the doctor all about Hunchie and her ride through the forest. When Dr. Pevy heard about the broken wires in the road, he went to the house and telephoned to the Cliffdale power house to tell them where the break was. The linemen were already searching for it. "That peril will be averted immediately," he said coming back with his overalls removed, a coat over his arm and carrying his case in his other hand. "That's it, my dear. Walk her up and down. Such a beauty!" He got out his light sleigh and then led Standby, a big, red-roan horse, out on the floor to harness him. "These automobiles are all right when the snow doesn't fly," Dr. Pevy remarked. "But up here in the hills we have so much snow that one has to keep a horse anyway or else give up business during the winter. You were a plucky girl to come so far on that mare, my dear. A Washington girl, you say?" "We just came from Washington," Betty explained. "But I can't really claim to belong there. I--I'm sort of homeless, I guess. I do just love these mountains and this air." "This air," commented Dr. Pevy, "smells just now of a storm. And I think it may drizzle again. Now, if you are ready, my dear." He unbuckled Ida Bellethorne's bridle rein and made it a leading rein. He helped Betty into the sleigh and gave her the rein to hold. The mare led easily, and merely snorted when Standby leaned into the collar and started the sleigh. The roan was heavy footed, and his shoes, too, were calked. They started off from the village at a good jog with the blanketed black mare trotting easily behind the sleigh. Betty tried to mould her velvet hat into shape. It had been a hat that she very much prized, and was copied after one Ada Nansen wore, and Ada set the fashions at Shadyside. But that little hat would never be the same again after being used as a goad for Ida Bellethorne. Betty sighed, and gave up her attempt. When they came to the place in the ravine where the wires were down Dr. Pevy drew up Standby. The mare snorted, recognizing the spot. But the electrical display was over, for the power had been turned off. "You certainly must have had a narrow squeak here," remarked the physician, as he looked at the fallen wires. "Oh, Doctor, it was awful!" breathed Betty. "I thought sure that we were going to have the worst kind of accident." "The company ought really to put up a new line of poles, so many of these are getting rotten," was the doctor's reply. "But I suppose they are hard up for money these days, and can afford only the necessary repairs." The sleigh climbed the mountain after that to the Candace Farm. As they came in sight of it Betty saw the troop of young stock being driven in through the lane, and saw Bob and Tommy with the stock farmer and his men. It was well she had ventured for the doctor on the black mare, or poor Hunchie Slattery would have suffered much longer without medical attention. Bobby ran out to meet them when the sleigh came into the yard. Mrs. Candace stood at the back door explaining to the red-faced man, her husband. It was Bob who came to take the leading rein of the black mare from Betty's hand. "Cricky!" he exclaimed. "What have you been up to now, Betsey? Is this that English mare? Isn't she a beauty! And you've been riding her?" "I've been flying on her," sighed Betty, "Don't talk, Bob! I never expect to travel so fast in the saddle again unless I become a jockey. And I know I am growing too fat for that." CHAPTER XXII ON THE BRINK OF DISCOVERY The three girls and their boy friends remained at the farm until Dr. Pevy had set the bad fracture that Hunchie had suffered and the poor little man had been made as comfortable as he could be made at the time. He had been badly shaken in falling so far at the barn, and the surgeon declared he would be confined to his bed for some weeks. "And oo's to take care of Ida Bellethorne, I ask you?" demanded Hunchie faintly. "Mr. Bolter hexpects me to give hundivided hattention to 'er." "She shall have the best of care," said Candace, the farmer, warmly. "A mare like her ought to be bedded down in roses. The way she took this little girl over the drifts was a caution. She is some horse, she is! We will give her the best of attention, Hunchie, never you fear." The cockney was so much troubled about his charge that he seemed to have forgotten Ida Bellethorne, the girl. But Betty heard him say one thing to Ida before they left. "You ought to be 'appy, Miss Ida, even if the mare was sold. She brought a good price, and ev'rybody about Bellethorne Park knows as Mr. Bellethorne give 'er to you when she was a filly. I 'ope you'll come to see us again--me and the mare." "I surely will, Hunchie," said the English girl. But when they came out of the house and bade the family good-bye, Betty saw that Ida was very grave. Hunchie's words seemed to have been significant. It was late in the afternoon when the quintette arrived at Mountain Camp. Mrs. Canary had expressed some anxiety about them, but Uncle Dick had scouted any peril that might threaten the young folks. He admitted that he had overlooked some possibilities when he heard the full account of their adventures--and especially of his niece's adventures--at the dinner table. "I declare, Betty," he said with some little exasperation, "I believe if you were locked inside a trunk with only gimlet holes to breathe through you would manage to get into trouble." "I think I'd be in trouble fast enough in that case," answered Betty, laughing. "I don't know," said Louise thoughtfully. "Locked up in a box, you really couldn't get into much harm, Betty." "Sure she could get into trouble," declared Bobby. "Bees could crawl in through the gimlet holes and sting her." "I'd like to have seen her jumping that fire on horseback," sighed Libbie. "It must have been wonderful!" Mr. Gordon looked rather disturbed as he stared at his niece. "That's exactly what I shouldn't want to see her do," he said. "I do not know what I am going to do if, as she gets older, she grows more energetic," he added to Mr. and Mrs. Canary. "Betty is more than a handful for a poor bachelor uncle, I do believe!" He forbade any more excursions away from the camp after that unless the excursionists took some adult person with them. He went himself to Candace Farm to see Hunchie Slattery; but he took only Ida Bellethorne with him. They went on their snowshoes. During this trip Mr. Gordon won the abiding confidence of the girl. Meanwhile the youthful visitors at Mountain Camp allowed no hour to be idle. There was always something to do, and what one could not think of in the way of fun another could. Mr. Canary's men had smoothed a coasting course down the hillside to the lake not a quarter of a mile from the Overlook. There was a nest of toboggans in one of the outhouses. Tobogganing afforded the nine young people much sport. For the others insisted that Ida Bellethorne share in all their good times. She declared she never would get Libbie's blouse done in time; but Libbie said that she could finish it afterward and send it on to Shadyside. Just now the main thing was to crowd as much fun as possible into the remaining days of their vacation. The young folks from Fairfields were paired off very nicely; but they did not let Ida feel that she was a "fifth wheel," and she really had a good time. These snow-sports were so unfamiliar to her that she enjoyed them the more keenly. "I do think these boys are so nice," she said to Betty as they climbed the hill from the lakeshore, dragging the toboggan behind them by its rope. "Of course they're nice," said the loyal Betty. "Especially Bob Henderson. He's just like a brother to me. If he wasn't nice to you I should scold him--that I should, Ida." "I never can repay you for your kindness," sighed the English girl, quite serious of visage. "And your uncle, too." Betty flashed her a penetrating look and was on the verge of speaking of something that she, at least, considered of much importance. Then she hesitated. Ida had never mentioned the possibility of Betty's having dropped anything in Mrs. Staples' store. Betty shut her lips tight again and waited. If Ida did know anything about her lost locket, Betty wanted the English girl to speak of it first. They went in to dress for dinner that afternoon just before a change in the weather. A storm had been threatening for some hours, and flakes of snow began to drift down before they left the slide. "Let's dress up in our best, girls," Louise said gaily. "Put on our best bibs and tuckers. Make it a gala occasion. Teddy, be sure and scrub behind your ears, naughty boy!" "I feel as though I ought to be in rompers the way you talk," said the Tucker twin, but he laughed. The boys ran off to "primp," and what the girls did to make themselves lovely, Libbie said "was a caution!" One after the other they came into Betty's and Bobby's room and pirouetted to show their finery. Ida had been decked out very nicely by her friends, and her outfit did not seem shabby in the least. But the English girl noted one thing about Betty, and it puzzled her. The other girls from Shadyside School wore their pieces of jewelry while Betty displayed not a single trinket. As the other girls were hurrying out to join the boys and descend to the big hall, Ida held Betty back. "Where is it, Betty?" she asked. "Don't you wear it at all? Are you afraid of losing it again?" "What do you mean?" asked Betty, her heart pounding suddenly and her eyes growing brighter. Ida Bellethorne placed her hand upon Betty's chest, looking at her closely as she asked the question: "Didn't Mrs. Staples give it to you? That beautiful locket, you know. Aren't you allowed to wear it?" CHAPTER XXIII CAN IT BE DONE? "Dear me!" exclaimed Betty. "How curious you are. I am not allowed to wear my diamond earrings that Doctor and Mrs. Guerin gave me, of course. They are the old-fashioned kind for pierced ears, and would have to be reset, and diamonds are too old for me anyway. But Uncle Dick lets me wear any thing else I own----" "That locket," questioned Ida. "That pretty locket. It did fall out of your bag in the shop, didn't it, Betty?" "My goodness!" stammered Betty, "did you find it?" "I picked it up," said Ida soberly. "Mrs. Staples would not let me run after you with it. But she promised to give it to you when you came and asked for it." "She did? She never----" Then Betty hesitated a moment. She remembered clearly just what had been said in the little neighborhood shop when she and Bobby had called there to get Bobby's blue over-blouse. "It's a fact, I never asked her for it," she said slowly. "No, I never. I just asked her if she had found anything, and she said 'No.'" "She would! That would be like her!" cried Ida Bellethorne. "She is a person who prides herself upon being exactly honest; and I guess that means barely honest. Oh, Betty Gordon!" "Well, now what's the matter?" asked Betty. "Did--did you know you lost it in Mrs. Staples' shop?" "No. I didn't know where I lost it. I only thought----" "That I might have picked it up and said nothing about it?" demanded Ida Bellethorne. "Why Ida! I would not have hurt your feelings by saying anything about it for the world," said Betty honestly. "That was why I didn't tell you. You see, if you really had known nothing about the locket when I asked you, all the time you would be afraid that I suspected you. Isn't that so?" "You dear, good girl!" gasped Ida, dabbling her eyes with her handkerchief. "And I didn't say anything because I thought you would think I wanted a reward for returning it." "So, you see, I couldn't speak of it. But now, of course, we'll get it away from Mrs. Staples. I think she's horrid mean!" Betty expressed her opinion of the shopwoman vigorously, but she put her arms around the English girl at the same time and kissed her warmly. "You're a dear!" repeated Ida. "You're another!" cried Betty gaily. "Now come on! Maybe those boys will eat up all the dinner, and I am so hungry!" One of the men arrived from Cliffdale during dinner with the mail and the information that another cold rain was falling and freezing to everything it touched. "The whole country about here will be one glare of ice in the morning," said Mr. Canary. "You young folks will have all the sledding you care for, I fancy. I have seen the time when, after one of these ice storms, one might coast from here to Midway Junction on the railroad, and that's a matter of twenty miles." "What a lark that would be," cried Tommy Tucker. "Some slide, eh, Bob?" "How about walking back?" asked the other boy promptly, grinning. Letters and papers were distributed. There was at least one letter for everybody but Ida, and Betty squeezed her hand under the table in a comforting way. When they all retired from the table and gathered in groups in the big living room where the log fire roared Uncle Dick beckoned Betty to him. He put a letter from Mrs. Eustice into the girl's hand and at one glance she "knew the worst." "Oh Betty!" gasped Louise, "what's the matter?" For Betty had emitted a squeal of despair. She shook the paper before their eyes. "Come on, Betty!" cried Bob. "Get it out--if it's a fishbone." "It's all over!" wailed Betty. "Measles don't last as long as we thought they did. Shadyside opens two days from to-morrow, and we have got to be there. That's Monday. Oh, dear, dear, dear!" "Say a couple more for me, Betty," growled Teddy Tucker. "I suppose Salsette will open too. Back to Major Pater and others too murderous to mention." "And the Major's got it in for you Tucker twins," Bob reminded him wickedly. "That's Tom's fault," grumbled Teddy. "If he hadn't sprung that snowball stunt--Oh, well! What's the use?" "Life, Ted believes," said Louise, "is just one misfortune after another. But I do hate to leave here just as we have got nicely settled. My goodness! what's the matter with Ida? Something's happened to her, too." Ida had sprung to her feet with one of the recently arrived New York papers in her hand. Actually she was pale, and it was no wonder the company stared at her when her cheeks were usually so ruddy. "What is the matter, dear?" asked Mrs. Canary. Betty went to the English girl at once and put an arm about her shoulders. "Did you see something in the paper that frightened you, Ida?" she asked. "It doesn't frighten me," replied the girl, with trembling lips. "See. Read it. This time I am sure it is my aunt. See!" Uncle Dick joined the group about the excited girl. Her color had come back into her cheeks now and her eyes shone. She was usually so self-contained and quiet that Mr. Gordon now thought perhaps they had not really appreciated how much the hope of joining her aunt meant to Ida. "Read it aloud, Betty," said her uncle quietly. "Oh! Here's her name! It must be right this time!" cried Betty; and then she obeyed her uncle's request: "'The Toscanelli Opera Company, Salvatore Toscanelli manager, which has made a very favorable impression among the music lovers of the East and Middle West during the last few months, will sail for Rio Janeiro on Sunday on the _San Salvador_ of the Blue Star Line. The company has been augmented by the engagement of several soloists, among them Madam Ida Bellethorne, the English soprano, who has made many friends here during the past few years.'" "Day after to-morrow!" exclaimed Bobby, the first to speak. "Why! maybe if you can go to New York you will see her, Ida." "Day after to-morrow," repeated Ida, anxiously. "Can I get to New York by that time? I--I have a little money----" "Don't worry about the money, honey," Betty broke in. "You will have to start early in the morning, won't she, Uncle Dick?" "If she is to reach the steamer in time, yes," said the gentleman rather doubtfully. "Oh! if I don't get there what shall I do?" cried Ida. "Rio Janeiro, why, that is in South America! It would cost hundreds of your dollars to pay my passage there. I must get to Aunt Ida before she sails. I must!" "Now, now!" put in Mrs. Canary soothingly. "Don't worry about it, child. That will not help. We will get you to the train to-morrow----" "If we can," interrupted her husband softly. He beckoned Uncle Dick away and they went out through the hall to look at the weather, leaving the young folks and Mrs. Canary to encourage the English girl. Outside the two men did not find much in the appearance of the weather to encourage them. It was raining softly, for there was no wind; and it was freezing as fast as it fell. "And that old shack-a-bones I keep here during the winter isn't sharpened. Ought to be, I know. But he isn't," grumbled Jonathan Canary. "No use to think of snowshoes if it freezes, Jack," rejoined Mr. Gordon. "It is too far to the railroad anyway. I doubt if these children get to school on time." "Telephone wires are down again. I just tried to get Cliffdale before dinner. This is a wilderness up here, Dick." "I am sorry for that young English girl," mused Mr. Gordon. "She is fairly eaten up with the idea of getting in touch with her aunt. Good reason, too. She has told me all about it. She carries a letter from her dead father to the woman and he begged the girl to be sure to put it into his sister's hands. Family troubles, Jack." "Well, come on in. You're here without your hat. Want to get your death of cold?" growled Mr. Canary. The young folks did not dream at this time that nature was doing her best to make it impossible for Ida Bellethorne to reach New York by Sunday morning when the steamship _San Salvador_ would leave her dock. It was, however, the general topic of conversation during the evening. When bed-time came they went gaily to bed, not even Betty doubting the feasibility of their getting to the train on the morrow. Her uncle, however, put his head out of the door again when the others had gone chamberward and seeing the shining, icy waste of the Overlook, muttered with growing anxiety: "Can it be done?" CHAPTER XXIV TWENTY MILES OF GRADE Ida slept in the room with Betty and Bobby that night. Betty had confided to her chum, as well as to Uncle Dick, the outcome of the mystery of her locket. Because of Ida's information, Uncle Dick had assured his niece they would recover the trinket. "If Mrs. Staples is not a dishonest woman, she shades that character pretty closely. There are people like that--people who think that a found article is their own unless absolutely claimed by the victim of the loss. A rather prejudiced brand of honesty to say the least." The two Shadyside girls made much of Ida Bellethorne on this evening after they had fore-gathered in the bedroom. Just think! her Aunt Ida might take her to South America. Ida already had traveled by boat much farther than even Betty had journeyed by train. "Although I am not at all sure how my aunt will meet me," the English girl said. "She was very angry with my father. She wasn't fair to him. She is impulsive and proud, and maybe she will think no better of me. But I must give her father's letter and see what comes of it." The main difficulty was to get to New York in time to deliver the letter before the _San Salvador_ sailed. When the girls awoke very early and saw a sliver of moon shining low in the sky, they bounced up with glad if muffled cries, believing that everything was all right. The storm had ceased. And when they pushed up the window a little more to stick their heads out they immediately discovered something else. "Goodness me!" gasped Bobby. "It's one glare of ice--everything! And so-o cold! Ugh!" and she shivered, bundled as she was in a blanket robe. First Betty and then Ida had to investigate. The latter looked very mournful. "The horse can never travel to-day," she groaned. "You saw how he slipped about in the soft snow the other day when they had him out. He is not shod properly." "If you only had Ida Bellethorne here!" cried Betty. "But she is a long way off, and in the wrong direction. Why, none of us could walk on this ice!" "How about skating?" cried Bobby eagerly. "Mr. Canary says it is all downhill--or mostly to the railroad station," Betty said. "I would be afraid to skate downhill." They dressed quickly and hastened to find Uncle Dick. He had long been up and had evidently canvassed the situation thoroughly. His face was very grave when he met his niece and her friends. "This is a bad lookout for our trip," he said. "I don't really see how any of you will get to school on Monday, let alone Ida's reaching New York to-morrow morning." "Oh, Uncle Dick, don't say that!" cried Betty. "Is it positive that we cannot ride or walk?" "Walk twenty miles downhill on ice?" he exclaimed, "Does it seem reasonable? We can neither ride nor walk; and surely we cannot swim or fly!" "We could fly if we had an aeroplane. Oh, dear!" sighed Bobby. "Why didn't we think of that? And now the telephone wires are down." But Betty was thoughtful. She only pinched Ida's arm and begged her to keep up her courage--perhaps something would turn up. She disappeared then and was absent from the house, cold as the morning was, until breakfast time. The whole party had gathered then, excited and voluble. It was not only regarding Ida's need that they chattered so eagerly. In spite of the fun they were having at Mountain Camp, the thought that Shadyside and Salsette might begin classes before they could get there was, after all, rather shocking. "Measles is one thing," said Bob. "But being out of bounds when classes really begin is another. The other fellows will learn some tricks that we don't know." "And somebody else may be put in our room, Betty!" wailed Bobby, as her chum now appeared. Betty was very rosy and full of something that was bound to spill over at once. As soon as she had bidden Mr. and Mrs. Canary good morning she cried to all: "What do you think!" "Just as little as possible," declared Tommy Tucker. "Thinking tires me dreadfully." "Behave, Tommy!" said Louise admonishingly. "There's a big two-horse pung here. I found it in the barn. Like Mr. Jaroth's. It has a deep box like his. And a tongue. It's like a double-runner sled, Bob--you know. The front runners are independent of the rear." "I know what it is, Betty," said Bob, while the others stared at her. "I've seen that pung." "Your observations are correct, Miss Betty," said Mr. Canary, smiling at the girl. "I own such a pung. But I do not own two horses to draw it. And I am sorry to say that the horse I have got cannot stand on this ice." "Gee!" exclaimed Teddy, "if we got old Bobsky started down that hill he'd never stop till he got to the bottom. How far do you say it is to the station, Mr. Canary?" "It is quite twenty miles down grade. Of course there are several places where the road is level--or was level before the snow fell. But once started there would not be many places where you would have to get out and push," and the gentleman laughed. Betty's mind was fixed upon her argument. Her face still glowed and she scarcely tasted her breakfast. "I believe we can do it," she murmured. "What under the sun do you mean, Betty?" asked Louise. "I hope it is something nice we can do," said Libbie dreamily. "I looked out the window and it is all like fairyland--isn't it, Timothy?" "Uh-huh!" said Timothy Derby, his mouth rather full at the moment. "It is the most beautiful sight I ever saw. Will you please pass me another muffin?" But Bob gave Betty his undivided attention. He asked: "What do you believe we can do, Betty?" "Make use of Mr. Canary's pung." "Cricky! What will draw it? Where is the span of noble steeds to be found? Old Bobsky would break his neck." "One horse. One wonderful horse, Bob!" cried Betty clapping her hands suddenly. "I am sure I'm right. Uncle Dick!" "What do you mean, Betty?" cried Bobby, shaking her. "What horse?" "Gravitation," announced Betty, her eyes shining. "That's his name." "Great goodness!" gasped Bob. "I see a light. But Betty, how'd we steer it?" "The front runners are attached to the tongue. Tie ropes to the tongue and steer it that way," Betty said, so eagerly that her words tumbled over each other. "Can't we do it, Uncle Dick? We'll all pile into the pung, with a lot of straw to keep us warm, and just slide down the hills to the railroad station. What say?" For a while there was a good deal said by all present. Mr. and Mrs. Canary at first scouted the reasonableness of the idea. But Mr. Gordon, being an engineer and, as Bob said, "up to all such problems," considered Betty's suggestion carefully. In the first place the need was serious. Especially for the much troubled Ida. If she could not reach the dock on New York's water-front by eleven o'clock the next morning, her aunt would doubtless sail on the _San Salvador_, and then there was no knowing when the English girl would be able to find her only living relative. The party had ridden over the mountain road in coming to Mountain Camp, and Uncle Dick remembered the course pretty well. Although it was a continual grade, as one might say, it was an easy grade. And there were few turns in the road. Drifted with snow as it was, and that snow crusted, the idea of coasting all the way to the railroad station did not seem so wild a thought. The road was fenced for most of the way on both sides. And over those fences the drifts rose smoothly, making almost a trough of the road. "When you come to think of it, Jack," Uncle Dick said to Mr. Canary, "it is not very different from our toboggan chute yonder. Only it is longer." "A good bit longer," said Mr. Canary, shaking his head. However, it was plain that the idea interested Uncle Dick. He hastened out to look at the pung. Bob followed him, and they were gone half an hour or more. When they returned Bob was grinning broadly. "Get ready for the time of your lives, girls," he whispered to Betty and Bobby. "The thing is going to work. You wait and see!" Uncle Dick called them all into the living room and told them to pack at once and prepare for a cold ride. There was plenty of time, for the train they had to catch did not reach the station until noon. "If our trip is successful--and it will be, I feel sure--it will not take an hour to reach the station. But we shall give ourselves plenty of time. Now off with you! I guess Mrs. Canary will be glad to see the last of us." But their hostess denied this. The delight of having young people at the lonely camp in the hills quite counterbalanced the disturbance they made. But she bustled about somewhat anxiously, aiding the girls and the boys to make ready for departure. The Canarys, being unused to roughing it, even if they did live in the Big Woods, were much more afraid of the possibility of an accident arising out of this scheme Betty had conceived than was Uncle Dick. A little after ten o'clock they all piled out of the bungalow with their baggage. The two men working at the camp had filled the box of the pung with straw and had drawn it out to the brow of the hill where the road began. The tongue was raised at a slant, as high as it would go, and half of it had been sawed off. Ropes were fastened from this stub of the tongue to ringbolts on either side of the pung-box. "It will take two of us to steer," said Uncle Dick, "and we must work together. Get in here, Bob, and I'll show you how it works." It worked easily. The girls and the baggage were piled into the pung. The Tucker twins were each handed an iron-shod woodsman's peavey and were shown how the speed of the pung might be retarded by dragging them in the crust on either side. "You boys are the brakes," sang out Uncle Dick, almost as excited as the young people themselves. "When we shout for 'Brakes!' it is up to you twins to do your part." "We will, sir!" cried Tommy and Teddy in unison. "And don't hang your arms or legs over the sides," advised Uncle Dick. "Farewell, Jack! Take care of him, Mrs. Canary. And many, many thanks for a jolly time." The boys and girls chorused their gratitude to the owner of Mountain Camp and his wife. The men behind gave the pung just the tiniest push. The runners creaked over the ice, and the forward end pitched down the slope. They had started. And what a ride that was! It is not likely that any of them will ever forget it. Yet, as it proved, the danger was slight. They coasted the entire down-grade to the little railroad station where Fred Jaroth was telegraph operator with scarcely more peril than as though they had been riding behind the Jaroth horses. But they were on the _qui vive_ all the time. Bobby declared her heart was in her mouth so much that she could taste it. There were places when the speed threatened disaster. But when Uncle Dick shouted for "Brakes!" the twins broke through the crust with their peaveys and the hook broke up the thick ice and dragged back on the pung so that the latter was brought almost to a stop. The handles of the peaveys were braced against the end staffs of the pung, and to keep them in position did not exceed the twins' strength. Once Ted's peavey was dragged from his hands; but he jumped out and recovered it, and then, falling, slid flat on his back down the slippery way until he overtook the slowly moving pung again amid the delighted shouts of his chums. Otherwise there were no casualties, and the pung flew past the Jaroth house a little before eleven to the great amazement of the whole family, who ran out to watch the coasting party. "I don't know how Jonathan Canary will recover his pung," said Mr. Gordon when they alighted on the level ground. "But I will leave it in Jaroth's care, and when the winter breaks up, or before, it can be taken back to Mountain Camp. "Now how do you feel, young folks? All right? No bones broken?" "It was delightful," they cried. But Ida added something to this. "I feel rather--rather dazed, Mr. Gordon," she said. "But I am very thankful. And I know whom I have most to thank." "Who is that; my dear?" asked Uncle Dick smiling. "Betty." CHAPTER XXV ON THE DECK OF THE SAN SALVADOR Mr. Richard Gordon sent several telegrams before the train arrived, and they were all of importance. One recovered Betty's locket, for, informed of the circumstances by this telegram, the lawyer in Washington sent his clerk to Mrs. Staples and showed her in a very few words that she was coasting very close to the law by keeping the little platinum and diamond locket. "So," said Betty to Bobby, "if the lawyer gets it--and Uncle Dick says he will--I can wear the locket to parties at the school." "If Mrs. Eustice allows it," said her chum grimly. "You know, she's down on jewelry. Remember how she got after Ada Nansen and Ruth Gladys Royal for wearing so much junk?" "My goodness!" giggled Betty, "what would she say to you if she heard you use such an expression? Anyway, I am going to show her Uncle Dick's present and ask her. I know the beautiful diamond earrings Doctor and Mrs. Guerin sent me can't be worn till I grow up a bit. But my locket is just right." It was a noisy crowd that boarded the train; and it continued to be a noisy crowd to the junction where it broke up. All the young folks would have been glad to go with Uncle Dick and Ida Bellethorne to New York; but he sent all but Betty and Bob on to school. They would reach the Shadyside station soon after daybreak the next morning, and Mr. Gordon had telegraphed ahead for the school authorities to be on the look-out for them. Betty and Bob, with Uncle Dick and the English girl, left the train at the junction and boarded another for New York City in some confidence of reaching their destination in good season. The train, however, was late. It seemed merely to creep along for miles and miles. Luckily they had secured berths, and while they slept the delayed train did most of its creeping. But in the morning they were dismayed to find that they were already two hours late and that it would be impossible for the train to pick up those two hours before reaching the Grand Central Terminal in New York City. "Now, hold your horses, young people!" advised Mr. Gordon. "We are not beaten yet. The _San Salvador_ does not leave her dock until eleven at the earliest. It may be several hours later. I have wired to Miss Bellethorne aboard the ship and in care of the Toscanelli Opera Company as well. I do not know the hotel at which Miss Bellethorne has been staying." "But, Uncle Dick!" cried Betty, who seemed to have thought of every chance that might arise, "suppose Ida's aunt wants to take her along to Brazil? Her passport----" "Can be viséd at the British consulate on Whitehall Street in a very few minutes. I have examined Ida's passport, and there is no reason why there should be any trouble over it at all. She is a minor, you see, and if her aunt wishes to assume responsibility for her no effort will be made to keep her in the country, that is sure." "Then it all depends upon Ida's aunt," sighed Betty. "And our reaching the dock in time," amended Uncle Dick. "I would not wish to interfere with Miss Bellethorne's business engagement in Rio Janeiro; but I am anxious for her to authorize me, on behalf of her niece, to get legal matters in train for the recovery of that beautiful mare. I believe that she belongs--every hair and hoof of her--to our young friend here. There has been some trickery in the case." "Oh, Uncle Dick!" shrieked Betty. "When I went to see that poor little cripple Hunchie Slattery he told me that the very papers that were given to Mr. Bolter with the horse must prove Ida's ownership at one time of the mare. There was some kind of a quit-claim deed signed by her name, and that signature must be a forgery. "The horse could never have been sold in England, for the Bellethorne stable was too well known there. The men who grabbed the string of horses left when Ida's father died are well-to-do, and Mr. Bolter will be able to get his money back, even if he has already paid the full price agreed upon for Ida Bellethorne. "I am convinced," concluded Uncle Dick, "that the girl has something coming to her. And it may even pay Miss Bellethorne to remain in the United States instead of going to Rio Janeiro until the matter of the black mare's ownership is settled beyond any doubt." When the train finally reached New York, Uncle Dick did not even delay to try to reach the dock by telephone. He bundled his party into a taxicab and they were transported to the dock where the _San Salvador_ lay. A steward seemed to be on the look-out for the party, and addressed Uncle Dick the moment he alighted from the cab. "Mr. Gordon, sir? Yes, sir. Madam Bellethorne has received your wire and is waiting for you. I have arranged for you all to be passed through the inspection line. The steamship, sir, is delayed and will not sail until next tide." "And that is a mighty good thing for us," declared Mr. Gordon to his charges. His business card helped get them past the inspectors. It is not easy to board a ship nowadays to bid good-bye to a sailing friend. But in ten minutes or so they stood before the great singer. She was a tall and handsome woman. Betty at first glance saw that Ida, the niece, would very likely grow into a very close resemblance to Madam Bellethorne. The woman looked swiftly from Betty to Ida and made no mistake in her identification of her brother's daughter. Ida was crying just a little, but when she realized how close and kindly was her aunt's embrace she shook the drops out of her eyes and smiled. "Father wanted I should find you, Aunt Ida," she said. "He wrote a letter to you and I have it. I think it was the principal thing he thought of during his last illness--his misunderstanding with you." "My fault as much as his," Madam Bellethorne said sadly. "We were both proud and high-tempered. But no more of this now. Something in this gentleman's long telegram to me----" She bowed to Mr. Gordon. He quickly stated the matter of the black mare's ownership to the singer. "If you will come to the British consulate where Ida's passport must be viséd, and sign there a paper empowering me to act in your behalf, you assuming the guardianship of Ida, I can start lawyers on the trail of this swindle." Miss Bellethorne was a woman of prompt decision and of a business mind, and immediately agreed. She likewise saw that her niece had made powerful friends during the weeks she had been in America and she was content to allow Mr. Gordon to do the girl this kindness. It was a busy time; but the delay in the sailing of the _San Salvador_ made it possible for everything necessary to be accomplished. Uncle Dick and Betty and Bob accompanied the Bellethornes aboard the ship again and had luncheon with them. Ida cried when she parted with Betty; but it would be only for the winter. When the opera company returned to New York it was already planned that the younger Ida Bellethorne should join the friends of her own age she had so recently made at Shadyside School. It was an astonishing sight for Betty and Bob to see the great ship worried out of her dock by the fussy little tugs. It was growing dark by that time and the great steamship was brilliantly lighted. They watched until she was in midstream and was headed down the harbor under her own steam. "There! It's over!" sighed Betty. "I feel as if a great load had been lifted from my mind. Dear me, Bob! do you suppose we can ever again have so much excitement crowded into a few hours?" As Betty was no seeress and could not see into the future she of course did not dream that in a very few weeks, and in very different surroundings, she would experience adventures quite as interesting as any which had already come into her life. These will be published in the next volume of this series, entitled: "Betty Gordon at Ocean Park; or, Gay Doings on the Boardwalk." Bob shook his head at Betty's last observation. "Does seem as though we manage to get hooked up to lots of strange folks and strange happenings. Certain metals attract lightning, Betty, and I think you attract adventures. What do you say, Uncle Dick?" Mr. Gordon only laughed. "I say that you young folks had better have supper and a long night's rest. I shall not let you go on to school until to-morrow. For once you will be a day late; but I will chance explaining the circumstances to your instructors." They got into the taxicab again and bowled away up town. The lights came up like rows of fireflies in the cross streets. When they struck into the foot of Fifth Avenue at the Washington Arch the globes on that thoroughfare were all alight. It was late enough for the traffic to have thinned out and their driver could travel at good speed save when the red lights flashed up on the traffic towers. "Isn't this wonderful?" said Betty. "Libbie is always enthusing about pretty views and fairylike landscapes. What would she and Timothy say to this?" "Something silly, I bet," grumbled Bob. "Cricky! but I'm hungry," proving by this speech that he had a soul at this moment very little above mundane things. Uncle Dick chuckled in his corner of the car, and made no comment. And Betty said nothing further just then. The brilliant lights of the avenue were shining full in her face, but her thoughts were far away, with Ida Bellethorne on that ocean-going steamer bound for South America. What a wonderful winter of adventures it had been! "And the best of it is, it all came out right in the end," murmured the girl softly to herself. 
25655	----	None 
32090	----	THE CURLYTOPS SNOWED IN HOWARD R. GARIS [Illustration: TED'S SLED WAS RUNNING AWAY, AND DOWN THE DANGEROUS SLOPE. _Page 20_] THE CURLYTOPS SNOWED IN OR _Grand Fun with Skates and Sleds_ BY HOWARD R. GARIS AUTHOR OF "THE CURLYTOPS SERIES," "BEDTIME STORIES," "UNCLE WIGGILY SERIES," ETC. _Illustrations by JULIA GREENE_ NEW YORK CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY 1941 THE CURLYTOPS SERIES By HOWARD R. GARIS 12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. _THE CURLYTOPS AT CHERRY FARM Or, Vacation Days in the Country_ _THE CURLYTOPS ON STAR ISLAND Or, Camping Out With Grandpa_ _THE CURLYTOPS SNOWED IN Or, Grand Fun With Skates and Sleds_ _THE CURLYTOPS AT UNCLE FRANK'S RANCH Or, Little Folks on Ponyback_ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, New York COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY THE CURLYTOPS SNOWED IN Printed in U. S. A. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I A LETTER FROM GRANDPA 1 II A RUNAWAY SLED 14 III NICKNACK ON THE ICE 25 IV THE SNOW HOUSE 36 V NICKNACK SEES HIMSELF 52 VI THE SNOW MAN 62 VII A STRANGE BEDFELLOW 78 VIII THE LAME BOY 88 IX THROUGH THE ICE 99 X THANKSGIVING 114 XI THE SNOW BUNGALOW 125 XII TROUBLE IS LOST 143 XIII NICKNACK HAS A RIDE 153 XIV SNOWED IN 167 XV DRIVEN BACK 177 XVI DIGGING A TUNNEL 187 XVII IN A BIG DRIFT 201 XVIII NICKNACK IS GONE 209 XIX WHAT NICKNACK BROUGHT 222 XX IN THE BUNGALOW 234 THE CURLYTOPS SNOWED IN CHAPTER I A LETTER FROM GRANDPA "Ted! Teddy! Look, it's snowing!" "Oh, is it? Let me see, Mother!" Theodore Martin, who was seldom called anything but Teddy or Ted, hurried away from the side of his mother, who was straightening his tie in readiness for school. He ran to the window through which his sister Janet, or Jan as she liked to be called, was looking. "Oh, it really is snowing!" cried Ted in delight. "Now we can have some fun!" "And look at the big flakes!" went on Jan. "They're just like feathers sifting down. It'll be a great big snowstorm, and we can go sleigh-riding." "And skating, too!" added Ted, his nose pressed flat against the window pane. "You can't skate when there's snow on the pond," objected Jan. "Anyhow it hasn't frozen ice yet. Has it, Mother?" "No, I think it hasn't been quite cold enough for that," answered Mrs. Martin. "But it'll be a big snowstorm, won't it?" asked Jan. "There'll be a lot of big drifts, and we can wear our rubber boots and make snowballs! Oh, what fun, Ted!" and she danced up and down. "And we can make a snow man, too," went on Teddy. "And a big snowball!" "An' I frow snowballs at snow man!" exclaimed the voice of a smaller boy, who was eating a rather late breakfast at the dining-room table. "Oh, Trouble, we'll make you a little snow house!" cried Jan, as she ran over to his high chair to give him a hug and a kiss. "We'll make you a snow house and you can play in it." "Maybe it'll fall down on him and we'll have to dig him out, like the lollypop-man dug Nicknack, our goat, out of the sand hole when we were camping with grandpa," added Ted with a laugh. "Say, but it's going to be a big storm! Guess I'd better wear my rubber boots; hadn't I, Mother?" "I hardly think so, Teddy," said Mrs. Martin. "I don't believe the snow will get very deep." "Oh, Mother, won't it?" begged Jan, as if her mother could make it deep or not, just as she liked. "Why won't it be a big storm, Mother?" asked Teddy. "See what big flakes are coming down," and he looked up at the sky, pressing his face hard against the window. "Why won't it?" "Because it seldom snows long when the flakes are so big. The big flakes show that the weather is hardly cold enough to freeze the water from the clouds, which would be rain only it is hardly warm enough for that. It is just cold enough now to make a little snow, with very large flakes, and I think it will soon turn to rain. So you had better wear your rubbers to school and take an umbrella. And, Teddy, be sure to wait for Janet on coming home. Remember you're a year older than she is, and you must look after her." "I will," promised Teddy. "If I have to stay in, Jan, you wait for me out in front." "Will you have to stay in, Teddy?" "I don't know. Maybe not. But our teacher is a crank about things sometimes." "Oh, The-o-dore Mar-tin!" exclaimed his mother, speaking his name very slowly, as she always did when she was displeased or was quite serious, "you must not say such things about your teacher." "Well, the other boys say she's cranky." "Never mind what the other boys say, you must not call her that. Teachers have it hard enough, trying to see that you children know your lessons, without being called cranks. Don't do it again!" "I won't," promised Teddy, just a bit ashamed of himself. "And get ready to go to school," went on his mother. "Did you clean your teeth--each of you--and comb your hair?" "I did," said Janet. "I cleaned my teeth," announced Ted, "but my hair doesn't need combing. I combed it last night." For most boys this would hardly have been of any use, but with Teddy Martin it was different. Teddy's hair was so curly that it was hard work to pull a comb through it, even though he went slowly, and when he had finished it was curlier than before, only more fluffed up. Janet's was the same, except that hers was now getting longer than her brother's. No wonder then that the two children were called "Curlytops;" for their hair was a mass of tangled and twisted ringlets which clung tightly to their heads. Everyone called them Curlytops, or just Curlytop, of course, if one happened to meet Teddy or Janet alone. "I think you'd better give your hair a little brushing this morning, anyhow, Teddy," his mother said. "You can get a few of the wrinkles out." "Well, if I do they won't stay," he answered. "Oh, but look at it snow!" he cried. "The flakes are getting smaller; don't you think so, Jan?" "I think so--a little." "Then it'll last and be a big storm, won't it, Mother?" he asked anxiously. "Well, maybe so. But you don't want too big a storm, do you?" "I want one big enough for us to go coasting on the hill and have sleigh-rides. And we can skate, too, if the pond freezes and we scrape off the snow. Oh, we'll have fun, won't we, Jan?" Without waiting for an answer Ted ran upstairs to take a few of the "wrinkles" out of his curly locks, while Nora Jones, who helped Mrs. Martin with the housework, looked for the children's umbrella and rubbers. It was the first snowstorm of the season, and, as it always did, it caused much delight, not only to the Curlytops but to the other children of Cresco where the Martin family lived. Janet watched eagerly the falling flakes as she put on her rubbers and waited for Teddy to come down from the bathroom, where he had gone to comb his hair, though he could not see much use in doing that. "It'll only be all curly again," he said. But still he minded his mother. "The flakes are getting lots smaller," said Janet, as she and Teddy started for school. "We'll have big heaps of snow, Ted, and we can have fun." "Yes, I think it will be more of a storm than I thought it would amount to at first," said Mrs. Martin. "I'm glad we have plenty of coal in the cellar, and an abundance of dry wood. Winter has started in early this year." "And pretty soon it'll be Thanksgiving and Christmas!" cried Ted. "Then what fun we'll have!" exclaimed the excited boy. "Now don't get any snow down inside your collars," called Mrs. Martin to her children, as they went down the street. "We won't!" they promised, and then they forgot all about it, and began snowballing one another with what little snow they could scrape up from the ground, which was now white with the newly-fallen crystals. "I'm going to wash your face!" suddenly cried Ted to his sister. "You are not!" she cried, and away she ran. Meanwhile, Trouble Martin, which was the pet name for Baby William, the youngest of the family, sat in the dining-room window and laughed at the falling flakes and at his brother and sister going to school, romping on their way. "There, I did wash your face!" cried Ted, as he finally managed to rub a little snow on his sister's cheek, making it all the redder. "I washed your face first this year!" "I don't care. You got some down inside my collar and my neck's wet and I'm going to tell mother on you!" "Oh, don't!" begged Ted. "I won't do it again, and I'll wipe your neck with my handkerchief." "Well, maybe I won't tell if you don't do it again," promised Janet, while her brother got out his pocket handkerchief. "Ouch! Oh!" cried Janet, as Teddy started to dry her neck. "Your handkerchief's all wet! It's got a lot of snow on it! Let me alone!" and she pushed him away. "Wet? My handkerchief wet?" asked Ted. "So it is!" he exclaimed. "I guess some snow must have got in my pocket. I'll use yours, Jan." "No, I don't want you to. I'll wipe my own neck. You let me alone!" Jan was laughing; she did not really care that Ted had washed her face, and she soon had her neck quite dry. Then the two Curlytops hurried on to school. The street was filled with children now, all going to the same place. Some paused to make a slide on the sidewalk, and others took turns running and then gliding along the slippery place. "Oh, here's a dandy one!" called Tommie Wilson, who lived not far from Teddy Martin. The two boys saw a long smooth place on the sidewalk in front of them, where some early school children had made a slide. "Come on!" cried Tommie, taking a run. "Come on!" yelled Teddy. One before the other they went down the sidewalk slide. "Look out for me!" called Janet and she, too, took a running start. But alas for the children. Near the end of the slide one of Tommie's feet slid the wrong way and after he had tried, by waving his arms, to keep upright, down he went in a heap. "Get out the way!" cried Teddy. But Tommie had no time, and right into him slid Ted, falling down on top of his chum, while Jan, not able to stop, crashed into her brother and then sat down on the slide with a bump. All three were in a heap. "Oh, Tommie Wilson!" cried Janet, looking at her books which had fallen out of her strap. "See what you did!" "I couldn't help it!" "You could so! You tripped on purpose to make me fall!" "I did not, Janet Martin." "No, it wasn't Tommie's fault," declared Teddy. "He couldn't help it. Are you hurt Jan?" "No--not much--but look at my books." "I'll pick 'em up for you," offered Tommie, and he did, brushing off the snow. Then he helped Janet to get up, and she began to laugh. After all it was only fun to fall on a slippery slide. "There goes the bell!" cried Teddy, when he had helped brush the snow off his sister's skirt. "One more slide!" exclaimed Tommie. "I'm going to have one, too!" called Teddy. "You'll be late for school, and be kept in!" warned Janet. "We'll run," Tommie said, as he started at the top of the slippery place. He and Ted had their one-more slide, and then, taking hold of Janet's hands, they hurried on to school. Behind them and in front of them were other children, some hurrying to their classes, others waiting for a last slide, some falling down in the snow. Others were washing one another's faces and some were snowballing. In school the teachers had hard work to keep the minds of their pupils on their lessons. Every now and then some boy or girl would look out of the window when his eyes ought to have been on spelling book or geography. All wanted to see the snow sifting down from the clouds. The flakes, that had been large at first, were now smaller, and this, as most of the children had been told, meant that the storm would last. And they were glad, for to them snow meant grand winter fun with sleds and skates. "We'll have some bobsled races all right," whispered Teddy Martin to Tommie Wilson, and the teacher, hearing what Teddy said, kept him after school for whispering. But she did not keep him very long, for she knew what it meant to have fun in the first snow of the season. Teddy found Janet waiting for him when he came out, for it was now snowing hard and Teddy had taken the umbrella with him when he went to his room. He was a year older than his sister and one class ahead of her in school. "Were you bad in class?" Janet asked. "I only whispered a little. She didn't keep me in long. Come on now, we'll have some fun." And fun the Curlytops and their playmates did have on their way home from school. They slid, they snowballed, they washed one another's faces and some of the boys even started to roll big snowballs, but the flakes were too dry to stick well, and they soon gave this up. It needs a wet snow to make a big ball. When Teddy and Janet got home, their cheeks red, their eyes sparkling and their hair curlier than ever because some snow had gotten in it, they found their mother reading a letter which the postman had just left. "Oh, what's it about?" asked Jan. "It's from Cherry Farm, isn't it, Mother? I can tell by the funny black mark on the stamp." "Is it from grandpa?" asked Teddy. "Yes," answered Mrs. Martin. "The letter is from grandpa." "Is he coming here to spend Christmas, or are we going there just as you said we might?" asked Janet. "I'm not sure about either one yet," replied her mother. "But grandpa sends his love, and he also sends a bit of news." "What is it?" asked Ted. "Grandpa Martin writes that an old hermit, who lives in a lonely log cabin in the woods back of Cherry Farm, says this is going to be the worst winter in many years. There will be big snowstorms, the hermit says, and Grandpa Martin adds that the hermit is a good weather prophet. That is, he seems to know what is going to happen." "A big snowstorm! That will be fun!" cried Teddy. "Maybe not, if it is too big," warned his mother. "Grandpa Martin says we ought to put away an abundance of coal and plenty of things to eat." "Why?" asked Janet. "Because we may be snowed in," answered her mother. CHAPTER II A RUNAWAY SLED For a moment Ted and Janet looked at their mother. Sometimes she told them strange things, and she did it with such a serious face that they could not always tell whether or not she was in earnest. "Do you mean that the snow will come up over the top of the house so we can't go out?" asked Teddy. He remembered a picture his mother had once showed him of a lonely log cabin in the woods, almost hidden under a big white drift, and beneath the picture were the words: "Snowed in." "If it comes up over the top of the house we can't ever get out till it melts," went on Jan. "Will it happen that way, Mother? What fun!" "Dandy!" cried Ted. "Oh, indeed! Being snowed in isn't such fun as you may think," said Mrs. Martin, and then the Curlytops knew their mother was now a little bit in earnest at least. "Of course," she went on, "the snow will hardly cover our house, as it is much larger than the one in the picture I showed Teddy. But being snowed in means that so much snow falls that the roads are covered, and the piles, or drifts, of the white flakes may be high enough to come over the lower doors and windows. "When so much snow falls it is hard to get out. Even automobiles and horses can not go along the roads, and it is then people are 'snowed in.' They can not get out to buy things to eat, and unless they have plenty in the house they may go hungry. "That is what Grandpa Martin meant when he said we might be snowed in, and why he warned us to get in a quantity of food to eat." "But shall we really be snowed in, Mother?" asked Ted. "I don't know, I'm sure. Grandpa was only telling us what the hermit told him. Sometimes those old men who live in the woods and know much about nature's secrets that other persons do not know, can foretell the weather. And the snow has certainly come earlier this year than for a long time back. I am afraid we shall have a hard winter, though whether or not we shall be snowed in I cannot say." "Well, if we're going to be snowed in let's go coasting now, Janet!" suggested Ted to his sister. "May we, Mother?" asked the little girl. "Yes. But don't go on the big hill." "No. We'll stay on the small one." Teddy ran out of the room to get the sled. "Me want to go on sled!" cried Baby William. "Oh, Trouble! We can't take you!" said Jan. "I wish you could," said Mrs. Martin. "He hasn't been out much to-day, and I want to get him used to the cold weather. It will be good for him. He loves the snow. Just give him a little ride and bring him back." "All right," agreed Janet. "Come on, Trouble. I'll help you get your cap and jacket on." "Is he comin' with us?" demanded Ted, as he got his sled and Janet's down out of the attic, where they had been stored all summer. "I'm not goin' coasting with him!" "Don't forget your 'g's,' Teddy," said his mother gently. "Well, I don't want to take the baby coasting," and Teddy was careful, this time, not to drop the last letter as he sometimes did from words where it belonged. "Can't have any fun with him along!" "I'll just give him a little ride," whispered Janet. "You boys will have to make the hill smooth anyhow, and we girls can't have any fun till you do that. So I'll ride Trouble up and down the street for a while." "Oh, all right. And I'll take him coasting some other time," promised Ted, a little bit ashamed of the fuss he had made. "We'll go on and get the hill worn down nice and smooth." It was still snowing, but not very hard, and the ground was now two or three inches deep with the white flakes--enough to make good coasting when it had been packed down smooth and hard on the hill which was not far from the home of the Curlytops. There were two hills, the larger, long one being farther away. At first the runners of the two sleds were rusty, but Ted scraped them with a piece of stone and they were soon worn smooth and shiny so they would glide along easily. Trouble was delighted at the chance of being taken out on his sister's sled. Janet gave her little brother a nice ride up and down the sidewalk, and then she ran and rode him swiftly to the house where her mother took him up the steps. Trouble did not want to go in, and cried a little, but his mother talked and laughed at him so that he soon smiled. Mrs. Martin wanted Janet to have some fun with Teddy on the hill. There were a number of boys and girls coasting when Janet reached the place where her brother had gone. The hill had now been worn smooth and the sleds shot swiftly down the hill. "Come on, Janet!" cried her brother. "It's lots of fun! I'll give you a push!" Janet sat on her sled at the top of the hill, and Ted, with a little running start, thrust her along the slope. Down went Janet, the wind whistling in her ears. "Look out the way! Here I come, too!" cried Ted behind her. "I'll race you to the bottom!" But Janet had a good start and Ted could not catch up to her, though he did beat Tommie Wilson who had started at the same time the Curlytop lad had. With shouts and laughter the children coasted on the hill. At the bottom they came to a stop on a level place, though some of the older boys gave their sleds an extra push and then went on down another hilly street that was a continuation of the first. At the foot of this street ran the railroad and there was some danger that sleds going down the second hill might cross the tracks. Of course, if there were no trains this would have been all right. But one could never be certain when a train would come, so most of the children were told never to go down the second hill. They could not do it unless they pushed their sleds on purpose, over the level place at the bottom of the first hill. "I wouldn't want to ride down there," said Teddy, as he saw some of the larger boys fasten their sleds together in a sort of "bob," and go down the second hill together. "No, this little hill is good enough," Janet replied. She and Teddy, with their boy and girl friends had great sport coasting on the snow. It was getting dusk, and some of the smaller children had gone home. "We'd better go, too," said Janet. "It's snowing again, Ted, and maybe it will happen--what grandpa's letter said--we'll be snowed in." "Well, I'm going to have one more coast," Teddy answered. "I'll wait for you," returned his sister. She saw her brother slide down the small hill and come to a stop on the level place at the bottom. Then, before Ted could get off his sled, down came a lot of the big boys, riding together on a bob. "Look out the way!" they called to Teddy. "Look out the way! We're going fast and we can't stop! We're going down the second hill! Look out the way! Clear the track!" But Teddy had no time to get out of the way. In another second, before he could get up off his sled, the bob of the big boys crashed into him and sent him over the level place and down the second hill. Ted's sled was really running away with him, and down the dangerous slope. "Oh, Teddy! Teddy!" cried Janet when she saw what had happened. "Come back! Come back!" But Teddy could not come back. His sled was a runaway and could not be stopped. Luckily Teddy had not been hurt when the big boys ran into him, and he managed to stay on his sled. But he was going very fast down the second hill. "Oh, dear!" cried Janet, and down she ran after her brother. I will take just a moment here to tell my new readers a little about the Curlytops, so they may feel better acquainted with them. Those who have read the first volume of this series may skip this part. That book is entitled "The Curlytops at Cherry Farm," and tells of Janet and Ted's summer vacation, which was spent at the home of Grandpa Martin. They found a stray goat, which they named Nicknack, and they had many good times with their pet. They also met a boy named Hal Chester, who was being cured of lameness at a Home for Crippled Children, not far from grandpa's house. Grandpa Martin had on his farm many cherry trees and how the "lollypop" man helped turn the cherries into candy is told in the book. The second volume is called "The Curlytops on Star Island," and relates the experiences of the two children, with Trouble and their mother, when camping with grandpa on an island in Clover Lake. On the island Ted and Janet saw a strange blue fire, though they did not learn what caused it until after they had met a strange "tramp-man" who sometimes stayed in a cave. When their camping days on Star Island came to an end, the Curlytops went back to their home in the town of Cresco, where Mr. Martin owned a large store. And now we find them coasting down hill. As for the children themselves, you have already been told their names. Theodore and Janet they were, but more often they were called just Ted and Jan. Baby William was generally called "Trouble," because he got in so much of it. But Mother Martin usually called him "dear Trouble." He often went with Jan and Ted when they rode with Nicknack, and Trouble had adventures of his own. Besides Mr. and Mrs. Martin there was Nora, the maid. Grandpa Martin has been mentioned, and of course there was Grandma Martin. They lived at Cherry Farm. Mrs. Martin's sister, Miss Josephine Miller, lived in the city of Clayton. Aunt Jo, as the children called her, owned, besides her city home, a country place in Mt. Hope on Ruby Lake. She said she would some day build a nice, new bungalow at the lake. Another relative, of whom the Curlytops were fond, was Uncle Frank Barton. He was really Mr. Martin's uncle, but Ted and Jan claimed him as their own. He had a big ranch near Rockville, Montana, and the children hoped to go there some day. Besides their goat, Ted and Jan had a dog named Skyrocket and a cat called Turnover, because she would lie down and roll over to get something to eat. The dog's name was given him because he was always so lively, running and jumping here, there and everywhere. And now that you have learned more about the family, you will, perhaps, wish to hear what was happening to Teddy. Down the second hill he went on his runaway sled, very fast, for the bob of the big boys had struck his coaster quite a blow. And the second hill was much more slippery than the first, some of the boys having sprinkled it with water, that had frozen into ice. "Oh, dear!" thought poor Ted, as he went sliding down faster and faster. "I'm afraid!" And well he might be, for at the foot of the hill, where the railroad crossed, he could now hear the puffing of an engine and the ringing of a bell. "Ted! Teddy! Come back! Stop!" cried Jan, as she ran down the hill. But Teddy could neither stop nor come back just then. CHAPTER III NICKNACK ON THE ICE Janet Martin did not know what to do. In fact, a girl much older than Ted's sister would have been puzzled to know how to stop the little boy on his runaway sled from going across the railroad tracks. Of course he might get across before the train came, but there was danger. "Oh, dear!" cried Jan. "Those big boys were mean to bunk into Ted, and push him over the second hill!" She was tired now, and running down a slippery hill is not easy. So Jan stood still. Many of the other coasters did not know that Ted was in danger. They saw the larger boys coasting down the second hill, and perhaps they thought Teddy knew what he was about as long as his sled was going so straight down the same slope. For Ted was steering very straight. With his feet dangling over the back of his sled he guided it down the hill, out of the way of other boys, some of whom he passed, for his sled was a fast one. Teddy was frightened. But he was a brave little fellow, and some time before he had learned to steer a sled with his feet, so he was not as afraid as he might otherwise have been. "Oh, what will happen to him?" wailed Janet, and tears came into her eyes. As soon as she had shed them she was sorry, for it is not very comfortable to cry wet, watery, salty tears in freezing weather. "What is the matter, Curlytop?" asked a bigger girl of Jan. This girl had been giving her little brother and sister a ride on her sled. "My brother is sliding down the second hill, and there's a train coming," sobbed Jan. "He'll be hurt! We never go on that hill!" The big girl looked down at Ted. He was quite far away now, but he could easily be seen. "Maybe he'll stop in time," said the big girl. "Oh, look!" she cried suddenly. "He's steered into a snow bank and upset!" And this was just what Ted had done. Whether he did it by accident, or on purpose, Jan could not tell. But she was still afraid. "He'll get hurt!" she said to the big girl. "Oh, I guess not," was the answer. "The snow is soft and your brother would rather run into that, I think, than into a train of cars. Come on, I'll go down the hill with you and see if he is all right. You stay here, Mary and John," she said to her little brother and sister, placing them, with their sled, where they would be out of the way of the other coasters. "I'll leave my sled here, too," said Jan, as she went down the hill with the older girl. When they reached Teddy he was brushing off the snow with which he had become covered when he slid, head first, into the drift alongside the road. "Are you hurt?" cried Jan, even before she reached him. "Nope!" laughed Ted. "I'm all right, but I was scared. I thought I'd run over the track. Those fellows nearly did," and he pointed to the boys on the bobsled, which they had made by joining together two or three of their bigger sleds, tying them with ropes, and holding them together as they went down hill by their arms and legs. The boys on this bobsled had stopped just before going over the track when the switchman at the crossing had lowered the gates. He was now telling the boys they must not coast down as far as this any more, as trains were coming. And, as he spoke, one rumbled by. "You might have been hurt by that if you had not stopped your sled in time," said the big girl to Ted. "That's what I thought," he answered. "That's why I steered into the snow bank." "Those big boys were mean to shove you down the second hill," declared Janet. "Well, maybe they didn't mean it," said the big girl. "No, we didn't," put in one of the larger boys, coming up just then. "We're sorry if we hurt you, Curlytop," he added to Ted. "You didn't hurt me, but you scared me," was the small boy's answer. "You certainly know how to steer," said the bigger boy. "I watched you as we passed you on the hill. I knew if we got to the bottom first we could keep you from getting hurt by the train. Now you and your sisters sit on my big sled, and we'll pull you to the top of the hill to pay for the trouble we made." "I'm not his sister," said the big girl. "I am!" exclaimed Jan quickly. "I might have known that. You two have hair just alike, as curly as a carpenter's shaving!" laughed the big boy. "Well, hop on the sled, and you, too," he added, nodding at the big girl. "I guess we can pull you all up." "Course we can!" cried another big boy, and when Ted, Jan and the larger girl, whose name was Helen Dolan, got on the largest of the sleds that had made up the bob, they were pulled up the two hills by a crowd of laughing boys, Teddy's sled trailing on behind. So the little incident did not really amount to much, though at one time both Ted and Jan were frightened. They coasted some more, being careful to keep out of the way of the bigger boys and girls and then, as it was getting dark, Jan said again they had better go home. "One more coast!" cried Ted, just as he had said before. "It may rain in the night and melt all the snow." "It's awful cold," shivered Janet, buttoning up her coat. "If it tries to rain it will freeze into snow. And it's snowing yet, Ted." "Yes. And almost as hard as it was this morning. Say, maybe we'll be snowed in, Jan! Wouldn't it be fun?" "Maybe. I never was snowed in; were you?" "No. But I'd like to be." The time was to come, though, when Ted and Janet were to find that to be snowed in was not quite so much fun as they expected. They reached home with rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes, to find supper ready for them. "Did you have a good time?" asked their mother. "Fine!" answered Janet. "And I got run away with," added Ted, who always told everything that happened. "Run away with!" exclaimed his father. "I thought they didn't allow any horses or automobiles on the coasting hill." "They don't," Ted answered. "My sled ran away with me, but I steered it into a snow bank and upset," and he told of what had happened. "You must be very careful," said his father, when Ted had finished. "Coasting is fun, but if everyone is not careful you may get hurt, and we wouldn't like that." It was still snowing hard when Ted and Jan went to bed, and it was with eager faces that they looked out into the night. "Do you s'pose we'll be snowed in?" asked Jan. "I hope so--that is, if we have enough to eat," answered Ted. "That's what grandpa said to do--buy lots to eat, 'cause the hermit said it was going to be an awful bad winter." "Did you ever see a hermit, Ted?" "No. Did you?" "No. But I'd like to, wouldn't you?" "Yes, I would, Jan." "Maybe I'll be a hermit some day," went on the little girl, after she had gotten into bed, her room being across the hall from Ted's. "Huh! You can't be a hermit." "I can so!" "You can not!" "Why?" "'Cause hermits is only men. I'll be the hermit!" "Well, couldn't I live with you--wherever you live?" "Maybe I might live in a dark cave. Lots of hermits do." "I wouldn't be afraid in the dark if you were there, Teddy." "All right. Maybe I'd let you live with me." "Does a hermit like snowstorms, Teddy?" "Children, you must be quiet and go to sleep!" called Mrs. Martin from downstairs. "Don't talk any more." Ted and Janet were quiet for a little while, and then Janet called in a loud whisper: "Teddy, when you're a hermit will you have to eat?" "I guess so, Jan. Everybody has to eat." "Children!" warned Mrs. Martin again, and then Jan and Ted became quiet for the rest of the night. It was very cold when the children awoke in the morning, and as soon as they were up they ran to the windows to look out. It had stopped snowing and the air was clear and bright with sunshine. "We didn't get snowed in," called Janet, in some disappointment. "No," answered Ted. "But it's so cold I guess the pond is frozen and we can go skating." "Oh, that'll be fun!" cried Jan. "Will you help me skate, Ted? 'Cause I can't do it very well yet." She had just learned the winter before. "I'll help you," her brother promised. There was a pond not far from the Martin home, and it was so shallow that it froze more quickly than the larger lake, which was just outside the town, and where the best skating was. The smaller boys and girls used the little pond, though sometimes they went to the lake when it was perfectly safe. After school Jan and Ted, taking their skates, went to the pond. There they found many of their little friends. "How's the ice?" asked Teddy of Harry Kent. "Slippery as glass," was the answer. "Then I'll fall down!" exclaimed Jan. And she did, almost as soon as she stood up on her skates. But Ted and Harry held her between them and before long she could strike out a little. Then she remembered some of the directions her father had given her when he taught her to skate the year before, and Jan was soon doing fairly well. Ted was a pretty good skater for a boy of his age. "You're doing fine, Curlytop!" called Harry Morris, one of the big boys who had pulled Ted and Jan up the hill on his sled the previous night. He had come to see how thick the ice was. "You're doing fine. But why don't you hitch up your goat and make him pull you on the ice?" "Oh, Ted, we could do that!" cried Janet, as the big boy passed on. "Do what?" "Harness Nicknack to a sled and make him give us a ride. Maybe he could pull us over the snow as well as on the ice." "We'll try it!" cried Teddy. He took off his skates and hurried home, telling Janet to wait for him at the pond, which was not far from the Martin house. In a little while Teddy came back driving Nicknack hitched to Ted's sled. The goat pulled the little boy along over the snow much more easily than he had hauled the small wagon. "This is great!" cried Ted. "I'm going to drive him on the ice now. Giddap, Nicknack!" Teddy guided the goat to the ice-covered pond. Nicknack took two or three steps on the slippery place and then he suddenly fell down, the sled, with Ted on it, gliding over his hind legs. "Baa-a-a-a!" bleated Nicknack, as if he did not at all like this. CHAPTER IV THE SNOW HOUSE "Oh, Teddy, you'll hurt Nicknack!" cried Janet, when she saw what had happened. "I didn't mean to," Ted answered, jumping off the sled. "He slipped on the ice and I couldn't stop the sled." "Help him get up," went on Jan. "He can't get up himself with that sled on his hind legs." Teddy pulled back the sled, but still Nicknack did not get up. "Maybe one of his legs is broken," suggested Tom Taylor, a boy who lived near the Martins. "If it is he'll have to run on three legs. Our dog did that once, when one of his legs had been run over," said Lola Taylor, Tom's sister. "Come on, Nicknack, get up!" cried Ted. "Stand up and give us a ride on the ice." But the goat only went: "Baa-a-a-a!" again, and he seemed to shake his head as if to say that he could not get up. "His legs are all right," Teddy said when he had looked at them as well as he could, and felt of the parts that stuck out from under Nicknack's body. "Why doesn't he stand up?" "What's the matter, Curlytop?" asked Harry Morris. "My goat won't stand up on the ice," Ted answered. "He fell down and his legs are all right, but he won't stand up." "Maybe it's because he knows he can't," said Harry. "Goats aren't made to stand on slippery ice you know. Their hoofs are hard like a cow's. They are all right for walking on snow or on the ground, but they can't get a good hold on the ice. I guess the reason Nicknack won't stand up is because he knows he'd fall down again if he tried it. Here, I'll help you get him over into the snow, and there you'll see he'll be all right." With the help of Harry, the goat was half led and half carried off the pond to the snow-covered ground. There Nicknack could drag the sled easily, and he gave Ted and Jan a nice ride, also pulling Lola and Tom. Ted offered the big boy a ride behind the goat, but Harry said: "I'm much obliged to you, Curlytop, but I'm afraid your sled is too small for me. Your goat is strong enough to pull me, I guess, but I'd fall off the sled, I'm afraid." "I wish I could make him pull me on the ice," said Teddy. "How could we make him stop slipping?" he asked the big boy. "Well, you'd have to have sharp-pointed iron shoes put on his hoofs, the same as they shoe horses for the winter. Only I don't know any blacksmith that could make shoes small enough for a goat. Maybe you could tie cloth on his hoofs, or old pieces of rubber, so he wouldn't slip on the ice." "That's what we'll do!" cried Teddy. "To-morrow we'll make some rubbers for our goat, Jan." "Do you think he'll let us put 'em on?" asked Jan. "Oh, course he will. Nicknack is a good goat." Ted and Jan drove him around some more in the snow, and this was not hard pulling for Nicknack, as the sled slipped along easily and he had no trouble in standing up on his sharp hoofs in the soft snow. But Ted did not again drive him on the ice that day. "I know what we can do to have some fun," said Jan, as she and her brother started Nicknack toward home after having had some more rides themselves, and giving some to their little friends. "What?" asked Ted. "Haven't we had fun enough?" "Yes, but we can have more," went on Jan. "And this fun is good to eat." "If you mean stopping at a store and getting some lollypops--nopy!" and Ted shook his head quickly from side to side. "I didn't mean that," declared Jan. "It's good you didn't," came from her brother, "'cause if you did we couldn't." "Why not?" Jan asked. "I haven't got a penny," returned Teddy. "I asked mother for some when I went home to get Nicknack, but she told me to wait a minute while she paid the milkman." "Didn't you wait?" asked Jan in some surprise. It seemed strange that Teddy would miss a chance like this, as Mrs. Martin did not give the Curlytops pennies every time they asked for them. She did not want them to get in the habit of spending money too freely, especially when it was given them, and they had done no little thing to earn it. Nor did she want them to buy candy when she did not know about it. So the giving of pennies was really an event in the lives of Ted and Jan, and the little girl wondered very much now, why it was her brother had not taken the money when his mother was willing to give it. "Why didn't you want to wait, Ted?" asked Jan. "Oh, I wanted to all right," he answered; "but Nicknack didn't want to. I got him--Nora and me--all harnessed up, and I tied him out in front; then I went in to ask for the pennies--one for you and one for me." "Oh, I wish you'd got 'em," said Jan, rather sorrowfully. "I would have, only for the goat," explained her brother. "Mother told me to wait; but, just as she said it, I saw an automobile come along in front of our house close to where I'd tied Nicknack. "Our goat got scared and tried to run away, 'cause the auto chucked snow on him, and then I had to run out to catch him. That's why I couldn't wait for the pennies. I jumped on the sled just as Nicknack was startin' to run away----" "Star-ting!" corrected Janet. "Well, star-ting, then," laughed Ted. "Anyhow, I couldn't make him turn around to go back for the pennies, so I came on right over to the pond." "And we had a lot of fun there," stated Jan. "Only I didn't like to see our goat fall down." "Well, he'll stand up when we get rubbers for him," said Ted. "But how're we going to have more fun, Jan?" "Make snow-cream," answered the little Curlytop girl. "What's that?" asked Ted. "Like ice-cream?" "Yes, only different. Don't you know? Mother lets us make it sometimes. You take a lot of snow--clean snow in a pail--and you stir some eggs and milk and sugar and flavoring in it, and that makes almost the same as ice-cream." "How're we going to do it?" asked Ted, as the goat pulled him and his sister slowly along the snow-lined street. "We haven't got any sugar or milk or eggs or flavoring--not even a pail." "We can stop at Aunt Sallie's and get 'em all," said Janet. "She'll like us to make snow-cream, I guess. She can help us eat it." "Then let's!" cried Teddy. "Go on, Nicknack, we're going to make snow-cream! Is it awful good?" he asked his sister. "Terrible good," she answered. "I didn't have any yet this winter, but we had some last. It's better'n lollypops." "Then it must be specially extra good," decided Ted. "Hurry up, Nicknack." The goat hurried as much as he could, but, though it was easier going on the snow than on the ice, still it was not as easy as on the dry ground in summer. Along the street, around this corner, then around the next went the Curlytops on the sled pulled by Nicknack, until, at last, they came to the house of Aunt Sallie, a dear old lady who was always glad to see them. "My gracious sakes alive!" she cried, as she met the two children. "Here we come, in our coach and four, just like Cinderella out of the pumpkin pie!" "Oh, Cinderella didn't come out of a pumpkin _pie_, Aunt Sallie!" gasped Janet. "No? Well, I was thinking of some pumpkin pies I just baked, I guess," said Aunt Sallie Newton, who was really Mrs. Martin's aunt, and so, of course, the Curlytops' great-aunt, though they called her "Aunt" Sallie, and not "Great-aunt" Sallie. "Yes, I guess that was it--the pumpkin pies I baked. Maybe you'd like some?" she asked, looking at the children. "Oh, I just guess we would!" cried Teddy eagerly. "And we'd like some snow-cream, too, if you please," said Jan. "Could we make some, Aunt Sallie?" "Snow-cream?" "Yes, like mother used to make. You take some snow," went on the little girl, "and stir it up with milk and sugar and eggs----" "Oh, yes! I know!" laughed Aunt Sallie. "I used to make that when I was a little girl. Now I'll tell you what I'll do; if you're sure it will be all right with your mother, I'll get you each a little piece of pumpkin pie and then I'll make the snow-cream." "Oh, goodie!" cried Jan and Teddy exactly together. So, while Nicknack stayed outside in a sheltered corner by the house and nibbled the dried leaves of some old flowers, Aunt Sallie got the pieces of pie for the children, each slice on a nice little plate with a napkin under it. "And now for the snow-cream!" said Aunt Sallie. She went out into the kitchen, and almost before Jan and Ted had finished their pieces of pie back she came with two dishes with something good in them. "I made it just as you told me," she said to Jan. "I stirred the eggs and sugar and milk up in some clean snow and flavored it. Tell me if you like it." The children tasted, and Ted exclaimed: "I could eat three dishes!" "But I guess one will be enough after the pie," said Aunt Sallie, and Ted thought so, too, after he had finished the nice dessert. Then he and his sister, after thanking Mrs. Newton, went out and got on the sled again, hurrying Nicknack on, for it was growing late. They were soon safe at their own home. "Mother, are there any old rubbers in the house?" asked Ted that night, after having told of the fun skating on the pond and riding over the snow behind Nicknack. "Old rubbers? What do you want of them?" asked Mrs. Martin. "I want to make some overshoes for the goat." "Overshoes for the goat! What will you try next, Teddy?" and his mother laughed. "We really are going to do it," added Jan. "Nicknack can't stand up on the slippery ice without something on his hoofs." "Why don't you get him a pair of skates?" asked Father Martin with a laugh. "Though you'd have to get him two pairs, to have enough to go around, as Nicknack has four feet." "He couldn't stand up on skates," answered Ted. "His hoofs are like skates now, they're so hard and shiny." "And so you think overshoes would be the thing?" asked his father. "Well, maybe they would do. I'll see if I can find some old rubbers or rubber boots that you can cut up." A pair of boots that had holes in them and could no longer be used by Mr. Martin, were found in the attic. Some pieces of rubber were cut from the legs and when the inside lining had been partly peeled off four thin squares of rubber could be cut out. "We'll tie these on Nicknack's hoofs and see if he can stand up on the ice," said Teddy. "I wish it was to-morrow now, so we could do it." Ted and Jan hurried home from school the next day to hitch Nicknack to Ted's sled and drive him down to the ice to try the goat's new rubbers. They were tied on his hoofs with pieces of string, Mrs. Martin helping the children do this. Nicknack was a gentle and patient goat, but he acted rather strangely when the rubber squares were tied over his hoofs. He stamped his feet, shook his head and bleated. He did not quite understand what was going on, but he made no special trouble and started off well when he had been hitched to the sled. "Me want a wide!" called Trouble from the veranda, as Ted and Jan went gliding away over the snow. "Next time!" answered Ted. "This sled isn't big enough," added Janet. "We ought to get a bigger sled, Teddy," she went on. "One as big as our goat wagon, and then we could have fine rides and take Trouble with us." "We'll ask daddy to get us one," said her brother. When they reached the pond the only skaters on it were Tom and Lola Taylor. Tom laughed as he saw Nicknack. "Ho!" he cried, "your goat will fall down on the ice again." "Maybe he won't," answered Teddy. "Just you watch!" He drove Nicknack toward the frozen pond, but the goat stood still at the very edge. "He's afraid to go on--he knows he'll slip," said Tom. "I guess that's it," agreed Teddy. "Go on, Nicknack!" he called. "Giddap! You won't fall 'cause you've your rubbers on." "Oh! has he, really?" asked Lola. "'Deed he has. We made him some out of an old rubber boot," replied Teddy. "Look!" and he pointed to the black squares tied on Nicknack's hoofs. "How funny!" gasped Lola. "Maybe he won't slip with them on," remarked Tom, "but I guess he isn't sure of it. He won't go on the ice." And indeed Nicknack did not seem to want to do this. He turned first to one side and then the other as Ted tried to drive him on to the frozen pond. Nicknack did not mind pulling the Curlytops over the snow, where he knew he would not slip, but he was afraid of the ice. "I know how to get him on," said Teddy. "How?" asked Tom. "Here, you hold this cookie in front of him," went on Teddy. "I put it in my pocket to eat myself, but I'll give it to Nicknack. Hold it in front of his nose, Tom, and when he goes to bite it you just walk away with it. Then he'll follow after you, and when you walk on the ice he'll do the same." "Say, that is a good way!" cried Tom. "I'll do it!" "Once he's on the ice, if the rubbers keep him from slipping, he'll be all right," went on Ted. He tossed Tom the cookie and Tom held it in front of the goat's nose. Surely enough Nicknack reached out for it, but as soon as he did this Tom stepped back a little way, the goat following. This was done two or three times, Nicknack getting nearer the icy pond each time, until at last he had all four rubber-covered feet on it. "Shall I give him the cookie now?" asked Tom. "No, make him come a little farther for it," answered Ted, who was sitting on the sled in front, holding Nicknack's reins, while Janet sat behind her brother. So Tom backed a little farther away from the goat, that still walked on to get the cookie which he could smell, and which he wanted very much. And before Nicknack knew it he was walking over the ice and he did not slip at all, for the pieces of rubber on his hoofs held him up, just as they would have held up Teddy or Janet. "Now he's all right!" called Teddy. "He can walk on the ice now, and run, too, I guess. Give him the cookie, Tom." So Nicknack had the cookie, and then Teddy drove him over and around the pond. Nicknack seemed to like it, now that he did not slip. When Teddy and Janet had had a good ride they let Tom and Lola take a turn, Tom driving, and the goat went as well for him as it had gone for Teddy. "I didn't know a goat was as much fun in winter as it is in summer," said Tom. "I wish I had one." "We'll give you more rides when we get a big sled," promised Ted. "Are you going to get one?" Lola asked. "We're going to ask our father for one," replied Ted. "And I guess he'll let us have it so we can take Trouble out for rides. Giddap, Nicknack!" and once more he started the goat across the ice. The Curlytops and their friends had great sport with the goat and sled that day, and Nicknack hardly slipped at all. He was getting used to the ice, Tom said. After two days during which the Curlytops had fun with their sleds and skates, it began to snow again, covering the ground yet deeper with the white flakes, while the frozen pond and lake were buried out of sight. "No more skating for a while," said Tom Taylor, as he walked to school with Teddy and Jan one morning. "No. But we can sleigh-ride and build a snow fort," answered Ted. "And a snow man, too," added Janet. "Why not make a snow house?" asked Lola. "The snow is soft and it will pack well. Let's make a snow house!" "We will!" cried Ted. "We'll start one after school in our back yard. We'll make one big enough for us all four to live in." "And we can stay there even if the snow covers the top," added Janet. "Wouldn't we freeze?" asked Lola. "No. Mother read us a story about a man who was caught out in a big snowstorm, and he dug down under the snow and let it cover him all up, except a place to breathe, and he was warm." "Well, we'll build a snow house, but I guess there won't be enough snow to cover it," cried Tom. "I like lots of snow," put in Teddy. All that day it snowed, even when the Curlytops and the other children ran laughing and shouting out of school. Tom and Lola went with Jan and Ted to the Martins' back yard and there they began to build a snow house. CHAPTER V NICKNACK SEES HIMSELF The snow was just right for making snow houses, or for rolling big balls that grow in size the more you push them along. For the snow was wet--that is, the flakes stuck together. Sometimes, when the weather is cold, the snow is dry and almost like sand. Then is not a good time to try to make snow houses, snow men or big snowballs. "But it's just right now!" cried Teddy, as he ran into the back yard with his sister and the other girl and boy. "We'll make a fine snow house!" "First we'll make some big snowballs," said Tom Taylor. "I thought we were going to make a snow house!" exclaimed Ted. "So we are," agreed Tom. "But the way to start is to make big snowballs. Roll them as big as you can and they'll make the sides of the house. We'll pile a lot of snowballs together and fill in the cracks between. That's the way to start." [Illustration: "FIRST WE'LL MAKE SOME BIG SNOWBALLS," SAID TOM TAYLOR. _Page 52_] Ted and the others saw that this was a good way, and so they began. First they each made a little snowball. But as they rolled them along around the big yard the balls gathered the snow up from the ground, packing it around the little ball that had first been started, until Ted's was so big that he could hardly move it. "It's big enough now!" called Tom. "Put it over here, where we're going to start the snow house, and I'll roll my big ball next to yours, Ted." This was done. Then Jan's snowball, and that of Lola were put in a row and the four walls of the snow house were started. There was plenty of the snow to be had and the children worked fast. Before dusk they had the four walls of the house made, with a doorway and windows cut, but there was no roof on, though the walls of the white house were above Tom's head, and he was the tallest. "Aren't we going to make a roof?" asked Ted. "We'll do that to-morrow," answered Tom. "We ought to have some boards to lay across the top, and then we could pile snow on them. It's easier that way, but you can make a roof of just snow. Only it might fall in on our heads." "We don't want that," said Janet. "Boards are better, Tom." When it was too dark to see to do any more work on the snow building, the Curlytops went into the house and their playmates hurried to their home for supper. "We'll finish the house to-morrow," called Teddy to Tom. The next afternoon, when they came home from school, the children started to make the roof. Ted had asked his father to get him some boards, and this Mr. Martin had done. They were laid across the top of the four walls, and snow was piled on top of them, so that from the outside the house looked as if made entirely of snow. From the inside the boards in the roof showed, of course, but no one minded that. The snow house was large enough for five small children to get in it and stand up, though Tom's head nearly touched the roof. "But that doesn't count," laughed Ted. "You can pretend you're a giant and you could lift the roof off with your head if you wanted to." "Only you mustn't want to!" cautioned Jan. "I won't," promised Tom. "We ought to have a door so we could close it, and then it would be like a real house," Lola said. "Couldn't we make one?" asked Ted. "It would be hard to make a door fast to the snow sides of the house," answered Tom. "If we had a blanket we could hang it up for a curtain-door, though." "I'll get one!" cried Janet, and she ran in to ask her mother for one. The blanket was tacked to the edge of one of the boards in the roof, and hung down over the square that was cut out in the snow wall for the door. When the blanket was pulled over the opening it was as cozy inside the snow house as one could wish. "And it's warm, too!" cried Ted. "I guess we could sleep here all night." "But I'm not going to!" exclaimed Jan quickly. "Anyhow we haven't got anything to sleep on." "We can make some benches of snow," Tom said. "Let's do it!" "How?" asked Ted. "Well, we'll just bring in some snow and pile it up on the floor along the inside walls. Then we can cut it square and level on top, as high as we want it, and we can sit on it or lie down on it and make-believe go to sleep." "That'll be fun!" cried Lola. With their shovels the Curlytops and the others were soon piling snow up around the inside walls of the white house. Then the benches were cut into shape, and they did make good places to sit on; though it was too cold to lie down, Mrs. Martin said when she came out to look at the playhouse, and she warned the children not to do this. "We ought to have a chimney on the house," suggested Tom, after he had gone outside to see how it looked. "We can't build a fire, can we?" asked Jan, somewhat surprised. "No, of course not!" laughed Ted. "A fire would melt the snow. But we can make a chimney and pretend there's smoke coming out of it." "Let's do it!" cried Lola. "All right," agreed Tom. "You're the lightest, Teddy, so you get up on the roof. You won't cave it in. I'll toss you up some snow and you can make it square, in the shape of a chimney." This Ted did, and with a stick he even marked lines on the snow chimney to make it look as if made of bricks. "That's fine!" cried Tom. "It looks real!" "It would look realer if we had something like black smoke coming out," declared Janet. "Oh, I know how to do that!" exclaimed Lola. "How?" asked her brother. "Get some black paper and stick it on top of the chimney." "Maybe my mother's got some," said Ted. "I'll go and ask her." Mrs. Martin found an old piece of wrapping paper that was almost black in color, and when this had been rumpled up and put on top of the snow chimney, where Ted fastened it with sticks, at a distance it did look as though black smoke were pouring out of the white snow house. "Now we ought to have something to eat, and we could pretend we really lived in here," said Janet, after a bit, when they were sitting on the benches inside the house. "You go and ask mother for something," suggested Ted. "I got the paper smoke. You go and get some cookies." "I will," Janet promised, and she soon came running from the house with a large plate full of molasses and sugar cookies that Nora had given her. "Um! but these are good!" cried Tom, as he munched some with the Curlytops and his sister. "This is a fine house!" exclaimed Teddy. "I'm glad you helped us build it," he said to Tom. "Only it wants some glass in the windows," said Ted, looking at the holes in the snow walls of the house. "We don't need glass," immediately put in Tom. "Why not?" asked Jan. "If we put wooden windows in we can't see through 'em." "We can use sheets of ice!" cried Tom. "My father said that that's the way the Eskimos do up at the north pole. They use ice for glass." "You can see through ice all right," said Ted. "But where could we get any thin enough for windows for our snow house?" "All the ice on the pond and lake is covered with snow," added Lola. "We can put some water out in pans," went on Tom. "If it's cold to-night it will freeze in a thin sheet of ice, and then to-morrow we can make windows of it for our snow house." "Oh, that'll be fun!" cried Ted. "It will be almost like a real house!" added Jan. Mrs. Martin said, when the Curlytops asked her, that Tom's plan might work if the night turned cold enough to freeze. And as after dark it did get colder she put some water out in large shallow pans. In the morning the water was frozen into thin sheets of ice, clear as crystal, and Ted and Jan could see right through them as well as they could see through glass. "They're great!" cried Tom when he saw them, and that afternoon when school was out, the ice windows were set in the holes in the walls of the snow house. "'Dis nice place!" Trouble said, when he was taken out to it. "I 'ikes it here! I stay all night!" "No, I guess you won't stay all night," laughed Tom. "You might freeze fast to the snow bench." "How plain we can see out of the windows," said Lola. "Oh, see, Ted, here comes your goat! I guess he's looking for you." "He must 've got loose and 've run out of his stable," said Teddy. "I'll go to fasten him up. Here, Nicknack!" he called as he walked out of the snow house toward his pet. Nicknack kept on coming toward the white house. He walked up to one of the windows. The sun was shining on it and as Ted looked he cried: "Oh, I can see Nicknack in the glass window just as if it was a looking glass. And Nicknack can see himself!" This was true. The goat came to a sudden stop and looked at his own reflection in the shiny ice window. Nicknack seemed much surprised. He stamped in the snow with his black hoofs, and then he raised himself up in the air on his hind feet. At the same time he went: "Baa-a-a-a! Baa-a-a-a-a!" "Oh, Nicknack's going to buck!" cried Ted. "Who's he going to buck?" asked Tom, sticking his head out of the blanket door of the snow house. "I guess he thinks he sees another goat in the shiny ice window," went on Ted, "and he's going for that. Oh, look out! Come back, Nicknack! Come back!" Teddy yelled. But with another bleat and a shake of his head Nicknack, having seen himself reflected in the ice window, and thinking it another goat, started on a run for the snow house, inside of which were Jan, Tom, Lola and Trouble. CHAPTER VI THE SNOW MAN Sounding his funny, bleating cry, like a sheep, Nicknack gave a jump straight for the ice window in which he had seen himself as in a looking glass. "Crash!" went the ice window. "Oh, my!" screamed Lola, inside the snow house. "What is it?" asked Jan, for Lola stood in front of her. Trouble looked up from where he was sitting beside Tom on the snow bench, and just then the goat went right through the soft, snow side of the house and scrambled down inside. "Dat's our goat!" exclaimed Trouble, as if that was the way Nicknack always came in. "Dat's our goat!" For a moment Jan and Lola had been so frightened that they did not know what it was. Luckily they were not in Nicknack's way when he jumped through, so he did not land on them. But the snow house was so small that there was hardly room for a big goat inside it, besides the four children, even with Ted outside, and Nicknack almost landed in the laps of Tom and Trouble when he jumped through. In fact, his chin-whiskers were in Trouble's face, and Baby William laughed and began pulling them as he very often did. "Baa-a-a-a!" bleated the goat and then he quickly turned around to see, I suppose, what had become of the other goat against which he had leaped, intending to butt him out of the way. "Oh, Nicknack!" cried Jan. "What made you jump in on us like that?" "Oh, my, I'm so scared!" gasped Lola. "Will he bite us?" "Nicknack never bites," answered Janet reprovingly. "But what made him jump into the snow house and break the ice window?" "'Cause he saw himself in it," answered Ted, coming in just then. "I knew what he was goin' to do but I couldn't stop him. Say, Tom, he made an awful big jump!" "I should say he did!" exclaimed Tom. "I thought the whole place was coming down! You'd better call your goat out, Curlytop, or he may knock our snow house all to pieces." "All right, I will," agreed Ted. "Here, Nicknack!" he called. "Come on outside!" Nicknack turned at the sound of his little master's voice, and just then he saw another ice window. The sun was shining on that, too, and once more Nicknack noticed the reflection of himself in the bright ice, which was like glass. "Baa-a-a-a-a!" he bleated again. "Baa-a-a-a!" "Look out! He's going to jump!" cried Tom. He made a grab for the goat, but only managed to get hold of his short, stubby tail. To this Tom held as tightly as he could, but Nicknack was not going to be stopped for a little thing like that. Forward he jumped, but he did not quite reach the ice window. Instead his horns and head butted against the side wall of the snow house, and in it he made a great hole, near the window. This made the wall so weak that the snow house began to cave in, for the other wall had almost all been knocked down when the goat jumped through that. "Look out!" cried Ted. "It's going to fall!" "Come on!" yelled Tom, letting go of Nicknack's tail. "Take care of Trouble!" begged Jan of her brother. Ted caught his little brother up in his arms. It was as much as he could do, but, somehow or other, Ted felt very strong just then. He was afraid Trouble would be hurt. And then, just as the children hurried out of the door, pulling away, in their haste, the blanket that was over the opening, the snow house toppled down, some of the boards in the roof breaking. "Oh, it's a good thing we weren't in there when it fell!" cried Lola. "We'd all have been killed!" "Snow won't kill you!" said her brother. "But the boards might have hurt us," said Lola. "Our nice house is all spoiled!" "And Nicknack is under the snow in there!" cried Ted. "No, he isn't! Here he comes out," answered Janet. And just as she said that, out from under the pile of boards and the snow that was scattered over them, came Nicknack. With a wiggle of his head and horns, and a scramble of his feet, which did not have any rubber on now, Nicknack managed to get out from under the fallen playhouse, and with a leap he stood beside the children. "There, Nicknack! See what you did!" cried Janet. "Spoiled our nice snow house!" added Lola. "We'll build you another," promised Ted. "Say, I never knew our goat was such a good jumper." "He's strong all right," agreed Tom. "Nicknack a funny goat!" laughed Trouble, as his brother set him down on a smooth place in the snow. "I guess Trouble thinks it was all just for fun," said Tom. "He isn't scared a bit." "Oh, Trouble doesn't get scared very easy," answered Jan. "He's always laughing. Aren't you, Trouble?" and she hugged him. "Well, shall we build the house over again?" asked Tom, when Ted had taken the goat back to the stable and fastened him in so he could not easily get loose. "It'll be a lot of work," said Lola. "You'll have to make a whole new one." "Yes, Nicknack didn't leave much of it," agreed Tom. "Shall we make a bigger one, Ted--big enough for Nicknack to get in without breaking the walls?" "Oh, I don't know," returned Ted slowly. "There isn't much snow left, and some of the boards are busted. Let's make a snow man instead." "All right!" agreed Tom. "We'll do that! We'll make a big one." "I don't want to do that," said Jan. "Come on, Lola, let's go coasting." "An' take me!" begged Trouble. "Yes, take him," added Ted. "He'll throw snowballs at the snow men we make if you don't." So Baby William was led away by the two girls, and Tom and his chum started to make a snow man. But they soon found that the snow was not right for packing. It was too hard and not wet enough. "It's too cold, I guess," observed Tom, when he had tried several times to roll a big ball as the start in making a snow man. "Then let's us go coasting, too," proposed Ted, and Tom was willing. So the boys, leaving the ruins of the snow house, and not even starting to make the snow man, went to coast with the girls, who were having a good time on the hill with many of their friends. "Oh, it's snowing again!" cried Ted when the time came to go home, as it was getting dusk. "We've had a lot of storms already this winter," added Lola. "My grandpa wrote in a letter that a hermit, up near Cherry Farm, said this was going to be a bad winter for storms," put in Jan. "Maybe we'll all be snowed in." "That'll be great!" cried Tom. "It will not!" exclaimed his sister. "We might all freeze to death. I don't like too much snow." "I do!" declared Ted. "And there's a lot coming down now!" There seemed to be, for the white flakes made a cloud as they blew here and there on the north wind, and it was quite cold when the Curlytops and their friends reached their homes. All the next day it snowed, and Ted and Jan asked their father and mother several times whether or not they were going to be snowed in. "Oh, I guess not this time," answered Mr. Martin. "It takes a regular blizzard to do that, and we don't often get blizzards here." Though they felt that possibly being snowed in might not be altogether nice, still Ted and Jan rather wanted it to happen so they could see what it was like. But that was not to come with this storm. Still the wind and snow were so bad, at times, that Mrs. Martin thought it best for the Curlytops to stay in the house. Trouble, of course, had to stay in also, and he did not like that a bit. Neither did Jan or Ted, but there was no help for it. "What can we do to have some fun?" asked Teddy, for perhaps the tenth time that day. He stood with his nose pressed flat against the window, looking out at the swirling flakes. "Can't I be out, Mother?" he asked again. "Oh, no, indeed, little Curlytop son," she answered. "But we want some fun!" chimed in Jan. "Isn't there _anything_ we can do?" "Have you played with all your games?" asked her mother. "Every one," answered the little girl. "And we even played some of 'em backwards, so's to make 'em seem different," put in Teddy. "Well, if you had to do that it must be pretty hard!" laughed Mrs. Martin. "I know it isn't any fun to stay in the house, but to-morrow the storm may be over and then you can go out. I know that won't help matters now," she went on, as she saw that Teddy was about to say something. "But if you'll let me think a minute maybe I can plan out some new games for you to play." "Oh, Mother, if you only can!" cried Jan eagerly. "Don't talk--let her think!" ordered Teddy. "We want to have some fun--a lot of fun!" So he and his sister sat very quietly while his mother thought of all the things that might be possible for a little boy and girl and their baby brother to do when they had to stay in the house. "I have it!" cried Mrs. Martin at last. "Something for us to play?" asked Janet. "Yes. How would you like to play steamboat and travel to different countries?" "Not real?" cried Ted, with a look at the snow outside. "Oh, no, not _real_, of course," said his mother, with a smile. "But you can go up in the attic, and take the old easy chair that isn't any good for sitting in any more. You can turn that over on the floor and make believe it's a steamboat. In that you and Jan and Baby William can pretend to travel to different countries. You can say the floor is the ocean and you can take some blocks of wood to make the islands, and if any one steps in the make-believe water he'll get his feet wet." "Make-believe wet," laughed Teddy. "That's it," his mother agreed with a laugh. "Now run along up and play, and then you won't think about the snow and the storm. And before you know it--why, it will be night and time to go to bed and in the morning the storm may be over and you can be out." "Come on!" cried Jan to her brother. "Wait a minute," he said, standing still in the middle of the room, while Trouble, who seemed to know that something was going on different from usual, jumped up and down, crying: "We hab some fun! We hab some fun!" "But you mustn't jump like that up in the attic," said his mother, shaking her finger at him. "If you do you'll rattle the boards and maybe make the plaster fall." "Do you mean the plaster like the kind I had on when I was sick?" asked Jan. "No, my dear, I mean the plaster on the ceiling," said her mother. "Well, Teddy, why don't you go along and play the game I told you about?" she asked, as she saw the little boy still standing in the middle of the sitting-room. "Play the steamboat game with the old chair. The chair will be the ship, and you can take the old spinning wheel to steer with, and maybe there's a piece of stovepipe up there that you can use for a smokestack. Only, for mercy's sake, don't get all black, and don't let Trouble get black." "Come on, Ted!" cried his sister to him. "I was just thinkin'," he said thoughtfully. "Say, Mother, don't folks get hungry when they're on a ship?" "I guess so, Ted." "And even on a make-believe one?" "Well, yes, I suppose they do. But you can make believe eat if you get make-believe hungry." "But what if we get _really_ hungry?" asked Teddy. "I'm that way now, almost. Couldn't we have something real to eat on the make-believe steamboat, Mother?" Mrs. Martin laughed. "Why, yes, I suppose you could," she answered. "You children go on up to the attic and get the old chair ready to play steamboat, and I'll see what I can find to bring up to you to eat." "Now we can have some fun!" cried Ted, and he no longer looked out of the window at the snow, and wished he could be in it playing, even though that was not exactly good for him. Up the stairs trooped the Curlytops, followed by Trouble, who grunted and puffed as he made his way, holding to the hem of Jan's dress. "What's the matter, Trouble?" asked Jan, turning around. "Maybe he's making believe he's climbing a mountain," said Ted. "You always have to breathe hard when you do that." "Did you ever climb a mountain?" "No, but I ran up a hill once," answered her brother, "and that made my breath come as fast as anything. I guess that's what Trouble is doing." "No, I is _not_!" exclaimed the little boy, who heard what his sister and brother were saying about him. "I 'ist is swimmin', like I did at Cherry Farm," he said. "I play I is in the water." "I guess he's ready to play steamboat, all right," laughed Jan. "Come along, little fat Trouble!" she called, and she helped him get up the last of the steps that led to the attic. The children found an old easy chair. It was one Mr. Martin had made some years before, and was a folding one. It had a large frame, and could be made higher and lower by putting a cross bar of wood in some niches. The seat of the chair was made of a strip of carpet, but this had, long ago, worn to rags and the chair had been put in the attic until some one should find time to mend it. But this time never seemed to come. Often, before, Ted, Jan and Trouble had played steamboat with it. They laid it down flat, and then raised up the front legs and the frame part that fitted into the back legs. These two parts they tied together and could move it back and forth, while they made believe the carpet part of the chair was the deck of the boat. "All aboard!" called Janet, as Teddy laid the chair down on the floor. "Wait a minute!" called her brother. "What for?" Janet wanted to know. "'Cause I haven't got the steerin' wheel fixed. I got to get that, else the boat will go the wrong way. Wait until I get the old spinning wheel for a steerer." Up in the attic, among many other things, was an old spinning wheel, that used to belong to Mrs. Martin's mother's mother--that is the great-grandmother of the Curlytops. The spinning part of the wheel had been broken long before, but the wheel itself would go around and it would make something to steer with, just as on the real large steamers, Ted thought. The spinning wheel was put in front of the chair steamboat, and then Jan got on "board," as it is called. "Wait for me!" cried Trouble, who was hunting in a corner of the attic for something with which to have some fun. "Oh, I won't forget you," laughed Jan, and then all three of the children were ready for the trip across the make-believe ocean. They crowded together on the carpet deck of the chair boat while Ted twirled the wheel and Jan moved the legs back and forth as if they were the engine. Trouble cried "Toot! Toot!" he being the whistle, and they rode about--at least they pretended they did--and had lots of fun, stopping at wooden islands to pick cocoanuts and oranges from make-believe trees. "Here comes mother with something real to eat!" cried Teddy, after a bit, and up to the attic did come Mrs. Martin with some molasses cookies. The children had lots of fun eating these and playing, and before they knew it, night had come, bringing supper and bedtime. Toward evening of the second day it stopped snowing, and the next day was quite warm, so that when Ted and Jan went out to play a bit in the snow before going to school, Ted found that the white flakes would make fine snowballs. "Oh, it packs dandy!" he cried. "We can make the snow man this afternoon!" and he threw a snowball at Nicknack's stable, hitting the side of it with a bang. "Yes, this will make a good snow man," said Tom after school, when he and Ted tried rolling the large balls. "We'll make a regular giant!" And they started at it, first rolling a big ball which was to be the body of the snow man. CHAPTER VII A STRANGE BEDFELLOW Around and around in the back yard, near what had once been a snow house, but which was only a big drift now, went Ted and Tom, rolling balls to make the snow man. Finally Ted's ball was so large that he could not push it any more. "What'll I do?" he asked Tom. "Shall I leave it here and make the snow man right in this place?" "No. I'll help you push it," Tom said. "We want that for the bottom part of the snow man, so it will have to be the biggest ball. Wait, I'll help." The two boys managed to roll the ball a little farther, and it kept getting larger all the while, for as it rolled more snow clung to it and was packed on. "There, I guess it's big enough," panted Tom, after a while. "Now, we'll pile my ball on top and then we'll put a head on our man." "Where's his legs goin' to be?" asked Jan, who came out of the house just then to look on for a while, bringing Trouble with her. "Oh, we'll carve them out of the lower part of the big snowball," answered Ted. "I'll show you." With a shovel he and Tom cut away some of the snow, making big, fat, round, white legs for the man, who, as yet, had neither eyes, a nose nor a mouth, to say nothing of ears. "Now we've got to have some buttons for his coat and some eyes for his head," said Tom, when the legs were made. On them the snow man stood up very straight and stiff. "What do you want for eyes?" asked Ted. "I saw a snow man in Grace Turner's yard last year," said Jan, "and that one had pieces of coal for eyes." "That's just what we'll use!" cried Tom. "I'll get the coal in our cellar," offered Ted, as he ran away to get the black lumps. "Bring a lot and we'll make some buttons for his coat," called Tom. "I will," Ted answered. "Don't get the lumps too big!" shouted Jan. "No, I won't," replied Ted; then he ran on to do his errand. Two of the largest chunks of coal were stuck in the snow head of the man, and now he really began to look like something. The rest of the coal was stuck in the larger snowball and the black lumps looked just like coat buttons in two rows. "There's his nose!" exclaimed Tom, as he fastened a lump of snow in the middle of the man's fat face. "And here's his mouth," he went on as he made a sort of cut in the snow with a stick. "Oh, that doesn't look like a mouth," cried Janet. "I know a better way than that." "Pooh! girls don't know how to make snow men!" exclaimed Ted. "You'd better go and get your doll, Janet." "I do so know how to make a snow man, Theodore Martin! And if you think I don't I won't tell you the best way to make a mouth! So there!" and Janet, with her head held high in the air, and her nose up-tilted, started away, taking Trouble with her. "Oh, I didn't mean anything!" protested Ted. "I was only foolin', Jan!" "That's right!" added Tom. "Go on, tell us how to make a good mouth. Mine doesn't look much like one, but that's the way I always make 'em when I build a snow man." "Well, I'll tell you," said Jan, turning back. "You want to take a piece of red flannel or red paper. Then it looks just like the snow man had red lips and was stickin' out his red tongue. I mean sticking," she added, as she remembered to put on her "g." "Say! that _is_ a good way to make a mouth, Ted!" cried Tom. "We'll do it. But where'll we get the red flannel?" "I've got a piece of red cloth left over from my doll's dress," went on Janet. "I'll get that for you." "Thanks," murmured Ted. "I guess girls do know something about snow men," he added to Tom. "Course they do," the other boy agreed. "I like your sister Janet." Ted began to feel that, even if Janet was a year younger than he, she might be smarter in some ways than he was. He was sure of it when he saw how well the snow man looked with his red tongue and lips which Tom made from the scarlet cloth Jan gave him. "Now if we only had a hat for him he'd look great!" cried Ted, when the last touches were being put on the snow man, even ears having been given him, though, of course, he could not hear through them. "I know where there's an old hat--a big stovepipe one," said Jan. She meant a tall, shiny, silk hat. "Where is it?" asked Tom. "Up in our attic. Daddy used to wear it, mother said, but it's too old-fashioned now. Maybe she'd let us take it." Mrs. Martin said the children might have the old tall hat, which was broken in one place, but the snow man did not mind that. It was soon perched on his head and then a very proper figure indeed he looked, as he stood up straight and stiff in the yard back of the house. More than one person stopped to look at what the Curlytops had made and many smiled as they saw the tall silk hat on the snow man. He even had a cane, made from a stick, and he was altogether a very proper and stylish snow man. Trouble seemed to think the white man with his shiny black hat, was made for him to play with, for no sooner was it finished than Baby William began throwing snowballs at "Mr. North," as Mrs. Martin said they ought to call the gentleman made from white flakes. "Oh, you mustn't do that!" cried Ted, as he saw what his little brother was doing. "You'll hit his hat," for one of Trouble's snowballs came very near the shiny "stovepipe" as Jan had called it. "Trouble 'ike snow man," said the little fellow, laughing. "Well, we like him, too," answered Janet, "and we don't want you to spoil him, baby. Don't throw snowballs at Mr. North." "Here, I'll help you make a little snow man for yourself," offered Ted to his brother. "Oh, dat fun!" laughed the little fellow. "I want a biggest one." "No, a small one will be better, and then you can throw as many snowballs at it as you want," went on Ted. Jan helped Ted make the snow man for Trouble, for Tom and Lola were called home by their mother. In a short while Trouble's white image was finished. Jan found more red cloth to make the lips and tongue, Ted got more coal for eyes and coat buttons and then he made a paper soldier hat for the small snow man. "Do you like it, Trouble?" asked his brother, when it was finished. "Nice," answered Baby William. "Bring it in house to play wif!" "Oh, no! You mustn't try to do that!" laughed Janet. "If you brought your snow man into the house he would all melt!" "All melt away?" asked the little fellow. "Yes, all melt into water. He has to stay out where it's cold. Play with him out here, Trouble." So Trouble did, making a lot of snowballs which he piled around the feet of his man, so that they might be ready in case the snow man himself wanted to throw them. Then Teddy and Janet went coasting just before supper, coming home with red cheeks and sparkling eyes, for it was cold and they had played hard. "Well, Trouble, is the snow man all right?" asked Ted, as he and Jan sat down to supper a little later. [Illustration: HE WAS ALTOGETHER A VERY STYLISH SNOW MAN. _Page 82_] "Iss. Big snow man in yard," answered Baby William. "He'll take care of your little snow man all night," added Janet. "Then your little snow man won't be afraid to stay out in the dark, Trouble." "Trouble's snow man not be in dark," was the answer. "He gone bed. Trouble's snow man gone bed." "What does he mean?" asked Ted. "Oh, I presume he's just pretending that he put his snow man to bed in a drift of snow," said Mrs. Martin. "The poor child is so sleepy from having played out all the afternoon that he can't keep his eyes open. I'll put you to bed right after supper, Trouble." "Trouble go to bed--snow man go to bed," murmured Baby William. He was very sleepy, so much so that his head nodded even while he was eating the last of his bread and milk. And then his mother carried him off to his room. Ted and Janet sat up a little later to talk to their father, as they generally did. "Did you hear any more from Grandpa Martin?" asked Ted, after he had finished studying his school lesson for the next day. "What about?" asked Mr. Martin. "About the big snowstorm that's coming." "Oh, you mean about what the hermit said," laughed his father. "No, we haven't had any more letters from grandpa." "But we will have enough to eat even if we are snowed in, won't we?" Jan queried. "Oh, yes, I guess so," answered Daddy Martin. "Don't worry about that." "Can those hermits really tell when there's going to be a big storm with lots of snow?" asked Ted. "Well, sometimes," admitted Mr. Martin. "Men who live in the woods or mountains all their lives know more about the weather than those of us who live in houses in towns or cities most of the time. Sometimes the hermits and woodsmen can tell by the way the squirrels and other animals act and store away food, whether or not it is going to be a hard winter. But don't worry about being snowed in. If we are we'll make the best of it." A little later Ted and Jan, still thinking what would happen if a storm should come heavy enough to cover the house, started for their bedrooms. As Janet undressed and turned back the covers of her bed she gave a scream. "What's the matter?" asked her mother from the hall. "Maybe she saw a baby mouse!" laughed Ted. "Oh, no. Mother! Daddy! Come quick!" cried Jan. "There's somebody in my bed!" Mrs. Martin ran into her little girl's room, and there, on the white sheet, half covered, she saw a strange bedfellow. CHAPTER VIII THE LAME BOY "Oh, what is it? What is it?" cried Jan, backing into the farthest corner of her room. "What's in my bed?" "It's a man!" cried Ted, who had run in from his room. "Oh, Daddy, there's a man in Jan's bed!" he shouted down the stairs. "It can't be--it isn't large enough for a man!" said Mrs. Martin, who was going toward the gas jet to turn it higher. Her husband dropped the paper he had been reading as the children were getting ready for bed, and came racing up the stairs. Into Jan's room he went, and, as he entered, Mrs. Martin turned the light on so that it shone more brightly. Daddy Martin gave one look into Jan's bed and then began to laugh. "Oh, Daddy! what is it?" cried the little girl. "Is it a man in my bed?" "Yes," answered her father, still laughing. "But it's a very little man, and he couldn't hurt anybody." "Not if he was a--a burglar?" asked Ted in a whisper. "No; for he's only a snow man!" laughed Mr. Martin. "A _snow_ man!" exclaimed Mrs. Martin. "A snow man in my bed!" gasped Jan. "How did he get there?" By this time so much noise had been made that Trouble, in his mother's room, was awakened. He came toddling into Jan's room, rubbing his sleepy eyes and holding up his little nightdress so he would not stumble over it. "Dis mornin'?" he asked, blinking at the bright lights. "No, it isn't morning, Trouble," answered his mother with a laugh. "But I guess Jan will have to sleep in your bed and you'll have to come in with me. The snow man has melted, making a little puddle of water and her sheets are all wet. She can't sleep in that bed." They all gathered around to look at the strange sight in Jan's bed. As her mother had said, the snow man, which was about two feet long, had melted. One of his legs was half gone, an ear had slid off and his nose was quite flat, while one of the pieces of coal that had pretended to be an eye had dropped out and was resting on his left shoulder. "Dat _my_ snow man!" announced Trouble, after a look. "Me put him s'eepin's in Jan's bed!" "You did?" cried Mother Martin. "Well, it's a good thing you told us, for I was going to ask Ted if he had done it as a joke." "No'm, Mother; I didn't do it!" declared Ted. "And it is the little snow man we helped Trouble make," added Jan, as she took another look. "I couldn't see good at first 'cause it was so dark in my room. But it's Trouble's snow man." "Did you really bring him in and put him to sleep in Jan's bed?" asked Baby William's father. "Iss, I did," answered Trouble, still rubbing his eyes. "My snow man not want to stay out in dark cold all night alone. Big snow man might bite him. I bringed him in wif my two arms, I did, and I did put him in Jan's bed, I did. He go s'eepin's." "Well, he's slept enough for to-night," said Mr. Martin, still laughing. "Out of the window you go!" he cried, and raising the sash near the head of Jan's bed he tossed the snow man--or what was left of him--out on the porch roof. "Here, Nora!" called Mrs. Martin. "Please take the wet clothes off Jan's bed so they'll dry. The mattress is wet, too, so she can't sleep on it. Oh, you're a dear bunch of Trouble!" she cried as she caught Baby William up in her arms and kissed his sleepy eyes, "but you certainly made lots of work to-night. What made you put the snow man in Jan's bed?" "So him have good s'eepin's. Him very twired an' s'eepy out in de yard. I bringed him in, I did!" "Well, don't do it again," said Mr. Martin, and then they all went to bed, and the snow man--what was left of him--slept out on the roof, where he very likely felt better than in a warm room, for men made of snow do not like the heat. "Well, Trouble, what are you going to do to-day?" asked his father. He was just finishing his breakfast and Baby William had just started his. "Trouble goin' make nudder snow man," was the answer. "Well, if you do, don't put it in my bed," begged Jan, with a laugh. "Put him in wif Nicknack," went on Trouble. "Yes, I guess our goat doesn't mind snow, the way he butted into our house," observed Ted. "Oh, aren't we going to build another ever?" asked Jan. "It was lots of fun. Let's make another house, Ted." "All right, maybe we will after school. It looks maybe as if it would snow again." "We have had more snowstorms than we usually do at this time of the year," remarked Mrs. Martin. "I guess Grandpa Martin's old hermit told part of the truth, anyhow." "Come on, Jan!" cried Ted to his sister, as they left the table to get ready for school. "We'll have a lot of fun in the snow to-day." "Will we go coasting or skating?" Janet asked. "There isn't any skating, unless we clean the snow off the pond," replied Ted. "And that's an awful lot of work," he added. "When we come home from school we'll build a great big snow house, if the snow is soft enough to pack." "On your way home from school," said Mrs. Martin to Ted and Jan, "I want you to stop at your father's store. He'll take you to get new rubber boots. Your old ones are nearly worn out, and if we are to have much snow this winter you'll need bigger ones to keep your feet dry. So stop at daddy's store. He'll be looking for you." "New rubber boots!" cried Ted. "That's dandy!" "Oh, may I have a high pair?" asked Jan. "I want to wade in drifts as high as Ted does, and I can't if you get me low boots." "Your father will get you the right kind," said Mrs. Martin. "The boot store is near his, and he'll go in to buy them with you." Jan and Ted were very glad they were going to have new rubber boots, and Ted was thinking so much about his that when his teacher in school asked him how to spell foot he spelled "b-o-o-t!" The other boys and girls laughed, and at first Ted did not know why. But, after a bit, when he saw the teacher smiling also, he remembered what he had done. Then he spelled foot correctly. "Theodore was thinking more of what to put on his foot, than about the word I asked him to spell," said the teacher. Mr. Martin's store was not far from the school, and Ted and Jan hurried there when their lessons were over. "Where you goin'?" asked Tom Taylor, as he came running out of the school yard. "Come on, Curlytop, and let's make another snow man." "I will after I get my new rubber boots," promised Ted. "You can start making it in our yard if you want to. But don't let Trouble make any more little snow men. He put one in my sister's bed last night." "He did?" laughed Tom. "Say, he's queer all right!" "Well, Curlytops, did you come to buy out the store?" asked Mr. Martin with a laugh as he saw his two children come in and walk back toward the end, where he had his office. "We want rubber boots," said Ted. "And I want big high ones, just like those he's going to have," begged Jan, pointing to her brother. "We'll get them just alike and then you won't have any trouble," laughed her father. "Only, of course, Ted's will have to be a little larger in the feet than yours, Jan." "Oh, yes, Daddy! That's all right," and she smiled. "But I want mine high up on my legs." Telling one of his clerks to stay in the office until he came back, Mr. Martin took Ted and Jan to the shoestore a few doors down the street. There were many other boys and girls, and men and women, too, getting boots or rubbers. "Well, Mr. Martin," said the clerk who had come to wait on the Curlytops, "I see you're getting ready for a hard winter. If you get snowed in out at your house, these youngsters can wade out and buy a loaf of bread." "We're going to have a lot to eat in our house," put in Ted, "'cause a hermit my grandpa knows said we might get snowed in." "Indeed!" exclaimed the clerk. "Well, it looks as though we would have plenty of snow. We've had more so far this year than we did in twice as long a time last season. Now about your rubber boots," and he took the measure of the feet of Ted and Jan, and soon fitted them with high boots, lined with red flannel. "Do they suit you, Jan?" asked her father. "Yes, they're just right," she answered. "I like 'em!" "They're fine!" cried Ted, stretching out his legs as he sat on the bench in the shoestore. "Now I can wade in deep drifts," for the boots could be strapped around his legs at the top, as could Jan's, and no snow could get down inside. "Well, run along home and have fun in the snow!" said their father. "Oh, I forgot something! Come on back to the store a minute. I bought a new kind of chocolate candy to-day and I thought maybe you might like to try it." "Oh, Daddy! We would!" cried Jan, clapping her hands. "Mind you! I'm not _sure_ you'll like it," her father said, trying not to smile, "but if you _don't_, just save it for Nicknack. He isn't particular about candy." "Oh, we'll like it all right!" laughed Ted. "Hurry, Jan. I'm hungry for candy now!" The chocolate was very good, and Ted and Jan each had as large a piece as was good for them, and some to take home to their mother, with a little bite for Trouble. As the Curlytops were getting ready to leave their father's store the clerk came from the office and said: "While you were gone, Mr. Martin, a lame boy came in here to see you." "A lame boy?" Mr. Martin was much surprised. "Yes. He said he had been in a Home up near Cherry Farm, where you were last summer," went on the clerk. "What did he want?" asked Mr. Martin. "I don't know. He didn't say, but stated that he would wait until you came back. So I gave him a chair just outside the office. He seemed to know about you and Ted and Jan." "A lame boy! Oh, maybe it was Hal Chester!" cried Jan. "But Hal isn't lame any more," Mr. Martin reminded her. "At least he is only a little lame. Did this boy limp much?" he asked the clerk. "Well, not so very much. He seemed anxious to see you, though." "Where is he?" asked Mr. Martin. "I'll be glad to see him. Where is he now?" "That's what I don't know. I had to leave the office a minute, and when I came back he was gone." "Gone?" "Yes, he wasn't here at all. And, what is more, something went with him." "What do you mean?" asked Mr. Martin. "I mean the lame boy took with him a pocketbook and some money when he went out," answered the clerk. CHAPTER IX THROUGH THE ICE Mr. Martin said nothing for a few seconds after hearing what his clerk told him. Ted and Jan looked at each other. They did not know what to say. "Are you sure the lame boy took the pocketbook and the money?" asked the Curlytops' father of his clerk. "Pretty sure; yes, sir. The pocketbook--it was a sort of wallet I had some papers in besides money--was left on this bench right near where he was sitting while he was waiting for you. I went away and when I came back he was gone and so was the pocketbook. He must have taken it." "Was there much money in it?" "Only about fifteen dollars." "That's too bad. I wonder what the boy wanted. Didn't he say?" "Not to me, though to one of the other clerks who spoke to him as he sat near the bench he said he was in need of help." "Then it couldn't have been Hal Chester," said Mr. Martin, "for his father is able to provide for him. Besides, Hal wouldn't go away without waiting to see Ted and Jan, for they had such good times together at Cherry Farm and on Star Island. "Hal Chester," went on Mr. Martin to the clerk, who had never been to Cherry Farm, "was a lame boy who was almost cured at the Home for Crippled Children not far from my father's house. He left there to go to his own home about the time we broke up our camp. I don't see why he would come here to see me." "Maybe his father lost all his money and Hal wanted to see if you'd give him more," suggested Jan. "Or maybe he wanted to get work in your store," added Ted. "I hardly think so," remarked his father. "It is queer, though, why the boy should go away without seeing me, whoever he was. I'm sorry about the missing pocketbook. I know Hal would never do such a thing as that. Well, it can't be helped." "Shall I call the police?" asked the clerk. "What for?" Mr. Martin queried. "So they can look for this lame boy, whoever he was, and arrest him for taking that money." "Maybe he didn't take it," said Mr. Martin. "He must have," declared the clerk. "The pocketbook was right on the bench near him, and after he went away the pocketbook wasn't there any more. He took it all right!" "Well, never mind about the police for a while," said the children's father. "Maybe the lame boy will come back and tell us what he wanted to see me about, and maybe he only took the pocketbook by mistake. Or some one else may have walked off with it. Don't call the police yet." "I'm glad daddy didn't call the police," said Ted to Jan, as they went home a little later, carrying their fine, new, rubber boots. "So'm I," agreed his sister. "Even if it was Hal I don't believe he took the money." "No, course not! Hal wouldn't do that. Anyhow Hal wasn't hardly lame at all any more. The doctors at the Home cured him," said Ted. "Unless maybe he got lame again in the snow," suggested Janet. "Well, of course he might have slipped down and hurt his foot," admitted Ted. "But anyhow I guess it wasn't Hal." Neither of the Curlytops liked to think that their former playmate would do such a thing as to take a pocketbook that did not belong to him. Mother Martin, when told what had happened at the store that day, said she was sure it could not be Hal. "There's one way you can find out," she said to her husband. "Write to Hal's father and ask him if he has been away from home." "I'll do it!" agreed Mr. Martin, while Ted and Jan were out in the snow, wading in the biggest drifts they could find with their high rubber boots on. Their feet did not get a bit wet. In a few days Mr. Martin had an answer from the letter he had sent to Mr. Chester, Hal's father. The letter was written by a friend of Mr. Chester's who was in charge of his home and who opened all the mail. Mr. Chester, this man wrote, was traveling with his wife and Hal, and no one knew just where they were at present. "Then it might have been Hal, after all, who called at your office," said Mrs. Martin to her husband. "He may have been near here, and wanted to stop to see the children, and, not knowing where we lived, he inquired for your store. But if it was Hal I'm perfectly sure he didn't take the pocketbook." "So am I," said Mr. Martin. "And yet we haven't found it at the store, nor was there anyone else near it while the lame boy was sitting on the bench. It's too bad! I'd like to find out who he was and what he wanted of me." But, for the present, there seemed no way to do this. Ted and Jan wondered, too, for they would have liked to see Hal again, and they did not, even for a moment, believe he had taken the money. Hal Chester was not that kind of boy. The Curlytops had much fun in the snow. They went riding down hill whenever they could, and made more snow men and big snowballs. Ted and Tom Taylor talked of building a big snow house, much larger than the first one they had made. "And we'll pour water over the walls, and make them freeze into ice," said Ted. "Then Nicknack can't butt 'em down with his horns." But there was not quite enough snow around the Martin yard to make the large house the boys wanted, so they decided to wait until more of the white flakes fell. "There'll be plenty of snow," said Ted to his chum. "My father had another letter from my grandfather, and he says the hermit said a terribly big storm was coming in about two weeks." "Whew!" whistled Tom Taylor. "I guess I'd better go home and tell my mother to get in plenty of bread and butter and jam. I like that; don't you?" "I guess I do!" cried Ted. "I'm going in now and ask Nora if she'll give us some. I'm awful hungry!" Nora took pity on Ted and the other boy who was playing in the yard with him, and they were soon sitting on the back steps eating bread and jam. They had each taken about three bites from the nice, big slices Nora had given them, when around the back walk came a man who was limping on one leg, the other being of wood. Though the man's clothes were ragged, and he seemed to be what would be called a "tramp," he had a kind face, though as Ted said afterward, it had on it more whiskers than ever his father's had. Still the man seemed to be different from the ordinary tramps. "Ah, that's what I like to see!" he exclaimed as he watched the boys eating the bread and jam. "Nothing like that for the appetite--I mean to take away an appetite--when you've got more than you need." "Have you got an appetite?" asked Tom Taylor. "Indeed I have," answered the man. "I've got more appetite than I know what to do with. I was just going to ask if you thought I could get something to eat here. Having an appetite means you're hungry, you know," he added with a smile, so Ted and Tom would understand. The man looked hungrily at the bread and jam the boys were eating. "Would you--would you like some of _this_?" asked Teddy, holding out his slice, which had three bites and a half taken from it. The half bite was the one Ted took just as he saw the man. He was so surprised that he took only a half bite instead of a whole one. "Would I like that? Only just wouldn't I, though!" cried the man, smacking his lips. "But please don't ask me," he went on. "It isn't good for the appetite to see things and not eat 'em." "You can eat this," said Teddy, as he held out his slice of bread and jam. "I've taken only a few bites out of it. And I cleaned my teeth this morning," he added as if that would make it all right that he had eaten part of the slice. "Oh, that part doesn't worry me!" laughed the tramp. "But I don't want, hungry as I am, to take your bread and butter, to say nothing of the jam." He turned aside and then swung back. "There is butter on the bread, under that jam, isn't there?" he asked. "Yes," answered Tom. "It's good butter, too." "So I should guess," went on the man. "I can most always tell when there's butter on the bread under the jam. There's always one sure way to tell," he said. "How?" asked Ted, thinking it might be some trick. "Just take a _bite_!" laughed the man, and the two boys on the back steps laughed, too. "Are you sure you don't want this?" the tramp went on, as he took the partly eaten slice Ted held out to him. "I wouldn't for the world, hungry as I am, take your slice----" "Oh, Nora'll give me more," said Ted eagerly. He really wanted to see the man bite into the slice. Ted said afterward that he wanted to know how big a bite the man could take. "Well, then, if you can get more I will take this," said the man, as he eagerly and, so it seemed to the boys, very hungrily bit into the slice--or what was left of it after Ted had taken out his three and a half nibbles. What Ted took were really nibbles alongside the bites the man took. "Were you in a war?" asked Tom, as he watched the tramp take the last of Ted's bread. "No. Why did you think I was--because I have a wooden leg?" The boy nodded. "My leg was cut off on the railroad," went on the tramp. "But I get along pretty well on this wooden peg. It's a good thing in a way, too," he added. "How's that?" asked Tom. "Well, you see havin' only one leg there isn't so much of me to get hungry. It's just like having only one mouth instead of two. If you boys had two mouths you'd have to have two slices of bread and jam instead of one," went on the tramp, laughing. "It's the same way when you only have one leg instead of two--you don't get so hungry." "Are you hungry yet?" asked Tom, as he saw the tramp licking off with his tongue some drops of jam that got on his fingers. "I am," the man answered. "My one leg isn't quite full yet--I mean my one good leg," he added. "You can't put anything--not even bread and jam into this wooden peg," and he tapped it with his cane. "Take my slice of bread," said Tom kindly. "I guess I can get some more when I get home." "Nora'll give you some same as she will me," said Teddy. "Go on and eat--I like to watch you," he added to the tramp. "Well, you don't like to watch me any more than I like to do it," laughed the ragged man, as he began on the second slice of bread and jam. [Illustration: JAN WENT THROUGH THE ICE INTO THE BLACK WATER. _Page 111_] He ate that all up, and then, when Teddy and Tom went in and told Nora what had happened, the good-natured girl insisted on getting some hot coffee and bread and meat for the hungry man. "Jam and such like isn't anything near enough," she said, "even if he has but one leg. I'll feed him proper." Which she did, and the tramp with the "wooden peg," as he called it, was very thankful. Before he left he cut some wood for Nora, and also whittled out two little wooden swords for Ted and Tom. "I'm glad we gave him our bread and jam; aren't you?" asked Ted of his chum. "Yep," was the answer. "I liked him, and it was fun to see him take big bites." A snowstorm came a few days later, and, for a time, the Curlytops thought it might be the big one Grandpa Martin's hermit had spoken of. But the snow soon changed to rain and then came a thaw, so that there was not a bit of snow left on the ground, all being washed away. "Oh, dear!" sighed Jan, as she looked out of the window. "This isn't like winter at all! We can't have any fun!" "Wait till it freezes," said Ted. "Then we'll have lots of fun skating on the pond." Two nights later there came a cold spell, and the ice formed on the pond. But, though the Curlytops did not know it, the ice was not as thick as it ought to have been to make it safe. On the big lake, where the larger boys and girls went skating, a man, sent by the chief of police, always tested the ice after a freeze, to make sure it was thick enough to hold up the crowds of skaters. But on the pond, where the water was not more than knee-deep, no one ever looked at the ice. The little boys and girls went there just as they pleased. "Come on skating!" cried Ted, after school the first day of this cold weather. "Well have a race on the ice, Jan." "All right," she answered. "I can skate faster than you if I am a girl!" "No, you can't!" exclaimed Ted. "I want to come!" cried Trouble, as he saw his brother and sister starting out with their skates on straps over their shoulders. "Oh, no! You're too little!" said his mother. "You must stay with me." But Trouble did not wish to do that, and cried until Nora came in and said he might help her bake a cake. This pleased the little fellow, who, if he were given a piece of dough, not too sticky, to play with, had a fine time imagining he was making pies or a cake. So Ted and Janet hurried off to the pond and were soon skating away with other boys and girls of their own age and size. "Come on, now, let's race!" cried Ted, after a bit. "I'll get to the other side of the pond 'fore you do, Jan!" "No, you won't!" she exclaimed, and the Curlytops started off on their race, the others watching. For a while Ted was ahead, and then, whether it was because she was a better skater or because her skates were sharper, Jan passed her brother. He tried to catch up to her but could not. And then, when Jan was about twenty feet ahead of Teddy and in the middle of the pond, the ice suddenly began to crack. "Look out! Come on back! You'll go through!" cried Tom Taylor. "Oh, she's in now!" screamed Lola. And, as Lola spoke, Jan went through the ice into the black water beneath. "Skate to shore! Skate to shore!" called Tom to the others. "Get off the ice or you'll go in, too!" The other children did as he said, and it was well that they did, for the ice was now cracking in all directions from the big hole in the middle, through which Janet had gone down. Teddy, who was skating as hard as he could, could not stop himself at once, but went on, straight for the hole through which his sister had slipped. "Stop! Stop!" yelled Tom, waving his hands at Ted. "Stop!" Ted tried to, digging the back point of his skate into the ice as he had seen other skaters do when they wanted to stop quickly. But he was going too fast to come to a halt soon enough, and it looked as though he, also, would go into the water. "Fall down and slide! Fall down!" cried a bigger boy who had come over to see if his own little brother was all right on the pond. Ted understood what this boy meant. By falling down on the ice and sliding, he would not go as fast, and he might stop before he got to the hole where the black water looked so cold and wet. Flinging his feet from under him Ted dropped full length on the frozen pond, but still he felt himself sliding toward the hole. He could see Janet now. She was trying to stand up and she was crying and sobbing. CHAPTER X THANKSGIVING "Look out, Teddy! Look out, or you'll fall in same as I did!" This is what Janet Martin called to her brother as she saw him sliding toward her when she was in the pond where she had broken through the ice. She stopped crying and shivering from the icy water long enough to say that. "Stop, Teddy! Stop!" she shouted. "I'm tryin' to!" he answered. He pressed hard with his mittened hands on the smooth ice on which he had thrown himself. It was very slippery. He was sliding ahead feet first and he could lift up his head and look at his sister. Luckily the water was not deep in the pond--hardly over Janet's knees--and when she had fallen through the ice she had managed to stand up. Her feet, with the skates still on them, were down in the soft mud and ooze of the pond, the bottom of which had not frozen. "I can't stop!" yelled Teddy, and it did seem as though he would go into the water also. But he stopped just in time, far enough away from the hole to prevent his going through the ice, which had cracked in three or more places. "Crawl back to shore!" yelled the big boy, named Ford Henderson, who had come to look after his own little brother, whom he found safe. "Crawl back to shore, Curlytop. Don't stand up, or you might fall down where the ice is thin and crack a hole in it. Crawl back to shore!" "But I want to help Janet!" said Teddy, who was almost ready to cry himself, since he saw in what plight his sister Janet now was. "I'll get her out!" called Ford. Then, while Teddy slowly crawled back over the ice, which every now and then cracked a little, as if the whole frozen top of the pond were going to fall in, Ford, the big boy, not in the least minding his feet getting wet, ran to where Janet stood up in the hole. Ford broke through the ice also, but as he was quite tall the water did not even come to his knees. "Don't cry. You'll be all right soon," said Ford in a kind voice to the little girl. "I'll take you home!" Then, being strong, he lifted her up in his arms, skates and all, and, with the mud and water dripping from her feet while his own were soaking wet, the big boy ran toward the Martin home with Janet. "You come along, too, Curlytop!" called Ford to Teddy. "If I bring in your sister, all wet from having fallen through the ice, your mother will be afraid you are drowned. Come along!" So Teddy, quickly taking off his skates, Tom Taylor helping him, ran along beside Ford, who was carrying Janet. The other boys and girls who had run from the cracking ice in time to get off before they broke through, followed, so there was quite a procession coming toward the Martin house. Mrs. Martin, looking out of the window, saw it and, seeing Jan being carried by the big boy, guessed at once what had happened. "Oh, my goodness!" she cried to Nora. "Jan has fallen through the ice. She'll be soaking wet and cold. Get some hot water ready, and I'll bring some blankets to warm. She must be given a hot bath and put to bed in warm clothes. Maybe Teddy is wet, too, or some of the others. Hurry, Nora!" And Nora hurried as she never had before, so that by the time Ford had set Jan down in a chair by the stove in the kitchen and had helped Mrs. Martin take off her wet skates and shoes, the water was ready and Janet was given a hot foot bath. "You must dry yourself, Ford," said Mrs. Martin. "I can't thank you enough for saving my little girl!" "Oh, she was all right," answered Ford. "She stood up herself, because the water wasn't deep, and I just lifted her out of the mud. Ted did well, too, for he stopped himself from going into the hole." "I was going to get Janet out," Teddy answered. "I knew you would be a brave little boy when your sister was in danger," said Mrs. Martin. "Now here is some hot milk for you, Janet, and I guess you're old enough to have a little coffee, Ford. It will keep you from catching cold I hope." "Couldn't he have some bread and jam with it, Mother?" asked Janet, as she sipped her warm drink. "Maybe he's hungry." "Maybe he is!" laughed Mrs. Martin. "Oh, don't bother!" exclaimed Ford. But Mrs. Martin got it ready and Ford ate the bread and jam as though he liked it. So did Ted, and then Nora took some cookies out to the boys and girls from the pond who had gathered in front of the Martin home to talk about Janet's having gone through the ice and of how Ford had pulled her out of the mud. Altogether there was a great deal of excitement, and many people in town talked about the Curlytops that night when the boys and girls went to their homes with the news. "Some one ought to look after the ice on the little pond as well as on the lake when there is skating," said Mr. Martin, when he heard what had happened. "We want our little boys and girls to be safe as well as the larger ones. I'll see about it." So he did, and after that, for the rest of the winter and each winter following, a man was sent to see how thick the ice on the little pond was, and if it would not hold up a big crowd of little boys and girls none was allowed on until it had frozen more thickly. "But when are we going to build the big snow house?" asked Jan one night at supper, when she and Ted had played hard on the hill after school. "You can't build it until there's more snow," said her mother. "You'll have to wait until another storm comes. I expect there'll be one soon, for Thanksgiving is next week, and we usually have a good snow then." "Oh, is it Thanksgiving?" cried Ted. "What fun we'll have!" "Is grandpa or grandma coming to see us this year?" asked Jan. "No, they have to stay on Cherry Farm. I asked them to come, but grandpa says if there is going to be a blizzard, and any danger of his getting snowed in, he wants to be at home where he can feed the cows and horses." "Aren't we going to have any company over Thanksgiving?" asked Ted. "Well, maybe," and his mother smiled. "Oh, somebody is coming!" cried Jan joyfully. "It's going to be a surprise, Ted! I can tell by the way mother laughs with her eyes!" "Is it going to be a surprise?" Ted asked. "Well, maybe," and Mrs. Martin laughed. The weather grew colder as Thanksgiving came nearer. There were two or three flurries of snow, but no big storm, though Jan and Ted looked anxiously for one, as they wanted a big pile of the white flakes in the yard so they could make a snow house. "We'll make the biggest one ever!" declared Ted. "And maybe we'll turn it into a fort and have an Indian fight!" "I don't like Indian fights," said Janet. "They'll only be make-believe," Ted went on. "Me an' Tom Taylor an' some of the fellows'll be the Indians." But the big snow held off, though each morning, as soon as they arose from their beds, Jan and Ted would run to the window to look out to see if it had come in the night. There was just a little covering of white on the ground, and in some places, along the streets and the sidewalks, it had been shoveled away. "Do you think it will snow for Thanksgiving?" asked the Curlytops again and again. "Yes, I think so," their mother would answer. Such busy times as there were at the Martin house! Mrs. Martin and Nora were in the kitchen most of each day, baking, boiling, frying, stewing and cooking in other ways. There was to be a pumpkin pie, of course--in fact two or three of them, as well as pies of mincemeat and of apple. "There must be a lot of company coming," said Ted to Janet; "'cause they're bakin' an awful lot." "Well, everybody eats a lot at Thanksgiving," said the little girl. "Only I hope we have snow and lots of company." "Did you hear anything more about the lame boy and the missing pocketbook and money?" asked Mrs. Martin of her husband two or three days before Thanksgiving. "No, not a thing," he answered. "He did not come back to the store, and we haven't found the lost money. I am hoping we shall, though, for, though I can't guess who the lame boy was, if he wasn't Hal, I wouldn't want to think any little chap would take what did not belong to him." "Nor would I," said the Curlytops' mother. The next afternoon something queer happened. Teddy and Janet had not yet come home from school, and Mrs. Martin and Nora were in the kitchen baking the last of the things for Thanksgiving and getting things ready to roast the big turkey which would come the next day. The front doorbell rang and Mrs. Martin said: "You'd better answer, Nora. My hands are covered with flour." "And so is my nose," answered the maid with a laugh. "You look better to go to the front door than I do." "Well, I guess I do," agreed Mrs. Martin with a smile. She paused to wipe her hands on a towel and then went through the hall. But when she opened the door no one was on the steps. "That's queer," she said to herself, looking up and down the street. "I wonder if that could have been Teddy or Jan playing a joke." Then she looked at the clock and noticed that it was not yet time for the children to come home from school. A man passing in the street saw Mrs. Martin gazing up and down the sidewalk. "Are you looking for someone?" he asked. "Well, someone just rang my bell," answered Mrs. Martin. "But I don't see anyone." "I saw a lame boy go up on your veranda a few minutes ago," went on the man. "He stood there, maybe four or five seconds and then rang the bell. All at once he seemed frightened, and down he hurried off the steps and ran around the corner, limping." "He did?" cried Mrs. Martin. "Why, how strange! Did he say anything to you?" "No, I wasn't near enough, but I thought it queer." "It is queer," agreed Mrs. Martin. "I wonder who he was, and if he is in sight now?" She ran down the steps and hurried around the corner to look down the next street. But no boy, lame or not, was in sight. "Maybe he was just playing a trick," said the man. "Though he didn't look like that kind of boy." "No, I think it was no trick," answered the mother of the Curlytops, as she went back into the house. "What was it?" asked Nora. "A lame boy, but he ran away after ringing," answered Mrs. Martin. "I wonder if it could have been the boy who was at Mr. Martin's store, and who might know something about the stolen pocketbook, even if he did not take it. Perhaps he came to tell us something about it and, at the last minute, he was too frightened and ran away." She told this to Mr. Martin when he came home, and he said it might be so. "If it is," he went on, "that lame boy must be in town somewhere. I'd like to find him. I'll speak to the police. The poor boy may be in trouble." The police promised to look for the lame boy and help him if he needed it. And then all else was forgotten, for a time, in the joys of the coming Thanksgiving. The night before the great day, when the Curlytops were in the sitting-room after supper talking of the fun they would have, and when Trouble was going to sleep in his mother's lap, Daddy Martin went to the window to look out. "It's snowing hard," he said. "Oh, goodie!" laughed Jan. "Now we can build the big snow house!" cried Ted. Just then the doorbell rang loudly. CHAPTER XI THE SNOW BUNGALOW "Who's that?" asked Mrs. Martin, without thinking, for, of course, there was no way of telling who was at the door until it was opened. "I'll go to see," offered Daddy Martin. "Oh, maybe it's that queer lame boy," suggested Ted. "Don't let him get away until you talk to him," cautioned Mother Martin. "I'd like to know who he is." "Whoever is there doesn't seem to be going to run away," remarked the Curlytops' father. "They're stamping the snow off their feet as if they intended to come in." "Oh, I wonder if it could be _them_?" said Mrs. Martin questioningly. "Who, Mother? Who do you think it is?" asked Jan, but her mother did not answer. She stood in the hall while her husband went to the door. Outside could be heard the voices of people talking. Then the door was opened by Mr. Martin, letting in a cloud of snowflakes and a blast of cold air that made the Curlytops shiver in the warm house. "Well, here we are!" cried a jolly voice. "Sort of a surprise!" some one else added; a woman's voice Jan decided. The other was a man's. "Well, how in the world did you get here at this time of night?" asked Daddy Martin in surprise. "Come right in out of the storm. We're glad to see you! Come in and get warm. It's quite a storm, isn't it?" "Yes. And it's going to be worse," the man's voice said. "It's going to be a regular blizzard, I imagine." "Oh, goodie!" murmured Ted. "But who is it--who's come to see us so late at night?" asked Janet. "Pooh! 'Tisn't late," said her brother. "Only a little after eight o'clock. Oh, it's Aunt Jo!" he cried a moment later as he caught sight of the lady's face when she took off her veil and shook from it the snowflakes. "Yes, it's Aunt Jo, Curlytop!" cried the lady. "I'd hug you, only I'm wet. But I'll get dry in a minute and then I will. Where's my little Curlytop girl, and where's that dear bunch of Trouble?" "Here I is!" cried Baby William, who had been awakened when the bell rang. He had been put on the couch by his mother, but now came toddling out into the hall. "Who is it?" he asked, rubbing his sleepy eyes. "It's Aunt Jo!" cried Ted. "Aunt Jo's come to visit us for Thanksgiving. Oh, I'm so glad!" and Teddy danced wildly about the room. "And it's Uncle Frank, too!" cried Mother Martin. "You children don't know him as well as you do Aunt Jo, for you haven't seen him so often. But here he is!" "Is it Uncle Frank from out West where the cowboys and Indians live?" asked Ted, stopping his dance to think of this new interest. "That's who I am, young man!" answered the hearty voice of the man who had come through the storm with Aunt Jo. "As soon as I shake off this fur coat, which has as much snow on it as a grizzly bear gets on him when he plays tag in a blizzard, I'll have a look at you. There! It's off. Now where are the children with such curly hair? I want to see 'em!" "Here they are," answered Daddy Martin. "They were just going to bed to get up good appetites for the Thanksgiving dinner to-morrow. But I guess we can let them stay up a little longer. We didn't expect you two until to-morrow." "We both managed to get earlier trains than we expected," explained Aunt Jo. "And we met each other at the Junction, without expecting to, and came on together," added Uncle Frank. "Thought we'd give you a surprise." "Glad you did," returned Mr. Martin. "I was beginning to get afraid, if the storm kept up, that you wouldn't get here for Thanksgiving." "Wouldn't have missed it for two dozen cow ponies and a wire fence thrown in!" laughed Uncle Frank, in his deep voice. "Now where's that curly hair?" Jan and Ted, just a little bashful in the presence of their Western uncle, who did not often leave his ranch to come East, went forward. Uncle Frank looked at them, ran his fingers through Ted's tightly curled hair and then cried: "Oh, I'm caught!" "What's the matter?" asked Aunt Jo with a laugh. "My fingers are tangled in Ted's hair and I can't get them loose!" said Uncle Frank, pretending that his hand was held fast. "Say, I heard your hair was curly," he went on, after he had finally gotten his fingers loose, having made believe it was very hard work, "but I never thought it was like this. And Jan's, too! Why, if anything, hers is tighter than Ted's." "Yes; we call them our Curlytops," said Mother Martin. "And here's another. His hair isn't curly, though," went on Uncle Frank. "What did you call him?" "His name is William Anthony Martin," said Aunt Jo. "I know, for I picked out the name." "But we call him Trouble," said Ted, who was looking eagerly at his big uncle from the West, hoping, perhaps, that he might bring out a gun or a bow and some arrows from the pockets of his fur overcoat. But Uncle Frank did nothing like that. "Come out in the dining-room and have something to eat," invited Mr. Martin. "No, thank you. Miss Miller and I had supper before we came here," answered Uncle Frank. "We knew we'd be a little late. But we'll sit and talk a while." "Mother, may Ted and I stay up and listen--a little bit?" begged Janet. "Oh, yes, let them, do!" urged Aunt Jo. "It isn't so very late, and they don't have to go to school to-morrow. Besides if this storm keeps up all they can do is to stay in the house." "We got big rubber boots, and we can go in deep drifts," explained Jan. "Did you? Well, I guess the drifts will be deeper to-morrow than you've ever seen them if I'm any judge of weather," remarked Uncle Frank. "It's starting in like one of our worst blizzards." "Then we'll be snowed in like the hermit said we'd be!" cried Ted. "That'll be fun!" "What does he mean about a hermit?" asked Aunt Jo. Then Daddy Martin told about the letter from grandpa at Cherry Farm, and of the hermit's prediction that there was going to be a hard winter. "Well, Thanksgiving is a good time to be snowed in," said Uncle Frank. "There's sure to be enough to eat in the house." "Were you ever snowed in?" asked Ted, when he was seated on one of Uncle Frank's knees and Jan was on the other. "Oh, lots of times," was the answer. "Tell us about it!" eagerly begged the Curlytops. "I think you had better hear Uncle Frank's stories to-morrow," said Mother Martin. "It is getting late now, and time you were asleep. You may get up early, if you wish and you'll have all day with our nice company." "Oh, Mother! just let Uncle Frank tell one story!" pleaded Jan. "We haven't heard one for an awful long while," added her brother. "I mean a story like what he can tell," he added quickly. "Course _you_ tell us nice stories, Mother, and so does _Daddy_, but can't Uncle Frank tell us just _one_?" "I don't know," returned Mother Martin, as if not quite sure. "Oh, please!" begged Jan and Ted together, for they thought they saw signs of their mother's giving in. Trouble seemed to know what was going on. He wiggled down from his father's knees and climbed up on those of Uncle Frank. Then he cuddled down in the big man's arms, and the big man seemed to know just how to hold little boys, even if their pet names were like that of Trouble. "I 'ikes a 'tory!" said Trouble simply. "I 'ikes one very much!" "Well, now that's too bad," said Uncle Frank with a laugh. "But if daddy and mother say it can't be done, why--it can't!" "Do you know any short ones?" asked Mr. Martin. "I mean a story that wouldn't keep them up too late, and then keep them awake after they get to bed?" "Oh, I guess I can dig up a story like that," said Uncle Frank, and he scratched his head, and then stuck one hand down deep in his pocket, as if he intended digging up a story from there. "Well, I suppose they won't be happy until they hear one," said Mrs. Martin. "So you may tell them one--but let it be short, please." "All right," agreed Uncle Frank. "Oh, this is lovely!" murmured Janet. "What's the story going to be about?" asked Ted. "What would you like it to be about?" inquired Uncle Frank. "Tell us of the time you were snowed in," suggested Jan. "And maybe we'll have something like that happen to us." "Ha! ha!" laughed Uncle Frank. "Well, maybe after you hear about what happened to me you won't want anything like it yourselves. However, here we go!" He settled himself in the easy chair, cuddled Trouble a little closer to him, and, after looking up at the ceiling, as if to see any part of the story that might be printed there, Uncle Frank began: "Once upon a time, not so very many years ago----" "Oh, I just _love_ a story to begin that way; don't you, Ted?" asked Janet. "Yep. It's great! Go on, Uncle Frank." "You children mustn't interrupt or Uncle Frank can't tell, or it will take him so much longer that I'll have to put you to bed before the story is finished," said Mother Martin, playfully shaking a finger at Ted and Jan. "All right, we'll be quiet," promised the little girl. "Go on, Uncle Frank," begged Teddy. "Once upon a time, a few years ago," began Uncle Frank the second time, "I was living away out West, farther than I am now, and in a place where hardly anyone else lived. I had just started to make my living in that new country, and I wanted to look about a bit and see a good place to settle in before I built my log cabin. "I took my gun and rod, as well as something to eat, so I could hunt and fish when I wished, and I set out one day. I traveled over the plains and up and down among the mountains, and one night I found that I was lost." "Really lost?" asked Jan, forgetting that no questions were allowed. "Well, I guess you could call it that," said Uncle Frank. "I didn't know where I was, nor the way back to where I had come from, which was a little settlement of miners. There I was, all alone in the mountains, with night coming on, and it was beginning to snow. "It was cold, too," said Uncle Frank, "and I was glad I had on a fur coat. It wasn't as big as the one I wore here," he said, "but I was very glad to have it, and I buttoned it around me as tight as I could and walked on in the darkness and through the snowstorm, trying to find my way back. "But I couldn't. I seemed to be getting more lost all the while, and finally I made up my mind there was no help for it. I'd have to stay out in the woods, on top of the mountain all night." "All alone?" asked Jan. "All alone," answered Uncle Frank. "But I wasn't afraid, for I had my gun with me, and I'd been out all night alone before that. But I didn't like the cold. I was afraid I might freeze or get snowed in, and then I never could find my way back. "So, before it got too dark, and before the snow came down too heavily, I stopped, made a little fire and warmed some coffee I had in a tin bottle. I drank that, ate a little cold bread and meat I had, and then I felt better. "But I wanted some place where I could stay all night. There were no houses where I could go in and get a nice, warm bed. There were no hotels and there wasn't even a log cabin or a shack. I couldn't build a snow house, for the snow was cold and dry and wouldn't pack, so the next best thing to do, I thought, would be for me to find a hollow log and crawl into that. "So I looked around as well as I could in the storm and darkness," went on Uncle Frank, "and finally I found a log that would just about suit me. I cleared away the snow from one end, kicking it with my boots, and then, when I had buttoned my fur coat around me, I crawled into the log with my gun. "It was dark inside the hollow log, and not very nice, but it was warm, and I was out of the cold wind and the snow. Of course it was very dark, but as I didn't have anything to read, I didn't need a light. "After a while I began to feel sleepy, and before I knew it I was dozing off. Just before I began to dream about being in a nice warm house, with some roast turkey and cranberry sauce for supper, I felt some one else getting inside the hollow log with me. "I was too sleepy to ask who it was. I thought it was somebody like myself, lost in the storm, who had crawled in as I had done to keep from freezing. So I just said: 'Come on, there's lots of room for two of us,' and then I went fast asleep. I thought I'd let the other man sleep, too. "Well, I stayed in the log all night and then I woke up. I thought it must be morning, but I couldn't see in the dark log. Anyhow, I wanted to get up. So I poked at what I thought was the other man sleeping with me. I poked him again, and I noticed that he had on a fur coat like mine. "'Come on!' I cried. 'Time to get up!' "And then, all of a sudden there was a growl and a sniff and a snuff, and, instead of a _man_ crawling out the other end of the log, there was a big, shaggy _bear_!" "Really?" asked Jan, her eyes big with surprise. "Really and truly," said Uncle Frank. "Oh! Oh!" gasped Teddy. "Weren't you scared?" "Well, I didn't have time to be," answered Uncle Frank. "You see, I didn't know it was a bear that had crawled into the log to sleep with me until he crawled out, and there wasn't any use in getting frightened then. "Out of the log scrambled the bear, and I guess he was as much surprised as I was to find he'd been sleeping in the same hollow-tree-hotel with a man. Away he ran! I could see him running down the hill when I crawled out of the log. Morning had come, the snow had stopped, and I could see to find my way back to the town I had left. But I was glad the bear got in the log with me, for he helped keep me warm. And, all the while, I thought it was another man with a fur coat on like mine. "There, now that's all the story, and you Curlytops must go to bed! Hello! Trouble's asleep already!" And so the little fellow was, in Uncle Frank's arms. "Oh, that was an awful nice story!" said Jan. "Thank you!" "Yes, it was," added her brother. "I'm awful glad you came to see us," he went on. "I hope you'll stay forever and tell us a story every night. We like stories!" "Well, one every night would be quite a lot," said his uncle. "But I'll see about it. Anyhow, Aunt Jo and I are glad to be here--at least I am," and Aunt Jo nodded to show that she was also. "Come, children!" called Mrs. Martin. "Uncle Frank was very good to tell you such a nice, funny story. But now you really must go to bed. To-morrow is another day, and our company will be here then, and for some time longer." "Did you know they were coming, Mother?" asked Jan, as she slid off her uncle's knee. "Well, I had an idea," was the smiling answer. "Is this the surprise daddy was talking about?" Ted queried. "Yes, this is it," answered his father. "Do you like it?" "Um, yes!" laughed Ted, and Jan smiled to show that she was of the same mind. When the Curlytops were in bed Aunt Jo and Uncle Frank told Mr. and Mrs. Martin of their journey. For some time each one had been planning to come to visit their relatives, Aunt Jo from her home in Clayton and Uncle Frank from his Western ranch in Montana. Of course he had started some time before Aunt Jo did, as he had farther to travel. But they both reached the railroad junction, not far from Cresco, at the same time. Then they came the rest of the way together, arriving in the midst of the storm. "Well, we're glad you're here," said Mrs. Martin, "and the children are delighted. They knew we had some surprise for them, though we did not tell them you were expected. Now I expect they'll hardly sleep, planning things to do in the snow and on the ice." Indeed Ted and Jan did not go to sleep at once, but talked to each other from their rooms until Mrs. Martin sent Nora up to tell them if they did not get quiet they could not have fun with Aunt Jo and Uncle Frank. "Oh, it's snowing yet, Jan!" cried Ted, as he jumped out of bed the next morning. "It's going to be a fine storm!" "That's good!" laughed Janet. "I wonder if Uncle Frank knows how to build a snow house." "We'll ask him. Come on! Let's hurry down and see if he's up yet." Uncle Frank was up, and so was Aunt Jo and the whole family, except Trouble, for it was later than the Curlytops thought. "Make a snow house? Of course I know how!" laughed Uncle Frank. "Many a one I've made out on the prairie when I've been caught in a blizzard." "Why don't you build a snow bungalow?" asked Aunt Jo. "What's a bungalow?" asked Jan. "Well, it's a sort of low, one-story house, with all the rooms on one floor," explained her aunt. "There is no upstairs to it." "We did build a snow house, and it hadn't any upstairs," said Ted. "But Nicknack, our goat, saw his picture in one of the glass-ice windows, and he butted a hole in the wall." "Well, he's a great goat!" laughed Uncle Frank. "But if you're going to build another snow house, do as Aunt Jo says, and make it a low bungalow. Then it won't be so easy to knock down. We build low houses out West so the wind storms won't knock them down so easily, and you can pretend your goat is a wind storm." "That'll be fun!" laughed Ted. "And we'll make the bungalow with sides and a roof of wood," went on Aunt Jo, "and cover the boards with snow. Then it will look just like a snow house, but it will be stronger. I'll help you. I'm going to build a bungalow myself this summer," she went on, "and I'd like to practise on a snow one first." "Come on!" cried Ted. "We'll build the snow bungalow!" "Better get your breakfasts first," said his mother. This did not take long, for Ted and Jan were anxious to be at their fun. And a little later, with Aunt Jo and Uncle Frank to help, the snow bungalow was started. CHAPTER XII TROUBLE IS LOST "What sort of house are you going to build, Uncle Frank?" asked Ted, as he and his sister watched their uncle and their aunt out in the big yard back of the house. "Well, I call it a shack, though your aunt calls it a bungalow," was the answer. "Between us I guess we'll manage to make something in which you Curlytops can have fun. I've made 'em like this on the prairies--those are the big, wide plains, you know, out West, where there are very few trees, and not much lumber," he went on. "We have to use old boards, tree limbs, when we can find them, and anything else we come across. "It used to be that way, though there is more lumber now. But I've often taken a few sticks and boards and made a sort of shelter and then covered it with snow. It will stand up almost all winter, if you don't let a goat knock it down," he added with a laugh. "We won't let Nicknack knock this snow bungalow down," said Janet. "No, we'll coax him to be good," added Aunt Jo. It had stopped snowing, though heavy clouds overhead seemed to hold more that might fall down later, and the Curlytops had not given up hope of being snowed in, though really they did not know all the trouble that might be caused by such a thing. There were plenty of boards and sticks in the Martin barn and around it, and Aunt Jo and Uncle Frank had soon made a framework for the bungalow. It was larger than the first snow house the children had made, and it was to have a wooden door to it so the cold could be kept out better than with a blanket. "What are you doing?" asked Tom Taylor on Thanksgiving day morning, when he came over to play with Jan and Ted. "Making a snow bungalow," Ted answered. "Want to help?" "My, yes!" answered Tom. "Say, it's going to be a dandy!" he exclaimed when he had been introduced to Aunt Jo and Uncle Frank, and was told what they were doing to give the Curlytops a good time. When the dinner-bell rang the wooden part of the bungalow was nearly finished and there were two windows in it of real glass, some old sashes having been found in the barn. These had once been in a chicken coop. "Well, we're glad to have Uncle Frank and Aunt Jo with us for the Thanksgiving dinner," said Daddy Martin, as they all sat at the table. "And I'm going to be right next to my dear little Trouble!" cried Aunt Jo, reaching over to hug Baby William. "Look out he doesn't eat everything off your plate," warned Mother Martin with a laugh. "He says he's very hungry." "Well, that's what everybody ought to be on Thanksgiving day," said Uncle Frank. "We ought to be hungry enough to like a good dinner, and be thankful we have it, and wish everybody else had the same." "That's right!" cried Daddy Martin, and then he began to carve the big, roasted turkey, while Mother Martin dished out the red cranberry sauce. I will not tell you all the good things there were to eat at the Martins' that Thanksgiving, for fear I might spoil your appetite for what you are going to have to-day--whatever day it happens to be. Not that you might not have just as nice a dinner, but it will be different, I know. Such a brown, roasted turkey, such red cranberry sauce, such crisp, white celery and such a sweet pumpkin pie--never were they seen before--at least as far as I know. There was eating and talking and laughter and more eating and more talking and more laughter and then they began all over again. At last even Uncle Frank, who was a bigger man than Daddy Martin, said he had had enough to eat. So the chairs were pushed back, after Nora had brought in some snow cream, which was something like ice cream only made with snow instead of ice, and Uncle Frank told about a prairie fire. Then Aunt Jo told one about having been on a ship that struck a rock and sank. But no one was drowned, she was glad to be able to say. Ted and Jan liked to listen to the stories, but they kept looking out in the back yard, and finally Uncle Frank said: "I know what these Curlytops want!" "What?" asked Mother Martin. "They want to go out into the yard and finish the snow bungalow! Don't you, Curlytops?" "Yes!" cried Jan and Ted. "And I want to go out, too," went on Uncle Frank, "for I'm not used to staying in the house so much, especially after I've eaten such a big dinner. So come on out and we'll have some fun." "I'm coming, too!" cried Aunt Jo. "I love it in the fresh air and the snow." "Come on, Mother Martin!" called Mr. Martin to his wife. "We'll go out with them. It will do us good to frolic in the snow." "All right. Wait until I get on some rubbers." "Me come, too!" cried Trouble, who had fallen asleep after dinner, but who was now awake. "Yes, bring him along," said Daddy Martin. They were soon all out in the yard. The storm had not started in again, but Uncle Frank said it might before night, and there would, very likely, be much more snow. Then they began the finishing touches on the snow bungalow. They piled the masses of white flakes on top of and on all sides of the board shack, or cabin, Uncle Frank and Aunt Jo had built. Soon none of the boards, except those where the door was fastened on, could be seen. They were covered with snow. "There!" cried Uncle Frank, when the last shovelful had been tossed on. "There's as fine a snow bungalow as you could want. It will be nice and warm, too, even on a cold day." "And Nicknack can't knock it down, either," added Ted. "Well, he'll have harder work than he did to knock down the plain snow house you built," said Aunt Jo. "Now let's go inside and see how much room there is." The bungalow would not hold them all at once, but they took turns going in, and it was high enough for Uncle Frank to stand in, though he had to stoop a little. Some benches and chairs were made of the pieces of wood left over and Uncle Frank even built a little table in the middle of the play bungalow. "You can eat your dinners here when it's too warm in the house," he said with a laugh. Then Ted, Janet, Tom Taylor and his sister Lola had fun in the new bungalow while the older folk went in to sit and talk of the days when they were children and played in the snow. Daddy Martin told about the strange lame boy who had come to his store and, later, to the house, but who had gone away without waiting to tell what he wanted. "Ted and Jan are anxious to see him to make sure he is not their friend Hal," said Mr. Martin. "But I do not think it is. Hal would not take a pocketbook." "Then you have never found the lost money?" asked Mrs. Martin. "No, never," her husband answered. "Still I do not want to say the lame boy took it until I am more sure." The Curlytops and their friends played in the yard around the snow bungalow until it was getting dark. Trouble had been brought in some time before by his mother, and now it was the hour for Jan and Ted to come in. "We'll go coasting to-morrow, Tom!" called Ted to his chum. "All right," was the answer. "I'll call for you right after breakfast." "We'll hitch Nicknack to the big sled and make him pull us to the hill," said Janet, for Mr. Martin had bought a large, second-hand sled to which the goat could be harnessed. The sled would hold five children, with a little squeezing, and Trouble was often taken for a ride with his brother and sister, Tom and Lola also being invited. "Come to supper, children!" called Mrs. Martin, as Ted and Jan came in from having spent most of the afternoon in the snow bungalow. "I don't suppose you are hungry after the big dinner you ate," she went on, "but maybe you can eat a little." "I can eat a lot!" cried Ted. "I'm hungry, too," added Janet. "Well, I wish you'd wash Trouble's hands and face, Jan," went on Mrs. Martin. "I hope you didn't let him throw too many snowballs." "Why, Trouble wasn't with us--not after you brought him in!" exclaimed Ted. "He wasn't?" gasped Mrs. Martin. "Hasn't he been out with you since about an hour ago, and didn't he come in with you just now?" "No," answered Jan. "Why, I put on his mittens, little boots and jacket," said his mother, a worried look coming over her face. "He said he wanted to go out and play with you. I opened the back door for him, and just then Aunt Jo called me. Are you sure he didn't go out to you?" "No, he didn't," declared Jan. "We haven't seen him since you brought him in. Oh, dear! is Trouble lost?" Mrs. Martin set down a dish that was in her hand. Her face turned pale and she looked around the room. No Trouble was in sight. "What's the matter?" asked Mr. Martin, coming in just then. "Why, I thought Baby William was out in the yard, playing with Jan and Ted," said Mrs. Martin, "but they came in just now and they say he wasn't. Oh, where could he have gone?" "Maybe he went out in the front instead of to the back when you put on his things," said Aunt Jo, "and he may be in one of the neighbor's houses. We'll go and ask, Uncle Frank and I." "I'll come, too," said Mr. Martin. "Mother, you call through the house. He may not have gone out at all." CHAPTER XIII NICKNACK HAS A RIDE Mrs. Martin hurried into the hall and in a loud voice called: "Trouble! Trouble! Where are you? Baby William! Come to Mother!" There was no answer. Ted and Jan looked anxiously at each other. Their father had gone with Uncle Frank and Aunt Jo to inquire in the houses next door and those across the street. Sometimes Trouble wandered to the neighbors', but this was in the summer, when doors were open and he could easily get out. He had never before been known to run away in winter. "Oh, where can he be?" exclaimed Janet. "We'll find him," declared Teddy. He saw that Janet was almost ready to cry. "Help me look, children," said Mrs. Martin. "He may be in one of the rooms here. We must look in every one." So the search began. The Curlytops and their mother had gone through about half the rooms of the house without finding Trouble when Uncle Frank and Aunt Jo came back. "Did you find him?" they asked Baby William's mother. "No," she answered. Then she asked eagerly: "Did you?" "He hadn't been to any of the neighbors' houses where we inquired," said Uncle Frank. "Dick is going to ask farther down," added Aunt Jo. "I think he said at a house where a little boy named Henry lives." "Oh, yes! Henry Simpson!" exclaimed Ted. "Trouble likes him. But Henry's house is away down at the end of the street." "Well, sometimes William goes a good way off," said his mother. "I hope he's there. But we must search all over the house." "And even down cellar," added Uncle Frank. "I know when I was a little fellow I ran away and hid, and they found me an hour or so later in the coal bin. At least so I've been told. I don't remember about it myself. I must have been pretty dirty." "Oh, I don't think Trouble would go in the coal," said his mother. "But, Nora, you might look down there. We'll go upstairs now." With Uncle Frank and Aunt Jo to help in the search the Curlytops and their mother went up toward the top of the house. Mother Martin looked in her room, where Trouble slept. He might have crawled into her bed or into his own little crib, she thought. But he was not there. "He isn't in my room!" called Ted, after he had looked about it. "Are you sure?" asked the anxious mother. "Yes'm." "And he isn't here," added Janet, as she came out of her room. "I looked under the bed and everywhere." "In the closet?" asked Uncle Frank. "Yes, in the closet, too," replied Janet. "Maybe he's in my room," said Aunt Jo. "It's a large one and there are two closets there. Poor little fellow, maybe he's crying his eyes out." "If he was crying we'd hear him," remarked Ted. He and Janet followed Aunt Jo into her room. The light was turned on and they looked around. Trouble was not in sight and Aunt Jo was just starting to look in her large clothes closet when she suddenly saw something that caused her to stop and to cry out: "Oh, what made it move?" "What move?" asked Uncle Frank, who had followed her and the Curlytops in. "What did you see move?" "My big suitcase," replied Aunt Jo. "See, it's there against the wall, but I'm sure I saw it move." "Did any of you touch it?" asked Uncle Frank. "No," answered Aunt Jo; and Ted and Jan said the same thing. "What is it?" Mother Martin asked, coming into the room. "Did you find him?" she asked anxiously. "He isn't in my room, nor in Ted's or Janet's. Oh, where can he be?" "Look! It's moving again!" cried Aunt Jo. She pointed to the suitcase. It was an extra large one, holding almost as much as a trunk, and it stood against the wall of her room. As they looked they all saw the cover raised a little, and then the whole suitcase seemed to move slightly. "Maybe it's Skyrocket, our dog," said Ted. "He likes to crawl into places like that to sleep." "Or maybe it's Turnover, our cat," added Janet. Uncle Frank hurried across the room to the suitcase. Before he could reach it the cover was suddenly tossed back and there, curled up inside, where he had been sleeping, was the lost Trouble! "Oh, Trouble, what a fright you gave us!" cried his mother. "Were you there all the while?" Aunt Jo demanded. Trouble sat up in the suitcase, which was plenty big enough for him when it was empty. He rubbed his eyes and smiled at those gathered around him. "Iss. I been s'eepin' here long time," he said. "Well, of all things!" cried Aunt Jo. "I couldn't imagine what made the suitcase move, and there it was Trouble wiggling in his sleep." "How did you come to get into it?" asked Uncle Frank. "Nice place. I like it," was all the reason Trouble could give. He still had on his jacket and rubber boots which his mother had put on him when he said he wanted to go out and play in the snow with Jan and Ted. "And, instead of doing that he must have come upstairs when I wasn't looking and crawled in here," said Mrs. Martin. "You mustn't do such a thing again, Baby William." "Iss, I not do it. I'se hungry!" "No wonder! It's past his supper time!" cried Aunt Jo. "Did you find him?" called the anxious voice of Daddy Martin from the front door. He had just come in. "He wasn't down at the Simpsons'," he went on. "He's here all right!" answered Uncle Frank, for Mrs. Martin was hugging Trouble so hard that she could not answer. She had really been very much frightened about the little lost boy. "Well, he certainly is a little tyke!" said Mr. Martin, when he had been told what had happened. "Hiding in a suitcase! That's a new kind of trouble!" They were all laughing now, though they had been frightened. Trouble told, in his own way, how, wandering upstairs, he had seen Aunt Jo's big suitcase, and he wanted to see what it would be like to lie down in it. He could do it, by curling up, and he was so comfortable once he had pulled the cover down, that he fell asleep. The cover had not closed tightly, so there was left an opening through which Trouble could get air to breathe. So he did not suffer from being lost, though he frightened the whole household. Supper over, they sat and talked about what had happened that day, from building the snow bungalow to hunting for Trouble. Before that part had been reached Trouble was sound asleep in his mother's lap, and was carried off to his real bed this time. A little later the Curlytops followed, ready to get up early the next day to have more fun. "Well, we haven't got that big storm yet, but it's coming," said Uncle Frank, as he looked at the sky, which was filled with clouds. "And will we be snowed in?" asked Ted. "Well, I wouldn't exactly say that," his uncle answered. "Would you like to be?" "If you and Aunt Jo will stay." "Well, I guess we'll have to stay if we get snowed in, Curlytop. But we'll have to wait and see what happens. Where are you going now?" "Over on the little hill to coast. Want to come with me, Uncle Frank?" "No, thank you. I'm too old for that. I'll come some time, though, and watch you and Janet. What are you going to do with your goat?" he asked, as he saw Ted taking Nicknack out of the stable. "Oh, our goat pulls us over to the hill in the big sled, and then we slide down hill on our little sleds. I'm going to take Jan and Tom Taylor and Lola." "And Trouble, too?" Uncle Frank asked. "Not now. Trouble is getting washed and he can't come out." "No, I guess he'd get cold if he did," laughed Uncle Frank. He helped Ted hitch Nicknack to the big sled, not that Ted needed any help, for he often harnessed the goat himself, but Uncle Frank liked to do this. Then the Curlytops and Tom and Lola Taylor started for the hill. There they found many of their playmates, and after Nicknack had been unhitched so he could rest he was tied to a tree and a little hay put in front of him to eat. The hay had been brought from home in the big sled which stood near the tree to which Nicknack was tied, and Ted and Jan began to have fun. Down the hill they coasted, having races with their chums, now and then falling off their sleds and rolling half way down the hill. "I know what let's do, Teddy," said Jan after a bit. "I know something, too!" he laughed. "I can wash your face!" "No, please don't!" she begged, holding her mittened hands in front of her. "I'm cold now." "Well, it'll make your cheeks nice and red," went on Teddy. "They're as red now as I want 'em," answered Jan. "What I say let's do is to see can go the farthest on our sleds." "Oh, you mean have a race?" "No, not zactly a _race_," answered the little girl. "When you race you see who can go the _fastest_. But now let's see who can go the _longest_." "Oh, I see!" exclaimed Teddy. "That will be fun. Come on!" and he started to drag his sled to the top of the hill, Janet following after, "like Jack and Jill," as she laughingly told her brother. When the two children were about half way up the hill, their heads bowed down, for the wind cut into their faces, they heard a shout of: "Look out the way! Look out the way! Here we come!" Ted and Jan looked up quickly and saw, coasting toward them, another little boy and girl on their sleds. "Come over here!" cried Teddy to his sister. "Come over on my side of the hill and you'll be out of the way." "No, you come over with me!" said Janet. "This is the right side, and mother said we must always keep to the right no matter if we walked up or slid down hill." "Well, maybe that's so," agreed Teddy. "I guess I'll come over by you," and he started to move across the hill, while the little boy and girl coasting toward him and Jan kept crying: "Look out the way! Look out the way! Here we come!" And then a funny thing happened. Teddy thought he was getting safely out of the way, and he certainly tried hard enough, but before he could reach the side of his sister Janet, along came the sled of the little boy, and right into Teddy's fat legs it ran. The little boy tried to steer out of the way, but he was too late, and the next Teddy knew, he was sitting partly on the little boy and partly on the sled, sliding down the hill up which he had been walking a little while before. "Oh!" grunted the little boy when Teddy part way sat down on him. "Oh!" grunted Teddy. The reason they both grunted was because their breaths were jolted out of them. But they were not hurt, and when the sled with the two boys on it kept on sliding downhill all the other boys and girls laughed to see the funny sight. "Well!" cried Teddy when he reached the bottom of the hill and got up, "I didn't know I was going to have that ride." "Neither did I," said the little boy, whose name was Wilson Decker. "Me and my sister were having a race," he went on, "and now she beat me." "I'm sorry," said Teddy. "I didn't mean to get in your way. My sister and I are going to have a race, too, and that's what we were walking up to do when I sat on you. Don't you want to race with us? We're going to have a new kind." "What kind, Curlytop?" the little boy asked. "To see who can go the longest but not the fastest," answered Teddy. "Come on, it'll be a lot of fun!" So the little boy and his sister, whose sled, with her on it, had first gotten to the bottom of the hill, went up together with Teddy, to where Jan was waiting for him. "Oh, Teddy!" cried the little Curlytop girl, laughing, "you did look _so_ funny!" "I--I sort of _felt_ funny!" replied Teddy. "They're going to race with us," he went on, as he pointed to Wilson Decker and his sister. "That'll be nice," returned Janet. "Now we'll all get on our sleds in a line at the top of the hill. It doesn't matter who goes first or last, but we must start even, and the one who makes his sled go the longest way to the bottom of the hill beats the race." They all said this would be fair, and some of the other children gathered at the top of the hill to watch the race, which was different from the others. "All ready! I'm going to start!" cried Janet, and away she went, coasting down the hill. The other three waited a little, for there was no hurry, and then, one after the other, Wilson, Teddy and Elsie (who was Wilson's sister) started down the hill. Janet's sled was the first to stop at the bottom, as she had been the first to start, and she cried: "Nobody can come up to me!" But Elsie on her sled was exactly even with Janet. "Well, if Teddy or your brother don't go farther than we did then we win the race--a half of it to each of us," said Janet. And that's just what happened. Teddy's sled went a little farther than did Wilson's, but neither of the boys could come up to the girls, so Jan and Elsie won, and they were proud of it. Then they started another race. They were having grand fun, shouting and laughing, when suddenly a strange dog, which none of the children remembered having seen before, ran along and began barking at Nicknack. The goat, who was used to the gentle barking of Skyrocket, did not like this strange, savage dog, which seemed ready to bite him. "Baa-a-a-a!" bleated the goat. "Bow-w-w!" barked the dog, and he snapped at Nicknack's legs. This was more than the goat could stand. With another frightened leap he gave a jump that broke the strap by which he was tied to the tree. Then Nicknack jumped again, and this time, strangely enough, he landed right inside the sled which, a little while before, he had pulled along the snow to the hill. Right into the sled leaped Nicknack, and then another funny thing happened. The sled was on the edge of the hill, and when the goat jumped into it he gave it such a sudden push that it began sliding downhill. Right down the hill slid the sled and Nicknack was in it. "Oh, your goat's having a ride! Your goat's having a ride!" cried the other children to the Curlytops. CHAPTER XIV SNOWED IN Nicknack was indeed having a ride. Whether he knew it or not, or whether he wanted it or not, he was sliding downhill in the very sled in which he had pulled the Curlytops a little while before. "Oh, look!" cried Janet. "You'd better catch him 'fore he gets hurt!" added Tom. "I never knew a goat could ride downhill!" laughed Jack Turton, a funny, fat, little fellow. "Did you teach him that trick, Curlytop?" asked Ford Henderson, the big boy who had carried Janet home the day she went through the ice. "I guess he must have learned it himself," answered Ted. "That bad dog made him do it," said Janet. "Go on away, you bad dog!" she cried, stamping her foot. Then Janet caught up some snow in her hand and threw it at the dog, which gave a surprised bark and ran away, with his tail between his legs, the way dogs do when they know they have done something wrong for which they deserve a whipping. Perhaps, too, this dog was so surprised at seeing a goat ride downhill that he ran away on that account, and not because Janet threw a snowball at him. For a goat riding down a snow hill in a sled is certainly a funny sight. I never saw one myself, though I have seen a goat in a circus ride down a wooden hill made of planks and this goat sat on a seat in a wagon that, afterward, he drew about the ring with a clown in it. So, I suppose, if a goat can ride downhill in a wagon it is not much harder to do the same thing in a sled. At any rate, Nicknack rode down the hill, and the big sled kept going faster and faster as it glided over the slippery snow. "Get out, Nicknack! Get out!" cried Janet, as she saw what was happening to her pet. "You'll be hurt! Jump out of the sled!" Ted ran down the hill after the sliding sled, but as it was now going very fast, the little boy could not catch up to it. "I guess your goat won't be hurt," said Ford Henderson to Jan. "Goats can climb rocks and jump down off them, so I guess even if his sled upsets and spills him out Nicknack won't get hurt." "The snow is soft," said Lola. "Look, he _is_ going to upset!" cried Ted, who had stopped running and, with the other children, was looking down the hill. Nicknack was half way to the bottom now. Just as Ted spoke the sled gave a twist to one side and Nicknack cried: "Baa-a-a-a!" Then, just as the goat was about to leap out, the sled ran into a bank of snow, turned over on the side and the next moment Nicknack went flying, head first, into a big, white drift. "Oh, our nice goat will be killed!" cried Jan. "Oh, Teddy, you'd better go for a doctor!" "No, Nicknack won't be hurt!" said Ford Henderson, the big boy, trying not to laugh, though Jan did make a very funny face, half crying. "Goats often land head first on their horns. Anyhow, I've read in a book that they do, and they don't get hurt at all. Goats like to fall that way. He's all right. See! He's getting out of the drift now." And so Nicknack was. He had not been in the least hurt when he jumped, or was thrown, head first into the soft snow, though he might have broken one of his legs if he had rolled downhill with the sled. For that is what the sled did after it upset. Kicking and scrambling his way out of the snow bank, Nicknack climbed up the hill again. He could easily do this, even without the pieces of rubber tied on his hoofs, for they were sharp hoofs, and he could dig them in the soft snow, as boys stick their skates into the ice. Up came Nicknack, and then with a little waggle of his funny, short, stubby tail he walked over to a little hay still left near his feeding place, and began to eat. "Say, he's a good goat all right!" cried Tom Taylor. "He's a regular trick goat! He ought to be in a circus." "Maybe we'll get up a circus and have him in it some day next summer," promised Ted. "You'd better go an' get our sled 'fore it's broke," called Janet to him. "That's right," agreed Ford. "Some of the coasters might run into it and break it, or hurt themselves. I'll get it for you." Ford was not coasting on the little hill, being too big a boy. But he liked the Curlytops and was always helping them when he could, even before he helped get Janet out of the frozen pond when she broke through the ice. The heavy sled, to which Nicknack could be hitched, was not easy to pull up the hill, but Ford managed to do it. Then, after Ted, his sister and their playmates had coasted all they wanted to, the goat was harnessed again, and back home he trotted over the snow, pulling the Curlytops. Ted had fastened some sleighbells to his pet, and they now made a merry jingle as Nicknack trotted along. The goat went quite fast, for I suppose he knew a nice supper of the things he liked was waiting for him in his stable. And it was not altogether pieces of paper off tin cans, either, though some goats like to chew that paper because it has sweet paste on it. "Well, did you have a nice time?" asked Uncle Frank, as the Curlytops came home. "Fine!" cried Janet. "And Nicknack had a ride downhill!" added her brother. "No!" exclaimed Uncle Frank, in surprise. "Now you're fooling me!" "Nope!" said Ted earnestly. "He did, honest!" and he told all about it. Aunt Jo and the other grown-ups also had to hear the story, and there was many a good laugh as the little Curlytops and the grown folks sat in the living-room that evening and talked over the things which had happened during the day. "It's getting colder," remarked Daddy Martin, as he went out on the porch to look at the thermometer before going to bed. "Does it look as if it would snow?" asked his wife. "Well, there are no stars out, so it must be cloudy, and cloudy weather in winter generally means snow." "Have we any of the roast turkey left from Thanksgiving?" asked Uncle Frank. "Oh, yes, plenty," answered Daddy Martin. "Why do you ask?" "Well, so if we get snowed in we'll have plenty to eat." "Oh, we'll have plenty besides turkey," put in Mother Martin. "But I don't believe we'll get snowed in." It was not quite time for Ted and Janet to go to bed, and they liked to sit up and listen to what their father and mother, Aunt Jo and Uncle Frank had to say. The Curlytops loved company as much as you children do. Trouble had been put to bed, though not before he had made his sister and brother tell, over and over again, how Nicknack rode downhill on the sled. Trouble laughed each time he heard the story. The Curlytops were playing a little game with Uncle Frank, and Aunt Jo, Daddy and Mother Martin were talking about the good times they used to have in winter when they were children, when Mrs. Martin said: "I feel a cold wind blowing, don't the rest of you?" "It is chilly," agreed her husband. "The wind must have sprung up suddenly and is coming through the cracks of the windows." "There's more wind than comes through a crack," said Mrs. Martin. "I think a door is open. It comes from the front. Did you shut the hall door, Dick?" "Yes, I closed it after I came in from looking at the thermometer," answered her husband. "Well, I'm going to see what makes such a draft on my back!" exclaimed Mrs. Martin, getting up. She went out into the hall, and the others did not think much more about it for a little while until Mrs. Martin suddenly cried: "No wonder I felt a cold wind! Trouble Martin! What will you do next? Oh, dear! You're always doing something! Come in this instant!" "What's he doing now? I thought he was safe in bed and away over in Dreamland," said Daddy Martin. "So did I," returned his wife. "But he must have gotten up and come downstairs. I didn't hear a sound, but here the little tyke has the front door open! Oh, how cold it is!" "What made you do it, Trouble?" his father asked, as he caught the little fellow up in his arms. "Trouble want to see snow," was the answer. "It is snowing, and snowing hard!" exclaimed Ted. "Hurray, it's a regular blizzard!" Indeed it was snowing hard. Those inside had a glimpse of the storm before Daddy Martin closed the door Trouble had opened. It had not been fastened tight and the little boy had managed to pull it open. He had awakened after being put to sleep for the night in his crib, and had crept downstairs. His mother thought the wind blowing the hard flakes of snow against a window near him must have awakened him. "I'll go up to bed with him now," she said, "and I'll see that he doesn't get up again until morning." "I guess we'll all go to bed," said Aunt Jo. "I'm tired and sleepy myself." Ted and Jan looked out of the window as they began to undress. "It's snowing hard," said Teddy. "And maybe we'll be snowed in!" added his sister. All night the storm raged. The wind blew hard and the snow came down in great, white feathery piles. Ted and Jan slept soundly, for they had played hard the day before. It was late in the day when they awakened, and they saw a light in the hall outside their room. "What's the matter?" asked Janet, as she saw her mother up and dressed. "What you dressed for at night, Mother?" "Hush! Don't wake Trouble. He was restless all night, but he is sleeping now. It isn't night, it's morning." "But what makes it so dark?" asked Teddy. "Because the snow covers nearly all the windows, especially on this side of the house." "Is it snowing yet?" asked Jan. "Yes; snowing hard," her mother answered. "Are we snowed in?" asked Ted. "Yes," replied Mrs. Martin, "I'm afraid we are snowed in, Teddy boy. It's a terrible storm, and very cold!" CHAPTER XV DRIVEN BACK Teddy and Janet, who had put on their bath robes as they crawled out of bed, looked at one another in the light that streamed into their mother's room from the hall. Their faces were happy. They were not afraid of the big storm. It was just what they had hoped would happen. But they did not know all the trouble that it was to cause. "Are we really snowed in?" asked Janet. "Yes, I think we really are," answered her mother, motioning to the children to come out into the hall so they would not awaken Trouble. "Just like that hermit grandpa wrote about said we'd be?" Ted wanted to know. "Well, I don't know just how big a storm that hermit thought would come," said Mrs. Martin; "but this is certainly a bad one. If you get dressed you can look out of the windows at the back of the house. The snow isn't so high there, and you can see what a lot has fallen in the night." "Where's daddy?" asked Ted. "He's getting ready to go out to the barn to see if the horse and cow are all right." The Martins had lately bought a cow, and they had had a horse for some time, though the children would rather ride behind their goat Nicknack than in the carriage with old Jim, who was not a very fast horse. "Come on, Jan!" called Ted. "We'll get dressed and we'll go out and have some fun." "Oh, no, you can't go out!" exclaimed his mother. "And please don't make much noise." "Why can't we go out?" asked Janet at once. "Because the snow is too deep. It's over your heads in some of the drifts, and it's so cold and still snowing so hard that I wouldn't dream of letting you Curlytops go out." "Not even with our new rubber boots?" Teddy asked. "They are good and high and we could wade through the snow with them." "Not even with your new rubber boots, Teddy boy. Now be good and don't tease. Get washed and dressed, and Nora will give you some breakfast." "Come on!" called Ted in a whisper to his sister. "We'll have some fun anyhow! Snowed in! That's just what we wanted!" "Snowed in, is it?" exclaimed Uncle Frank, coming from his room. "So you have got a real snowstorm here at last, have you?" he went on to Mrs. Martin. "Well, this makes me think of my ranch in the West. Where's Dick?" he asked. "He's trying to see if he can get out to the barn to make sure the horse and cow have water and something to eat," said Mrs. Martin, for her husband had gotten up a little earlier. "Well, I'll go and help him," said Uncle Frank. "I'm used to storms like this. It's a regular blizzard by the sound of it." Indeed the wind was howling around the corner of the house, and at times it seemed to blow so hard that the house shook. As yet Ted and Jan had not had a look outside, for the windows upstairs, from which they had tried to see the storm, were coated with snow. The window sills had drifted full of the white flakes, and more had been piled on top of them. Then the warmth inside the room had made the snow that blew on the windows melt a little. This had frozen and more snow had fallen and been blown on the glass until from some of the windows nothing at all could be seen. "But if you go downstairs to the kitchen I think you can look out a little," said Mrs. Martin to her two Curlytops. Downstairs hurried Janet and Teddy. They only stopped to call "Good-morning!" to Nora, who was busy at the stove, and then the two children pressed their faces against the window panes. They could not see much at first--just a cloud of swirling snowflakes that seemed to fill the air to overflowing. Then Janet cried: "Why, it's almost up to the window sill, Teddy!" "That's right! The back yard is full of snow, Nora!" "I know it is. I went in over my knees when I went out to see if the morning paper had come." "Did it come, Nora?" "Indeed it didn't! I guess there won't be any paper for a few days if this storm keeps up, for the boys can't get around to deliver it. I could hardly get the door shut after I opened it. It's terrible!" "It's fun!" cried Teddy. "Course it is!" agreed Janet. "We wanted to be snowed in!" "Well, you got your wish, Curlytops, and I hope it isn't any worse than that," said Nora. "Though how we're to get out of the house and get things to eat is more than I know." "We've got lots left from Thanksgiving," said Teddy. "Haven't we got any milk?" asked Janet. "Oh, yes, there's plenty left from last night, though if the storm keeps up I don't see how your father is going to get out to the barn to milk the cow, and Patrick cannot get over to do it through this storm." Patrick was a man who milked for the Martins and sometimes did other work for them about the place. "Daddy can milk," said Ted. "Yes, I know he can," agreed Nora, "if he can only get out to the barn. But look at the big drifts in the yard." Jan and Ted looked out again. The yard was indeed filled with great heaps of snow, many of them higher than the heads of the children. The yard was a big one and at the far end was the barn. "Oh, look!" cried Ted. "Our snow bungalow is gone, Janet!" "Oh, it's blowed down!" cried Janet. "No, it hasn't," said Nora. "I could just see the tip top of it when I got up early this morning, but now the snow has covered it. The bungalow is there all right, but you can't see it. It's under a big drift." "Oh, wouldn't it be fun if we were out in it now?" cried Teddy. "Indeed, and you'd starve and freeze," laughed Nora. "No, we wouldn't," declared Teddy. "It's nice and warm out there. Uncle Frank said he used to make snow bungalows like that out West and he's lived in one a whole week in a blizzard." "But he had something to eat," went on Nora, "and there's nothing in your bungalow." "Yes, there is, a little," remarked Teddy. "We had a play party in it yesterday--Jan, me and Trouble, and we left some of the things we couldn't eat. I put 'em in a box and tied 'em up in a piece of carpet we had there. I was going to come back and make-believe I was a tramp and awful hungry, only I forgot it. There's things to eat out there, Nora. We wouldn't starve." "Well, I guess your mother wouldn't let you go out there and play anyhow, in this storm." "We'll have some fun in the house," said Janet. "Oh, doesn't it snow, Ted!" There came a big gust of wind just then and a cloud of snow hid the yard from sight. All the children could see was a lot of whiteness. "Oh, what about Nicknack?" asked Jan suddenly. "What you mean?" asked her brother. "I mean will he have enough to eat? Maybe we've got to go out and feed him." "I gave him something to eat last night," said Teddy, "and I left a big pail of water in his stable. I guess he'll be all right. Anyhow Daddy and Uncle Frank are going out to the barn and they can feed our goat." Nicknack had a little stable, like a big dog house, built next to the main barn, of which it was a part, though he had his own little door to go in and out. "Get your breakfasts, children, and then you can sit by the window and watch the storm," said Mrs. Martin, coming into the kitchen just then. "Trouble is waking up and I'll want you to help take care of him. You'll all have to stay in the house to-day and play quiet games." "Let's go and look out the front windows," proposed Janet. She and Ted ran through the hall to the parlor. But from those windows they could see nothing, for the glass was either so crusted with snow, or the drifts were really so high in front of the windows, that it was impossible to look out. "It is an awful big storm!" cried Janet as she went back to the warm dining-room. Not much could be seen from those windows, either. "Maybe it will stop in a little while," said Teddy, "and then we can go out and have a ride with Nicknack." "Indeed, Nicknack would be buried deep in the snow over his head if you took him out," said Aunt Jo, as she came downstairs. "You Curlytops haven't an idea how bad this storm is. I never saw a worse one. We may be snowed in for a week!" "Hurray!" cried Teddy. "It'll be fun," added Janet. As the children sat down to breakfast, the lights being turned on because it was so dark, though it was nearly nine o'clock, their father and Uncle Frank got dressed ready to go out to the barn. The men had on their overcoats, caps and big rubber boots. On their hands were warm gloves and each one carried a snow shovel, which the Curlytops' father had brought up from the cellar. "We're going to try to get out to the barn," said Mr. Martin. "I'm not sure the cow and horse have enough to eat." "Oh, can't I come?" begged Teddy. "And me, too!" added Janet. "No, indeed, Curlytops!" cried Mr. Martin. "You'd be lost in the snow and maybe Uncle Frank and I couldn't dig you out again. Stay here until we come back." The children hurriedly finished their breakfasts, and then ran to the kitchen windows to see their father and Uncle Frank try to dig their way to the barn. And the men really had to dig their way, for between the barn and the house the drifts were too deep to wade through. Many of them were over the heads of Daddy Martin. The Curlytops could see little, as the snow was still blowing and drifting. Now and then they saw their father or their Uncle Frank for just a moment, but the men were so covered with the white flakes that they looked like snow men. Finally there was a stamping of feet in the back entry, and when Nora opened the door there stood Uncle Frank and Daddy Martin. They were covered with snow and looked very tired. "What's the matter?" asked Mrs. Martin. "Couldn't you get to the barn, Dick?" "No, we were driven back," her husband answered. "It is a terrible storm, and very cold. We dug a path part way to the barn, but the wind blew the snow in it, filling it up as fast as we could dig it out. I guess we can't get to the barn. We surely are snowed in!" CHAPTER XVI DIGGING A TUNNEL Even seeing their father and uncle so tired out from shoveling snow and from struggling with the storm did not make the Curlytops think how bad it was to be snowed in. They still thought it was going to be fun. And so, in a way, it was, I suppose. At any rate they had a warm house in which to stay and plenty of good things to eat. "Well, what are you going to do?" asked Mrs. Martin of her husband as, standing in the entry, he brushed some of the snow off his boots with the broom. "We'll have to try again," said Uncle Frank. "Is it like your out-West blizzards, Uncle Frank?" asked Teddy. "Yes, this is almost as bad as the ones we have out there," he said. "Only this isn't quite so cold." "It's cold enough for me!" exclaimed Mr. Martin. "Here, Jan," he called to his little girl. "Just take hold of my nose, will you, my dear?" "What for, Daddy?" asked the little girl. "I want to see if it is still fast to my face," answered her father. "It got so cold when I was shoveling snow that I thought maybe it had frozen and dropped off." Janet grasped her father's nose in her warm hands. "Oh, it's awful cold!" she cried with a little shiver. "I know it is!" laughed Mr. Martin. "That's what made me afraid it was going to drop off. I'm glad I still have it." "Are you cold, too, Uncle Frank?" asked Teddy. "A little, yes. But I shoveled hard at the snow and I'm warmer now." "Take some hot coffee," said Mrs. Martin. "Nora will pour it out for you. No, Trouble! You mustn't do that!" she cried, as she saw Baby William crumbling a slice of bread into the pitcher of milk. "What's he doing?" asked Aunt Jo. "Goin' make a cake," the little fellow answered. "Make cake an' have p'ay party." "Well, you can have a play party with something else," laughed his mother. "We can't let you waste milk that way when we can't tell when we'll get more if daddy can't get out to the barn to milk the cow." She took the slice of bread away from William and set him down from the table to which he had climbed up in a chair. "'Member the time he made a cake when we were camping with grandpa on Star Island?" asked Janet of Ted. "I guess I do!" he laughed. "The dough was all over everything!" "Well, let's try it again now," said Uncle Frank to Daddy Martin, when they had had some hot coffee. "We've got to get out to the barn, somehow." "Yes," agreed the father of the Curlytops. "I don't want the horse and cow to be hungry or thirsty. I hope the water in the barn isn't frozen. If it is we'll have to carry some from the house." "And that might freeze on the way out," said Uncle Frank. "You could take a pail of hot water and that wouldn't freeze," Teddy remarked. "Our horse or cow couldn't drink hot water," objected Janet. "Well, they could wait for it to cool just as we do for our hot milk sometimes." "Yes, they could do that," agreed Janet. "Oh, I wish we could go out in our bungalow!" "Don't dare try it!" cried Daddy Martin. "If you children went out in the snow you might not get back until your ears and fingers were frost-bitten, to say the least." "What does frost-bitten mean?" Teddy asked. "Well, it means almost frozen," explained his mother. "Now you and Janet can take Trouble up to the playroom and have a good time, while I help Nora with the work." "We want to see daddy and Uncle Frank dig in the snow out to the barn," said Teddy. "Well, you may watch them a little while, and then take care of Baby William." "You can't see very much," said Uncle Prank, "The snow is still coming down hard and it blows so we can hardly see one another. So you won't see much of us from the windows." "Well, maybe we can see a little," remarked Janet, and she and Teddy, with Trouble between them, perched on chairs with their faces close against the snow covered glass. Of course the snow was on the outside, but it made the inside of the window-pane quite cold, and in a little while, Jan drew her face away and, feeling her nose, cried: "Oh, Ted! It's frozen 'most, like daddy's was!" "So's mine!" exclaimed Ted, feeling of his nose. "Mine cold, too!" added Trouble, putting his chubby palm over his "smeller" as he sometimes called his nose. Indeed the noses of the children were cold from having been pressed so long against the window, and when Aunt Jo heard what they had been doing she said: "I wouldn't stay near the window any longer if I were you. The wind blows in a little, and it's drafty. You will get cold all over--not only your little noses. Go up to the playroom and I'll come, too. We'll have some fun." "Just wait until we see if we can watch daddy and Uncle Frank a minute," pleaded Teddy. They all looked out of the window again. Once in a while they had a glimpse of their father or his uncle tossing the snow to one side. The two men were trying to dig a path from the house to the barn, and they were down in a deep trench, with white walls on either side. "This is a terrible storm!" said Aunt Jo as she went up to the playroom with the Curlytops and Trouble. "I hope no little boys or girls are out in it." "I hope not, either," echoed Jan with a little shiver, as she heard the wind howl around the corner of the house and dash the hard flakes of snow up against the windows. "If any boys or girls were out in it they could stay in our bungalow," said Ted. "There's some blankets in there and a little to eat." "And they could drink snow for water," said Jan. "I ate some snow once and it tickled my throat." "Snow isn't good to eat," said Aunt Jo. "Up near the North Pole, the Eskimos and travelers never eat snow. It would make them ill. They melt it and drink the water when they are thirsty. But I hope no little boy or girl has to leave his or her warm house and live in your bungalow, nice as it may be. I'm afraid they'd be pretty cold in it even with a blanket and a piece of carpet." "If daddy and Uncle Frank would dig a path we could go out to our bungalow and see," observed Jan. "Maybe there's a tramp in it, like we thought there was on Star Island," went on Ted. And, though neither Ted nor Jan knew it, there was someone in their snow bungalow. Up in the playroom the Curlytops and Trouble had fun with Aunt Jo. She told them stories and made up little games for them, while outside the storm raged and the snow came down faster than ever. "Come on!" cried Teddy after waiting a bit, "let's play that guessing game some more." "Oh, let's!" agreed Jan. "It's lots of fun!" This was a game in which one of them would think of something in the attic--the old spinning wheel, the steamboat chair or maybe a string of sleigh bells. Then the one who had the turn of thinking would tell the others the first letter of the name of the thing thought of, and perhaps something about it. The others had to guess what it was, and whoever guessed first was next in turn to think of something. Teddy, Jan and Aunt Jo played this game for a while, but it was not much fun for Trouble. He was too little to know how to spell the things he thought of, though he could name almost everything in the attic, even if he called some by nicknames he made up himself. "Let's play something that will be fun for Trouble," said Aunt Jo after a while. "What?" asked Teddy. "How would hide the bean bag be?" asked Aunt Jo. "We haven't any bean bag," replied Teddy. "We had one, but Trouble threw it in the hedge and we can't find it." "Well, I can easily make one," said Aunt Jo, and this she quickly did, getting beans from the kitchen, and sewing a bag from a piece of cloth from the rag-bag. "Now we'll let Trouble hide the bag first," said Aunt Jo, "as he hasn't had much fun this last hour. You take the bag of beans, Trouble dear, and hide it anywhere you like. Only you must remember where you put it, so when we give up, if we can't find it, you can get it to hide again." "All right!" laughed the little fellow, and then they told him all over again so he would be sure and not forget. "Maybe you look where I put it," said Trouble, when he was about to take the bag and hide it. "No, well blind our eyes so we can't see," promised Jan. "And we won't look until you tell us you're ready," added Ted. "And I promise I won't peep!" laughed Aunt Jo. "Aw wight!" said Trouble, with a wise look on his chubby little face. Then the others closed their eyes, and turned their backs, so they would be sure to see nothing, and Trouble, with the bag of beans in his hand, went wandering about the attic looking for a place to hide what he hoped Aunt Jo and the others would have to look a long time for. "Are you ready, Trouble?" asked Jan, after a bit. "Have you hid it yet?" inquired Ted. "Yes, I put it hid," answered Baby William, and when they looked they saw him sitting on the floor near the chimney. Then began the hunt for the bean bag. Aunt Jo and the two Curlytops looked in all the places in which they thought Trouble might have hidden it. They peered into boxes and old trunks, under boards, around the ledges of rafters and beams and everywhere. "I guess we can't find it!" said Aunt Jo at last. "You hid it too well, Trouble. Tell us where you put it and then hide it in an easier place next time. Where is the bean bag, dear?" "I--I _sittin'_ on it!" laughed Trouble, and when he got up, there, surely enough, was the bag under him on the attic floor. How they both did laugh at him, and Trouble laughed, too, and they had lots more fun, each one taking a turn to hide the bag. Now and then the children would go to the window to look out, but they could see little. All Cresco was snowed in. As far as the children could see, no one was in the street. Cresco, where the Curlytops lived, was a large town, and there was a trolley line running through it, but not near the home of Janet and Ted. "But I guess the trolley isn't running to-day," Teddy remarked, after a game of bean-bag. "I guess not," agreed Aunt Jo. "The cars would be snowed under." Just then Mrs. Martin called Aunt Jo to help her with some work, and the children were left to themselves. They ran to the window, hoping they could see something, but the snow was either too high on the sill or the glass was frosted with the frozen flakes so no one could look through. "Let's open the window!" suddenly proposed Ted. "Then we can get a little snow and make snowballs and play with 'em in here." "Oh, let's!" cried Janet. "Me want snowball, too!" "We'll give you a little one," promised his sister. By standing on a chair Teddy managed to shove back the catch of the window, but to raise the sash was not so easy. It was frozen down, and held fast by the drift of snow on the sill. "I know how to raise it," said Jan. "How?" asked her brother. "Get daddy's cane and push it up. I saw Aunt Jo do it the other day." Mr. Martin's cane was down in the hall, and Ted soon brought it upstairs. He put one end of it under the upper edge of the lower window sash and then he and Jan pushed with all their might. But the window did not go up. "Push harder!" cried Teddy. "I am!" answered Janet. They both shoved as hard as they could on the cane and then it suddenly slipped. There was a crash and a tinkle of glass, and the children toppled over on the floor while the room was filled with a swirl of snowflakes blown in through the broken window. "Oh, it's busted!" cried Teddy. "You did it, Janet Martin!" "Oh, The-o-dore Baradale Martin! I did not! You pushed it yourself!" "I didn't!" "You did so!" "Well, who got the cane, anyhow?" "Well, who told me to get it?" "I got some snow! I got some snow!" cried Trouble, and he tossed handfuls at his brother and sister, who had risen to their feet and were looking at the broken glass. The end of the cane had gone through it and the wind and snow were blowing into the room. On the carpet was a white drift that had fallen from the window sill. "Oh, children! what _are_ you doing?" cried Mrs. Martin, when she saw what had happened. "The window broke," said Teddy slowly. "Yes, I see it did," answered his mother. "Who did it?" Then Teddy proved himself a little hero, for he said: "I--I guess I did. I got the cane and it slipped." "I--I helped," bravely confessed Janet. "I told him to get the cane and I pushed on it, too." "Well, I guess you didn't mean to," said Mrs. Martin kindly. "But it's too bad. We can't get the window fixed in this storm, and daddy will have to nail a board or something over the hole. Trouble, come away from that snow!" Trouble was having fun with the snow that came in through the hole, and did not want to stop. But his mother caught him up in her arms and took him out of the room, sending in Nora to sweep up the pile of white flakes on the carpet. Then Daddy Martin nailed a heavy blanket over the window to keep out the cold wind, though a little did come in, and snow also. "Did you and Uncle Frank dig a path out to the barn?" asked Teddy, when the excitement over the broken window had died down. "Not yet," answered his father. "I guess we'll have to make a tunnel." "Oh, a real tunnel, like railroad trains go through?" cried Ted. "Yes, only made of snow instead of earth and rocks. We're going to make a snow tunnel." "Oh, that'll be fun!" exclaimed Jan. CHAPTER XVII IN A BIG DRIFT "What are you men going to do now?" asked Mrs. Martin, as her husband and Uncle Frank sat near the stove in the kitchen warming their feet, for they were very cold, having come in after a second attempt to make a path to the barn. "We're going to try a tunnel," said Mr. Martin. "The snow is too deep between the back door and the barn to try to shovel a path through it. As fast as we toss the snow away it blows in again and fills up the path so we can hardly get back to the starting place. Now if we begin in front of the house, where there is a big drift, we can tunnel out to the side of the barn." "What good will that do?" asked Aunt Jo. "When we make a tunnel it will have a top on it, like a roof over a house. It will be a long snow house, the tunnel will, and the snow can't blow in and fill it up." "But what will you do with the snow you dig out of the tunnel?" Mrs. Martin enquired. "You'll have to dig ahead and pile the snow back of you and you'll be just as badly off." "No," said her husband. "In front of the house is a big drift that goes all the way to the barn. But one side of the drift, near the house, is low and we can make a hole there to start. Then as we dig away the snow we can bring it back to this hole and dump it outside. If we work long enough we'll have a tunnel right through to the barn." "In what will you carry the snow out of the tunnel?" asked Aunt Jo. "In the big clothes baskets," answered Daddy Martin. "A tunnel is the only way I can see by which we can get out to the barn. Come on, Uncle Frank! If your feet are warm enough we'll begin. The horse and cow will be glad to see us." "Can't you make a place so the children can watch you?" asked Mother Martin. "I can't have them in the playroom now as the window is broken. Scrape off some snow around the front windows so they can see what you're doing." "We will," promised Uncle Frank. So before he and Daddy Martin began to dig the tunnel they made a cleared place in front of one of the parlor windows so a view could be had of the big drift where the tunnel was to be started. "Oh, I wish I could dig!" cried Ted. "So do I!" echoed Janet. "Don't you Curlytops open any more windows, or try to get out where your father and Uncle Frank are making the tunnel," warned Mrs. Martin. "This storm is getting worse instead of stopping." So the children stayed by the window and watched. With their big, wooden shovels and the big clothes baskets in which to pile the snow they dug from the tunnel, Daddy Martin and Uncle Frank started off to their work. As the children's father had said, there was a large drift near the front of the house. On one side it sloped sharply to the ground, making a sort of snow wall, almost straight up and down. It was in the middle of this snow wall that the tunnel hole was to be started. "Well, here we go!" cried Uncle Frank, as he waved his shovel at the watching children in the window. He made a jab into the snow wall, and cut out a big square chunk of whiteness. This he tossed back of him out of the way. For a time this could be done, and there was no need to use the baskets. But as the tunnel was dug farther in, the pile of white flakes would have to be carried out. As the tunnel was only going to be big enough for one person to walk in at a time, and not wide enough for two to go side by side, the two men were to take turns digging, one using the shovel and the other bringing out the clothes basket filled with snow which would be emptied outside. "Oh, I can't see Uncle Frank any more!" cried Ted, who was eagerly watching with his sister and Trouble. "Where's he gone?" asked Janet. "He's dug a hole for himself inside the snow bank--in the tunnel--and I can't see him now. He's away inside! Oh, what fun! I wish we could be in there," he added. "So do I," echoed Janet. "Maybe we can when it gets warmer and the snow stops coming down." "We'll ask mother," decided Teddy. "I see my papa!" suddenly called Trouble. "He's bringin' out de clothes!" "No, that's a basket of snow he has," said Janet with a laugh, for her father had just then come out of the tunnel with the first load of snow that had been dug loose by Uncle Frank. From then on, for some time, the children had a sight of their father or their Uncle Frank only once in a while, as either one or the other came to the mouth of the tunnel to empty the basket filled with snow. Sometimes it would be Daddy Martin and again Uncle Frank, as they were taking turns. "I guess the tunnel must be most finished," said Janet, when they had been watching for some time. "Anyhow here they come in," added Teddy, as he heard a noise at the back of the house. "Did you tunnel your way to the barn?" asked Mrs. Martin, as her husband and Uncle Frank came into the kitchen. "Not yet. It's farther than we thought, and hard work," answered Mr. Martin. "We came in to get some dinner and then we're going at it again." "And will you see if Nicknack is all right when you get out to the barn?" asked Teddy. "I surely will," promised his father. "I thought I heard him bleating when I first went out, so I guess he's all right." "Couldn't you bring him into the house?" asked Janet. "He's lonesome out there," added Ted. "Bring your goat into the house?" cried Mother Martin. "Oh, my goodness, no!" "Then we'd like to go out and see him," went on Teddy. "Well, maybe, when we get the tunnel finished, and if it isn't too cold, I'll take you out," promised their father. After dinner he and Uncle Frank began work on the tunnel again. The storm seemed to be stopping a little and the wind did not blow so hard. "Please, Mother, couldn't Jan and I go out, just for a little while?" begged Teddy toward evening, when it was getting almost too dark for Mr. Martin and Uncle Frank to see to dig in the tunnel. "What do you think, Aunt Jo?" asked Mrs. Martin. "Oh, I should think it wouldn't hurt them to go out for a few minutes. Wrap them up well, and I'll go with them, on the side of the house where there isn't so much snow. But I wouldn't let Baby William go." "No, I'll not." So Ted and Jan and Aunt Jo got on their warm wraps and stepped out of the front door, where Daddy Martin and Uncle Frank had cleared a place on the veranda. Trouble cried to go, but, though the storm was not as bad as it had been at the start, it was too cold for him. Ted and Janet did not mind it at first. They ran around, laughed, shouted and threw the snow. Then they began to feel the cold, which was more severe than they had thought. "Oh, what big drifts!" cried Teddy, as he saw some out in the road. "Awful big!" agreed Janet. "Let's go and look in the tunnel." There was little to see, however, except a big white hole in the great drift, for Daddy Martin and Uncle Frank were at the far end, digging their way to the barn and Nicknack. "Come now, it's time to go in," said Aunt Jo. "I promised your mother I'd keep you out only a little while. I think it's going to storm worse than ever. Come on in!" "Please wait until I take one jump!" begged Teddy. He gave a run and a jump, down a little side hill in the yard near the house. Into a pile of snow he leaped, and the next instant he had disappeared from sight! The snow had closed over his head! "Oh, where is he? Where's Teddy?" cried Janet, very much frightened. "I guess he's in the big drift!" answered Aunt Jo. "Oh, Daddy! Uncle Frank!" cried Janet. "Come quick! Teddy's in a big drift!" CHAPTER XVIII NICKNACK IS GONE Daddy Martin and Uncle Frank came running from the snow tunnel. Each one carried a shovel, for while the Curlytops' father had been digging away at the snow with his shovel, Uncle Frank had used the other to pile into the basket the loosened heap of white flakes. "What's the matter?" asked Janet's father as he looked at her. "Why did you call me?" "'Cause Teddy's in a big drift--down there!" she answered, pointing. "Yes, he really did jump down there, and the snow was so soft that he went all the way through," added Aunt Jo. "Then we must get him out in a hurry!" cried Uncle Frank. "Come on, Dick! This will be a new kind of digging for us." "I should say so!" exclaimed Mr. Martin. The two men ran toward the big drift, but when they got close they walked more carefully, for they did not want to make more snow fall in on top of Teddy through the hole he left when he jumped into the big drift. "Are you down there, Son?" asked Mr. Martin, leaning over the hole and calling to the little boy. Janet began to cry. She was afraid she would never see her brother again, and she loved him very much. "Don't cry," said Uncle Frank kindly. "Well get Teddy out all right. Did he answer you?" he inquired of Daddy Martin. "Not yet, but I guess----" Just then a voice seemed to call from under their very feet. "Here I am!" it said. "Down in a big pile of snow. Say, can you get me out? Every time I wiggle more snow falls in on top of me!" "We'll get you out all right, Ted!" shouted his father. "Just keep as still as you can. Can you breathe all right?" "Yep!" came back the answer, as if from far away. Then Daddy Martin and Uncle Frank began to dig in the big drifts with their shovels, while Aunt Jo and Janet looked on. As yet Mrs. Martin and Nora knew nothing about what had happened, nor did Trouble. "But it's of no use to tell your mother and frighten her, Janet," said Aunt Jo. "They'll have Teddy dug out in a minute, and then he can tell her himself what happened to him, and we'll all have a good laugh over it." "Won't he smother?" asked Janet. "Oh, no," answered Aunt Jo. "Falling under snow isn't like falling under water. There is a little air in snow but not any in water--at least not any we can breathe, though a fish can. But still if a person was kept under heavily packed snow too long he would smother, I suppose. However, that won't happen to Teddy. They're getting to him." Uncle Frank and Daddy Martin were tossing the snow away from the drift by big shovelfuls. In a little while they had dug down to where Teddy stood in a little hollow place he had scooped out for himself with his hands. He was covered with snow, but was not hurt, for falling in the big drift, he said, was like tumbling into a feather bed--the kind Trouble had once cut up when he was at his grandmother's on Cherry Farm. "Well, how in the world did you get down there?" asked Teddy's father, when the little boy was lifted up safe on the path again, and the snow had mostly been brushed from him. "I--I just jumped," Teddy answered. "I wanted to see how far I could go and I didn't think about that being the edge of the terrace." For the big drift was on the edge of a terrace, where the front lawn was raised up from the rest of the yard. So the drift was deeper than any of the other piles of snow around it. "However, you're not hurt as far as I can see," went on Mr. Martin. "But please don't go in any more drifts. Uncle Frank and I won't have time to dig you out, for we must keep at work on the tunnel." "Isn't it finished yet?" asked Aunt Jo. "No. And I don't believe it will be to-night. It's getting late now and we can't work much longer. It's going to snow more, too," added the father of the Curlytops as he looked up at the sky, from the gray clouds of which more white flakes were falling. "Can't we go into the tunnel?" asked Teddy, who did not seem much frightened by what had happened to him. "Well, yes, I s'pose you could go in a little way," his father answered. "We won't do any more digging to-night," he said to Uncle Frank. "No, but we'd better put some boards in front of the hole we have dug to keep it from filling with snow in the night." "Yes, we'll do that," said Mr. Martin. The two men led the way to the tunnel, in which they had been digging most of the day. Aunt Jo, Teddy and Janet followed. At the window, one of the few out of which she could look into the big storm, Mrs. Martin motioned for the Curlytops to come in. Daddy waved his hand and called that he would bring them in as soon as he had showed them the tunnel. The Curlytops thought this a wonderful place. They had been through railroad tunnels, but they were black and smoky. This snow tunnel was clean and white, not a speck of dirt being in it. Though it was cut through a great, white drift it was getting dark inside, for the sun was not shining, and night was coming. "Wouldn't this be a dandy place to play?" cried Ted. "Fine," answered Janet. "Nicer than our snow bungalow. When can we dig out to our bungalow?" she asked her father. "Oh, in a day or two, I presume. It's pretty well covered with snow, and we must first see that the horse and cow are all right. It will be time enough to think of play after we have done that." "And we've got to feed and water Nicknack, too," added Janet. "Yes, we mustn't forget your goat," laughed Uncle Frank. "Did you leave him any hay and water?" asked Daddy Martin. "I did," Teddy answered. "I put a lot of hay where he could get it and some water to drink in a pail." "Well, then maybe he'll have enough until we can dig our way out to him," said Mr. Martin. "But it isn't going to be easy. This has been a terrible storm, and I'm afraid it's going to be worse. I hope the poor of our town have coal enough to keep warm and enough food to eat. Being snowed in is no fun when one has to freeze and starve." Teddy and Janet were glad they were so comfortable. They, too, hoped no one was suffering, and if they had known that not far away a poor boy was in great distress they would not have slept as well as they did that night. But they did not know until afterward, when they found out the secret about the snow bungalow. "Well, come on out now," called Daddy Martin, as the Curlytops were looking at the snow tunnel. "It's time to go in. You've been out in the cold long enough." "It is very cold," agreed Aunt Jo. "I'm just beginning to notice it." Into the warm house they went, stamping and brushing off the snow that clung to them. As they gathered about the supper table, which was well filled with good things to eat, Nora came in to say that it was snowing again. "I thought it would," remarked Daddy Martin. "We surely must finish that snow tunnel to-morrow," he said to Uncle Frank. "We may need the horse to help us break a way to the road." "And we'll need more milk to-morrow," said Mother Martin. That evening, as they sat in their warm house playing games and listening to the crackling of the corn which Aunt Jo popped, the Curlytops were very thankful for the nice home they had to stay in. "How the wind blows!" cried Aunt Jo as she took the children up to bed. "Is it snowing yet?" asked Teddy. "I can't see," his aunt answered. "It's so dark and the snow covers the windows. But I wouldn't be surprised if it were. The storm is not over yet. I guess you children will have all the snow you want for once." "We can have rides downhill for a long while," remarked Janet. "And make snow men and snow forts and snowballs as much as we like," added Teddy. All night long the storm raged again. The wind blew and the snow came down, but not as hard as it had the night before. If it had, there is no telling what would have happened. The Curlytops would have been snowed in worse than they were. But it was bad enough, as they saw when they awakened and looked out the next morning. That is they tried to look out, but it was little indeed that they could see. For some of the windows from which they had had a glimpse of the outer world the day before were completely covered now. "We'll have to do some digging to get to the opening of the tunnel," said Daddy Martin to Uncle Frank, "and we'll have to dig all day to get to the barn. But we've got to do it." "That's right!" agreed Uncle Frank. "Couldn't I help?" asked Teddy. "No, I'm afraid not, Curlytop," answered his father. "It's pretty hard work for us men." "But will you let me go out and see Nicknack as soon as you dig to his stable?" the little boy asked. "I'll see about it--if the snow isn't too deep," his father replied. "I want to come, too!" added Janet. "Well, maybe you can," said Uncle Frank. "We'll see." Then, after they had had a warm breakfast, the two men started the digging again. Teddy and Janet could not see them because they were so far inside the tunnel. And as the Curlytops could not be out to play they had to amuse themselves as best they could in the house. Aunt Jo played with them and Trouble. Baby William was the hardest to amuse, as he was very active. He wanted to run about and do everything, and two or three times, when they looked for him, they found he had slipped away and was out in the kitchen, teasing Nora to let him make a cake. It was well on in the afternoon when there came a stamping and pounding in the back entry. "Oh, there's daddy and Uncle Frank knocking the snow off their feet!" exclaimed Janet. "Maybe they've been out to the barn," said her brother. "And maybe they've brought Nicknack in," added Janet. The Curlytops ran to the kitchen, not stopping to wait for Trouble, who cried to be taken along. There in the entry, brushing the snow from them and stamping it from their boots, were Daddy Martin and Uncle Frank. "Did you get to the barn?" inquired Teddy. "Yes, we got there all right." "And is our horse and cow all right?" Janet inquired. "Yes, they're all right, and were glad to see us." "Did you see our goat?" cried Teddy next. "No, we haven't dug out to his stable yet. We're going to in a minute," said Daddy Martin. "We thought we'd come in and get you two Curlytops and take you out to see Jim and the cow," added Uncle Frank. "It isn't snowing quite as hard as it was, and it isn't quite so cold. We thought it might do the children good, for they've been cooped up all day," the children's father explained to his wife. "So they have, but they haven't fretted much, except Trouble, and he didn't know any better. All right, take them out and then come in. We'll have an early supper. I do hope the storm will be over by to-morrow." "I think it surely will," her husband said. Teddy and Janet were soon warmly bundled up and were taken out of doors by their father and uncle. The keen wind cut their faces and the snowflakes blew in their eyes, but they liked it. Through the snow tunnel they were carried to the barn door, which was open. It opened right into the snow tunnel, and inside was a lantern, for the barn was dark, being more than half covered with snow and there being only one or two windows in it. Jim, the horse, whinnied when he heard his friends come in, and the cow mooed. "They're glad to see us," said Janet. "Yes, I guess they are," laughed her father. "I'm going to milk the cow. Then we'll shake down some hay for her and Jim, and give them more water, too. I'm glad the pump wasn't frozen." So while Daddy Martin milked the cow, Uncle Frank tossed down hay from the mow upstairs in the barn and pumped some water. "And now can't we get Nicknack?" asked Teddy, when a foaming pail of milk was ready to be carried to the house. "Yes, I think so," answered his father. "I called to him but he didn't answer," said Janet. "I'll soon dig a way to Nicknack's place," said Uncle Frank, and he started at a point where the tunnel ran to the barn door. It did not take him long, with the big shovel, to clear a place so that the door to Nicknack's stable was free, for the drifts were not so deep on this side of the barn. "Now for the goat!" cried Daddy Martin. "Stand back, Curlytops, and let Uncle Frank go first." Uncle Frank, holding the lantern over his head, entered the goat's stable. He stood still for a few seconds. "Is he all right?" asked Teddy anxiously. "Well, I can't see him at all," Uncle Frank answered. "You can't see him?" echoed Mr. Martin. "No, Nicknack isn't here. He's gone!" CHAPTER XIX WHAT NICKNACK BROUGHT Teddy and Janet were so surprised they did not know what to say. They just stood and looked at one another in the light of the lantern their father held after having milked the cow. Uncle Frank was in Nicknack's little stable with another lantern. "Are you sure he isn't there?" asked Mr. Martin, for well he knew how sorry the Curlytops would feel if anything happened to their goat. "There isn't a sign of him," answered Uncle Frank. "You can come and look for yourselves." "Maybe he's lying down asleep," suggested Teddy. "I've looked all over," said Uncle Frank. Teddy darted out of the barn, followed by Janet. "Here! Come back!" cried their father. "You may get lost in the storm. It's snowing and the wind is blowing and it's hard to see where you're going, especially after dark." "We want to see where Nicknack is," pleaded Teddy. "Wait, and I'll go with you," his father remarked. "Perhaps he has burrowed down under the hay or straw to keep warm." But when all four of them stood in front of Nicknack's little stable, which was too small for more than two to get in at a time, the Curlytops saw that their pet was not there. Uncle Frank flashed the lantern up high and down low, but no goat was to be seen. "Where can he be?" asked Teddy, anxiously. "Was the door fastened?" Daddy Martin inquired. "Yes, it was shut and the catch was on. I had to take it off to get in," replied Uncle Frank. "Nicknack couldn't have gotten out that way." "And there is only one door," went on Mr. Martin. "Did you look to see if any boards were loose on the sides of the stable, Uncle Frank?" "No, I didn't, but I will." With his lantern Uncle Frank began looking around the goat's stable, pushing against the boards, on the outside of which the snow was piled. Finally Uncle Frank gave a shout. "What is it?" cried Teddy. "Have you found Nicknack?" "No, but I've found the place where he got out. Look!" Holding the lantern so all could see, Uncle Frank showed where a large board had been knocked loose. It swung to one side and showed a hole in the snow outside. "Is he in there?" asked Jan, as she saw the hole. It was like the tunnel her father and Uncle Frank had dug, but smaller. "I don't know whether he's there or not," answered Uncle Frank. "I'll have a look, though." He pulled the board loose. It hung by one nail only. Then, stooping down so he could look into the hole, which seemed to have been dug in the snow outside, and flashing his lantern into it, Uncle Frank called: "Here, Nicknack! Are you there? Come here!" There was no answer, the only sound being the howl of the wind and the swish of the snowflakes in the storm. "Isn't he there?" asked Teddy, his voice sounding as though he wanted to cry. "I can't see him," answered Uncle Frank. "But I think he must be in the snow somewhere around here. We'll have to dig him out just as we dug you out of the big drift, Teddy." "Is Nicknack in a drift?" Janet whispered. Somehow, if Nicknack were in a drift, it seemed better to Jan to talk in whisper. "I can't imagine where else he would be," Uncle Frank said. "He must have gotten tired of staying here all alone, so, with his horns and head he just knocked this big board loose. That gave him room enough to get out, and then he began to dig his way through the snow. There was a little hollow place in the edge of the drift that is on this side of his stable, and that gave him a chance to start. He didn't paw any snow inside his stable, and that's why I didn't at first see which way he had gone." "But how can we get him?" asked Jan, who felt the tears coming into her eyes. "Oh, we can dig him out," her father said. "Don't worry. We'll soon get Nicknack for you." "To-night?" Teddy demanded. "Well, maybe not to-night," his father answered. "It's pretty late now, and getting colder. And there's no telling how far away Nicknack has dug himself into the snow bank. He's a strong goat, Nicknack is, and once he started to burrow through the snow, one couldn't say when he'd stop. He might even dig his way to the house." "Honest and truly?" asked Teddy. "Well, he might," said Mr. Martin. "Anyhow, we'll wait until morning before we start digging for him." "But won't he die?" asked Janet. "No, he can get air under the snow for quite a while, just as Teddy could when he jumped into the drift. And if he gets hungry he can wiggle his way back to his stable the same way he wiggled out. The way is open and we'll leave this board off so he can get in easily. There is hay and water here. The water didn't freeze, being warm under so much snow and down in the hay where you put the pail, Teddy. So Nicknack will be all right until morning I think." "What made him go out?" asked Teddy. "I think he got lonesome," laughed Uncle Frank. "He missed you two Curlytops, and he wanted to come to see you." "But where is he?" asked Janet. "Oh, somewhere in the snow between here and the house," answered her father. "Don't worry about Nicknack. He's able to take care of himself. Maybe he'll be back in his stable in the morning." Janet and Teddy were not at all sure of this, but they hoped it might prove true. They liked their goat very much. He was a fine playfellow for them. "Let us call, Jan," suggested Ted. "Nicknack likes us, and maybe he'll answer if we holler. You call first." "All right," Jan responded. Then, at the top of her voice, she yelled: "Nicknack, come here!" Then Teddy shouted: "Nicknack! Oh, Nicknack!" Then they all waited in silence, but heard nothing in reply to their calls. "Well, it's of no use to stay here any longer," said Daddy Martin, as they stood looking at Nicknack's empty stable. "We'll leave everything as it is and come here in the morning. It will be easy enough for us to get out, now that we have the tunnel made." "Yes, come on back to the house, and I'll tell you some stories about my Western ranch," added Uncle Frank. "Some day I want you Curlytops to come out there and have pony rides." "Oh, can we?" cried Teddy. "To be sure you can." "And shall we get snowed in?" asked Janet. "Well, not if I can help it. But come in the summer when there won't be any snow. You'll like it out on my ranch in Montana." The Curlytops were sure they would, and they were so anxious to hear more about it and talk of getting pony rides among the cowboys that, for the time, they forgot about Nicknack's trouble. Back to the house they went, locking the stable door after seeing that the horse and the cow had plenty to eat. Daddy Martin carried the pail of milk, of which Trouble was to have his share, for he drank a great deal of it. "Nicknack's gone!" cried Teddy as they entered the house, after brushing and shaking off the snow. "Gone!" cried Mother Martin. And then she and Aunt Jo were told what the Curlytops had discovered when they went to the goat's stable. "Well, maybe he'll come back," said Aunt Jo. "After supper I'll tell you about a new bungalow I'm going to build at Ruby Lake, and I want you two Curlytops to come to see me there." "Oh, won't we have fun at Uncle Frank's ranch and Aunt Jo's bungalow!" cried Teddy. "Yes, we will!" echoed his sister. After supper Uncle Frank began to tell a Western story of things that had happened at his ranch. He told of Indians having taken some of his ponies, and of how he and his cowboys chased and caught the Red-men and took back the little horses. "We didn't want them to steal our ponies," he said. "Daddy didn't want that lame boy to take the pocketbook in his store, but the lame boy did," said Janet, who was fast falling asleep. "What made you think of that?" asked her father. "Oh, I was just thinking," answered the little girl. "Maybe that lame boy was hungry like Uncle Frank said the Indians were." "Maybe," agreed her mother. "But it isn't sure he took the pocketbook. You never found out who he was, did you?" she asked her husband. "No, the poor fellow seemed to be too frightened to come back. I hope nothing happened to him. I'd rather lose the money than have him hurt, though, of course, I wouldn't want to learn that he would take what was not his. But now, Aunt Jo, it's your turn to tell about your new bungalow." So Aunt Jo began her story, and by the time it was finished Teddy and Janet were ready for bed, where Trouble had gone long before. "Still snowing," said Uncle Frank, as he went to the back door and looked out. "I imagine this is the biggest storm you folks in the East ever had." "Yes, it is," agreed Daddy Martin. The house was soon dark and quiet, while outside the cold wind blew and the snow piled in big drifts. Janet and Teddy had fallen asleep, wondering what had happened to their pet goat, and the first thing they asked, on awakening in the morning was: "Is Nicknack here?" "We haven't seen him," answered their mother. "But daddy and Uncle Frank are going to dig for him after breakfast." When the meal had been finished it was found that the snow had stopped, at least for a time, and that the weather was a little warmer. Janet and Ted were allowed to play out in a cleared place in the yard. "Part of the tunnel caved in during the night," said their father, "and we'll have to dig it out before we can get to Nicknack's stable. But we'll call you as soon as we find him." It took some time to dig through the snow, and while their father and Uncle Frank were doing this Ted and Janet made a little hill in the yard and slid down that on their sleds. Then they saw Uncle Frank coming toward them. "Did you find Nicknack?" called the Curlytops. "No. We dug through the hole he made in the snow, but it came to an end at your bungalow, and there's no sign of the goat." "Maybe he's in our play bungalow," said Teddy. "The door is closed," went on his uncle. "I'm afraid your goat is snowed under farther off. We're going to dig some more after dinner. But we'll find him." Janet and Teddy were worried about Nicknack. "Please dig hard for him!" begged Janet, as the two men started out with their shovels after dinner. "We will," they promised. Just as they were going out to the kitchen, to get their shovels which they had left in the back entry, there came a pounding in that very place as though some one were stamping snow off his boots. "What's that?" asked Uncle Frank. "Someone coming to see us--one of the neighbors perhaps," remarked Mr. Martin. "This is the first any of them have broken out after having been snowed in." Once more the pounding noise sounded. "Come in!" cried Uncle Frank, as he started toward the door. "Baa-a-a-a!" came the answer. "Nicknack!" cried Teddy and Janet joyously. Uncle Frank threw open the door. There stood the goat, covered with snow, and stamping to get off as much as he could. Into the kitchen he walked as though he felt at home there, and Teddy and Janet began to hug him. "Hold on there! Wait a minute!" called their father. "What is it?" asked Mrs. Martin. "What's the matter, Dick?" "There's something on that goat's neck!" "Something on his neck?" "Yes, a note or something. Nicknack has brought in something out of the storm. We must see what it is!" CHAPTER XX IN THE BUNGALOW The Curlytops were very much excited when they heard their father say Nicknack had something on his neck. They had been so anxious to hug their pet that they had not thought of anything else, and had not noticed anything. "We thought you were lost in the snow," murmured Janet. "So he was," declared Teddy. "But he came in out of the snow," he added. "Didn't you, Nicknack?" "Yes, and he brought something with him," went on Mr. Martin. "You must stop hugging Nicknack, Curlytops, until I see what it is." He led the goat gently away from the children. Nicknack bleated again. "I guess he's hungry," said Teddy. "I'll get him a cookie!" offered Janet. "You'd better give him a real meal," put in Nora. "He'll be hungry and want more than cookies, I'm thinkin'." "Get him anything you like," said Mr. Martin, "as long as I get this off his neck. It is a note!" he cried. "It's tied on with a piece of string. It's a note--a letter!" "Who in the world would send a note by Nicknack in that queer way, I wonder," remarked Mrs. Martin. "I've read of persons lost in the mountains sending a note for help tied around the neck of a St. Bernard dog," said Uncle Frank. "Maybe somebody used Nicknack as a dog." Meanwhile Teddy and Jan had to run to the pantry to get Nicknack something to eat. Trouble was now petting the goat and asking: "Where you been, Nicknack? Where you been all dis while?" "It is a note from some one in trouble!" cried Daddy Martin as he pulled the bit of paper from Nicknack's neck. "What does it say?" asked Uncle Frank. "And who is it from?" Mrs. Martin inquired. "It's signed 'The Lame Boy,'" answered her husband. "And he must be in the snow bungalow the children built!" "In the snow bungalow!" cried Aunt Jo in surprise. "That's what it says. I'll read it to you," went on Mr. Martin. Then, while Teddy and Janet fed cabbage leaves and pieces of cookie to their goat, their father read aloud the short note. "I am out in a little playhouse in your yard," the note read. "I hurt my foot so I can't walk and I am snowed in. This goat came in to see me and I tied this note on his neck. I thought maybe he would take it to somebody who would help me. I have only a little piece of bread left to eat. Please help me, whoever finds this." "Help him! Of course we will!" cried Uncle Frank. "Where's my shovel? Come on, Dick! We've got to dig him out! Come on, everybody!" "I want to help!" cried Teddy. "So do I!" added Janet. "Let me dig!" begged Aunt Jo. "I can handle a snow shovel as good as a man, and you must be tired, Uncle Frank." "No, we'll soon dig him out," said Daddy Martin. "The rest of you stay here. Ruth," he went on to his wife, "get some hot water ready, and a bed. If that poor boy has been snowed up in that bungalow for two or three days he must be almost dead, and half starved, too." "But how did he get there?" asked Mrs. Martin. "And who is he?" asked Aunt Jo. "All I know is what I read in the note," replied the father of the Curlytops. "It may be the same lame boy who was in my store and ran away before I had a chance to talk to him." "And maybe he's the one who you thought might have taken the pocketbook," added Uncle Frank. "Well, we won't talk of that now," said Daddy Martin. "We'll get him dug out of the snow first, and ask him questions later. Come on!" "How do you suppose Nicknack got to the bungalow?" asked Teddy. "Oh, I guess he just dug his way through the snow, making a tunnel for himself from his barn," answered Mrs. Martin. Whatever had happened to Nicknack he seemed glad now to be with his Curlytop friends. He ate the pieces of cookie and the cabbage leaves they gave him, and bleated to ask for more. Turnover, the cat, and Skyrocket, the dog, who had been in the house ever since the big storm, were also glad to see their friend the goat. "And we'll be glad to see that lame boy, whoever he is, when daddy and Uncle Frank dig him out," said Mother Martin. With their big shovels it did not take the two men long to dig their way to the snow bungalow. The pile of white flakes was deep over it but not so deep that a tunnel had to be cut, though it was through a tunnel, as they found out afterward, that Nicknack had made his way from the bungalow to the house. Only it was a small tunnel, such as an animal would make wallowing his way through the drifts. The day before, when looking for Nicknack, Uncle Frank and Daddy Martin had tunneled to the bungalow door, but in the night this tunnel had caved in, so they had to do the work over again. "Here we are!" cried Uncle Frank, as his shovel struck on some wood. "This is the bungalow. Now to see who's inside of it!" "Here's the place where the goat got out," went on Mr. Martin. "Whoever tied that note on his neck must have pulled loose a board to let him get out into the snow. Hello in there!" he called, striking with his shovel on the bungalow. "Yes--I'm here," came back the faint answer. "We'll have you out in a few minutes," cheerfully called Daddy Martin. "You'll soon be all right!" Then he and Uncle Frank made larger the hole where the board had been torn off, for the snow was piled up against the door, having drifted heavily during the night. As they entered the bungalow, after knocking off more boards, they saw, lying on the rug and a piece of carpet in the corner, a boy who, when he tried to stand up, almost fell. "I--I'm sorry," he began, "but I----" "Now don't say another word!" exclaimed Daddy Martin. "We'll take you to the house and you can talk afterward--after you've had something to eat and when you get warm. You'll be all right! Don't worry!" Picking the boy up in his arms Mr. Martin carried him through the snow to the warm house. There the Curlytops and others gathered about him. "He isn't Hal," whispered Janet after a look. "No," answered her brother. "That isn't Hal." "But he's lame," went on Janet, as she saw the boy limping across the room to a chair near the fire which Mrs. Martin made comfortable for him with blankets. "He's lame a whole lot!" The Curlytops were anxious to hear the boy's story, but Daddy Martin would not let him talk until he had eaten some food and taken some warm milk. "Now we'll listen to you," said Uncle Frank. "How did you come to go into the bungalow?" "I went in there to get out of the storm," answered the boy. "My name is Arthur Wharton, and I used to be in the same Crippled Children's Home with Hal Chester. That's how I knew your name and where you lived. Hal told me. And when I was taken out of the Home I came to Cresco to find you, for I thought maybe you would help me," and he looked at Daddy Martin. "Who took you away from the Home?" asked the Curlytops' father. "A man who had charge of me after my father and mother died. They put me in the Home to get cured, but when they died this man, who had charge of what money my father left, said there was not enough to keep me there with the other boys and girls. "So he took me out and made me go to work. Only I couldn't do much on account of my lame foot. So I ran away from that man. I had a little money saved up, and I came here. I heard Hal say how kind the Curlytops were and I wanted to see if their father could help me." "Did you once come to my store?" asked Mr. Martin. "Yes, I did," answered the lame boy. Mr. Martin did not speak of the lost pocketbook and money. "Why didn't you wait to see me?" asked Ted's father. "Because, after I was sitting in your store waiting for you, I got to thinking and I got scared for fear you'd send me back to that bad man who used me so hard. So I went out when the clerk wasn't looking. I got another place to work, and made enough to live on, but it was not as nice as when my father and mother were alive." "And did you afterward come to this house and ring the bell?" asked Mrs. Martin. "Yes, I was going to ask you to help me. But, at the last minute, I got afraid again and ran away. After that I didn't know what to do. I got a little work, but it wasn't much, and three or four days ago I was discharged because I was too slow on account of my lame foot. I worked in a store over at Butler." This was a place about five miles from Cresco. "I thought maybe I could get work in your store," went on Arthur to Mr. Martin, "so I started to walk here again from Butler. I wasn't going to run away from you this time. But the storm came up, I lost my way and in the dark I crawled into the snow-covered house back of yours. First I thought it was a part of the stable. I found some things to eat in it." "We left them from our play party," said Teddy. "I'm glad you did," went on the lame boy with a smile, "for that is all I had. Then my foot got worse when it began to storm. Then I saw I was snowed in and I knew I'd have to stay. But I got hungry and I had only a crust of bread left, for I ate all the rest of your things, and I had to let snow melt in my hand and drink the water. Then the goat came in. I knew he was your goat, 'cause Hal had told me about Nicknack. The goat stayed with me all last night, and I snuggled up to him and kept warm. Then I thought maybe I could send him for help. I'd read of men in the mountains doing that with the dogs. "I had a pencil, a paper and some string in my pocket. So I wrote a note and tied it on the goat's neck. Then I tore loose a board in the side of the little house and the goat began to burrow out through the snow. The hole he came in by was snowed shut. Then I guess I must have gone to sleep for that's all I remember until I heard you calling to me just now." "Well, you have had a hard time," said Mr. Martin, "but now we will take care of you. Don't worry any more." And Arthur did not. After a good meal to make him forget his hunger, he was put in a warm bed, and the next day he was much better. The storm was over now, and people were beginning to dig themselves out after having been snowed in for so long a time. One of Mr. Martin's clerks came up from the store to say that everything was all right down there, and he brought other good news. "That pocketbook we thought the lame boy took," he said, "has been found." "Where?" asked Mr. Martin, eagerly. "It had fallen under a box and I saw it there when I cleaned the store and moved the box," was the answer. "Oh, I'm so glad!" cried Teddy, when he heard the news. "So'm I!" added Janet They did not tell Arthur that, at one time, it was thought he might have taken the money. They did not want to make him feel bad. For he was happy now, with the Curlytops. "Can he always live with us?" asked Janet. "I like him," added Ted. "I'm glad you do," said their father. "But I think it will be best to send him back to the Home for a while, as a doctor told me he could be cured of his lameness if he stayed about a year. So we'll send Arthur back and in the summer we can go to see him when we visit at Cherry Farm." Arthur said he would be glad to go back to the Home, for he had many friends there and liked it, though he liked the Curlytops, too. The man who was his guardian tried to make trouble and keep the boy from going back to be cured, but Mr. Martin and Uncle Frank soon had matters straightened out, and another guardian was put in charge of Arthur. When the big storm was over the Curlytops had more fun on their skates and sleds. Then they got ready for Christmas. Arthur stayed with them until after the holidays. Then, much better than when he ran away and went wandering about in the cold, he was sent back to the Home, where, a year later, he was cured so he did not limp any more. "And if it hadn't been that Nicknack found him in the bungalow and brought the note to us through the snow, we might not have known until too late that Arthur was there," said Mother Martin. "Nicknack is a good goat!" exclaimed Teddy. "We'll always take him with us." "Are you going to bring him out to the ranch when you come to see me?" asked Uncle Frank. "Are we going out to your ranch?" asked Janet. "Yes. I have spoken to your father about it, and he says you may come. But not until winter is over. It is no fun out there when it is cold." What the children did when they went out to Montana you may learn by reading the next book of this series to be called: "The Curly tops at Uncle Frank's Ranch; or, Little Folks on Ponyback." "Well, we had lots of fun being snowed in, didn't we?" asked Janet of her brother, after New Year's Day, when Arthur had said good-bye and gone back to the Home. "Oh, we had an awful good time!" cried Teddy. "The best ever!" Then Teddy and Janet went skating and had fun, with plenty more in prospect when they should go out West to Uncle Frank's ranch. THE END THE CURLYTOPS SERIES By HOWARD R. GARIS _12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in full colors Price per volume, 50 cents. Postage 10 cents additional._ [Illustration.] 1. THE CURLYTOPS AT CHERRY FARM _or Vacation Days in the Country_ A tale of happy vacation days on a farm. 2. THE CURLYTOPS ON STAR ISLAND _or Camping Out with Grandpa_ The Curlytops camp on Star Island. 3. THE CURLYTOPS SNOWED IN _or Grand Fun with Skates and Sleds_ The Curlytops on lakes and hills. 4. THE CURLYTOPS AT UNCLE FRANK'S RANCH _or Little Folks on Ponyback_ Out West on their uncle's ranch they have a wonderful time. 5. THE CURLYTOPS AT SILVER LAKE _or On the Water with Uncle Ben_ The Curlytops camp out on the shores of a beautiful lake. 6. THE CURLYTOPS AND THEIR PETS _or Uncle Toby's Strange Collection_ An old uncle leaves them to care for his collection of pets. 7. THE CURLYTOPS AND THEIR PLAYMATES _or Jolly Times Through the Holidays_ They have great times with their uncle's collection of animals. 8. THE CURLYTOPS IN THE WOODS _or Fun at the Lumber Camp_ Exciting times in the forest for Curlytops. 9. THE CURLYTOPS AT SUNSET BEACH _or What Was Found in the Sand_ The Curlytops have a fine time at the seashore. 10. THE CURLYTOPS TOURING AROUND _or The Missing Photograph Albums_ The Curlytops get in some moving pictures. 11. THE CURLYTOPS IN A SUMMER CAMP _or Animal Joe's Menagerie_ There is great excitement as some mischievous monkeys break out of Animal Joe's Menagerie. 12. THE CURLYTOPS GROWING UP _or Winter Sports and Summer Pleasures_ Little Trouble is a host in himself and his larger brother and sister are never still a minute, but go from one little adventure to another in a way to charm all youthful readers. _Send for Our Free Illustrated Catalogue._ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York THE RUTH FIELDING SERIES By ALICE B. EMERSON _12mo. Illustrated. Jacket in full colors._ _Price 50 cents per volume. Postage 10 cents additional._ Ruth Fielding was an orphan and came to live with her miserly uncle. Her adventures and travels make stories that will hold the interest of every reader. Ruth Fielding is a character that will live in juvenile fiction. 1. RUTH FIELDING OF THE RED MILL 2. RUTH FIELDING AT BRIARWOOD HALL 3. RUTH FIELDING AT SNOW CAMP 4. RUTH FIELDING AT LIGHTHOUSE POINT 5. RUTH FIELDING AT SILVER RANCH 6. RUTH FIELDING ON CLIFF ISLAND 7. RUTH FIELDING AT SUNRISE FARM 8. RUTH FIELDING AND THE GYPSIES 9. RUTH FIELDING IN MOVING PICTURES 10. RUTH FIELDING DOWN IN DIXIE 11. RUTH FIELDING AT COLLEGE 12. RUTH FIELDING IN THE SADDLE 13. RUTH FIELDING IN THE RED CROSS 14. RUTH FIELDING AT THE WAR FRONT 15. RUTH FIELDING HOMEWARD BOUND 16. RUTH FIELDING DOWN EAST 17. RUTH FIELDING IN THE GREAT NORTHWEST 18. RUTH FIELDING ON THE ST. LAWRENCE 19. RUTH FIELDING TREASURE HUNTING 20. RUTH FIELDING IN THE FAR NORTH 21. RUTH FIELDING AT GOLDEN PASS 22. RUTH FIELDING IN ALASKA 23. RUTH FIELDING AND HER GREAT SCENARIO 24. RUTH FIELDING AT CAMERON HALL 25. RUTH FIELDING CLEARING HER NAME CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York Transcriber's Note: Page 13 "if it is too big." warned _changed to_ "if it is too big," warned Page 60 reflecton in the shiny _changed to_ reflection in the shiny Page 65 throught that. _changed to_ through that. Page 72 let Trouble get black. _changed to_ let Trouble get black." Page 123 up on your vernada _changed to_ up on your veranda Page 166 "Baa-a-a a!" _changed to_ "Baa-a-a-a!" Page 181 do it through this storm. _changed to_ do it through this storm." 
37837	----	PETER AND POLLY IN WINTER BY ROSE LUCIA Formerly Principal of the Primary School Montpelier, Vermont _Author of "Peter and Polly in Spring," "Peter and Polly in Summer," and "Peter and Polly in Autumn."_ AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY NEW YORK CINCINNATI CHICAGO BOSTON ATLANTA COPYRIGHT, 1914, BY ROSE LUCIA. COPYRIGHT, 1914, IN GREAT BRITAIN. PETER AND POLLY IN WINTER. E. P. 21 To C. M. G. [Illustration: _Frontispiece_ MAP] CONTENTS PETER AND POLLY THE BIRDS' GAME OF TAG THE STONE-WALL POST OFFICE PLAYING IN THE LEAVES "HOW THE LEAVES COME DOWN" THE BONFIRE THE HEN THAT HELPED PETER THE FIRST ICE THE THREE GUESSES THE FIRST SNOWSTORM THE STAR SNOWFLAKE HOW PETER HELPED GRANDMOTHER THE SNOW MAN PETER'S DREAM CUTTING THE CHRISTMAS TREE THE GIVE-AWAY BOX CHRISTMAS MORNING THE SNOW HOUSE THE FALL OF THE IGLOO PULLING PETER'S TOOTH DRIVING WITH FATHER THE STAG POLLY'S BIRD PARTY THE NEW SLED BROWNIE DISH-PAN SLEDS CAT AND COPY-CAT POLLY'S SNOWSHOES THE WOODS IN WINTER THE WINTER PICNIC THE SEWING LESSON FISHING THROUGH THE ICE MAKING MOLASSES CANDY GRANDMOTHER'S BIRTHDAY PARTY AROUND THE OPEN FIRE PETER AND POLLY IN WINTER PETER AND POLLY Peter Howe is a little boy. Polly is his sister. She is older than Peter. They live in a white house. The house is on a hill. It is not in the city. It is in the country. There are no houses close about it. But there are trees and fields around it. In summer these fields are green. In winter the snow covers them. The fields and the hills are as white as the house. Then there is fun playing in the snow. Peter likes to watch the snowflakes. He calls them "white butterflies." But he knows what they are. His friend, the Story Lady, told him. They are just frozen clouds. Peter said to her, "I think they are prettier than raindrops. They can sail about in the air, too. Raindrops cannot. I like winter better than summer." "It will be winter soon, Peter," said the Story Lady. "But many things must happen first. "The birds must fly away. The leaves must turn red and yellow. Then they will fall and you can rake them into heaps. We will go to the woods for nuts. "All these things will happen before winter comes." "Yes," said Peter. "And my grandmother must knit me some thick stockings. And my father must buy me a winter coat. Grandmother must knit some stockings for Wag-wag, too." "But Wag-wag is a dog, Peter. Dogs do not need stockings." "My dog does," said Peter. "He needs a coat, too. His hair is short. It will not keep him warm. I shall ask father to buy him a coat." "Do, Peter," said the Story Lady. "It is good to be kind to dogs. And when Wag-wag wears his coat and stockings, bring him to see me. I will take his picture." THE BIRDS' GAME OF TAG It is fall. Summer is really over. But it is still warm. Jack Frost has not yet begun his work. Peter and Polly have been watching the birds. For days they have seen great flocks of them. In the summer there were not so many together. One day they saw several robins. These were flying from tree to tree. Peter said, "I know they are having a party. They are playing tag." "Perhaps they are," said his father. "Perhaps each bird is telling something to the bird he tags." "What is he telling?" asked Peter. "I think he is saying, 'Brother bird, don't you know that winter is coming? Soon the snow will be here. What shall we do then? "'We cannot get food. We shall freeze. Come, let us fly away to the South. It is warm there.'" "What does brother bird say?" asked Peter. "I think brother bird says, 'It is a long way to the South. It will take many days and nights to fly there. "'Are our children's wings yet strong enough? I do not like to go. But I know that we must.'" "Doesn't he like to go, truly?" asked Peter. "We do not know, Peter. The robins make their nests here. They lay their blue eggs here. They hatch their little birds here. They never do this in the South. "Besides, they sing their beautiful songs here. They never sing them in the South. We like to think that they love the North better. But, of course, we do not know." "How can they find their way back?" asked Polly. "We do not know that, either, Polly. Many birds fly in the nighttime. Then they rest a part of the day." "I couldn't find my way in the dark," said Polly. "But the birds can," said father. "We do not know how. The winter home of some of our birds is thousands of miles from here." "I like to watch the swallows," said Polly. "They sit in a line on a telephone wire. Then one flies to another wire. In a minute they all fly, too. "I think that they are talking about going away soon. I hope they will not get lost." "Yes," said father. "They will soon be gone. But perhaps some of these very birds will come back here next summer." "I wish we could know them," said Polly. "We shall have a few birds left this winter," said father. "You know some of them. You know the chick-a-dees and the woodpeckers. And this winter I shall show you others." "May we hunt for nests and eggs, father?" asked Peter. "We may hunt, Peter, but we won't find any eggs in winter. We shall find other things. Perhaps we shall find the white-footed mouse. He sometimes makes his home in an old bird's nest." "Can a mouse climb trees, father? If he lives in a bird's nest, does he lay bird's eggs?" "He can climb trees, Peter. But he cannot lay eggs. We will see if we can find Mr. White-foot some day. "But first we will watch the birds fly away and the snow come." THE STONE-WALL POST OFFICE Around Peter's house is a beautiful field. This is Mr. Howe's hayfield. You can find it on the map in the front of this book. The children like this field. All the year round, it is a pleasant place. In the spring they find blue violets here. In the summer they watch the birds that make nests in the tall grass. In the winter they slide here on the crust. At the farther side of the field, there are some trees. These are butternut trees. In front of the trees is a stone wall. Peter and Polly like to play by this wall. Sometimes they play that it is a post office. The holes in the wall are the boxes. There is a box for every one in the village. Peter has more than one box; so has Polly. The children take turns being the postmaster. If Peter is the postmaster, Polly calls for the mail. The real post office is in their father's store. So they have often seen Mr. Howe put the mail into the boxes. They use little sticks for the post cards. Leaves are the letters. Stones are the packages. Sometimes the boxes are full of mail--especially Peter's and Polly's. Often they play that it is Christmas time. Then the boxes are full of packages. It is fun to guess what is in each package. One day Peter said, "There is a knife in this package. I like it. There is a hammer in this package. I will build a house with it. "There is a game in this package. Will you play it with me, Polly? And, O Polly! There is a pony in this package! That is what I wish for most of all." "But, Peter, a pony is too big to be in your post-office box. It would not come by mail." "Then Santa Claus will bring it," said Peter. "If I get it, I do not care how it comes." One day the children saw that the butternuts were falling. Polly said, "Let's pick up all we can. We will put them in our post-office boxes. When they are full, we will bring your cart. Then we can take the nuts home. We will crack them next winter." So they filled the boxes with nuts. The nuts were still green. The children stained their hands with them. While they were playing with the nuts, they saw two squirrels. These sat in the trees above them. They watched Peter and Polly with their bright eyes, and scolded them a great deal. "They want our nuts," said Polly. "But we have put them into our post-office boxes. We will keep them." The next day the children went for their nuts. They took Peter's cart with them. What do you think they found? Why, they found their boxes empty! The nuts were all gone! "Some one bad has been here," said Peter. Polly laughed. "You always say that, Peter. I think it was those squirrels. And I don't care, because they need the nuts to eat this winter." "I don't care, either," said Peter. "I think we forgot to lock our boxes." "Perhaps we did," said Polly. "But I guess the squirrels thought the boxes were theirs. When they called for their mail, they found the boxes full. How pleased they must have been! Let's pick up more nuts for them." So the children again filled the post-office boxes with nuts. Then they went home and left them for the squirrels. PLAYING IN THE LEAVES One day Peter saw something that pleased him. It was a branch of red leaves on a maple tree. He said to mother, "It will be winter soon." "Why do you think so, Peter?" "I have seen red leaves," said Peter. "But, Peter, a few red leaves do not count. There are red leaves in the summer. You must watch until you see many red, yellow, and brown leaves." "What makes the leaves red and yellow, mother? Is it magic?" asked Peter. "Can you do it?" "Perhaps it is a kind of magic, Peter. It is like the clouds turning into snow. I cannot do that." Then Peter watched for all the trees to turn. At last they were bright with colors. The maples were red and yellow; the oaks a deep red. The beeches were a bright yellow. Even the elm trees in front of the house were yellow. Now Polly liked more than ever to swing. The swing took her way up among the yellow leaves. Then, one day, the leaves began to fall. Down they came, a few at a time. The next day more fell, and the next and the next. Polly said, "They are prettier than the snowflakes. The snow is white. These have lovely colors. See them flying through the air." At last most of the trees were bare. The leaves lay on the ground. Then Peter said, "Oh, the poor trees! They haven't any clothes on. I am so sorry." Polly said, "The leaves are not clothes. They are children. Now they have gone to bed. The snow is their blanket. When it comes, it will keep them warm. If we leave them alone, they will sleep all winter. I learned it in a poem." "They cannot go to sleep yet," said Peter. "I shall not let them. I shall wake them up." "How will you do that?" asked Polly. "I shall run in them. That will keep them awake. I shall do it now. Come on! See if you can make as much noise as I can." After a while the children raked the leaves into large heaps. Then they jumped in the heaps. This scattered the leaves. But the children did not care. They raked them up again. Once Peter jumped where the leaves were not very deep. He came to the ground with a bang. He was surprised. But he was not much hurt. He said to mother, "My teeth shut with a noise when I went down." Mother said, "It is lucky that your tongue was not in the way. You would have bitten it badly." "Come in now, both of you. You must wash your hands and faces. Father will be home soon. You may play in the leaves to-morrow." HOW THE LEAVES CAME DOWN[1] I'll tell you how the leaves came down. The great Tree to his children said, "You're getting sleepy, Yellow and Brown, Yes, very sleepy, little Red; It is quite time you went to bed." "Ah!" begged each silly, pouting leaf, "Let us a little longer stay; Dear Father Tree, behold our grief; 'Tis such a very pleasant day We do not want to go away." So, just for one more merry day To the great Tree the leaflets clung, Frolicked and danced and had their way, Upon the autumn breezes swung, Whispering all their sports among,-- "Perhaps the great Tree will forget, And let us stay until the spring, If we all beg and coax and fret." But the great Tree did no such thing; He smiled to hear their whispering. "Come, children, all to bed," he cried; And ere the leaves could urge their prayer He shook his head, and far and wide, Fluttering and rustling everywhere, Down sped the leaflets through the air. I saw them; on the ground they lay, Golden and red, a huddled swarm, Waiting till one from far away, White bedclothes heaped upon her arm, Should come to wrap them safe and warm. The great bare Tree looked down and smiled, "Good night, dear little leaves," he said. And from below, each sleepy child Replied, "Good night," and murmured, "It is so nice to go to bed!" --SUSAN COOLIDGE. [1] Copyright, 1889, by Roberts Brothers. THE BONFIRE The next day father said, "Peter and Polly, will you work for me? I wish to buy your leaves. I will give you a cent for three loads." "Oh, goody, goody!" said Polly. "Oh, goody, goody!" said Peter. "You must put the leaves in a pile in the garden. I will show you where." "What will you do with them, father?" asked Polly. "You will see to-night, if you are good workmen." In the night the wind had blown the leaves about. So the children raked them up once more. Then they filled the big basket full. They packed in the leaves as hard as they could. "That is to give good measure," said Polly. "Father always gives good measure at his store. So you and I must, too." Every time they took a basketful to the garden, Polly made a mark on a piece of paper. At last the yard was raked clean. They had taken to the garden twenty-nine loads. They had worked nearly all day. At supper father said, "You are good workmen, chicks. Our yard looks very clean. It is ready for winter. "You piled the leaves carefully in the garden, too. Now, how much do I owe you?" "We took twenty-nine loads, father," said Polly. "I wish there had been one more to make thirty." "Why do you wish that, Polly?" "Because three goes in thirty better than in twenty-nine." "Well," said father, "we will call it thirty loads, Polly. I saw you packing the leaves into the basket very hard. "You are honest workmen to give me such good measure. Now, Polly, three goes in thirty how many times?" "Ten times, father. So you owe us ten cents. We shall each have five cents." "Very good, Polly. Here is your money. I have a surprise for you. Put on your coats and come to the garden. Mother will come, too." In the garden they found father beside the pile of leaves. He had thrown many things upon it. He said, "I came home early and cleaned up the garden. Now, what shall we do with all this stuff?" "Burn it, burn it!" shouted both children at once. "A bonfire, a bonfire!" "Very well," said father. "You may burn it. Here is a match for you, Polly. And here is one for you, Peter. Light your fire." Polly and Peter lighted the great heap. Soon the red flames were leaping up. They made the garden bright. Farther away from the fire it was very dark. "Oh, see, see, mother!" cried Polly. "The flames are as pretty as the red and yellow leaves. Have they taken the color from the leaves? How hot they are!" [Illustration: The children danced around the fire until it died down. Then mother took them into the house. It was bedtime.] THE HEN THAT HELPED PETER Peter is a nice little boy. But he can be very naughty. Mother and father know this. Grandmother Howe and Polly know it, too. You see, Peter always wishes his own way. And you know this is not good for little boys and little girls. Peter cannot have cake between his meals. He may always have milk to drink. Sometimes he may have bread and jelly, or bread and sugar. He likes this very much. But he does not like the crusts of the bread. So he used to eat only the soft part. The crusts he threw away. But at the table he could not throw them away. Then he put them under the edge of his plate. You know how. When mother took the plate, there would be a crust on the table. It did not look very well. One day father said, "Peter, you are a big boy now. You are nearly five years old. You are old enough to eat your crusts. "I will give you a week in which to learn how. After that, I shall not expect to see any more crusts on the table." Peter knew that, when his father spoke so, he meant what he said. But the little boy thought he would not eat his crusts until he had to do so. He said to himself, "In a week I will begin to eat them all up. But now I will still put them under my plate." So, every day when his plate was taken away, there were the crusts. Peter did not see his father look at them. And his father said nothing more about them. By and by Peter began to think that his father had forgotten. So, when the week was over, he said to himself, "I am sure that my father has forgotten. I am going to keep on leaving my crusts." But his father had not forgotten. He was just waiting to see if Peter would obey. That noon he saw that Peter had left a crust. He said, "My son, you have not learned to eat your crusts. And you have not learned to obey. I must teach you." Then Peter was more naughty still. He said, "I do not like old crust. I will throw old crust away. Then I cannot eat it." He picked up the crust and jumped down from his chair. His father called, "Peter!" But Peter did not stop. He ran to the door and threw the crust out upon the grass. His father went after him. "You may pick up your crust, Peter," said he. This time Peter started to obey. He knew that he had been very naughty. But, before he could get to the crust, an old hen ran up. She snatched it in her bill and off she went. Peter looked at his father. He was not sure what his father would do. He almost wished the hen had not taken the crust. Father only laughed. He said, "That old hen is a friend of yours, Peter. If it had not been for her, you would have eaten that crust." "I know it," said Peter. "And, father, I am sorry. I do not like to be naughty. I will be good. I will eat my crusts now to please you." And after this he did. THE FIRST ICE "Water now has turned to stone, Stone that I can walk upon." One morning mother said, "Polly, will you go to the store for me? I need a can of corn. We must have it for dinner." "May Peter go, too, mother?" "Oh, yes, Peter may go, if he wishes. Run and find him." Now Polly and Peter liked to go to the store. It belonged to their father. Sometimes they helped him unpack goods. Sometimes they sat still and watched the customers. Sometimes he let them play keeping store. Once Polly had really sold some candy to another little girl. But to-day they could not stay to play. They must get the can of corn for mother, and come home. They went down the hill. At the railroad tracks they stopped. They looked for a train. They saw none, so they ran across the tracks. Then they came to the bridge. You can find it on the map in the front of this book. They stopped to look over the rail at the water, far below. "O Polly!" said Peter. "What is on the water?" "Why, it is ice, Peter. The top of the water is frozen. See, the ice goes nearly across the river." "Ice, ice!" shouted Peter. "Now winter is almost here. The leaves have gone. The ice has come. Let's run and tell father." The children ran to the store. "Father, father," called Peter, "we have seen ice!" "So have I," said father. "Where did you see it?" "We saw it from the bridge. The river is frozen at the sides. It is not frozen in the middle." "Yes," said father. "It freezes first at the edges, because the water flows more slowly there. In the middle it flows faster. "Every cold night that ice will grow. It will soon cover the middle of the river, too. And at the same time it will grow thicker." "By and by it will be so thick that we can walk upon it. Then it is time to learn to skate. Perhaps you can learn this winter." "When the ice is thick enough, men cut it into blocks. What will they do with them?" "Make houses of them," said Peter. "O Peter, we are not Eskimos," said Polly. "I know, father. They will put the ice into big ice houses. They will keep it to use in the hot summer. I saw them doing it last winter." "Right, Polly. That is where our ice comes from in the summer." "Does all the water in the river freeze, father? Where do the fishes go? Are they in the ice?" "The ice is lighter than the water, Peter. So it stays on top of the water. The bottom of our river does not freeze. The fishes are there. They do not mind the cold as we do. "Did you come to the store just to tell me about the ice, chicks?" "No, father," said Polly. "We came for a can of corn. We saw the ice when we were on the bridge." "Then here is the corn. Take it to mother and tell her about the ice." Off went the children. When they came to the bridge, Peter dropped some small stones on the ice. But it did not break. "It must be thick now, Polly," said he. "I wish we could skate." "We weigh more than those stones do, Peter. I think the cold will have to make the ice grow more before father will let us. And, anyway, we have no skates." "Let's tell mother about that, too, Polly. Perhaps she knows where there are some." So Peter and Polly hurried up the hill to find their mother. THE THREE GUESSES "Polly and Peter," said Mr. Howe, "I have something for you. It is something to use in the winter, and not in the summer. You may have three guesses." "It can't be a sled," said Polly, "for we have sleds." "It can't be a coat," said Peter, "for we have coats." "And we have mittens and leggings and overshoes, too," said Polly. "It might be my pony," said Peter. "No," said Polly. "It couldn't be, Peter. We can use a pony in the summer. Let's not guess that." "Is it good to eat, father?" asked Peter. "I am hungry now." "No, Peter. And there are four of them; two for each of you. They are hard and shiny." "Guns, guns!" shouted Peter. "One guess is gone, Peter. What would you do with two guns?" "Are they for us to wear, father?" asked Polly. "Yes, Polly, but not all the time. You cannot wear them in the house." "Then I know what they are, father. If there are two for each of us, that is one for each foot. Can't you guess now, Peter?" "Rubber boots," shouted Peter. "I think it is skates, father. And I am glad. I have wished for some ever since we saw the ice." "You have made a good guess, Polly. Bring me the box that is in the hall." Out of the box Mr. Howe took two pairs of shining new skates. "Oh, goody, goody!" cried both children, when they saw what was in the box. "We will go skating now," said father. "Then we can try them." At the edge of the river he stopped. He put on the children's skates. Then he put on his own. "I will show you how to do it," he said. "Then I will help you just a little." He showed them how to strike out, first with one foot and then with the other. His tracks looked like this: [Illustration] Then Polly tried, but her tracks looked like this: [Illustration] "That is not the way, Polly," said her father. "You are skating with your right foot. But you are only pushing with your left. You must skate with both. Watch me again." Then Peter tried. His tracks looked like this: [Illustration] The cross marks the place where Peter fell down. But he did not care. He got up and tried again. Polly was doing better. So her father took hold of her and helped her a little. He said, "I wish you to learn alone. Then you will be a good skater. If I help you all the time, you will never be able to skate alone." Polly said, "That is what my teacher tells us. She says, 'I will show you how to do it. And I will help you a little. Then you must try for yourself.'" "That is good," said father. "You must learn to do things alone. Your teacher and your father will not always be near." Soon the skates were taken off. "We must not stay too long the first time," said father. "You may come again to-morrow. You may skate every day until the snow comes." "Oh, may we, father, may we?" cried Peter and Polly, jumping up and down. "And when the snow comes, we can sweep it off the ice." "Maybe I shall not wish for any snow now," said Peter. "Maybe I like skating better." "You will get the snow just the same, my son," said father. "So you may as well wish for it. It is sure to come." "Now, good-by. We have all had a good time. Take my skates home with you and dry them when you dry yours. Then they will not rust. We will bring mother the next time we come." THE FIRST SNOWSTORM One morning mother called to Peter, "Wake up, Peter! Look out of your window. Winter has come." Peter had been dreaming about a big snow man who chased him. He jumped out of bed and said, "You didn't get me that time, old snow man. I woke up too soon." He ran to the window. The ground was white. The trees were white. The air was full of the white butterflies that Peter likes so well. "Oh! Oh!" he shouted. "I must go out to play! I must go out to play!" "Not until you are dressed, Peter," said mother. "Then you must have breakfast. After that you may go out." At breakfast father said, "It has snowed a foot since dark yesterday. How many inches is that, Polly?" "It is twelve inches, father. Do you think this snow has come to stay? Or will it melt away?" "I think that it will stay, Polly. It is time for sleighing." Peter and Polly put on their coats and caps, their leggings, overshoes, and mittens. Then they were ready to go out. At first Peter ran about in the yard. He kicked up the snow as he ran. It flew all over him. "Polly, Polly!" he called. "I am a snow man now. I shall chase you as the one in my dream chased me." He ran after her. Just as he caught her, she slipped. Down they both went. They were covered from head to foot with snow. "Now we are both snow men," said Polly. "Let's go and shake the little trees." These were two fir trees. They were at the side of the house. Polly took hold of the end of a low branch. Peter stood under the tree, while Polly shook it. Down came a shower of snow. Then Polly stood under the other, while Peter shook that. Down came another shower of snow. Some of this went into Polly's neck. But Polly did not care. "Now we will show grandmother how white we are," she said. Grandmother heard them coming. She went out on the piazza. She said, "I see two snow men. I cannot ask them in. Snow men would melt near the fire. Then they would be nothing but water." "Oh, yes, grandmother, they would be Peter and Polly," said Peter. "Why, Peter! Why, Polly! Is this really you? I have no spectacles on, this morning. Where are your sleds?" "In the barn, in the barn!" shouted Peter. "We could not wait for them." "See the posts of your fence, grandmother," said Polly. "They all have on tall white caps." "So they have, Polly. And how clean the snow caps are. How clean the snow makes everything. We are all glad to have it, aren't we?" "I am, I am!" shouted Peter. "Winter has come, winter has come! Good-by, grandmother. I must go and play." "Good-by," called grandmother. "Come down to dinner, if mother will let you. We will have sugar on snow." "She will let us," called Peter. "I know she will. And I will get the pan of snow for the sugar." THE STAR SNOWFLAKE All that day Peter and Polly played in the snow. All day Peter's white butterflies fell. Down they came out of the air, softly and silently. Peter liked to stand and look up into the sky. He liked to feel the soft flakes light upon his face. He liked to see them on his coat sleeve. Polly said, "Aren't the flakes pretty, Peter? They are little stars. The perfect ones have six points. The Story Lady told me a story about a star snowflake. I will tell it to you. "Once a little water fairy lived in our brook, back of grandmother's house. One day she was very, very naughty. She did not wish to go up into the air. She did not wish to be part of a cloud. She wished to stay in the brook. "Her father said, 'You must go. And I shall have you punished for being so naughty. I shall have Jack Frost change you into a snowflake.' "Jack Frost came one day to change the cloud into snowflakes. He saw how sorry the water fairy was because she had been so naughty. "So he said, 'You know that I have to make all snowflakes like stars. Some of them are very pretty. I will change you into the prettiest star snowflake that I know.' "'And when you melt,' said Jack Frost, 'you will be a water fairy again. You will always be good then, won't you?' "So he changed her into a beautiful star snowflake. I have seen her picture. The Story Lady showed it to me." "Let's find her," said Peter. "Then let's show her to the Story Lady. That will be better than the picture." So the children looked and looked. They found many stars. But Polly was not sure that any one of them was the right one. At last Peter found the most beautiful star of all. "This is the water fairy, this is the water fairy!" he cried. And Polly said, "It does look like the picture. So let's go and show it to the Story Lady." Down they went to her house and into the kitchen. There was the Story Lady, washing dishes. "O Story Lady," said Peter. "I have the water fairy on my arm! She is changed into a star. See her!" But when the Story Lady looked, there was no star snowflake. "She has gone," said Peter. "That is too bad." And he looked ready to cry. "Why, yes, Peter," said the Story Lady. "She has gone. But don't you think that she is happy to be just a water fairy again? She likes that better, you know. You must be glad that you found her and helped her melt." "I am glad," said Peter. "But it was only a 'Once upon a time' story, wasn't it?" "Of course it was, Peter. But don't you know that all snowflakes are water fairies? Now run along and play with those that are left." HOW PETER HELPED GRANDMOTHER Grandmother was getting ready for Thanksgiving. Peter and Polly and father and mother were going to her house on that day. So grandmother was making mince pies. She was making other things, too. One was fruit cake. Peter and Polly were down at grandmother's, helping. At least, Polly was helping and Peter was hindering. He seemed bound to stand just where grandmother wished to walk. He spilled a cup of milk on the table. After he had wiped it up, he upset some flour. But he did not mean to hinder. Polly watched her grandmother make the pies. She watched her roll the pie crust thin and trim it to the size of the plate. She said, "If I had some dough, I am sure I could do that." Her grandmother gave her some and a little plate. Polly rubbed the plate with melted butter. Then she rolled out the dough and put it on the plate. "That is very good, Polly. Now we will fill our pies. Here is the mincemeat." Polly tried to make her little pie look like grandmother's large one. "Next we must put on the covers," said grandmother. "Roll yours out like mine." She had Polly stick a knife through her cover in four places. Ask your mother why she did this. Then she helped Polly put on her cover, for that was quite hard to do. Last of all she showed her how to pinch together the edges. "Now," said grandmother, "we will bake our pies. What shall you do with yours?" "I should like to take it home to show mother and father. May I?" "Why, to be sure. They ought to have a bite of your first pie. Please, Peter, carry this pail of sugar into the pantry for me. I do not need it any more." The pies were baked brown. As soon as hers was cool enough, Polly carried it up the hill to mother. "See, mother," she said, "I can cook now. Grandmother let me make a pie. It is for you and father." "How good it looks, Polly! We will try it for dinner. You have done this well. I see that I must begin to teach you to cook. "Bread comes first. The next time I sponge bread, you may try. Your first good loaf you may take to grandmother." "Oh, may I, mother? I want to learn to cook. Then I can cook for you and father. I watched grandmother all the morning. I helped her, too." "So did I help grandmother," said Peter. "O Peter, what did you do to help?" asked Polly. "You spilled the milk and then you spilled the flour. That isn't helping much." "I did help," said Peter. "I helped all the morning. I worked very hard." "I am sure that you meant to, Peter," said mother. "But tell me what you did." "Why," said Peter, "why, I carried away the pail of sugar." Polly laughed, but mother said, "That was kind, Peter. And you know that you always help by being a good boy. So I really think that you are right." THE SNOW MAN "Let's make a snow man this morning. Will you, Peter? The snow is just right for big balls." "Then we will," said Peter. "But let's get Tim to help us." Tim is Peter's playmate. He lives on a farm. His house is farther up the hill. Look for it on the map in the front of this book. Soon Tim was down at Peter's. His big dog Collie was with him. Wag-wag and Collie are friends. They often play together. The three children began to roll snowballs. Polly's grew very large. The boys had to help her with it. They pushed it over and over. At last it was quite near the edge of the bank. "One more push," said Polly. "Then it will be just right. People can see the man from the road." But that push was too much. Over the edge of the bank the big ball rolled. "Oh, stop, stop!" cried Peter. "Do not run away. We will make you into a good snow man." But the ball did not stop. It rolled against Tim. It knocked him flat. Peter and Polly fell down the bank after it. At last it smashed itself against the fence. "Never mind," said Polly. "We can make another. Do not let the next one knock you down, Tim." "Old snowball ran over me," said Tim. "But I do not care. He smashed himself." Another big ball was made. It was rolled into place. Then smaller ones were lifted on it. These were for the body. At last the head was ready. Polly stood in a chair. She stuck the head on the body. She made eyes, a nose, and a mouth with small sticks. She put an old hat on the head. She put a branch under the arm. Then she said, "We will name you White Giant. You may take care of our house at night. In the daytime you may play with us. Will you, old Giant?" Polly did not think that the snow man could talk. But just then she heard some one say, "Of course I will play with you, Polly." "Oh, oh! Has he come alive?" cried Peter. "Can he chase me? I do not wish him to do that." And he ran behind Polly. "I cannot chase you, Peter," the snow man seemed to say. "I cannot move at all in the daytime. But at night you should see me." "I saw you the other night in a dream," said Peter. "I did not like you. You chased me." "I will never do that again, Peter. So you must not be afraid of me." Just then Tim cried out, "Look, look!" And there behind a tree was Peter's father. Polly laughed. "I know now that the snow man did not talk," she said. "At first I thought he did. It was you, wasn't it, father?" "Why do you think so, Polly? You didn't see me. Did it sound like me?" "No, it did not, father," said Peter. "And I think it was the snow man. I am going to watch him to-night and see." "Why don't you?" asked father. "I should like to know about it. You tell me when you find out. Where are your mittens, Tim? Aren't your hands cold?" "I've lost them. And Peter has lost one of his red ones. We can't find them at all." "Perhaps they are under the snow. The sun will help you find them by and by. Peter, run in and tell mother. She will get some mittens for you and Tim to wear. "When you come back, bring the old broom. That is better than the branch for your snow man. If you watch to-night, you may see what he does with it." PETER'S DREAM At bedtime Peter said, "I want to sit up. I am going to watch the snow man." "Why?" asked mother. "I heard him speak," said Peter. "He said he would not chase me. He said I ought to see him at night. He can move then." "Very well," said mother. "But you might get into your bed. You can watch him from your window." "I did not think of that, mother. I will go now." Soon Peter was in bed. By sitting up, he could see the snow man. His window was wide open. But Peter had on thick night clothes. He did not feel the cold. The moon was bright. Peter thought of his friend, the Fairy Bird. He wished the Bird would come again and take him to the moon. All at once he rubbed his eyes. Where was the snow man? He looked again. The snow man was gone! "Oh, oh!" said Peter to himself. "I've lost him. That's too bad. Now I shall not see anything." But just then the door opened softly. Peter saw something white coming into his room. It was the snow man! Peter was so surprised that he nearly jumped out of bed. He was frightened, too. He called, "Oh, dear!" "Sh, sh, sh!" said the snow man. "You'll wake every one in the house. I came up here to please you. I don't care to see any one else. "It was hard work climbing the stairs. You children didn't make me very good legs; nor very good arms, either, I must say. I have no feet and no hands. "My hat came off when I broke myself away from the snow. But, without hands, I couldn't put it back on my head. "I do wish that you would make me better next time. You can, if you try. But I'm thankful you gave me eyes and a mouth, too. I like to see and I like to talk." "Don't you like to eat?" asked Peter. "What do you eat? Oh, dear! I'm afraid you eat little boys like me." The snow man began to shake. Bits of snow dropped on the floor. "Why, Peter, I believe you are afraid of me. You needn't be. You'll laugh, too, when I tell you what I do eat. Sticks and twigs and leaves that I pick up when you are rolling me. "Best of all I like mittens. I don't get very many. But I ate yours and Tim's this morning. They were good. I like red ones best. And I had only one red mitten." Then Peter did laugh. "What queer things to eat," he said. "And how funny you look when you laugh. You shake, but you do not laugh with your mouth." "Yes," said the snow man. "That's all because of Polly. You see, she made my mouth with a horrid straight stick. I can't bend it at all." "You make me very cold," said Peter. "You are so white. I want my mother to come and tuck me up." "I will try," the snow man said. And, with his snowy arms, he tried to pull up the bedclothes. One arm slipped and hit Peter's neck. Peter was so surprised that he screamed. In just a minute mother ran in. "What is it, dear?" she asked. Peter could only say, "The snow man, the snow man! He has been up here!" "He's out in the yard, dear. I can see him. And he has lost his hat. The wind must have blown it off. It has been raining hard. The rain has come in at the window. It is wet on the floor." "He didn't have his hat up here," said Peter. "He dropped it when he started. He couldn't put it on. And he made those spots on the floor. It was not the rain. Pieces of snow dropped off him when he laughed." Mother only said, "I'll tuck you up again, Peter. We can see about it in the morning. Now good night." In the morning the rain had stopped. The children went to look at the snow man. He had grown much smaller in the night. There was a crack near the bottom of his legs. "He did walk, he did, I know he did!" cried Peter. "That's what made the crack. And, O Polly, look at this!" Sticking out of the snow man's stomach was the end of a red mitten! CUTTING THE CHRISTMAS TREE It was nearly Christmas. Peter could hardly wait for the day to come. He kept saying, "Mother, will it be Christmas to-morrow? Mother, will it be Christmas to-morrow?" At last father said, "Do you want Christmas before I get the tree?" "No," said Peter. "But will you ever get it?" "I will to-day. You and Polly may go with me. We will choose the prettiest fir tree we can find. Put on your things, and we will start now." "Oh, goody, goody!" cried Peter, jumping up and down. "Now I know that Christmas is almost here." "It will be here to-morrow," said father. "Run and tell Polly." They went through the field back of the house. They climbed over the stone-wall post office. Polly looked into some of the boxes for mail. She said, "Father, one day Peter told me that he had a pony in his post-office box." "It must have been a very large box, Polly. We do not have such large ones at the store. Which is it?" "I don't care if I didn't have it in my box," said Peter. "I think I shall get it on the tree. It will be up in the tiptop." "Then we must find a strong tree, my boy. Can you see one you like?" "That one," said Peter. Father laughed. "That is a strong tree. But it is too tall. We should have to cut a hole in the ceiling to stand it up. Find a smaller one." "There is a good tree, father. See how pretty it is. It looks like our little firs at home." "I believe that is just right for us, Polly. I will cut it down. Please hold my coat." Father swung his ax. He gave three sharp blows. All at once there was a chatter overhead. In the next tree a gray squirrel was running up a large branch. He was scolding with all his might. His tail was jerking. He looked very cross. "Well, old fellow," said father, "did I disturb you? I am sorry. Go back to sleep. We will not take your tree." "His is too bare, isn't it, father? The leaves have all gone. We must have a fir tree for ours. It has queer leaves. But they do not fall off in the winter." "That is why we call such trees evergreens, Polly. They are always green. Pine trees are evergreens, too. Their needles are longer than fir needles." "I think that is one of our squirrels," said Peter. "He took our nuts, Polly. I wonder where he put them." "He thought they were his," said Polly. "He needed them." Soon father had cut down the fir. He put it over his shoulder. The end dragged on the snow. "Now we are ready for home," he said. "To-night mother and I will dress this tree. To-morrow you may see it." "Have you really a dress for it?" asked Peter. "I hope it is red. Who made it?" "O Peter, how silly you are! Father means dress it up with candy bags and popped corn and presents." "I know now," said Peter. "Ponies and guns and things." "See the snow sparkle, children. The sun makes it do that. Look at the blue sky. Doesn't the air feel good to you?" "It makes me feel like running," said Polly. "Then run along, chicks. You will get home first. Tell mother that the Christmas tree is really coming. You may pop the corn this afternoon." THE GIVE-AWAY BOX When Peter and Polly got home, they ran into the house. "Mother, mother!" they shouted. "The Christmas tree is coming. Father has it." "Why, mother," said Polly, "what makes the house smell so sweet? It smells just like the woods." "It is the green wreaths, Polly. I have them in all the rooms. There is one on the front door, too. These wreaths smell better than the ones that we buy. You may help me make the rest of them. We need more." So the children went into the kitchen. On a table were pieces of evergreen boughs. They helped their mother twist the pieces into circles. On each circle she wound many small twigs. When done, the wreaths were firm and thick and green. "How good it does smell, mother. I like Christmas smells. But see my hands." "That is the pitch from the greens, Polly. Just rub on a little butter. It will take off the pitch. Then wash your hands in warm water. I will clean up the rest of the greens. When this is done, we will pop our corn." That was always fun. Polly liked to shake the popper. She liked to see the white kernels of corn hop up and down. She liked the good smell, too. Soon two large panfuls were popped. Then came another task. The corn must be strung. Polly and Peter both helped. But, of course, mother could string faster than they. She told them stories while they worked. "When I was a little girl," said mother, "we did not have a Christmas tree. Instead, we hung up our stockings. We hung them near the fireplace. We thought Santa Claus could reach them better there. "I was the smallest in our family. So my stocking was the smallest. My presents would never go into my stocking. This used to tease me. "My dear grandmother found it out. One day she said to me, 'I am going to knit you a new red stocking. It is not to wear. It is for you to hang up.' "And the very next Christmas, what do you think? She had knit me a stocking as long as I was tall! How pleased I was to hang it up! "Now, children, the Give-away Box is ready. You may choose your things to give away." On the floor in the dining room there was a large box. It was filled with games, dolls, bags of candy and popped corn, and many other things. These were for Peter and Polly to give away. They would make other children happy. And that would make Peter and Polly happy, too. Peter chose a jumping jack for Tim. Polly chose to give him a whistle. "He cannot whistle with his mouth yet," she said. "Perhaps Collie will come for this whistle." When Polly was out of the room, Peter chose a present for her. It was the prettiest doll that he had ever seen. Polly chose a train of cars for Peter. But he did not know that. "We can give this candlestick to Mrs. White," said Polly. "She gave us back our Jack-o'-lanterns. I think she would like it." Mother said, "Why don't you give the hot water bag to grandmother? Her bag leaks." "Oh, we will, we will!" cried both children. "Farmer Brown is our friend," said Polly. "He showed us his sheep. Mrs. Brown is our friend, too. She gave us a party last summer. The lambs came to it. It was on her steps. Let us give them two wreaths." "There is my teacher," said Peter. "I will give her these marbles." Polly said, "Your teacher! You don't go to school, Peter." "I did one day," said Peter. "I like her. She was good to me. She is my teacher. I don't care what you say." "Never mind about that, chicks," said mother. "I'm afraid she hasn't a pocket for the marbles. Why not give her the box of handkerchiefs?" Before long the Give-away Box was empty. The presents were tied up. Every friend in the village had been remembered. Peter and Polly were tired. They were glad when it was bedtime. As mother tucked her up, Polly said, "I like the Give-away Box. It is fun. It is as much fun as it is to get things. You gave it to us, mother. You give us everything." "Father, too," said mother. "And it makes fathers and mothers happy to do that." CHRISTMAS MORNING Early Christmas morning Peter awoke. He heard a noise in mother's room. So he knew that he might get up. He pushed open the door. "Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas!" he shouted. "Merry Christmas," said mother, hugging him tightly. "Merry Christmas," said father, tossing him up into the air. "Did you see Santa Claus last night?" Just then Polly ran in. "Oh, oh, it is Christmas!" she cried. "Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas! See what I found in my bed." It was a box of animal crackers. They were all sheep. "O father! You did it for a joke. You know I do not like mutton." Peter ran to look in his room. He thought a joke might be there, too. "See, see!" he shouted. "I have found a letter box. That is not a joke." "Look inside," said father. Peter looked. There he saw a very small pony. It was made of cloth. On its back it had a cloth monkey. "A joke, a joke!" cried Polly. "Your pony came in your letter box after all." There were to be no more presents until after breakfast. So the children dressed quickly. It was hard for them to eat anything. At last Polly said, "I cannot wait another second. I will eat my breakfast with my dinner. Here comes grandmother. Now may we open the door and see the tree?" "In just a minute," said father. "You say 'Merry Christmas' to grandmother. I have one last thing for the tree. You may come in when I call." And out he ran. "I wonder what it is," said Polly. "I can hear him coming back through the side door." Then grandmother came in, and Polly forgot to wonder any more. At last they heard father shout, "Come!" Polly opened the door, and the children rushed in. "Oh! Oh!" said Polly. "Oh! Oh!" said Peter. Such a beautiful tree they had never before seen. It was hung with strings of popped corn and red cranberries. It was covered with colored balls and big gold stars. Over it was white, shiny stuff that looked like snow. It had candy bags and oranges. At the top, there was a doll with wings. And there were many boxes and packages. "Oh! Oh! Oh!" said both children again. "Do you like it?" asked mother. "I never saw anything so pretty," said Polly. "Is that a fairy at the top?" "I think it is Santa Claus's little girl," said Peter. "I should like to have her for my own." "Should you rather have that than anything else here?" asked father. "I think so, father. May I?" "Walk around the tree and see if you are sure, my son." Peter did as he was told. He had not taken many steps when he jumped back with a cry. "What is it? What is it?" he asked. Polly ran forward, and what do you think she saw? On the other side of the tree something moved. Polly saw two large eyes, two long ears, a brown head, and then she knew that it was a pony. "Peter, Peter!" she cried, "here is the pony! It is on the Christmas tree! O Peter, Peter, Peter!" "Lead her out," said father. "She will come with you. She likes children." So Polly took hold of the little strap. And the pony walked out into the room after her. "Her name is Brownie," said father. "She is grandmother's present to you and Peter. She is half yours and half Peter's." "O grandmother!" cried Polly. "I thank you now, but I will thank you better by and by." "Which half is mine, grandmother?" asked Peter. "Half of both halves," said grandmother. "Why?" "Nothing," said Peter. "I love both her halves. And I love you, too. And I love the tree, and Christmas, and everybody." "And so you should," said father. "Come now, we will take Brownie to her stable. Then you may get the presents off the tree." THE SNOW HOUSE One day there was a heavy snowstorm. At the same time the wind blew. It heaped the snow over the road in front of Polly's house. The snow was so deep that horses could not walk through. Men had to dig the road out. Mr. Howe helped to do this. Peter and Polly watched the work. They thought it great fun. The men threw the snow by the side of the road. Soon the piles were very high. They were twice as high as Polly could reach. A few days after this Polly said, "I know what we can do." "What?" asked Peter. "Let's play Eskimos." "How do you play it?" asked Peter. "Well," said Polly, "first we must make a snow house. Then we can think of other things to do." "We can't," said Peter. "Can't what?" asked Polly. "Can't think of things to do? I can, if you can't." "No," said Peter, "we can't make a snow house. We tried. It tumbled down. Don't you remember?" "I've thought how to do it, Peter. Come on. I will show you." Polly took Peter to the great pile of snow by the side of the road. "There is our house," she said. "It is all made for us." "That isn't any house, Polly. I think I won't play with you to-day. You tease me. I am going to see Tim. Good-by." "O Peter! Wait, wait! I won't tease. I will tell you about it now. That is our house really and truly. But it is just the outside. "We must make a hole in the pile for a door. Then we must dig out the inside. Can't we do that, Peter?" Peter said, "Oh, yes. We can do that. I see about it now. I will help. We can dig very well. "We dug our cyclone hole last summer. Perhaps we shall find another box with silver dollars in it." "Perhaps we shall not, too," said Polly. "I don't expect to find things in the snow. People hide their gold and silver in the ground. "The ground does not melt. Snow does. So it would not hide their gold and silver very long." "Why doesn't the ground melt, Polly?" "Well, I don't know. You ask father. Snow melts because it is made of water." "Butter melts, sugar melts," said Peter. "They are not made of water. I wish to know why the ground does not melt, too. I wish to know now." "Peter, can't you stop asking questions and go to work? See, first we must dig a path here. Then we will begin our door." It took a long time to dig the path. But at last it was finished. Then they made a hole. It went straight into the side of the big snow pile. That was for the door. "Now we must hollow out a place," said Polly. "It will be our room. We must make it large. We shall sleep there and eat there and live there. That is the way the Eskimos do. I read it in a book at school." "I'd rather live in a house," said Peter. "Let's live in the house and play out here." "Then we will," said Polly. "It would be cold here anyway. I should think Eskimos would freeze in snow houses. But they do not." The next day the children scraped out more snow, and the next and the next. At last they had made quite a large room. It was nearly round. The floor was packed hard. The white walls were smooth. Polly could stand up straight in the middle. Mother gave them an old rug for the floor. She said, "Eskimos have fur rugs. You must play that this is bearskin." Father said, "Do you know what Eskimos call a snow house? It is igloo. Perhaps some day I will try to crawl into your igloo. I should like to see it." "Oh, do, father. Then we will have a party. It is quite warm inside. But we can make the door bigger for you." "Never mind about that," said father. "Perhaps I can get a fairy to shrink me. We shall see." THE FALL OF THE IGLOO For many days the children played in their igloo. More snow fell. They dug it out of the path. Then they could get to the door. "It only makes our house taller," said Polly. "It does not hurt the inside. I do not care how much snow comes on top of it." "You may care some day," said father. "Snow is heavy. After a while it may break down your roof." "What if we are inside when the roof breaks, Peter? The snow will get down our necks." "It will do more," said father. "It will bury you." "Will it hurt us, father?" "I think not. But you will look like snow men afterward." One day Tim was playing with Peter and Polly. They were in the igloo. Collie was outside playing with Wag-wag. Wag-wag could go into the igloo. But the children did not like to have Collie there. He was so large that he took up too much room. Polly was the mother Eskimo. Peter was the father Eskimo. Tim was the little boy Eskimo. _Mother Eskimo._ "I think we need some meat. We need a seal. I can use its skin. I will make boots of it." _Father Eskimo._ "I killed a bear yesterday. Use the bearskin for boots." _Mother Eskimo._ "Oh, no. That would not make good boots. I need sealskin for them. Besides I wish to use the bearskin to make some trousers. I must have new ones." "O Polly," said Peter, "women do not wear trousers." "Eskimo women do, Peter. Now you go and catch me a seal." _Father Eskimo._ "But it is cold. I may have to watch many hours for a seal. I must sit very still beside his hole in the ice. If I move, he will not come up there to breathe. Perhaps I shall freeze, sitting so still." _Mother Eskimo._ "No, you will not. Do I not make you good fur clothes? Do I not sew them with my good bone needle? They will keep you warm." _Father Eskimo._ "Yes, but don't I have to get the fur for them? That is harder than making the clothes." _Mother Eskimo._ "I am not so sure that it is. Should you like to scrape the skins to clean them? Should you like to chew them to make them soft?" _Father Eskimo._ "No, I should rather hunt than chew skins. So I will go now." Father Eskimo crawled out of the igloo. He called to the dogs. "Come here, dogs. You must drag my sledge. I am going out to catch a seal. You must draw it home on the sledge." The dogs were jumping up and down and playing with each other. They did not know that they were Eskimo dogs. Peter could not get them. He grew quite cross. He crawled back into the igloo. "I cannot catch the dogs," he said. "I shall not go hunting. I shall not play Eskimo any more to-day." Polly started to speak. But instead she screamed. Something was happening. What were the dogs doing? Were they on the top of the igloo? The roof was breaking. She could see the leg of one dog sticking through. Then something fell on the children. It was the snow roof. It was also two dogs. Collie and Wag-wag had broken down the igloo. Father was just coming home. How he laughed when he saw the children and the dogs. He pulled them out from under the snow. He said, "Aren't you glad you are not real Eskimos? Aren't you glad you live in a strong house? Let's all go in and see what mother is cooking for supper. It will not be seal meat. Tim must come, too." PULLING PETER'S TOOTH Peter had a loose tooth. It was a lower front tooth. It was his first loose tooth. He had always wanted one. When Polly's teeth became loose, he would feel of his. He would say, "I wish I could wiggle mine, too. I wish I could pull mine out." Mother said, "You are not yet old enough to lose your teeth. I am glad that you are not. Why do you wish to have a loose tooth?" "Because they are nice to wiggle," said Peter. "Because Polly is faster than I am. She has had four. I like the holes in her face, too. She can make a funny noise through them. It is a whistle." "Your turn will come by and by," said mother. "I suppose you will lose your upper front teeth first." But it happened one day that Peter fell down. He bumped his nose. He also cut his lip on a tooth. He must have bumped that tooth quite hard, for it became loose. Peter was much pleased. "I should let it alone," said mother. "Perhaps it will grow tight again." But Peter could not seem to let it alone. He wiggled it with his tongue. He wiggled it with his fingers. At last he made it very loose. Then he said, "Polly, I must pull my tooth." "Oh, let it come out," said Polly. "Two of mine did." "No," said Peter. "I shall pull it. You pulled one of yours with your fingers. I shall do that." But the loose tooth would not come out. "It will not pull," said Peter. "I shall put a string on it. I shall tie the end of the string to the door. Then I shall shut the door hard. It will pull my tooth. You did that." "Yes," said Polly. "That was fun. But I know a better way now. I will show it to you." She took a flatiron. She tied a string to it. She set it on the kitchen table. Then she tied the other end of the string to Peter's loose tooth. She said, "This string is too short to reach the floor. You push the flatiron off the table. It will fall down and jerk out your tooth." "Shall I now?" asked Peter. "Yes, now." So Peter pushed the flatiron. But Polly had not been right. The string was too long. It reached to the floor. Down went the flatiron, bang! It landed on the edge of Peter's boot. It landed on the edge of Peter's toe, too. It hurt him, but not much. And the tooth did not come out. "Oh! Oh!" cried Peter. "It hurt my foot, it hurt my foot! It didn't pull out my tooth at all." And he started to jump up and down. The very first jump surprised him. Something pulled at his mouth and then seemed to let go. It was the string around his tooth. He had jumped up far enough to pull the tooth out himself. How Polly did laugh when she saw this! Peter cried, "It's out, it's out! We have found a new way! I found it!" And he got down on the floor to pick up his tooth. "I am going to save it to plant in my garden," he said. "To plant!" said Polly. "What for?" "So I shall have more," said Peter. Then Polly laughed again. She ran to tell mother about Peter's garden. DRIVING WITH FATHER One morning father said, "I am going to Large Village to-day. You children may have a ride. You may go as far as Farmer Brown's. I will leave you there." "Oh, goody, goody!" cried Polly. "Oh, goody, goody!" cried Peter. "You are to stay to dinner. I shall have my dinner at Large Village. Run and get ready." "Oh, oh, oh!" cried both children at once. Farmer Brown lived two and one half miles away. You must follow the road past Mr. Howe's store to find his house. Peter and Polly liked to go there. They liked to see his horses, cows, sheep, pigs, and hens. "We can see the sheep," said Polly. "They will not be in the pasture. The snow has covered the grass. Their wool will be thicker now than it was last summer." "We can see the pigs," said Peter. "Perhaps they will grunt at us." They drove to the farm in a low sled. When they were out of the village, Mr. Howe stopped. "Do you wish to ride on the runners?" he asked. This was a great treat. Peter and Polly could never "catch rides" on people's sleds. Some of the other children were allowed to do this. But father showed Peter and Polly how they might get hurt. He said, "If you 'catch rides,' I shall worry. I shall worry all the time. So I ask you not to do it. When you drive with me, you may 'catch rides' all you please." So, on the way to Farmer Brown's, he drove slowly. And the children jumped on and off the sled at any time they wished. It was fun. The road followed the river all the way. But the river could not sing now. It was covered with ice. They passed through thick woods. Many of the trees were cedar. They are evergreens. So they had not lost their leaves. "Look there," said father, stopping the horse. On one tree were many little birds. They looked black and gray. They were hopping about from twig to twig. They were calling, "Chick-a-dee, chick-a-dee." "I know them," said Polly. "They are saying their own names over and over. They are getting their breakfast. Aren't they cold at night, father? Where do they sleep? I wish they would come to our house." "I hope they sleep in some old hole, Polly. Then they can keep one another warm. Perhaps they rent part of a woodpecker's hole for the winter. "We must put out some food for the birds to-morrow. Do not let me forget." At last Mr. Brown's house was in sight. The farmer and his wife came to the door to meet them. "Well, well," said Mr. Brown, "here are our little friends. Your cheeks are red. You look as if you had been running. Didn't your father give you a ride?" "Oh, yes," said Polly. "But we have been running behind. We have been catching rides on his sled. He lets us. "He lets us ride on the runners, too. He does not wish us to do it except on his sled." "I hope that you mind him," said Mr. Brown. "We do," said Polly. "Shall we go out to the barn?" asked the farmer. "Where is Wag-wag? Didn't you bring him? He might have come." "I didn't know he was invited," said Polly. "Yes, let's go to the barn. Let's see everything you have there. Have you any little lambs?" "It is not quite time for little lambs yet. But you can see all the sheep. They look fatter than they did last summer. That is because their wool has grown longer. When we get back, it will be dinner time." THE STAG "There is one hen that goes up into the hay," said Farmer Brown. "I think she lays her eggs there. But I cannot find them." "Let us go up into the hay to look for them," said Polly. So the children hunted. The barn was not very cold. Still it was not so nice as in the summer time. At last Polly nearly tumbled over something. It was the brown hen. She flew away with a loud cackle. Then Polly saw four eggs lying in the hay. "I've found them, I've found them!" she shouted. She gave Peter two and took two herself. Then they went down to show Mr. Brown. "You have sharp eyes," he said. "I used to think I could see better if I had spectacles," said Polly. "I used to think that I should have four eyes then." "I am going to feed the horses now," said Mr. Brown. "You may come." While Mr. Brown did this, Peter and Polly looked carefully at each horse. They were hunting for one that they knew. It was the old brown mare. They had ridden horseback on her last summer. That was when they went with John to hunt for the turtle's eggs. "There she is, I think," said Polly. "Are you looking for John's mare? Yes, that is the one," said Farmer Brown. "You will not need her to ride any more. I hear you have a pony of your own." Then the children told him about their pony. They told him about the Christmas tree. "Ho, ho!" laughed Farmer Brown. "Who ever heard of a pony on a Christmas tree?" "But think of a pony in a letter box," said Polly. And Farmer Brown laughed still more. How warm the cow stable was! Polly said, "How can it be so warm? There is no stove." "The cows themselves make it warm," said Mr. Brown. "See, here is one just the color of a deer. Isn't she pretty?" "I guess the deer would be glad, if they had such a nice, warm house," said Polly. "Yes, the winter is hard for them. It is cold, and food is not easy to find. There are two that sometimes come to our barnyard. I give them grain and hay and salt." "I wish I could see a deer to-day," said Polly. "Let us go to the barnyard and look." "We will feed the sheep now, Polly. You can watch for one while I am doing that." When the sheep were fed, it was dinner time. After dinner Mrs. Brown let the children play on the piazza. All at once Peter said, "See the pretty cow coming down from the woods. Whose is she? Perhaps she is lost." "Where, Peter?" asked Polly. "Coming across the field. Now it is right there near the fence." "Oh, oh!" cried Polly. "That isn't a cow. I think it is a deer. See its horns." She called to Mr. Brown. Just as he came out of the house, the deer reached the fence. He walked quite close to it. Then he jumped over it. "A pretty jump," said Mr. Brown. "The fence is more than four feet high. That is a fine stag. A stag is a father deer, you know." The stag walked across the road. He jumped another high fence. Then he went off up the railroad track. "Oh," said Polly, "I wish I could jump like that. He didn't run at all." "It was a pretty sight," said Mr. Brown. "I am sorry the old fellow did not stop for dinner. I am afraid he will have nothing better than bark and twigs, now." "It wasn't a cow, was it?" asked Peter. "Cows can't jump like that, Peter. Though perhaps one did. I have heard of a cow that jumped over the moon. Have you?" "Yes, I have. But I know she didn't really. Oh, here is father. We will tell him about my pretty cow." POLLY'S BIRD PARTY "Do you remember something, father?" asked Polly. "What is it, chick?" "Something you told me not to forget, father." "Let me think. What was it? Yes, I remember now. We were to put out some food for the birds. Is that it?" "That is it. So, let us do it now." "Very well," said father. "We will. But mother must help. She must give us bones." "Bones!" said Polly. "Birds don't eat bones. But dogs do. If we put out bones, Wag-wag will get them." "Wag-wag will not get these," said father. "I shall tie them up in the trees. Wag-wag has not learned to climb trees." "I saw him trying one day," said Polly. "He was after a chipmunk. The chipmunk ran up a tree. Wag-wag put his fore paws on the trunk. He stood up on his hind feet. He tried hard to get up that trunk. He barked and barked." "What did the chipmunk do?" asked father. "The chipmunk stopped on a branch over his head. He sat there and chattered. Grandmother said he was laughing. "She told me he was saying, 'You can't come up, Wag-wag. You can't come up. You don't know how to climb. I am safe!'" "Perhaps he was saying that," said father. "Now here are the bones." "Oh, I see," said Polly. "They have meat and fat on them. That is for the birds. They need not try to eat bones." "Yes, and here is grass seed. Some birds would rather have that. And here is cracked corn, too. It is for the larger birds." He put the grass seed into small baskets. He did the same with the corn. "Now we are ready," he said. "You help me carry these things out. I will come back for the stepladder." Soon father had tied the bones to the trees. He put them on the small branches. He tied them so that the birds could get at them easily. The birds could perch on the branches and peck at the meat. He said, "I will not tie them to large branches. Some cat might walk out and catch our birds." Then he fastened up the baskets. He fastened them tightly. They could not swing. The birds could perch upon the edge and eat the seeds and the corn. "Now our party is ready," said father. "Do you suppose anything will come to it? We will keep food here the rest of the winter." How Peter and Polly watched the food! It seemed as if the birds would never come. But at last they found it. The very next morning Polly saw two birds eating there. She did not know what they were. She ran to tell mother. "See our birds!" she cried. "We have two. What are they, oh, what are they?" "You know them in the summer," said mother. "Then the father bird is yellow and black. You call them your canaries." "But they have changed their clothes," said Polly. "They do not look the same. They are not so pretty." "Many birds change their color," said mother. "Do you dress in the winter just as you do in the summer? How those birds like the seeds!" "There, there!" cried Polly. "See that big bird. He is after the meat. I know him. He is a blue jay. Don't you frighten away my other birds, Mr. Blue Jay." It was not long before many birds found the food. Day after day the chick-a-dees feasted. A few crows came. Once a flock of snowbirds stopped at the party. And there were many that Peter and Polly did not know. One day Polly saw a bird that she liked very much. It was a robin. She was surprised and pleased. "I did not know that robins were here in cold weather," she said to him. "I like you best of all. You make me think of spring. Peter likes winter best. But I like you and spring. Please come to see me every day." And the robin did for nearly a month. Then he came no more. Perhaps he grew tired of waiting for spring. Perhaps he flew south to find it. Polly never knew. THE NEW SLED "I am going to begin to make something to-day," said father. "The stove is lighted. The workshop is warm. Who will be my helper?" "I will," said Polly. "I will," said Peter. "Very well. You may both help. Come to the shop and guess what we are to make." The workshop was in Mr. Howe's barn. In it was a large workbench. Tools hung on the walls. A box of tools was near the bench. On the other side of the shop there was a very low workbench. It had two drawers. In the drawers were tools. There were two small hammers. There were two small saws. There were two small screw drivers. There were two pots of glue. There were nails, tacks, and screws. The big bench and the big tools were for Mr. Howe. The little bench and the little tools were for Peter and Polly. It was not hard to guess what was to be made. Father had laid the pieces of wood together. Any one could tell what they would make. "It's a sled like your low one," said Polly. "I think it must be for Brownie. It is too small for a big horse." "That is just what it is, Polly. Grandmother wished to give you a sleigh. But this will be better. If you tip over, you will not fall far. "I am glad to have you learn to use Brownie in the winter, too. The snow will make a soft cushion, if you fall off your sled." The parts of the sled had been made for father. He needed only to put them together. This did not take very long. "Now," said father, "the carpenters have finished their work. We must draw our sled to the blacksmith's shop." "What for?" asked Peter. "For the iron runners, my boy. They will make your sled slip easily. The blacksmith has been making them. He says that he will fit them on to-morrow." So the three took the sled to the blacksmith. On the way Polly rode a little. Then Peter rode a little. Father was the horse. Once he played that he was running away. He tumbled Polly off into the soft snow. The children thought this great fun. At the blacksmith's shop they saw the runners. These did not quite fit the wooden runners. Polly felt sorry about this. But the blacksmith said, "Never you mind, Polly. I can heat them at the forge. That will make them soft. Then I can bend them as I wish. "You ought to know about this. Haven't you seen me shoe horses? Haven't you seen me make the shoes fit?" "Yes," said Polly. "But, you see, I forgot about that." The next afternoon the sled came home. The blacksmith's boy drew it. The iron runners were on. They fitted well. "Now," said father, "we have another job to begin to-morrow. We must paint the sled. What color shall it be?" The children talked about it a long time. At last Polly said, "Peter likes red and I like red. May we paint it red, father?" "Red is a good color," said father. "We will paint it red. See that your brushes are soft. You must help on the work, you know." The next day the painting began. Each child had a part to do all alone. Of course, Peter got paint on his hands. And there were large, red spots on his clothes. But they were old, and no one cared. The first coat of paint dried quickly in the warm room. Then another was put on, and the work was done. Peter and Polly went to the workshop many times a day to look at the sled. They touched the paint with their fingers. Surely it must be dry. At last father said, "The paint is hard now. The sled is ready for use. We will harness Brownie to it to-morrow." BROWNIE "Now may we harness Brownie?" asked Polly. "Now you may," said father. He drew out the new, red sled. He put on Brownie's little harness. He helped the children harness her to the sled. They jumped in. Polly had the reins. She said, "Get up, Brownie," and Brownie walked out of the yard. "First, we will show grandmother," said Polly. "Brownie is grandmother's present. She must see us driving her." They stopped in front of grandmother's house. Peter went in to call her to the door. Polly held Brownie. "Well, well," said grandmother, "that is nice. What a pretty sled you have. I like the color." "We helped to make it," said Polly. "We wished you to see us first. We are going to show the children now. Hear our pretty sleigh bells. Good-by." Down the hill Brownie trotted. Her bells jingled softly. She went across the railroad track and into the bridge. Some of the village children were looking over the railing. They were watching men cutting ice. When they saw Peter and Polly, they cried, "Here comes the pony! See Peter and Polly! Look at the red sled! Give us a ride! Oh, give us a ride!" "Yes, we will," said Polly. "Come up on the street, where it is smooth. Two of you get in with us. We will take two more by and by." Polly could drive quite well. She had often driven father's horse, when father took her with him. She let each child hold Brownie's reins. "Let more ride at once," said one of the girls. "There is room in the sled." "No," said Polly. "The pony is strong, but she is little. I will not let her drag more than four. And two are enough, going uphill." So they trotted up and down the street. Sometimes the boys and girls who were not riding ran by Brownie's side. Brownie seemed to enjoy the fun as much as any of them. At last it was time to go home. The children all patted the pony. This was to thank her for the good time she had given them. Then Peter and Polly drove away, up the hill. Mother came out of the house. She said, "Do you think you can do an errand for me? Can you drive to the creamery? I wish some buttermilk. Here is a pail for it." "What fun," said Polly. "Yes, of course, we can do that. You hold the pail, Peter." Down the hill they trotted again. At the creamery, Polly took the pail. She went inside. She said, "Have you some buttermilk for me?" "Plenty," said the creamery man. "Just hold your pail under the faucet." "See our new pony," said Polly. "See our new sled." "Are you driving your pony? I saw her the day she came. She is a fine pony. If you tip over going home, come back for more buttermilk." "Thank you," said Polly. "We have not tipped over yet." "There always has to be a first time," said the man. Going up the hill, Polly said, "We are nearly home. Perhaps we shall not tip over to-day. Why does every one think that we shall?" But, as they turned into their driveway, Polly pulled the wrong rein. Brownie stepped to the side of the road. One of the sled runners struck a bank of snow. Over went sled, children, and buttermilk. Brownie stopped and looked around. Polly was standing on her head in the soft snow. Peter was covered with buttermilk. No one was hurt. Polly scrambled up. She pulled Peter to his feet. She said, "Don't cry, Peter. Buttermilk will not hurt you. You like it." "Yes, I do," said Peter. "But that is inside, not outside. How would you like it down your neck?" "Well," said Polly, "you get into the sled again. We must go back for more buttermilk. You may drive all the way. Perhaps you won't tip us over." DISH-PAN SLEDS "Peter and Polly," said mother, "should you like to play a new game?" "Oh, yes, oh, yes! Tell us fast!" cried both children. "I cannot tell you," said mother. "But I will show you. Get ready to go out of doors. Here comes Tim. That is good. He may play, too." "How many can be in this game, mother?" "Ever so many, Polly. Please take this dish pan. Peter, carry this pan. Tim, here is one for you. Now follow me." Mrs. Howe went through the open gate into the hayfield. A hard crust was on the top of the snow. "See, children," she said, "what a fine crust. It holds me up. It is just right for sliding. By and by the sun will make it soft." "I wish we had our sleds," said Peter. "Let's go back for them." "You have them with you," said mother. "That is the game." "I don't see any game," said Peter. "And I don't see any sleds." "Then I will show you, my son. Bring your big pan here. Put it down on the edge of the hill. Now sit in it. Hold on to the handles. Keep your feet up. You need not steer. You can't run into anything here. Now go." Mother gave Peter a push. Away he went on the icy crust. "Mother, mother!" cried Polly, jumping up and down. "Look at Peter, look! I want to go! I want to go!" "In a minute," said mother. "Watch Peter, first." Peter's dish-pan sled was not like a real sled. It did not go straight. It turned around and around. First Peter slid backward, then sideways. At last he reached the bottom. He stood up and looked around. Then he laughed. "Did you like it, Peter?" called mother. "I did! I did!" cried Peter. "It felt just like sliding and rolling down hill at the same time. I am going to play this game all the morning. Let's all go now." "Very well," said mother. "If you bump into one another, it won't hurt you. Get ready." So the children, in their dish-pan sleds, started down the hill. Polly bumped into Tim. This made him spin around and around. Polly went the rest of the way backward. Near the bottom she fell out. Just then Wag-wag came running up the field. He was dragging Peter's sled behind him. He had heard the children and was coming to find them. Perhaps he thought they had forgotten Peter's sled. "Oh, look, look!" said Polly. "Wag-wag has a sled, too. Let's give him a slide. Come here, Wag-wag. Come here, sir." But Wag-wag would not come. Instead, he ran up the hill past Mrs. Howe. The children picked up their dish pans and chased him. "Never mind," said mother. "When he is tired of playing with the sled, he may bring it back. Or you can go after it. "Now good-by. Slide until the crust is soft. Then come in. Do you like the new game, children?" "Oh, we do, we do!" they all cried. "And we like our new sleds, mother. We are going to name them," said Polly. "I am going to tell my mother not to wash dishes any more. I am going to tell her to give me her dish pan," said Tim. The children slid for a long time. At last the crust began to be soft. They sank in a little at every step. "I shall slide once more," Polly said. "Then I shall go home." "I shall get my sled first," said Peter. "I wish Wag-wag had not left it so far away." Peter started across the field. Before long, he came to a place where the snow was very soft. He sank into it as far as his legs could go. He could not get to the sled. So he went home feeling quite cross. Tim's father was in the yard. He had come for Tim. Collie was with him. Peter said, "Wag-wag is a bad dog. He left my sled out in the field. The snow is soft. I cannot get to it." Tim said, "My father will send Collie after your sled, Peter. Won't you, father?" "Oh, will you?" asked Peter. "I shall want to slide in the road after dinner. Dish pans are not good in the road. So I need my sled." "Why, yes," said Tim's father. "Collie can get it. He will not break through the crust as you do." He showed Tim's sled to Collie. He put the rope into Collie's mouth. He pointed to the end of the big field. Then he said, "Collie, go bring the sled." Collie was a wise dog. He understood many things that were said to him. He knew what his master wished him to do now. He went running over the snow. He found the sled and drew it home. "Good old Collie," said his master, patting him. "There," said Tim, "I told you Collie is smarter than Wag-wag. He is, too." "Maybe he isn't," said Peter. "Maybe Wag-wag was smart to leave my sled there. But anyway I like Collie because he got it for me." [Illustration] CAT AND COPY-CAT One winter day grandmother had been visiting Mrs. Brown. In the afternoon she started for home. The sun was warm. The snow was packed hard in the road. The walking was good. Grandmother liked the cold, crisp air. She liked the blue sky, and the hills and fields all white with snow. She liked to hear the chick-a-dees, calling among the trees. She was halfway home, when she heard a noise behind her. It was, "Meow, meow." "That sounds like a cat," said grandmother to herself. "But, of course, it is not. No cat would be in these woods in winter." "Meow, meow," came the sound again. This time grandmother looked around. What do you think she saw? There, in the road behind her, were two black and white kittens. They were trotting along side by side. They looked just alike. Grandmother stopped and called, "Kitty, kitty, kitty! Come here, you pretty kitties. Where did you come from? Are you following me?" As soon as grandmother stopped, the kittens, too, stopped. She went back toward them. When she did this, the kittens turned and ran away. They did not wish to be caught. Grandmother called to them again. She tried in every way to get near them. But she could not. At last she said, "Poor kittens! You do not know that I am your friend. I do not like to leave you here in the cold. But I cannot stay any longer. I must go home." So she walked on up the road. When the kittens saw this, they started after her. She looked back and saw them following. Side by side they came, their little pointed tails straight up. "Well, I never!" said grandmother to herself. "Now, do you suppose they will follow me home?" She kept looking back to see. Every time she looked, the kittens were coming. But, if she stopped, they stopped. Through the village they went. They did not seem afraid. There were no people about. Not a dog was to be seen. At last they reached grandmother's house. "Now," said grandmother, "you have followed me to my door. Are you looking for a new home? Did you pick me out to be your mistress? If you really wish to live with me, you may. We shall see." She unlocked the door and went in. She left the door open. And after her went the two black and white kittens. They ran under the stove at once. Then grandmother shut the door. In a short time she gave them some warm milk. When they had finished it, they took a walk around the room. One found grandmother's workbasket. Then he felt sure that he should like his new home. He began to play with the spools. His brother saw him. He thought he should like a game, too. So he rolled some of the spools out on the floor. But grandmother put the basket away before they did much harm. Just then the telephone bell rang. The kittens both looked around. One jumped upon the table. From there he jumped to the telephone box. He put his paw on the bell, which kept ringing. Perhaps he thought it would play with him. Perhaps he did not like the noise. Then one jumped up into grandmother's lap. She patted it; and soon the other came, too. "You funny kittens," said grandmother. "You are almost alike. You, sir, have a black spot on this leg. You have not. If you are to be my kittens, I must name you. "You are so nearly alike, I shall call you Cat and Copy-cat. And, if you are good, you shall always live with me. "Now I will telephone to Peter and Polly about you." POLLY'S SNOWSHOES "Peter, I've thought of something. Let's make some snowshoes." "How do you do it, Polly?" "I think I know. I saw a pair this morning. They were made of barrel staves. They are not real snowshoes, of course." "Of course not," said Peter. "Father's snowshoes are not made of barrel staves. Let's go to look at his. Let's make some like them." "We can't, Peter. But we can make the other kind. Let's see if there is a broken barrel. Then we'll ask mother if we may have four staves." "My flour barrel is just empty," said mother. "We will roll it outside. I will knock it to pieces. Then you may have your four staves. Please clean them out of doors. If you do not, you will get flour all over the workshop." When the children took the staves into the workshop, Peter said, "What next?" "We want four strips of leather next. They are for straps. We will tack one strap on each stave. They will go across the staves. We will tack them at the sides. They must be loose. We shall put our toes under them." "How will our snowshoes stay on?" asked Peter. "I'll show you by and by. I must ask mother to cut this leather for me." When the leather was cut, Polly tacked on the straps. The snowshoes now looked like this: [Illustration] "I wish to put mine on," said Peter. So he stuck his toes under the leather straps. He scuffed over the floor. Then he tried to go backward. But he only pulled his feet out of the leather straps. "They will not stay on. I knew they would not," he said. "I do not like them very well." "I'm fixing mine so that they will stay on," said Polly. "I will fix yours, too." To each end of the leather straps Polly had tied a piece of soft rope. Her snowshoes now looked like this: [Illustration] "Put your toes under the straps, Peter. I will wind the ropes back of your heels. Now they go around your ankles and tie in front. See if the snowshoes will come off now." Peter scuffed around the room again. The snowshoes held fast. They worked very well when he scuffed. But, if he tried to step, the backs flew up and hit him. "Father's don't do that," said Peter. "I know it," said Polly. "There are holes in father's. His toes go down through those holes. You haven't any holes. So your toes push the front of your snowshoes down. Then the backs fly up and hit you. You must scuff, not walk." "I will," said Peter. "Let's go out of doors and try them. They are good snowshoes now." So out the children went. There was a little crust. The children walked on it. Their snowshoes held them up. They called to mother. She must see them. Mother looked through the window. She clapped her hands. All went well for a few steps. Then the toe of Polly's snowshoe caught. It cut into the crust. This pulled Polly forward. She fell on her face. Her arms stuck down into the snow. The points of her snowshoes stuck down into the snow, too. At first Polly could not get up. Then she rolled over on her side. She was almost on her feet again, when Wag-wag dashed up. He had seen Polly rolling in the snow. He thought it was a game. He wished to play, too. He took the end of one snowshoe in his teeth. He pulled and pulled. He shook the snowshoe. Then he jumped around Polly and on her. Polly was laughing so that she could not scold him. She could only say, "Oh, don't, Wag-wag! Don't!" Mother and Peter were laughing. And perhaps Wag-wag was laughing, too. At last he stopped playing. Mother came out of the house. She threw a broom to Polly. Polly helped herself up with this. She said, "These are good snowshoes. They are best when I am on them. They are not so good when I am down. But I think that I can do better than that next time." THE WOODS IN WINTER "We are going on a picnic to-day, chicks," said Mr. Howe. "A picnic, father! I thought picnics were in summer." "So they are, Polly. But why not have a winter picnic, too? I am going into the woods. You may come, if you wish." "But at picnics we have things to eat. We eat out of doors." "We shall have things to eat to-day. And we shall eat out of doors, too." "But, father, we shall be cold!" "What keeps us warm in the house in winter, Polly?" "A fire," said Polly. "Oh, now I know, now I know! You will build a fire in the woods. Once you promised me that you would. Goody, goody, goody, goody!" And Polly jumped up and down for joy. "What shall we eat?" asked Peter. "Just bread and butter?" "Oh, no," said father. "We shall have bread and butter, of course. But we shall have other things, too. We will cook our dinner." "Oh, oh, oh!" cried both children. "Are you glad? I thought you would like it. Now help me get ready. Please get my knapsack, Polly." In the kitchen, mother was busy spreading bread. She wrapped paper around the slices. She put coffee into a small, cheese-cloth bag. She filled a flat bottle with milk. Father took six eggs. He rolled them up in paper. He put a jar of bacon into his knapsack. Then the bread, coffee, and eggs were fitted in. The bottle of milk went into his pocket. "We will take my camp dishes," he said. "I will fasten my hatchet to my belt. Get on your things, and we are ready." "Let's play that we are Indians," said Polly. "Where are we going, father?" "Up the wood road on the hill. I must see if all our wood has been cut. We need a little for our furnace, a little for our stove, and a great deal for our fireplaces. "Let's all keep our eyes wide open to-day. We may see interesting things." "I think that cooking our dinner will be interesting, father. I almost wish it were dinner time now." "We will build our fire where our trees have been cut. There we shall find plenty of firewood," said father. "See those tracks in the snow, children. A rabbit has been here. Yes, this hollow is where he lies. The snow is packed hard. It is a little dirty, too. Perhaps he is near by, watching us." "Poor rabbit," said Polly. "What a cold bed. The Eskimos have snow beds. But they have fur rugs to cover the snow." "The rabbit has one between him and the snow, too. Only his rug is on his back. It keeps him warm," said father. "Look, look!" cried Polly. "Over there by those trees!" "That's surely a rabbit, Polly. See him jump along. He is nearly as white as the snow. He did not wait for us to call, did he?" "What big jumps," said Polly. "I think he could beat Wag-wag." "I am sure that he could, Polly. His hind legs are very long. They are made for jumping. He can take twice as big jumps as he is taking now. But he will not, unless we frighten him." "Why doesn't he go into a hole in the winter? Why doesn't he sleep until spring comes? The woodchuck does. Why doesn't he?" asked Polly. "He is not made so that he can. Some animals store up fat on themselves. In the winter they go to sleep. "Then they seem to live on that fat. For, in the spring, they are always thin and hungry looking. "You couldn't do that, you know. And the rabbit cannot do it. What are those birds, Peter?" "Chickadees," said Peter. "I always know them. They cannot fool me. They never say anything but 'chick-a-dee.'" "Oh, yes, they do, my son. Listen! What is that? There it is again." "Some one is whistling," said Polly. "Isn't it a pretty whistle?" "It is just two notes," said father. "Aren't they sweet and clear?" "It is quite near. But I cannot see any one. Are you doing it, father?" asked Polly. "Why, now I can hear three people." "Look above you, Polly. You will see who is whistling." Polly looked. There on a limb of a tree was a chick-a-dee. He was singing those two notes. In the next tree another was singing two other notes. "So you see, Peter, that they do say something besides 'chick-a-dee.' These two notes are their song. The other is just their talk. Perhaps you can learn to whistle those notes. "Here is the place where our wood has been cut. Let us look at it." THE WINTER PICNIC "Yes," said father, "we shall have plenty of wood. See, this wood with rough bark is maple. This, with smooth bark and lighter spots, is beech. We will not use it in our fireplaces. It might snap sparks out on the floor. "And here is some beautiful white birch. This is for our fireplaces. Here is yellow birch, too. Yes, there is plenty for next winter." "If we were really Indians, we could make canoes out of the white birch bark," said Polly. "Isn't it nice here? The trees are thick all about us. How still it is!" "It is still in the woods in winter," said father. "I always like it." "I think it is too bad to cut the trees down, father. Will they grow again?" "See, Polly," said father. "We have cut down only the largest trees. They were as large as they would ever be. Now the smaller ones will have a better chance to grow. "I would not cut them all down, unless I planted more. It would not be good for my land to do that. "This is the spot for our fire. Let us make it now." He found a place, near a log, where the snow was not deep. He cleared most of it away. There he built the fire. He used pieces of birch bark instead of paper. Small twigs made very good kindling wood. Peter and Polly pulled birch bark from the logs. They broke up the dry twigs. With his hatchet, father cut sticks of wood. He laid some of these on the fire. He stuck his kettle irons down into the snow. They looked like this: [Illustration] Then he lighted the fire. He filled the coffeepot with snow. He hung it on the hook of the kettle irons. It was quite near the blaze. When the snow had melted, more was put in. Father said, "It takes much snow to make a coffeepot full of water. When the water boils, we will put in the bag of coffee." Polly had taken out the camp dishes. She said, "We must have three plates, three cups, three knives and forks and spoons. I will put them on this log. I will put the bread and butter on the log, too." Father had cut a straight stick. It looked like a cane. He took out the frying pan. "This stick is my handle," said he. "See where it fits in. Now I shall not need to stand too near the fire. Frying would be hot work, if I had not a long handle. Give me the bacon, Peter." Soon the bacon was cooking nicely. How good it smelled! Then the eggs were dropped into the pan. When they were fried, father said, "Dinner is ready. Bring your cups. You are to have a little coffee. It will be mostly milk." This was a great treat. Peter and Polly did not drink coffee at home. Then father gave them their bacon and eggs. "Why," said father, "I forgot the sugar for our coffee." "Mother did not," said Polly. "I saw her put it in, and here it is." How good everything tasted! They sat on the log near the fire to eat. So they were quite warm. "This is the best dinner I ever had," said Polly. "Who taught you to cook, father? I forgot all about playing Indians, I have been so busy." When dinner was over, father picked up the dishes. He wiped them with paper napkins. He put them into their case. Mother would wash them at home. The fire burned low. He threw some snow on it. This made it safe to leave. "Now I will show you some tracks," said he. "They were made by the white-footed mouse. See how small they are. That line in the snow is where he dragged his tail. "He must have gone up into this tree. But I cannot see him anywhere. Perhaps he lives in that old nest up there. He may have watched us eat our dinner." "Good-by, Mr. White-foot," called Polly. "We are sorry not to see you. We are going home now." Down the hill through the quiet woods they went. Polly had the big knapsack over her shoulder. It was quite empty now, and not at all heavy. Peter ran ahead. At the door, Polly said, "Thank you, father, for our good time. It is the best picnic that I ever had." THE SEWING LESSON "Mother," said Polly one day, "I wish I could sew something real. I am tired of my patchwork. I wish I could make a dress for my doll. She needs a new dress." "Then you shall try it, Polly. Go to the drawer in the sewing table. You will find a pattern at the back of the drawer. It is for you." "O mother!" said Polly. "How did you think of it?" "I knew you would need it soon. Here is the cloth for the dress." She gave Polly some pretty blue cloth. She said, "Spread it out on the table. Pin the pattern smoothly to the cloth. Be sure to pin it straight. Now cut around the edge." Polly worked very carefully. At last she said, "See, mother, this is what I have left. There was too much." Just then Peter came into the room. "What are you doing?" he asked. "I am cutting out a doll's dress. See my pattern. See my pretty cloth." "What is this piece for?" asked Peter. "Nothing," said Polly. "That is left over. I do not need it at all." "I wish I could have it," said Peter. "I wish I could sew something, too." "You may have it," said mother. "You may sew something. What do you wish to sew?" "Let me see, mother. I think I will make me some clothes." "There is not quite cloth enough for that, Peter. Besides, it would be hard to do. Why not make a bean bag?" "That would be good," said Peter. "Where are the beans?" "You shall have them when the bag is finished," said mother. "But I must have them now. I must sew around them, mustn't I?" "No, dear. This is the way we do it. First we cut it right. Then we turn the edges. Then we baste them together. "Here is a little thimble. Here is a large needle. Begin at this corner. Make your stitches as small as you can. "If they are too far apart, your beans will fall out, by and by. How are you getting on, Polly?" "I have some of the pieces basted together. May I stop basting and sew a little?" "If you like. Aren't you glad now that you can sew over and over so nicely?" Peter and Polly did not finish their work that day. But at last the bean bag was done. Then Peter took it to Tim's house. He wished to show Tim what he had made. At last the dress, too, was finished. How pleased Polly was! She put it on her doll at once. She said, "Now I will take her calling. I will show her to the other children. They will all wish to make dresses." "If they do, we will cut the patterns for them," said mother. "Perhaps we can have a little sewing school. I will be the teacher, and you may be my helper. Should you like that?" "Oh, I should, I should, mother. You do think of nice things. I will go this minute and tell the other girls." FISHING THROUGH THE ICE "I wish I could go fishing," said Peter. "You'll have to wait until summer," said Polly. "Then I wish it were summer now." "Why, Peter Howe! When it was summer, you wished for winter. Now it is winter, you would like it to be summer." "Yes," said Peter. "You see, when I wished for winter, I forgot all about fishing. Anyway it will be summer soon." "Not very soon," said Polly. "Will it, mother?" "I will take you fishing," said father. "How can you?" cried Peter. "Can you make it summer?" "No, but I can take you fishing just the same. Get ready and we will go. Polly may come, too, if she likes." "Oh, oh, oh!" shouted Peter. "Where is my fish pole, mother?" "You will not need it, Peter," said father. "We shall need just our lines, hooks, sinkers, and bait. "Put an extra pair of mittens in your pocket. You might take the red ones that the snow man liked so well." They walked up the road. By and by they came to a bridge. At one end they climbed down to the river. Here they found a path. It took them on to the river. At the end of the path the snow was trodden down. Peter saw two holes in the ice. "Father," he said, "see those holes. Who made them?" "The blacksmith and his boy chopped them yesterday. Then they fished through them. You see now why the blacksmith did not shoe Brownie yesterday. "He knew you would be sorry about that. So he told me to bring you fishing." "I'd rather do this than anything else," said Peter. "I will thank him for his holes." "You will not like to do it long," said father. "It is a cold day." He baited Polly's hook and Peter's hook. He showed them how far into the water to put their lines. Then he said, "While you are fishing, I will build a little fire. There are plenty of small pieces of wood by the bank. You may warm your fingers at my fire. Perhaps the fish will not bite to-day." "Did the blacksmith catch any?" asked Polly. "Oh, yes," said father. "Maybe he caught them all," said Polly. "I haven't had a bite yet. I am getting cold standing here." "Then come and warm your fingers at my fire," said father. Just then Peter said, "I feel something!" And he began to pull up his line. As soon as he pulled, Polly cried, "Oh, I feel something, too. It's a bite, a bite!" And she began to pull up her line. All at once they both stopped pulling. "I'm caught," said Polly. "I'm caught," said Peter. "It won't come any farther. But it jerks. Maybe it isn't caught. Maybe it's a big fish." Father began to laugh. "I think your big fish is Polly," he said. "Let me see." He took Peter's line. He told Polly to let hers out slowly. Then he pulled. Surely enough, Peter's hook came up through his hole. Polly's hook came up, too. Peter and Polly had caught each other! How they laughed at this! Peter said, "I shall carry my big fish home to mother. She will like it. But she will not cook it. Let us go now to tell her." "Very well," said father. "Roll up your line. Then warm your hands before we start." Polly had dropped her hook back into the water. All in a minute she felt a good bite. "Oh, I have one, I have one!" she cried. "Pull in!" said father. Polly pulled. Up through the hole came a beautiful big trout. "Well, well, well!" said father. "Isn't that a beauty? I wonder how it happened to bite our pork. We must throw it back. It's too bad." "O father, my fish!" cried Polly. "Why did you? Wasn't it a good fish?" "Indeed it was, Polly. But back it had to go. We can't keep trout in the winter." "Then let's go home now," said Polly. "I might catch more. And I should not like to throw them back." "I'm all ready," said Peter. "I think we have had a good time. You caught a big fish and I caught a big fish and we can't eat either of them." MAKING MOLASSES CANDY It was a wet, rainy day. Peter and Polly had been out in the rain. It did not hurt them. They had on rubber boots, rubber coats, and rubber caps. Peter's rubber coat was yellow. Polly's was black. They played that they were firemen. In the afternoon, mother wished them to stay in the house. She said, "The rain makes the snow wet. It is not nice to play in. We will have a candy party. We will make molasses candy. You may each pull some." "I should rather do that than play out of doors," said Polly. "So should I," said Peter. "Very well, children. Put on your aprons. Now, Polly, get the molasses jug." Mother measured out the molasses. Then she put it on the stove to boil. Soon she measured out some white sugar. She poured it into the molasses. "Peter, you may carry away the sugar. That is the way you helped grandmother, you know." "Now let me stir," said Polly. "Oh, no," said mother. "We do not stir this candy. I thought you knew better than that." Soon the molasses boiled. The children liked to watch it. They liked the good smell. Peter said, "See it bubble up just like our spring." "It is the steam, trying to get out, that makes the bubbles," said mother. "You know that steam is strong. You have seen it lift the lid of the teakettle. "Now let us try the candy. Bring a cup, Polly. Bring a cup, Peter. Fill them half full of cold water." Mother dipped a spoon into the boiling candy. She poured part of the spoonful into Polly's cup, and the rest into Peter's cup. "Let it stand a minute. Then we will see if the candy is hard enough to pull. After that you may eat it." This was just what the children wished to do. They were glad because mother had to try the candy again. At last, it was poured into cake tins. It was set out of doors to cool. There was a big tin for mother, a little tin for Polly, and a little tin for Peter. Peter and Polly could hardly wait for the candy to cool. They were in such a hurry to begin pulling it. Polly stuck her finger into hers before it was ready. It almost burned her. A few minutes after this, mother said, "Yours is cool enough now. Mine is not. Wash your hands again. Then you may begin." What a sticky time there was! Polly pulled her piece over and over quite well. Soon it began to grow light colored. When it stuck to her hands, she ran out of doors. This cooled the candy. But Peter could not pull so fast. His piece stuck to both hands. It got between his fingers. Mother scraped it off and he began again. At last, he dropped part of it on the floor. Mother said, "Let it alone, Peter. I will scrape it up. It is not good to put with yours now." Peter said, "I guess I do not like to pull candy. I am going to make fly paper of mine. It is sticky enough." "Yes," said mother. "It is sticky. But you are doing very well." "Mine is ready to cut up, I think," said Polly. She laid it on the clean kitchen table. She pulled it out into a long, thin strip. Then she took a pair of clean scissors. She cut the strip into short pieces. "That is just the way," said mother. "Put it on the buttered plate. You are a good candy maker. Grandmother must have some of this. O Peter! What are you doing?" Poor Peter had somehow got his hand stuck to his hair. "I am just trying to get my hand away," said Peter. "But it is stuck." "I should think it is," said mother. "You must sit quite still until I get my candy ready to cut. Then I will help you." "O Peter! How funny you look!" laughed Polly. And indeed he did look funny, with his hand held close to his hair. "But I don't feel funny, Polly. You stop laughing at me." Mother gently pulled his hair away from the candy. Then she scraped his hands. "Please save my candy, mother," said Peter. "I cannot, Peter. It is not clean now." And Polly said, "You may have mine, Peter. I am sorry I laughed." Then mother washed Peter's hands. "I must wash your hair, too," she said. "But never mind. It needed washing. You have had fun with your candy, haven't you?" Peter answered, "Yes, I have, mother. But please do not make it so sticky next time." GRANDMOTHER'S BIRTHDAY PARTY "Here is grandmother. Light the fire, Peter. Light the fire, Polly." Peter and Polly each took a match. Peter lighted the open fire at the left. Polly lighted it at the right side. Soon the kindling wood began to crackle. Then the flames leaped high in the fireplace. Grandmother had come over to supper. She was to spend the evening. It was her birthday. Peter and Polly were to stay up later because of this. The Story Lady was coming to supper, too. Perhaps, just perhaps, she would tell them a story. She knew stories about everything. "Here she is now," cried Polly. And the Story Lady walked in at the door with grandmother. Soon supper was ready. Polly had helped mother set the table. She thought that it looked very pretty. Grandmother's birthday cake was in the center. On it were a dozen small, colored candles. Polly had helped to put them there. When mother had shown her the candles, she had said, "Why, mother, grandmother is more than twelve years old. "She must have a candle for every year. That is what I have." "I know you do, Polly," mother had said. "But grandmother is sixty years old. We cannot put sixty candles on this cake. It is not large enough. "So we will count the fives in sixty. Then we will use one for every five years. That makes just twelve." "Yes," Polly had answered, "I have learned that. Twelve fives make sixty. It is a good way to do. I shall do it when I am sixty years old." Now the cake was on the table. Just before it was time to cut it, father lighted the candles. They all watched them burn for a few minutes. The melted wax ran down the sides. They grew shorter and shorter. "See Nan Etticoat," said Polly. "The longer she stands, the shorter she grows. Do you know that story, grandmother?" "My grandmother taught me to say Nan Etticoat," said grandmother. "That was many years ago. She told me about making candles, too. "When she was a little girl, there were no electric lights. There were no gas lights. There were no lamps. Every one used candles. "Not such pretty, colored ones as these. They were larger and quite rough. How should you like to make them, Polly?" "Oh, I should like to," said Polly. "May we?" "Perhaps not," said grandmother. "We do not need to do so. We have other lights. "But in those old days, people made their own candles. They called it 'dipping candles.' It was a hard task. "I am sure that they did not light many at once. I am sure that my grandmother did not have candles on her birthday cakes. "Now, my son, the wax is dripping on the frosting. The candles are nearly burned. If you will put them out, I will cut my birthday cake." Mr. Howe pinched the lighted ends in his fingers. He did this very quickly. "Don't they burn your fingers, father?" asked Polly. "No, indeed, Polly. I do not give them time to burn me. This is better than to blow them out. Then there is smoke. But children must not do it this way." Grandmother took the knife and cut the cake. She cut it as a pie is cut. Each one had a very fat piece. "Now we shall see if this cake is as good as it looks," said grandmother. "I am sure that it is, for your mother is a good cook, Polly." But Polly was not listening. She was looking at something that she had found in her cake. She poked it with her fork. Then she took it up in her fingers. "Why, mother," she said, "what a queer thing there is in my cake. How did it get there?" Just then Peter said, "There is a lump in my piece, too. It is something hard." Father said, "Clean the cake from your lumps and see what they are. Why, I have a lump myself." "And so have I," said the Story Lady. "And so have I," said mother. "Then," said grandmother, "I am the only one who has no lump. How did you let these lumps fall into your cake, daughter? Can I ever again call you a good cook?" And she laughed at Mrs. Howe. Just then her fork struck something. "Dear me!" cried grandmother. "A lump in my piece, too! Now I think they must have been put in the cake on purpose." "Oh, see, see, grandmother! See what mine is!" And Polly held up a little, white china pig. "Look at mine!" shouted Peter. He had scraped the cake from his lump. In his hand was a small, white china monkey. "What is yours, Story Lady? And yours, mother? And yours, father?" asked Polly. "Mine is a cat," said the Story Lady. "And here is a kitten to go with her," said mother. "And here is a naughty dog, to chase your cat and kitten," said father. "Let's put them in a row on the table. Then we can all see them." "But where is your lump, grandmother?" asked Polly. Grandmother held out her hand. On it, there lay a beautiful, gold thimble. "Oh! Oh! Isn't it pretty!" cried Polly. "Who gave it to you?" "Indeed it is, Polly. I think I know who gave it to me. It was you, my daughter. You knew that I had lost mine. "I thank you for this. And I thank you for another happy birthday party. Perhaps you may put lumps in your cakes, just on birthdays." "I will not do it at other times," said mother. "Now let us all go into the other room and sit before the open fire." "When our bedtime comes we need not go, need we, mother?" asked Polly. "Not to-night, Polly. You and Peter may sit up a while," said mother. AROUND THE OPEN FIRE The open fire was blazing well. "Let me draw the chairs about it," said father. "Then we can all enjoy it." "We do not need chairs, father," said Polly. "Peter and I will sit on the floor. I will sit next to grandmother." "I will sit next to mother," said Peter. "When I was little," said grandmother, "I liked to sit on the floor. I thought it quite soft enough. Now that I am older, I like chairs better." "If you sit in a chair, it is never in the right place," said Polly. "A floor is always in the right place. It is a big seat, too." "What a good fireplace this is," said the Story Lady. "It is so large that you can put real logs into it. And it never smokes." "Just think of long ago, when there were no stoves," said grandmother. "How would it seem now to heat our houses with open fires?" "Why weren't there any stoves, grandmother? And where were the furnaces?" "People did not know how to make stoves and furnaces, Peter. They had very large fireplaces, instead. My grandmother told me about them." "What beautiful white birch logs," said the Story Lady. "They make such a good fire." "They came from our woods," said Peter. "We were up there one day. We went to see next winter's wood. There is plenty. Some is already cut and piled." "At first, I did not like to see the pretty trees cut down," said Polly. "But father told me that it is sometimes best." "So it is, Polly," said the Story Lady. "We need the wood to keep us warm, and for many other things, too. What are some of them?" "Carts, sleds, telephone poles!" shouted Peter. "Houses, barns, bridges!" shouted Polly. "Yes, indeed, children, for all those and more. So we must cut down some of the trees. But we must take care that others grow in their places. "Thousands of years ago, people believed strange things about trees. They believed that in some lived beings called dryads. "These dryads were like lovely maidens. A maiden is a girl, you know. They could come out of their trees. But still they were a part of the tree. "If a tree was cut down, the lovely dryad who lived in it died. So, in those days, most people did not wish to cut down trees. They were afraid of hurting the dryads. "When trees grew old and fell, the dryads died, too. Sometimes kind people propped up old trees. Then the dryads could live a little longer." "Oh, I wish I could see one," said Polly. "What did they wear?" "No one knows exactly, Polly, because no one ever saw a dryad. It is one of those stories that have come to us from thousands of years ago. "Most of the stories are not true. We call them myths. And we like them very much." "Are myths as good as 'Once upon a time' stories?" asked Peter. "Yes, indeed, Peter. Get your mother to tell you some, and see." "Now I shall think of this story, when I see our fire burning a dryad's house," said Polly. "I shall play that there are dryads in our trees, too. Perhaps, if I play hard enough, one will really be there. "When spring comes, I shall go to the woods often. I know where there is a hollow tree. That will make a good dryad's house." "Spring is coming soon," said mother. "The cold winter is nearly over. But, first of all, bedtime is coming. It has nearly come, now. Say good night, Peter and Polly. Then off with you." So Peter and Polly said good night and went upstairs to bed. Perhaps they dreamed of dryads. Perhaps they dreamed of spring-time. Perhaps they slept soundly and did not dream at all. 
45390	----	provided by the Internet Archive WINTER. Old Age--The Winter of Life Printed And Sold By Samuel Wood & Sons 1816. [Illustration: 003] |The birds, quite mute, the trees, stripped of their green livery, the shortened days and lengthened nights, together with the piercing winds and pinching frosts, now show us that winter is come: stern Winter, which resembles Old Age, or the closing scene. [Illustration: 005] Yet, even this season is not void of its beauties and blessings. The new fallen snow caps the mountains, and covers the valleys, with a white and beautiful vesture, which is thrown into many curious forms, folds, and ridges, by the rude blasts of the driving winds. What can exceed the dazzling splendour of a rising sun, on the trees and bushes, after a night of rain and freezing, when every branch appears like a shining crystal? A prospect grand indeed! The severe frosts of Winter, with the agitated atmosphere, dispel the sickening fumes which arise from heated and stagnant pools, and decaying vegetation. [Illustration: 007] This gives health and vigour to the body, and an it were, new spring to thought. Who but has observed the lively sensations of body and mind on a clear frosty morning in winter? What a contrast to the languor experienced after a sultry night in summer or in autumn. Although there are now no fields of corn to hoe or harvest to cut, yet the winter is not a scene of inactivity. It is undoubtedly the will of Heaven, that man should labour--The constitutions of his body and mind are so formed, as greatly to need it. Moderate labour tends to the health of both. The woodman, with his axe, engages the sturdy oak, which by his repeated strokes, bows its ancient and venerable head, and comes tumbling to the ground. It is then cut into suitable lengths, and carted home for the fire. [Illustration: 009] The grain is now threshed out from the straw, and cleared from the chaff by the wind or a fan. The wheat, rye, and buckwheat, are then carried to the mill, ground into flour, brought home and made into bread, pies, cakes, &c. Barley is used to make beer, oats to feed horses, and Indian corn for both man and beast. Much attention to the poor dumb animals is necessary, who look up to man for protection. The horsed cows, and sheep are to be foddered early and late, and provided with proper shelter. [Illustration: 011] The hogs are to be fed and furnished with a bed of straw. The turkeys, geese, and ducks, with the other poultry, will flock round the little boy or girl, who comes with a basket of corn to feed them. The flax in the winter is broken with a crackle, and then dressed on a swingling-board by a long wooden knife: afterwards passed through a hatchel, and then, by the industrious country woman and her daughters, spun into yarn, for the purpose of making linen for our shirts, &c. In the long winter evenings, how pleasant for a family to sit by a good fire, and hear the cold wind whistling without; when; neighbour enjoys the company of neighbour, and treats him with a drink of palatable cider, and some good apples; while the little children are agreeably employed in cracking and eating the nuts which they gathered in the fall. [Illustration: 013] Some amuse themselves with riding in the sleigh, while the little boys glide swiftly, in many a curious curve, upon the ice; and, when the weather is foul, the little folks can suitably exercise themselves within doors at shuttlecock.= |Behold the gray branches that ```stretch from the trees, ``Nor blossoms nor verdure they ```wear! `They rattle and shake to the ```northerly breeze, ``And wave their long arms in the ```air.= `The sun hides his face in a mantle ```of cloud, ```Dark vapours roll over the sky, ``The wind through the wood hol- ```lows hoarsely and loud. ``And sea birds across the land ```fly.= `Come in, little Charles, for the ```snow patters down, ``No path in the garden remains: `The streets and the houses are ```white in the town, ``And white are the field and the ```plain.= `Come in, little Charles, from the ```tempest of snow; ``'Tis dark, and the shutters we'll ```close; `We'll put a fresh fagot to make ```the fire glow, ``Secure from the storm as it ```blows; `But how many wretches, without ```house or home, ``Are wandering naked and pale; `Oblig'd on the snow-covered ```common to roam, ``And pierc'd by the pitiless gale! `No house for their shelter, no vict- ```uals to eat, No beds for their limbs to re- pose: [Illustration: 017] `Or a crust dry and mouldy, the ```best of their meat, ``And their pillow, a pillow of snows.= `Be thankful, my child, that it is ```not thy lot, ``To wander an orphan and poor, `A father and mother, and home ```thou hast got, ``And yet thou deservest them ```no more. `Be thankful, my child, and forget ```not to pay ``Thy thanks to the Father above, `Who gives thee so many more ```blessings than they. ``And crowns thy whole life with ```his love. = [Illustration: 018] 
21725	----	THE COXSWAIN'S BRIDE, BY R.M. BALLANTYNE. STORY ONE, CHAPTER 1. THE RISING TIDE--A TALE OF THE SEA. The coxswain went by the name of Sturdy Bob among his mates. Among the women of the village he was better known as handsome Bob, and, looking at him, you could not help seeing that both titles were appropriate, for our coxswain was broad and strong as well as good-looking, with that peculiar cast of features and calm decided manner which frequently distinguish the men who are born to lead their fellows. Robert Massey, though quite young, was already a leader of men--not only by nature but by profession--being coxswain of the Greyton lifeboat, and, truly, the men who followed his lead had need to be made of good stuff, with bold, enthusiastic, self-sacrificing spirits, for he often led them into scenes of wild--but, hold! We must not forecast. Well, we introduce our hero to the reader on a calm September evening, which blazed with sunshine. The sun need not have been mentioned, however, but for the fact that it converted the head of a fair-haired fisher-girl, seated beside Bob, into a ball of rippling gold, and suffused her young cheeks with a glow that rudely intensified her natural colour. She was the coxswain's bride-elect, and up to that date the course of their true love had run quite smoothly in spite of adverse proverbs. "I can't believe my luck," said Bob, gravely. He said most things gravely, though there was not a man in Greyton who could laugh more heartily than he at a good joke. "What luck do you mean, Bob?" asked Nellie Carr, lifting her eyes from the net she was mending, and fixing them on the coxswain's bronzed face with an air of charming innocence. Then, becoming suddenly aware of what he meant without being told, she gave vent to a quick little laugh, dropped her eyes on the net, and again became intent on repairs. "To think," continued Bob, taking two or three draws at his short pipe-- for our hero was not perfect, being, like so many of his class, afflicted with the delusion of tobacco!--"to think that there'll be no Nellie Carr to-morrow afternoon, only a Mrs Massey! The tide o' my life is risin' fast, Nellie--almost at flood now. It seems too good to be true--" "Right you are, boy," interrupted a gruff but hearty voice, as a burly fisherman "rolled" round the stern of the boat, in front of which the lovers were seated on the sand. "W'en my Moggie an' me was a-coortin' we thought, an' said, it was too good to be true, an' so it was; leastwise it was too true to be good, for Moggie took me for better an' wuss, though it stood to reason I couldn't be both, d'ee see? an' I soon found her wuss than better, which--" "Come, come, Joe Slag," cried Bob, "let's have none o' your ill-omened growls to-night. What brings you here?" "I've comed for the key o' the lifeboat," returned Slag, with a knowing glance at Nellie. "If the glass ain't tellin' lies we may have use for her before long." Massey pulled the key from his pocket, and gave it to Slag, who was his bowman, and who, with the exception of himself, was the best man of the lifeboat crew. "I'll have to follow him," said Bob, rising soon after his mate had left, "so good-bye, Nellie, till to-morrow." He did not stoop to kiss her, for the wide sands lay before them with fisher-boys playing thereon--apparently in their fathers' boots and sou'-westers--and knots of observant comrades scattered about. "See that you're not late at church to-morrow, Bob," said the girl, with a smile and a warning look. "Trust me," returned Bob. As he walked towards the lifeboat-house--a conspicuous little building near the pier--he tried to blow off some of the joy in his capacious breast, by whistling. "Why, Slag," he exclaimed on entering the shed, "I do believe you've been an' put on the blue ribbon!" "That's just what I've done, Bob," returned the other. "I thought you'd 'ave noticed it at the boat; but I forgot you could see nothin' but the blue of Nellie's eyes." "Of course not. Who'd expect me to see anything else when I'm beside _her_?" retorted Bob. "But what has made you change your mind? I'm sure the last time I tried to get you to hoist the blue-peter ye were obstinate enough--dead against it." "True, Bob; but since that time I've seed a dear woman that I was fond of _die_ from drink, an' I've seed Tom Riley, one of our best men, get on the road to ruin through the same; so I've hoisted the blue flag, as ye see." "That's a good job, Slag, but don't you forget, my lad, that the blue ribbon won't save you. There's but _one_ Saviour of men. Nevertheless, it's well to fight our battles under a flag, an' the blue is a good one--as things go. Show your colours and never say die; that's my motto. As you said, Slag, the glass _is_ uncommon low to-day. I shouldn't wonder if there was dirty weather brewin' up somewhere." The coxswain was right, and the barometer on that occasion was a true prophet. The weather which "brewed up" that evening was more than "dirty," it was tempestuous; and before midnight a tremendous hurricane was devastating the western shores of the kingdom. Many a good ship fought a hard battle that night with tide and tempest, and many a bad one went down. The gale was short-lived but fierce, and it strewed our western shores with wreckage and corpses, while it called forth the energies and heroism of our lifeboat and coastguard men from north to south. Driving before the gale that night under close-reefed topsails, a small but well-found schooner came careering over the foaming billows from the regions of the far south, freighted with merchandise and gold and happy human beings. Happy! Ay, they were happy, both passengers and crew, for they were used by that time to facing and out-riding gales; and was not the desired haven almost in sight--home close at hand? The captain, however, did not share in the general satisfaction. Out in "blue water" he feared no gale, but no one knew better than himself that the enemy was about to assail him at his weakest moment--when close to land. No one, however, could guess his thoughts as he stood there upon the quarter-deck, clad in oil-skins, drenched with spray, glancing now at the compass, now at the sails, or at the scarce visible horizon. As darkness deepened and tempest increased, the passengers below became less cheerful, with the exception of one curly-haired little girl, whose exuberant spirit nothing could quell. Her young widowed mother had given in to the little one's importunities, and allowed her to sit up late on this the last night at sea, to lend a helping hand while she packed up so as to be ready for landing next day. Consent had been the more readily given that the white-haired grandfather of little Lizzie volunteered to take care of her and keep her out of mischief. The other passengers were as yet only subdued, not alarmed. There were men and women and little ones from the Australian cities, rough men from the sheep farms, and bronzed men from the gold mines. All were busy making preparations to land on the morrow. With the exception of those preparations things on board went on much as they had been going on in "dirty weather" all the voyage through. Suddenly there was a crash! Most of the male passengers, knowing well what it meant, sprang to the companion-ladder--those of them at least who had not been thrown down or paralysed--and rushed on deck. Shrieks and yells burst forth as if in emulation of the howling winds. Crash followed crash, as each billow lifted the doomed vessel, and let her fall on the sands with a shock that no structure made by man could long withstand. Next moment a terrific rending overhead told that one, or both, of the masts had gone by the board. At the same time the sea found entrance and poured down hatchways and through opening seams in cataracts. The inclined position of the deck showed that she was aground. The very thought of being _aground_ comforted some, for, to their minds, it implied nearness to land, and _land_ was, in their idea, safety. These simple ones were doomed to terrible enlightenment. Little Lizzie, pale and silent from terror, clung to her grandfather's neck; the young widow to his disengaged arm. With the other arm the old man held on to a brass rod, and prevented all three from being swept to leeward, where several of the women and children were already struggling to escape from a mass of water and wrecked furniture. "Come on deck--all hands!" shouted a hoarse voice, as one of the officers leaped into the cabin, followed by several men, who assisted the people to rise. It is usual to keep passengers below as much as possible in such circumstances, but the position of the schooner, with her bow high on a bank, and her stern deep in the water, rendered a different course needful on this occasion. With difficulty the passengers were got up to the bow, where they clustered and clung about the windlass and other points of vantage. Then it was that the true nature of their calamity was revealed, for no land was visible, nothing was to be seen around them but a hell of raging foam, which, in the almost total darkness of the night, leaped and glimmered as if with phosphoric light. Beyond this circle of, as it were, wild lambent flame, all was black, like a wall of ebony, from out of which continually there rushed into view coiling, curling, hoary-headed monsters, in the shape of roaring billows, which burst upon and over them, deluging the decks, and causing the timbers of the ship to writhe as if in pain. "We've got on the tail o' the sands," muttered a sailor to some one as he passed, axe in hand, to cut away the wreckage of the masts, which were pounding and tugging alongside. On the sands! Yes, but no sands were visible, for they had struck on an outlying bank, far from shore, over which the ocean swept like the besom of destruction. It was nearly low water at the time of the disaster. As the tide fell the wreck ceased to heave. Then it became possible for the seamen to move about without clinging to shrouds and stanchions for very life. "Fetch a rocket, Jim," said the captain to one of the men. Jim obeyed, and soon a whizzing line of light was seen athwart the black sky. "They'll never see it," muttered the first mate, as he got ready another rocket. "Weather's too thick." Several rockets were fired, and then, to make more sure of attracting the lifeboat men, a tar-barrel, fastened to the end of a spar, was thrust out ahead and set on fire. By the grand lurid flare of this giant torch the surrounding desolation was made more apparent, and at the fearful sight hearts which had hitherto held up began to sink in despair. The mate's fears seemed to be well grounded, for no answering signal was seen to rise from the land, towards which every eye was anxiously strained. One hour passed, then another, and another, but still no help came. Then the tide began to rise, and with it, of course, the danger to increase. All this time rockets had been sent up at intervals, and tar-barrels had been kept burning. "We had better make the women and children fast, sir," suggested the mate, as a heavy mass of spray burst over the bulwarks and drenched them. "Do so," replied the captain, gathering up a coil of rope to assist in the work. "Is this necessary?" asked the widow, as the captain approached her. "I fear it is," he replied. "The tide is rising fast. In a short time the waves will be breaking over us again, and you will run a chance of bein' swept away if we don't make you fast. But don't despair, they must have seen our signals by this time, an' we shall soon have the lifeboat out." "God grant it," murmured the widow, fervently, as she strained poor little trembling Lizzie to her breast. But as the moments flew by and no succour came, some gave way altogether and moaned piteously, while others appeared to be bereft of all capacity of thought or action. Many began to pray in frantic incoherence, and several gave vent to their feelings in curses. Only a few maintained absolute self-possession and silence. Among these were the widow and one or two of the other women. They were in this condition when one of the crew who had been noted as a first-rate singer of sea songs, and the "life of the fo'c's'l," had occasion to pass the spot where the passengers were huddled under the lee of the starboard bulwarks. "Is there never a one of ye," he asked, almost sternly, "who can pray like a Christian without screechin'? You don't suppose the Almighty's deaf, do you?" This unexpected speech quieted the noisy ones, and one of the women, turning to a man beside her, said, "You pray for us, Joe." Joe was one of those who had remained, from the first, perfectly still, except when required to move, or when those near him needed assistance. He was a grave elderly man, whose quiet demeanour, dress, and general appearance, suggested the idea of a city missionary--an idea which was strengthened when, in obedience to the woman's request, he promptly prayed, in measured sentences, yet with intense earnestness, for deliverance--first from sin and then from impending death--in the name of Jesus. His petition was very short, and it was barely finished when a wave of unusual size struck the vessel with tremendous violence, burst over the side and almost swept every one into the sea. Indeed, it was evident that some of the weaker of the party would have perished then if they had not been secured to the vessel with ropes. It seemed like a stern refusal of the prayer, and was regarded as such by some of the despairing ones, when a sudden cheer was heard and a light resembling a great star was seen to burst from the darkness to windward. "The lifeboat!" shouted the captain, and they cheered with as much hearty joy as if they were already safe. A few minutes more and the familiar blue and white boat of mercy leaped out of darkness into the midst of the foaming waters like a living creature. It was the boat from the neighbouring port of Brentley. Either the storm-drift had not been so thick in that direction as in the neighbourhood of Greyton, or the Brentley men had kept a better look-out. She had run down to the wreck under sail. On reaching it--a short distant to windward--the sail was lowered, the anchor dropped, the cable payed out, and the boat eased down until it was under the lee of the wreck. But the first joy at her appearance quickly died out of the hearts of some, who were ignorant of the powers of lifeboats and lifeboat men, when the little craft was seen at one moment tossed on the leaping foam till on a level with the ship's bulwarks, at the next moment far down in the swirling waters under the mizzen chains; now sheering off as if about to forsake them altogether; anon rushing at their sides with a violence that threatened swift destruction to the boat; never for one instant still; always tugging and plunging like a mad thing. "How can we ever get into that?" was the thought that naturally sprang into the minds of some, with chilling power. Those, however, who understood the situation better, had more legitimate ground for anxiety, for they knew that the lifeboat, if loaded to its utmost capacity, could not carry more than half the souls that had to be saved. On becoming aware of this the men soon began to reveal their true characters. The unselfish and gentle made way for the women and children. The coarse and brutal, casting shame and every manly feeling aside, struggled to the front with oaths and curses, some of them even using that false familiar motto, "Every man for himself, and God for us all!" But these received a check at the gangway, for there stood the captain, revolver in hand. He spoke but one word--"back," and the cravens slunk away. The mild man who had offered prayer sat on the ship's bulwarks calmly looking on. He understood the limited capacity of the boat, and had made up his mind to die. "Now, madam, make haste," cried the mate, pushing his way towards the widow. "Come, father," she said, holding out her hand; but the old man did not move. "There are more women and little ones," he said, "than the boat can hold. Good-bye, darling. We shall meet again--up yonder. Go." "Never!" exclaimed the widow, springing to his side. "I will die with you, father! But here, boatman, save, oh, save my child!" No one attended to her. At such terrible moments men cannot afford to wait on indecision. Other women were ready and only too glad to go. With a sense almost of relief at the thought that separation was now impossible, the widow strained the child to her bosom and clung to her old father. At that moment the report of a pistol was heard, and a man fell dead upon the deck. At the last moment he had resolved to risk all and rushed to the side, intending to jump into the boat. "Shove off," was shouted. The boat shot from the vessel's side. The bowman hauled on the cable. In a few seconds the oars were shipped, the anchor was got in, and the overloaded but insubmergible craft disappeared into the darkness out of which it had come. The wretched people thus left on the wreck knew well that the boat could not make her port, land the rescued party, and return for them under some hours. They also knew that the waves were increasing in power and volume with the rising water, and that their vessel could not survive another tide. Can we wonder that most of them again gave way to despair--forgetting that with God "all things are possible?" They were not yet forsaken, however. On the pier-head at Greyton their signals had indeed been observed, but while the Brentley boat, owing to its position, could run down to the wreck with all sail set, it was impossible for that of Greyton to reach it, except by pulling slowly against wind and tide. The instant that Bob Massey saw the flare of the first tar-barrel he had called out his men. One after another they came leaping over the rocks--eager for the God-like work of saving life. It is one of the grand characteristics of our lifeboatmen that on being summoned to the fight there are often far more volunteers than are required. Joe Slag, as in duty bound, was first to answer the call. Then several of the younger men came running down. Last of all--almost too late--Tom Riley appeared, buckling on his lifebelt as he ran. His gait was not quite steady, and his face was flushed. The coxswain was quick to note these facts. "Take that lifebelt off!" he said, sternly, when Riley came up. No need to ask why. The tippler knew the reason why only too well, and he also knew that it was useless, as well as dangerous, to disobey the coxswain. He took off the belt at once, flung it down, and staggered away back to his grog-shop. A powerful young fisherman--who had felt almost heart-broken by being refused permission to go for want of room--gladly put on the belt and took Riley's place. Another minute and they were out of the harbour, battling with the billows and fighting their way inch by inch against the howling blast. At last they got out so far that they could hoist sail and run with a slant for the wreck. STORY ONE, CHAPTER 2. It was daylight by the time the Greyton lifeboat arrived at the scene of action, but the thick, spray-charged atmosphere was almost as bad to see through as the blackness of night. "I'm afeared she's gone," shouted Slag to the coxswain, putting his hand to his mouth to prevent the words being blown bodily away. "No--I see her bearing sou'-west," was the brief reply, as Bob Massey plied his steering oar. A few minutes later, and the despairing people on the wreck, catching sight of the boat, greeted her with a long, wild cheer of reviving hope. "What is it?" asked the widow, faintly, for she had been growing gradually weaker from prolonged exposure. "The lifeboat, darling," said her father. "Did I not say that He would not forsake us?" "Thank God!" murmured the poor woman, fervently. "Look up, Lizzie; the lifeboat is coming to save us!" The child, who had been comparatively warm and sheltered, at the expense of her mother, looked up and smiled. Soon the boat was alongside, and much the same scene that we have already described was re-enacted; but there were no rebels this time. By the captain's resolute bearing at first many lives had probably been saved. When most of the people had been lowered into the boat--not without great risk and many bruises--the widow, who, cowering with her father and child under the forecastle, had been overlooked, was led to the side with her child. "Not together, ma'am," said the captain. "You'd likely drop her. Let me lower the child down first; or come first yourself--that will be better." "Give Lizzie to me," said the grandfather. "I'll hold her till you are safe, and ready to receive her." "Look alive, ma'am," urged one of the lifeboat men, who had scrambled on deck to render assistance. The widow was soon in the boat, and held out her arms for little Lizzie. Somehow--no one could tell how--the men made a bungle of it. Perhaps the very fear of doing so was the cause. Instead of being caught by the boatmen, Lizzie slipped between the boat and the vessel into the boiling sea. Giving one agonised cry, the grandfather leaped after her, but the surging boat swept in at the moment, and the old man fortunately fell into that instead of the sea. He was not hurt, for strong arms had been upraised to receive him. The little child rose above the foam as she was whirled past the stern of the boat by a swift current. Bob Massey saw her little out-stretched arms. There was no time for thought or consideration. With one bound the coxswain was overboard. Next moment the crew saw him far astern with the child in his arms. "Get 'em all aboard _first_!" came back, even against the wind, in Bob's powerful, deep-toned voice. Another moment, and he was lost to sight in the boiling waste of waters. Slag knew well what he meant. If they should cast off the rope before rescuing all, for the purpose of picking up the coxswain, there would be no possibility of getting back again to the schooner, for she was fast breaking up. Every current and eddy about these sands was well known to Joe Slag, also the set of the tides--besides, had not Bob got on his lifebelt? He felt, nevertheless, that it was a tremendous risk to let him go. But what could poor Slag do? To cast off at once would have been to sacrifice about a dozen lives for the sake of saving two. It was a fearful trial. Joe loved Bob as a brother. His heart well nigh burst, but it stood the trial. He did his duty, and held on to the wreck! Duty, on that occasion, however, was done with a promptitude, and in a fashion, that was not usual in one of his sedate nature. Fortunately, none but men remained on the wreck by that time. "Tumble 'em in--sharp!" cried Slag. The lifeboat men obeyed literally, and tumbled them in with a celerity that might almost have awakened surprise in a sack of potatoes! To haul up the anchor would have been slow work. Slag--economical by nature--became extravagant for once. An axe made short work of cable and anchor. "Let 'em go!" he growled, as the boat drifted away. The sail was set with miraculous speed, for now the wind was in their favour, and the gay lifeboat bounded off in the direction where Bob had disappeared, as though it felt a lively interest in the recovery of its coxswain. It seemed as if the very elements sympathised with their anxiety, for just then the gale sensibly abated, and the rising sun broke through a rift in the grey clouds. "There he is--I see him!" shouted the man in the bow--pointing eagerly ahead. "It's on'y a bit o' wreck, boy," cried a comrade. "Right you are," returned the bowman. "There he is, though, an' no mistake, this time. Port!--port! hard-a-port!" As he spoke, the boat swept round into a sort of cross-current among the waves, where an object resembling a man was observed spinning slowly round like a lazy teetotum. They were soon alongside. A dozen claw-like hands made a simultaneous grasp, and hauled the object on board with a mighty cheer, for it was, indeed, the coxswain--alive, though much exhausted--with his precious little curly-haired burden in his arms. The burden was also alive, and not much exhausted, for the weather was comparatively warm at the time, and Bob had thrust her little head into the luxuriant thicket of his beard and whiskers; and, spreading his great hands and arms all over her little body, had also kept her well out of the water--all which the great buoyancy of his lifebelt enabled him easily to do. Shall we describe the joy of the widow and the grandfather? No; there are some sacred matters in life which are best left to the imagination. The sunshine which had begun to scatter the clouds, and flood both land and sea, was typical of the joy which could find no better means than sobs wherewith to express gratitude to the God of mercy. We have said that the gale had begun to abate. When the lifeboat escaped from the turmoil of cross-seas that raged over the sands and got into deep water, all difficulties and dangers were past, and she was able to lay her course for Greyton harbour. "Let's have another swig o' that cold tea," said Bob Massey, resuming his rightful post at the helm. "It has done me a power o' good. I had no notion that cold tea was so good for warmin' the cockles o' one's heart." Ah! Bob Massey, it was not the cold tea, but the saving of that little girl that sent the life's blood careering so warmly through your veins! However, there's no harm done in putting it down to the credit of the cold tea. Had the tea been hot, there might have been some truth in your fancy. "What's the time?" asked Bob, with a sudden look of anxiety. "Just gone ten," said Slag, consulting a chronometer that bore some resemblance to an antique warming-pan. The look of anxiety on the coxswain's countenance deepened. "Ease off the sheet a bit," he said, looking sternly over the weather quarter, and whistling for a fresher breeze, though most men would have thought the breeze fresh enough already. As if to accommodate him, and confirm the crew in the whistling superstition, the breeze did increase at the moment, and sent the lifeboat, as one of the men said, "snorin'" over the wild sea towards the harbour of Greyton. It was a grand sight to behold the pier of the little port on that stormy morning. Of course, it had soon become known that the lifeboat was out. Although at starting it had been seen by only a few of the old salts--whose delight it was to recall the memory of grand stormy times long past, by facing the gales at all hours in oiled coats and sou'-westers--the greater part of the fishing village only became aware of the fact on turning out to work in the morning. We have said that the gale had moderated, and the sun had come out, so that the pier was crowded, not only with fisher-folk, but with visitors to the port, and other landsmen. Great was the hope, and sanguine the expectation of the crowd, when, after long and anxious waiting, the lifeboat was at last descried far out at sea, making straight for the harbour. "All right, Bill," exclaimed an old fisherman, who had been for some time past sweeping the horizon with his glass, "the flag's a-flyin'." "What does that mean?" asked a smart young lady, who had braved the blast and run the risk of a salt-wash from the sprays at the pier-end in her eager desire to see the boat arrive. "It means, Miss, that they've managed to save somebody--how many, in course, we can't tell till they come." There was a strong disposition on the part of the crowd to cheer when this was said. After a few minutes' further observation, the old man with the glass murmured, as if speaking to himself, "I do believe she's chock-full o' people." When this was repeated, the suppressed cheer broke forth, and the excitement increased. Soon the people with good eyes could see for themselves that the swiftly approaching boat was as full as she could hold, of human beings. At the same time, those who were in the boat could see the swarms of sympathisers on the pier who awaited their arrival. But there was one man who took no note of these things, and seemed indifferent to everything around him. The coxswain of the lifeboat was spiritually absent from the scene. "You seem to've got the fidgets, Bob," remarked Joe Slag, looking earnestly at his friend. "That swim has been too much for 'ee." "'Taint that, Joe," replied Bob, quickly. "What's the time now, lad?" Pulling out the antique warming-pan again, Slag said it was nigh a quarter past ten, and added that he, (Bob), seemed to be "uncommon consarned about the time o' day that mornin'." "And so would you be, lad," returned the coxswain, in a low voice, as he advanced his mouth to his comrade's ear, "if you was in my fix. I've got to be spliced this day before twelve, an' the church is more'n two miles inland!" "That's awk'ard," returned Slag, with a troubled look. "But, I say, Bob, you've kep' this uncommon close from us all--eh? I never heerd ye was to be spliced so soon." "Of course I kep' it close, 'cos I wanted to give you an' my mates a surprise, but it strikes me I'll give some other people a surprise to-day, for there's no time to put on clean toggery." "You'll never manage it," said Slag, in a sympathetic tone, as he once more consulted the warming-pan. "It's gettin' on for half arter ten now, an' it takes a mortal time to rig out in them go-to-meetin' slops." "Do I look anything like a bridegroom as I am?" asked the coxswain with a curious glance. "Sca'cely," replied Slag, surveying his friend with a grim smile--"(mind your helm, Bob, there's a awk'ard run on the tide round the pier-head, you know.) No; you're not wery much like one. Even if your toggery was all ship-shape--which it ain't--it would stand dryin', and your hair would be the better o' brushin'--to say nothin' o' your beard--an' it do seem, too, as if a bit o' soap might improve your hands an' face arter last night's work. No, Bob, I couldn't honestly say as you're exactly ship-shape as you stand." "Listen, Joe Slag," said Bob Massey, with sudden earnestness. "I've never yet come in after a rescue without seein' the boat hauled up an' made snug. `Dooty first, an' pleasure arter,' that's bin my motto, as _you_ know. But dooty lies in another direction _this_ day, so you promise to see her hauled up, an' cleaned, an' properly housed, won't you?" "In coorse I does." "Well, then," continued Bob, in the same low, earnest tone, "arter that's done, you'll go an' invite all our mates an' friends to a jolly blow-out in the big shed alongside o' my old mother's house. Don't tell who invites 'em, or anything about it, an' ask as many as like to come-- the shed's big enough to hold 'em all. Only be sure to make 'em understand that they'll get no drink stronger than coffee an' tea. If they can't enjoy themselves on that, they may go to the grog-shop, but they needn't come to _me_. My mother will be there, and she'll keep 'em in order!" "What!" exclaimed Slag, with a look of slight surprise. "Your mother! Her what's bin bed-ridden for years, an' hasn't got no legs at all-- leastwise not to speak of?" "Just so, lad. We'll lift her in, bed an' all. Now you be off to the bow. Oars out, lads; stand by the halyards!" They were by that time close to the pier-head, where the people were shouting and cheering, some of them even weeping, and waving hats, 'kerchiefs, sticks, and umbrellas, almost wild with joy at seeing so many fellow-creatures rescued from the maw of the hungry sea. The first man who leaped out when the lifeboat touched the pier was the coxswain, dripping, dirty, and dishevelled. "Bless you, my gallant fellow!" exclaimed an irrepressible old enthusiast, stepping forward and attempting to grasp the coxswain's hand. But Bob Massey, brushing past him, ran along the pier, leaped a fence, and sprang up the steep path that led to the cliffs, over the top of which he was finally seen to bound and disappear. "Poor fellow!" exclaimed the irrepressible enthusiast, looking aghast at Slag, "exposure and excitement have driven him mad!" "Looks like it!" replied Slag, with a quiet grin, as he stooped to assist the widow and little Lizzie to land, while ready hands were out-stretched to aid and congratulate the old grandfather, and the rest of the rescued people. The coxswain ran--ay, he ran as he had been wont to run when he was a wild little fisher-boy--regardless alike of appearances and consequences. The clock of the village steeple told him that the appointed hour had almost arrived. Two miles was a long way to run in heavy woollen garments and sea-boots, all soaked in sea-water. But Bob was young, and strong, and active, and--you understand the rest, good reader! The church had purposely been selected at that distance from the village to prevent Bob's comrades from knowing anything about the wedding until it should be over. It was a somewhat strange fancy, but the coxswain was a man who, having taken a fancy, was not easily turned from it. In order to her being got comfortably ready in good time, Nellie Carr had slept the night before at the house of an uncle, who was a farmer, and lived near the church. The house was in a sheltered hollow, so that the bride was scarcely aware of the gale that had been blowing so fiercely out at sea. Besides, being much taken up with cousin-bridesmaids and other matters, the thought of the lifeboat never once entered her pretty head. At the appointed hour, arrayed in all the splendour of a fisherman's bride, she was led to the church, but no bridegroom was there! "He won't be long. He's _never_ late," whispered a bridesmaid to anxious Nellie. Minutes flew by, and Nellie became alarmed. The clergyman also looked perplexed. "Something must have happened," said the farmer-uncle, apologetically. Watches were consulted and compared. At that moment a heavy rapid tread was heard outside. Another moment, and Bob Massey sprang into the church, panting, flushed, dirty, wet, wild, and, withal, grandly savage. "Nellie!" he exclaimed, stopping short, with a joyful gaze of admiration, for he had never seen her so like an angel before. "Bob!" she cried in alarm, for she had never before seen him so like a reprobate. "Young man," began the clergyman, sternly, but he got no further; for, without paying any attention to him whatever, Bob strode forward and seized Nellie's hands. "I dursen't kiss ye, Nell, for I'm all wet; but I hadn't one moment to change. Bin out all night i' the lifeboat an' saved over thirty souls. The Brentley boat's done as much. I'm ashamed, sir," he added, turning to the clergyman, "for comin' here like this; but I couldn't help it. I hope there's nothin' in Scriptur' agin' a man bein' spliced in wet toggery?" Whether the clergyman consulted his Cruden's Concordance with a view to clear up that theological question, we have never been able to ascertain; but it is abundantly clear that he did not allow the coxswain's condition to interfere with the ceremony, for in the _Greyton Journal_, of next day, there appeared a paragraph to the following effect: "The marriage of Robert Massey, the heroic coxswain of our lifeboat, (which, with all its peculiar attendant circumstances, and the gallant rescue that preceded it, will be found in another part of this day's issue), was followed up in the afternoon by a feast, and what we may style a jollification, which will live long in the memory of our fisher-folk. "Several circumstances combined to render this wedding-feast unique. To say nothing of the singular beauty of the bride, who is well known as one of the most thrifty and modest girls in the town, and the stalwart appearance of our coxswain, who, although so young, has already helped to save hundreds of human lives from the raging sea, the gathering was graced by the presence of the bridegroom's bed-ridden mother. Old Mrs Massey had been carried in, bed and all, to the scene of festivity; and it is due to the invalid to state that, despite rheumatics and the singularity of her position, she seemed to enjoy herself exceedingly. Besides this, the friends and comrades of the coxswain--backed by the enthusiastic groomsman, Joe Slag--would not permit Massey to don wedding garments, but insisted on his dancing himself dry, in the rough garb in which he had effected the rescue. This he had no difficulty in doing, having already run himself more than half dry in hastening from the lifeboat to the church, which latter he reached only just in time. "The little girl whom Massey personally saved was also present, with her mother and grandfather; and one interesting episode of the evening was the presentation to our coxswain of a gold watch and a purse of fifty sovereigns by the grateful old grandfather. Another peculiarity of the proceedings was that Massey insisted--although the clergyman was present--on his old mother asking God's blessing on the feast before it began. All who are acquainted with our liberal-minded vicar will easily understand that he highly approved of the arrangement. "To crown all, the feast was conducted on strictly teetotal principles. We have frequently advocated the principles of total abstinence in these columns--at least for the young, the healthy, and the strong--and we are glad to acknowledge that this wedding has greatly helped our cause; for the fun and hilarity in all, the vigour of limb in dancing, and of lung in singing--in short, the general jollity--could not have been surpassed if the guests had been swilling rivers of beer and brandy, instead of oceans of tea. Yes, as one of the Irish guests remarked, `It was a great occasion intoirely,' and it will be long before the event is forgotten, for the noble deeds of our Greyton lifeboat are, from this day forward, intimately and inseparably connected with her coxswain's wedding!" Thus spake the Greyton oracle; but, prophet though that journal professed to be, the oracle failed to discern that from that time forward the names of Robert Massey and Joe Slag would very soon cease to be connected with the Greyton lifeboat. STORY ONE, CHAPTER 3. Soon after the wedding recorded in the last chapter an event occurred which entirely altered the character and current of our coxswain's career, at least for a time. This was the sudden death of the bed-ridden old mother, who had played such an interesting part at the wedding-feast. To our hero, who was a tender-hearted man, and a most affectionate son, the blow was almost overwhelming, although long expected. "I don't think I can stay here much longer," he said one evening to his pretty wife, as they sat together outside their door and watched the village children romping on the sands; "everything minds me o' the dear old woman, an' takes the heart out me. If it wasn't for you, Nell, I'd have been off to the other side o' the world long before now, but I find it hard to think o' takin' you away from all your old friends and playmates--and your Aunt Betty." A peculiar smile lit up Nellie's face as her husband concluded. "I should be sorry to leave the old friends here," she replied, "but don't let that hinder you if ye want to go away. I'd leave everything to please you, Bob. And as to Aunt Betty--well, I'm not ungrateful, I hope, but--but _she_ wouldn't break her heart at partin' wi' _me_." "Right you are, Nell, as you always was, and always will be," said Massey. He laughed a short, dry laugh, and was grave again. It was quite evident that Aunt Betty would not be a hindrance to the departure of either of them and no wonder, for Betty had received Nellie Carr into her family with a bad grace when her widowed brother, "old Carr," died, leaving his only child without a home. From that day Betty had brought the poor little orphan up--or, rather, had scolded and banged her up--until Bob Massey relieved her of the charge. To do Aunt Betty justice, she scolded and banged up her own children in the same way; but for these--her own young ones--she entertained and expressed a species of affection which mankind shares in common with cats, while for Nellie Carr she had no such affection, and contrived to make the fact abundantly plain. As we not infrequently find in such circumstances, the favoured children--which numbered seven--became heart-breakers, while the snubbed one turned out the flower of the flock. "Then you're sure you won't think it hard, Nell, if I ask you to leave home and friends and go wi' me over the sea?" "Yes, Bob, I'm quite sure. I'm willin' to follow you to the end o' the world, or further if that's possible!" "Then the thing's settled," said Massey, with decision, rising and thrusting his short pipe into his vest pocket, the lining of which had already been twice renewed in consequence of the inroads of that half-extinguished implement. In pursuance of his "settled" purpose, our coxswain proceeded to the lifeboat-shed in search of his bowman, Joe Slag, and found him there. "Joe," said he, in the quiet tone that was habitual to him, "Nell and I have made up our minds to go to Australia." "To Austrailly!" exclaimed Slag, leaning his arms on the mop with which he had been washing down the lifeboat. "Ay; I can't settle to work nohow since the dear old woman went away; so, as Nell is agreeable, and there's nothin' to keep me here, I've decided to up anchor and bear away for the southern seas." The bowman had seated himself on a cask while his friend was speaking, and gazed at him with a bewildered air. "Are 'ee in arnest, Bob?" "Ay, Joe, in dead earnest." "An' you say that you've nothin' to keep you here! What's this?" said Slag, laying his strong hand tenderly on the blue side of the boat. "Well, I'll be sorry to leave _her_, of course, an all my friends in Greyton, but friends will get along well enough without me, an' as for the boat, she'll never want a good coxswain while Joe Slag's alive an' well." "You're wrong there, mate," returned the bowman, quickly, while a look of decision overspread his bluff countenance, "there'll be both a noo cox'n and a noo bowman wanted for her before long, for as sure as the first goes away the tother follers." "Nonsense, Joe; you're jokin' now." "Yes, I'm jokin' if _you're_ jokin'; otherwise, I'm in dead arnest too-- in as dead arnest as yourself, if not deader. Wasn't you an' me born on the same day, Bob? Didn't our mothers crow over us cheek by jowl when we was babbies? Haven't we rollicked together on the shore ever since we was the height of our daddies' boots, an' gone fishin' in company, fair weather an' foul, to the present hour, to say nothin' o' the times we've lent a hand to rescue men an' women an' child'n i' the lifeboat? No, no, Bob Massey! if you lay yer course for Austrailly, Joseph Slag follers, as sure as a gun." Finding that his comrade was in downright earnest, and possessed of a will as inflexible as his own, Bob made no effort to dissuade him from his purpose. On the contrary, he approved of the determination, for he was pleased at the unexpected demonstration of affection which his announcement had called forth in one who was by nature undemonstrative, and who, having thus given vent to his aroused feelings, quickly resumed the reserve from which he had been so suddenly drawn out. Massey, therefore, shook hands with him, by way of sealing an unspoken compact of eternal friendship, and suggested that they should proceed together to the office of an emigration agent, who had recently made his appearance in the village. In the office they found a very small boy, with an air of self-possession that would have been suitable in his grandfather. "Is the agent in?" asked the coxswain. "Yes, but engaged. Sit down; he'll attend to you directly." The lifeboat men obeyed, almost sheepishly, the one speculating as to whether highly developed precocity was not almost criminal, the other wondering how such a boy would look and act if obliged to undergo the process of being rescued--say by the hair of his head--from a wreck. Their minds were diverted from this subject of contemplation by the entrance of a man and woman. These, like themselves, were told to sit down and wait. The man was long, thin, and lugubrious. The woman short, slight, and lackadaisical, though rather pretty. Evidently the agent was a busy man, for he kept them waiting some time. When he at length appeared he almost took the breath away from his visitors, by the rapid and enthusiastic way in which he described the advantages of the great island on the other side of the globe. There was gold--yes, _enormous_ quantities of gold in all directions. There was land of the finest quality to be had for next to nothing; work for all who were blessed with good bone and muscle; a constant demand for labour--skilled or unskilled--at high wages; a climate such as the Olympian gods might revel in, and--in short, if all England had heard the oration delivered by that man, and had believed it, the country would, in less than a month, have been depopulated of its younger men and women, and left to the tender mercies of the old and middle-aged. Our two fishermen were captivated. So were the lugubrious man and his mild little wife. The end of it was that, three weeks later, these four, with many other men and women of all ranks and conditions, found themselves on board the good ship _Lapwing_, ploughing their way through the billows of the broad Atlantic Ocean bound for the sunny isles of the Antipodes. Wheels within wheels--worlds within worlds--seems to be the order of nature everywhere. Someone has written, with more of truth than elegance-- "Big fleas have little fleas upon their legs to bite 'em, And little fleas have lesser fleas--and so _ad infinitum_." One's native land is to millions of people the world in which their thoughts centre, and by which they are circumscribed. A farmer's homestead is the world to him, and one of the farmer's cheeses contains a mighty world in itself. But the most complete, compact, and exclusive world in existence, perhaps, is a ship at sea--especially an emigrant ship--for here we find an epitome of the great world itself. Here may be seen, in small compass, the operations of love and hate, of wisdom and stupidity, of selfishness and self-sacrifice, of pride, passion, coarseness, urbanity, and all the other virtues and vices which tend to make the world at large--a mysterious compound of heaven and hell. Wherever men and women--not to mention children--are crowded into small space, friction ensues, and the inevitable result is moral electricity, positive and negative--chiefly positive! Influences naturally follow, pleasant and unpleasant--sometimes explosions, which call for the interference of the captain or officer in charge of the deck at the time being. For instance, Tomlin is a fiery but provident man, and has provided himself with a deck-chair--a most important element of comfort on a long voyage. Sopkin is a big sulky and heedless man, and has provided himself with no such luxury. A few days after leaving port Sopkin finds Tomlin's chair on deck, empty, and, being ignorant of social customs at sea, seats himself thereon. Tomlin, coming on deck, observes the fact, and experiences sudden impulses in his fiery spirit. The electricity is at work. If it were allowable to venture on mental analysis, we might say that Tomlin's sense of justice is violated. It is not fair that he should be expected to spend money in providing comforts for any man, much less for a man who carelessly neglects to provide them for himself. His sense of propriety is shocked, for Sopkin has taken possession without asking leave. His self-esteem is hurt, for, although Sopkin knows it is his chair, he sits there doggedly, "like a big brute as he is," and does not seem to care what Tomlin thinks or how he looks. Besides, there is thrust upon Tomlin the disagreeable necessity of claiming his own, and that, too, in a gentlemanly tone and manner--for it will not do to assume beforehand that Sopkin is going to refuse restitution. Tomlin is not aware that he thinks all this, but he knows that he feels it, and, in spite of himself, demands his property in a tone and with a look that sets agoing the electrical current in Sopkin, who replies, in a growling tone, "it is _my_ chair just now." Ordinary men would remonstrate in a case of this kind, or explain, but Tomlin is not ordinary. He is fiery. Seizing the back of his property, he hitches it up, and, with a deft movement worthy of a juggler, deposits the unreasonable Sopkin abruptly on the deck! Sopkin leaps up with doubled fists. Tomlin stands on guard. Rumkin, a presumptuous man, who thinks it his special mission in life to set everything wrong right, rushes between them, and is told by both to "mind his own business." The interruption, however, gives time to the captain to interfere; he remarks in a mild tone, not unmixed with sarcasm, that rough skylarking is not appropriate in the presence of ladies, and that there is a convenient fo'c's'l to which the gentlemen may retire when inclined for such amusement. There is a something in the captain's look and manner which puts out the fire of Tomlin's spirit, and reduces the sulky Sopkin to obedience, besides overawing the presumptuous Rumkin, and from that day forth there is among the passengers a better understanding of the authority of a sea captain, and the nature of the unwritten laws that exist, more or less, on ship-board. We have referred to an incident of the quarter-deck, but the same laws and influences prevailed in the forepart of the vessel, in which our coxswain and his friend had embarked. It was the evening of the fifth day out, and Massey, Joe Slag, the long lugubrious man, whose name was Mitford, and his pretty little lackadaisical wife, whose name was Peggy, were seated at one end of a long mess-table having supper--a meal which included tea and bread and butter, as well as salt junk, etcetera. "You don't seem quite to have recovered your spirits yet, Mitford," said Massey to the long comrade. "Have a bit o' pork? There's nothin' like that for givin' heart to a man." "Ay, 'specially arter a bout o' sea-sickness," put in Slag, who was himself busily engaged with a mass of the proposed remedy. "It 'ud do yer wife good too. Try it, ma'am. You're not half yerself yit. There's too much green round your eyes an' yaller about yer cheeks for a healthy young ooman." "Thank you, I--I'd rather not," said poor Mrs Mitford, with a faint smile--and, really, though faint, and called forth in adverse circumstances, it was a very sweet little smile, despite the objectionable colours above referred to. "I was never a great 'and with victuals, an' I find that the sea don't improve appetite--though, after all, I can't see why it should, and--" Poor Mrs Mitford stopped abruptly, for reasons best known to herself. She was by nature rather a loquacious and, so to speak, irrelevant talker. She delivered herself in a soft, unmeaning monotone, which, like "the brook," flowed "on for ever"--at least until some desperate listener interrupted her discourteously. In the present instance it was her own indescribable feelings which interrupted her. "Try a bit o' plum-duff, Mrs Mitford," suggested Massey, with well-intentioned sincerity, holding up a lump of the viand on his fork. "Oh! please--don't! Some tea! Quick! I'll go--" And she went. "Poor Peggy, she never _could_ stand much rough an' tumble," said her husband, returning from the berth to which he had escorted his wife, and seating himself again at the table. "She's been very bad since we left, an' don't seem to be much on the mend." He spoke as one who not only felt but required sympathy--and he got it. "Och! niver give in," said the assistant cook, who had overheard the remark in passing. "The ould girl'll be all right before the end o' this wake. It niver lasts more nor tin days at the outside. An' the waker the patients is, the sooner they comes round; so don't let yer sperrits down, Mr Mitford." "Thank 'ee, kindly, Terrence, for your encouragin' words; but I'm doubtful. My poor Peggy is so weak and helpless!" He sighed, shook his head as he concluded, and applied himself with such energy to the plum-duff that it was evident he expected to find refuge from his woes in solid food. "You don't seem to be much troubled wi' sickness yourself," remarked Massey, after eyeing the lugubrious man for some time in silence. "No, I am not, which is a blessin'. I hope that Mrs Massey ain't ill?" "No; my Nell is never ill," returned the coxswain, in a hearty tone. "She'd have been suppin' along with us to-night, but she's nursin' that poor sick lad, Ian Stuart, that's dyin'." "Is the lad really dyin'?" asked Mitford, laying down his knife and fork, and looking earnestly into his companion's face. "Well, it looks like it. The poor little fellow seemed to me past recoverin' the day he came on board, and the stuffy cabin, wi' the heavin' o' the ship, has bin over much for him." While he was speaking Nellie herself came softly to her husband's side and sat down. Her face was very grave. "The doctor says there's no hope," she said. "The poor boy may last a few days, so he tells us, but he may be taken away at any moment. Pour me out a cup o' tea, Bob. I must go back to him immediately. His poor mother is so broken down that she's not fit to attend to him, and the father's o' no use at all. He can only go about groanin'. No wonder; Ian is their only child, Bob--their first-born. I can't bear to think of it." "But you'll break down yourself, Nell, if you go nursin' him every night, an' all night, like this. Surely there's some o' the women on board that'll be glad to lend a helpin' hand." "I know _one_ who'll be only too happy to do that, whether she's well or ill," said Mitford, rising with unwonted alacrity, and hastening to his wife's berth. Just then the bo's'n's stentorian voice was heard giving the order to close reef tops'ls, and the hurried tramping of many feet on the deck overhead, coupled with one or two heavy lurches of the ship, seemed to justify the assistant cook's remark--"Sure it's durty weather we're goin' to have, annyhow." STORY ONE, CHAPTER 4. The indications of bad weather which had been observed were not misleading, for it not only became what Terrence O'Connor had termed "durty," but it went on next day to develop a regular gale, insomuch that every rag of canvas, except storm-sails, had to be taken in and the hatches battened down, thus confining the passengers to the cabins. These passengers looked at matters from wonderfully different points of view, and felt accordingly. Surroundings had undoubtedly far greater influence on some of them than was reasonable. Of course we refer to the landsmen only. In the after-cabin, where all was light, cosy, and comfortable, and well fastened, and where a considerable degree of propriety existed, feelings were comparatively serene. Most of the ladies sought the retirement of berths, and became invisible, though not necessarily inaudible; a few, who were happily weather-proof, jammed themselves into velvety corners, held on to something fixed, and lost themselves in books. The gentlemen, linking themselves to articles of stability, did the same, or, retiring to an appropriate room, played cards and draughts and enveloped themselves in smoke. Few, if any of them, bestowed much thought on the weather. Beyond giving them, occasionally, a little involuntary exercise, it did not seriously affect them. Very different was the state of matters in the steerage. There the difference in comfort was not proportioned to the difference in passage-money. There was no velvet, not much light, little space to move about, and nothing soft. In short, discomfort reigned, so that the unfortunate passengers could not easily read, and the falling of tin panikins and plates, the crashing of things that had broken loose, the rough exclamations of men, and the squalling of miserable children, affected the nerves of the timid to such an extent that they naturally took the most gloomy view of the situation. Of course the mere surroundings had no influence whatever on the views held by Bob Massey and Joe Slag. "My dear," said the latter, in a kindly but vain endeavour to comfort Mrs Mitford, "rumpusses below ain't got nothin' to do wi' rows overhead--leastways they're only an effect, not a cause." "There! there's another," interrupted Mrs Mitford, with a little scream, as a tremendous crash of crockery burst upon her ear. "Well, my dear," said Slag, in a soothing, fatherly tone, "if all the crockery in the ship was to go in universal smash into the lee scuppers, it couldn't make the wind blow harder." Poor Mrs Mitford failed to derive consolation from this remark. She was still sick enough to be totally and hopelessly wretched, but not sufficiently so to be indifferent to life or death. Every superlative howl of the blast she echoed with a sigh, and each excessive plunge of the ship she emphasised with a weak scream. "I don't know what _you_ think," she said, faintly, when two little boys rolled out of their berths and went yelling to leeward with a mass of miscellaneous rubbish, "but it do seem to be as if the end of the world 'ad come. Not that the sea _could_ be the end of the world, for if it was, of course it would spill over and then we would be left dry on the bottom--or moist, if not dry. I don't mean that, you know, but these crashes are so dreadful, an' my poor 'ead is like to split--which the planks of this ship will do if they go on creakin' so. I _know_ they will, for 'uman-made things can't--" "You make your mind easy, my woman," said her husband, coming forward at the moment and sitting down to comfort her. "Things are lookin' a little better overhead, so one o' the men told me, an' I heard Terrence say that we're goin' to have lobscouse for dinner to-day, though what that may be I can't tell--somethin' good, I suppose." "Something thick, an' luke-warm, an' greasy, _I_ know," groaned Peggy, with a shudder. There was a bad man on board the ship. There usually is a bad man on board of most ships; sometimes more than one. But this one was unusually bad, and was, unfortunately, an old acquaintance of the Mitfords. Indeed, he had been a lover of Mrs Mitford, when she was Peggy Owen, though her husband knew nothing of that. If Peggy had known that this man--Ned Jarring by name--was to be a passenger, she would have prevailed on her husband to go by another vessel; but she was not aware of it until they met in the fore-cabin the day after leaving port. Being a dark-haired, sallow-complexioned man, he soon became known on board by the name of Black Ned. Like many bad men, Jarring was a drunkard, and, when under the influence of liquor, was apt to act incautiously as well as wickedly. On the second day of the gale he entered the fore-cabin with unsteady steps, and looked round with an air of solemn stupidity. Besides being dark and swarthy, he was big and strong, and had a good deal of the bully in his nature. Observing that Mrs Mitford was seated alone in a dark corner of the cabin with a still greenish face and an aspect of woe, he staggered towards her, and, sitting down, took her hand affectionately. "Dear Peggy," he began, but he got no further, for the little woman snatched her hand away, sprang up, and confronted him with a look of blazing indignation. Every trace of her sickness vanished as if by magic. The greenish complexion changed to crimson, and the woebegone tones to those of firm resolution, as she exclaimed-- "Ned Jarring, if you ever again dare to take liberties with _me_, I'll tell my 'usband, I will; an' as sure as you're a-sittin' on that seat 'e'll twist you up, turn you outside in, an' fling you overboard!" Little Mrs Mitford did not wait for a response, but, turning sharply round, left the cabin with a stride which, for a woman of her size and character, was most impressive. Jarring gazed after her with an expression of owlish and unutterable surprise on his swarthy countenance. Then he smiled faintly at the unexpected and appalling--not to say curious--fate that awaited him; but reflecting that, although lugubrious and long, Mitford was deep-chested, broad-shouldered, and wiry, he became grave again, shook his head, and had the sense to make up his mind never again to arouse the slumbering spirit of Peggy Mitford. It was a wild scene that presented itself to the eyes of the passengers in the _Lapwing_ when the hatches were at last taken off, and they were permitted once more to go on deck. Grey was the prevailing colour. The great seas, which seemed unable to recover from the wild turmoil into which they had been lashed, were of a cold greenish grey, flecked and tipped with white. The sky was steely grey with clouds that verged on black; and both were so mingled together that it seemed as if the little vessel were imbedded in the very heart of a drizzling, heaving, hissing ocean. The coxswain's wife stood leaning on her stalwart husband's arm, by the foremast, gazing over the side. "It do seem more dreary than I expected," she said. "I wouldn't be a sailor, Bob, much as I've bin used to the sea, an' like it." "Ah, Nell, that's 'cause you've only bin used to the _sea-shore_. You haven't bin long enough on blue water, lass, to know that folks' opinions change a good deal wi' their feelin's. Wait till we git to the neighbour'ood o' the line, wi' smooth water an' blue skies an' sunshine, sharks, and flyin' fish. You'll have a different opinion then about the sea." "Right you are, Bob," said Joe Slagg, coming up at that moment. "Most people change their opinions arter gittin' to the line, specially when it comes blazin' hot, fit to bile the sea an' stew the ship, an' a dead calm gits a hold of 'e an' keeps ye swelterin' in the doldrums for a week or two." "But it wasn't that way we was lookin' at it, Joe," returned Nellie, with a laugh. "Bob was explainin' to me how pleasant a change it would be after the cold grey sea an' sky we're havin' just now." "Well, it may be so; but whatever way ye may look at it, you'll change yer mind, more or less, when you cross the line. By the way, that minds me that some of us in the steerage are invited to cross the line to-night--the line that separates us from the cabin--to attend a lectur' there--an' you'll niver guess the subjec', Bob." "I know that, Joe. I never made a right guess in my life, that I knows on. Heave ahead, what is it?" "A lectur' on the `Lifeboat,' no less! But it aint our lifeboat sarvice: it's the American one, cause it's to be given by that fine young fellow, Dr Hayward, who looks as if suthin' had damaged his constitootion somehow. I'm told he's a Yankee, though he looks uncommon like an Englishman." "He's tall an' 'andsome enough, anyhow," remarked Massey. "Ay, an' he's good enough for anything," said Nellie, with enthusiasm. "You should see the kind way he speaks to poor Ian when he comes to see him--which is pretty much every day. He handles him, too, so tenderly-- just like his mother; but he won't give him medicine or advice, for it seems that wouldn't be thought fair by the ship's doctor. No more it would, I suppose." "D'ee know what's the matter wi' him?" asked Mitford, who had joined the group. "Not I," returned Massey. "It seems more like gineral weakness than anything else." "I can tell you," said a voice close to them. The voice was that of Tomlin, who, although a first-class passenger, was fond of visiting and fraternising with the people of the fore-cabin. "He got himself severely wounded some time ago when protecting a poor slave-girl from her owner, and he's now slowly recovering. He is taking a long voyage for his health. The girl, it seems, had run away from her owner, and had nearly escaped into Canada, where of course, being on British soil, she would be free--" "God bless the British soil!" interrupted little Mrs Mitford, in a tone of enthusiasm which caused a laugh all round; but that did not prevent some of the bystanders from responding with a hearty "Amen!" "I agree with you, Mrs Mitford," said Tomlin; "but the owner of the poor slave did not think as you and I do. The girl was a quadroon--that is, nearly, if not altogether, white. She was also very beautiful. Well, the owner--a coarse brute--with two followers, overtook the runaway slave near a lonely roadside tavern--I forget the name of the place--but Dr Hayward happened to have arrived there just a few minutes before them. His horse was standing at the door, and he was inside, talking with the landlord, when he heard a loud shriek outside. Running out, he found the girl struggling wildly in the hands of her captors. Of course, he demanded an explanation, though he saw clearly enough how matters stood. "`She's my slave,' said the owner, haughtily. He would not, perhaps, have condescended even with that much explanation if he had not seen that the landlord sympathised with the doctor. "This was enough, however, for Hayward, who is a man of few words and swift action. He was unarmed, but carried a heavy-handled whip, with this he instantly felled the slave-owner and one of his men to the ground before they had time to wink, but the third man drew a pistol, and, pointing it straight at the doctor's head, would have blown out his brains if the landlord had not turned the weapon aside and tripped the man up. Before he could recover Hayward had swung the girl on his horse, leaped into the saddle, and dashed off at full speed. He did not draw rein till he carried her over the frontier into Canada, and had placed her beyond the reach of her enemies." "Brayvo! the doctor," exclaimed Slag, heartily. "Then he found," continued Tomlin, "that he had been wounded in the chest by the ball that was meant for his head, but made light of the wound until it was found to be serious. The ball was still in him, and had to be extracted, after which he recovered slowly. The romantic part of it is, however, that he fell in love with Eva--that was the girl's name--and she with him, and they were married--" "Ah, poor thing," said Mitford; "then she died, and he married again?" "Not at all," returned Tomlin, "she did not die, and he did not marry again." "How--what then about that splendid wife that he's got in the after-cabin _now_?" asked Mitford. "That's her. That's Eva, the quadroon. She's not only as white as Mrs Massey or Mrs Mitford there, but she's been educated and brought up as a lady and among ladies, besides having the spirit of a _real_ lady, which many a born one hasn't got at all." There were many fore-cabin passengers who "crossed the line" that night in order to hear the gallant American lecture, but chiefly to see the beautiful lady who had been so romantically rescued from slavery. "Not a drop of black blood in her body!" was Mrs Mitford's verdict after the lecture was over. "An' what if there was?" demanded Slag, in a tone of indignation. "D'ee think that white blood is worth more than black blood in the eyes o' the Almighty as made 'em both?" The lecture itself was highly appreciated, being on a subject which Bob and Joe had already made interesting to the steerage passengers. And the lecturer not only treated it well, but was himself such a fine, lion-like, yet soft-voiced fellow that his audience were quite charmed. Soon the _Lapwing_ was gliding through the warm waters of the equatorial seas, and those of the passengers who had never visited such regions before, were immensely interested by the sight of dolphins, sharks, and especially flying-fish. "I _don't_ believe in 'em," said Mrs Mitford to Mrs Massey one day as they stood looking over the side of the ship. "I do believe in 'em," said Mrs Massey, "because my Bob says he has seen 'em." Not long after this double assertion of opinion there was a sudden cry that flying-fish were to be seen alongside, and Mrs Mitford actually beheld them with her own eyes leap out of the sea, skim over the waves a short distance, and then drop into the water again; still she was incredulous! "Flyin'" she exclaimed, "nothin' of the sort; they only made a long jump out o' the water, an' wriggled their tails as they went; at least they wriggled something, for I couldn't be rightly sure they _'ad_ tails to wriggle, any more than wings--never 'avin' seen 'em except in pictures, which is mostly lies. Indeed!" "Look-out!" exclaimed Slag at the moment, for a couple of fish flew over the bulwarks just then, and fell on deck almost at Mrs Mitford's feet. When she saw them there floundering about, wings and all, she felt constrained to give in. "Well, well," she said, raising her hands and eyes to heaven, as though she addressed her remarks chiefly to celestial ears, "did ever mortal see the likes? Fish wi' wings an' no feathers! I'll believe _anything_ after that!" Peggy Mitford is not the first, and won't be the last woman--to say nothing of man--who has thus bounded from the depths of scepticism to the heights of credulity. STORY ONE, CHAPTER 5. Dr Hayward, who had given great satisfaction with his lecture, possessed so much urbanity and power of anecdote and song, that he soon became a general favourite alike with steerage and cabin passengers. One sultry forenoon Terrence O'Connor, the assistant steward, went aft and whispered to him that Ian Stuart, the sick boy, wanted very much to see him. "I think he's dying, sor," said Terrence, in a low tone. "Has the doctor seen him this morning?" asked Hayward, as he rose quickly and hurried forward. "He's seed him twice, sor," said Terrence, "an' both times he shook his head as he left him." It was evident that the steerage passengers felt death to be hovering over them, for they were unusually silent, and those who were in the fore-cabin at the time Hayward passed, cast solemn glances at him as he descended and went to the berth of the poor boy. It was a comparatively large berth, and, being at the time on the weather side of the ship, had the port open to admit fresh air. "My poor boy, do you suffer much?" said the doctor, in soothing tones, as he sat down beside Ian, and took his hand. It was obvious that Ian suffered, for an expression of weariness and pain sat on his emaciated countenance, but on the appearance of Hayward the expression gave place to a glad smile on a face which was naturally refined and intellectual. "Oh, thank you--thanks--" said Ian, in a low hesitating voice, for he was almost too far gone to speak. "There, don't speak, dear boy," said the doctor, gently. "I see you have been thinking about our last conversation. Shall I read to you?" "No--no. Jesus is speaking--to me. His words are crowding on me. No need for--reading when He speaks; `Come--unto Me--I will _never_-- leave--'" His breath suddenly failed him, and he ceased to speak, but the glad look in his large eyes showed that the flow of Divine words, though inaudible, had not ceased. "Mother--father," he said, after a short pause, "don't cry. You'll soon join me. Don't let them cry, Dr Hayward. The parting won't be for long." The Doctor made no reply, for at that moment the unmistakable signs of dissolution began to overspread the pinched features, and in a few minutes it became known throughout the ship that the "King of Terrors" had been there in the guise of an Angel of Light to pluck a little flower and transplant it into the garden of God. Hayward tried to impress this fact on the bereaved parents, but they would not be comforted. They were a lowly couple, who could not see far in advance of them, even in regard to things terrestrial. The last words of their child seemed to have more weight than the comfort offered by the doctor. "Cheer up, David," said the poor wife, grasping her husband's hand, and striving to check her sobs, "Ian said truth, it won't be long afore we jine him, the dear, dear boy." But even as she uttered the words of cheer her own heart failed her, and she again gave way to uncontrollable grief, while her husband, dazed and motionless, sat gazing at the face of the dead. The funeral and its surroundings was as sad as the death. Everything was done to shroud the terrible reality. The poor remains were tenderly laid in a black deal coffin and carried to the port side of the ship by kind and loving hands. A young Wesleyan minister, who had been an unfailing comforter and help to the family all through the boy's illness, gave a brief but very impressive address to those who stood around, and offered up an earnest prayer; but nothing could blind the mourners, especially the parents, to the harsh fact that the remains were about to be consigned to a never resting grave, and that they were going through the form rather than the reality of burial, while, as if to emphasise this fact, the back fin of a great shark was seen to cut the calm water not far astern. It followed the ship until the hollow plunge was heard, and the weighted coffin sank into the unknown depths of the sea. An impression that never faded quite away was made that day on some of the more thoughtful and sensitive natures in the ship. And who can say that even amongst the thoughtless and the depraved no effect was produced! God's power is not usually exerted in visibly effective processes. Seeds of life may have been sown by that death, which shall grow and flourish in eternity. Certain it is that some of the reckless were solemnised for a time, and that the young Wesleyan was held in higher esteem throughout the ship from that day forward. Some of the passengers, however, seemed very soon to forget all about the death, and relapsed into their usual frames of mind. Among these was Ned Jarring. For several days after the funeral he kept sober, and it was observed that the Wesleyan minister tried to get into conversation with him several times, but he resisted the good man's efforts, and, when one of his chums laughingly remarked that he, "seemed to be hand and glove wi' the parson now," Black Ned swung angrily round, took to drinking again, and, as is usually the case in such circumstances, became worse than before. Thus the little world of ship-board went on from day to day, gradually settling down into little coteries as like-minded men and women began to find each other out. Gradually, also, the various qualities of the people began to be recognised, and in a few weeks--as in the greater world--each man and woman was more or less correctly gauged according to worth. The courageous and the timid, the sensible and the vain, the weak and the strong, the self-sacrificing and the selfish, all fell naturally into their appropriate positions, subject to the moderate confusion resulting from favouritism, abused power, and other forms of sin. It was observable also that here, as elsewhere, all the coteries commented with considerable freedom on each other, and that each coterie esteemed itself unquestionably the best of the lot, although it might not absolutely say so in words. There was one exception, namely in the case of the worst or lowest coterie, which, so far from claiming to be the best, openly proclaimed itself the worst, gloried in its shame, and said that, "it didn't care a button," or words, even more expressive, to the same effect. Ned Jarring belonged to this last class. He was probably the worst member of it. One night an incident occurred which tested severely some of the qualities of every one on board. It was sometime after midnight when the dead silence of the slumbering ship was broken by perhaps the most appalling of all sounds at sea--the cry of "Fire!" Smoke had been discovered somewhere near the fore-cabin. Fortunately the captain had just come up at the time to speak with the officer of the watch on deck. At the first cry he ran to the spot pointed out, telling the officer to call all hands and rig the pumps, and especially to keep order among the passengers. The first man who leaped from profound slumber into wide-awake activity was Dr Hayward. Having just lain down to sleep on a locker, as he expected to be called in the night to watch beside a friend who was ill, he was already dressed, and would have been among the first at the scene of the fire, but for an interruption. At the moment he was bounding up the companion-ladder, a young man of feeble character--who would have been repudiated by the sex, had he been born a woman--sprang down the same ladder in abject terror. He went straight into the bosom of the ascending doctor, and they both went with a crash to the bottom. Although somewhat stunned, Hayward was able to jump up and again make for the region of the fire, where he found most of the men and male passengers working with hose and buckets in the midst of dire confusion. Fortunately the seat of the conflagration was soon discovered; and, owing much to the cool energy of the captain and officers, the fire was put out. It was about a week after this thrilling event that Mrs Massey was on the forecastle talking with Peggy Mitford. A smart breeze was blowing-- just enough to fill all the sails and carry the ship swiftly on her course, without causing much of a sea. The moon shone fitfully through a mass of drifting clouds, mingling its pallid light with the wondrous phosphoric sheen of the tropical seas. Mrs Mitford had been regaling her companion with a long-winded and irrelevant, though well-meant, yarn about things in general and nothing in particular; and Nellie, who was the personification of considerate patience, had seated herself on the starboard rail to listen to and comment on her lucubrations. "Yes, as I was sayin', Nellie," remarked Peggy, in her soft voice, after a brief pause, during which a variety of weak little expressions crossed her pretty face, "I never could abide the sea. It always makes me sick, an' when it doesn't make me sick, it makes me nervish. Not that I'm given to bein' nervish; an', if I was, it wouldn't matter much, for the sea would take it out o' me, whether or not. That's always the way--if it's not one thing, it's sure to be another. Don't you think so, Nellie? My John says 'e thinks so--though it isn't to be thought much of what _'e_ says, dear man, for 'e's got a way of sayin' things when 'e don't mean 'em--you understand?" "Well, I don't quite understand," answered Mrs Massey, cutting in at this point with a laugh, "but I'm quite sure it's better to say things when you don't mean them, than to mean things when you don't say them!" "Perhaps you're right, Nellie," rejoined Mrs Mitford, with a mild nod of assent; "I've sometimes thought on these things when I've 'ad one o' my sick 'eadaches, which prevents me from thinkin' altogether, almost; an', bless you, you'd wonder what strange idears comes over me at such times. Did you ever try to think things with a sick 'eadache, Nellie?" With a laugh, and a bright look, Mrs Massey replied that she had never been in a position to try that curious experiment, never having had a headache of any kind in her life. While she was speaking, a broad-backed wave caused the ship to roll rather heavily to starboard, and Mrs Massey, losing her balance, fell into the sea. Sedate and strong-minded though she was, Nellie could not help shrieking as she went over; but the shriek given by Mrs Mitford was tenfold more piercing. It was of a nature that defies description. Its effect was to thrill the heart of every one who heard it. But Peggy did more than shriek. Springing on the rail like an antelope, she would have plunged overboard to the rescue of her friend, regardless of her own inability to swim, and of everything else, had not a seaman, who chanced to be listening to the conversation--caught her with a vice-like grip. "Hold on, Peggy!" he cried. But Peggy shrieked and struggled, thus preventing the poor fellow from attempting a rescue, while shouts and cries of "man overboard" rang through the ship from stem to stern, until it became known that it was a woman. Then the cries redoubled. In the midst of the hubbub the strong but calm voice of the captain was heard to give orders to lower a boat and port the helm--"hard a-port." But, alas! for poor Nellie that night if her life had depended on shouters, strugglers, shriekers, or boatmen. At the moment the accident happened two men chanced to be standing on the starboard side of the ship--one on the quarter-deck, the other on the forecastle. Both men were ready of resource and prompt in action, invaluable qualities anywhere, but especially at sea! The instant the cry arose each sprang to and cut adrift a life-buoy. Each knew that the person overboard might fail to see or catch a buoy in the comparative darkness. He on the forecastle, who chanced to see Nellie fall over, at once followed her with the life-buoy in his arms. Ignorant of this act the man near the stern saw something struggling in the water as the ship flew past. Without an instant's hesitation he also plunged into the sea with a life-buoy in his grasp. The faint light failed to reveal who had thus boldly plunged to the rescue, but the act had been observed both at bow and stern, and a cheer of hope went up as the ship came up to the wind, topsails were backed, and the boat was dropped into the water. Twenty minutes elapsed before there was any sign of the boat returning, during which time the ship's bell was rung continually. It may be better imagined than described the state of poor Bob Massey, who had been asleep on a locker in the fore-cabin when the accident occurred, and who had to be forcibly prevented, at first, from jumping into the sea when he heard that it was Nellie who was overboard. At last oars were heard in the distance. "Stop that bell! boat ahoy!" shouted the captain. "Ship aho-o-oy!" came faintly back on the breeze, while every voice was hushed and ear strained to listen, "All right! all saved!" A loud "Thank the Lord!" burst from our coxswain's heaving chest, and a wild ringing cheer leaped upwards alike from passengers and crew, while warm tears overflowed from many an eye that was more intimate with cold spray, for a noble deed and a life saved have always the effect of stirring the deepest enthusiasm of mankind. A few minutes more and three dripping figures came up the gangway. First came Nellie herself; dishevelled and pale, but strong and hearty nevertheless, as might be expected of a fisher-girl and a lifeboat coxswain's wife! She naturally fell into, or was caught up by, her husband's arms, and was carried off to the cabin. Following her came two somewhat exhausted men. The cheer that greeted them was not unmingled with surprise. "The best an' the worst men i' the ship!" gasped Joe Slag, amid laughter and hearty congratulations. He was probably right, for it was the young Wesleyan minister and Ned Jarring who had effected this gallant rescue. The performance of a good action has undoubtedly a tendency to elevate, as the perpetration of a bad one has to demoralise. From that day forward Black Ned felt that he had acquired a certain character which might be retained or lost. Without absolutely saying that he became a better man in consequence, we do assert that he became more respectable to look at, and drank less! Thus the voyage progressed until the good ship _Lapwing_ sailed in among some of the innumerable islands of the Southern seas. STORY ONE, CHAPTER 6. Darkness, whether physical, mental, or spiritual, is probably the greatest evil that man has had to contend with since the fall. At all events, the physical and mental forms of it were the cause of the good ship _Lapwing_ sailing one night straight to destruction. It happened thus. A pretty stiff breeze, amounting almost to half a gale, was blowing on the night in question, and the emigrant ship was running before it under close-reefed topsails. For some days previously the weather had been "dirty," and the captain had found it impossible to obtain an observation, so that he was in the dark as to the exact part of the ocean, in which he was sailing. In an open sea this is not of serious moment, but when one is nearing land, or in the neighbourhood of islands, it becomes cause for much anxiety. To make matters worse, the ship had been blown considerably out of her course, and, worst of all, the night was so intensely dark that it was not possible to see more than a few yards beyond the flying jibboom. The captain and mate, with several of the men, stood on the forecastle peering anxiously out into the darkness. "I don't like the look o' things at all," muttered the captain to the chief mate. "Perhaps it would be well, sir, to lay-to till daylight," suggested the mate. Whether the captain agreed with his chief officer or not was never known, for just then a dull sound was heard which sent a thrill to the bravest heart on board. "Breakers ahead!" cried the look-out, as in duty bound, but he was instantly contradicted by the mate, who shouted that they were on the starboard beam, while another voice roared that they were on the port-bow. The helm was instantly put hard a-port, and immediately after the order was given "hard a-starboard," for it was discovered that the sound of breakers came from both sides of the vessel. They were, obviously, either running in a narrow strait between two islands, or into a bay. In the first case the danger was imminent, in the second case, destruction was almost inevitable. "Clear the anchor, and stand by to let go!" cried the captain, in loud sharp tones, for he felt that there was no room to turn and retreat. The order was also given to take in all sail. But before either order could be obeyed, a cry of terror burst from many throats, for right in front of them there suddenly loomed out of the darkness an object like a great black cloud, which rose high above and seemed about to fall upon them. There was no mistaking its nature, however, for by that time the roar of the breakers right ahead told but too plainly that they were rushing straight upon a high perpendicular cliff. At this moment the vessel struck a rock. It was only a slight touch at the stern, nevertheless it tore the rudder away, so that the intention of the captain to put about and take his chance of striking on the rocks to starboard was frustrated. "Let go," he shouted, in this extremity. Quick as lightning the anchor went to the bottom but with such way on the ship, the sudden strain snapped the chain, and the _Lapwing_ rushed upon her doom, while cries of terror and despair arose from the passengers, who had by that time crowded on deck. To the surprise of the captain, and those who were capable of intelligent observation, the ship did not immediately strike again, but sailed straight on as if right against the towering cliffs. Still onward it went, and as it did so there settled around them a darkness so profound that no one could see even an inch before his eyes. Then at last the ill-fated vessel struck, but not with her hull, as might have been expected. High up above them a terrific crash was heard. "God help us," exclaimed the captain, "we've sailed straight into a cave!" That he was right soon became evident, for immediately after the crashing of the topmasts against the roof of the cave, a shower of small stones and several large fragments fell on the deck with a rattle like that of musketry. Some of the people were struck and injured, though not seriously so, by the shower. "Get down below, all of you!" cried the captain, himself taking shelter under the companion hatchway. But the order was needless, for the danger was so obvious that every one sought the shelter of the cabins without delay. The situation was not only terrible but exceedingly singular, as well as trying, for as long as stones came thundering down on the deck it would have been sheer madness to have attempted to do anything aboveboard, and to sit idle in the cabins with almost certain death staring them in the face, was a severe test of endurance. From the motion of the vessel several facts could be deduced. Although the scraping and crashing of the masts overhead told eloquently of destruction going on in that direction, the heaving of the ship, and her striking occasionally on either side, proved that there was deep water below her. That they were not progressing into an interminable cavern was made evident by the frequent plunging of the shattered bowsprit against the inner end of the cave. This action sent the vessel reeling backwards, as it were, every time she struck, besides shattering the bowsprit. That the cave, also, was open to the full force of the sea was only too severely proved by the rush of the billows into it, and the frequent and severe shocks to which they were in consequence subjected. These shocks had extinguished the lamps, and it was only by the aid of a few candles that they were delivered from sitting in absolute darkness. In these awful circumstances the young Wesleyan proved that, besides the courage that he had already shown in facing danger on a sudden emergency, he also possessed that far higher courage which can face the slow and apparently sure approach of death with equanimity and self-possession. Moreover, he proved that the Word of God and prayer are the true resources of man in such extremities. Calling those who were willing, around him, he led them in prayer, and then quieted the timid among them, as well as comforted all, not by reading, but by quoting appropriate passages from Scripture, in which he was profoundly versed. "D'ee know when it'll be low water, sir?" asked Joe Slag of the captain, when the ship gave one of her upward heaves and rasped her timbers again on the sides of the cave. "Not for three hours yet, but it's falling. I expect there will be less sea on in a short time. If the ship holds together we may yet be saved." There was a murmured "thank God" at these words. Then Bob Massey expressed some fear that there might be a danger of striking the rocks underneath before low water. "I wish it was the risin' tide," he said, and the words took his mind back, like a flash of lightning, to the time when he used them in a very different sense. Then all was peace, hope, sunshine, and his bride was sitting like a good angel beside him, with a sweet smile on her fair face. Now, something like darkness visible, showed him his poor wife-- still beside him, thank God--but clinging to his arm with looks of terror amounting almost to despair. "What a contrast!" he thought, and for the first time a feeling of rebellion arose in his mind. "There's no use o' sittin' here to be drowned like rats," he cried, starting up. "I'll go on deck an' take a cast o' the lead, an' see what chances we have." "No, you won't, Bob," cried Nellie, throwing her arms firmly round him. "There's big stones falling all about the deck yet. Don't you hear them?" As if to corroborate her words, a piece of rock nearly half a ton in weight fell on the sky-light at that moment, crashed completely through it, through the table below, and even sank into the cabin floor. Fortunately, no one was hurt, though Slag had a narrow escape, but that worthy was not easily intimidated. He rose up, and, saying that, "it was as well to be killed on deck doin' somethin' as in the cabin doin' nothin'," was about to ascend the ladder when Dr Hayward suddenly entered, all wet and dishevelled, and with blood trickling down his face. "No use going up just now, Joe," he said, as he sat down beside his wife, and permitted her to tie a kerchief round his head. "Only a slight wound, Eva, got while taking soundings. I find that there are sixteen fathoms of water under us, and, although I couldn't see my hand held up before my face, I managed to make out by the flash of a match, which burned for a moment before being blown out, that the sides of the cave are quite perpendicular, not the smallest ledge to stand on. The tide, however, is ebbing fast, and the water in the cave calming, so that if no bad leak has been made by all this thumping we may yet be saved. Our only chance is to stick to the ship." While he was speaking the vessel again surged violently against one side of the cave, and another of the huge masses of rock that were brought down by the swaying masts came crashing on the deck. "There is no bad leak as yet," said the captain, re-entering the cabin, which he had quitted for the purpose of sounding the well. "If we can keep afloat for an hour or two we may be able to use the boats. Just now it would be useless to attempt launching them." Although the captain's words were not particularly reassuring, his confident tone and manner infused hope, and comforted the people greatly. Some of the male passengers even volunteered to face the shower of stones, if need be, and lend a hand in launching the boats, when the time for doing so arrived. These boats, three in number, were lying bottom up on deck, and to reach them involved the risk of death to whoever should attempt it. They were therefore compelled to wait. It is difficult to form even a slight conception of the horrors of that night. For several hours they sat in the after-cabin, and the ship surged and plunged in the wildly-heaving water, striking the sides continually, while rocks fell at intervals on the deck, thus adding to the noise of wind and waves as they raged with echoing, deafening noise in the black cavern. Each moment it seemed as if the ship must have her planks stove in and be sunk, but she was a new vessel and strong. Of course she leaked considerably, but when the tide went down the sea calmed a little, the rocks ceased falling from the roof, and they were enabled to rig the pumps and work them vigorously. The boats, meanwhile, were cast loose and got ready to launch at the first glimmer of daylight! Fortunately, they had received no serious injury from the falling rocks. Oh, how they longed and prayed for the day! It came at last, a gleam so faint that it showed nothing of their surroundings save the outline of the cavern's great mouth. "Shall we launch the boats now, sir?" asked the first mate, who was becoming anxious, because the carpenter had just reported that the water in the hold was increasing dangerously in spite of the pumps. "Not yet--not yet," returned the captain, hurriedly. "We must have more light first. The loss of a boat would be fatal. I'm afraid of the rising tide." "Afraid of the rising tide!" Again the words struck strangely on Bob Massey's ears as he stood wiping the perspiration from his brow after a long spell at the pumps--and once more carried him back to the sunlit sands of Old England. Soon the increase of water in the hold was so great that the getting out of the boats could no longer be delayed. The first launched was a small one. It was lowered over the stern by means of the studding-sail boom, with a block and whip, which kept it from dropping too quickly into the water. Massey and his friend Slag, being recognised as expert boatmen in trying circumstances, were sent in it, with two of the crew, to run out a line and drop an anchor in the sea outside, so that the heavier boats might be hauled out thereby. Two hundred and fifty fathoms of rope were given them--more than sufficient for the purpose. On getting outside, Bob and his friend, according to custom as lifeboat men, kept a sharp look-out on everything around them, and the feeble daylight enabled them to see that the black cliff which had, as it were, swallowed up the _Lapwing_, was full six hundred feet high and a sheer precipice, in some places overhanging at the top, and without the symptom of a break as far as the eye could reach in either direction. "A black look-out, Joe," muttered Massey, as he assisted his comrade to heave the anchor over the side. "Ay, Bob, an' the worst of it is that the tide's risin'. A boat can live here as long as that ridge o' rocks keeps off the seas, but in an hour or so it'll be rollin' in as bad as ever." "I knows it, Joe, an' the more need to look sharp." Returning to the ship, our coxswain made his report, and recommended urgent haste. But the captain required no urging, for by that time the ship's main deck was level with the water, and the seas were making a clean breach over the stern. The passengers and crew crowded towards the port gangway where the large boat was being brought round to receive the women and children first. This was such a familiar scene to the two lifeboat men that they kept cool and self-possessed from the mere force of habit. Seeing this, the captain ordered Mitford to get into the boat first, and help to stow the others, for it would be a tight pack, he said, to stow them all. Dr Hayward was ordered to assist. Ned Jarring volunteered to help to fend the boat off during the operation, and, without waiting for permission, jumped into her. Mitford had consigned his wife to the care of his friend Massey, who at once undertook the duty by tying a kerchief round Peggy's head to keep her hair out of her eyes, after which he did the same for Nellie. Both women were perfectly quiet and submissive--the first owing to fear and exhaustion, the last from native courage, which enabled her to rise to the occasion. Massey then stripped off all his own clothes, except shirt and trousers, so as to be ready for swimming, and, catching up a rope, advanced towards his wife, intending to fasten it round her waist. "Peggy first, Bob; I'll wait for _you_," said his wife. "Look sharp!" cried the captain. Bob turned at once to Peggy, and in a few seconds she was lowered into the boat. Mrs Hayward followed. Then Massey insisted on his wife going, and the obedient Nellie submitted, but, owing to a lurch of the ship at the moment, she missed the boat, and dropped into the water. One of the men attempted to pull her in, but could not, and, as all the others were engaged at the moment in trying to fend off the rocks, Massey at once jumped into the sea, and helped to get his wife into the boat. At that moment there arose a cry that the ship was sinking, and a wild rush was made for the long-boat, which had also been successfully launched. Of course it was instantly overcrowded, for all discipline was now at an end. Before anything else could be done the _Lapwing_ sank in sixteen fathoms of water, carrying the long-boat and all the people in her along with it, but those in the other boat had shoved off at the first wild cry, and hauling on the anchored cable, just escaped being sucked down by the sinking ship. Bob Massey clung to the boat's gunwale, and thus escaped. Rowing back instantly, however, to the spot where the ship had gone down, they sought eagerly for swimmers. Only three were discovered and rescued, but the others--seventy souls in all--found a watery grave in the dark cavern of that unknown land. STORY ONE, CHAPTER 7. So rapidly did the final catastrophe take place that it was difficult for the rescued party at first to credit the evidence of their senses. On the spot where the _Lapwing_ had been beating her sides against the cruel walls of the cavern, and where so many hearts had been throbbing wildly between hope and fear, no living creature remained; nothing but a few feet of the shattered masts appearing now and then above the surging waves, was left to tell of the terrible tragedy that had been enacted there. For upwards of an hour the party in the boat hovered about the place, not so much with the hope of rescuing any of their shipmates as on account of the difficulty of tearing themselves away from the fatal spot. Perhaps the natural tendency of man to hope against hope had something to do with it. Then they passed silently out of the cavern and rowed slowly along the base of the tremendous cliffs. At length the feeling of self-preservation began to assert itself, and Bob Massey was the first to break silence with the question-- "Does any one know if there's anything to eat aboard?" "We'd better see to that," observed Dr Hayward, who was steering. Bob Massey pulled in his oar, and, without remark, began to search the boat. It was found that all the food they had brought away consisted of nine tins of preserved meat and three pieces of pork, a supply which would not go far among ten persons. The ten survivors were Dr Hayward and his wife; Massey and Nellie; Joe Slag; John Mitford and his wife Peggy; Terrence O'Connor, the assistant cook; Tomlin, one of the cabin passengers; and Ned Jarring. All the rest, as we have said, had perished with the ill-fated _Lapwing_. Little was said at first, for the hopelessness of their condition seemed so obvious that the men shrank from expressing their gloomy fears to the women who sat huddled together, wet and cold, in the bottom of the boat. As we have said, as far as the eye could see in any direction, the frowning cliffs rose perpendicularly out of deep water. There was not even a strip of sand or a bay into which they could run in case of the wind increasing. "There is nothing for it but to push on till we come to an inlet, or break of some sort in the cliffs, by which we may land," said Hayward, speaking encouragingly to the women. "God helping us, we are sure to find some such place ere long." "Don't look very like it," muttered Black Ned, gloomily. "We can see how it looks about as well as you can," retorted John Mitford, indignantly. "If ye can't say somethin' to cheer the women, there's no need for to look blue an' tell us what a mere babby could see for itself." This remark, coming as it did from lugubrious Mitford, caused Terrence O'Connor to smile. "True for ye," he said, "we can see what's fornint us, but even Black Ned can't see round the corner." "Besides, there may be a flat shore on the other side o' the island," added Bob Massey in a cheerful tone; "I've often noticed islands o' this build, and when they're so high on one side they usually are low on the opposite side; so we'll only have to pull round--an' mayhap there are people on it--who knows?" "Ay, natives pr'aps," growled Jarring, "an' cannibals who are fond of eatin' white folk--specially women!" "Shut up your black muzzle, or I'll heave ye overboard!" said Mitford, fiercely, for like many easy-going, quiet men, he was unusually savage when fairly roused. Whatever Black Ned may have felt, he gave no expression to his thoughts or feelings by word or look, but continued calmly to pull his oar. All that day, and all that night, however, the party pulled steadily along the shore without finding an opening in the cliffs or any part which could be scaled by man. During this period their plight was miserable in the extreme, for the weather at the time was bitterly cold; they were drenched through and through with spray, which broke so frequently over the side as to necessitate constant baling, and, to make matters worse, towards evening of the second day snow began to fall and continued to do so the greater part of the night. Fortunately, before dark they came to some small rocky islets, on which they could not land as the waves washed over them, but in the lee of which they cast anchor, and thus were enabled to ride out a furious gale, which sprang up at sunset and did not subside till morning. It need scarcely be said that the men did all that lay in their power to shelter the poor women, who had exhibited great fortitude and uncomplaining endurance all that weary time; but little could be done for them, for there was not even a bit of sail to put over them as a protection. "Nellie, dear," said Massey, when the boat was brought up under the lee of the rocks, "d'ee feel _very_ cold?" "Not very," replied his wife, raising her head. "I'm strong, thank God, and can stand it; but Peggy here is shudderin' awful bad. I believe she'll die if somethin' isn't done for her." "I think if she could only ring the water out of her clothes," whispered Mrs Hayward to her husband, "it might do her some good, but--" "I know that, Eva: it would do you all good, and we must have it done somehow--" An exclamation in the bow of the boat at that moment attracted attention. It was John Mitford, who, having taken off his own coat, and wrapped it round his shivering wife, had gone to the bow to rummage in a locker there, and had found a tarpaulin. Massey had overhauled the locker for food before him, but the tarpaulin had been so well folded, and laid so flat in the bottom, that it had escaped his notice. Retiring aft with this god-send, the lugubrious man speedily, with the assistance of his comrades, covered over the centre of the boat so completely that a small chamber was formed, into which the women could retire. It was not high enough, indeed, to stand in, but it formed a sufficient shelter from wind and spray. "Now, Peggy, my dear," said her husband when it was finished, "get in there--off wi' your things an' wring 'em out." "Th-thank you, J-John," replied Peggy, whose teeth chattered like castanets, "but 'ow am I t-to d-dry 'em? For wet c-clo'es won't dry wi-without a fire. At least I n-never 'eard of--" The remainder of her remarks were lost to male ears as the tarpaulin dropped around her after Eva Hayward and Nellie had led, or half-lifted, her under its sheltering folds. How they managed to manipulate the shivering Peggy it is not our province to tell, but there can be no doubt that the treatment of her two friends in misfortune was the cause of her emerging from under the tarpaulin the following morning alive and comparatively well, though still far from dry. The aspect of things had changed greatly for the better when the unfortunates resumed their voyage. The wind had abated, the sea, although still heaving, was smooth. The snow had ceased, and the sun arose in a cloudless sky, so that when poor Mrs Mitford raised her dishevelled head and felt the sun's cheering rays she exclaimed, with a sigh of relief: "La! if the sun ain't blazin' 'ot! An' I'm so 'ungry. Dear, dear, 'ave you bin rowin' all night, John? 'Ow tired you must be; an' your 'ands blistered, though you are pretty tough in the 'ands, but you couldn't 'old a candle to Bob Massey at that--Yes, yes, Nellie, I 'ear you, but la! what does it matter 'ow your 'air an' things is deranged w'en you're wrecked at sea and--" The abrupt disappearance of the dishevelled head at that moment suggested the idea that Mrs Mitford had either fallen backward suddenly or been pulled under cover by her companions. "She's all right, anyhow," said O'Connor, adjusting his oar. "She's always all right," remarked Mitford in a funereal tone, which, however, was meant to be confidential. "Bless your heart, I've seen that woman under all circumstances, but although she's timid by nature, an' not over strong in body, I've never seen her give in or fairly cast down. No doubt she was pretty low last night, poor thing, but that was 'cause she was nigh dead wi' cold--yet her spirit wasn't crushed. It's my solemn conviction that if my Peggy ever dies at all she'll die game." With a profound sigh of satisfaction at having thus borne testimony to the rare and admirable qualities of his wife, the worthy man applied himself to his oar with redoubled vigour. It is quite a pleasure in this censorious world to see any man absolutely blind to his wife's faults, and thoroughly awake to her good qualities. The opinion formed of Peggy--by Mrs Massey and Mrs Hayward respectively, did not quite coincide with that of John Mitford. "How did you get on with poor Peggy last night, Eva?" asked Dr Hayward of his wife, in an undertone, as they breakfasted that forenoon beside the tiller, while the rest of their companions were similarly engaged in the middle of the boat, and at the bow. "Pretty well, Tom, but she's troublesome to manage. She is so unusually timid, poor creature, so prone to give way to despair when things look bad, yet so sweetly apt to bound into high spirits when things are looking hopeful,--and withal, so amusingly garrulous!" Strange to say, at the very moment that this was uttered, Nellie was remarking to her husband in a low tone that, "poor Peggy was quite a puzzle, that she was all but dead at one moment, and quite lively at another, that she professed to be all submission, but was as obstinate as a pig, and that her tongue--soft though it was--went like the clapper of a mill!" We have referred to breakfast, but the meal spread before the castaways hardly merits that name, for it consisted of only a small slice of pork to each; a few pieces of ship's biscuit that Slag had discovered in his pockets; and a cup of water drawn from the pond which had accumulated in a hollow of the tarpaulin during the night. "It is lucky that one of the pieces of pork happened to be cooked," observed Dr Hayward, as he served out the allowance, "for I would have been sorry to break into the preserved meat tins till forced to do so. We must keep these as a reserve as long as possible." "Right you are, sir!" said Slag, with his mouth full, while with a clasp-knife he carefully cut off another morsel to be ready, "right you are! That 'minds me when we was starvin', me and my shipmates in the Arctic regions, so as our ribs was all but comin' through our skins, an' we was beginnin' to cast an evil eye on the stooard who'd kep' fatter than the rest of us somehow, an' was therefore likely to prove a more satisfyin' kind o' grub, d'ee see--" "I say, Joe," said Hayward, interrupting, for he feared that Slag's anecdote might not tend to render the pork breakfast more palatable. "Sir?" said Slag. "Will you just go to the bow and take a squint ahead? I think there seems to be something like an end o' the cliffs in view--your eyes are better than mine." Slag swallowed the mouthful on which he was engaged, thrust after it the morsel that was ready to follow, wiped the clasp-knife on his thigh, and went forward to "take a squint." It turned out that the "end" of the cliffs which the doctor had only supposed possible, was a reality, for, after a long gaze, Slag turned and said-- "Your eyes are better than you think, sir, for the end o' the cliff is visible, an' a spit o' sand beyond is quite plain." As this report was corroborated by Bob Massey, and then by all the other men, it sent a thrill of gratitude into the hearts of most of the party--especially the women, who, having lain so long wet and almost motionless, were nearly benumbed in spite of the sunshine. Longer exposure, indeed, would probably have proved fatal to poor Mrs Mitford, possibly also to Mrs Hayward, who was by no means robust. As for our coxswain's wife, having been reared among the health-giving breezes of the sea-shore, and inured from infancy to exposure and hard work, she suffered much less than her female companions, and busied herself a great part of the time in chafing their cold limbs. In doing this she reaped the natural advantage of being herself both warmed and invigorated. Thus virtue not only "is," but inevitably brings, its own reward! Similarly, vice produced its natural consequences in the case of Black Ned, for that selfish man, being lazy, shirked work a good deal. It is possible to pull an oar in such a way that, though the rower may be apparently doing his best, he is, in reality, taking the work very lightly and doing next to nothing. Acting in this way, Ned Jarring became cold when the sleet and spray were driving in his face, his blood flowed sluggishly in his veins, and his sufferings were, consequently, much more severe than those of his comrades. Towards the afternoon of that day, they rounded the spit of sand mentioned by Joe Slag, and came upon a low-lying coast. After proceeding a considerable distance along which, they discovered a good harbour. This was fortunate, for grey clouds had again covered the sun and a bitter east wind began to blow. "Thank God, Eva," said Hayward, as he steered into the bay, "for if we had not come upon this harbour, your strength and that of poor Peggy, I fear, would have failed, but now you'll be all right in a short time." "Oh, no, sir, I don't think as _my_ strength would fail," said Peggy, in a feeble voice, for she had overheard the remark. "Not that I shouldn't be thankful all the same, I allow--for thankfulness for mercies received is a dooty, an' most on us do fail in that, though I say it that shouldn't, but my strength ain't quite gone yet--" "Stand by, Slag, to fend off with your oar when we get close in," said the doctor, interrupting Peggy's discourse. "Have any of you got matches in your pockets?" asked Massey, clapping his hands suddenly to the various receptacles about his person, with a look of unwonted anxiety. "Ye may well ax that, Bob," said O'Connor, using his own hands in the same way. "Cold, wet weather, and no house! It 'ud be death to the women, sure, av--" "Here you are!" shouted Tomlin in a burst of triumph, in spite of his naturally reserved disposition. He held up a box of vestas which, being a smoker, he fortunately had in his pocket. "I hope they ain't wet," remarked Black Ned, suggestively. "Wrap 'em well up," said Slag. Tomlin drew out his handkerchief and proceeded to do so. At the same moment the boat's keel grated softly on the shingly shore. STORY ONE, CHAPTER 8. Seldom have the mysterious sparks of life been sought for more anxiously, or tended and nursed with greater care, than were the little sparks of fire which were evoked with difficulty from Tomlin's match-box. Drizzling rain had commenced just as the wrecked party landed. The tarpaulin had been set up as a slight, though very imperfect, shelter; the ground underneath had been strewn with twigs and grass, and a large pile of dead branches had been arranged to receive the vital spark before any attempt was made to create it. "Everything must be quite ready, first," said Hayward to Tomlin, "for our very lives depend, under God, on our securing fire; so keep the matches snug in your pocket till I ask for them." "I will," replied Tomlin, "D'you know it never occurred to me before how tremendously important the element of fire is? But how will you ever manage to make the branches catch, everything being so thoroughly soaked?" "You shall see. I have had to make a fire in worse circumstances than the present," returned Hayward, "though I admit they are bad enough. Have you got the small twigs broken and ready, Slag?" "All ready, sir." "Now look here, Tomlin." As he spoke, the doctor picked up a dead but wet branch, and, sheltering himself under the tarpaulin, began to whittle it with his penknife. He found, of course, that the interior of the branch was dry. The thin morsels which he sliced off were handed to Slag, who placed them with great care in the heart of a bundle of very small twigs resembling a crow's nest. A place had been reserved for this bundle or nest, in the heart of the large pile of branches lying on the ground. Meanwhile, Slag held the nest ready in his hands. "Now, Tomlin, get out your matches," said the doctor. With the utmost care the anxious man unfolded the kerchief, and, opening the box, looked into it earnestly. "Wet?" asked Hayward. Tomlin shook his head. "I fear they are." He took one out, while the whole party assembled round him to note the result. The first match dropped its head like a piece of soft putty when scraped on the lid. The second did the same, and a suppressed groan escaped from the little group, for it could be seen that there were not more than ten or twelve matches in the box altogether. Again and again a match was struck with similar result. The fifth, however, crackled a little, and rekindled, sinking hope in the observers, though it failed to kindle itself. The seventh burst at once into a bright blaze and almost drew forth a cheer, which, however, was checked when a puff of wind blew out the new-born flame. "Och! let Bob Massey try it!" cried O'Connor. "Sure he's used to workin' in throublesome weather." "Right, boy," said Slag, "hand it to the coxs'n." Tomlin readily obeyed, only too glad to get some of the failure shifted to other shoulders. Massey readily undertook the task, and success attended his first effort. "I knowed it!" said Nellie, in a quiet tone, as she saw the bright flame leap up and almost set her husband's beard on fire. "Bob never fails!" The burning match was quickly plunged into Hayward's handful of shavings, which blazed up as he thrust it into Slag's nest; and Slag, holding the nest with the tender care of a loving sick-nurse, and the cool indifference of a salamander, till it was a flaming ball, crammed it into the heart of the pile of sticks. Tremendous was the volume of smoke that arose from the pile, and anxious were the looks riveted on it. "Sure ye've smothered it intirely," gasped O'Connor. "Oh, me!" sighed Peggy in a voice of mild despair. "No fear, it's all right," said Massey, in a confident tone, while Joe Slag, on his knees, with cheeks inflated and nose all but kindling, blew at the glowing heart with unwearied determination, regardless alike of friend and foe. "It's going to do," remarked John Mitford in his most dismal tone. "Any child might tell that," said Nellie, with a light laugh. The laugh seemed infectious, for the whole party joined in as a glorious gush of flame rushed among the sticks, dried up the dampness, and effectually changed the pillar of smoke into a pillar of fire. The fire thus kindled was rightly deemed of such vital importance that it was not permitted to go out thereafter for many months, being watched night and day by members of the party appointed to the duty by turns. It had, indeed, not a few narrow escapes, and more than once succeeded in reaching what appeared to be its last spark, but was always caught in time and recovered, and thus was kept burning, until a discovery was made which rendered such constant attendance and care unnecessary. "Now," said Dr Hayward, when the fire was safely established, "we have not much daylight left, so it behoves us to make the most of it. You are a man of action and experience, Robert Massey, what would you advise us to do first?" "Well, doctor, since you're good enough to ask me, I would advise that we should appoint a leader. You see, mates," he continued, addressing himself to the company in general, "there's no possibility of a ship gettin' along without a captain, or an army without a general. If we was going off to a wreck now, with or without a lifeboat, I would claim a sort o' right to be coxswain in virtue o' past experience; but, as we've now begun a sort o' shore-goin' business, which requires a deal o' general knowledge, besides seamanship, an' as Dr Hayward has got that by edication, I move that we make him our leader." "Right you are, Bob," said Joe Slag. ("As he always is," said Nellie, _sotto voce_.) "So I second the move--if that's the reg'lar way to do it." "Hear, hear!" said every one with right good will, and a gleam of pride flashed from Eva's pretty brown eyes as her husband was thus unanimously appointed leader of the shipwrecked band. Like a sensible man, knowing his capacity, he at once accepted the command without any display of undue modesty, and proved his fitness by at once going to work. "The first thing, then, is to thank God for our deliverance, which we all do, I am sure, most heartily." This was received with a responsive "Amen" from every one--not even excepting Black Ned. "Next, we must find fresh water and boil a bit of pork--" "Ah, then, we haven't a kittle!" exclaimed O'Connor. "Haven't we a big baling-dish, Terrence?" said Hayward. "Sure we have, sor, an' it's a tin wan as'll stand fire," returned Terrence with a reproved look. "Well, then, you go fetch it; wash it well out, and get the pork ready. Jarring and Tomlin will gather as much dead wood as they can find and pile it beside the fire. Mitford will search for fresh water--there must be a spring or brook not far off--and Massey and I will rig up some sort of shelter for the night." "Please, sir, may I go with Mitford to seek for water?" asked Nellie. "By all means, if you wish to." "And I will keep you company, Nell," said Mrs Hayward energetically. "So will I," chimed in little Mrs Mitford, feebly. "I was always fond of water. As a child I used to paddle about in it continually, an' sometimes tumbled into it, for of course young people will--" "No, Peggy, you must sit by the fire with my wife," said the doctor. "Neither of you is fit for work of any kind yet, so sit down and warm yourselves." Eva was too wise, and Peggy too weak, to offer objection, so these two sat by the fire while the others went to work. Energy of action tends to lighten the burdens that may be laid on human spirits, and to induce the most favourable view of the worst circumstances. The toil which the party now undertook was such a blessed relief to them after the prolonged exposure to cold and comparative inaction in the boat, that all returned to the camp-fire in a much more cheerful state of mind than they left it. The searchers for water came back first, having found what they sought close at hand; and Terrence, filling his baling-dish, soon had the pork boiling, along with some mysterious herbs gathered by the doctor to convert the liquid into soup. Tomlin and Black Ned returned heavily laden with firewood, and Bob Massey discovered a tree with branches sufficiently spreading and leafy to protect them to some extent from rain. "'Tis as well we have found overhead protection, Massey," said the doctor, when our coxswain led him to the spot, "for I have been thinking that as we have no blankets, we shall be obliged to use our tarpaulin as a quilt rather than an umbrella." "That's true, sir," returned Massey, "but how about the women?" "Well, I've been thinking about that," said Hayward, "and I've devised a plan for to-night at least; to-morrow I hope to hit on a better arrangement. First of all, we'll spread in front of a fire, which we will kindle beneath this tree, a layer of branches and grass. In the middle of this the women will lie down side by side, after having dried and warmed themselves thoroughly at the fire. Then we'll take two of the floor planks from the boat, and put one on each side of them-- partially frame them, as it were. Then one half of us men will lie down on one side of the frame, the other half on the other side, and we'll draw the tarpaulin over us all." "Hm! not very comfortable," said Massey, "for the poor women to be framed like that." "Admitted; but what else can we do?" said Hayward. "It would risk our lives to sleep without covering of any kind in such cold weather, and with sleet falling as it does now. Better have the sheet spread upon us than merely over our heads. So now let's kindle another fire, and do you arrange our couch, Bob." In spite of the cold and the sleet, things looked much more cosy than persons unacquainted with "roughing it" could believe possible, and they became comparatively happy when the couch was spread, and they were seated under the sheltering tree, with the fire blazing and crackling in front of them, suffusing their faces and persons and the leaf-canopy overhead with a deep red glare, that contrasted well with the ebony-black surroundings, while a rich odour of pork soup exhaled from the baling-dish. "Ah! now there's nothin' wantin' to produce parfit felicity but a pipe," said O'Connor with a sigh. "That's so, lad," assented Tomlin, echoing the sigh, and feeling in his pocket from force of habit, though he knew too well that nothing was to be found there. "Here, Terrence," said Massey, handing him an empty pipe, at the same time asking him to shut his eyes and draw, and try to imagine himself smoking, but Terrence shook his head. "I couldn't do that, Bob," he said, "but I'll sing ye a stave in praise o' the weed." Without waiting for permission, the jovial Irishman at once began: "Oh! it's 'baccy as is my chief joy, At mornin', noon and night; An' it's verily my belief, boy, That I love it with all my might. If your liver an' lungs are squeakin', An' your head is growin' cracky, There's nothin' so sure to kill or cure, As fumes o' the strongest 'baccy." "If it would improve your voice, Terrence," observed Mr Mitford, meekly, "I'm sure I wish ye had pounds of it, for it's that harsh-- though, of course, I make no pretence to music myself, but--" "Just listen to that now, `Harsh!' an' that to a man whose own mother, by the father's side, towld him he shud make music his purfession! Arrah, howld on, Black Ned, ye spalpeen; ye've had two helpin's already!" This latter remark had reference to the baling-dish of soup which was being passed round the party, so that each might help himself to two mouthfuls of soup before passing it on. As they had no spoons, the doctor had extemporised ladles of folded bark, which served the purpose pretty well. "Haven't ye a small bit o' 'baccy in the corner o' wan o' yer pockets, doctor, dear?" asked Terrence, insinuatingly. "May be ye'd find a morsel if ye'd try." "Quite useless to try, my poor fellow," returned the doctor, with a look of affected pity, "for I'm a non-smoker. I never indulge in such an absurdity." "Sure, it's a true proverb that says `doctor's differ,'" retorted O'Connor, "for most o' the saw-bones of my acquaintance have smoked like lime kilns." "More's the pity, Terrence, but if you'll heave on some more firewood you'll have a smoke that may do as a substitute at present." By heaping quantities of fresh branches on the fire till it was large enough to roast an ox, the party managed to pass the night in comparative comfort, in spite of cold and sleet. Hayward watched the fire during the first part of the night. Then he was relieved by our coxswain, who was succeeded by Joe Slag, and no Vestal virgins ever tended their fire with more anxious solicitude than those three men guarded theirs during that first night on the island. As if to make up for the sufferings of the past few days, the morning that followed broke with unclouded splendour, and the rising sun shone upon as beautiful a scene as could well be imagined, for it revealed an island richly clothed with verdure, which, rising out of a calm blue sea, sloped gradually upwards, until its western ridge met the bright sky. Evidently that terminating ridge was the place whence descended the precipitous cliffs, along which they had sailed immediately after leaving the cave of the wreck. There is no accounting for the eccentricities of weak-minded females, whether pretty or plain. The first thing that pretty little Mrs Mitford exclaimed on opening her eyes and beholding the glorious view was-- "Oh! I _do_ so wish that we had oysters for breakfast!" If she had expressed a desire for elephant chops, she could not have taken Eva Hayward more by surprise. As for Nell Massey, she went off into a hilarious giggle. "I fear there are no oysters hereabouts," said Hayward, "but I shouldn't wonder if we were to find mussels and things of that sort. Come, lads, we'll go and have a search for them, while the ladies fill and boil our kettle." Limpets, mussels, and other shell-fish were found in great abundance. With these warm soup was soon made, and after a hearty breakfast, Hayward organised the party in two bands which were sent off in different directions to explore the island, Peggy and her husband being left behind to cook the dinner and keep up the fire. STORY ONE, CHAPTER 9. For several days the shipwrecked party continued to live chiefly on limpets and mussels gathered on the sea-shore. Only a very little of the pork was used, for the purpose of converting the food into soup. As they could not tell, of course, how long they might be compelled to live there, it behoved them to be very careful of the food-supply already in possession. Fortunately, the weather continued fine, though cold, so that it was not necessary at first to make any alteration in their camp arrangements. During this period much of their time was necessarily spent in laying in a stock of shell-fish, and in attempting to bring down with stones some of the gulls which flew inquisitively about and very temptingly near to the camp, but none of the party was a good marksman with stone ammunition, and it soon became evident that unless some other means of obtaining food were discovered there was every prospect of starvation ending their career. In this emergency Dr Hayward organised an exploring expedition on a more extended scale. He divided the party into three bands--one consisting of Ned Jarring, Tomlin, and himself, to examine the shores; another comprising Joe Slag, John Mitford, and O'Connor, to penetrate the interior and higher lands; while it was appointed to Bob Massey, who had by that time come to be more frequently addressed by his old title of "coxswain," to stay at the camp, keep the all-important fire going, and guard the women. "You see, we must go about this business thoroughly," said the doctor, when they were all assembled in the camp one day after their frugal meal, excepting O'Connor, who was a short distance off, trying, with unwearied perseverance and unvaried failure, to kill gulls with stones. "And for this purpose, we must hold a council of war. Where's Terrence?" "He's pelting the gulls as usual," said Black Ned. "A-missin' of 'em, you mean," suggested Mitford. "Hallo, Terrence!" shouted Hayward, catching sight of the Irishman at that moment. "Here! we want you." "Comin', sor, jist wan more shot at this baste. He's bin flyin' round me hid for half-an-hour at laste, winkin' at the stones as they go by him. Och! missed again--bad luck to ye!" As he uttered the malediction the disappointed man heaved a last stone, angrily and without an attempt at an aim. He did not even look up to observe the result, but turned sharply round towards the camp. That stone, however, was like the arrow shot at a venture. It hit the bird full on the breast and brought it down, which fact was made known to the sportsman by a cheer from the camp and a heavy thud behind him. "Well done, Terrence!" cried Hayward as he came up with his prize. "I regard it as a good omen--a sort of turn in the tide which will encourage us on our contemplated expedition." The leader then gave minute instructions as to how long they were to be away; how much food they were to take; the direction to be followed, and the work to be done. "In short," said the doctor in conclusion, "we must use our eyes, ears, and limbs to the best advantage; but bear in mind that the grand object of the expedition is--" "Grub," suggested O'Connor. "Just so. Grub is our first and greatest necessity. Meanwhile, Peggy, Nell, and Eva will do what they can to make our camp comfortable: gather mussels and other shell-fish and see that the coxswain does not eat more than a fair share of victuals, and conducts himself in all respects like an obedient and trusted servant." With such and similar touches of pleasantry Hayward sought to cheer the spirits of the party, and divert their minds from dwelling too much on the fact that their case was a very serious one--almost desperate, for they were on a comparatively small island, far to the southward of the usual track of ships, without food or shelter, and without any of the ordinary means of procuring either. The remainder of that day was spent in making preparation for the projected expedition. As they had no offensive or defensive arms, except two gully knives, their first business was to provide each man with a spear. Fortunately, some of the surrounding trees had very straight branches of various sizes, so they had only to cut down such as were suitable, and peel the bark off. But the formation of hard points gave them some anxiety, until Tomlin hit upon the idea of utilising the bones of their pork. "The very thing!" said Mitford, with a look of melancholy satisfaction. Having no turn whatever for mechanics, he never saw difficulties till they met and overcame him, and was always ready to rush in where mechanical angels--if we may say so--feared to tread. "And how would you propose to cut the bones, John?" asked Slag, with an air of modest simplicity. "Cut 'em? eh! well--wi' the knife, of course." It was found, however, that the knife made but slight impression on the bones, and after one or two vain attempts, they turned to a more effective method. Finding a huge boulder of some kind of sandstone they broke it up, and on the rough surface thus produced, ground the bones into sharp points, and by an ingenious method known to Slag, who learned it from the Eskimos, they fixed these firmly on the ends of their spears. Thus armed, and with a small quantity of cold pork, and a large allowance of cold boiled limpets and mussels in their wallets, they set out on their explorations. It is impossible to accompany two parties at once. Let us follow just now the one composed of Joe Slag, Terrence O'Connor, and John Mitford. These, with Joe as their leader, proceeded along the shore some miles in a northerly direction; and then, turning into the bush, which was nowhere thick, they pushed into the interior of the island. After advancing about ten miles they came on a wide stretch of sandhills or downs, and found that, having crossed a sort of isthmus, they had come out again on the sea-shore. "This won't do," said Slag, on making the discovery. "We'll have to steer d'rect for the highest land." "That's so, Joe," said Mitford, "and yonder's a height away there, right in the wind's eye, that will act as a beacon to us." "I sees it, John--but, I say, what's the matter wi' Terrence?" This question was drawn forth by the action of the Irishman, who had walked on about fifty yards in advance of his comrades. He was standing in the attitude of an ancient Roman about to discharge a javelin. Stooping low as if to render themselves less conspicuous, Mitford muttered, "hallo!" and his comrade whispered, "Sh! he sees suthin'!" Whatever it was he saw, O'Connor evidently felt too far off to act effectively, for, after standing a moment in the classic position just referred to, he suddenly lowered his spear, dropped on hands and knees, and made a slow, undignified advance of a few yards. Then he rose again, became classic once more and discharged his spear, in a manner that would have done credit to Achilles himself. The growl that followed, and the "bad luck to ye," that came faintly back on the breeze, told too plainly that the result was a miss. "Sure it's a rabbit I saw," he said, returning to his companions, "an' if I'd only sent it two yards more to the left, I'd have hit the baste!" To the satisfaction of the explorers, it was found that the sandhills were burrowed all over by rabbits, and that there existed there a large colony of them. Cheered by this--in spite of their bad javelin play-- they made for the high ground, and soon found themselves threading a belt of wood, after crossing which they reached the foot of the range of hills that bounded the island to the westward. It was a weird, rugged spot, covered with great boulders that had rolled down the hill-sides, and with gaps and chasms here and there of considerable depth, that suggested the idea of volcanic action having visited the place at some remote period. These chasms or rents in the earth were overgrown with trees or bushes in many places, and obliged the travellers to make wide detours in some places to avoid them. Thus they were so much delayed that night was upon them before they had reached the higher parts of the hill-range where they had intended to encamp. The difference between blanketing and gossamer is great, yet it is inconceivably slight compared with the difference between gossamer and nothing! In the pride of their strength the members of the exploring party lay down to sleep without covering of any kind, for the good reason that they possessed none, and before morning they would gladly have given a fabulous price for even a gossamer coverlet. "It's freezin' I am, if not froze," said Terrence O'Connor at the end of the second sleepless hour. "If we could have only brought away some o' the fire in our pockets, what a comfort it would have bin!" He got up, shook himself, and slapped his arms across his breast vigorously. Slag and Mitford followed his example. "I'm beginnin' to feel better on the outside," continued O'Connor, pausing, "but my spinal marrow isn't properly warm yet." "'Minds me o' Baffin's Bay," growled Slag, with a mighty slap of the arms between each word. Mitford seemed to think any remark superfluous, for he only groaned. "Pity it's too dark to see yer face, John," said Terrence. "It must be a sight worth seein'. Och, av I only had a good-sized pocket-han'kicher I'd wrap me feet in it, anyhow." "Suppose we cut some grass and try that?" suggested Mitford. The suggestion was acted on. It was slow work cutting grass with a clasp-knife; tearing it up in handfuls was still slower, but the labour warmed the tired explorers, and when they lay down again under this Adam-an'-Eveic bedding, they fell asleep almost immediately, and did not waken till the sun was pretty well up in the eastern sky. "Breakfast fust," said Slag, on completing a tremendous stretch and yawn. "It's always bin my way since I was a babby--business first; pleasure to foller. Grub is business, an' work is pleasure--leastwise, it ought to be to any man who's rated `A. One' on the ship's books. Hallo! sorrowful-monkey-face, clap a stopper on yer nose an' tumble up,--d'ye hear?" Mitford did not hear, but a touch of Slag's toe caused him to feel and to rise. O'Connor was already astir, preparing breakfast. Cold boiled mussels and a bit of pork may be good food, but it is not appetising. Consequently they did not linger long over the meal, but were soon striding up the mountain-side rejoicing in the fresh air and sunshine. There was a certain phase in John Mitford's character which had not yet been discovered by his friends, and was known only to his wife. He was romantic--powerfully so. To wander through unknown lands and be a discoverer had been the dream of his youth. He was naturally reticent, and had never said so to any one but Peggy, who, being the reverse of romantic, was somewhat awe-stricken by the discovery, and, in an imbecile way, encouraged him to hope that, "one of these days he'd 'ave 'is desires gratified, as there was nothink to prevent 'im from goin' to Novazealand--if that was the right way to pronounce it--or to Van Demons land--not in a sinful way of course, for they had given up transportin' people there now--though wherever they transported 'em to she couldn't imagine--anyhow, there was nothink to prevent his tryin'." And John did try, which was the primary cause of his being a member of the exploring party now under consideration. Influenced by his romantic spirit, Mitford betrayed a troublesome tendency to wander from his comrades in pursuit of the Unknown. O'Connor, with the straightforward simplicity of his nation, set it down to pig-headedness. Slag, being a man of feeling, opined that it was absence of mind. "The spalpeen! he's off again," said O'Connor, turning round as they halted to rest a minute, after breasting the hill for half-an-hour. "Hallo, John! Where are ye, boy?" "Here--all right," shouted a voice in the distance, "I'm exploring behind the knoll here. Go ahead; I'll meet ye at the top o' the hill." By that time they were within about an hour's walk of the highest ridge of the island, so they pushed on without delay, expecting to find their lugubrious friend there before them, or not far behind them. It turned out as had been supposed. The mountain ridge formed the summit of the great precipice, along the foot of which they had sailed after quitting the cavern, or, as they had come to call it, the wreck-cave. For some time the two stood on the giddy edge, looking in silence on the tremendous depths below, and the sublime spectacle of illimitable sea beyond, with its myriad facets gleaming in the sunshine. Then they bethought them of their comrade, and turned back to look for him; hallooing now and then as they went, and expecting every moment to see him emerge from one of the gorges that led to the ridge. But there was no answering shout, or any sign of his having been there. Soon, becoming anxious and then alarmed, the two men set to work in earnest to search for their lost comrade, but they sought in vain. Returning to the spot where they had last heard his voice, they continued the search in that direction, and made the rocks echo with their shouting. Still no John Mitford was to be found, and the curious thing was that there seemed to be no very rugged or precipitous formation of land where he could easily have met with an accident. At last, evening approached. "We must go back at wance," said O'Connor, with anxious looks, "an' rouse all the men out to seek for him wi' torches." Without another word they turned and made for the camp as fast as they could go. Meanwhile, Dr Hayward and his party had been successful in their exploration, for they not only discovered a rabbit-warren, but had observed seals basking on the rocks, and found the tracks of goats, or some animal of that kind with divided hoofs. They had even succeeded in getting between a young seal and the water and speared it, so that there was something like jubilation in the camp on their return at the prospect of a fresh meal and better fare in future. But this was abruptly put an end to by the arrival of Slag and his comrade with the news of Mitford's disappearance. Poor Mrs Mitford was thrown into a state of terrible alarm, and at first insisted on accompanying the search party, but under the united entreaties of Eva and Nelly she was prevailed on to remain behind. With torches made of resinous wood, which burnt admirably, they searched all that night, and, taking only a few hours' rest, continued the search all the following day, but without success. Day after day the search was continued, even after all hope of ever again seeing their comrade alive had died out, but at last they were compelled to give it up and devote themselves to the urgent duty of procuring better shelter and food. As for poor Mrs Mitford, she sank into a state of helpless and hopeless despair. STORY ONE, CHAPTER 10. Men in straits cannot afford to sit down to grieve and mope over their sorrows. Although a deep gloom had been cast over the shipwrecked party by the loss of one whom they had learned to respect, the urgent need of obtaining better food and shelter compelled them, as we have said, to give their whole mind and attention to this work. They pitied poor Peggy sincerely, however, and endeavoured to comfort her a little by raising the hope that her husband might have merely lost himself in the woods of the island, and would yet, perhaps, be found alive and well. But, although their intentions were kindly, they could comfort neither Peggy nor themselves with such a hope; for their experience convinced them that the woods, although thick and tangled, were not extensive enough for any one to be permanently lost in them, and it seemed quite certain that if the lost man had not met with some fatal accident, he would certainly have made his way to the coast, by following which he could have easily found the camp. "It is very sad to give over our search for poor Mitford," said Dr Hayward one morning, while seated on a ledge of rock near the beach, taking counsel with his male companions as to the order of procedure for the day, "but we cannot afford to delay our operations longer. This poor fare of mussel soup, with such a small allowance of pork, is beginning to injure the health of our women, not to mention ourselves; besides, the pork won't last long, even though we put ourselves on the shortest possible allowance; so I think that to-day we must go on an expedition after the seals we saw the last time we went to the southern end of the island. What say you, comrades?" "All right, cap'n," answered Massey. "You've only got to say the word. But who's to stop at home to mind the camp-fire and the women?" "I'm afraid," returned Hayward, with a deprecatory smile, "that it's your own turn, Bob. I would say that I'm sorry for you, were it not ungallant to pity a man for being condemned for a day to female society." The way in which the coxswain received this showed that he did not repine at his fate. He did not even object to O'Connor's remark that, "Faix, he might consider himself the luckiest man o' the lot!" Accordingly, Massey remained at the camp while the doctor, Slag, O'Connor, Tomlin, and Jarring set out on a hunting expedition with two days' cooked provisions in their wallets. The doctor and Tomlin armed themselves with spears, but Jarring and Slag preferred clubs. "You see," said the latter, "I've heard--though I can't rightly say I've seed it done myself--that the seal-hunters o' the north do their work wi' clubs; so, if one man can kill a seal wi' such a thing, I don't see why another shouldn't." And, truly, there was some reason for this covert boast; for Joe, besides possessing arms of prodigious power, had cut and shaped for himself a knotted club which might have suited the hand of Hercules himself. It turned out that Bob Massey's satisfaction at being left behind that day was not altogether the result of regard for female society. While he was sauntering back to the camp, after his comrades had left, he congratulated himself aloud on having at last a chance of making his experiment without being laughed at during the trial. "That is--if Nellie has got enough of line made." At that moment Nell was busy with the line in question, and at the same time doing her best to comfort Mrs Mitford--Mrs Hayward being engaged in preparing dinner; by no means a difficult duty, which the women undertook day about. "Keep up your spirits, dear Peggy," said Nell, in that sweet, cosy tone--if we may say so--which played such havoc in Bob's bosom at the time when she was known as the coxswain's bride. "I feel _sure_ that your dear husband will return to us. No doubt, some sort o' misfortune has come to him; but he's such a sensible, handy man, is John, that I can't help feelin' he'll come back to us; an' when I _feel_ anything very strongly, d'ee know, I've almost always found it come true. Do you believe in strong feelin', Peggy?" Poor Mrs Mitford, who had been sitting with her hands clasped in her lap, and an utterly woebegone expression on her pale face, raised her head with a troubled look on being thus directly appealed to. "Believe in strong feelin's, Nellie? I should just think I do. Not to mention my own feelin's--which are so strong that I never felt nothink like 'em before--any one who has been married to my John must know well what st-strong--oh! no, I shall never see 'im again; dear Nellie, don't tell me," she said, beginning to cry. "I know--I know--" "There, now--there's a good soul. Don't go off again. Look! D'ee know what this is for?" As she spoke, Nellie held up a ball of what appeared to be twine, and her companion--whose mind resembled that of a child, in that it could be easily diverted--said no, she didn't know what it was for, and that she, (Peggy), had seen her making it when the men were off excursioning, and had asked about it; and why didn't she, (Nellie), relieve her curiosity before, upon the point, instead of waitin' till now? "Well, you see, Peggy," replied her friend, with the confidential air of one who has a secret to tell, "my Bob has took it into his head to give his mates a surprise by fishin' for albatrosses." "Lawks! Nellie, an' that _will_ give 'em a surprise!" interrupted Mrs Mitford, drying her eyes. "How ever can any man _fish_ for a bird-- unless, indeed, it goes under water an' changes its nature, which no creetur can do; though, now I come to think of it, I have seen flyin' fish, an' so, perhaps, there may be albytresses, or other birds, that--" "Hallo! Nellie, hard at the twine, lass? You've made about enough of it now," cried our coxswain, entering the camp at that moment, sitting down beside his wife, and examining the ball of cord which she had been so busily spinning. "I'm glad you think there's enough, Bob, for I've come to the end o' the stuff you gathered for me." "Plenty more where that came from, Nell; but there's no need to gather more than enough; for enough, you know, is as good as a feast. Well, Peggy," he added, turning to the poor woman, and patting her gently on the shoulder, "has Nell been tellin' you what I'm goin' to try?" "She was beginnin' to tell me, Mr Massey, when you came in, something about fishin' for albytresses, an' I always thought albytresses was birds, and--" "Quite right, Peggy. See, this is how it is: you bait a hook--but come," said the coxswain, rising suddenly, and taking up the ball of twine, "they do say example's better than precept. Come along wi' me an' Nell, an' we'll show you how to do it." So saying, Massey led the two women down to the boat, telling Mrs Hayward, whom they passed on the way, to heave some more sticks on the fire, as it was getting low. "Never fear," said Eva, who carried the baling-dish full of shell-fish in her hands. "I shall never forget the fright we got that time Joe let it get so low that it was almost at the last spark. You won't be long away, will you?" "Not long. Anyhow, we'll be sure to turn up for dinner." During their short residence on the island, the coxswain had observed that albatrosses paid them frequent visits. The giant birds had exhibited some signs of curiosity as to the doings of the new arrivals on the island; so he resolved to capture one of them, with a view to soup! Embarking in the boat, he rowed towards a point of rocks jutting out into the sea, over which albatrosses had been seen hovering many times. On the way, Nellie, who had previously been taught what to do, fastened a small bit of wood to the end of the line she had spun. Hanging from this was a hook that the coxswain had made from a gull's breast-bone. It was baited with a piece of pork. Before arriving at the point of rocks, they saw that an albatross was soaring over it on its mighty outspread wings. On observing the boat, it flew away and disappeared in the distance; but Bob was not much concerned about that. "Now, Nell," he said, on landing, "carry this bait out to sea as far as the line will let you, lay it on the water, an' then pull back into yon cove, and see that you hide the boat an' yourselves well, and keep quiet. You mustn't even talk, Peggy! Yon fellow will soon be back." Nellie did exactly as she was directed; and then her husband, holding the shore-end of the line, concealed himself among the rocks. He was right about the bird. Ere long, it was seen returning, and soon, on motionless, expanded wings, it hovered over the rocky point. Then it caught sight of the floating bait. With a majestic swoop, it dived, caught it up, and next moment was flouncing wildly about, hooked by the tongue, while Bob Massey hauled in the line. He had provided himself with a stick, and when the huge bird came within reach he felled it, to the immense delight of the watchers in the cove, who had already begun to smell savoury soup by anticipation! While these were thus engaged, the sealing party was even more successful in the opposite direction. They had not gone half-a-dozen miles when they sighted a group of seals, sleeping--or sunning themselves--on a flat rock, near high-water mark. "Now, then, Hercules, lead the way with your club," said the doctor to Joe Slag, in a whisper. Joe at once shouldered his weapon and led the party round by some sheltering rocks, so as to get between the seals and the sea; then, rushing forward in a body, they took the creatures by surprise, and intercepted two of them. On coming to close quarters, however, they found that the seals were much more formidable to look at than anything that any of them had ever seen in the Arctic Seas; and when Joe brought his club down on the skull of the foremost with a terrible thwack, it refused to tumble over, but continued to splutter and flounder towards the sea. Dr Hayward, however, used his spear at this moment with such effect that the seal fell, and another blow from the Herculean club finished its career. As this animal was about half-a-ton in weight, they left it on the beach with the intention of cutting off some steaks on their return, and sending the boat round afterwards to fetch the remainder of the carcass. Considerably elated by their success, they pushed on. In a valley which led towards the interior hills they found fresh tracks of goats, and saw one of those animals in the distance. Rabbits were also seen, but none killed at that time. They had not gone far into this valley, when a most interesting discovery was made. On opening up a new turn in the valley they came on the ruins of a hut. With feelings of profound interest, they entered--for there was no door to bar their progress--and gazed around on the silent, mouldering walls. "Good luck!" exclaimed O'Connor, springing forward, and grasping an object which lay on the ground. It was a hatchet, covered with red rust. "Here is something else that will be useful," said Tomlin, picking up a file, which was also covered with rust. The party at once began an eager search in the hope of finding other things that might be of use to them, and they were not altogether disappointed; for Jarring found a clasp-knife--much rust-eaten, of course, but still fit for use. Slag found a much-battered frying-pan, and Tomlin discovered a large cast-iron pot behind the hut, with a chip out of its rim. A bottle was also found, and the party crowded round to watch while the doctor examined it. "Gin, I hope," said Jarring, in a low tone. "Physic, I think," murmured Slag. "A paper!" exclaimed the doctor, holding it up to the light; then, breaking the bottle, he unfolded the paper, but much of the writing on it had been obliterated by water which had leaked in. The few sentences, however, that were more or less legible, conveyed the fact that a vessel had been wrecked on the island in 1848; that the crew had lived there eighteen months when a ship, chancing to pass that way, rescued them; that they had no provisions to leave for the use of unfortunates who might chance to be cast away there in future; and that there was a garden, with some vegetables in it, about-- Here the writing became quite illegible. "Now, we must find that garden," said the doctor, "and as we've not much daylight left, we must begin at once. Come along, lads." In half an hour they found the garden, with potatoes growing in it, and a few other roots that were new to them. Rejoicing over their discoveries the party started back without delay for the camp, carrying the pot, the frying-pan, etcetera, along with them, and not forgetting a good slice of the seal in passing. Arriving late that night, they found Bob Massey and the women already enjoying a supper of albatross soup. "Hooroo, Bob!" exclaimed O'Connor, flourishing the frying-pan in his excitement, "we've found some praties, boy! Shovel out some o' that into this, honey, an' I'll soon let ye smell the smell of an Irish stew!" Next day the party removed from the camp and took up their abode in the old hut, which was soon repaired sufficiently to keep out wind and rain, and the skin of the seal--with that of another killed next day--was large enough to screen off part of the hut as a separate chamber for the women. From that time forward they had no lack of food, for they succeeded in killing plenty of seals, and in snaring a great many rabbits, though they failed entirely to kill any of the goats. And thus they lived for several months in comparative comfort, though suffering considerably from cold and bad weather. During all that time the poor women were kept pretty busy cooking, looking after domestic matters, and mending the garments of the men. This last they accomplished by means of needles made from albatross bones and the finely divided sinews of various animals, instead of thread. When the European garments were worn out--which they were, long before deliverance was sent to them--Nell Massey proved her fitness for a Robinson Crusoe life, by actually splitting the sealskins--which were as thick as sole leather--so as to obtain material thin enough for clothing. Of course, a flagstaff had been among the first things erected. It stood on a prominent hill, and a seal-skin flag was hoisted thereon, to attract any vessel that might chance to pass that way, but the flag fluttered in vain, for, as we have said, the island lay far out of the usual track of commerce. Although poor Mrs Mitford appeared to become resigned to her great loss as time passed by, it was evident to her kind-hearted female companions that she was not recovering from the shock she had received. In spite of their care of her she grew thinner and older-looking every day, and although she quietly took her share of the work, she had become sad and silent--caring little apparently for what was going on around her, and never indulging in those prolonged observations of an irrelevant nature, to which she had been addicted before her husband's disappearance. Things were in this state when, about two months after their landing, a boat-voyage to the western cliffs of the island was arranged for purposes of further exploration. STORY ONE, CHAPTER 11. Within the dark recesses of a great cavern in the western cliffs, in the midst of a mass of wreckage, there sat one morning a man whose general appearance might have suggested to a beholder "the wild man of the cave"--or, at the least, an unhappy maniac--for his grey locks were long and unkempt, his eyes bloodshot and wild, his garments torn, so that his wasted limbs were exposed in numerous places, and his beard and moustache dishevelled and bristling. No one looking at that gaunt creature--not even the mother who bore him--would have easily recognised John Mitford; yet it was he. On the day when he mysteriously disappeared he had come upon a great hollow, or hole, of about sixty yards in diameter, which appeared to descend into the very depths of the earth. The sides of the hollow sloped towards the centre, and were covered with bushes. Noting this, our romantic friend resolved to explore the spot. He descended cautiously till he came to a place where the hole had narrowed to about twenty feet in diameter, and the herbage ceased because of the absence of the earth to sustain it. Filled with eager curiosity, the reckless man held on to a branch and stretched his head over the edge of the hole. He saw nothing but blackness. He soon felt something, however, for the branch suddenly broke off, and John went headlong down into that hole! Then and there he would certainly have paid for his curiosity with his life, had not a mass of earth, a few feet further down, and against which he struck, broken his fall in some measure, and shunted him off to the opposite wall of the rock. This latter proved to be a slope so steep that it let him slide, like lightning, to the bottom, a depth of about thirty feet or more, where he was stopped with such violence that he lay stunned for a considerable time. Recovering, he found that no bones were broken, and that, indeed, he was not much damaged considering the violence of the fall; but the satisfaction and thankfulness that this undoubtedly caused him were diminished by the fact that he was in total darkness, and at the bottom of a hole of unknown depth. A feeling of horror rushed over him at the thought of being thus, as it were, buried alive. Springing up, he felt all round the walls of his prison for some inequalities or projections, by which he might climb out, but none such could he find. The place was like a well of not more than about ten feet wide, with smooth rocky sides, which were almost perpendicular as far up as he could reach. On looking upward, he could see the mouth of the hole, through which he had fallen, glimmering like a little star above him. After a fruitless search of nearly half-an-hour the poor man sat down on a piece of fallen rock, over which he had stumbled several times in his search, and a deep groan burst from him as he began to realise the fact that escape from the place was impossible, and that a lingering death awaited him--for he could scarcely hope that his companions would find him in such a place. Hope, however, is hard to kill in the human breast. Perhaps they might hear him if he shouted. Immediately he began to shout for help with all the strength of his lungs. Then, as no answering shout came down from the little star above--at which he continuously gazed--a feeling of wild despair took possession of him, and he yelled and shrieked in mortal agony until his vocal chords refused to act, and nothing but a hoarse whisper passed his parched lips. Overcome at last, alike with horror and exhaustion, he fell to the ground and became partially unconscious. How long he lay thus he could not tell; but, on recovering and looking up, he found that the star was gone--telling plainly that night had set in. Then it was, when all hope of delivering himself, or of being delivered by others, had fled, that a word which had been uttered by Dr Hayward to a dying man on board the ship, leaped into John Mitford's mind like a gleam of light. "Call upon Me in the time of trouble and I will deliver thee, and thou shalt glorify Me." He had seen this invitation accepted by the dying man and deliverance obtained--if a happy smile and a triumphant gaze across the river of death were to be regarded as testimony. "But, then," thought John Mitford, "that was spiritual deliverance. Here it is a hard physical fact, from which nothing short of a miracle can deliver me. No--it is impossible!" Was it a voice within him, or an old memory, that immediately whispered the words, "With God all things are possible?" At all events, the poor man rose up slowly in a somewhat calmer frame of mind, and began once more to feel round the walls of his narrow prison. He found nothing mew, save that once he narrowly escaped falling down what seemed to be a still deeper hole among the fallen rocks already referred to. Then he lay down--or rather fell on the floor exhausted--and slept till morning. The fact that another day had begun was only ascertainable by the shining of the star-like mouth of the hole. He attempted again to shout, but found that his voice had left him, and that even if his comrades should return to the place he could not make them hear! In the fit of despair which followed he went round and round his living tomb like some wild beast in a cage. During one of these perambulations, he stumbled again over the fallen rocks, dropped into the hole behind them, and slid a few feet downwards, but not rapidly, for the slope was gradual, and it terminated on a flat floor. Looking cautiously round, on reaching this lower depth, he saw what appeared to be a faint light far beneath him, and considerably in advance of the spot where he stood, or rather to which he clung. Gradually his mind calmed, and, resolving to make for this light, he groped his way downward. It was a long and wearisome scramble, involving many a slip and slide, and not a few falls, (for it was made, of course, in total darkness), and the distant light did not appear to become stronger or nearer. At last it seemed as though it were growing. Then John found himself on ground over which he could walk, guiding himself by touching perpendicular walls of rock on either side with his hands. It was a great split in the mountain, caused perhaps by those mighty subterranean forces, which some men recognise as volcanic action, whilst others, admitting--but passing beyond--second causes, recognise them as tools with which God is moulding this world according to His will. "Strange!" thought the man, as he moved slowly forward. "Was this split made hundreds--perhaps thousands--of years ago, for the purpose of enabling me to escape?" "Certainly not--absurd, presumptuous idea," answered Unbelief, smartly. "It was," remarked Faith, slowly, "made, no doubt, for hundreds--it may be millions--of other purposes, but among these purposes the saving of your life was certainly in the mind of Him who `knows all things from the beginning,' and with whom even the falling of a sparrow is a matter for consideration." We do not assert that John Mitford's reasoning took the precise form of these words, for many minds can think somewhat profoundly without being able to express themselves clearly; but some such thoughts undoubtedly coursed through John's mind, as he moved through that subterranean labyrinth, and finally emerged--through a narrow crack, not so large as an ordinary door--upon the inner margin of a stupendous cavern. With a fervent "Thank God!" and a hopeful leap of the heart, the poor man beheld the waters of the sea rushing up to his very feet; and beyond the cave's mouth lay the grand ocean itself, like a bright picture in a black frame. But what was that projecting from the water, not twenty yards from where he stood? The broken mast of a sunken wreck! Mitford's heart almost stood still, for he became aware that he had made his way to the very cavern, in which the ill-fated _Lapwing_ had met her doom, and around him were masses of wreckage that had been washed up and thrown on the rocks at the inner end of the cave where he stood. An involuntary shudder passed through the man's frame as he glanced round expecting to see the dead bodies of his late shipmates. But nothing of the kind was visible, and the spars, masts, and other wreckage which had reached the rocks had been shattered into "matchwood" by frequent gales. John Mitford now hastened in eager hope along the sides of the cave towards its mouth, intending to go out to the base of the cliffs, forgetting, in his eagerness, that the mouth could not be reached without a boat. He soon discovered this, and was then thrown into another fit of despair by remembering that he could not swim. Oh! how bitterly he blamed himself for having neglected to acquire such a simple accomplishment. He might have learnt it when young, had he not been indifferent, or lazy about it. Often had he been advised to learn it by companions, but had treated the matter lightly and let the chance go by--and now, only fifty yards or so of deep water intervened between the end of the ledges of rock and the outside of the cavern, where he might perhaps find foothold enough to scramble along the base of the cliffs--but those fifty yards were equal to the Atlantic to him, he could not swim that distance to save his life. Once or twice, in a fit of desperation, he had almost plunged in to attempt it, and take his chance. Fortunately his courage failed. Had he taken the plunge his fate would no doubt have been sealed. Returning to the inner end of the cave he searched among the wreckage for wood, with which to make a raft, but it was so shattered that he found no pieces large enough to be thus used. He found, however, a barrel of pork and another of pease jammed into a crevice. These proved an immense relief to his feelings, for they secured him against absolute starvation, which he had begun to think stared him in the face. From that time forward the unfortunate man made incessant and wild efforts to get out of the cave. He climbed and scrambled about until his clothes were almost torn off his back. He gathered the largest masses of wood he could find and tied them together in bundles, until he had made something like a raft; but John was not a handy workman; his raft overturned the first time he tried it, and went to pieces, and he would have been drowned at that time if he had not been within grasping distance of the rocks. As it was, he got a fright which made him finally turn from that method of escape in despair. Then the raw pork and hard pease tried him severely, and brought on a complaint which lasted a considerable time and greatly reduced his strength, but John was tough, and recovered--though not much more than the skeleton of his former self remained. Thus he continued to exist in that cavern, during all the time that his wife and friends were mourning him as dead; and in this condition was he there seated, on the morning in which this chapter opens. "Weary, weary--desolation!" moaned the unfortunate man, lifting his head and gazing round, with the air of one from whom all hope has long since departed. It is said, or supposed, that when a spoke in Fortune's wheel is at the lowest, there must needs be a rise. Mitford's experience at this time would seem to give ground for belief in the saying; for the word "desolation" had scarcely passed his lips, when distant voices of men were heard, causing his heart to bound violently. Next moment a boat glided in front of the cave's mouth. John Mitford sprang up and gave vent to a yell! Hope raised to strong life after being long deferred; despair suddenly trampled in the dust; joy bounding as from the tomb into rampant being-- and a host of indescribable sentiments and passions found vent in that tremendous, that inconceivable howl! And its effect on those in the boat?--Well-- That morning our exploring party had resumed their voyage with somewhat saddened hearts, for they remembered the look of the coast well, and knew that an hour or so would bring them to the cave where the _Lapwing_ had gone down. Even Black Ned had become sentimental, and given vent to a few expressions of a semi-religious nature! "We can't be far from it now," said Dr Hayward, as the men ceased rowing, and the boat glided slowly, silently along. "It's a gruesome place," remarked Black Ned, in a low voice. "To think that so many lives were lost here--or hereabouts," murmured Tomlin. "An' their ghost, maybe, hangin' about!" suggested Slag, with a superstitious glance over his shoulder. Just then Hayward bade O'Connor get up and stand in the bow with the boat-hook, ready to fend off,--an order which the Irishman, having been somewhat awed by the tone of the conversation, obeyed in silence. It was at this point that they glided in front of the cave, and drew forth the yell which burst upon them like a clap of thunder. The shock to the nervous system of each was terrific. In the case of O'Connor it was visible, for he fell flat back into the bottom of the boat and fetched Jarring a tremendous whack on the head with the boat-hook in falling. Afterwards, Terrence asserted stoutly that a slip of the foot as he stood on the th'ort was the cause, but those who knew him best held that it was "a case of nerves." Need it be said that, on recovering nervous equilibrium, the joy of rescuers and rescued was intense? "Come along, let's take 'im home at wanst," cried the Irishman, when they had got the poor dazed man into the boat. "Isn't it Peggy that'll open her eyes an' screech for joy when she sots her eyes on ye!" "We'll have to wash and comb an' clothe him first," said Tomlin. He did not say "shave," for they had no razors,--and by that time the beards of most of the party were as long as Mitford's; but their locks had been trimmed by means of a clasp-knife super-sharpened, whereas Mitford's were in wildest disorder. That night they encamped in the wreck-cave, made a fire, and prepared a splendid supper of pork and pea-soup for John and themselves, after which they subjected their recovered comrade to a scrubbing and cropping and repairing of habiliments that almost proved fatal to his constitution. Next day they loaded the boat with all the pork and pease they could find, as well as portions of cordage that might be useful. Then they started off on the return journey. It was a fine day when they reached the encampment, where the coxswain and the women were on the look-out. Massey, of course, was the first to observe, as the boat approached, that an extra hand was in it; but he wisely said nothing at first. Then his heart began to beat as it used to do when he brought in rescued men and women from wrecks, for the truth suddenly flashed upon him. He glanced at Peggy. Poor thing, her sad eyes had wandered from the approaching boat and were resting wistfully on the horizon beyond. "Nell," murmured the coxswain in a deep, earnest whisper to his wife, who stood at his elbow, "the tide's a-goin' to rise again wi' poor Peggy, if my eyes are tellin' truth." "What d'ee mean, Bob?" asked Nellie, with a quick, anxious look. "Five men went away, Nell; _six_ are comin' back!" As he spoke, a tall figure rose up in the stern of the boat and waved a hand. Nellie glanced quickly at her friend. She was standing with glaring eyes, parted lips, and a deathly pallor on her worn face. "Peggy!" The familiar word came rolling to the shore, and a piercing shriek replied to it as the poor woman threw up both hands and fell backward into the ready arms of the coxswain's wife, who had sprung to her side in anticipation of some such catastrophe. There was the voice of prayer and thanksgiving that night in the hut on the lonely shore--such thanksgiving as we might conceive filled the hearts of Jairus and of the widow of Nain in the days of old. STORY ONE, CHAPTER 12. The state of things on the island was now considerably improved. Peggy, under the influence of gratitude for restored felicity, became more helpful than she had formerly been, and more loquacious than ever. Her female companions, being amiable and easily pleased, were rather amused than otherwise, at the continuous flow of discursive, sometimes incomprehensible, and always good-natured small talk--particularly small talk--with which she beguiled the hours that might have otherwise hung heavily on their minds while their hands were busily engaged with the bone-needles and sinew threads which the coxswain had manufactured for them. For the clothes with which they had landed on the island-- especially those of the men--had begun to wear out after eight or ten months, and new garments had to be made, while repairs never ceased. Meanwhile, the men were fully occupied each day in hunting seals or fishing, cutting firewood with the axe they had found in the hut, and in making their home more comfortable. A door was fitted to the hut; a wooden partition was put up to cut off more effectually the women's apartment from that of the men; the open crevices in the walls were stopped up with moss, and many other improvements were made. A few nails extracted from the walls of the hut were converted into fish-hooks, by means of the file which had been found, and Nellie spun some excellent fishing-lines from flax found growing wild in abundance. The file also enabled them to strike fire with broken flints picked up on the shore. The ash of burnt cotton, as the doctor knew, makes good tinder; so in the public interest, John Mitford agreed to part with the ragged remains of the cotton shirt he had long worn--quite unnecessarily--over his woollen jersey. Thus they could afford to let the fire go out, and were relieved from constant watching, as well as anxiety in regard to it. They did not, however, cease their nocturnal vigils, for the hope of deliverance never died out, though it at last sank very low. Besides keeping their seal-skin flag flying, they kindled a beacon-fire every night, to guard and replenish which became the nightly duty of one or other of the men--watch and watch about--all the time they stayed on the island. During the earlier part of each night, however, the beacon-fire was not watched. It was merely lighted and left for some hours to look after itself. During this period, after supper, the whole party were wont to draw round the blazing fire in the hut, and each contributed his or her share to the entertainment of the social circle. Then it was that lugubrious John Mitford developed amazing powers of inventive story-telling, and Joe Slag came out strong with thrilling lifeboat tales, every word of which Bob Massey corroborated, while Terrence O'Connor displayed powers of sarcastic criticism of the highest order, and Tomlin, Black Ned, and the women proved an intensely appreciative audience. But the latter were not merely listeners. True, Peggy did nothing for the general good. Having quite exhausted her lungs with incessant talk during each day, she was fortunately almost incapable of speech in the evening, but Nellie, who possessed a voice as sweet as herself, and clear and true as that of a nightingale, was induced to "favour the company"--chiefly with pathetic or patriotic ditties and hymns--while Eva thrilled her audience with terrible tales of slavery, in many of which she had acted a part. Of course Dr Hayward lent his aid, both with song and story; but, like a true leader, he devoted himself chiefly to drawing out the powers of his companions, directing or diverting the flow of conversation, and keeping order. He also instituted what may be truly styled family worship at night, by repeating from memory portions of the word of, God and engaging in prayer just before retiring to rest. Bob Massey and Tomlin were induced to help him in this, and never was a prayer put up from that hut in which there was not an earnest petition that a ship might be sent for their deliverance. "But a ship is long, long o' comin'," said Slag to Jarring as he accompanied the latter part of the way to the beacon-fire one night when it was Black Ned's turn to watch. "A ship'll come, Joe, when God sees fit to send it," said Ned. Slag glanced at his comrade in surprise, the reply was so very unlike Ned's usual style of speech that he felt uncertain whether it was uttered in earnest. "The only thing I feel an awful longin' for now, at times, is a bit o' 'baccy," continued Ned. "So does I, Ned, an' I sometimes think Dr Hayward has got the advantage of us there, for he never smoked, so he says, an' in coorse it stands to reason that he can't have no longin' for a thing he don't want--an' he seems as jolly an' happy as the best of us without it!" "Ay, jollier and happier!" replied Ned, shortly. "But, I say, Ned, don't ye ever feel a longin' for grog? Ye used to be raither fond of it." "No--not now, Joe. It's the best thing as ever happened to me, bein' cast on this here island--wi' Dr Hayward to give a feller a word of advice." Slag, who felt a sort of self-righteous superiority over his comrade, inasmuch as _he_ had never given way to drink, said, "You should be thankful for that, Ned." "I _am_ thankful," returned the other in a tone that induced Slag to say no more. It was a very dark night, and cold, so that Black Ned involuntarily shuddered as he approached the beacon-fire alone--Joe having left him-- and commenced to heap on fuel. Then rain began to fall heavily. There was no shelter, and the watchman was soon drenched to the skin. Heaping on more logs till the fire roared again, he tried to warm himself, and stood so close to the blaze that his garments smoked--they would have burnt had they not been wet--but no heat seemed to penetrate the shivering frame of Black Ned. Next morning the poor man was smitten with a raging fever. From the first the doctor had little hope of his recovery. With a constitution fatally injured by dissipation and drink, his chance was very small; but of course every effort was made to save him. He was laid on a soft bed of moss in the warmest corner of the hut, and the women took their turn in nursing him, night and day--the coxswain's wife, however, being the chief nurse; for, besides being sympathetic and tender by nature, she had been trained in a rough school where self-reliance and capacity were constantly called into action in circumstances of difficulty, so that she was better fitted for the post than either of her companions. But their efforts were of no avail. After a week, Black Ned died, with a smile of gratitude on his dark face as he gazed in Hayward's eyes, and held his hand until the spirit returned to God who gave it. The gloom cast over the little community by this sudden appearance of the King of Terrors lasted for many days, and had the good effect of turning the thoughts of all of them to those subjects which are obviously and naturally distasteful to fallen man--the soul and the world to come. But gradually the gloom passed away, though it left in the party a greater longing than ever to escape from their island prison. One day, while some of them were at breakfast, Terrence O'Connor rushed into the hut with the news that a ship was in sight! Instantly the boat was manned, and they rowed with all their might towards the vessel, which was seen like a white speck on the horizon. They rowed to within four miles of her, with an oar set up as a mast, and a jacket attached thereto as a flag, but a breeze sprang up, and the strange sail actually passed on without taking the slightest notice of them--though the people on board could not have failed to see the boat! Profound was the disappointment, and violent the indignation, that filled the thoughts of the castaways as they rowed slowly back to land. "Sure it's devils that must live in the bodies o' some men," growled O'Connor, in the bitterness of his soul. "You're too hard on the devils, Terrence," said Bob Massey. "Some men in this world do the worst _that they can_, an' surely devils can do no more than that." This incident, however, aroused the hopes and expectations of the party to a high pitch, so that the beacon-fire was kept burning more steadily and brightly than before, and the look-out hill was more frequently visited; still, weeks and months passed by, and no deliverance came to them. During this period, the seal-hunting, fishing, clothes-mending, etcetera, were carried on with unflagging energy, and the nightly entertainments became more and more entertaining, by reason of use and effort developing new capacities and talents that might in less favourable circumstances have lain altogether dormant. All this was due very much to their leader; for, besides being a God-fearing man, Hayward was pre-eminently cheery, and full of fun as well as vigour. The coxswain, too, was like-minded, and of great capacity in every way; while his wife's voice was so charming that the party became almost dependent on it. They could scarcely have gone to rest at last without Nellie's hymn or song as a lullaby! We must state, however, that Tomlin did not share in this pleasure. That poor man had been born musically deaf, as some people are born physically blind. There was no musical inlet to his soul! There was, indeed, a door for sound to enter, and music, of course, sought an entrance by that door; but it was effectually destroyed, somehow, in passing through the doorway, so that poor Tomlin showed no symptom of pleasure. What he heard, and how he heard it, is known only to himself! Once or twice during this time they visited the cavern of the wreck, with the view, if possible, of recovering something from the sunk vessel, but though most of the men could swim, none of them could dive, therefore the result was failure. They succeeded, however, in making soap by boiling wood-ash and seal's fat in their cast-iron pot. Those who are accustomed to the celebrated "Pears" can scarcely understand what an addition to cleanliness and comfort resulted from this coarsely manufactured article. Gulls' eggs were found in great quantity on the cliffs, and the discovery and capture of wild pigs added to the luxury of their table-- which latter, by the way, was an ingenious contrivance of Joe Slag. Binding four sticks together in the form of a stout oblong frame, Joe had covered this--filled it in as it were--with straight branches about a finger thick, laid side by side and tied to the frame. This he fixed on four posts driven into the ground, and thus formed an excellent, if not an elegant, table. One morning at breakfast, Terrence O'Connor was observed to be unusually busy with a large hook. "Are you goin' to fish for sharks to-day?" asked Slag. "Faix, no; it's to the woods I'll go fishin' to-day, Joe. Now, Nell, gi' me the stoutest line ye've got on hand, mavourneen." "Will that do? I made it the other day specially for sharks--or whales!" said Nellie, with a light laugh, for she expected him to reject the line she held up. "The very thing, Nell. Hand it over. Now, boys, I'm off to try my luck i' the woods, for I'm gittin' tired o' the say." O'Connor went off alone, bestowing a mysterious wink on Peggy Mitford as he left. The Irishman had observed that the wild pigs were particularly fond of a certain root which was plentiful in a valley about three miles distant from the hut. Repairing to that valley, he dug up one of the roots, baited his hook with it, hung it from a low branch to attract attention, fastened the other end of the line to a tree, and went off to hide and bide his time. Before half-an-hour had elapsed, a gay young pig visited the scene of its former festivities, saw the pendent bait, smelt it, took it in its mouth, and straightway filled the woods with frantic lamentations. The struggle between the Irishman and that pig was worthy of record, but we prefer leaving it to the reader's imagination. The upshot was, that the pig was overcome, carried--bound, and shrieking--to the hut, and tamed by Peggy. In a short time, other pigs were caught and tamed. So, also, were rabbits. These bred and multiplied. The original pig became the mother of a large family, and in a short time something like the sounds and aspects of a farm began to surround the old hut. Still further--by means of the cast-iron pot, which already boiled their soup and their soap--they managed to boil sea-water down into salt, and with this some of the pigs were converted into salt pork--in short, the place began to assume the appearance of a busy and thriving backwoods settlement. "It's risin' tide with us again, after a fashion, Nell," said the coxswain to his wife, as they stood one evening on the sea-shore watching the sunset. Nellie sighed. "It is, Bob," she said, "and I'm very thankful; but--but I'd rather be at home in Old England among kith and kin, even though the tide was low!" "What! alongside o' Aunt Betty?" "Yes, even alongside o' Aunt Betty; for if this voyage has taught me anything at all, it has taught me that, after all, `there's no place like home!'" "Right you are, Nell," said Joe Slag, who came up at that moment, "there's no place like home--when it's a happy one; but if it ain't a happy one, there may be difference of opinion even on that pint, d'ee see?" That very night, a great ocean steamer, bound from the Antipodes to Old England, chanced to diverge from her true course, and sighted the beacon-fire which Tomlin--on duty at the time--was stirring up to fervent heat. The Captain was not one of those whom Terrence O'Connor credited with diabolic possession. He was a good man; and, knowing that men did not light beacon-fires on lonely islands merely for amusement, he resolved to lay-to till daylight, which was due in about an hour from the time the island was sighted. Meanwhile, he sounded his steam whistle. At the sound, the hut instantly disgorged its male inmates, who, recognising the familiar noise and the steamer's lights, sent up a shout of mingled joy and thanksgiving. "Get out the boat, boys!" cried Hayward, as he ran back to the hut to rouse the women. "Get ready, quick! Eva; a steamer at last, thank God, in the offing! Don't lose a moment. They may have little time to wait. Boat will be ready in a few minutes." "Ay, an' pack up all you want to carry away," cried the coxswain, crossing the threshold at that moment. "So it is all going to end suddenly like a dream!" said Eva, as she hastened to obey orders. "Home, sweet home!" murmured Nellie, trembling with joy at the prospect. "Wherever you are, my dear, the home will be sweet," said Peggy. "Though of course it wouldn't be that without your 'usband, for it takes two to make a fight, you know, an' it takes two no less, I think, to make things pleasant, but--dear, dear, what a disagreeable thing it is to 'ave to dress in a 'urry, though one shouldn't--" "Look alive, there! look al-i-ve!" roared O'Connor, putting his head in at the door. "Daylight's a-breakin', an' they won't--" "Oh! Terrence, that reminds me--don't forget our pets," cried Nellie, who had steadily declined to speak of them as "live stock." "All right, missis. It's lookin' after them I am this minnit." The Irishman ran, as he spoke, to the styes and hutches where the pigs and rabbits were kept and opened the doors. "Out wid ye!" he cried, "the Act of Emancipation's passed, and ye're all free--ivery mother's son of ye." Accustomed to his voice and his caressing hand, the astonished creatures seemed to look up at him in surprise. "Be aff, at wance, hooroo!" cried the excited man, with a clap of his hands and a Donnybrook yell that sent all the "pets" leaping and squealing into their native jungle. Soon after that the boat was bounding out to sea under the impulse of strong arms and willing hearts. A few minutes more, and they were receiving the warm congratulations of the passengers and crew of the steamer. Then the order was given to go ahead full speed, and the engine's great heart seemed to throb sympathetically within the hearts of the rescued ones as the vessel cut her way swiftly through the Southern Ocean--homeward bound for Old England! Nevertheless, there was a touch of sadness in the breasts of all as they turned their farewell gaze on the receding island and thought of the pets, the old hut, the long period of mingled pleasure and suffering, and the lonely grave. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ We cannot part from the friends whose footsteps we have followed so long and so far without a parting word or two. On returning to his native village, Bob Massey found that his successor as coxswain had died, and that another man had not yet been appointed to the lifeboat--he was therefore installed, with much rejoicing, in his old position as a rescuer of human lives. Joe Slag, naturally and pleasantly, also fell into his old post at the bow. Nellie found that Aunt Betty had had what the villagers called "a stroke" during her absence; which crushing blow had the effect of opening her eyes to many things regarding herself and others, to which she had been particularly blind before. It also had the effect--indirectly--of subduing much of the evil in her character and bringing out much of the good. As evil begets evil, so good begets good; and one result of this law was, that the seven children, whom she had brought--or banged--up, became seven repentant and sympathetic and reasonably good creatures when they saw the old mother, whom they used to think so harsh and so physically strong, reduced to amiable helplessness. Thus it came to pass that there was not in all the village an old woman who was so well looked after by her progeny as Aunt Betty. Terrence O'Connor continued to rove about the world in the capacity of a ship's cook till near the end of his days. John Mitford and Peggy unexpectedly came into a small inheritance soon after returning home, and settled down for life close to the coxswain's cottage. Tomlin went to New Zealand to seek his fortune. Whether he found it or not, we cannot tell! Last, but not least, Dr Hayward and his wife returned to their native land, and for many years afterwards kept up a steady correspondence with Nell Massey, in which, you may be sure, there were frequent and pleasant allusions to the time which they had spent together on the lonely isle in the southern seas. One morning, Nellie presented her husband with a baby boy. Bob was out with the lifeboat rescuing a shipwrecked crew at the time the presentation was made. On his return, he opened the door and stood before his wife dripping wet. "Fifteen saved this time, Nell," he began, but the nurse stopped him by exhibiting the baby boy. "Thank the Lord!" he said, with a glad look in his wet eyes. "You mustn't come near us," said the nurse, with a look of warning. "Only a look just now." "The tide has risen to the flood now, Bob," murmured the young mother, softly. "Ay," said the coxswain in a deep voice, "an' it's a high spring tide too. God bless you, Nell!" THE END. STORY TWO, CHAPTER 1. JACK FROST AND SONS--A SHORT STORY. One year in the last quarter of the present century John Frost, Esquire, of Arctic Hall, paid an unusually long visit to the British Islands. John, or Jack, Frost, as he was familiarly called by those who did not fear him, was a powerful fellow; an amazingly active, vigorous, self-willed fellow, whom it was difficult to resist, and, in some circumstances, quite impossible to overcome. Jack was a giant. Indeed, it is not improbable that he was also a "giant-killer,"--an insolent, self-assertive, cold-hearted giant, who swaggered with equal freedom into the palaces of the rich and the cottages of the poor; but he did not by any means meet with the same reception everywhere. In palaces and mansions he was usually met in the entrance hall by a sturdy footman who kicked him out and slammed the door in his face, while in cottages and lowly dwellings he was so feebly opposed that he gained entrance easily--for he was a bullying shameless fellow, who forced his way wherever he could--and was induced to quit only after much remonstrance and persuasion, and even then, he usually left an unpleasant flavour of his visit behind him. But there were some abodes in which our hero met with no opposition at all, where the inmates scarcely made any attempt to keep him out, but remained still and trembled, or moaned feebly, while he walked in and sat down beside them. Jack was somewhat of a deceiver too. He had, for the most part, a bright, beaming, jovial outward aspect, which made the bitter coldness of his heart all the more terrible by contrast. He was most deadly in his feelings in calm weather, but there were occasions when he took pleasure in sallying forth accompanied by his like-minded sons, Colonel Wind and Major Snow. And it was a tremendous sight, that few people cared to see except through windows, when those three, arm-in-arm, went swaggering through the land together. One Christmas morning, at the time we write of, Jack and his two sons went careering, in a happy-go-lucky sort of way, along the London streets towards the "west end," blinding people's eyes as they went, reversing umbrellas, overturning old women, causing young men to stagger, and treating hats in general as if they had been black footballs. Turning into Saint James's Park they rushed at the royal palace, but, finding that edifice securely guarded from basement to roof-tree, they turned round, and, with fearless audacity, assaulted the Admiralty and the Horse-Guards--taking a shot at the clubs in passing. It need scarcely be recorded that they made no impression whatever on those centres of wealth and power. Undismayed--for Jack and his sons knew nothing either of fear or favour--they went careering westward until they came to a palatial mansion, at the half-open front door of which a pretty servant girl stood peeping out. It was early. Perhaps she was looking for the milkman--possibly for the policeman. With that quick perception which characterises men of war, Major Snow saw and seized his opportunity. Dashing forward he sprang into the hall. Colonel Wind, not a whit less prompt, burst the door wide open, and the three assailants tumbled over each other as they took possession of the outworks of the mansion. But "Jeames" was not far distant. The screams of Mary drew him forth, he leaped into the hall, drove out the intruders, and shut the door with a crash, but with no further damage to the foe than the snipping off part of Major Snow's tails, which Mary swept up into a dust shovel and deposited in the coal-hole, or some such dark region below. Our trio possessed neither fear nor pride. They were also destitute of taste, and had no respect for persons. Treating their repulse as a good joke, they turned round and went hilariously along the Strand, embracing every one they met, young and old, rich and poor, pretty and plain, with pointed impartiality, until they reached the City. There we will leave them to revel amongst the poor, while we return to the mansion at the west end. In two snug bedrooms thereof two young men lay in their comfortable beds, partially awake and yawning--the one flat on his back as if laid out for his last sleep; the other coiled into a bundle with the bedclothes, as if ready to be carried off to the laundry with the next washing. The rooms were connected by a door which stood open, for the occupants were twin brothers; their united ages amounting to forty years. "Ned," said the straight one to the bundle. "Well, Tom," (sleepily). "Did you hear that noise--like a cannon-shot?" "Ya-i-o-u yes--som'ing tumbled--door bang'd," (snore). "Hallo, Ned!" cried Tom, suddenly leaping out of bed and beginning to dress in haste; "why, it's Christmas morning! I had almost forgot. A Merry Christmas to you, my boy!" "M'rry Kissm's, ol' man, but don' waken me. What's use o' gettin' up?" "The use?" echoed Tom, proceeding rapidly with his toilet; "why, Ned, the use of rising early is that it enables a man to get through with his work in good time, and I've a deal of work to do to-day at the east-end." "So 'v' I," murmured Ned, "at th' wes' end." "Indeed. What are you going to do?" "Sk-t." "Sk-t? What's that?" "Skate--ol' man, let m' 'lone," growled Ned, as he uncoiled himself to some extent and re-arranged the bundle for another snooze. With a light laugh Tom Westlake left his brother to enjoy his repose, and descended to the breakfast-room, where his sister Matilda, better known as Matty, met him with a warm reception. Everything that met him in that breakfast-parlour was warm. The fire, of course, was warm, and it seemed to leap and splutter with a distinctly Christmas morning air; the curtains and carpets and arm-chairs were warm and cosy in aspect; the tea-urn was warm, indeed it was hot, and so were the muffins, while the atmosphere itself was unusually warm. The tiny thermometer on the chimney-piece told that it was 65 degrees of Fahrenheit. Outside, the self-registering thermometer indicated 5 degrees below zero! "Why, Matty," exclaimed Tom, as he looked frowningly at the instrument, "I have not seen it so low as that for years. It will freeze the Thames if it lasts long enough." Matty made no reply, but stood with her hands clasped on her brother's arm gazing contemplatively at the driving snow. "What are you thinking about?" asked Tom. "About the poor," answered Matty, as she went and seated herself at the breakfast-table. "On such a terrible morning as this I feel so inexpressibly selfish in sitting down to an overflowing meal in the midst of such warmth and comfort, when I know that there are hundreds and thousands of men and women and children all round us who have neither fire nor food sufficient--little clothing, and no comfort. It is dreadful," added Matty, as an unusually fierce gust dashed the snow against the windows. Tom was like-minded with his sister, but he could not suppress a smile as he looked into her pretty little anxious face. "Yes, Matty, it _is_ dreadful," he replied, "and the worst of it is that we can do so little, so very little, to mend matters. Yet I don't feel as you do about the selfishness of enjoying a good breakfast in comfortable circumstances, for it is God who has given us all that we have, as well as the power to enjoy it. I grant, that if we simply enjoyed our good things, and neither thought of nor cared for the poor, we should indeed be most abominably selfish, but happily that is not our case this morning. Have we not risen an hour earlier than usual to go out and do what we can to mitigate the sorrows of the poor? Are we not about to face the bitter blast and the driving snow on this Christmas morning for that very purpose? and should we not be rendered much less capable of doing so, if we were to start off on our mission with cold bodies and half-filled--I beg pardon, pass the muffins, dear. Besides, sister mine, if you were to go out on such a morning cold and underfed, would it not be probable that I should have to go and fetch a doctor for you instead of taking you out to help me in aiding and comforting poor people?" "That may be all very true, Tom," returned Matty, with a dissatisfied and puzzled look, "but I cannot help feeling that I have so much, so _very_ much, more than I need of everything, while the thousands I speak of have so little--so very little. Why could not rich people like us be content with plainer things, and use fewer things, and so have more to give to the poor?" "You have broached a very wide and profound subject, Matty, and it would probably take us a week to go into it exhaustively, but a few words may suffice to show you that your remedy would not meet the case. Suppose that all the people in England were all at once smitten with your desire to retrench in order to have more to spare to the poor--and were to act upon their convictions; to determine that henceforth they would live on the plainest food, such as potatoes, mutton, and bread; what, I ask you, would become of the great army of confectioners? Would they not be thrown out of employment, and help, perhaps, to swell the ranks of the poor? If the rich ceased to buy pictures, what would become of painters? If they gave up books, (horrible to think of!) what would be the consequences to authors, and what the result to themselves? If carriages and horses were not kept, what would become of coachmen and grooms and ostlers--to say nothing of coach-makers, saddlers, harness-makers, and their innumerable dependants? No--living plainly or simply is not what is wanted, but living reasonably--according to one's means. Then, as to your having, as you say, much more than you need-- that does not injure the poor, for nothing of it is wasted. Does not part of the surplus go to Mary and James and the other servants, and much of what they do not consume goes in charity, directly, to the poor themselves?" "Well, but," returned Matty, with the distressed and puzzled look still unabated, "though all you tell me may be quite true, it does not in the least degree alter the fact that there _is_ something quite wrong in the condition of the poor of our great cities, which _ought_ to be remedied." "Of course it does not, little woman, but it relieves my mind, and it ought to relieve yours, as to the selfishness of enjoying a good breakfast." "But, surely," resumed Matty, with a slightly indignant look and tone, "surely you don't mean to tell me that there is no remedy for the miserable condition of the poor, and that the rich must just sigh over it, or shut their eyes to it, while they continue to revel in luxury?" "How you fly to extremes, sister!" said Tom, with a laugh, as he neatly cut the top off a fourth egg. "I combat your erroneous views, and straightway you charge me, by implication, with having no views at all! A remedy there surely is, but the wisest among us are not agreed as to _what_ it is--chiefly, I think, because the remedy is not simple but extremely complex. It cannot be stated in a few words. It consists in the wise and prompt application of multiform means--" "Brother," interrupted Matty with a smile, "do you think I am to be turned from my quest after this great truth by the stringing together of words without meaning--at least words vague and incomprehensible?" "By no means, Matty. I hope that nothing will ever turn you from your quest after the best method of helping the poor. But my words are not meant to be vague. By multiform means I would indicate legislation in numerous channels, and social effort in all its ramifications, besides the correction of many erroneous modes of thought--such, for instance, as the putting of the less before the greater--" "Tom," again interrupted Matty, "I think it is about time to go and put on my things." "Not so, sister dear," said Tom impressively; "I intend that you shall hear me out. I think that you put the less before the greater when you talk of `giving' to the poor instead of `considering' the poor. The greater, you know, includes the less. Consideration includes judicious giving, and the teaching of Scripture is, not to give to, but to _consider_, the poor. Now you may be off and get ready--as quickly as you can, too, for it would never do to keep the poor waiting breakfast!" With a light laugh and a vigorous step--the result of goodwill to mankind, good intentions, good feeding, and, generally, good circumstances--Matilda Westlake ran upstairs to her room at the top of the house to put on a charming little winter bonnet, a dear little cloak lined with thick fur, and everything else to match, while Tom busied himself in meditating on the particular passage of God's Word which he hoped, by the Spirit's influence, to bring home to the hearts of some of the poor that Christmas morning. Half an hour after these two had gone forth to do battle with John Frost and Sons, Edward Westlake sauntered into the breakfast-room, his right hand in his pocket and his left twirling the end of an exceedingly juvenile moustache. Turning his back to the fire he perused the morning paper and enjoyed himself thoroughly, while James re-arranged the table for another sumptuous meal. Ned was by no means a bad fellow. On the contrary, his companions thought and called him a "jolly good fellow." His father was a jolly, though a gouty old widower. Perhaps it was owing to the fact that there was no mother in the household that Ned smoked a meerschaum in the breakfast-room while he read the paper. "Have my skates been sharpened?" he asked, looking over the top of the paper. James said that they had been sharpened, and were then lying ready on the hall table. Sauntering to the window Ned looked out, and, James having retired, he made a few remarks himself, which showed the direction of his thoughts. "Capital! Ice will be splendid. Snow won't matter. Lots of men to sweep it. Looks as if the wind would fall, and there's a little bit of blue sky. Even if it doesn't clear, the pond is well sheltered. I do like a sharp, stinging, frosty day. Makes one's blood career so pleasantly!" With such agreeable thoughts and a splendid appetite Ned Westlake sat down to breakfast. Thereafter he put on a thick overcoat, edged with sable, a thick pair of boots and softly lined gloves, and went out with the skates swinging on his arm. Jack Frost and his two sons were still holding high revelry outside. They met him with impartial violence, but Ned bent forward with a smile of good-humoured defiance, and went on his way unchecked. Not so a stout and short old female of the coster-monger class, who, after a series of wild gyrations that might have put a dancing dervish to shame, bore down on Ned after the manner of a fat teetotum, and finally launched herself into his arms. "Hallo old girl--steady," exclaimed Ned, holding her up with an effort. "You carry too much sail to venture abroad in such weather." "Which it were my only one!" gasped the old woman, holding out her umbrella that had been reversed and obviously shattered beyond repair. Then, looking up at Ned, "You'd better leave a-go of me, young man. What will the neighbours think of us?" Which remark she uttered sternly--all the more that she had securely hooked herself to the railings and could afford to cast off her friend. With a solemn assurance that he esteemed her, "the sweetest of the fair," Ned went smilingly on his way, receiving in reply, "La, now, who'd 'a' thought it!" Having twisted this lady's bonnet off, blown her unkempt hair straight out, and otherwise maltreated her, Colonel Wind, with his father and brother, went raging along the streets until he came to the neighbourhood of Whitechapel. The three seemed rather fond of this region, and no wonder; for, although never welcomed, they found themselves strong enough to force an entrance into many a poor home, and to remain in possession. Swaggering, in their own noisy and violent manner, into several courts and blind alleys, they caught up all the lighter articles of rubbish that lay about, hurled them against the frail and cracked windows--some of which they broke, and others of which they could not break by reason of their having been broken already. They did what was next best, however,--drove in the old hats and coats and other garments, with which the square holes had been inefficiently stopped. "Jolly! ain't it?" remarked a street boy, with a ruddy face and hair blown straight on end all round, to another street boy with a cast-iron look and a red nose--both being powerfully robust. "Prime!" asserted the knight of the red nose. And then both went eagerly to take liberties with a neighbouring pump, from the spout of which hung an icicle like a stalactite, the droppings from which, at an earlier period, had formed a considerable stalagmite on the stones below. It is probable that the sick old man on the poor bed in the small room close to the pump did not think the state of matters either "jolly" or "prime," for, besides being very old, he was very weak and thin and cold and hungry; in addition to which Jack Frost had seated himself on the rickety chair beside the empty grate, and seemed bent on remaining--the colonel having previously blown open the door and removed a garment which had sheltered the old man's head, thus permitting the major to sprinkle a miniature drift on his pillow. "I hardly like to leave you, gran'father, in such blustery weather," said a little maiden of about ten years of age, with filthy garments and a dirty face, who, if she had been washed and dressed, would have been distinctly pretty, but who, in the circumstances, was rather plain. As she spoke she re-adjusted the garment-screen and removed the snowdrift. "Don't say that, Martha," replied the old man in a thin weak voice--it had been strong and deep and resonant once, but Time and Want and Disease play sad havoc with strong men. "You _must_ go, darling," resumed the old man after a few seconds' pause to recover breath. "You've no chance of a breakfast otherwise. And-- perhaps--they may give you a bit to bring home for--" Martha eagerly interrupted the hesitating voice,--and it was easily interrupted! "Yes, yes, gran'father. They'll be sure to let me bring home some for you. I'll be quite, _quite_ sure to do it." She made the promise with great decision, as well she might, for she had made up her mind to pocket all the food that was given to her except just a small morsel, which she would nibble in order to make believe that she was feeding! "Lock the door and put the key in your pocket," said the old man, while the child tucked in about him the thin torn counterpane which formed the only covering to his straw bed. "An' don't fear for me, darling. The Lord is with me. Be sure to eat as much as you can." Having regard to her secret intentions, Martha refrained from pledging herself, but she laughed and nodded significantly as she quitted the cold, dismal, and shabby room. It was little Martha's first experience of a "free breakfast." She had, indeed, heard of such a thing before, but had not up to that time met with anything of the kind, so she advanced to "the hall" with some timidity and much expectation. The hall was very full, and, as poor little Martha was rather late, she could not manage to crush in much beyond the door. Besides, being small, she could see nothing. In these depressing circumstances her heart began to sink, when her attention was attracted by a slight stir outside the door. A lady and gentleman were coming in. It so happened that the lady in passing trod upon one of Martha's cold little toes, and drew from the child a sharp cry. "Oh, my dear, _dear_ little girl!" cried the shocked lady, with a gush of self-reproach and sympathy, "I'm _so_ sorry--so _very, very_ sorry. It was so stupid of me! Have I hurt you much, _dear_ little girl? Come--come with me." "Bring her to the stove, Matty, there's more room there to have it looked to," said the gentleman, in a kind voice. Much consoled by all this, though still whimpering, little Martha suffered herself to be led to the front seats, and set on a bench just below the platform, where she began to bloom under the genial influence of the stove, and to wonder, with inexpressible surprise, at the mighty sea of upturned faces in front of her. As for the toe, it was utterly forgotten. The lady's foot, you see, being almost as light as her heart, had done it no serious injury. Nevertheless, she continued for a few minutes to inspect it earnestly and inquire for it tenderly, regardless of dirt! "You're _sure_ it is better, dear little child?" "Oh yes, ma'am, thank you. I don't feel it at all now. An' it's _so_ nice to feel warm again!" What a depth of meaning was unwittingly given to the last two words by the emphasis of the child-voice.--"Warm"--"Again!" The lady almost burst into tears as she thought of all that they implied. But her services were required at the harmonium. With a parting pat on Martha's curly head, and a bright smile, she hurried away to ascend the platform. The preliminaries of a feast at which most of the feasters are cold and hungry--some of them starving--should not be long. Full well did Tom Westlake know and appreciate this truth, and, being the donor, originator, and prime mover in the matter, he happily had it all his own way. In the fewest possible words, and in a good loud voice which produced sudden silence, he asked God to give His blessing with the food provided, and to send His Holy Spirit into the hearts of all present, so that they might be made to hunger and thirst for Jesus, the Bread and Water of Life. Then the poor people had scarcely recovered from their surprise at the brevity of the prayer, when they were again charmed to silence by the sweet strains of the harmonium. You see, they had not yet become _blase_ and incapable of enjoying anything short of an organ. Indeed, there were some among them who deliberately said they preferred a harmonium to an organ! But no instrument either of ancient or modern invention could drown the clatter that ensued when enormous mugs of earthenware were distributed to the company, by more or less rich and well-off "workers"; so the clatter and the hymns went on together until each lung was filled with some delectable fluid, smoking hot, and each mouth crammed with excellent bread and meat. Then comparative quiet ensued, during which temporary calm Tom read a few verses of the Word of God, commenting on them briefly in language so forcible that it went right home to many hearts, yet so simple that even little Martha understood it. True to her intention, little Martha, although much surprised and charmed and perplexed by all that was going on around her, did not forget to pocket something for gran'father. She was met, however, by an exasperating difficulty at the very outset. Her pocket was not large enough to contain the huge roll which, with some meat, had been put hastily into her small hand by a lady with a red rose in her bonnet. To achieve her object with the roll and meat in one hand and the mug in the other was, she found, impossible, so she set the mug on the floor between her feet and proceeded to wrestle with the loaf and pocket, having previously torn off a very small portion of the bread for her own use. Still the loaf was too large; so she tore off another morsel, and finally, after a severe struggle, succeeded in getting it and the bit of meat in. "You'll go for to kick it over, if you don't mind," said a small boy near her, referring to the mug. "You mind your own business--Imperence!" replied Martha, sharply. It must be remembered that she was a child of the "slums." "Wot a cheeky little shrimp it is," retorted the boy, with as much of a grin as a stuffed mouth would admit of. Just then Matilda Westlake, having finished a hymn, and being mindful of the little toe, came quietly down to where Martha was sitting. "Why, dear child," she said, in surprise, "have they not given you something to eat?" "Oh yes, ma'am. But I've--" She was going to say, "I've eaten it," but gran'father had so earnestly impressed on her mind the sinfulness of telling lies, that she felt constrained to hesitate, and, with a trembling lip, finished by saying she had eaten _some_ of it. "And what has become of the rest, dear?" "Please, miss, she've putt it in 'er pocket," said "Imperence" promptly. Without noticing the remark, Matty moved so as to make herself an effectual screen between Imperence and Martha. "Tell me, dear child," she said, stooping low and putting a gentle hand on Martha's shoulder, "are you not hungry?" "Oh yes," answered the little one quickly; "I'm so 'ungry. You can't think 'ow 'ungry; but I promised to--to--" At this point her lip quivered, and she began to cry quietly. "Stay, don't tell me anything more about it, dear, till you have breakfasted. Here, eat _this_ before you say another word." She took a roll from the basket of a passing "worker" and put it in the child's hand. Nothing loth, Martha began to eat and drink, mingling a warm tear or two with the hot soup, and venting a sob now and then as she proceeded. Watching her for a few moments, Matty left her. In passing she stopped and said to Imperence, in a whisper of terrible intensity, "If you speak to that girl again you shall have--_no more_." No more! To be "hanged by the neck till you are dead" would not have sounded so appalling just at that time. So Imperence collapsed. It is not our purpose to go much further into the details of the feast. Suffice it to say that the poorest of the poor were there; that they were encouraged to eat as much as possible, and allowed to carry away what they could not eat, and there is reason to believe that, judging from the prominence of pockets, a considerable quantity found its way to hungry mouths which had been found incapable of attending the feast. Among those who did great execution in the pocketing line was, as you may well believe, little Martha. Finding, to her ineffable joy, that there was no limit assigned to consumption, and that pocketing was not esteemed a sin, she proceeded, after stuffing herself, to stuff to overflowing the pocket with which she had previously wrestled, as already described, and then attempted to fill the pocket on the other side. She did so in utter and child-like forgetfulness of the fact that she had recently lost several small articles in consequence of the condition of that pocket, and her memory was not awakened until, having just completed the satisfactory filling of it, she beheld, or rather felt, the entire mass of edibles descending to the floor, proving that the pocket was indeed a very bottomless pit. "Never mind, little one," said Tom Westlake, coming forward at the moment, for he had just closed the meeting; "I'll find a bag for you to put it in. I hope the toe is all right." "Oh yes, sir, thank you, it's quite well," answered Martha, blushing through the dirt on her face, as she eyed the fallen food anxiously. "Tell me now, little one," continued Tom, sitting down on the bench and drawing the child gently towards him, "whom are you pocketing all these good things for?--not for yourself, I'm quite sure of that." "Oh dear, no, sir; it's for gran'father." "Indeed. Is grandfather very poor?" "Oh yes, sir, very, _very_ poor; an' he's got nobody but me to take care of him." "If that be so, who is taking care of him just now?" asked Matty, who had joined her brother, leaving another "worker" at the harmonium to play the people out,--a difficult thing to do, by the way, for the people seemed very unwilling to go. You see, among other things, Jack Frost and Sons could gain no footing in that hall, and the people knew only too well that the firm was in great force awaiting them outside. "Nobody's takin' care on 'im, ma'am," replied Martha, somewhat shyly. "I locked 'im in, an' he's takin' care of hisself." "Would you like to give grandfather anything in particular, little woman, if a fairy were to offer to give it you?" "Oh, wouldn't I just?" "Yes? What would you ask for?" Martha pursed her little mouth and knitted her brows in thought for a minute. Then she said slowly, "I'd ask for a mug of hot soup, an' a blanket, an' some coals, and--oh! I forgot, a teapot, for ours is cracked an' won't 'old in now." "Do you live far from this hall?" asked Tom. "No, sir, quite close." "Come, Matty, you and I will go with this little one and see grandfather. What is your name, child?" "Martha Burns, sir." "Well, Martha, give me your hand, and come along." They were soon in the shabby little room,--for Martha was eager to give the food to the old man. Of course Jack Frost and Sons were still in possession, but there had come another visitor during the child's absence, whom they were scarce prepared to meet. Death sat beside the lowly bed. He had not yet laid his hand on his victim, but his chill presence was evidently felt. "Darling, I'm glad you've come," said the old man, faintly. "I've been longing so for you. Give me your hand, dear. I'm so cold--so cold." He shivered as he spoke until the miserable bed shook. Poor Martha forgot the food in her anxiety, for a striking change had come over gran'father--such as she had never seen before. She took his thin hand in hers, and began to weep softly. But Matilda Westlake did not forget the food. She took up the tin can in which it had been brought there, and poured some of the still warm contents into a cracked soup plate that stood on the table. Finding a pewter spoon, she at once put her hand under the pillow, and raising the old man's head gently, began to feed him like a child. Meanwhile Tom Westlake took off his thick overcoat and spread it over the bed. Then he went out, bought some sticks and coal from a neighbour, and, returning, soon kindled a fire in the rusty grate. The old man did not seem surprised. His face wore a dazed, yet thoroughly pleased, look as he quietly accepted these attentions. All the time he kept fast hold of Martha's hand, and smiled to her once or twice. It was evident that he relished the soup. Only once he broke silence to thank them and say, "Jesus sent you, I suppose?" "Yes, Jesus sent us," replied Matty, thoroughly meaning what she said. At that moment Death raised his hand and laid it gently on the old man's brow. The hoary head bowed to the summons, and, with a soft sigh, the glad spirit fled to that region where suffering cannot enter. Oh, it was sad to witness the child-grief when Martha at last came to understand that gran'father was really gone. And it required no little persuasion to induce her to leave the lowly sordid room that she had known as "home." While his sister comforted the child, Tom went to the "authorities" to inform them that an old pauper had gone the way of all flesh. When at last Martha permitted her new friends to remove her, she was led by Miss Westlake to the not far distant house of a lady friend, whose sympathies with the suffering, the sorrowful, and the fallen were so keen that she had given up all and gone to dwell in the midst of them, in the sanguine hope of rescuing some. To this lady's care Martha was in the meantime committed, and then Tom and his sister went their way. Their way led them to a very different scene not far from the same region. "We're rather late," remarked Tom, consulting his watch as they turned into a narrow street. "Not too late, I think," said his sister. "I hope not, for I should be sorry to go in upon them at dinner-time." They were not too late. David Butts, whom they were about to visit, was a dock-labourer. In early youth he had been a footman, in which capacity he had made the acquaintance of the Westlakes' nursery-maid, and, having captivated her heart, had carried her off in triumph and married her. David had not been quite as steady as might have been desired. He had acquired, while in service, a liking for beer, which had degenerated into a decided craving for brandy, so that he naturally came down in the world, until, having lost one situation after another, he finally, with his poor wife and numerous children, was reduced to a state bordering on beggary. But God, who never forgets His fallen creatures, came to this man's help when the tide with him was at its lowest ebb. A humble-minded city missionary was sent to him. He was the means of bringing him to Jesus. The Saviour, using one of the man's companions as an instrument, brought him to a temperance meeting, and there an eloquent, though uneducated, speaker flung out a rope to the struggling man in the shape of a blue ribbon. David Butts seized it, and held on for life. His wife gladly sewed a bit of it on every garment he possessed--including his night-shirt--and the result was that he got to be known at the docks as a steady, dependable man, and found pretty constant employment. How far Matilda Westlake was instrumental in this work of rescue we need not stop to tell. It is enough to say that she had a hand in it--for her heart yearned towards the nurse, who had been very kind to her when she was a little child. Jack Frost and his sons, with their usual presumption, were in close attendance on the Westlakes when they knocked at David's door, and when it was opened they rudely brushed past the visitors and sought to enter, but a gush of genial heat from a roaring fire effectually stopped Jack and the major on the threshold, and almost killed them. Colonel Wind, however, succeeded in bursting in, overturning a few light articles, causing the flames to sway, leap, and roar wildly, and scattering ashes all over the room, but his triumph was short-lived. The instant the visitors entered he was locked out, and the door shut against him with a bang. "It do come rather awkward, sir, 'avin' no entrance 'all," said David, as he made the door fast. "If we even 'ad a porch it would 'elp to keep the wind and snow hout, but I ain't complainin', sir. I've on'y too good reason to be thankful." "Dear Miss Matilda," said the old nurse, dusting a wooden chair with her apron, and beaming all over with joy, "it's good for sore eyes to see you. Don't mind the child'n, miss, an' do sit down near the fire. I'm sure your feet must be wet--such dreadful weather." "No, indeed, nurse,--thank you," said Miss Westlake, laughing as she sat down, "my feet are not a bit wet. The frost is so hard that everything is quite dry." "Now it's no use to tell me that, Miss Matty," said Mrs Butts, with the memory of nursing days strong upon her. "You was always such a dear, thoughtless child! Don't you remember that day when you waded in baby's bath, an' then said you wasn't wet a bit, only a _very_ little, an' you rather liked it? Indeed she did: you needn't laugh, Master Tom, I remember it as well as if it happened yesterday." "I don't in the least doubt you, Mrs Butts," said Tom, "I was only laughing at my sister's idea of dryness. But you must not let us interrupt you in your cooking operations, else we will go away directly. Just go about it as if we were not here, for I have some business matters to talk over with your husband." "Go away?" echoed Mrs Butts; "you must not talk of going away till you've had a bite of lunch with us. It's our dinner, you know, but lawks! what do it matter what you calls it so long as you've got it to eat? An' there's such a splendid apple dumplin' in the pot, miss; you see, it's Tommy's birthday, for he was born on a Christmas Day, an' he's very fond of apple dumplin', is Tommy." The six children, of various ages and sizes scattered about the small room, betrayed lively interest in this invitation--some hoping that it would be accepted; others as evidently hoping that it would be declined. As for Tommy, his fear that the dumpling would be too small for the occasion, filled his heart with anxiety that showed itself strongly in his face, but he was promptly relieved by Miss Matty assuring his mother that to stay was impossible, as they had other visits to pay that day. Thus the lady and nurse chatted of past and present days, while Tom Westlake talked "business" with the dock-labourer. "You seem to be getting on pretty comfortably now," remarked Tom. "Yes, sir, thank God I am. Ever since I was enabled to cry, `God be merciful to me a sinner,' things 'as gone well with me. An' the puttin' on o' the blue ribbon, sir, 'as done me a power o' good. You see, before that I was sorely tempted by comrades offerin' me a glass, and by my own wish to _'ave_ a glass, but when I mounted the blue I was let alone, though they chaffed me now an' then, an' I felt it was no use thinkin' about it, 'owever much I might wish for it. The missus, bless 'er 'art, sewed a bit o' blue on my night-shirt in fun, but d'ee know, sir, I do believe it's that 'as cured me o' dreamin' about it, as I used to do." "I'm glad to hear that, Butts," said Tom, with a laugh. "Now, tell me; how long is it since you tasted strong drink?" "Six months this very day, sir." "And are you satisfied that you are better without it?" "Better without it, sir," repeated Butts, with energy, "in course I am-- better in body and better in soul, also in pocket. Of course you know, sir, we don't carry on every day with such fires an' dinners as we're a-goin' in for to-day--for Christmas on'y comes once a year, and sometimes we've been slack at the docks, an' once or twice I've bin laid up, so that we've bin pinched a bit now an' then, but we've bin able to make the two ends meet, and the older child'n is beginnin' to turn in a penny now an' again, so, you see, sir, though the fires ain't always bright, an Jack Frost do manage to git in through the key 'ole rather often just now, on the whole we're pretty comfortable." "I'm glad to hear it, Butts; very glad to hear it indeed," said Tom, "because I'm anxious to help you, and I make it a point only to help those who help themselves. Six months of steadiness goes a long way to prove that your craving for drink has been cured, and that your reformation is genuine; therefore, I am able now to offer you a situation as porter in a bank, which for some time I have kept open on purpose to be ready for you. How will that suit you--eh?" Whatever David Butts replied, or meant to reply, could only be gathered from his gratified expression, for at that moment his voice was drowned by a shriek of delight from the youngest children, in consequence of Mrs Butts, at Matilda's request, having removed the lid of the pot which held the dumpling, and let out a deliciously-scented cloud of steam. It was almost too much for the little ones, whose mouths watered with anticipation, and who felt half inclined to lay violent hands on the pot and begin dinner without delay. "Now, I know by the smell that it is quite ready, so we will say good-bye at once," said Matilda, getting up with a smile, and drawing her warm cloak round her. "Be sure to send your eldest girl to me to-morrow along with your husband." "And come early, Butts," said Tom Westlake, buttoning up his coat. "You may depend on me, sir." "Stand by to shut the door quickly after us," added Tom as he grasped the handle, "else the wind will get in and blow the fire about." The brother and sister, being young and active, were pretty smart in making their exit, and David Butts, being used to doors, was not slow to shut his own, but they could not altogether baffle the colonel, for he was waiting outside. Indeed, he had been whistling with furious insolence through the keyhole all the time of the visit. Sliding in edgewise, at the moment of opening, he managed to scatter the ashes again, and whirl about some of the light articles before he was fairly expelled. Thereafter, along with his father and brother, he went riotously after Tom and Matilda Westlake, sometimes shrieking over their heads; now and then dashing on in front, and, whirling round in an eddy, plunging straight back into their faces, but they could make nothing of it. The brother and sister merely laughed at them, and defied them to do their worst, even, in the joy of their hearts, going the length of saying to several utter but beaming strangers, that it was "splendid Christmas weather." And so it was,--to the young and strong. Not so, alas! to the old and feeble. It almost seemed as if Colonel Wind and Major Snow had taken offence at this last sally, for about that time of the day they forsook their father and left London--probably to visit the country. At all events, the clouds cleared away, the sky became blue, and the sun shone out gloriously--though without perceptibly diminishing the frost. After spending another hour or two in paying visits, during which they passed abruptly, more than once, from poverty-stricken scenes of moderate mirth to abodes of sickness and desolation, Tom and Matilda, by means of 'bus and cab, at last found themselves in the neighbourhood of the Serpentine. "What say you to a turn on the ice, Matty?" "Charming," cried Matty. Society on the Serpentine, when frozen over, is not very select, but the brother and sister were not particular on that point just then. They hired skates; they skimmed about over the well-swept surface; they tripped over innumerable bits of stick or stone or orange-peel; they ran into, or were run into by, various beings whose wrong-headedness induced a preference for skating backwards. In short, they conducted themselves as people usually do on skates, and returned home pretty well exhausted and blooming. That evening, after a family dinner, at which a number of young cousins and other relatives were present, Tom and his sister left the festive circle round the fire, and retired to a glass conservatory opening out of the drawing-room. There was a sofa in it and there they found Ned Westlake extended at full length. He rose at once and made room for them. "Well, Ned, how have you enjoyed yourself to-day?" asked Tom. "Oh, splendidly! There was such a jolly party in Wharton's grounds-- most of them able to skate splendidly. The pond is so sheltered that the wind scarcely affected us, and a staff of sweepers cleared away the snow as fast as it fell. Afterwards, when it cleared up and the sun shone through the trees, it was absolutely magnificent. It's the jolliest day I've had on the ice for years, though I'm almost knocked up by it. Jovially fatigued, in fact. But where have you been?" "We also have been skating," said Matilda. "Indeed! I thought you had intended to spend the day somewhere in the east-end attending some of those free breakfasts, and visiting the poor, or something of that sort--as if there were not enough of city missionaries, and sisters of mercy, or charity, or whatever you call them, to look after such things." "You are right, Ned," said Tom, "such was our intention, and we carried it out too. It was only at the end of the day that we took to skating on the Serpentine, and, considering the number of people we have run into, or overturned, or tumbled over, we found a couple of hours of it quite sufficient." From this point Tom Westlake "harked back" and related his experiences of the day. He possessed considerable power of graphic delineation, and gradually aroused the interest of his gay and volatile but kindly-disposed brother. "Ned," said he, at last, "do you really believe in the truth of these words, `Blessed are they that consider the poor?'" "Yes, Tom, I do," replied Ned, becoming suddenly serious. What Tom said to his brother after that we will not relate, but the result was that, before that Christmas evening closed, he succeeded in convincing Ned that a day of "jolly good fun" may be rendered inexpressibly more "jolly," by being commenced with an effort to cheer and lighten the lot of those into whose sad lives there enter but a small amount of jollity and far too little fun. STORY THREE, CHAPTER 1. A DOUBLE RESCUE--INTRODUCTION. It is a curious and interesting fact that Christmas-tide seemed to have a peculiar influence on the prospects of our hero Jack Matterby, all through his life. All the chief events of his career, somehow, happened on or about Christmas Day. Jack was born, to begin with, on a Christmas morning. His father, who was a farmer in the middle ranks of life, rejoiced in the fact, esteeming it full of promise for the future. So did his mother. Jack himself did not at first seem to have any particular feeling on the subject. If one might judge his opinions by his conduct, it seemed that he was rather displeased than otherwise at having been born; for he spent all the first part of his natal day in squalling and making faces, as though he did not like the world at all, and would rather not have come into it. "John, dear," said his mother to his father, one day not long after his birth, "I'm so glad he is a boy. He might have been a girl, you know." "No, Molly; _he_ could never have been a girl!" replied the husband, as he gently patted his wife's shoulder. "Now, don't laugh at me, John, dear. You know what I mean. But what shall we call him?" "John, of course," replied the farmer, with decision. "My father was called John, and _his_ father was called John, and also his grandfather, and so on back, I have no doubt, to the very beginning of time." "Nay, John," returned his wife, simply, "that could hardly be; for however many of your ancestors may have been Johns, the first, you know, was Adam." "Why, Molly, you're getting to be quite sharp," returned the farmer. "Nevertheless this little man is to be John, like the rest of us." Mrs Matterby, being meek, gave in; but she did so with a sigh, for she wished the little one to be named Joseph, after her own deceased father. Thus it came to pass that the child was named John. The name was expanded to Johnny during the first period of childhood. Afterwards it was contracted to Jack, and did not attain to the simple grandeur of John till the owner of it became a man. In the Johnny period of life our hero confined his attention almost exclusively to smashing and overturning. To overturn and to destroy were his chief amusements. He made war on crockery to such an extent that tea-cups and saucers were usually scarce in the family. He assaulted looking-glasses so constantly, that there was, ere long, barely enough of mirror left for his father to shave in. As to which fact the farmer used to say, "Never mind, Molly. Don't look so down-hearted, lass. If he only leaves a bit enough to see a corner of my chin and the half of my razor, that will do well enough." No window in the family mansion was thoroughly whole, and the appearance of a fat little fist, on the wrong side of a pane of glass, was quite a familiar object in the nursery. As for toys--Johnny had none, so to speak. He had only a large basket full of bits, the misapplication of which to each other gave him many hours of profound recreation. Everything that would turn inside out was so turned. Whatever was by nature straight he bent, whatever bent he straightened. Round things he made square when possible, and square things round; soft things hard, and hard things soft. In short, nothing was too hard for Johnny. Everything that came into his clutches, was subjected to what we may style the influence of experimental philosophy; and if Farmer Matterby had been a poor man he must soon have been ruined, but, being what is styled "well-to-do," he only said, in reference to these things-- "Go ahead, my boy. Make hay while the sun shines. If you carry on as you've begun, you'll make your mark _somewhere_ in this world." "Alas!" remarked poor Mrs Matterby, "he has made his mark already _everywhere_, and that a little too freely!" Nevertheless she was proud of her boy, and sought to subdue his spirit by teaching him lessons of self-denial and love out of the Word of God. Johnny listened intently to these lessons, gazing with large wondering eyes, though he understood little of the teaching at first. It was not all lost on him, however; and he thoroughly understood and reciprocated the deep love that beamed in his mother's eyes. Soon after Johnny had slid into the Jack period of life he became acquainted with a fisher-boy of his own age, whose parents dwelt in a cottage on the sea-shore, not a quarter of a mile from his own home, and close to the village of Blackby. Natty Grove was as fine a little fellow as one could wish to see: fair, curly-headed, blue-eyed, rough-jacketed, and almost swallowed up in a pair of his father's sea-boots, which had been cut down in the legs to fit him. As to the feet!--well, as his father Ned Grove remarked, there was plenty of room for growth. Natty had no mother, but he had a little sister about three years of age, and a grandmother, who might have been about thirty times three. No one could tell her age for certain; but she was so old and wrinkled and dried up and withered and small, that she might certainly have claimed to be "the oldest inhabitant." She had been bed-ridden for many years because of what her son called rum-matticks and her grandson styled rum-ticks. The name of Natty's little sister was Nellie; that of his grandmother, Nell--old Nell, as people affectionately called her. Now it may perhaps surprise the reader to be told that Jack Matterby, at the age of nine years, was deeply in love. He had, indeed, been in that condition, more or less from the age of three, but the passion became more decided at nine. He was in love with Nell--not blue-eyed little Nellie, but with wrinkled old Nell; for that antiquated creature was brimming over with love to mankind, specially to children. On our hero she poured out such wealth of affection that he was powerfully attracted to her even in the period of Johnny-hood, and, as we have said, she captured him entirely when he reached Jack-hood. Old Nell was a splendid story-teller. That was one of the baits with which she was fond of hooking young people. It was interesting to sit in the fisherman's poor cottage and watch the little ones sitting open-mouthed and eyed, gazing at the withered little face, in which loving-kindness, mingling with fun, beamed from the old eyes, played among the wrinkles, smiled on the lips, and asserted itself in the gentle tones. "Jack," said Mrs Matterby, on the Christmas morning which ushered in her boy's ninth birthday, "come, I'm going to give you a treat to-day." "You always do, mammy, on my birthdays," said Jack. "I want you to go with a message to a poor woman," continued the mother. "Is that all?" exclaimed Jack, with a disappointed look. "Yes, that's all--or nearly all," replied his mother, with a twinkle in her eye, however, which kept her son from open rebellion. "I want you to carry this basket of good things, with my best love and Christmas good-wishes, to old Nell Grove." "Oho!" exclaimed Jack, brightening up at once, "I'm your man; here, give me the basket. But, mother," he added with a sudden look of perplexity, "you called old Nell a _poor_ woman, and I've heard her sometimes say that she has _everything_ that she needs and _more_ than she deserves! She can't be poor if that's true, and it _must_ be true; for you know that old Nell never, _never_ tells lies." "True, Jack; old Nell is not poor in one sense: she is rich in faith. She has got `contentment with godliness,' and many rich people have not got that. Nevertheless she has none too much of the necessaries of this life, and none at all of the luxuries, so that she is what people usually call poor." "That's a puzzler, mammy--poor and rich both!" "I daresay it is a puzzler," replied Mrs Matterby, with a laugh, "but be off with your basket and message, my son; some day you shall understand it better." Pondering deeply on this "puzzler," the boy went off on his mission, trudging through the deep snow which whitened the earth and brightened that Christmas morning. "She's as merry as a cricket to-day," said Natty Grove, who opened the cottage door when his friend knocked. "Yes, as 'erry as a kiket," echoed flaxen-haired Nellie, who stood beside him. "She's always 'erry," said Jack, giving the little girl a gentle pull of the nose by way of expressing good will. "A merry Christmas both! How are you? See here, what mother has sent to old Nell." He opened the lid of the basket. Nattie and Nellie peeped in and snuffed. "Oh! I _say_!" said the fisher-boy. He could say no more, for the sight and scent of apples, jelly, roast fowl, home-made pastry, and other things was almost too much for him. "I expected it, dearie," said old Nell, extending her withered hand to the boy as he set the basket on the table. "Every Christmas morning, for years gone by, she has sent me the same, though I don't deserve it, and I've no claim on her but helplessness. But it's the first time she has sent it by you, Jack. Come, I'll tell ye a story." Jack was already open-eyed with expectancy and he was soon open-mouthed, forgetful of past and future, absorbed entirely in the present. Natty and Nelly were similarly affected and like-minded, while the little old woman swept them away to the wilds of Siberia, and told them of an escape from unjust banishment, of wanderings in the icy wilderness, and of starvation so dire that the fugitives were reduced to gnawing and sucking the leathern covers of their wallets for dear life. Then she told of food sent at the last moment, almost by miracle, and of hair-breadth escapes, and final deliverance. Somehow--the listeners could not have told how--old Nell inserted a reference to the real miracle of Jesus feeding the five thousand, and she worked round to it so deftly, that it seemed an essential part of the story; and so indeed it was, for Nell intended the key-stone of the arch of her story to be the fact that, when man is reduced to the last extremity God steps in to save. It is certain that little Nellie did not understand the moral of the story, and it is uncertain how far the boys appreciated it; but it was old Nell's business to sow the seed beside all waters, and leave the rest to Him who gave the command. "Yes, dearies," she said in conclusion, laying her hand on the basket, "I expected this gift this morning; but many a time does our Father in heaven send a blessin' when an' where we _don't_ expect it. Mind that--_mind ye that_." Jack had more than enough of mental food to digest that morning as he retraced his steps homeward through the deep snow; for he found that old Nell, not less than his mother, had treated him to a few puzzlers. Poor boy, he little knew as he plodded on that he was that day about to enter into one of the darkest clouds of his young life. During his absence a letter had been received by his father, intimating that through the failure of a bank he was a ruined man. The shock had paralysed the farmer, and when Jack entered his home he found him lying on his bed in a state of insensibility, from which he could not be rallied. A few days later the old man died. Farmer Matterby's widow had few relatives, and none of these were in circumstances to help her in the day of trial. They and her numerous friends did indeed what they could. Besides offering sincere sympathy, they subscribed and raised a small sum to enable the bereaved woman and her only child to tide over present difficulties, but they could not enable her to continue to work the farm, and as most of her late husband's kindred had migrated to Canada, she had no one from whom she could naturally claim counsel or aid. She was therefore thrown entirely on God; and it was with strange and solemn feelings that Jack kneeled by her side, and heard her pray in tones of anguish for help, light, and guidance, and especially that, whatever might become of herself, her dear boy might be preserved from evil and guided in ways of righteousness. A few months later, and the widow, gathering the small remnant of her possessions together, set off with her little boy to seek employment in London. How many poor souls, in various ranks of life, must have turned their steps, in days gone by, towards that giant city in the sanguine hope of bettering their condition! Mrs Matterby had no friends to whom she could go in London; but she could paint and draw and sing, and was fairly educated. She would teach. In the meantime she had a little money to start with. Entertaining a suspicion that it might be considered a wildish scheme by her friends and neighbours, she resolved to say nothing about her plans to any one, save that she was going to London for a time. It was a touching scene, the parting of Jack and the Grove family. The sturdy fisherman was at sea at the time, but old Nell was in her accustomed corner in the lowly bed with the ragged counterpane, where her uneventful, yet happy, life was spent; and little curly-headed Nellie was there, playing with the cat; and Natty was there, cutting out a first-rate man of war with a huge knife. "Granny," (Jack always called her "granny" like the rest), "granny, I've come to say good-bye. I am going away f-f-for ever an' ever!" "Amen!" responded Natty, from the mere force of habit, for he was a constant responder at granny's family worship. "Ye don't know that, darlin'," replied old Nell. "The Lord leads us in ways that we know not, an' it may be His good pleasure to bring you here again." "N-no; I'm quite _sure_ I'll never see you again," returned the boy, giving way to the sobs which he could not restrain. "M-mother says we will never come back again,--n-never, _never_ more--" He broke down entirely at this point, and a few silent tears trickled over the kind old face of Nell. Natty was too much of a man to give way out and out, but he snivelled a little in spite of himself. As for Nellie, she stood there in open-eyed wonder, for she failed to quite understand the situation. We will not prolong the painful scene. When at length Jack had taken leave of them all--had kissed the two Nells and shaken hands with Natty--the younger Nell seemed to realise the facts of the case; for Jack saw her, as he glanced back for the last time, suddenly shut her large blue eyes, throw back her curly little head, open wide her pretty little mouth, and howl miserably. STORY THREE, CHAPTER 2. LOST IN LONDON. London in a fog is too well known to require description. In an uncommonly thick fog, on a day in December of the following year, Mrs Matterby hurried along Fleet Street in the direction of the city, leading Jack by the hand. Both were very wet, very cold, ravenously hungry, and rather poorly clad. It was evident that things had not prospered with the widow. "Dear Jack," she said in a choking voice, as they hurried along the streets towards the wretched abode in the Tower Hamlets, to which they had been at length reduced, "dear Jack, my last human hope has failed. Mr Block has told me that I need not go there again; he has no more work for me." Jack's experience of life was too limited to enable him to understand fully the depth of distress, to which his mother had fallen--with health broken, money expended, and work not to be had except on terms which rendered life a misery, and prolonged existence almost an impossibility. But Jack's power of sympathy was strong and his passions were vehement. "Mother," he said, with tearful eyes, as he clung closer to her side, "I would _kill_ Mr Block if I could!" "Hush, dear boy! You know that would be wrong and could do no good. It is sinful even to feel such a desire." "How can I help it, mother!" returned Jack indignantly. Then he asked, "What are we going to do now, mother?" For some time the poor widow did not reply; then she spoke in a low tone, as if murmuring to herself, "The last sixpence gone; the cupboard empty; nothing--nothing left to pawn--" She stopped short, and glanced hastily at her marriage ring. "Mother," said Jack, "have you not often told me that God will not forsake us? Does it not seem as if He _had_ forsaken us now?" "It only seems like it, darling," returned the widow hurriedly. "We don't understand His ways. `Though He slay me, yet will I trust Him!'" It seemed as if God were about to test the faith of His servant, for at that moment a cab drove furiously round the corner of a street and knocked her down. Jack was overturned at the same time. Recovering himself, instantly, he found his mother in a state of unconsciousness, with blood flowing from a deep cut in her forehead. In a state of semi-bewilderment the poor boy followed the stretcher, on which Mrs Matterby was carried to the nearest hospital, where he waited while his mother's injuries were examined. "My boy," said a young surgeon, returning to the waiting room, and patting Jack's head, "your mother has been rather badly hurt. We must keep her here to look after her. I daresay we shall soon make her well. Meanwhile you had better run home, and tell your father--if, that is-- your father is at home, I suppose?" "No, sir; father's dead." "Well then your sister or aunt--I suppose there's some relative at home older than yourself?" "No, sir; none but mother an' me," whispered Jack. "No relations of any kind at all in London?" "None, sir. We know nobody--at least not many, and they're all strangers." "A sad case," murmured the surgeon. "Your mother is poor, I suppose?" "_Very_ poor, sir." "But of course you have a home of some sort, somewhere?" "Yes, it's not far from here." "Well, them, you'd better go home just now, for you can't see your mother to-night. We dare not let her speak, but come back early to-morrow, and you shall hear about her--perhaps see her. Here, put that in your pocket." Poor Jack took the shilling which the sympathetic surgeon thrust into his hand, and ran home in a state bordering on distraction; but it was not till he entered the shabby little room which he had begun to consider "home" that he realised the full weight of the calamity that had befallen him. No mother's voice to welcome him; no bit of fire in the grate to warm; no singing kettle to cheer, or light of candle to dispel the gloom of rapidly approaching night. It was Christmas Day too. In the morning he had gone forth with his mother--she in the sanguine hope of renewing an engagement in a clothier's shop, which terminated that day; he in the expectation of getting a few jobs of some sort--messages to run or horses to hold. Such were the circumstances to which they had been reduced in twelve months, Jack had arranged to call for his mother and walk home with her. On the way they were to invest a _very_ small part of the widow's earnings in "something nice" for their Christmas supper, and spend the evening together, chatting about the old home in Blackby, and father, and Natty Grove, and Nellie, and old Nell, in the happy days gone by. "And now!" thought Jack, seating himself on his little bed and glancing at that of his mother, which stood empty in the opposite corner--"now!--" But Jack could think no more. A tremendous agony rent his breast, and a sharp cry escaped from him as he flung himself on his bed and burst into a passion of tears. Child-like, he sobbed himself to sleep, and did not awake till the sun was high next morning. It was some time before he could recall what had occurred. When he did so he began to weep afresh. Leaping up, he was about to rush out of the house and make for the hospital, when he was checked at the door by the landlord--a hard, grinding, heartless man, who grew rich in oppressing the poor. "You seem to be in a hurry, youngster," he said, dragging the boy back by the collar, and looking hurriedly round the room. "I've come for the rent. Where's your mother?" In a sobbing voice Jack told him about the accident. "Well, I don't really believe you," said the man, with an angry frown; "but I'll soon find out if you're telling lies. I'll go to the hospital and inquire for myself. D'ee know anything about your mother's affairs?" "No, sir," said Jack, meekly, for he began to entertain a vague terror of the man. "No; I thought not. Well, I'll enlighten you. Your mother owes me three weeks' rent of this here room, and has got nothing to pay it with, as far as I knows, except these sticks o' furniture. Now, if your mother is really in hospital, I'll come back here and bundle you out, an' sell the furniture to pay my rent. I ain't a-goin' to be done out o' my money because your mother chooses to git run'd over." The landlord did not wait for a reply, but went out and slammed the door. Jack followed him in silent horror. He watched him while he inquired at the gate of the hospital, and, after he had gone, went up timidly, rang the bell, and asked for his mother. "Mrs Matterby?" repeated the porter. "Come in; I'll make inquiry." The report which he brought back fell like the blow of a sledge-hammer on the poor boy's heart. His mother, they told him, was dead. She had died suddenly in the night. There are times of affliction, when the human soul fails to find relief in tears or cries. Poor Jack Matterby stood for some time motionless, as if paralysed, with glaring eyes and a face not unlike to that of death. They sought to rouse him, but he could not speak. Suddenly, observing the front door open, he darted out into the street, and ran straight home, where he flung himself on his mother's bed, and burst into an uncontrollable flood of tears. By degrees the passion subsided, leaving only a stunned feeling behind, under the influence of which he lay perfectly still. The first thing that roused him was the sound of a heavy foot on the stair. The memory of the landlord flashed into his mind and filled him with indescribable dread--dread caused partly by the man's savage aspect and nature, but much more by the brutal way in which he had spoken about his mother. The only way in which to avoid a meeting was to rush past the man on the stair. Fear and loathing made the poor boy forget, for the moment, his crushing sorrow. He leaped up, opened the door, and, dashing downstairs, almost overturned the man who was coming up. Once in the street, he ran straight on without thought, until he felt that he was safe from pursuit. Then he stopped, and sat down on a door-step--to think what he should do; for, having been told that the furniture of his old home was to be sold, and himself turned out, he felt that returning there would be useless, and would only expose him to the risk of meeting the awful landlord. While he was yet buried in thought, one of those sprightly creatures of the great city, known as street arabs, accosted him in a grave and friendly tone. "My sweet little toolip," he said, "can I do anythink for you?" Despite his grief Jack could scarcely forbear smiling at the absurdity of the question. "No, thank you," he replied. "Well now, look 'ere, my toolip," returned the arab in a confidential tone, "I've took quite a fancy to you; you've got such a look, some'ow, of my poor old grandmother. Now, if you've no objection, I'd like to give you your breakfast. You're 'ungry, I suppose?" Jack admitted that he was, and, after a moment's hesitation, accepted this surprisingly kind and liberal offer. Taking him promptly by the arm his new friend hurried him to a pastry-cook's shop, and bade him "smell that," referring to the odours that ascended through a grating. "Ain't it 'eavenly?" he asked, with sparkling eyes. Jack admitted that it was very nice. "_So_ green, an' yet so fair!" murmured the arab, casting a look of admiration on his companion. "Now I means to go into that there shop," he added, returning to the confidential tone, "an' buy breakfast for you--for both on us. But I couldn't go in, you know, with this 'ere shabby coat on, 'cause they wouldn't give me such good wittles if I did. Just change coats with me for a few minutes. What! You doubt me? No one ever doubted Bob Snobbins without--without a-'urtin' of his feelin's." Whatever might have caused Jack to hesitate, the injured look on young Snobbins' countenance and the hurt tone were too much for him. He exchanged coats with the young rascal, who, suddenly directing Jack's attention to some imaginary object of interest at one end of the street, made off at full speed towards the other end. Our hero was, however, a famous runner. He gave chase, caught the arab in a retired alley, and gave him an indignant punch in the head. But although Jack had plenty of courage and a good deal of strength, he was no match for a street warrior like Bob Snobbins, who turned about promptly, blackened both his opponent's eyes, bled his nose, swelled his lips, and finally knocked him into a pool of dirty water, after which he fled, just as a policeman came on the scene. The constable was a kindly man. He asked Jack a few questions, which, however, the latter was too miserable to answer. "Well, well, my boy," said the constable gently, "you'd as well give up fightin'. It don't pay, you see, in the long run. Besides, you don't seem fit for it. Cut away home now, and get your mother to clean you." This last remark caused Jack to run away fast enough with a bursting heart. All day he wandered about the crowded streets, and no one took any notice of him, save a very few among the thousands, who cast on him a passing glance of pity. But what could these do to help him? Were not the streets swarming with such boys? And in truth Jack Matterby was a very pitiable object, at least according to the report of shop-mirrors, which told him that his face was discoloured and bloody, his coat indescribably dirty and ragged, besides being out of harmony with his trousers, and that his person generally was bedaubed with mud. Hunger at last induced him to overcome his feelings of shame so far that he entered a baker's shop, but he was promptly ordered to be off. Later in the day he entered another shop, the owner of which seemed to be of a better disposition. Changing his shilling, he purchased a penny roll, with which he retired to a dark passage and dined. When night came on he expended another penny and supped, after which he sought for some place of shelter in which to sleep. But wherever he went he found the guardians of the public requiring him to "move on." Several street arabs sought to make his acquaintance, but, with the memory of Bob Snobbins strong upon him, he declined their friendship. At last, wearied out and broken-hearted, he found a quiet corner under an archway, where he sat down and leaned his head against the wall, exclaiming, "I'm lost--lost!" Then he wept quietly, and sought to find temporary relief in slumber. He was indeed lost, and more completely so, in the feeling of lonely isolation, perhaps, than he would have been if lost in the backwoods of America. Yet he was not utterly lost, for the tender Shepherd was on his track. Some such thought seemed to cross his mind; for he suddenly began to pray, and thoughts about the old home in Blackby, and of the Grove family, comforted him a little until he fell asleep on his hard bed. But, for the time being, the poor boy _was_ lost--lost in London! His disreputable face and discreditable coat argued a dissipated character-- hence no one would employ him. Ere long necessity compelled him to accept the society of street arabs, and soon he became quite as sharp, though not quite as wicked, as they. But day by day he sank lower and lower, and evil at which he would have shuddered at first became at last familiar. He did not sink without a struggle, however, and he would have returned to the place where his mother had died, to ask help of the young surgeon who had expressed sympathy with him, but, with the carelessness of boyhood, he had forgotten the name of the hospital, and did not know where, in the great wilderness of bricks and mortar, to search for it. As for the home from which he had fled, the memory of the landlord still kept him carefully clear of that. But Jack's mother was _not_ dead! In hospitals--as in the best of well-regulated families--mistakes will sometimes happen. The report which had proved so disastrous to our poor hero referred to another woman who had died. A messenger had been at once sent, by the young surgeon before mentioned, to tell Jack of the error; but when the messenger arrived the boy had flown--as already described. Indeed, it was he whom Jack had passed on the stair. It was long before Mrs Matterby recovered, for the disappearance of her boy caused a relapse; and when at last she left the hospital, feeble and homeless, she went about for many months, searching at once for work and for her lost treasure. Christmas came again, and found Jack Matterby at nearly the lowest point in his downward career. It is due to him to say, however, that he had not up to that time, been guilty of any criminal act that could bring him with the grasp of human law; but in word and deed he had begun, more and more, to break the law of God: so that if poor Mrs Matterby had at that time succeeded in finding her son, it is probable that her joy would have been overwhelmed with terrible grief. It was not exactly Christmas morning, but it was the Christmas season of the year, when our little hero, wearied in spirit and body with the hard struggle for life, sauntered down the now familiar Strand in the hope of finding some odd job to do. He paused before a confectioner's shop, and, being very hungry, was debating with himself the propriety of giving up the struggle, and coolly helping himself to a pie! You may be sure that bad invisible spirits were at his elbow just then to encourage him. But God sent a good angel also, and she was visible--being in the form of a thin little old lady. "You'd like a bun, I know," she said, putting a penny into Jack's hand. "God bless you, ma'am--yes," burst from the astonished boy. "Go in and buy one. Then, come and tell me all about you." The thin little old lady was one of those followers of the Lamb who do not wait for Christmas to unlock their sympathies. The river of her love and pity was _always_ overflowing, so that there was no room for increase to a deluge at Christmas time--though she rejoiced to note the increase in the case of others, and wished that the flood might become perennial. To this lady Jack laid bare his inmost heart, and she led him back to the Saviour. "Now, Jack, let me ask you one question," she said; "would you like to go to Canada?" With tremendous energy Jack answered, "_Wouldn't_ I!" "Then," said the old lady, "to Canada you shall go." STORY THREE, CHAPTER 3. THE DOUBLE RESCUE. And Jack Matterby went! But before he went he had to go through a preliminary training, for his regular schooling had ceased when his father died, and he had learned no trade. In those days there were no splendid institutions for waifs and strays such as now exist, but it must not be supposed that there was no such thing as "hasting to the rescue." Thin little old Mrs Seaford had struck out the idea for herself, and had acted on it for some years in her own vigorous way. She took Jack home, and lodged him in her own house with two or three other boys of the same stamp--waifs. Jack elected to learn the trade of a carpenter, and Mrs Seaford, finding that he had been pretty well grounded in English, taught him French, as that language, she told him, was much spoken in Canada. Above all, she taught him those principles of God's law without which a human being is but poorly furnished even for the life that now is, to say nothing of that which is to come. In a few months Jack was ready for exportation! A few months more, and he found himself apprenticed to a farmer, not far from the shores of that mighty fresh-water sea, Ontario. Time passed, and Jack Matterby became a trusted servant and a thorough farmer. He also became a big, dashing, and earnest boy. More time passed, and Jack became a handsome young man, the bosom friend of his employer. Yet a little more time winged its silent way, and Jack became John Matterby, Esquire, of Fair Creek Farm, heir to his former master's property, and one of the wealthiest men of the province--not a common experience of poor emigrant waifs, doubtless, but, on the other hand, by no means unprecedented. It must not be supposed that during all those years Jack forgot the scenes and people of the old land. On the contrary, the longer he absented himself from the old home the more firmly and tenderly did the old memories cling and cluster round his heart; and many a story and anecdote did he relate about these, especially during the Christmas season of each year, to his old master and to Nancy Briggs, in the log homestead of Ontario. Nancy was a waif, who had been sent out by the same thin little old lady who had sent Jack out. She was very pretty, and possessed of delightfully amiable domestic qualities. She grew up to be a very handsome girl, and was a very bright sunbeam in the homestead. But Jack did not fall in love with her. All unknown to himself his heart was pre-occupied. Neither did Nancy fall in love with Jack. All unwittingly she was reserving herself for another lot. Of course our hero corresponded diligently with the thin little old lady, and gladdened her heart by showing and expressing strong sympathy with the waifs of the great city; more than once, in his earlier letters, mentioning one named Bob Snobbins, about whose fate he felt some curiosity, but in regard to whose home, if such existed, he could give no information. Twice during those years Jack also wrote to the Grove family; but as he received no answer on either occasion, he concluded that the father must have been drowned, that old Nell was dead, and the family broken up. Need we add that the memory of his dear mother never faded or grew dim? But this was a sacred memory, in regard to which he opened his lips to no one. At last there came a day when John Matterby, being in the prime of life, with ample means and time to spare, set his heart on a holiday and a visit to the old country--the thin little old lady being yet alive. It was not so easy, however, for our hero to get away from home as one might imagine; for, besides being a farmer, he was manager of a branch bank, secretary to several philanthropic societies, superintendent of a Sunday-school, and, generally, a helper of, and sympathiser with, all who loved the Lord and sought to benefit their fellow-men. But, being a man of resolution, he cut the cords that attached him to these things, appointed Miss Briggs to superintend the Sunday-school in his absence, and set sail for England--not in a steamer, as most rich men would have done, but in a sailing ship, because the vessel happened to be bound for the port of Blackby, the home of his childhood. It was winter when he set sail, and the storms of winter were having high jinks and revels on the deep in the usual way at that season of the year. Jack's vessel weathered them all till it reached the shores of old England. Then the storm-fiend broke loose with unwonted fury, and, as if out of spite, cast the good ship on the rocks lying a little to the eastward of the port of Blackby. It was a tremendous storm! The oldest inhabitant of Blackby said, as well as his toothless gums would let him, that, "it wos the wust gale as had blow'd since he wos a leetle booy--an' that warn't yesterday--no, nor yet the day before!" The gale was at its height, in the grey of early morning, when the ship struck, and all the manhood of the port and neighbouring village were out to render aid, if possible, and to gaze and sympathise. But who could render aid to a vessel which was rolling on those black rocks in a caldron of white foam, with a hundred yards of swirling breakers that raged and roared like a thousand lions between it and the base of the cliffs? Even the noble lifeboat would have been useless in such a place. But hark! a cry is raised--the coastguardmen and the rocket! Yes, there is one hope for them yet--under God. Far below the men are seen staggering along over the shingle, with their life-saving apparatus in a hand-cart. Soon the tripod is set up, and the rocket is fired, but the line falls to leeward. Another is tried; it falls short. Still another--it goes far to windward. Again and again they try, but without success, until all their rockets are expended. But these bold men of the coastguard are not often or easily foiled. They send for more rockets to the next station. Meanwhile the terrible waves are doing their awful work, dashing the ship on the rocks as if she were a mere toy--as indeed she is, in their grasp. Can nothing be done? "She'll never hold together till the rockets come," said a young seaman stepping out from the crowd. "Here, let me have the line, and stand by to pay out." "Don't try it, lad, it'll be your death." The youth paid no regard to this advice. "A man can only die once," he remarked in a low voice, more as if speaking to himself than replying to the caution, while he quickly tied the end of the light rope round his waist and dashed into the sea. Oh! it is grand and heart-stirring to see a stalwart youth imperilling life and limb for the sake of others; to see a powerful swimmer breasting the billows with a fixed purpose to do or die. But it is terrible and spirit-crushing to see such a one tossed by the breakers as if he were a mere baby, and hurled back helpless on the sand. Twice did the young sailor dash in, and twice was he caught up like a cork and hurled back, while the people on shore, finding their remonstrances useless, began to talk of using force. The man's object was to dive _through_ the first wave. If he could manage this--and the second--the rest would not be beyond the power of a strong man. A third time he leaped into the rushing flood, and this time was successful. Soon he stood panting on the deck of the stranded vessel, almost unable to stand, and well he knew that there was not a moment to lose, for the ship was going to pieces! Jack Matterby, however, knew well what to do. He drew out the hawser of the rocket apparatus, fixed the various ropes, and signalled to those on shore to send out the sling life-buoy, and then the men of the coastguard began to haul the passengers and crew ashore, one at a time. The young sailor, recovering in a few minutes, lent a hand. Jack knew him the instant he heard his voice, but took no notice of him, for it was a stern matter of life or death with them all just then. When Jack and the captain stood at last awaiting their turn, and watching the last of the crew being dragged over the boiling surf, our hero turned suddenly, and, grasping the young sailor's hand with the grip of a vice, said, "God bless you, Natty Grove!" Nat gazed as if he had been stunned. "_Can_ it be?" he exclaimed. "We had thought you dead years ago!" "Thank God, I'm not only alive but hearty. Here comes the life-buoy. Your turn next. But one word before--old Nell; and--Nellie?" "Both well, and living with your mother--" "My--" Jack could not speak, a tremendous shock seemed to rend his heart. Young Grove felt that he had been too precipitate. "Your mother is alive, Jack, and--" He stopped, for the captain said quickly, "Now, then, get in. No time to lose." But Jack could not get in. If he had not been a strong man he must have fallen on the deck. As it was, he felt stunned and helpless. "Here, captain," cried Nat Grove, leaping into the life-buoy, "lift him into my arms. The ropes are strong enough for both." Scarce knowing what he did, Jack allowed himself to be half-lifted into the buoy, in which his old friend held him fast. A few minutes more, and they were dragged safely to land and the ringing cheers and congratulations of the assembled multitude. The captain came last, so that, when the ship finally went to pieces, not a human life was lost-- even the ship's cat was among the number of the saved, the captain having carried it ashore in his arms. Now, there are some scenes in this life which will not bear description in detail. Such was the meeting of our hero with his long-lost mother. We refrain from lifting the curtain here. But there is no reason why we should not re-introduce the joyful and grateful pair at a later period of that same eventful day, when, seated together by the bedside of old Nell, they recounted their experiences--yes, the same old woman, but thinner and wrinkleder, and smaller in every way; and the same bed, as far as appearance went, though softer and cosier, and bigger in all ways. On the other side of the bed sat the manly form of Natty Grove. But who is that fair girl with the curling golden hair, whose face exhibits one continuous blush, and whose entire body, soul and spirit is apparently enchained by an insignificant piece of needlework? Can that be Nellie Grove, whom we last saw with her eyes shut and her mouth open--howling? Yes, it is she, and--but let Mrs Matterby explain. "Now, Jack," said that lady in a firm tone, "it's of no use your asking question after question of every one in this way, and not even waiting for answers, and everybody speaking at once--" "Excuse me, dearest mother, Miss Nellie Grove has not yet spoken at all." "_Miss_ Nellie, indeed! Times are changed,"--murmured Natty, with a look of surprise. "Her not speaking proves her the wisest of us all," resumed the widow, looking at Old Nell, who with tremulous head nodded violent approval. You must know, old Nell had become as deaf as a post, and, being incapable of understanding anything, she gratified her natural amiability by approving of everything--at least everything that was uttered by speakers with a visible smile. When they spoke with gravity, old Nell shook her tremulous head, and put on a look of alarmingly solemn sympathy. On the present occasion, however, the antique old thing seemed to have been affected with some absolutely new, and evidently quaint, ideas, for she laughed frequently and immoderately, especially when she gazed hard at Jack Matterby after having looked long at Nellie Grove! "Now, Jack," resumed the widow for the fiftieth time, "you must know that after I lost you, and had given you up for dead, I came back here, feeling an intense longing to see once more the old home, and I began a school. In course of years God sent me prosperity, notwithstanding the murmurings of rebellion which rose in my heart when I thought of _you_. The school became so big that I had to take a new house--that in which you now sit--and sought about for a teacher to help me. Long before that time poor Ned Grove had been drowned at sea. Your old friend Natty there had become the first mate to a merchantman, and helped to support his grandmother. Nellie, whose education I had begun, as you know, when you were a boy, had grown into a remarkably clever and pretty girl, as, no doubt, you will admit. She had become a daily governess in the family of a gentleman who had come to live in the neighbourhood. Thus she was enabled to assist her brother in keeping up the old home, and took care of granny." At this point our hero, as he looked at the fair face and modest carriage of his old playmate heartily admitted, (to himself), that she was much more than "pretty," and felt that he now understood how a fisherman's daughter had, to his intense surprise, grown up with so much of gentle manners, and such soft lady-like hands. But he said never a word! "Most happily for me," continued Mrs Matterby, "Nellie lost her situation at the time I speak of, owing to the death of her employer. Thus I had the chance of securing her at once. And now, here we have been together for some years, and I hope we may never part as long as we live. We had considerable difficulty in getting old Nell to quit the cottage and come here. Indeed, we should never have succeeded, I think, had it not been for Natty--" "That's true," interrupted Nat, with a laugh. "The dear old woman was too deaf to understand, and too obstinate to move: so one day I put the bed clothes over her head, gathered her and them up in my arms, and brought her up here bodily, very much as I carried _you_ ashore, Jack, in the life-buoy, without asking leave. And she has been content and happy ever since." What more of this tale there is to tell shall be told, reader, by excerpts from our hero's Christmas letter to thin little Mrs Seaford, as follows:-- "Pardon my seeming neglect, dear old friend. I meant to have run up to town to see you the instant I set foot in England, but you must admit that my dear, long-lost mother had prior claims. Pardon, also, my impudence in now asking you to come and see _me_. You _must_ come. I will take no denial, for I want you to rejoice at my wedding! Yes, as old Nell once said to me, `God sends us a blessing sometimes when we least expect it.' He has not only restored to me my mother, but has raised me from the lowest rung in the ladder to the very highest, and given me the sweetest, and most--. But enough. Come and see for yourself. Her name is Nellie. But I have more to astonish you with. Not only do I take Nellie back with me to my home in the new world, but I take my mother also, and Natty Grove, and _old Nell herself_! How we got her to understand what we want her to do, could not be told in less than four hundred pages of small type. Nat did it, by means of signs, symbols, and what _he_ styles facial-logarithms. At all events she has agreed to go, and we hope to set sail next June. Moreover, I expect to get _you_ to join us. Don't laugh. I mean it. There is good work to be done. Canada needs philanthropic Christians as well as England. "You will scarcely credit me when I say that I have become a match-maker--not one of those `little' ones, in whose welfare you are so much interested, but a real one. My deep design is upon your partner, Natty Grove. Yes, your _partner_--for were not _you_ the instrument used in rescuing my soul, and _he_ my body? so that you have been partners in this double rescue. Well, it is my intention to introduce Natty Grove to Nancy Briggs, and abide the result! Once on a time I had meant her for Bob Snobbins, but as you have failed to hunt him up, he must be left to suffer the consequences. D'you know I have quite a pathetic feeling of tenderness for the memory of that too sharp little boy. Little does he know how gladly I would give him the best coat in my possession--if I could only find him! "Now, dearest of old friends, I must stop. Nellie is sitting on one side of me, mother on the other, and old Nell in front--which will account to you, in some degree, for the madness of my condition. "Once more, in the hope of a joyful meeting, I wish you `a merry Christmas and a happy New Year.'" THE END. 
38431	----	[Illustration: "The bobsled bumped over these hammocks, gathering speed."] THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS SNOWBOUND HOW THEY WENT AWAY WHAT THEY DISCOVERED AND HOW IT ENDED BY GRACE BROOKS HILL Author of "The Corner House Girls," "The Corner House Girls on a Tour," Etc. _ILLUSTRATED BY THELMA GOOCH_ NEW YORK BARSE & HOPKINS PUBLISHERS BOOKS FOR GIRLS By Grace Brooks Hill The Corner House Girls Series _12mo. Cloth. Illustrated._ THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS AT SCHOOL THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS UNDER CANVAS THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS IN A PLAY THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS' ODD FIND THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS ON A TOUR THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS GROWING UP THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS SNOWBOUND BARSE & HOPKINS PUBLISHERS--NEW YORK Copyright, 1919, by Barse & Hopkins _The Corner House Girls Snowbound_ Printed in U. S. A. CONTENTS I--A Ghost and a Goat II--The Straw Ride III--Twins--And Trouble IV--Anticipations V--Merry Times VI--On the Wings of the Wind VII--The Scooter VIII--The Village on the Ice IX--A Cold Scent X--Into the Wilderness XI--Embers in the Grate XII--Mystery and Fun XIII--The Timber Cruiser XIV--By the Light of the Moon XV--A Variety of Happenings XVI--The Key XVII--All Down Hill XVIII--Figure It Out XIX--Sammy Takes the Bit in His Teeth XX--Following Another Trail XXI--Rowdy XXII--In the Cave XXIII--Anxiety XXIV--Rafe Is Cross XXV--Holidays--Conclusion ILLUSTRATIONS The bobsled bumped over these hummocks, gathering speed Even Ruth could scarcely keep a sober face He fairly dragged her from under the flapping sail The housekeeping arrangements of the cave were primitive THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS SNOWBOUND CHAPTER I A GHOST AND A GOAT There was a vast amount of tramping up and down stairs, and little feet, well shod, are noisy. This padding up and down was by the two flights of back stairs from the entry off the kitchen porch to the big heated room that was called by the older folks who lived in the old Corner House, "the nursery." "But it isn't a nursery," objected Dot Kenway, who really was not yet big enough to fit the name of "Dorothy." "We never had a nurse, did we, Tess? Ruthie helped bring us up after our own truly mamma died. And, then, 'nursery' sounds so _little_." "Just as though you were kids," put in Master Sammy Pinkney, who lived in the house across the street, and nearest, on Willow Street, from the Kenway sisters' beautiful home in Milton, but who felt that he, too, "belonged" in the old Corner House. "No. It should be called 'the playroom,'" agreed Tess, who was older than Dot, and considerably bigger, yet who no more fitted the name she was christened with than the fairylike Dot fitted hers. Nobody but Aunt Sarah Maltby--and she only when she was in a most severe mood--called the next-to-the-youngest Corner House girl "Theresa." It was Saturday morning, and it had begun to snow; at first in a desultory fashion before Tess and Dot--or even Sammy Pinkney--were out of bed. Of course, they had hailed the fleecy, drifting snow with delight; it looked to be the first real snowstorm of the season. But by the time breakfast was well over (and breakfast on Saturday morning at the old Corner House was a "movable feast," for the Kenway sisters did not all get up so promptly as they did on school days) Sammy Pinkney waded almost to the top of his rubber boots in coming from his house to play with the two younger Kenway sisters. Of course, Sammy had picked out the deepest places to wade in; but the snow really was gathering very fast. Mrs. MacCall, the Kenways' dear friend and housekeeper, declared that it was gathering and drifting as fast as ever she had seen it as a child "at home in the Hielands," as she expressed it. "'Tis stay-in-the-hoose weather," the old Scotch woman declared. "Roughs and toughs, like this Sammy Pinkney boy, can roll in the snow like porpoises in the sea; but little girls would much better stay indoor and dance 'Katie Beardie.'" "Oh, Mrs. Mac!" cried Dot, "what is 'dancing Katie Beardie'?" So the housekeeper stopped long enough in her oversight of Linda, the Finnish girl, to repeat the old rhyme one hears to this day amid the clatter of little clogs upon the pavements of Edinburgh. "'Katie Beardie had a grice, It could skate upon the ice; Wasna that a dainty grice? Dance, Katie Beardie! Katie Beardie had a hen, Cackled but and cackled ben; Wasna that a dainty hen? Dance, Katie Beardie!' And you little ones have been 'cackling but and cackling ben' ever since breakfast time. Do, children, go upstairs, like good bairns, and stay awhile." Tess and Dot understood a good deal of Mrs. MacCall's Scotch, for they heard it daily. But now she had to explain that a "grice" was a pig and that "but" and "ben" meant in and out. But even Sammy knew how to "count out" in Scotch, for they had long since learned Mrs. MacCall's doggerel for games. Now they played hide and seek, using one of the counting-out rhymes the housekeeper had taught them: Eenerty, feenerty, fickerty, faig, Ell, dell, domen, aig. Irky, birky, story, rock, Ann, tan, touzelt Jock. And then Sammy disappeared! It was Dot's turn to be "it," and she counted one hundred five times by the method approved, saying very rapidly: "Ten, ten, double-ten, forty-five and fifteen!" Then she began to hunt. She found Tess in the wardrobe in the hall which led to the other ell of the big house. But Sammy! Why, it was just as though he had flown right out of existence! Tess was soon curious, too, and aided her sister in the search, and they hunted the three floors of the old Corner House, and it did not seem as though any small boy could be small enough to hide in half the places into which the girls looked for Sammy Pinkney! Dot was a persistent and faithful searcher after more things than one. If there was anything she really wanted, or wanted to know, she always stuck to it until she had accomplished her end--or driven everybody else in the house, as Agnes said, into spasms. With her Alice-doll hugged in the crook of one arm--the Alice-doll was her chiefest treasure--Dot hunted high and low for the elusive Sammy Pinkney. Of course, occasional household happenings interfered with the search; but Dot took up the quest again as soon as these little happenings were over, for Sammy still remained in hiding. For instance, Alfredia Blossom and one of her brothers came with the family wash in a big basket with which they had struggled through the snowdrifts. Of course they had to be taken into the kitchen and warmed and fed on seed cookies. The little boy began to play with Mainsheet, one of the cats, but Alfredia, the little girls took upstairs with them in their continued hunt for Sammy. "Wha' fur all dis traipsin' an' traipsin' up dese stairs?" demanded a deep and unctuous voice from the dark end of the hall where the uncarpeted stairs rose to the garret landing. "Oh, Uncle Rufus!" chorused the little white girls, and: "Howdy, Gran'pop?" said Alfredia, her face one broad grin. "Well, if dat ain' de beatenes'!" declared the aged negro who was the Kenways' man-of-all-work. "Heah you chillen is behin' me, an' I sho' thought yo' all mus' be on ahaid of me. I sho' did!" "Why, no, Uncle Rufus; _here_ we are," said Dot. "I see yo' is, honey. I see yo'," he returned, chuckling gleefully. "How's Pechunia, Alfredia? Spry?" "Yes, sir," said his grandchild, bobbing her head on which the tightly braided "pigtails" stood out like the rays of a very black sun. "Mammy's all right." "But who's been trackin' up all dese stairs, if 'twasn't yo' chillen?" demanded the negro, returning to the source of his complaint. "Snow jes' eberywhere! Wha's dat Sam Pinkney?" he added suddenly. "We don't know, Uncle Rufus," said Tess slowly. "Sammy went and hid from us, and we can't find him," explained Dot. Uncle Rufus pointed a gnarled finger dramatically at a blob of snow on the carpet at the foot of the garret stairs. "Dah he is!" he exclaimed. "Oh!" gasped Tess. "Where, Uncle Rufus?" begged Dorothy, somewhat startled. "Fo' de lan's sake!" murmured Alfredia, her eyes shining. "He mus' a done melted most away." "Dah's his feetsteps, chillen," declared the old man. "An' dey come all de way up de two flights from de back do'. I been gadderin' up lumps o' snow in dis here shovel--" He halted with a sharp intake of breath, and raised his head to look up the garret stairs. It was very dark up there, for the door that opened into the great, open room extending the full width of the main part of the old Corner House was closed. In winter the children seldom went up there to play; and Uncle Rufus never mounted to the garret at all if he could help it. "What's dat?" he suddenly whispered. "Tap, tap, tap; tap, tap, tap!" went the sound that had caught the old man's attention. It receded, then drew nearer, then receded. Uncle Rufus turned a face that had suddenly become gray toward the three little girls. "Dat's--dat's de same noise used to be up in dat garret befo' your Unc' Stower die, chillen. Ma mercy me!" "Oh!" squealed Alfredia, turning to run. "Dat's de garret ghos'! I's heard ma mammy tell 'bout dat ol' ha'nt." But Tess seized her and would not let her go. "That is perfect nonsense, Alfredia!" she said very sternly. "There is no such thing as a ghost." "Don' you be too uppity, chile!" murmured Uncle Rufus. "A ghost!" cried Dot, coming nearer to the attic stairs. "Oh, my! What I thought was a goat when I was a very little girl? I remember!" "Dat's jest de same noise," murmured Uncle Rufus, as the tapping sound was repeated. "But Ruthie laid that old ghost," said Tess with scorn. "And it wasn't anything--much. But this--" Dot, who had examined the wet marks and lumps of snow on the lower treads of the garret stairs, suddenly squealed: "Oh, looky here! 'Tisn't a ghost, but 'tis a goat! Those are Billy Bumps' footsteps! Of course they are!" "Sammy Pinkney!" was the chorus of voices, even Uncle Rufus joining in. Then he added: "Dat boy is de beatenes'! How come he make dat goat climb all dese stairs?" "Why," said Dot, "Billy Bumps can climb right up on the roof of the hen houses. He can climb just like a--a--well, just like a goat! Coming upstairs isn't anything hard for Billy Bumps." "Sammy Pinkney, you come down from there with that goat!" commanded Tess sternly. "What do you suppose Ruthie or Mrs. MacCall will say?" The door swung open above, and the wan daylight which entered by the small garret windows revealed Sammy Pinkney, plump, sturdy and freckled, stooping to look down at the startled group at the top of the stairs. "I spy Sammy!" cried Dot shrilly, just remembering that they were playing hide and seek--or had been. But somebody else spied Sammy at that moment, too. The mischievous boy had led Billy Bumps, the goat, up three long flights of stairs and turned him loose to go tap, tap, tapping about the bare attic floor on his hard little hoofs. Billy spied Sammy as the youth stooped to grin down the stairs at Uncle Rufus and the little girls. Billy had a hair-trigger temper. He did not recognize Sammy from the rear, and he instantly charged. Just as Sammy was going to tell those below how happy he was because he had startled them, Billy Bumps dashed out of the garret and butted the unsuspicious boy. Sammy sailed right into the air, arms and legs spread like a jumping frog, and dived down the stairway, while Billy stood blatting and shaking his horns at the head of the flight. CHAPTER II THE STRAW RIDE Uncle Rufus and Alfredia had fallen back from the foot of the stairs under the impression that it was the garret ghost, rather than the garret goat, that was charging the mischievous Sammy Pinkney. And the two smallest Corner House girls were much too small to catch Sammy in full flight. So it certainly would have gone hard with that youngster had not other and more able hands intervened. There was a shout from behind Uncle Rufus, an echoing bark, and a lean boy with a big dog dashed into the forefront of this exciting adventure. The boy, if tall and slender, was muscular enough. Indeed, Neale O'Neil was a trained athlete, having begun his training very young indeed with his uncle, Mr. William Sorber, of Twomley and Sorber's Herculean Circus and Menagerie. As the big Newfoundland dog charged upstairs to hold back the goat, Neale, with outspread arms, met Sammy in mid-air. Neale staggered back, clutching the small boy, and finally tripped and fell on the carpet of the hall. But he was not hurt, nor was Sammy. "Fo' de good lan' sake!" gasped Uncle Rufus, "what is we a-comin' to? A goat in de attic, an'--Tessie! yo' call off dat dog or he'll eat Billy Bumps, complete an' a-plenty!" The big dog was barking vociferously, while the goat stamped his hoofs and shook his horns threateningly at the head of the flight of stairs. Tom Jonah and Billy Bumps never had been friends. Tess called the old dog down while Sammy and Neale O'Neil scrambled up from the hall floor. Two older girls appeared, running from the front of the house--a blonde beauty with fluffy, braided hair, and a more sedate brunette who was older than her sister by two years or more. "What _is_ the matter?" demanded the blonde girl. "If this Corner House isn't the noisiest place in Milton--Ruth, see that goat!" "Well, Sammy!" exclaimed Ruth Kenway, severely, "why didn't you bring Scalawag, the pony, into the house as well? That goat!" "I was goin' to," confessed the rather abashed Sammy. "But I didn't have time." "Don't you ever do such a thing again, Sammy Pinkney!" ordered Ruth, severely. She had to be severe. Otherwise the younger ones would have completely overrun the old Corner House and made it unlivable for more sedate and quiet folk. The responsibility for the welfare of her three sisters and that of Aunt Sarah Maltby, who lived with them, had early fallen on Ruth Kenway's shoulders. In a much larger city than Milton the Kenways had lived in a very poor tenement and had had a hard struggle to get along on a small pension, their mother and father both being dead, until Mr. Howbridge, administrator of Uncle Peter Stower's estate, had looked the sisters up. At that time there was some uncertainty as to whom the old Corner House, standing opposite the Parade Ground in Milton, and the rest of the Stower property belonged; for Uncle Peter Stower had died, and his will could not be found. That there was a will, Mr. Howbridge knew, for he had drawn it for the miserly old man who had lived alone with his colored servant, Uncle Rufus, in the old Corner House for so long. The surrogate, however, finally allowed the guardian of the Kenway sisters to place them in the roomy old house, with their aunt and with Mrs. MacCall as housekeeper, while the court tangle was straightened out. This last was satisfactorily arranged, as related in the first book of this series, entitled "The Corner House Girls." [Illustration: "Even Ruth could scarcely keep a sober face."] In successive volumes are related in detail the adventures of the four sisters and their friends since their establishment in the old Corner House, telling of their adventures at school, in a summer camp at the seashore, of their taking part in a school play, of the odd find made in the old Corner House garret, and on an automobile tour through the State. In that sixth volume of the series the Kenways met Luke and Cecile Shepard, brother and sister, who prove to be delightful friends, especially to Ruth. Agnes, the second Kenway, already had a faithful chum and companion in Neale O'Neil. But in Luke, Ruth found a most charming acquaintance, and in the seventh book, "The Corner House Girls Growing Up," the friendship of Ruth and Luke is cemented by a series of incidents that try both of their characters. Of course, each month saw the four sisters that many days older. They were actually growing up--"growing out of aye ken!" Mrs. MacCall often said. Just the same, they still liked fun and frolic and, especially the younger ones, were just as likely to play pranks as ever. Even Ruth could scarcely keep a sober face when she looked now from Sammy Pinkney's rueful countenance to the goat shaking his head at the top of the garret stairs. "Now," she said as severely as possible, "I would like to know how you intend to get him down again." "More than that, Sam," said Neale: "How did you ever get him up there?" "Oh, that was easy!" declared the small boy, his confident grin returning to his freckled face. "I got a stick and tied to it one of those old cabbages that Uncle Rufus has got packed away under the shed. Then," went on the inventive genius, "I went behind Billy and pushed, holding the cabbage ahead of his nose. Say, that goat would walk up the side of a house, let alone three flights of stairs, for a cabbage!" "Can you beat him?" murmured Neale, vastly delighted by this confession. "I feel sometimes as though I would like to beat him," answered Ruth. "See if you can get Billy Bumps out to his proper quarters, Neale." But that was not easy, and it took an hour's work and finally the tying of Billy Bumps "hand and foot" before the sturdy goat was overcome and returned to his pen. By this time, however, the snow had stopped. Lunch was served in the big Corner House dining-room, Neale and Sammy being guests. It was an hilarious meal, of course. With such a crowd of young folks about the table--and on Saturday, too!--a sedate time was not possible. But Ruth tried to keep the younger ones from talking too loud or being too careless in their table manners. Aunt Sarah Maltby, sitting at one end of the table, shook her head solemnly about midway of the meal at Sammy Pinkney. "Young man," she said in her severest way, "what do you suppose will become of you? You are the most mischievous boy I have ever seen--and I have seen a good many in my time." "Yes'm," said Sammy, hanging his head, for he was afraid of Aunt Sarah. "You should think of the future," admonished the old lady. "There is something besides fun in this world." "Yes'm," again came from the abashed, if not repentant, Sammy. "Think what you might make of yourself, young man, if you desired. Do you realize that every boy born in this country has a chance to be president?" "Huh!" ejaculated Sammy, suddenly looking up. "Be president, Miss Maltby? Huh! I tell you what: I'll sell you my chance for a quarter." The irrepressible laugh from the other young folks that followed might have offended Aunt Sarah had not the front door bell rung at that very moment. Agnes, who was nearest, and much quicker than rheumatic Uncle Rufus, ran to answer the summons. "Oh, Ruthie!" her clear voice instantly sounded as far as the dining-room, "here's Mr. Howbridge's man, and he's got a great big sleigh at the gate, and--Why, there's Mr. Howbridge himself!" Not only the oldest Kenway ran to join her sister at the door, but all the other young folks trooped out. They forgot their plates at the announcement of the appearance of the girls' guardian. "Did you e'er see such bairns before?" demanded the housekeeper of Aunt Sarah. "They have neither appetite nor manners on a Saturday!" In the big front hall the girls and boys were delightedly greeting Mr. Howbridge, while the coach-man plowed back to the gate through the snow to hold the frisky pair of bay horses harnessed to the big pung. Bits of straw clung to the lawyer's clothing, and he was rosy and smiling. "I did not know but what you would already be out, young folks," Mr. Howbridge announced. "Although I had John harness up just as soon as the weather broke." "Oh, Mr. Howbridge," Ruth said, remembering her "manners" after all, "won't you come in?" "Won't you come out, Miss Ruth?" responded the man, laughing. "Oh! _Oh!_ OH!" cried Tess, in crescendo, peering out of the open door. "That sleigh of Mr. Howbridge's is full of straw." "A straw-ride!" gasped Agnes, clasping her hands. "Oh, Mr. Howbridge! have you come to take us out?" "Of course. All of you. The more the merrier," said their guardian, who was very fond indeed of his wards and their young friends, and missed no chance to give them pleasure. At that statement there was a perfect rout while the young people ran for their wraps and overshoes. The dessert was forgotten, although it was Mrs. MacCall's famous "whangdoodle pudding and lallygag sauce." "Never mind the eats now, Mrs. Mac!" cried Agnes, struggling into her warm coat. "Have an extra big dinner. We'll come home tonight as hungry as crows--see if we don't!" In ten minutes the whole party, the four Kenway sisters, Neale, and Sammy, and Tom Jonah, had tumbled into the body of the big sleigh which was so heaped with clean straw that they burrowed right into it just like mice! The big bay horses were eager to start, and tossed their heads and made the little silver bells on the harness jingle to a merry tune indeed. Mr. Howbridge and Ruth sat up on the wide front seat--the only seat--with the driver, John. The guardian wished to talk in private with the oldest Kenway girl. He considered her a very bright girl, with a very well-balanced mind. While the younger folks shouted and joked and snowballed each other as the horses sped along the almost unbroken track, Ruth and her guardian were quite seriously engaged in conversation. "I want to get some good advice from you, Miss Ruth Kenway," said the lawyer, smiling sideways at her. "I know that you have an abundant supply." "You are a flatterer," declared the girl, her eyes sparkling nevertheless. She was always proud to be taken into his confidence. "Is it something about the estate?" "No, my dear. Nothing about the Stower estate." "I was afraid we might be spending too much money," said the girl, laughing. "You know, I do think we are extravagant." "Not in your personal expenditures," answered their guardian. "Only in the Kenways' charities do I sometimes feel like putting on the brake. But this," he added, "is something different." "What is it, Mr. Howbridge? I am sure I shall be glad to help you if I can," Ruth said earnestly. "Well, now, Miss Ruth," said the lawyer, a quizzical smile wreathing his lips. "What would you do, for instance, if a pair of twins had been left to you?" CHAPTER III TWINS--AND TROUBLE Sometimes Mr. Howbridge called her "Martha," because she was so cumbered with family cares. Sometimes he called her "Minerva," and acclaimed her to be wise. He so frequently joked with her in this way that Ruth Kenway was not at all sure the lawyer was in earnest on this occasion. "Twins?" she repeated, smiling up at him over the top of her muff. "Twin _what_? Twin puppies, or kittens, or even fish? I suppose there are twin fish?" "You joke me, and I am serious," he said, while the younger ones shouted and sang amid the straw behind. "I really have had a pair of twins given to me. I am their guardian, the administrator of their estate, just as I was made administrator of the Stower estate and guardian of you girls. It is no joke, I assure you," and he finished rather ruefully. "Goodness me! you don't mean it?" cried Ruth. "Yes, I do. I mean it very much. I do, indeed, think it rather mean. If all my friends who die and go to a better world leave me their children to take care of, I shall be in a worse pickle than the Little Old Woman Who Lived in the Shoe." "Like old Mrs. Bobster at Pleasant Cove," laughed Ruth. "But even she did not have twins. And if your new family is as troublesome as the Corner House crowd, what will you ever do?" "That is what I am asking you, Minerva," he said seriously. "What would you do if you had had twins left to you?" "What are they, Mr. Howbridge? Boys or girls?" "Both." "Both? Oh! You mean one is a boy and one is a girl." "Ralph and Rowena Birdsall." "That is better than having two of either sex, I should say," Ruth observed with more gravity. "They sort of--sort of balance each other." "I guess they are 'some kids,' as our friend Neale would say," suddenly laughed Mr. Howbridge. "I knew Birdsall very well. I might say we were very close friends, both socially and in business. Poor fellow! The last two years of his life were very sad indeed." "Has he left plenty for the twins?" asked Ruth. "More than 'plenty,'" said Mr. Howbridge. "He was very, very wealthy. Ralph and Rowena will come into very large fortunes when they are of age. The money is well invested." "Then you need not worry about that," Ruth said sedately. "No? The more money, the more worry for the administrator and guardian," Mr. Howbridge said succinctly. "I can assure you that is true. But it is what to do for, and with, the twins themselves that bothers me most just at first." "How old are they?" "About twelve. Nice age! All legs and arms and imagination." "Dear me! Do you know them well?" "Haven't seen them since they were two little red mites in their cradle." "Then you merely imagine they are so very terrible." "I heard enough about them from Frank, Frank Birdsall. That was their father's name. He used to be very fond of talking about them. Proud as Lucifer, he was, of Ralph and Rowena. And his wife--" "Oh! Of course, the mother is dead, too." "That was what killed Frank, I verily believe," said Mr. Howbridge gravely. "She died two years ago at a camp he owned up near the Canadian border. Red Deer Lodge it is called. Mrs. Birdsall was flung from her horse. "It crushed her husband. He brought the children away from there (they had spent much of their time up in the wilderness, for they loved it) and never went back again. "That's another piece of work he's left me. Because he did not want ever to see the Lodge again, I have to go up there--now, in mid-winter--and attend to something that's been hanging fire too long already. It is a nuisance." "A camp in the woods in mid-winter must be an enjoyable place," Ruth said thoughtfully. "You can take your guns; and you can snowshoe; can skate; maybe--" "And, as our good Mrs. Mac would say, eat fried snowballs and icicle soup!" finished Mr. Howbridge. "Ugh! It's a fine place, Red Deer Lodge, but I shall take only my man and we'll have to depend on some old guide or trapper to do for us. No, I look forward to no pleasant time at Red Deer Lodge, I assure you." This conversation was not carried on in sequence. The party in the body of the sleigh frequently interrupted. Sammy managed to dance all over the sleigh, and half a dozen times he was on the point of pitching out into the drifts. "Let him!" snapped Agnes at last. "Let him be buried in the snow, and we won't stop for him--not until we come back." "The poor kid would be an icicle then," objected Neale O'Neil. "And he'd miss the nice hot chocolate and buns Mr. Howbridge says we are to have at Crowder's Inn," put in Tess, the thoughtful. Dot squeezed her Alice-doll close to her little bosom and made up her mind that that precious possession should not pop out by accident into a drift and be left behind. "I don't suppose I should have brought her," Dot confessed to Tess. "I should have given the sailor-boy baby an airing instead." "Oh, yes! Nosmo King Kenway," murmured her sister. Dot hurried on, ignoring the suggestive name of the sailor-boy baby who had been inadvertently christened after a sign on a barn door. "You know," the smallest Corner House girl said, "Alice's complexion is so delicate. Of course, Neale had her all made over in the doll's hospital; but I am always afraid that the wind will crack it." "I wouldn't worry so about her, Dot," advised Tess. "You would if Alice were your baby," declared Dot. "And you know she is delicate. She's never been the same since Lillie Treble buried her with the dried apples in our back yard." Meanwhile Neale O'Neil had caught a sentence or two flung back by the wind from the high front seat. He bobbed up between Mr. Howbridge and Ruth. "What's all this about red deer, and snowshoes, and eating icicle soup?" he asked. "Sounds awfully interesting. Are you planning to go hunting, Mr. Howbridge?" "I've got to go to a hunting lodge, clear up state, my boy," said the lawyer. "And I dread it just as much as you young folks would enjoy it." "It would be fine, I think," murmured Ruth. "Oh, bully!" shouted Agnes, suddenly standing up in the straw and clinging to Neale for support. "To a regular, sure-enough winter camp? Then Carrie and Lucy Poole, and Trix Severn can't crow over us any more! They went, last year, to Letterbeg Camp, up beyond Hoosac." "But, goodness, Agnes, wait till we are asked, do!" admonished Ruth. "I never saw or heard of such precipitate young ones." "Young one yourself!" grumbled Agnes. "It's my fault," said the good-natured Neale. "Aggie misunderstood what I said." "No need to worry about it," said Mr. Howbridge cheerfully. "If you young folks really want to come with me--" "Oh, Mr. Howbridge!" exclaimed Ruth, in a tone that showed she, herself, had been much taken with the idea. "Why, I hate to go alone. I can send up some servants to open the Lodge. Frank was always begging me to make use of it. After Mrs. Birdsall was killed he never would go near the place, as I said. Though I believe the twins, Ralph and Rowena, have been up there with a caretaker and a governess, or somebody to look out for them." "Where are they now?" asked Ruth. "The Birdsall place in Arlington was closed soon after Frank died, three months ago. His old butler and his wife live in a nice home near by, and they have the children and their governess with them." "With just servants?" murmured Ruth. "They are very suitable people," declared Mr. Howbridge, as though he felt the faint criticism in the girl's words. "I went myself and saw Rodgers and Mrs. Rodgers. The governess and the twins were out for a drive, so I did not see them." "The poor things!" sighed Ruth. "My!" exclaimed Agnes, "those children are worse off than we Kenways were. They haven't got anybody like Ruth, Mr. Howbridge." "That is true," agreed the lawyer. "But what am I to do? Separate them? Send them to boarding school--the boy one way and the girl another?" "Gee! that would be tough, Mr. Howbridge," declared Neale O'Neil, with considerable feeling for the unfortunate twins. "I don't see what I'm to do," complained the lawyer. "They should have a real home," Ruth stated, with some severity. "Sending them to boarding school is dodging the issue. So is leaving them wholly in the care of servants." "Who would take in two tearing and wearing children, twelve years old?" demanded Mr. Howbridge, on the defensive. "Perhaps the fault does go back to the parents--to the father, at least," admitted Ruth. "He should have made provision for his children before he died." "I suppose you think the duty devolves upon me," said Mr. Howbridge, rather grumpily. "Should I take them into my house? Should I break up the habits of years for two half-wild children?" "Oh, I don't know that," Ruth told him brightly. "It's one of those things one must decide for oneself, isn't it?" There was not much more said after that during the ride about the twins, Ralph and Rowena Birdsall. But Red Deer Lodge! The idea of going to a real camp in winter was taken up by everybody in the party, for even Tom Jonah barked. In the depths of the wilderness, with wild woods, and wild animals, and perhaps wild men! (this in Sammy's mind) all about the Lodge! The freckled boy considered the idea even superior to his long cherished desire to run away to be a pirate. "I'll get me a bow-arrer and learn to shoot before we start," Sammy declared, deluding himself, as he always did, with the idea that he was to be a member of the party in any case. "But you don't even know if your mother'll let you go, Sammy Pinkney!" cried Tess. "She'll let me go if Aggie says I may," declared Sammy. "I can, can't I, Aggie?" grabbing her by her plaid skirt and almost pulling her over backwards. "Stop! You can can that!" declared the next-to-the-oldest Corner House girl slangily. "What do you think I am--a bell rope, that you yank me that way?" "I can go to that Red Deer Lodge, can't I?" insisted the youngster. "You can start right now, for all I care," said Agnes, rather grumpily, and giving Sammy no further attention. But that was enough for Sammy Pinkney. He considered that he had a particular invitation to accompany the party into the woods, and he would tell his mother so when he reached home. But Dot began to be worried. "Just see here, Tess Kenway!" she exclaimed suddenly. "Do you suppose my Alice-doll--or any of the other dollies--can stand it?" "Stand what?" her sister, quite excited, asked. "Living in tents in winter?" "In what tents?" asked the amazed Tess. "Up there at Red Darling Camp--" "Red _Deer_!" "Well, I knew it was some nice word," Dot, undisturbed, said. "But Alice is so delicate." "Why, Dot Kenway! we won't have to live in tents," said Tess. "We did in that other camp we went to," said the smaller girl. "Don't you 'member? And the tent 'most blowed over one night, and you and I and Tom Jonah went sailing in a boat? And that clam man--" "But, Dot!" cried Tess, "that was a summer camp. This is a winter one. And it's all made of logs, and there are doors and windows and fireplaces and--and everything!" "Oh!" murmured Dot. "I wondered how they'd keep Jack Frost out. And he's stinging my ears right now, Tess Kenway." The roadside inn was in sight now, and presently the big sleigh pulled up before it with the bells jangling and the horses steaming, as Dot remarked, "just as though they had boiling water in 'em and the smoke was leaking out." The whole party ran into the grillroom and chased Jack Frost away with hot chocolate and cakes. There the idea of going to Red Deer Lodge for the Christmas holidays was well thrashed out. "Of course, I will send up my own servants and supplies. Being administrator of the estate, there will be no question of my using the Lodge as I see fit," Mr. Howbridge said cheerfully. "And I shall be delighted to have you young folks with me. "I am really going to confer with an old timber cruiser about the standing timber contracted for by the Neven Lumber Company before Frank Birdsall died. This timber cruiser--" "It sounds like a sea-story!" interrupted Agnes, roguishly. "What is a timber cruiser?" demanded Ruth, quite as puzzled as her sister. "It is not a 'what' but a 'who,'" laughed Mr. Howbridge. "In his way, Ike M'Graw is quite a famous character up there. A timber cruiser is a man who knows timber so well that just by walking through a wood lot and looking he can number and mark down the trees that are sound and will make good timber. "Ike has written me through a friend (for the old man cannot use a pen himself, save to make his cross) that he has been over the entire Birdsall estate and that his figures and the figures of the Nevens people are too far apart. I fear that the lumber company is trying to put something over on me, and as administrator of the estate I must look out for the twins' interests." "You are more careful of their money, Mr. Howbridge, than you are of the twins themselves, are you not?" Ruth suggested, in a low voice. "Now, don't tell me that!" he cried. "I really cannot take those children into my house." "Well, you know," she told him, smiling, "you brought this on yourself by asking my advice. And you intend to fill that Lodge up there with us 'young ones.'" "But I shall have you to manage for me, Miss Ruth," declared the lawyer. "That is different." "Perhaps we might take the twins along with us, and you'd get used to them," Ruth said. "You say they like it up there in the wilderness." "Frank said they were crazy about it." "Well?" "You don't know what you are letting yourselves in for. Ralph and Rowena are young savages." "Can't be much worse than Sammy, yonder," chuckled Neale, who, with Agnes, was much interested in this part of the planning. "Oh, Ruthie!" exclaimed the second Kenway sister suddenly, clasping her hands. "There's Cecile and Luke!" "Where--what--?" "I mean we invited them to come to the Corner House for the holidays." "Ah-ha!" exclaimed Mr. Howbridge promptly. "The Shepards? Of course! I had already included them--in my mind." "Mr. Howbridge! It will be more than a party. It will be a convention," gasped Ruth. "It's such a lonely place that we'll need a big crowd to make it worth while going at all," the lawyer laughed. "Yes. Cecile and Luke are invited. I will have them written to at once--in addition to your own invitation to them, Miss Ruth." "Dear me! you are just the best guardian, Mr. Howbridge," sighed Agnes ecstatically. "And I think," Ruth added, "that you ought to think seriously of taking the Birdsall twins with us." That was not decided at that time, however. And when the party got back to the old Corner House, just across from the Parade Ground at the head of Main Street, Mr. Howbridge was met with a piece of news that shocked him much more than had the thought of the twins making their home with him in his quiet bachelor residence. A clerk from the lawyer's office awaited Mr. Howbridge. There was a telegram from Rodgers, the Birdsalls' ex-butler. It read: "Ralph and Rowena away since yesterday noon. Hospitals searched. Cannot have pond dragged. Two feet of ice. Wire instructions. --Rodgers." CHAPTER IV ANTICIPATIONS Mr. Howbridge, before he hurried away to his office, asked Ruth: "What do you think of that? And you suggest my keeping those twins--those two wild youngsters--in my home!" "I will tell you what I think of that telegram," said the oldest Kenway girl, handing the yellow sheet of paper back to him. "I think that man Rodgers is not a fit person to have charge of the boy and girl." "Why not?" he asked in surprise. "Imagine thinking of dragging a pond in mid-winter--or at any other time of the year--for two healthy children! First idea the man seems to have. I guess the twins had reason for running away." "Hear! Hear!" cried Agnes, who deliberately listened. "Why, they have known Rodgers all their lives!" "Perhaps that is why they have run away," said Ruth, smiling. "Rodgers sounds to me--from his telegram--as though he had one awful lack." "You frighten me. What lack?" "Lack of a sense of humor. And that is fatal in the character of anybody who has a pair of twins on his hands." Mr. Howbridge threw up his own hands in amazement. "I must lack that myself," he said. "I see nothing funny, at least, in the idea of having Ralph and Rowena Birdsall in my house." "It helps," said Ruth. "A sense of humor is what has kept me going all these years," she added demurely. "If you think a pair of twins can be compared to Tess and Dot and Sammy Pinkney--to say nothing of Aggie and Neale--" "Oh! Oh!" shouted the two latter in chorus. "You have a mean mind, Ruthie Kenway," declared the blonde beauty. "I knew I wasn't much liked," admitted Neale O'Neil. "But that is the unkindest cut of all." "You have had experience, I grant you," said Mr. Howbridge, about to take his departure. "But I foresee much trouble in the case of these Birdsall twins." And he was a true prophet there. The twins had utterly disappeared. The Arlington police--indeed, all the county officers together--could find no trace of the orphaned brother and sister. Mr. Howbridge put private detectives on the case. The twins seemed to have disappeared as utterly as though they really were under the two feet of ice on Arlington Pond. The lawyer searched personally, advertised in the newspapers, and even offered a reward for the apprehension of the children. A fortnight passed without success. The governess, Miss Mason, was discharged, for it seemed unnecessary to pay her salary when there were no children for her to teach. Rodgers and his wife could give no aid in the search. They were rather relieved, if the truth were told, to be free of the twins. "Master Ralph was hard enough to get along with," the ex-butler admitted. "But Miss Rowena was worse. They wanted to go back into their own house to live. They could not understand why it was shut up, sir," and the old serving man shook his head. "They seemed to have taken a dislike to you, sir," he added to Mr. Howbridge. "They said you 'hadn't any right to boss.' That is the way they put it." "But I never even saw them," returned the lawyer. "I didn't try 'to boss' them." "Well, you know, sir," Rodgers explained, "I had to give 'em reasons for things. You have to with children like Master Ralph and Miss Rowena. So I had to tell 'em you said they were to do this and that." "Oh! Ah! I see!" muttered the guardian. He began to believe that perhaps Ruth Kenway was right. He should have taken more of a personal interest in Ralph and Rowena. They had evidently gained from the ex-butler an entirely wrong impression of what a guardian was. But the disappearance of the Birdsall twins did not make any change in the plans for the mid-winter visit to Red Deer Lodge. Mr. Howbridge had to go there in any case, and he would not disappoint the Kenways and their friends. As it chanced, full three weeks were given the Milton schools at the Christmas Holiday time. There were repairs to make in the heating arrangements of both high and grammar school buildings. The schools would close the week before Christmas and not open again until the week following New Year's Day. If Sammy Pinkney had had his way, the schools would never have opened again! "I don't see what they have to learn you things for, anyway," complained the youngster. "You can find things out for yourself." "That's rather an expensive way to learn, I've always heard," said Ruth, admonishingly. "Huh!" grumbled Sammy, "teachers don't know much, anyway. Look! There's what Miss Grimsby told us in physics the other day--all about what you're made of, and how you're made, and the names you can call yourself--if you want to. "You know: Your legs and arms are _limbs_--and all that. She told us the middle part of our bodies is the _trunk_, and she asked us all if we understood that. Some said 'yes,' and some didn't say nothing," went on the excited boy. "'Don't you know the middle of the body is the trunk?' she asked Patsy Roach. And what do you suppose he told Miss Grimsby?" "I can't imagine," said Agnes, for this was in the evening and the young people were gathered about the sitting-room table with their lesson books. "He told her: 'You ought to go to the circus, Miss Grimsby, and see the elephant,'" giggled Sammy. "And I guess Patsy was right. Huh! _Trunk!_" he added with scorn. "Association of ideas," chuckled Neale O'Neil, who was likewise present as usual during home study hour. "I heard that one of the kids in Dot's grade gave Miss Andrews an extremely bright answer the other day." "What was that, Neale?" asked Agnes, who would rather talk than study at any time. "History. Miss Andrews asked one little girl who discovered America, and the answer was, 'Ohio'!" "Oh! Oh!" murmured Agnes, while even Ruth smiled. "Yes," chuckled Neale. "Miss Andrews said, 'No; Columbus discovered America,' and the kid said: 'Yes'm. That was his first name.'" "She got her geography and history mixed," said Ruth, smiling. "That was Sadie Goronofsky's half-sister, Becky," explained Dot. "She isn't very bright." "You bet she isn't bright!" snorted Sammy Pinkney. "Her pop's got a little tailor shop with another man down on Meadow Street, and they are always fighting." "Who are always fighting?" asked Neale quizzically. "Becky and her father or Becky and her father's partner?" "Smartie! Becky's pop and the other man," answered Sammy. "And their landlord was putting in a new store-front, and Becky's father put out a sign telling folks they were still working--_you_ know. Becky said it read: 'Business going on during altercations,' instead of 'alterations.' And 'altercations' means fights," concluded the wise Sammy. "Just see," remarked Ruth quietly, "how satisfied you children should be that you know so much more than your little mates. You so frequently bring home tales about them." "Aw, now, Ruth," mumbled Sammy, who was bright enough to note her characteristic criticism. "I would try," the oldest Kenway said admonishingly, "to bring home only the pleasant stories about my little school friends." "Oh! _I_ know a nice story about Allie Newman's little brother," declared Dot eagerly. "That little terror!" murmured Agnes. "He is one tough little kid," admitted Neale O'Neil, in an undertone. "What about the little Newman boy?" asked Ruth indulgently. "And then we must all study." "Why," said Dot, big-eyed and very much in earnest, "you know Robbie Newman doesn't go to school yet; and he's an awful trial to his mother." "That is gossip, Dot," Tess interposed severely. But the smallest Corner House girl was not to be derailed from the main line of her story, and went right on: "He was naughty the other day and his mamma told him she'd shut him up somewhere all by himself. 'If you do, Mamma,' he said, 'I'll just smash ev'rything in the room.'" "Oh-oo!" gasped Tess, proving herself to be quite as much interested in the "gossip" as the others around the evening lamp. "What a wicked boy!" "But he didn't smash anything," Dot was quick to explain. "For his mother put him right out in the henhouse." "The henhouse! Fancy!" said Agnes. "There wasn't anything for him to smash there," said Dot. "But when she had locked him in, Robbie put his head out of the little door where the hens go in and out, and he called after her: "'Mamma, you can lock me in here all you want to; but I won't lay any eggs!'" "I am not sure that it isn't gossip," chuckled Agnes, when the general laugh had subsided. "That will be all now," Ruth said with severity. "Study time is here." But there was another and more important subject in all their minds than either school happenings, the eccentricities of their friends, or the lesson books themselves. The holidays! The thought of going to Red Deer Lodge! A winter vacation in the deep woods, and to live in "picnic" fashion, as they supposed, lent a charm to the plan that delighted every member of the Corner House party. Ruth and Agnes wrote to the Shepards--to Cecile at home with her Aunt Lorena, and to Luke at college--and they were immediately enamored of the plan and returned enthusiastic acceptances of the invitation, thanking Mr. Howbridge, of course, as well. The lawyer was having a great deal to do at this time, and he came to the old Corner House more than once to talk about the Birdsall twins to Ruth and the others. As he said, it gave him comfort to talk over something he did not know anything about with the oldest Corner House sister. He sat one stormy day in the cozy sitting-room, with Dot and the Alice-doll on one knee and Tess and Almira, who was now a quite grown-up cat and had kittens of her own, on his other knee. All the Corner House cats were pets, no matter how grown-up they were. "It is worrying me a great deal, Ruthie," he said to the sympathetic girl. "Look at a day like this. We don't know where those poor children are. Rodgers says they could have had but little money. In fact, they scarcely knew what money was for, having always had everything needful supplied them." "Twelve-year-old children nowadays, Mr. Howbridge," said Ruth, "are usually quite capable of looking after themselves." "You think so?" queried the worried guardian. "You remember what Agnes was at twelve. And look at our Tess." The lawyer pinched Tess' cheek. "I see what she is. And she is going to be twelve some day, I suppose," he agreed. "But what would she and--say--Sammy Pinkney do, turned out alone into the world?" "Oh!" cried Dot, the little pitcher with the big ears, "Sammy and I went off alone to be pirates. And I'm younger than Tess." "I hope I shouldn't run away with Sammy!" said Tess, in some disdain. "Why," Dot put in, "suppose Sammy was your brother? I felt quite sisterly to him that time we were hid in the canalboat." "I guess that we all feel 'sisterly' to Sammy," laughed Ruth. "And I am sure, Tess, you would know what to do if you were away from home with him." "I guess I would," agreed Tess severely. "I'd march him right back again." The lawyer joined in the laugh. But he was none the less anxious about Ralph and Rowena Birdsall. There was an undercurrent of feeling in his mind, too, that he had been derelict in his duty toward his wards. "Three months after their father died, and I had not seen them," he said more than once. "I blame myself. As you say, Ruth, I should have won their confidence in that time." "Oh, Mr. Howbridge, you are not to blame for that! You are unused to children, anyway." "But it was selfishness on my part--arrant selfishness, Frank's children should have been my personal care. But, twins!" and he groaned. One might have been amused by his bachelor horror of the thought of two children in his quiet home; only the situation was really too serious to breed laughter. Two twelve-year-old children striking out into the world for themselves might get into all sorts of mischief and trouble. The lawyer had done all he could, however, toward recovering the runaways. The police of two States were on the watch for them, and private detectives were likewise hunting for them. The advertisements Mr. Howbridge put in the papers brought no helpful replies. There seemed to be many children wandering about the country, singly and in pairs, but none of them answered at all the description of the Birdsall twins. Meanwhile the Christmas holidays were approaching. Cecile Shepard arrived at the old Corner House a week ahead of the date set for the closing of school. Luke, however, would join the party at Culberton, at the foot of Long Lake, nearly at the far end of which, and deep in the woods, was Red Deer Lodge. Cecile was a very pretty girl, as dark as Agnes was light. She went to school every day with Agnes and sat beside her as a "visitor" during the remainder of the term. Of course, there was much to do to prepare for this mid-winter venture into the woods. And, too, there were certain plans for Christmas to be carried out by the Corner House girls, whether they were to be at home on Christmas Day or not. The Stower estate tenants on Meadow Street must not be forgotten. CHAPTER V MERRY TIMES Uncle Peter Stower, in dying and leaving his four grandnieces the Milton property, had left them, in addition (or so Ruth Kenway and her sisters concluded), the duty of overlooking the welfare of certain poor people who occupied the Stower tenements on Meadow Street, over toward the canal. These tenants were mostly poor people; but Mrs. Kranz, who kept a delicatessen store and grocery, and Joe Maroni, whom Dot said was "both an ice man and a nice man" were two of the tenants who were well-to-do. Joe Maroni, whose family lived in the corner cellar under Mrs. Kranz's store, sold coal and wood, as well as ice, and had a vegetable and fruit stand on the sidewalk. Mrs. Kranz, the large German woman, was one of the Kenway girls' staunchest friends. Both these shopkeepers were sure to aid the Corner House sisters in their plans for Christmas. The year before the children of the Stower estate tenants had appeared under the bedroom windows of the old Corner House early on Christmas morning and sung Christmas chants. "Agnes said, just as though it was in old fuel times," Dot eagerly told Cecile Shepard. "And Aggie wanted to throw large yeast cakes among 'em. You know, like Lady Bountiful did, and--" "Oh! _Oh!_ OH!" gasped Tess, in horror and amazement. "Why will you, Dot, mix up your words so? It wasn't fuel times, it was feudal times." "And why throw away the yeast cakes?" demanded Cecile, in amused wonder. "Dear me!" exclaimed Tess, with vast disdain. "She means _largess_. That means gifts. Dot thought it was 'large yeast.' I never did hear of such a child!" "Well, I don't care!" wailed Dot, who did not like to be taken to task for mispronouncing words, or for other mistakes in English. "I don't think you are at all polite, Tessie Kenway, and I'm going to tell Ruth--so now!" Which proved that even the little Corner House girls had their little spats. Everything did not always go smoothly. However, the plans for the entertainment of the Meadow Street families were made without any trouble. It was decided to have a great tree for the whole crowd, and to set it up in a small hall on Meadow Street, where certain lodges held their meetings, the date set for the entertainment being a week in advance of Christmas Eve--the night before the Corner House party was to start for Red Deer Lodge. Mrs. Kranz took charge of the dressing of the tree, for when she was a child in the old country a Christmas tree was the great annual feast. Not a child among those belonging in the Stower tenements was forgotten--nor the grown folk, either, for that matter. Tess and Dot did their share in the purchasing of the presents and preparing them for the tree. They both delighted in shopping, and their favorite mart of trade was the five and ten cent store on Main Street. Such a jumble of things as they bought! The beauty of buying in the five and ten cent store is (or so the children declared) that one can get so much for a dollar. Every afternoon for a week before the day set for the pre-Christmas celebration, the little folks trudged down to their favorite emporium and came back with their arms laden with a variety of articles to delight the hearts and eyes of the Meadow Street children. Dolls and dolls' toys were of course Dot's favorite purchases. Tess went in for the more practical things--some to be hung on the tree marked with her own private card for the grown-up members of the expected audience. In any case, and altogether, there was gathered at the old Corner House to be hung on the Christmas tree for the Meadow Street people a two-bushel basket of little packages, mostly from the five and ten cent store. Ruth and Agnes saw to it that there were plenty of practical things for the poor children, too: warm coats, caps, leggings, shoes, mittens--a dozen other useful things which would be needed by the younger Goronofskys, the Pedermans, the O'Harras, and all the rest of the conglomerate crew occupying the Stower tenements. And they had _four_ "Santa Clauses"! Although, more properly speaking, they were "the Misses Santa Claus." The Kenway sisters, in the prescribed uniforms of the good St. Nicholas, presided over the distribution of the presents from the illuminated tree. Dot had every faith in the reality of Santa Claus, nor would her sisters disabuse her of that cheerful belief. "But, of course," the smallest Corner House girl said, "I know Santa can't be everywhere at once. And this is a week too early for him, anyway. And on Christmas Eve he does have to rush around so to get to everybody's house! "We're just going to make believe be Santa, Sammy," she explained to that small boy. "And we're not going to be like you were last Christmas, Sammy, and fall down the chimney and frighten everybody so." "Huh!" grumbled Sammy, to whom his fiasco as a Santa Claus in the old Corner House chimney was a sore subject. "If that old brick hadn't fallen I wouldn't have come down so sudden. And my mom burned my Santa Claus suit up in the furnace because it was all over soot." This night in the Meadow Street hall was long to be remembered. Mr. Howbridge made a speech. It was a winter when work was hard to get, and at Ruth's personal request he announced that a dollar a month would be taken off every tenant's rent during the "hard times." Mrs. Kranz and Joe Maroni, being in so much better circumstances than the majority of the Stower estate tenants, gave many things for the Christmas tree, too. There was candy, and cakes, and popcorn, and nuts for the little folk, and hot drinks and cake and sandwiches for the adults. Altogether it was a night long to be remembered by the Corner House girls. Even the little ones had begun to understand their duty toward these poor people who helped swell the Kenway family bank account. The estate might not now draw down the fifteen per cent. that Uncle Peter Stower always demanded; but the income from the Meadow Street tenements was considerable, and the tenants were now happier and more content. "It must be lovely," Cecile Shepard confessed to Ruth and Agnes, "to have so many folks to look out for, and be kind to, and who like you. And Ruthie has such a way with her. I can see the women all admire her." Agnes began to giggle. "Who wouldn't admire her?" she said. "Ruth believes in helping folks just the way they want to be helped. She doesn't furnish only flannels and cough sirup to the poor. Oh, no!" "Now, Agnes!" admonished the older girl, blushing. "I don't care! It's too good a joke, and it shows just why those people over on Meadow Street worship Ruth," went on the younger sister. "Did you see that biggest Pederman girl? Olga, the one with the white eyebrows and no lashes?" "Yes," said Cecile. "Her face looks almost like a blank wall." "And a white-washed wall at that," went on Agnes. "She's a grown woman, but she hasn't any too much intelligence. She was awfully sick with diphtheria last spring, and Ruth went to see her--carrying gifts, of course." "Things to eat don't much appeal to you when you have diphtheria and can't swallow," put in Ruth. "I know that," chuckled Agnes. "And what do you think, Cecile? Ruthie asked Olga what she would like to have--if she could get her anything special? "'Yes, Miss Wuth,' she croaked. Olga can't pronounce her 'R's' very well. 'Yes, Miss Wuth, I've been wantin' a pair of them dangly jet eawin's for so long!' And what do you suppose?" Agnes exploded in conclusion. "Ruth went and bought them for her! She had them on tonight." "I don't care," Ruth said, with conviction. "The earrings came nearer to curing Olga than all Dr. Forsyth's medicine. He said so himself." "What do you think of that?" giggled Agnes. "I think it was awfully sweet of our Ruth," declared Cecile, hugging the oldest Kenway sister. Mrs. MacCall, for her part, was not at all sure that the Kenway sisters did not "encourage pauperism" in thus helping their tenants. Mrs. MacCall was conservative in the extreme. "No," Ruth said earnestly, "the dear little babies, and the little folks with empty 'tummies,' are not paupers, Mrs. MacCall. Nor are their parents such. We haven't a lazy tenant family in the Stower houses." "That may be as may be," said the housekeeper, shaking her head. "But they are too frequently out o' work to suit me. And guidness knows there's plenty to do in the world." "They're just unfortunate," reiterated Ruth. "We have been lucky. We never did a thing, we Kenways, to get Uncle Peter's wealth. We've had better luck than the Pedermans and Goronofskys." "Hush, my lassie! If you undertake to level things in this world for all, you've a big job cut out for you. Nae doot of that." Although the housekeeper was often opposed both in opinion and practice to Ruth and her sisters, the latter were eager to have Mrs. MacCall go with the vacation party as chaperone and manager. And, indeed, had Mrs. MacCall not agreed, it is doubtful if Ruth would have accepted Mr. Howbridge's invitation to go into the North Woods to Red Deer Lodge. Mrs. MacCall sacrificed her own desires and some comfort to accompany the young folks; but she did it cheerfully because of her love for the Corner House girls. Aunt Sarah Maltby would remain at home to oversee things at the Corner House; and of course Linda and Uncle Rufus would be with her. Trunks had been packed the day before the early celebration of Christmas in the Meadow Street lodge room, and had been sent on by train with the serving people that Hedden, Mr. Howbridge's butler and factotum, had engaged to go ahead of the vacation party and prepare Red Deer Lodge for occupancy over the holidays. Of course, Neale O'Neil and the older girls had their bags to carry with them, and Sammy Pinkney came over to the old Corner House bright and early on the morning of departure, lugging his bulging suitcase. "And I hope," Agnes said with severity, "that you haven't worms in that suitcase, with a lot of other worthless truck, as you had when you went on our automobile tour, Sammy." "Huh! where'd I dig fishworms this time of year?" responded the boy with scorn. "Besides, mom packed this bag, and she's left out a whole lot of things I'll need up there in the woods. She won't even let me take my bow-arrer and a steel trap I got down at the blacksmith shop by the canal. Of course, the latch of the trap was broke, but we might have fixed it and used it to catch wolves with." "Oh, my!" squealed Dot. "_Wolves?_ Why, they are savage!" "Course they are savage," said Sammy. "But--but Mr. Howbridge, our guardian, wouldn't let any wolves stay around that Darling Lodge. They might eat my Alice-doll!" "Sure," agreed the boy, as Agnes was not within hearing. "Like enough the wolf pack will chase us when we are sleighing, and you'll have to throw that doll over to pacificate 'em so we can escape with our lives. They do that in Russia. Throw the babies away to save folks' lives." "Well!" exclaimed Tess, half doubting this bold statement. "Babies must be awful cheap in Russia. Cheaper than they are here. You know we can't get a baby in this house, and we all would like to have one." But Dot had been stricken dumb by Sammy's wild statement. She hugged the Alice-doll to her breast, and her eyes were wide with fear. "Do you suppose that may happen, Tess?" she whispered. "What may happen?" "That we get chased by wolfs and--and have to throw somebody overboard to 'em?" "I don't believe so," said Tess, after all somewhat impressed by Sammy's assurance. "Well, anyway," said Dot, "I was only going to take Alice up there to that Lodge; but I'll take the sailor-doll, too. He can stand being thrown to the wolves better than Alice. He's tougher." If it had not already been decided to take Tom Jonah, the big Newfoundland, along on this winter trip, Dot might really have balked at going. CHAPTER VI ON THE WINGS OF THE WIND However, aside from Dot's disturbance of mind over the trip into the deep woods where, on occasion, babies had to be flung to wolves, there was something that disturbed Ruth on this morning which almost made her doubt the advisability of starting for Red Deer Lodge. Ruth had been up as early as Linda, the Finnish maid. There was still much to do, and the sleigh would be at the door at eight-thirty. When Linda came down, however, she stopped at Ruth's door and said she had heard Uncle Rufus groaning most of the night. The old colored man was undoubtedly suffering from one of his recurrent rheumatic attacks. Ruth hurried up to the third story of the house and to Uncle Rufus' room. "Yes'm, Missie Ruth," groaned the old man. "Ah's jes' knocked right down ag'in. Ah don' believe Ah's goin' to be able to git up a-tall to see yo' off dis mawnin'." "Poor Uncle Rufus!" said the oldest Corner House girl, commiseratingly. "I believe I'd better telephone to Dr. Forsyth and let him come--" "No'm. Ah don' want dat Dr. Forsyth to come a-near me, Missie Ruth," interrupted Uncle Rufus. "Why, of course you do," said the girl. "He gave you something before that helped you. Don't you remember?" "Ah don' say he don' know he's business, Missie Ruth," said the old man, shaking his head. "Mebbe his med'cine's jest as good as de nex' doctor's med'cine. But Ah don' want Dr. Forsyth no mo'." "Why not?" "Dr. Forsyth done insulted me," said the old man, with rising indignation. "He done talk about me." "Why, Uncle Rufus!" "Sho' has!" repeated the black man. "An' Ah nebber did him a mite o' harm. He done say things about me dat I can't nebber overlook--no, ma'am!" "Why, Uncle Rufus!" murmured the worried Ruth, "I think you must be mistaken. I can't imagine Dr. Forsyth being unkind, or saying unkind things about one." "He sho' did," declared the obstinate old man. "And he done put it in writin'. You jes' reach me ma best coat, Missie Ruth. It's all set down dar on ma burial papers." Of course, Uncle Rufus, like most frugal colored people, belonged to a "burial association"--an insurance scheme by which one must die to win. "What could Dr. Forsyth have said about you that you think is unkind, Uncle Rufus?" repeated Ruth, as she came into the room to get the coat. "Ah tell yo' what he done said!" exclaimed the old man, indignantly. "Dr. Forsyth say Ah was a drunkard an' a joy-rider! Dat's what he say! An' de goodness know, Missie Ruth, I ain't tetch a drap of gin fo' many a long year, and I ain't nebber step foot in even your automobile. No'm! He done insulted me befo' de members of ma burial lodge, an' I don' want nothin' mo' to do wid dat white man--no'm!" He spread out the insurance policy with a flourish and pointed to the examining doctor's notation regarding Uncle Rufus' former illness: "Autotoxication." "Ah's a respectable man," urged Uncle Rufus, evidently hurt to the quick by what he thought was Dr. Forsyth's uncalled-for criticism. "Ah don't get drunk in no auto--no'm! An' I don't go scootin' roun' de country in one o' dem 'bominations. Dere is niggers w'at owns one o' dem flivvers an' drinks gin wid it. But not Unc' Rufus--no'm!" "I never would accuse you of such reprehensible habits," Ruth assured him, having considerable difficulty in suppressing after all a desire to laugh. "Nor does Dr. Forsyth mean anything like that." She explained carefully to the old negro that "autotoxication" meant "self-poisoning"--the poisoning of the body by unexpelled organic matter. This poison, in the form of an acid in the blood, was the cause of Uncle Rufus' pains and aches. "Fo' de lan's sake!" murmured Uncle Rufus. "Is dat sho' 'nough so, Missie Ruth?" "You know I would not mislead you, Uncle Rufus." "Dat's right. You would not," agreed the old man. "An' is dat what dat fool white doctor mean? Ah jes' got rheumatics, like Ah always has?" "Yes, Uncle Rufus." "Tell me, Missie Ruth," he asked, "what do dem doctors want to use sech wo'ds fo', when dere is common wo'ds to use dat a pusson kin understan'?" "Just for that reason, I fancy," laughed Ruth. "So the patient cannot understand. The doctors think it isn't well for the patient to know too much about what ails him, so they call ordinary illnesses by hard names." "Ain't it a fac'? Ain't it a fac'?" repeated Uncle Rufus, shaking his head. "Ah reckon if we knowed too much, we wouldn't want doctors a-tall, eh? Well, now, Missie Ruth, you let dat Lindy gal git ma' medicine bottle filled down to de drug store, and Ah'll dose up like Ah done befo'. If dat white doctor's medicine was good fo' one time, it ought to be good fo' another time." Uncle Rufus remained in bed, however, and the little girls and Sammy, as well as Neale and Agnes, trooped up to say good-bye to him before they started for the railway station. The north-bound express train halted at Milton at three minutes past nine, and the Corner House party were in good season for it. Mr. Howbridge joined them on the station platform. Hedden, the lawyer's man, having gone ahead to make the path smooth for his employer and his friends, Mr. Howbridge and Neale attended to getting the tickets and to the light baggage; and they made the three older girls, Mrs. MacCall, and the children comfortable in the chair car. Tom Jonah, of course, rode in the baggage car. It was two hundred miles and more to Culberton, at the foot of Long Lake. The train made very good time, but it was past one o'clock when they alighted at the lake city. There was a narrow gauge road here that followed the line of the lake in a northerly direction; but it was little more than a logging road and the trains were so slow, and the schedule so poor, that Mr. Howbridge had planned for other and more novel means of transportation up the lake to the small town from which they would have to strike back into the wilderness by "tote-road" to Red Deer Lodge. But this new means of transportation, he told the young people, depended entirely upon the wind. "Goodness!" gasped Agnes, "are we going up the lake by kite?" "In a balloon, maybe?" Cecile laughed. "Oh!" murmured Tess, who was much interested in air traffic, "I hope it's a big aeroplane." "Nothing like that," Neale assured her. "But if we have a good wind you'll think we're flying, Tess." Mr. Howbridge had taken the ex-circus boy into his confidence; but the rest of the party were so busy greeting Luke Shepard, who was waiting for them at this point, that they did not consider much how they were to get up the lake. There was no train leaving Culberton over the Lake Branch until evening. Neale disappeared immediately after greeting Luke, and took Tom Jonah with him. In a few minutes Neale returned to the waiting room of the Culberton railroad station, and said to Mr. Howbridge: "They are about ready. Man says the wind is good, and likely to be fresher, if anything. Favorable time. He's making 'em ready." "What's going on?" asked Luke, who was a handsome young collegian particularly interested in Ruth Kenway, and not too serious to be enthusiastic over the secret the lawyer and Neale had between them. "Come on and we'll show you," Neale said, grinning. "No, no!" exclaimed Mr. Howbridge. "Let us have lunch first. We have a long, cold ride before us." "In what?" Agnes asked. "We don't take to the sleigh yet, do we?" "Aren't the cars on the branch line heated?" Ruth asked. "You know, we must not let the children get cold--and Mrs. MacCall." "Don't mind about me, lassie," returned the Scotchwoman. "I'll trust myself to Mr. Howbridge." "We'll go to the hotel first of all," said the lawyer. "Hedden will have arranged for our comfort there--and other things, as well. Do not be afraid for the children, Martha." But "Martha" could not help being a bit worried, even if Mrs. MacCall was along. And Neale's grin was too impish to be comforting. "I know you men folks are cooking up something," she sighed. "And I am not at all sure, Mr. Howbridge, that you consider the needs of small children like Tess and Dot and Sammy." "Huh!" grunted Sammy, who overheard this. "I suppose if I had taken my twins home three months ago when Frank Birdsall died, you think I would have learned something about the needs and care of young persons by this time?" suggested the lawyer. "Oh, I am sure you would have learned a great deal," agreed Ruth, unable to suppress a smile. "I wish I had!" groaned Mr. Howbridge. The mystery of the disappearance of Ralph and Rowena Birdsall weighed on Mr. Howbridge's mind continually. He did not often let the trouble come to the surface, however, being desirous of giving the young people with him a good time. The surprise in store for them added zest to the enjoyment of the nice luncheon at the Culberton hotel. At half past two they all trooped out of the hotel, bags in hand, and instead of returning to the railway station, set off down the hill toward the docks. "Are we going by steamer?" Agnes wanted to know. "Is there a channel open through the ice? I never _did_!" "If there were two feet of ice on the Arlington Pond so that they could not drag it for the poor Birdsall twins," Ruth said, "surely this lake must be frozen quite as thick." "But there's a sailboat! I see one!" cried Tess, pointing between the buildings as they approached the waterfront. "And there's another," said Sammy. "Oh, Je-ru-sa-_lem_! Looky, Aggie! That boat's sailing on the ice!" "Oh-ee!" squealed Agnes, clasping her hands and letting her bag fall to the ground. "Ice-boats! Neale! Are they really ice-boats?" "And are we going to sail on them?" murmured Ruth. "For mercy's sake!" gasped the housekeeper. "Here's a fine thing! Have you gone daft, Mr. Howbridge?" "It will be a new experience for you and me, Mrs. MacCall," said the lawyer calmly. "But they tell me it is very invigorating." "It's the nearest thing to flying, as far as the sensation goes, that there is, I guess," Luke Shepard put in. "I used to have a scooter when we were in winter quarters," said Neale O'Neil to Agnes. "Don't be afraid, Aggie." "Oh, I won't be afraid if you are along, Neale," promptly declared the little beauty. "I know you will take care of me." "You bet!" responded Neale, his eyes shining. As they came down to the big wharf the party got a better view of the lake front. There were at least a dozen ice-boats, large and small, in motion. Those farthest out from the shore had caught the full sweep of the wind and were darting about, as Mrs. MacCall said, like water-bugs on the surface of a pond. Ruth looked around keenly as they came out on the wharf. "Why!" she said to Mr. Howbridge, "this is the lumber company's wharf. The company you said had bought the timber on the Birdsall Estate." "It is the Neven Lumber Company, as you can see by the sign over the offices yonder," agreed their guardian. "And here comes Neven himself." A red-faced man with a red vest on which were small yellow dots and some grease spots, and who chewed a big and black cigar and wore his hard hat on one side of his head, approached the group as Mr. Howbridge spoke. He hailed the latter jovially. "Hey, Howbridge! Glad to see you. So these are your folks, are they? Hope you'll have a merry Christmas up there in the woods. Nice place, Birdsall's Lodge." "Thank you," said the lawyer quietly. "Which of 'em's Birdsall's young ones?" continued the lumber dealer, staring about with very bold eyes, and especially at Ruth Kenway and Cecile Shepard. "I am sorry to say, Mr. Neven," said the lawyer, "that the Birdsall twins are not with us. The children have run away from their home--a home with people who have known them since they were born. It is a very strange affair, and is causing me much worry." "You don't say!" exclaimed Neven. "Too bad! Too bad! But they'll turn up. Young 'uns always do. I ran away myself when I was a kid; and look at me now," and the lumberman puffed out his chest proudly, as though satisfied that Lem Neven was a good deal of a man. "I reckon," pursued the lumberman, "that you think it's your duty to go up to the Birdsall place and look over the piece I've got stumpage on. But you don't re'lly need to. My men are scientific, I tell you. I don't hire no old has-beens like Ike M'Graw. Those old timber cruisers are a hundred years behind the times." "They have one very good attribute. At least, Ike has," Mr. Howbridge said quietly. "What's that?" asked Neven. "He is perfectly honest," was the dry response. "I shall base my demands for the Birdsall estate on Ike's report. I assure you of that now, Mr. Neven, so that you need build no false hopes upon the reports of your own cruisers. As the contract stands we can close it out and deal with another company if it seems best to do so. And some company--either yours or another----will go in there right after New Year's and begin to cut." He turned promptly away from the red-faced man and followed his party along the wharf to its end. Here lay two large ice-boats. There was a boxlike cockpit on each that would hold four passengers comfortably, besides the tiller men and the boy who "trimmed ship." A crew of two went with each boat. "How will the other two of our party travel?" asked Ruth, when these arrangements were explained. Already Neale O'Neil had beckoned Agnes to one side. There lay behind the two big boats a skeleton-like arrangement, with a seat at the stern no wider than a bobsled, and another on the "outrigger," or crossbeam. This scooter carried a huge boom for a leg-o'-mutton sail, and it was a type of the very fastest ice-boats on the lake. Neale helped the eager Agnes down a rude ladder to the ice. She was just reckless enough to desire to try the new means of locomotion. Her exclamations of delight drew Ruth to the edge of the wharf over their heads. "What are you two doing down there?" asked the older girl. "Oh, now, Ruthie!" murmured Agnes, "do let me go with Neale in this pretty boat. There isn't room for us in the bigger boats. Do!" Ruth knew very little about racing ice-boats. The scooter looked no more dangerous to her than did the lumbering craft that Hedden had engaged for the rest of the party. These bigger boats, furnished with square sails rather than the leg-o'-muttons they now flaunted, were commonly used to transfer merchandise, or even logs up and down the lake. They were lumbering and slow. "Well, if Mr. Howbridge says you can," the oldest Corner House girl agreed, still somewhat doubtful. Neale had already begged permission of Mr. Howbridge. The lawyer was quite as ignorant regarding ice-boating as Ruth herself. Neither of them considered that any real harm could come to Neale and Agnes in the smaller craft. The crews of the larger ice-boats were experienced boatmen. They got their lumbering craft under way just as soon as the passengers were settled with their light baggage in the cockpits. There were bear robes and blankets in profusion. Although the wind was keen, the party did not expect that Jack Frost would trouble them. "Isn't this great?" cried Cecile, who was in one of the boats with Ruth, her brother, and Sammy Pinkney. "My! we always manage to have such very nice times when we are with you Corner House girls, Ruthie." "This is all new to me," admitted her friend. "I hope nothing will happen to wreck us." "Wreck us! Fancy!" laughed Cecile. "This wind is very strong, just the same," said Ruth. "Hold hard!" cried Luke, laughing. "Low bridge!" The boom swung over, and they all stooped quickly to avoid it. The next moment the big sail filled, bulging with the force of the wind. The heavy runners began to whine over the powdered ice, and they went swiftly onward toward the middle of the lake. "On the wings of the wind! How delightful!" cried Cecile. Then she said again: "Isn't this great?" CHAPTER VII THE SCOOTER Sammy Pinkney had desired greatly to go with Neale and Agnes on the smaller ice-boat; but they would not hear to the proposal. He struck up an acquaintance with the "crew" of the big boat to which he was assigned, and gave Ruth and Luke Shepard no trouble. In the other large boat Mr. Howbridge, Mrs. MacCall and the two smallest Corner House girls, as well as Tom Jonah, were very cozily ensconced. Dot clutched the Alice-doll very tightly and Tom Jonah barked loudly when the barge slithered out upon the lake and began to gather speed as the fresh wind filled the big sail. Mrs. MacCall continued to have her doubts regarding the safety of this strange means of locomotion. "There's one good thing about it," she chattered, as the sledge jarred over a few hummocks. "There's nae so far to fall if we do fall out." "It's perfectly safe, they tell me," Mr. Howbridge assured her. "Aye. It may look so," the good woman admitted. "But 'tis like Tam Taggart goin' to London." "How was that?" the lawyer asked, smiling. "Tam was one o' these canny Highlanders, and he made up his mind after muckle thought to spend a week in London. He went to 'broaden his mind,' as they call it. Truly, to prove to himself that London and the English were quite as bad as he'd believed all his life. "So he goes to London, and he comes home again--very solemn like. Nobody could get a word out of him at first," pursued Mrs. MacCall. "Finally the folks, they gathered around him at the post-office and one says: "'What ails ye, Tam? Ye've no told us anything aboot Lunnon. Is it nae the fine place they'd have us believe?' "'Oo, aye, 'tis nae so bad,' says Tam. 'But they are nae honest up there.' "'Whit way air they no honest, Tam?' asks his friends. "'Weel,' says Tam, 'I aye had my doots all the time; but I made sure the day I bought me a penny-packet of needles. On the outside o' it, it said there was one thousand needles inside.' "'Oh, aye?' "'I coonted 'em,' says Tam, 'an'--wad ye believe it?--there was only nine hundred and ninety-three!' And this boat-sliding may look all right," concluded the Corner House housekeeper, "but, like Tam, 'I have me doots!'" As the boat gathered speed, following the one on which Ruth and her companions sailed out into the open lake, the little girls squealed their delight. Even Dot forgot her fears. And Tom Jonah "smiled" just as broadly as he could. "Oh, Tessie!" Dot gasped. "It _is_ like flying! My breath's too big for my mouth--just like I was in a swing." "I guess you must feel like poor Sandyface did when Sammy sent her with her kittens from our house to his in the fly-a-majig. You remember?" said Tess. "I should say I did!" agreed Dot in her old-fashioned way. "What an awful time that was, wasn't it? And Sammy got spanked." "Sammy's always getting spanked," Tess said coolly. "Ye-as. He is. But I guess he's never got used to it yet," responded the smallest Corner House girl thoughtfully. The wind, when they faced forward, almost took their breath. The little girls cowered down under the warm robes, looking astern. So their bright eyes were the first to catch sight of the scooter shooting out into the lake behind them. The wharves and dun-colored houses of Culberton were already far astern. And how fast the town was receding! The smaller ice-boat, however, overtook the big boats almost as though the latter were standing still! The others caught sight of the careening ice-racer soon after Dot and Tess first shouted. But neither of the little girls nor the other members of the party realized that Neale and Agnes were aboard the craft that came, meteor-like, up the lake. They had started sedately enough, Neale O'Neil at the stern with the tiller ropes in his mittened hands and Agnes strapped into the seat on the outrigger, with the bight of the running sheet in her charge. Neale had told her plainly what to do ordinarily, and had instructed her to look to him for orders in any emergency. It looked to be very simple, this working out an ice-scooter that had in it the possibility of sailing at any speed up to a hundred miles an hour! Somebody had started the creaking boat with the purchase of a pike pole at the rear. The peavy bit into the ice, and the scooter rocked out from the wharf. The big sail was already spread. They had wabbled out of the confinement of the dock slowly and sedately enough. Suddenly the wind puffed into the sail and bellied it. The stick bent and groaned. It seemed as though the runners stuck to the surface of the ice and the mast would be torn from the framework of the craft. Then she really started! The powerful on-thrust of the wind in the sail shot the scooter away from the shore. She swooped like a gull across the ice. The whining of steel on ice rose to a painful shriek in Agnes' ears. She was scared. Oh, yes, she was scared! But she would not admit it--not for worlds! Faster and faster the scooter moved. The girl looked back once at Neale and caught a glimpse of his confident smile. It heartened her wonderfully. "Hold hard, Aggie!" his strong voice shouted, and she nodded, blinking the water out of her eyes. They had headed up Long Lake as they left the shore, and they could travel on the wind, and without tacking, for a long way. They overhauled the two big barges in which the rest of the party sailed, in a way that fairly made Agnes gasp. She had never traveled so fast before in all her life. The scooter struck a hummock in the ice. It was not six inches above the general level of the crystal surface of the lake. But the impetus it gave the ice-boat sent that seemingly fragile craft up into the air! She left the ice for a long, breathtaking, humming jump. It seemed to Agnes as though they were going right up into the air, very much as an aeroplane soars from the earth. Indeed, had the ice-boat a movable tail like an aeroplane, surely it would completely take to the air. Next to piloting an aeroplane, ice-boat racing is the greatest sport in the world. Spang! The scooter took to the ice again and ran like a scared rabbit. The stays sang a new tune. Had the sheet not had a simple cast about a peg beside her, Agnes would surely have lost the bight of it. But Neale had told her certain things to do, and she would not fail him. Through half-blinded eyes she cast another glance at him over her shoulder. The boy showed no evidence of panic, and Agnes was ashamed to display her own inner feelings. When Neale said, "You're a regular little sport, Aggie!" it was the finest tribute to character that Agnes Kenway knew anything about. She was determined to win his approval now, if never before. Ruth saw them coming, but had no idea at first that the careening ice-racer was the small boat that Neale and her sister had engaged for the run up the lake. The schooner came on like, and with, the wind! "See that boat, Cecile!" cried the oldest Corner House girl. "How reckless it is to ride so fast. Suppose the mast should snap or a skate should break? My!" "But look how they fly!" agreed her friend. "Hey!" exclaimed Luke. "That's Neale O'Neil steering that thing." "Oh! Mercy! _Agnes!_" shrieked Ruth, her eyes suddenly opened to the identity of the two on the scooter. "Hoorah!" yelled Luke. "What speed!" The party on the other big boat had recognized the two on the scooter. The fur-trimmed coat and brilliant-hued hood Agnes wore could not be mistaken. "Stop them! Stop them!" moaned Ruth, really alarmed. It seemed to her that the boat she was riding in was going much too fast for safety; but the scooter flew up the lake at a pace that made the big boats seem to stand still. Neale plainly knew how to handle the racer. He passed the two barges and then tacked, aiming to cross the bows of the bigger craft. Instantly, as the boom swung around, Agnes' end of the crossbeam went into the air! They saw her sail upward, the flashing steel runners at least four feet above the ice! The girl's wind-whipped face was still smiling. Indeed, that smile seemed frozen on. As the racer rushed by Agnes looked down upon her sisters and other friends and waved one hand to them. Then, like a huge kite, the big-bellied sail raced off across the lake, taking the reckless pair almost instantly out of earshot. CHAPTER VIII THE VILLAGE ON THE ICE The wild plunge of the scooter across the lake carried it, before a wind-squall, far out of hearing of Ruth Kenway's voice. Yet she shouted long and loud after her sister. Luke pulled her back into her seat when she would have stood up to watch the careening scooter. "They are in no danger," he urged. "Take it easy, Ruth." "Why, they must be in peril! Did you see her--Agnes--up in the air?" "Well, she's down again all right now, Ruthie," said Cecile Shepard soothingly. "Oh, if I had only known!" "Known what?" asked Luke, inclined to grin if the truth was told. "That the small boat would sail like that. Why, it is worse than a racing automobile!" "Faster, I guess. Almost as fast as a motorcycle," Luke agreed. "But Neale's managed one of those things before. He told me all about it." "But why didn't somebody tell me about it?" demanded Ruth rather stormily. "Tell you about what?" asked Cecile. "About how fast that reckless thing would sail? Why! I'd never have allowed Aggie to ride on it in this world." In the other big ice-boat there was much anxiety as well. Mr. Howbridge and Mrs. MacCall would have stopped the reckless ones could they have done so, and Tom Jonah was barking his head off. He, too, had recognized Agnes and Neale and believed that all was not right with them. The scooter, however, was clear across the lake again; they saw it tack once more, and this time, because of the favoring breeze, Neale headed her directly up the lake. Every minute he and Agnes on their racer were leaving the rest of the party behind. These scooters cannot be sailed at a slow pace. The skeleton craft is so light, and the sail so big, that the least puff of breeze drives it ahead at railroad speed. Now with a pretty steady breeze behind them, the scooter was bound to "show off." Nor did the young people realize just how fast they sailed, or how perilous their course looked to their friends. "We're running away from them!" Agnes managed to throw back over her shoulder at Neale. "Can't help it!" he cried in return. "This old scooter has taken the bit in its teeth." Agnes had begun to enjoy the speed to the full now. Why! this was better than motoring over the finest kind of oiled road. And the young girl did like to travel fast. She began to see that the farther they went up Long Lake the wilder the shores appeared to be and the fewer houses there were visible. Here and there was a little village, with a white-steepled church pointing heavenward among the almost black spruce and pine. Again, a cleared farm showed forth, its fields sheeted with snow. The lake was quite ten miles broad in most places, and occasionally it spread to a width of more than twice that number of miles. Then they could barely see the hazy shoreline at all. "We could not be lonesomer," thought Agnes, "if we were sailing on the ocean!" The sails behind them had all disappeared. Once a squad of timber barges with square sails was passed. The barges were going up empty to the head of the lake there to be loaded and await a favoring breeze to bring them back to Culberton again. It was much cheaper for the lumber concerns to sail the logs down the lake if they could, than to load them on the narrow gauge railroad and pay freight to Culberton. The sticks had to be handled at the foot of the lake, anyway. The scooter went past these slowly sailing barges almost as rapidly as they had passed the two boats in which sailed the remainder of the Corner House party. The stays creaked and the steel whined on the ice, while the wind boomed in the big sail like a muffled drum. The sun, hazy and red like the face of a haymaker in harvest time, was going westward and would soon disappear behind the mountain ridge which followed the shoreline of the lake, but at a distance. It was up in the foothills of those mountains that Red Deer Lodge was located. After passing the empty barges the boy and girl on the scooter saw no other sail nor anything which excited their attention until Agnes suddenly beheld a group of objects on the ice near the western shore of the lake, not many miles ahead. She began almost immediately to wonder what these things could be, but she could not make Neale O'Neil understand the question she shouted to him. By and by, however, she saw for herself that the objects were a number of little huts, and that they really were built upon the frozen surface of the lake. Agnes was naturally very much interested in this strange sight. A village on the ice was something quite novel to her mind. She desired very much to ask questions of Neale, but the wind was too great and they were sailing too fast for her to make her desire known to her boy friend. So she just used her eyes (when they did not water too much) and stared at the strange collection of huts and its vicinity with all her might. Why! from lengths of stove pipe through some of the slanting roofs, smoke was climbing into the hazy atmosphere. Back of the ice-village, on the steep western shore of the lake, was built a regular town of slab shanties, with a slab church, stores, and the like. Quite a village, this, and when Agnes looked back at Neale questioningly and pointed to them, he shouted: "Coxford." So she knew it was their destination. Mr. Howbridge had said they would disembark from the ice-boats at Coxford, and there would take sledges into the woods. It was fast growing toward evening, however, and Agnes knew it would be too late when they landed to continue the journey to Red Deer Lodge before the next morning. The ice-village was about two miles out from the shore. There were half a hundred huts, some a dozen feet square. But for the most part they were much smaller. They had doors, but no windows, and, as the scooter drew swiftly nearer, Agnes could see that the structures were little more than wind-breaks. There were a number of people moving about the settlement of huts, however, and not a few children among them, as well as dogs. As the scooter drew near she saw, too, a team of horses drawing a sledge. This sledge was being loaded with boxes, or crates; and what those boxes could contain began to puzzle Agnes as much as anything else she saw about the queer village. Neale steered outside the line of the ice settlement; but once beyond it he brought the scooter up into the wind and yelled at Agnes to let go the sheet and falls. She loosened the lines from the pegs and allowed them to slip. Down came the shaking canvas, the wooden hoops clattering together as they slid down the greased mast. In a moment the speed of the scooter was lost and they were all but smothered in the fallen canvas. "Get out from under!" Neale's voice shouted. He dropped off at the stern and ran to the girl's aid. He unbuckled the belt that had secured Agnes to her seat on the outrigger all this while, and fairly dragged her from under the flapping sail. "Fine work!" Neale shouted, his voice full of laughter. "We made record time. But I'll let somebody else furl that sail." "Oh, Neale!" gasped the girl, hobbling like a cripple. "I ca--can't walk. I'm frozen stiff!" "Come on to the shanties. We'll get warm. Take hold here, Aggie. You'll be all right in a few minutes." "Oh, dear!" she said. "I did not know I was so cold. But what a race it was, Neale! Ruth will give us fits." "Won't she?" chuckled Neale. "But what is this place, Neale?" Agnes went on. "What are these people doing here?" "Fishing. Those are frozen fish they are loading on that sledge. Oh! There it goes! We can't get ashore on that, after all." "'Fishing'?" repeated the amazed girl. "How do they fish through the ice? I don't see any holes." [Illustration: "He fairly dragged her from under the flapping sail."] "No. The holes wouldn't stay open long, as cold as it is out here. It's about twenty below zero right now, my lady, and I'm keeping a sharp eye on your nose." "Oh! Oh!" gasped Agnes, putting her mittened hand tentatively to her nose. "Is that why you told me to keep my collar up over my mouth and nose?" "It is!" declared the boy, rubbing his own face vigorously. "If you see any white spot on anybody's face up here in this weather, grab a handful of snow and begin rubbing the spot." "Mercy!" Agnes murmured, with a gay little laugh. "Lucky Trix Severn doesn't come up here. She uses rice powder dreadfully, and folks would think she was being frost-bitten." "Uh-huh!" agreed Neale. "But you haven't told me how they fish," said the girl, as they approached nearer to the huts and she was able to walk better. "Through the ice of course," he laughed. "Only you don't see the holes. They are inside the huts." "You don't mean it, Neale?" "To be sure I mean it! Some of those big shanties house whole families. You see there are children and dogs. They have pot stoves which warm the huts to a certain degree, and on which they cook. And they have bunks built against the walls, with plenty of bedding." "Why, I should think they would get their death of cold!" gasped the girl. "That's just what they don't get," Neale rejoined. "You can bet there are no 'white plague' patients here. This atmosphere will kill tubercular germs like a hammer kills a flea." "Goodness, Neale!" giggled Agnes. "Did you ever kill a flea with a hammer?" "Yep. Sand-flea," he assured her, grinning. "Oh! I'm one quick lad, Aggie." She really thought he was joking, however, until she had looked into two or three of the huts. People really did live in them, as she saw. In the middle of the plank floors was a well, with open water kept clear of frost. The set-lines were fastened to pegs in the planks and the "flags" announced when a fish was on the hook. A smiling woman, done up like an Eskimo, invited them into one shack. She had evidently not seen the scooter arrive from down the lake and thought the boy and girl had walked out from Coxford. "Hello!" she said. "Goin' to try your hands at fishin'? You're town folks, ain't you?" "Yes," said Agnes, politely. "We come from Milton." "Lawsy! That's a fur ways," said the woman. She was peeling potatoes, and a kettle was boiling on the stove at one side. The visitors knew by the odor that there was corned beef in the pot. "You goin' to try your hands?" the woman repeated. "No," said Neale. "We are with a party that is going up to Red Deer Lodge." "Oh! That's the Birdsall place. You can't git up there tonight. It's too fur." "I guess we shall stay in Coxford," admitted Neale. "Didn't know but you an' your sister wanted to fish. Old Manny Cox got ketched with rheumatics so that he had to give up fishin' this season. I can hire you his shanty." "No, thank you!" murmured Agnes, her eyes round with interest. "I let it for a week or more to two gals," said the woman complacently. "Got five dollars out of 'em for Manny. He'll be needin' the money. Better stay awhile and try the fishin'." "Goodness! Two girls alone?" asked Agnes. "Yes. Younger'n you are, too. But they knowed their way around, I guess," said the woman. "Good lookin' gals. Nice clo'es. Town folks, I guess. Mebbe they wasn't older'n my Bob, and he's just turned twelve." "Twelve years old! And two girls alone?" murmured Agnes. "Oh, there ain't nobody to hurt you here. We don't never need no constable out here on the ice. There's plenty of women folks--Miz' Ashtable, and Hank Crummet's wife, and Mary Boley and her boys. Oh, lots o' women here. We can help make money in the winter. "There! See that set-line bob?" She dropped the potato she was paring and crossed to the well. One of the flags had dipped. With a strong hand she reeled in the wet line. At its end was a big pickerel--the biggest pickerel the visitors had ever seen. "There!" exclaimed the woman. "Sorry I didn't git that before Joe Jagson went with his load of fish. That's four pound if it weighs an ounce." She shook the flopping fish off the hook into a basket and then hung the basket outside the door. In the frosty air the fish did not need to be packed in ice. It would literally be ice within a very few minutes. "Got to hang 'em up to keep the dogs from gettin' them," said the woman, rebaiting the hook and then returning to her potato paring. "Can't leave 'em in a creel in the water, neither; pike would come along an' eat 'em clean to the bone." "Oh!" gasped Agnes. "Yes. Regular cannibals, them pike," said the woman. "But all big fish will eat little ones." "What kind of fish do you catch?" Neale asked. "Pickerel and pike, whitebait (we calls 'em that), perch, some lake bass and once in a while a lake trout. Trout's out o' season. We don't durst sell 'em. But we eat 'em. They ain't no 'season,' I tell 'em, for a boy's appetite; and I got three boys and my man to feed." At that moment there was a great shouting and barking of dogs outside, and Neale and Agnes went out of the hut to learn what it meant. The Corner House girl whispered to the boy: "What do you think about those two twelve year old girls coming here to stay and fish through the ice?" "Great little sports," commented Neale. "Well," exclaimed Agnes, "that's being too much of a sport, if you ask me!" CHAPTER IX A COLD SCENT The barking of the dogs was in answer to the booming note that Tom Jonah sent echoing across the ice. Agnes and Neale found that the two big ice-boats were near at hand. As one of the crew of Mr. Howbridge's boat owned the scooter that Neale and Agnes had come up the lake on, that owner wished to recover his abandoned ice-boat. Besides, it was not more than two miles over the ice to Coxford, and the wind was going down with the sun. The big boats would have made slow work of it beating in to the slab-town on the western shore of the lake. Neale and Agnes ran out across the ice to meet their friends. Most of the party were glad indeed to get on their feet, for the ride up the lake had been a cold one. In fact, Tess could scarcely walk when she got out of her seat, and Dot tumbled right down on the ice, almost weeping. "I--I guess I haven't got any feet," the smallest Corner House girl half sobbed. "I can't feel 'em." "Course you've got feet, Dot," said Sammy, staggering a good deal himself when he walked toward her. "Just you jump up and down like this," and he proceeded to follow his own advice. "But won't we break through the ice?" murmured the smallest Corner House girl. "Why, Dot! do you s'pose," demanded Tess, "that you can jump hard enough to break through two feet of ice?" "Well, I never tried it before, did I?" demanded Dot. "How should _I_ know what might happen to the old ice?" Agnes hurried the little ones over to the shanty of the friendly fisher-woman, where they could get warm and be sheltered from the raw wind that still puffed down in gusts from the hills. Tom Jonah had jumped out of the cockpit of the ice-boat and found himself immediately in the middle of what Luke Shepard called "a fine ruction." "Canines to right of him, canines to left of him, volleyed and thundered!" laughed the college youth. "Hey! call off your fish-hounds, or Tom Jonah will eat them up." One cur was already running away yelping and limping; the others took notice that the old dog had powerful jaws. But Ruth insisted that Tom Jonah be put on a leash, and Luke meekly obeyed. Indeed, he was likely to do almost anything that the oldest Corner House girl told him to do, "right up to jumping through the ring of a doughnut!" his sister whispered to Mrs. MacCall in great glee. "Well, my lassie," was the housekeeper's comment, "he might be mindin' a much worse mistress than our Ruthie." Nothing that Ruth could or did do in most matters was wrong in Mrs. MacCall's opinion, even if she did criticize the Kenways' charity. If Luke Shepard some day expected to get Ruth for his wife, the housekeeper considered that it was only right he should first learn to obey Ruth's behests in all things. Ruth had a word to say to Neale and Agnes at this time. She pointed out to those two restless and reckless younger ones that there must be no such venturesome escapades during the remainder of this winter vacation as that connected with the ice-scooter. "If you have no respect for your own bones, think of our feelings," she concluded. "Why! I almost had heart disease when I saw that horrid scooter fly past with Agnes up in the air as though she were on a flying trapeze." "Shucks, Ruth!" said Neale, "you know I wouldn't let any harm come to Aggie." "Now, Neale," returned the older girl, "how would you keep her from getting hurt if that ice-boat broke in two, for instance?" "Oh, well--" "That's what I thought!" snapped Ruth. "You had not thought of that." "Don't scold him! Don't scold Neale!" begged Agnes. "He's all right." "Oh, no, he isn't," said Ruth grimly. "One side of him is left! And you will promise to be good or I'll make Mr. Howbridge send Neale home, right from here." "Oh!" cried her sister. "You would not be so mean, Ruthie Kenway." "I don't know but I would," Ruth rejoined. "I don't think so much of boys, anyway--" "Not until they get to be collegians," whispered Neale shrilly from behind his hand. Ruth's eyes snapped at that, and she marched away without another word. Mr. Howbridge refrained from commenting upon the incident, for he saw that Ruth had said quite all that was necessary. Neale and Agnes were much abashed. They followed the others slowly toward the village on the ice. Neale said: "Well, if she says I can't go any farther I'll stay right here and fish until you come back, Aggie." "Oh, Neale! You wouldn't!" "Why not? Maybe I'd make a little money. If two twelve year old girls could stand it for a week here, I don't see why I couldn't stand it for three weeks." "I've been thinking about those two girls that woman told us about," said Agnes with sudden eagerness. "What about 'em?" "Do you s'pose they were girls, Neale O'Neil?" "Why! what do you mean? How do I know? The woman said they were." "But two _girls_--and only twelve! It doesn't seem probable. I should think the police--" "Didn't you hear that woman say there were no constables out here on the ice?" said Neale. "I don't care! I'm suspicious," declared Agnes. "Not of that fisher-woman?" asked the boy, puzzled indeed. "No, no! But no two girls in this world would ever have considered coming out here on the ice to fish. How ridiculous!" "Say! what are you trying to get at, Agnes Kenway?" demanded her friend. "You do have the craziest ideas!" "Do I, Mr. Smartie?" she returned. "At least they are ideas. You never seem to suspect a living thing, Neale O'Neil." "Oh! I give it up," he groaned. "You are too much for me. I'm lashed to the post and you have left me behind." "Oh, do come on!" exclaimed Agnes, hastily dragging at his jacket sleeve. "If you don't know what I'm about, just keep still and listen." "Oh, I'll do that little thing for you," returned Neale. "I can be as dumb as a mute quahog with the lockjaw--just watch me!" He tagged on behind Agnes with much interest. The girl hurried to the shack into which the little folks had been taken for warmth. Mrs. MacCall was there with them, talking with the genial fisher-woman. "Hech!" exclaimed the housekeeper, warming her blue hands, "but this is a strange way to live. 'Tis worse than sheep herding in the Highlands. 'Tis so!" "'Tain't so bad," said the woman. "And there's good money in the fish. We are mostly all Coxford people here--or folks from back in the hills. Few stragglers come here to bother us." "But you said two strangers had been here this winter," Agnes interposed, eagerly. "I said so," the woman agreed. "Two stragglers. Two girls," and she laughed. "But they didn't stay long. They kept to themselves like, and never did us any harm." "Say, Maw!" The voice came out of a shadowy corner. It was gloomy in the shack, for the sun had now dipped below the hills and twilight had come. "That's my Bob," said the woman. "He's about the age of them two gals." "They wasn't two gals, Maw," said Bob from the darkness. "What d'you mean?" "One was a boy. Yes, she was--a boy! We kids found it out, and that's why them two lit out over night." "Good gracious, Bob! What are you sayin'?" "That's right," said the voice from the dark corner, stubbornly. "They was brother and sister. They owned up. Run away from somewhere, I guess. And then they run away from here." Agnes pinched Neale's arm. "What did I tell you?" she whispered. "Ouch! I don't know. You've told me so many things, Aggie," he complained. "Don't you remember what Mr. Howbridge told us about the Birdsall twins and the picture he sent out to the police? He showed us that, too." "Jumping Jupiter!" gasped the amazed Neale. "Why--why, _she_," pointing to the fisher-woman, "didn't say anything about the twins." "Listen!" exclaimed Agnes again; and as Mrs. MacCall had taken the three younger children out of the shack, Agnes began to interrogate the woman as to the appearance of the strange girls who had remained for a week at the village on the ice. Yes, they were both slim, and dark, and looked boyish enough--both of them. They seemed well behaved. She didn't believe Bob-- "I tell you I know," put in Bob from his corner. "One was a boy. He called the other by a girl name all right. Rowly--or Rowny--or sumpin'--" "Rowena!" cried Agnes. "Mebbe," admitted Bob. "For the land of liberty's sake!" exclaimed his mother suddenly, "I'd like to know how you are so sure 'bout one bein' a boy?" "Well, I'll tell you," grumbled Bob. "'Cause he licked me! Yes, he did. Licked me good and proper. No girl could ha' done that, you bet!" said the disgruntled Bob. "Now, Bob! I am ashamed of you!" said his mother. "You needn't be. He could fight, that fellow!" "But did you think they were both girls till you got into this fight?" Neale asked, now becoming interested. "Bet you. We thought we could get some of their lines. They had more'n enough. We went over there to Manny Cox's shack, and she that was a girl was alone. So we took the lines." "Now, Bob!" murmured his mother. "Guess a constable here wouldn't be a bad thing after all," chuckled Neale. "Go on," ordered Agnes. "Why, that girl just cried and scolded. But the other one came back before me and Hank and Buddie got away." "The one you think was a boy?" asked Agnes. "One I know was a boy--since he fought me. He didn't do no cryin'. He squared right off, skirts an' all, and jest lambasted me. And when Hank tried to put in an oar, he lambasted him. Buddie run, or he'd 've been licked, too, I guess." "Well!" exclaimed Bob's mother. "I never did! And you never said a word about it!" "What was the use?" asked her son. "We was licked. And the next morning that boy-girl and his sister was gone. We didn't see 'em no more." "That is right," said the woman thoughtfully. "They got away jest like that. I never did know what become of 'em or what they went for." Agnes dragged Neale out of the shack. She was excited. "Let's find Mr. Howbridge!" she cried. "He ought to know about this. I just feel sure those twins have been here in this fisher-town." CHAPTER X INTO THE WILDERNESS But the lawyer and guardian of the runaway Birdsall twins was not so easily convinced that Agnes had found the trail of the lost Ralph and Rowena. It seemed preposterous that the twins should have joined these rough fisherfolk and lived with them in the ice-village. The party from Milton waited at the village for an hour while the lawyer cross-questioned the inhabitants. It was not that any of these people wished to hobble Mr. Howbridge's curiosity regarding the "stragglers," as they called the strangers who sometimes joined the community; but nobody had considered it his or her business to question or examine in any way the two unknown girls (if they were girls) who had occupied Manny Cox's shack for a week. After all, the boy, Bob, and his mates, gave the most convincing testimony regarding the strangers. He was positive that one of the stragglers had been a boy--a very sturdy and pugilistic one for a twelve-year-old lad. "And that might fit young Ralph Birdsall's reputation, as I got it from Rodgers, the butler," said Mr. Howbridge. "Ralph has to be stirred by Rowena to fight; but, once stirred, Rodgers says he can fight like a wildcat." "Why, what a horrid boy!" murmured Tess, who heard this. "I guess I'm glad those twins didn't come with us after all." "But, Mr. Howbridge," asked Ruth, "does it seem possible that they could get away up here alone?" "That is difficult to say. Nobody knows how much money they had when they left Arlington. They might have come as far as this. If they had wished to, I mean." It was getting quite dark, now, and the children were tired and hungry. The party could spend no more time at the fishing village. They set out across the ice for Coxford. Neale took Dot pick-a-pack and Luke shouldered Tess, although the latter felt much embarrassed by this proceeding. Ruth had to urge her to remain upon the collegian's shoulder. "Really, I'm quite too big to play this way," she objected. But she was tired--she had to admit that. Sammy made no complaint; but his short legs were weary enough before they reached the shore. Oil lamps on posts lit the few streets of Coxford. Most of the slab houses looked as though the wind, with a good puff, could blow them down. The forest came down to the edge of the village. If there should be a forest fire on this side of the mountain range, the slab-town would surely be destroyed. Hedden, Mr. Howbridge's man, had prepared things here for the party, as well as at Culberton. On the main street of the little town was what passed for a hotel. At this time of year it was but little patronized. Therefore the lawyer's man had chartered the house, as well as the family that owned it, to make the holiday vacation party comfortable over one night. Roaring fires, hot supper, feather beds, and plenty of woolen blankets awaited the crowd from Milton at this backwoods hostelry. Mr. Dan Durkin, who was the proprietor of the Coxford Hotel, and his hospitable wife and daughters, could not do too much for the comfort of Mr. Howbridge and his friends. "We don't have enough strangers here in winter time to keep us in mind of what city folks are like," the hotel-keeper declared. "When Miz' Birdsall was alive, she and her man and the kids used to come through here three-four times 'twixt the first snow flurries an' the spring break-up. They liked to see their camp up there in the hills durin' the winter. But after Miz' Birdsall died, he never came." "And the children?" asked Mr. Howbridge, thoughtfully. "They did come in summer," said Durkin; "but not in the winter." "You haven't seen them of late, have you?" questioned the lawyer. "Them twins? No. Nary hide nor hair of 'em. I tell you, ain't nobody--scurcely--gets up here this time' o' year. 'Ceptin' a few stragglers for the fishin', perhaps. But we don't see them here at the hotel. We don't take in stragglers." But he and his family, as has been said, did their very best for the party from Milton. The young folks slept soundly, and warmly, as well, and were really sorry to crawl out of the feather beds at seven o'clock the next morning when they were called to get ready for breakfast. The cold and the long ride of the day before seemed to have done nobody any harm. The balsam-laden air, when they went to the hotel porch for a breath of it before breakfast, seemed to search right down to the bottom of their lungs and invigorate them all. Surely, as Neale had told Agnes, no tubercular germ could live in such an atmosphere. "Just the same," said Ruth, wisely, when Agnes mentioned this scientific statement fathered by the ex-circus boy, "you children keep well wrapped up. What is one man's medicine is another man's poison, Mrs. Mac often says. And it is so with germs, I guess. What will kill one germ, another germ thrives on. A bad cold up here will be almost sure to turn into pneumonia. So beware!" "Don't keep talking about being sick," cried Cecile. "You are almost as bad as Neighbor." "Neighbor" Henry Northrup lived next door to the Shepards and their Aunt Lorena, and was Luke's very good friend. "Neighbor is forever talking about symptoms and diseases. After a half hour visit with him I always go home feeling as though I needed to call the doctor for some complaint." They made a hearty and hilarious breakfast of country fare--fried pork and johnnycakes, with eggs and baked beans for "fillers." Mrs. MacCall should not have tried to eat the crisply fried "crackling" as the farmers call the pork-rind; but she did. And one of the teeth on her upper plate snapped right off! "Oh, dear me, Mrs. Mac!" gasped Agnes. "And not a dentist for miles and miles, I suppose!" "Oh, well, I can get along without that one tooth." "My pop's got a new set of false teeth," Sammy said soberly. "He's just got 'em--all new and shiny." "What did he do with the old ones he had?" asked Tess, interested. "Huh! I dunno. Throwed 'em away, I hope. Anyway," said Sammy, who had had much experience in wearing made over clothing, "mom can't cut them down and make me wear 'em!" The jangling of sleighbells hurried the party through breakfast. The little folks were first out upon the porch to look at the two pungs, filled with straw, and each drawn by a pair of heavy horses. The latter did not promise from their appearance a swift trip to Red Deer Lodge; but they were undoubtedly able to draw a heavy load through the deepest drifts in the forest. They set out very gayly from the little lakeside town. It was not a brilliantly sunshiny day, for a haze wrapped the mountain tops about and was creeping down toward the ice-covered lake. "There's a storm gathering," declared one of the men engaged to drive the Milton party into the woods. "I reckon you folks will git about all the snow you want for Christmas." "At any rate, it won't be a green Christmas up here," Agnes said to Neale, who sat beside her in the second sled. "I don't think it is nice at all not to have plenty of snow over Christmas and New Year's." "I'm with you there," agreed the boy. "But I'm glad I haven't got to shovel paths through these drifts," he added, with a quick grin. They found the tote-road, as the path was called, quite filled with snow in some places. There were only the marks of the sleds that had gone up two days before with the servants and baggage and returned--these same two pungs in which the party now rode. The drifts were packed so hard that the horses drew the sleds right over the drifts, without breaking through more than an inch or two with their big hoofs. In some places they could trot heavily, jerking the sleds along at rather a good pace; but for most of the way the road was uphill, and the horses plodded slowly. The boys got out now and then to stretch their legs. Agnes, too, demanded this privilege, and tramped along beside Neale after the sleds on the uphill grades. Mainly the party was warm and comfortable, and cheerful voices, laughter, and song rang through the spruce woods as they traversed the forest-clad hills. Red Deer Lodge, it proved, was a long day's journey from the lakeside into the wilderness. Never before had the Corner House girls and their friends visited so wild a place. But they foresaw no trouble in store for them--not even from the gathering storm. "Of course," Agnes said, when she was tramping on one occasion with the boys behind the second sled, "there must be bears, and wolves, and catamounts, and all those, in these woods in summer. But they are all hidden away for the winter now, aren't they, Neale?" "The bears are holed up," he granted. "But the other varmints--" "What are those?" "That is what Uncle Bill Sorber calls most carnivorous animals," laughed Neale. "Creatures that prey--" "Je-ru-sa-_lem_!" ejaculated the wide-eared Sammy. "You don't mean to say wild animals pray, do you? I never knew they were that religious!" "Good-_night_!" laughed Neale. "I mean those that prey on other animals--live on 'em, you know. _Prey_ on 'em." "Je-ru-sa-_lem_!" murmured Sammy. "Just like the fleas on my bulldog, Buster?" "That's enough! That's enough!" groaned Neale. "No use trying to teach this boy anything." "Huh!" grumbled Sammy Pinkney. "They make me learn enough in school. Don't you begin to pick on me out here in the woods, Neale O'Neil." Just then Tom Jonah, who, his tongue hanging out, had been padding on ahead, suddenly uttered a loud bark and leaped out of the path. He went tearing away across the tops of the drifts and through the open wood through which the tote-road then passed. Out of a close-branched spruce just ahead of the big dog shot a tawny-gray body, and a fearsome yowl drowned the barking of the dog. But the creature that had created Tom Jonah's excitement was running away. "Call off that dog!" shouted the head driver. "Want him all chawed up?" Tess stood up and began to scream for Tom Jonah to return. The old dog would obey her voice if no other. "Oh! What _is_ that?" cried Ruth. "Link," said the driver, succinctly, as the beast uttered another angry howl which made the returning Tom Jonah turn to snarl in the stranger's direction. "Oh!" "He means _lynx_," said Mr. Howbridge. "Don't, nuther," snorted the driver. "There's only one of him, so he's a link. If they was two or more they'd be links." "Oh! Ah!" chuckled Luke Shepard. "And that one is now the 'missing link.' He was making tracks for the port of 'missing links' when he disappeared." "He's goin' some. That dog give him a scare," admitted the driver, as a third and more distant yowl floated back to them from the depths of the forest. The whole party, however, was impressed by the incident. More than Dot were disturbed by the thought of danger. "Just the same," the smallest Corner House girl murmured in Tess' ear. "I'm _not_ going to throw my Alice-doll overboard, either for wolfs or linkses--so there!" CHAPTER XI EMBERS IN THE GRATE Mr. Durkin of the Coxford Hotel had furnished the party with a hearty lunch to eat while they were en route to Red Deer Lodge, and Ruth had brought two big thermos bottles of hot tea, likewise prepared at the hotel. The drivers had their own lunches, and at noon the party halted in the shelter of a windbreak to breathe the horses and allow them to eat their oats. Mrs. MacCall and the older girls complained of stiffness from sitting so long in the sledges. Riding so far in the cold was not altogether pleasant; there was no sunshine at all now. The gathering storm had overcast the entire sky, and as they went on after lunch a rising wind began moaning through the forest. "I don't see why the trees have to make such a meachin' noise," sighed Dot, as they climbed a steep hill so slowly that the rueful sound of the rising gale was quite audible. "Where did you get such a word, Dot?" demanded Ruth, smiling at her. "It is a good word. Uncle Rufus uses it," declared the smallest Corner House girl. "And Uncle Rufus never uses bad words." "Granted," Ruth said. "But what does 'meachin' mean?" "Why, just as though the wind felt bad and was whimpering about it," said Dot, with assurance. "It makes you all shivery to listen to it. And after we heard that link, and know that there are bears and wolfs about--O-o-oh! what's that, Ruthie?" Something white had flashed right up in front of the noses of the first team of horses, and with great leaps broke away from the road. Tom Jonah was at the rear of the procession and did not at first see this bounding shape. Neale stood up in the second sleigh and clapped his hands sharply together. The white ball stopped--halting right in a snow-patch; being so much like the snow itself in color that those in the sledges could scarcely see it. The sharp crack of Neale's ungloved palms seemed to make the creature cower in the snow. It halted for a moment only, however. "Oh! The bunny!" gasped Tess, standing up to see. "A big white hare," Mr. Howbridge said. "I had no idea there were such big ones around here." The hare burst into high speed again and disappeared, almost before Tom Jonah set out for him. "Come back, Tom Jonah!" shouted Tess. "Why, you couldn't catch that bunny if you had started ahead of him." "Wow! that's a good one," said Neale O'Neil. "Tell you what, Aggie, those small sisters of yours are right full of new ideas." "That is what teacher says is the matter with Robbie Foote," remarked Sammy, thoughtfully. "How is that?" asked Agnes, expecting some illuminating information from the standpoint of a lower grade pupil. "Why," Sammy explained, "teacher asked Rob what was the plural of man. Rob told her 'men.' Then, of course, she had to keep right on at it. If you do answer her right she goes right at you again," scoffed Sammy. "That's why I don't often answer her right if I can help it. It only makes you trouble." "Oh! Oh!" chuckled Neale. "A Daniel come to judgment." "Wait. Let's hear the rest of Sam's story," begged Agnes. "What was Robbie Foote's idea?" "That's what teacher said--he was full of ideas, only they were silly," went on Sammy. "When he'd told her 'men' was the plural of 'man,' she said: 'What is the plural of child?' He told her 'twins.' What d'you know about that? She said his ideas were silly." "I'm not so sure he was silly," laughed Neale. "I wonder what has become of those Birdsall twins," Agnes said thoughtfully. "Up here in this wild country--" "Nonsense!" exclaimed Neale. "You don't know anything of the kind. Those two girls that fisher-woman spoke about--" "One of them was a boy." "Well, that doesn't prove anything. We don't even know that the two at the fisher-village were twins." "But they were brother and sister roaming about--runaways and alone." "Oh, Aggie!" he cried, "don't make up your mind a thing is so without getting some real evidence first. Mr. Howbridge asked, and he is not at all sure those stragglers were the twins." "Somehow I just feel that they were," sighed the second Corner House girl, with a confidence that Neale saw it was useless to try to shake. When Agnes Kenway made up her mind to a thing Neale wagged his head and gave it up. The party was quite too jolly, however, to bother much about the lost Birdsall twins just then. Even Mr. Howbridge had said nothing about them since his cross-examination of the hotel-keeper back at Coxford. If the twins had come this way, for instance, attempting to reach Red Deer Lodge, surely some of the people of Coxford or the woodsmen going back and forth on the tote-road would have met and recognized them. And if Ralph was dressed in some of his sister's clothing, they would have been the more surely marked. Two girls of twelve or so traveling into the woods? It seemed quite ridiculous. For this was indeed a wild country through which the tote-road ran. The fact of its being a wilderness was marked even to the eyes of those so unfamiliar with such scenes. Now and then a fox barked from the brakes in the lowland. Jays in droves winged across the clearings with raucous cries. More than one trampled place beside the thickets of edible brush showed where the deer herd had browsed within stone's throw of the tote-road. And then, as the party came closer to the ridge on which Red Deer Lodge was built, and the twilight began to gather, the big white owls of these northern forests went flapping through the tree-lanes, skimming the snowcrust for the rabbits and other small animals that might be afoot even this early in the evening. The spread of the wings of the first of these monster owls that they saw was quite six feet from tip to tip, and it almost scared Dot Kenway. With an eerie "Hoo! Hoo! Hoo-oo!" and a swish of wings it crossed the road just ahead of the horses, and made even those plodding beasts toss their heads and prick up their ears. "Oh, look at that 'normous great white chicken!" shouted Dot. "Did you ever?" "It is an owl, child," said Tess. "An owl as big as _that_?" gasped the smaller girl. "Why--why--it could carry you right off like the eagle that Mr. Lycurgus Billet set his Sue for bait! Don't you 'member?" "I guess I do remember!" Tess declared. "But an owl isn't like an eagle. It isn't so savage." The party had come a long way, and the steaming horses were now weary. As evening approached the cold increased in intensity, while the mournfully sounding wind promised stern weather. The members of the party from Milton began to congratulate each other that they were arriving at the Lodge before a big storm should sweep over this northern country. "And suppose we get snowed in and aren't able to get out of the woods till spring?" suggested Cecile, not without some small fear that such might be a possibility. "There goes little Miss Fidget!" cried her brother. "Always worrying over the worst that may happen." "But I suppose we could be snowbound up here?" suggested Ruth, although scarcely with anxiety. "Yes!" agreed Luke, laughing. "And pigs might fly. But they tell me they are awful uncertain birds." "Don't listen to him, Ruthie," said Cecile. "We may have to stay here all winter long." "Then I only hope Mr. Howbridge sent up grub enough to see us through till spring," put in the collegian gayly. "For I can foresee right now that this keen air is going to give me the appetite of an Eskimo." It was a long climb to the top of the ridge on which the Birdsalls had built their rustic home. When the party came in sight of it the lamps were already lighted and these beckoned cheerfully to the arrivals while they were still a long way off. The private road which had branched off from the regular tote-road at the foot of the ridge was easy to ascend beside some of the hills they had climbed. The teams, however, were not to be urged out of a walk. There was a sudden flare of sulphurous light over the wooded caps of the mountains to the west of the ridge; but this lasted only a few minutes. The sun was then smothered in the mists as it sank to rest. Dusk almost at once filled the aisles of the forest. On the summit of the ridge about the big, sprawling, rustic house only shade trees had been allowed to stand. The land was cleared and tilled to some extent. At least, there was plenty of open space around the Lodge and the log barns and the outbuildings. Somebody was on watch, for the big entrance door opened before the sleds reached the steps, and yellow lamplight shone out across the porch. Hedden stood in the doorway, while another man ran down to assist with the bags and bundles. "Oh, what a homelike looking place!" Ruth cried, quite as amazed as the other visitors by the appearance of the Lodge. Aside from the fact that the house was built of round logs with the bark peeled off, it did not seem to be at all rough or of crude construction. There were two floors and a garret. The entrance hall seemed as big as a barn. It was cozy and warm, however, despite its size. There was a gallery all around this hall at the level of the second floor, and a stairway went up on either side. At the rear was a huge fireplace, and this was heaped with logs which gave off both light and heat. There was a chandelier dropped from the ceiling, however, and acetylene gas flared from the burners of this fixture. The whole party crowded to the hearth where benches and chairs were drawn up in a wide circle before the flames. The maids relieved Mrs. MacCall and the girls of their outer wraps and overshoes. The boys had been shown where they were to leave their caps and coats. Such a hilarious crowd as they were! Jokes and cheerful gossip were the order of this hour of rest. With all but one member of the party! There was one very serious face, and this was the countenance of the youngest of the four Kenway sisters. "Dorothy Kenway! what is the matter with you?" demanded Tess, at last seeing the expression on the face of her little sister. Dot had been gazing all about the room with amazed eyes until this question came. Then with gravity she asked: "Tessie! didn't Mr. Howbridge say this was a lodge?" "Why, yes; this is Red Deer Lodge, child," rejoined Tess. "But--but, Tess! you know it isn't a lodge, nor a room where they have lodges! Now, is it?!" "Why--why--" "It can't be!" went on the smaller girl with great insistence. "You know that was a lodge where we went night before last to have our Christmas tree on Meadow Street." "A _lodge_?" gasped Tess. "Yes. You know it was. And there was a pulpit and chairs on a platform at both ends of the lodge. And lodges are held there. I know, 'cause Becky Goronofsky's father belongs to one that meets there. She said so. And he wears a little white apron with a blue border and a sash over his shoulder. "Now," said the earnest Dot, "there's nothing like that here, so it's not a lodge at all. I don't see why they call it a red lodge for deers." Tess would have been tempted to call on Mr. Howbridge himself for an explanation of this seeming mystery had the lawyer not been just then in conference with Hedden in a corner of the room. The butler had beckoned his employer away from the others. "What is it, Hedden?" asked the lawyer. "Has something gone wrong?" "Not with the arrangements for the comfort of your party, Mr. Howbridge," the man assured him. "But when we came in here yesterday (and I unlocked the door myself with the key you gave me) I found that somebody had recently occupied the Lodge." "You don't mean it! Somebody broken in! Some thief?" "No, sir. I went around to all the windows and doors. Nobody had broken in. Whoever it was must have had a key, too." "But who was it? What did the intruder do?" "I find nothing disturbed, sir. Nothing of importance. But one room, at least, had been used recently. It is a sitting-room upstairs--right near this main hall. There had been a fire in the grate up there. When we came in yesterday the embers were still glowing. But I could find no intruder anywhere about the Lodge, sir." CHAPTER XII MYSTERY AND FUN Mr. Howbridge was evidently somewhat impressed by Hedden's report. He stared gravely for a minute at his grizzled butler. Then he nodded. "Take me upstairs and show me which room you mean, Hedden," he said. "Yes, sir. This way, sir." He led the lawyer toward the nearest stairway. They mounted to the gallery. Then the man led his employer down a passage and turned short into a doorway. The room they entered was really on the other side of the chimney from the big entrance hall. It was a small, cozy den. Mr. Howbridge looked the place over keenly, scrutinizing the furnishings before he glanced at the open coal grate to which Hedden sought to draw his attention first of all. "Ah. Yes," said the lawyer, thoughtfully. "A work-basket. Low rocker. A dressing table. Couch. This, Hedden, was Mrs. Birdsall's private sitting-room when she was alive. I never saw the house before, but I have heard Birdsall describe it." "Yes, sir?" "Mrs. Birdsall spent a good deal of her time indoors in this room, and the children with her. So he said. And you found live embers in the grate there?" "Yes, sir," said the butler, his own eyes big with wonder. "No other signs of anybody having been here?" "Not that I could see," said Hedden. "Strange--if anybody had been in here who had a key. Have you seen Ike M'Graw?" "No, sir. The men who brought us up here said the man had gone away--had been away for a week, sir--but would return tonight." "Then he was not the person who built the fire the embers of which you found. The coals would not have burned for a week. He is the person who has a key to the Lodge, and nobody else." "Yes, sir." "Whoever got in here, of course, either departed when you came, Hedden, or before. Did you notice any tracks about the house?" "Plenty, sir. But only of beasts and birds." "Ah-ha! Are the animals as tame as that up here?" "There were footprints that the men from town assured me were those of a big cat of some kind, and there were dog footprints; only the men said they were those of wolves. They say the beasts are getting hungry early in the season, because of the deep and early snow, sir." "Humph! Better say nothing to the children about that," said Mr. Howbridge. "Of course, this party's being here will keep any marauding animals at a distance. We won't care for that sort of visitor." "I think there is no danger, sir. I will tell the chef to throw out no table-scraps, and to feed that big dog we have brought in the back kitchen. Then there will be nothing to attract the wild creatures to the door." "Good idea," Mr. Howbridge said. "And I will warn them all tomorrow not to leave the vicinity of the Lodge alone. When Ike M'Graw arrives we shall be all right. This vicinity is his natural habitat, and he will know all that's right to do, and what not to do." Mr. Howbridge still looked about the room. The thing that interested him most was the mystery of the intruder who had built the fire in the grate. Mrs. Birdsall's sitting-room! And the lawyer knew from hearing the story repeated again and again by the sorrowing widower, that the woman had been brought in here after her fall from the horse and had died upon the couch in the corner of the room. He wondered. Meanwhile the crowd of young people below were comforted with tea and crackers before they went to their bedrooms to change their clothes for dinner. Mr. Howbridge had brought the customs of his own formal household to Red Deer Lodge, and, knowing how particular the lawyer was, Ruth Kenway had warned the others to come prepared to dress for dinner. Mrs. MacCall, after drinking her third cup of tea, went off with the chief maid to view the house and learn something about it. The Scotch woman was very capable and had governed Mr. Howbridge's own home before she went to the old Corner House to keep straight the household lines there for the Kenways. Her situation here at the Lodge was one between the serving people and the family; but the latter, especially the smaller girls, would have been woeful indeed had Mrs. MacCall not sat at the table with them and been one of the family as she was at home in Milton. The girls were shown to their two big rooms on the second floor, and found them warm and cozy. They were heated by wood fires in drum-stoves. Ike M'Graw, general caretaker of the Lodge, had long since piled each wood box in the house full with billets of hard wood. Neale and Luke and Sammy were given another room off the gallery above the main hall. There they washed, and freshened up their apparel, and otherwise made themselves more presentable. Even Sammy looked a little less grubby than usual when they came down to the big fire again. It was black dark outside by this time. The wind was still moaning in the forest, and when they went to the door the fugitive snowflakes drifted against one's cheek. "Going to be a bad night, I guess," Neale said, coming back from an observation, just as the girls came down the stairway. "Oh, look! see 'em all fussed up!" The girls had shaken out their furbelows, and now came down smiling and preening not a little. Mr. Howbridge appeared in a Tuxedo coat. "Wish I'd brought my 'soup to nuts,'" admitted Luke Shepard. "This is going to be a dress-up affair. I thought we were coming into the wilderness to rough it." "All the roughing it will be done outside the house, young man," said Cecile to her brother. "You must be on your very best behavior inside." Hedden's assistant announced dinner, and Mr. Howbridge offered his arm to Mrs. MacCall, who had just descended the stairway in old-fashioned rustling black silk. Immediately Luke joined the procession with Ruth on his arm, and Neale followed with Agnes, giggling of course. Cecile made Sammy walk beside her, and he was really proud to do this, only he would not admit it. At the end of the procession came the two little girls. They had not seen the dining-room before. It was big enough for a banquet hall, and the table without being extended would have seated a dozen. There was an open fireplace on either side of this room. The acetylene lamps gave plenty of light. There were favors at each plate. There were even flowers on the table. Aside from the unplastered walls and raftered ceiling, one might have thought this dinner served in Mr. Howbridge's own home. They all (the older ones at least) began to realize how great a cross it would have been for the lawyer to take into his home in Milton two harum-scarum children like the Birdsall twins. If all tales about them were true, they were what Neale O'Neil called "terrors." Such children would surely break every rule of the lawyer's well-ordered existence. And bachelors of Mr. Howbridge's age do not take kindly to changes. "Think of bringing the refinements of his own establishment away up here into the woods for a three weeks' vacation!" gasped Cecile afterwards to Ruth. To-night at dinner every rule of a well-furnished and well-governed household was followed. Hedden and his assistant served. The food was deliciously cooked and the sauce of a good appetite aided all to enjoy the meal. And the fun and laughter! Mr. Howbridge and Mrs. MacCall enjoyed the jokes and chatter as much as the younger people themselves. Dot's discovery that this was not at all like the lodge room on Meadow Street delighted everybody. "If you think that red deer ever held lodge meetings in this house, you are much mistaken, honey," Agnes told the smallest Corner House girl. Tom Jonah was allowed to come in and "sit up" at table. The old dog was so well trained that his table manners (and this was Ruth's declaration) were far superior to those of Sammy Pinkney. But Sammy was on his best behavior this evening. The grandeur of the table service quite overpowered him. When they all filed back into the hall, which was really the living-room and reception hall combined, Tom Jonah went with them and curled down on a warm spot on the hearth. One of the men staggered in with a great armful of chunks for the evening fire. Hedden found a popper and popcorn. There was a basket of shiny apples, and even a jug of sweet cider appeared, to be set down near the fire to take the chill off it. "Now, this," said Mr. Howbridge, sitting in a great chair with his slippered feet outstretched toward the fire, "is what I call country comfort." "Whist, man!" exclaimed Mrs. MacCall. "'Tis plain to be seen you ken little about country comforts, or discomforts either. You were born in the city, Mr. Howbridge, and you have lived in the city most of your days. 'Tis little you know what it means to live away from towns and from luxuries." "Why," laughed the lawyer, "I always go away for a vacation in the summer, and I usually choose some rustic neighborhood." "Aye. Where they have piped water in the house, and electricity, an' hair mattresses. Aye. I know your kind of 'country,' too, Mr. Howbridge. But when I was a child at home we lived in the real country--only two farms in the vale and the shepherds' cots. My feyther was a shepherd, you know." "You must be some relation of ours, then, Mrs. MacCall," Luke said, smiling. "Oh, aye. By Adam," said the housekeeper coolly. "I've nae doot we sprang from the same stock the Bible speaks of." "Now will you be good?" cried Cecile, shaking a finger at her brother. "Go on, Mrs. MacCall. Tell us about your Highland home." "Hech! There's very little to tell," said the housekeeper, shaking her head, "save that 'twas a very lonely vale we lived in, and forbye in winter. Then we'd not see a strange body from end to end of the snows. And the snow came early and went late. "If we had not a grand oat bin and a cow in the stable we bairns would oft go hungry. Why, our mother would sometimes keep us abed in stormy weather to save turf. A fire like yon," she added, nodding toward the blazing pile in the chimney, "would have been counted a sin even in a laird's house." "Ah, Mrs. MacCall," said the lawyer, "we're all lairds over here." "Aye, that can pay the price can have the luxuries. 'Tis so. But luxuries we knew naught about where I was born and bred." "I suppose the people right around us here--the residents of this neighborhood--have few luxuries," Ruth said thoughtfully. "There aren't many neighbors, I guess," said Neale, laughing. "But those people living in that fishing village--and even at Coxford--never saw a tenth of the things which we consider necessary at home," Ruth pursued. "Suppose!" exclaimed Cecile eagerly. "Just suppose we were snowed in up here and could not get out for weeks, and nobody could get to us. I guess we would have to learn to go without luxuries! Maybe without food." "Oh, don't suggest such a thing," begged Agnes. "And this cold air gives one such an appetite!" "Don't mention a shortage of food," put in Neale, chuckling, "or Aggie will be getting up in the night and coming down to rob the pantry." There might have been a squabble right then and there had not Hedden appeared, and, in his grave way, announced: "Mr. M'Graw has arrived, sir. Shall I bring him in here?" "Ah!" exclaimed the lawyer, waking up from a brown study. "Ike M'Graw? I understood from Birdsall that he is a character. Has he had supper, Hedden?" "Yes, sir. I knew that you would wish him served. He has been eating in the servants' dining-room, sir." "Send him in," the lawyer said. "Now, young folks, here is the man who can tell us more about Red Deer Lodge and the country hereabout, and all that goes on in it, than anybody else. Here--" The door opened again. Hedden announced gravely: "Mr. Ike M'Graw, sir." There strode over the threshold one of the tallest men the young people, at least, had ever seen. And he was so lean that his height seemed more than it really was. "Why," gasped Neale to Agnes, "he's so thin he doesn't cast a shadow, I bet!" "Sh!" advised the girl warningly. They were all vastly interested in the appearance of Mr. Ike M'Graw. CHAPTER XIII THE TIMBER CRUISER Mr. Howbridge got up from his chair and advanced to meet the backwoodsman with hospitable hand. The roughly dressed, bewhiskered forester did not impress the young folks at first as being different from the men who had driven the sledges to the camp or those who had brought the party up Long Lake in the ice-boats. Ike M'Graw had an enormous moustache ("like that of a walrus," Cecile whispered), but his iron-gray beard was cropped close. His face was long and solemn of expression, but his gray eyes, surrounded by innumerable wrinkles, had a humorous cast, and were as bright as the eyes of a much younger person. He seized Mr. Howbridge's hand and pumped it warmly. His grip was strong, and Mr. Howbridge winced, but he continued to smile upon the old man. "Mr. Birdsall told me that if I wanted to know anything up here, or wanted anything done, to look to you, Mr. M'Graw," said the lawyer, as their hands fell apart. "I bet he didn't say it jest that way, Mr. Howbridge," chuckled the man. "No. I reckon he jest called me 'Ike.' Now, didn't he? And 'Old Ike,' at that!" Mr. Howbridge laughed. "Well, he did speak of you in that way, yes," he admitted. "I reckoned so," M'Graw said. "Yep, I'm 'Old Ike' to my friends, and what my enemies call me don't matter at all--not at all." "I fancy you don't make many enemies up here in the woods, M'Graw," said Mr. Howbridge, waving the visitor to a comfortable seat before the fire. "Nor friends, nuther," chuckled the man. "No, sir, there ain't sech a slather of folks up here to mix in with, by any count." Before the woodsman took his seat the lawyer introduced him to Mrs. MacCall and to Ruth, individually, and to the rest of the group in general. "Hi gorry!" exclaimed Ike M'Graw, "you've got a right big fam'ly, haven't you? You won't be lonesome up here--no, you won't be lonesome." "And that is what I should think you would be," Mr. Howbridge said. "Lonesome. If you get snowed in you don't see anybody for weeks, I suppose?" "Better say 'months,' Mister," declared M'Graw. "I've been snowed into my cabin back yonder in the valley from the day before Christmas till come St. Patrick's Day. That's right." "I understood you lived near the Lodge, here, Ike?" said the lawyer. "Oh, I do in winter, since Mr. Birdsall asked me to," the man said. "But sometimes--'specially when there was visitors up here--the population of this here ridge got too thick for Old Ike. Then I'd hike out for my old cabin in the valley." Quickly Mr. Howbridge put in a query that had formed in his mind early in the evening: "Have you been troubled with visitors up here this winter?" "No, sir! It's been right quiet here, you might say." "Nobody here at all until my party came yesterday?" "Well, not many. Some timbermen went through for Neven. His company's got a camp over beyond the Birdsall line. Yes, sir." "Strangers have not been here, then?" "Why, no. Not to my knowledge," said M'Graw, with a keener look at the lawyer. "You wasn't meanin' nothin' special, was you? I've been away over to Ebettsville for a week. Nothin' stirring here before I went." The conversation had become general again among the main party. Mr. Howbridge drew his chair nearer to the old man's ear. "Listen," he said. "When my men came up yesterday and opened the house with the key I had given them, they found somebody had been in here not many hours before they arrived." "How'd they know?" "The fire had scarcely died out in one of the grates upstairs." "Hum! Fire, eh? And I hadn't been inside this Lodge since b'fore Thanksgiving. Kinder funny, heh?" "Yes." "Anything stole?" "Not a thing touched as far as we know. No other traces but the embers in that grate--" "Hold on, Mister!" exclaimed M'Graw, but in a low voice. "What grate are you referrin' to? Which room was this fire in?" Mr. Howbridge told him. The old man's face was curious to look upon. His brows drew down into a frown. His sharp eyes lost their humorous cast. Of a sudden he was very serious indeed. "That thar room," he said slowly, and at length, "was Miz' Birdsall's." "So I believed from the way it was furnished and from what Frank had told me of the house." "Yes, Mister. That was her room. She thought a heap of sittin' in that room; 'specially in stormy weather. And the little shavers used to play there with her, too." "Yes?" "Them little shavers thought a sight of their mom," pursued M'Graw. "I gathered as much from what Frank told me," Mr. Howbridge said seriously. "By the way, Mr. Howbridge," said M'Graw in a different tone, "where are the little shavers?" "You mean the twins, of course? Ralph and Rowena?" "Yes, sir." The guardian of the Birdsall twins rather hesitatingly told the old man just why he had not brought Ralph and Rowena to Red Deer Lodge at this time. "Ran away? Now listen to that!" murmured the old man. "That don't sound right. Wasn't they with folks able to take keer of 'em?" "I thought they were," said Mr. Howbridge. "Rodgers, the butler, and his wife." "Whoof!" exclaimed the backwoodsman, expelling his breath in a great snort of disgust. "That butler! Wal, what for a man wants to buttle for, I don't know. I never could make it out that it was a real man's job, anyway. And that Rodgers was one useless critter. I don't blame them little shavers for runnin' away from Rodgers an' that sour-apple wife of his. I know 'em both." "If that is the case," said the lawyer sadly, "I wish I had known them as well as you appear to. Then I should have made other provision for the twins right at the start." "But shucks!" said M'Graw, suddenly grinning. "Them two little shavers will turn up all right. Ralph and Roweny are right smart kids." "That may be. But we don't know where they have gone to. Of course, Ike, they couldn't have got up here to Red Deer Lodge, could they?" "I don't know 'bout that," said the old man. "I reckon they could have got here if they'd wanted to. But I know well 'nough they didn't--not before I went away to Ebettsville a week ago." "Of course not! Somebody would have seen them at Coxford. And then, if they had come here, where are they now?" "That's right, Mister," agreed Ike M'Graw. "But--but who started that fire in the grate?" "If it had been the children wouldn't they have been found here?" "Mebbe. Tell you the truth"--and the old man's weather-beaten face reddened a little. "Well, to tell you the truth, when you spoke of the fire in the grate, I was some took aback. Miz' Birdsall bein' killed here. And she likin' that room so. And she finally dyin' in it--well, I don't know--" "Ike! you are superstitious, I do believe," said the lawyer. "Mebbe. But that never killed nobody," said the man. "And funny things do happen. Howsomever--Say!" he exclaimed suddenly, "how'd these folks that made the fire get into the house and out again?" "Hedden, my man, says he found nothing broken or burst open. It must have been by the use of a key. And the only key I knew of up here was yours, Ike." "That's right," said the backwoodsman, nodding. "Mine's the only key up here." "But the intruders couldn't have used that." "Yes, they could, too! I didn't take it with me when I went away from here." "Who would know where it was?" "Anybody might have seen it that looked into my shack," admitted the old man. "I ain't in the habit of hidin' things. We don't have burglars up here, Mister. That key, and others, hung right on a nail beside my chimley-place. Yes, sir!" "Then any person passing by could have found the key and entered the Lodge?" asked Mr. Howbridge. "Only we don't have many folks passin' by," returned Ike thoughtfully. "I can't understand it." "It is a puzzle," admitted M'Graw. "Hi gorry! I ain't been to my shack yet since comin' back from Ebettsville. Mebbe the key ain't thar no more." "To what door was it?" asked the lawyer. "This here," replied M'Graw, jerking a thumb toward the main entrance. "Padlock on the outside of the door. All the other doors was barred on the inside. Oh, she was locked up hard and fast!" "I don't understand it," said the lawyer. "You look when you go home and see if the key is hanging where you left it." "Hi gorry! I will," promised the backwoodsman. "I'd better bring the key over here tomorrow, anyway. And I reckon you want them figgers on the timber Neven wants to cut?" "Yes. Of course, Ike, you have made no mistake in cruising the timberland?" "I never make mistakes, Mister," said the old man. "That wouldn't do in the woods. The man that's brought up, as I was, with wildcats an' bears an' sech, can't afford to make mistakes. This was a lots wilder country when I was a boy from what 'tis now." "I find that Neven's figures are very different from yours." "Likely. And I reckon they're in his favor, ain't they?" and M'Graw chuckled. "Ye-as? I thought so. Well, you take it from me, Mister: I'm working for Birdsall's youngsters, not for Neven." "I believe that to be a fact," the lawyer agreed warmly. "I have already told Neven that there are other companies that will make a contract with us if he doesn't care to accept your report." "I b'lieve I know this Birdsall strip a leetle better'n any other feller in these parts. I've lived on it twenty year, and knowed it well before that time. I've seen some o' this timber grow. Reckon I ain't fooled myself none." After that Mr. Howbridge drew the old into the general conversation. Ike approved vastly of the young people, it was evident. Agnes and the smaller children were popping corn. There were apples roasting on the hearth. The cider was handed about in glasses which one of the servants brought. "We shall look to you for help in amusing these young people, Ike," Mr. Howbridge said. "Is it going to snow enough tonight to keep them indoors tomorrow?" "No, no," the old woodsman assured them. "It's snowing some, but not much yet awhile. This here storm that's comin' has got to gather fust. We'll get a heavy fall, I don't doubt, in the end; but not yet. Like enough, 'twill be purty fair tomorrow." Reassured by this prophecy, the little folks soon after went to bed. Nor were the older members of the party long behind them. They had had a long and wearying day, and the beds beckoned them. CHAPTER XIV BY THE LIGHT OF THE MOON Ike M'Graw, the timber cruiser, was an excellent weather prophet; and this was proved to be a fact before all of those at Red Deer Lodge had gone to bed on this first night. Neale O'Neil chanced to raise the shade of one of the windows in the boys' room before undressing, and exclaimed to Luke: "Hey! who said it snowed? Look at that moon up there!" Luke Shepard joined him and looked out, too, at the rather misty orb of night that peered through the breaking clouds. But little snow had fallen during the evening. "Going to be a good day, just as that old codger said it would," agreed Luke. "My, how white everything is--really, silver! And a lonely place, isn't it?" "You said it," agreed Neale. He was feeling in his pockets, and suddenly added: "Crackey! I've lost my knife." "You had it down there peeling apples for the girls," said Luke, who was beginning to undress. Sammy was already in bed and sound asleep. Neale started for the door. "I don't want to lose that knife," he said. "I am going to run down and get it." The serving people had gone to bed, but there were dim lights on the gallery and one below in the big hall. Neale ran lightly down the carpeted stairs on his side of the house. The light was so dim that he fumbled around a good while hunting for the missing knife. Suddenly something clattered about his ears--some missiles that came from above, but were not much heavier than snowflakes, it would seem. Neale jumped, and then stared around. He could not see a thing moving or hear anything. Where the white objects had come from he could not understand. Finally he found one that had rolled on the floor. "Popcorn! Say! it's not snowing popcorn in here--not by any natural means," the boy told himself, immediately suspicious. Suddenly he spied his knife, and he pocketed that. As he did so there came another baptism of popcorn. He dropped down below the edge of a table which stood in the middle of the room under the chandelier. All the light came from above, and there was not much of that; so it was dark under the table. He heard a faint giggle. "Ah-ha!" thought Neale. "I smell a mouse! That is a girl's giggle." He saw that the way to the foot of the stairs that were nearest the girls' rooms, was quite dark. He ran out from under the table, but softly and on his hands and knees, and reached the stairway without making a sound. The popcorn rattled again upon the table top, and once more he heard the giggle. He wormed his way up the stairs in the shadow and reached the gallery. Here a jet of gas from the side wall gave some light. He saw the robed figure hanging over the bannister and in the act of throwing another handful of popcorn at the spot where the boy was supposed to be crouching. Neale O'Neil crept forward from the top of the stairs, still on his hands and knees. He was likewise in the shadow, although he could see the figure ahead of him plainly. "Meow!" crooned the boy, imitating a cat with remarkable ingenuity. "Meow!" "Oh, mercy!" hissed a startled voice. "Ma-ro-o-ow!" urged Neale O'Neil, repeating his feline success. "Mercy!" ejaculated the whisperer. "That's a strange cat." "Ma-row-ro-o-ow!" continued Neale, with a lingering wail. "Here, kitty! kitty! kitty!" murmured the girl crouching by the bannister. "Oh, where are you? Poor kitty!" Immediately Neale changed his tone and produced a growl that not only sounded savage but seemed so near that the startled girl jumped up with a cry: "Oh! Oh! Neale!" "Ma-row-ro-o-ow! Ssst!" continued what purported to be a cat, and one that was very much annoyed. "Oh! _Oh!_ OH!" shrieked Agnes, springing up and leaning over the railing. "Neale! Come quick!" And there Neale was right beside her! He appeared so suddenly that she would have shrieked again, and perhaps brought half the household to the spot, had not the boy grabbed her quickly and placed a hand over her mouth, stifling the cry about to burst forth. "Hush!" he commanded. "Want to get Mrs. Mac or Mr. Howbridge out here to see what is the matter?" "Oh, Neale!" sputtered Agnes. "I thought you were a cat." "And I thought you were a hailstorm of popcorn." "You horrid boy! To scare me so!" "You horrid girl! To shower me with popcorn!" "I don't care--" "Neither do I." Agnes began to giggle. "What were you doing down there?" she asked. "I was looking for my pocketknife. Wouldn't lose it for a farm Down East with a pig on it!" declared the boy. "What are you doing out here?" "I went to Mrs. Mac's room to give her her nightcap. It was in my bag. Oh, Neale! do you suppose it will be clear by morning, as that funny old man says?" "It's clear now." "You don't mean it?" "Come along here to the window and look for yourself," the boy said, and led her toward the front of the house along the gallery. There was a broad and deep-silled window over the front door of the Lodge. Neale drew back the hangings. They could see out into the night which was now all black and silver. The forest that edged the clearing in which stood the Lodge was as black as ever an evergreen forest could be. The tops of the trees were silvered by the moonbeams, but the shadows at the foot of the trees were like ink. In the open the new-fallen snow glittered as though the moonlight fell on precious stones. It was so beautiful a scene that for a moment Agnes could only grip Neale O'Neil's arm and utter an ecstatic sigh. "Scrumptious, isn't it?" said the boy, understanding her mood. "Lovely!" sighed Agnes. "Ruth and Cecile ought to see this." "Hold on!" warned the boy. "Get them out here and we'll both be sent to bed in a hurry. Ruth's got her bossing clothes on--has had 'em on ever since we left Milton." "Te-he!" giggled Agnes suddenly. "She feels her responsibility." "Guess she does," chuckled Neale. "But there's no need to add to her troubles. Believe me! the less I am bossed around by her the better I like it." "Oh, Neale," said Agnes, "she only does it for your good." "Don't you fret," returned the boy, with a sniff. "I can get along without Ruth or anybody else worrying about whether I'm good, or not. Believe me!" "Oh!" squealed Agnes suddenly. "What's that?" "Huh! Seen a rat? Scared to death?" scoffed Neale O'Neil. "Look at that thing out there! It's no rat," declared the girl eagerly. Neale then looked in the direction she pointed. Not twenty yards from the house, and sitting on its haunches in the snow, was an object that at first Neale thought was a dog. The shadow it cast upon the moon-lit snow showed pointed ears, however, and a bushy tail. "Crackey, Aggie!" gasped Neale, "that's a fox." "A fox? Right here near the house? Just like that?" gasped the girl. "Why--why, he must be wild!" "Crackey!" returned Neale, smothering his laughter, "you didn't suppose he was tame, did you?" "But--but," stammered the girl, "if a wild fox comes so near the house, one of those dreadful lynxes may come--or a bear. I never! Why, we might be besieged by wolves and bears and wildcats. Did you ever?" "No, I never was," scoffed Neale. "Not yet. But, really, I am willing to be. I'll try anything--once." "I guess you wouldn't be so smart, young man, if the animals really did come here and serenade us. Why--" "Listen! That fellow is serenading us now," declared Neale, much amused. The sharp, shrill yap of the fox reached their ears. Then, from the rear of the house where Tom Jonah was confined in the back kitchen, the roar of the old dog's bark answered the fox's yapping. And then from somewhere--was it from above and inside the house, or outside and in the black woods?--there sounded a sharp explosion. Agnes flashed a questioning glance at Neale; but the boy pointed, crying: "Quick! Look! The fox!" The little animal with the bushy tail that had raised its pointed nose to yap mournfully at the moon, had suddenly sprung straight up into the air. It cleared the snow at least four feet. One convulsive wriggle it gave with its whole body, and fell back, a black heap, on the snow. "Oh, Neale! what happened to it?" gasped Agnes, amazed. "Shot," said the youth, a curious note in his voice. "Oh, who shot it?" "Ask me an easier one." "Why--what--I think that was sort of cruel, after all," sighed the girl. "He wasn't really doing any harm." "I thought you were afraid he might eat us all up," said Neale, dropping the curtain which he had been holding back, and turning away from the window. "Oh--but--I am serious now," she said. "Who do you suppose shot him?" "I could not say." "That old woodsman, perhaps? There is none of our party out there with a gun, of course. Oh, dear! I hope I don't dream of it. I don't like to see things killed." But the thought of dreaming about seeing the fox shot did not trouble Neale O'Neil when he parted with Agnes and went back to his room. Nor was it anything about the death of the creature that absorbed his attention. It was who the huntsman was and from where the shot was fired that puzzled Neale O 'Neil. Had the shot been made from outside or inside the house? For it seemed to the boy that the explosion had been above their heads; and he chanced to know that none of the party from Milton--not even the servants--were quartered on the third floor of Red Deer Lodge. Who, then, could be up there shooting out of one of the small windows at the yapping fox? He said nothing about this to Agnes; but he determined to make inquiry regarding it the first thing in the morning. CHAPTER XV A VARIETY OF HAPPENINGS They were near the shortest day of the year and the sun rose very late indeed; so nobody at Red Deer Lodge got up early, unless it was the kitchen man who had to light the fires and bring in much wood. He tramped paths through the new-fallen snow to the outbuildings before sunrise. By the time Neale O'Neil, his head filled with the puzzling thoughts of the night before, reached the rear premises, the yard of the Lodge was marked and re-marked with footsteps. He sought Hedden, however, having seen that the snow in front of the Lodge showed no footprint. The fox lay just where it had been shot. "Does any of our party sleep in the garret, Hedden?" Neale asked the butler. "No, young man. We all have rooms at the back of the house." The boy told the man about the shooting of the fox. "Of course, one of the men was not out with a small rifle, and plugged old Reynard when he was howling at the moon, was he?" "No," replied the butler. "Neither John nor Lawrence knows how to use a gun, I'm sure. Perhaps it was that tall man, Ike M'Graw." "Well, seems to me he ought to have come and got the pelt," said Neale, ruminatingly. "It's worth something all right, when furs are so high. Say, Hedden, how do you get upstairs into the garret?" Hedden told him, presuming that it was merely a boy's curiosity that caused him to ask. But Neale had a deeper reason than that for wishing to find the way upstairs. He could not understand from what angle the fox had been shot while he and Agnes were looking out of the window, if the hunter had been in the wood. There had been no flash or sign of smoke from the edge of the forest, and Neale's vision swept the line of black shadow for hundreds of yards at the moment of the report. "Smokeless powder is all right," muttered the boy. "But they can't overcome the flash of the exploding shell in the dark. No, sir! That marksman was not in the wood. And the report sounded right over our heads!" He said nothing more to Hedden, but found the upper stairs at the rear of the house. At the top was a heavy door, but it was not locked. He thrust it open rather gingerly, and looked into the great, raftered loft. The sun was above the treetops now and shone redly into the front windows. There was light enough for him to see that as far as human occupants went, the garret of the Lodge was empty. There was not much up here, anyway. Several boxes, some lumber, and a heap of rubbish in one corner. Neale O'Neil stepped into the place and walked to the front of the building. The windows were square and swung inward on hinges. He knew that this row of front windows was directly over that at which he and Agnes stood looking out upon the moon-lit lawn at bedtime. The windows were all fastened with buttons. As far as he could see none gave evidence--at least on the inside--of having been recently opened. Neale shivered in the chill, dead air of the loft. If the marksman that had shot the fox was up here, from which window did he shoot? Neale could not find any mark along the window sill or on the floor. Suddenly the boy began opening the windows, one after the other. Some of them stuck, but he persisted until each one swung open. Outside the snow that had fallen the evening before lay in a fluffy layer on the window sill. At the third window he halted. In this layer of light snow was a mark. Neale uttered a satisfied exclamation. It was the matrix of a round tube--the barrel of the gun that had fired the shot which had finished Reynard, the fox! "Can't be anything else," thought the boy. "He knelt right here and rested his gun across the sill. Yes! it points downward--pressed heavier at the outer end than near the window. Yes!" The boy got down and squinted along the mark in the snow. His keen eye easily brought the huddled, sandy object on the snow down below into range. "Now, what do you know about that?" Neale O'Neil asked aloud. "Who was up here with a gun last night and popped over that fox? I wonder if I ought to tell Mr. Howbridge." Had he done so the lawyer would quickly have pieced together what Hedden had told him about the live embers in the grate and Neale's discovery. Whether he would have arrived at a correct conclusion in the matter, was another thing. However that might be, Neale O'Neil was sure that somebody had access to the garret and had shot the fox therefrom. After the rear premises of the Lodge had been tracked up so before daylight, half a dozen people might have left the house by the rear door without their footprints being seen. If the marksman had no business in the Lodge he could easily have got away. Puzzling over these thoughts, Neale descended to find most of the party before the fire in the living-room, waiting for breakfast. Agnes was eagerly telling of the fox she had seen shot at bedtime. Neale added no details to her story, save that the fox still lay on the snow outside. "Whoever hit him didn't care for the pelt," said the boy. "Now that it is frozen, it will be hard to skin. A fox hide is worth something. I'm going to thaw out the body and try to save the skin--for Aggie, of course." "Oh, my!" cried the beauty, "won't it be fine to have a collar or a muff made out of a fox that I saw shot with my own eyes?" "Odd about that," said Mr. Howbridge thoughtfully. "I wonder who could have been so near the Lodge last evening. And then, to have left the fox there!" The breakfast call interrupted him. Neale said nothing further about it. After the meal, however, the young people all got into their warm wraps and overshoes and went out of doors. Tom Jonah was turned loose, and he almost at once dashed around the house to the spot where the body of the fox lay. The children gathered around the fuzzy animal in great excitement. "Oh, it looks like Mrs. Allen's spitz dog--only this is reddish and Sambo, the spitz, is white," Tess said. "The poor--little--thing!" "This is no 'expectorates' dog," chuckled Neale, grabbing the creature by the tail. "'Expectorates' is a much better word than 'spits,' Tess. Now, I am going to take this fellow and hang him up in the back kitchen where he will thaw out. No, Tom Jonah! you are not going to worry him." "What lovely long fur!" murmured Agnes. "Do you suppose you can really cure the skin for me, Neale?" she demanded. "What's the matter with the skin?" demanded Sammy, in wonder. "Is it sick?" "Good gracious!" exclaimed Agnes. "These children have to be explained to every minute. I hope that fox skin has no disease, Sammy." Luke and Ruth and Cecile had gone for a tramp through the wood. The little folks set to work building a snow man which was to be of wondrous proportions when completed. Naturally Neale and Agnes kept together. Agnes had been wandering along the edge of the wood in front of the house while Neale carried the fox indoors. Tom Jonah came back with Neale and began snuffing about the spot where the fox had laid. "See here, Neale O'Neil," cried Agnes, "I can't find anybody's footprints over here. Where do you suppose that man shot the fox from?" "Humph!" grunted Neale noncommittally. "But here's just the cunningest hoofprints! See them!" cried Agnes. The boy joined her. Two rows of marks made by split-hoofed animals ran along the edge of the wood. "Crackey!" ejaculated the boy. "Those are deer." "You don't mean it?" "Must be. Red deer, I bet. And right close to the Lodge! How tame these creatures are." "Well, deer won't hurt us," said Agnes, decidedly. "Let's see where they went to." Neale was nothing loath. One direction was as good as another. He wanted much to talk to somebody about the discovery he had made in the loft of the Lodge; but he did not wish to frighten Agnes, so he did not broach the subject. The two rows of hoof marks went on, side by side, along the edge of the clearing. They followed them to the very end of the opening which had been cleared about Red Deer Lodge--the northern end. Here began a narrow path into the woods. The spoor of the two animals led into this path, and the boy and girl tramped along after them. "I guess nothing frightened them," said Neale, "for they appear to be trotting right along at an easy gait. They must have passed this way in the night. And that's kind of funny, too." "What is funny?" asked Agnes. "Why, deer--especially two, alone--ought to have been hiding in some clump of brush during the night. They don't go wandering around much unless they are hungry. And there is plenty of brush fodder for them to eat along the edge of the swamps, that is sure." "Are you sure they are deer?" asked Agnes. "They couldn't be anything else, could they?" "I reckon not," laughed Neale. "I say! who lives here?" They caught a glimpse of an opening in the forest ahead. Then a cabin appeared, from the chimney of which a curl of blue smoke rose into the air. There were several smaller buildings in the clearing, too. "Guess we have struck that old timber cruiser's place," Neale said, answering his own question. "Oh! Mr. Ike M'Graw!" cried Agnes. "Now we can ask him if he shot the fox last night." "But where did these deer go?" exclaimed Neale, stopping on the edge of the little clearing and staring all around. For here the tracks they had followed seemed to cross and criss-cross all about the clearing. That wild deer should frolic so about an occupied house was indeed puzzling. He saw, too, that there were human footprints over-running the marks of the split hoofs. Suddenly from around the corner of the cabin appeared the long, slablike figure of the woodsman. He saw them almost immediately. "Hullo, there!" he cried. "Ain't you out early? I wouldn't have been up near so early myself, if it hadn't been for those confounded shoats of mine." "What happened to the pigs?" asked Neale, smiling. "They broke out o' their pen. Always doin' that!" returned M'Graw. "Run off through the woods somewhere, and then come back and made sech a racket around my shanty that I can't sleep. Confound 'em!" Neale suddenly saw a great light. He seized Agnes' hand and squeezed it in warning. With his other hand he pointed to the marks in the snow. "Are those the pigs' footprints?" "Yes. I just got 'em shut up again," said the woodsman. "Come in, won't you? I guess my coffee's biled sufficient, and I'm about to fry me a mess of bacon and johnnycake." "What do you know about that?" murmured Neale to the giggling Agnes. "We followed those pig tracks for deer tracks. Aren't we great hunters--I don't think!" CHAPTER XVI THE KEY The interior of Ike M'Graw's cabin was a place of interest to Neale and Agnes. There was not much room, but it was neat and clean. There were two bunks, one over the other at one end of the room. At the other end was the big, open fireplace. There were andirons, a chimney crane for a pot, a dutch oven, and a sheet-iron shelf that could be pushed over the coals, on which the old man baked his johnnycake, or pan-bread. The coffee pot was already bubbling on this shelf and gave off a strong odor of Rio. The bacon was sliced, ready for the frying pan. Ike wanted to cut more and give his two young visitors a second breakfast; but they would not hear to that. "We'll take a cup of coffee with you," Agnes said brightly. "But I know I could not possibly eat another thing. Could you, Neale?" "Not yet," agreed the boy. "And anyway," he added, with a smile, "if we are going to have a big storm as they say we are, Mr. M'Graw will need to conserve his food." "Don't you fret, son," said M'Graw; "I've got enough pork and bacon, flour, meal and coffee, to last me clean into spring. I never stint my stomach. Likewise, as long as I can pull the trigger of Old Betsey there, I shan't go hungry in these here woods. No, sir!" Neale stepped to the rack in the corner where stood the brown-barreled rifle the woodsman called "Old Betsey," as well as a single and a double-barreled shotgun. "Which of these did you use last night, Mr. M'Graw, when you shot that fox?" Agnes asked. "Heh? What fox?" "Maybe it wasn't you," said the Corner House girl. "But somebody shot a fox right up there in front of the Lodge." "When was this?" demanded the old man, looking at her curiously. Neale told him the time. The woodsman shook his head slowly. "I was buried in my blankets by that time," he declared. "Are you sure the fox was shot, young feller?" "I've got it hung up to get the frost out so I can skin it," said Neale quietly. "Shot, eh?" "Yes, sir." "What sort of a ball killed it?" "A small bullet. It was no large rifle bullet," said Neale confidently. "I should think it was no more than a twenty-two caliber." "Pshaw! that's only a play-toy," returned the old man. "Who'd have a gun like that up here in the woods? Guess you're mistook, young feller." "When you come up to the house you take a look at the fox," said Neale. "I'll do that. Where'd the feller stand when he shot the fox?" "Why," put in Agnes, as Neale hesitated, "we couldn't find his footprints at all." "Humph!" muttered the old fellow. He poured out the coffee. The cups were deep, thick, and had no handles. He poured his own into the deep saucer, blew it noisily, and sipped it in great, scalding gulps. Agnes tried not to give this operation any attention. Neale meanwhile was examining several fine skins hung upon the log walls. There was a wolf skin among them, and a big, black bear robe was flung over the lower bunk for warmth. "I got him," said the woodsman, "five year ago. He was in a berry patch over against the mountain, yonder. And he was as fat as butter." "And the wolf?" asked Agnes, with considerable interest. "I trapped him. Last winter. He was a tremendous big feller," said M'Graw, heaping a tin plate with johnnycake and pouring bacon grease over it. "There's a small pack living up in the hills, and I'm likely to get more this winter. These heavy snows will no doubt be driving 'em down." "Oh! Wolves!" gasped the girl. "They won't bother you none," said M'Graw. "Don't go off by yourself, and if any of your party takes a long tramp, carry a gun. Like enough you'll get a shot at something; but not wolves. They're too sly." The conversation of the old backwoodsman was both illuminating and amusing. And his hunting trophies were vastly interesting, at least to Neale. There was a big photograph on the wall of Ike and another man standing on either side of a fallen moose. The great, spoon-shaped horns of the creature were at least six feet across. "You'll see that head up over the main mantelpiece up to the Lodge," said M'Graw. "That's Mr. Birdsall. He an' me shot that moose over the line in Canady. But we brought the head home." Over his own fireplace was a handsome head--that of a stag of the red deer. "Got him," Ike vouchsafed between bites, "down in the east swamp, ten year ago come Christmas. Ain't been a bigger shot in this part of the country, I reckon, 'ceptin' the ghost deer Tom Lawrence shot three winters ago over towards Ebettsville." "Ghost deer!" exclaimed Neale and Agnes together. "What does that mean?" added the boy. "Surely you don't believe there are spirits of deer returned to earth, do you, Mr. M'Graw?" asked Agnes, smiling. M'Graw grinned. "Ain't no tellin'. Mebbe there is. I'm mighty careful what I say about ghosts," he rejoined. "But this here ghost deer, now--" He had finished breakfast and was filling his pipe. "Lemme tell you about it," he said. "I will say, though, 'twasn't no spirit, for I eat some of the venison from that ghost deer. "But for two seasons the critter had had the whole of Ebettsville by the ears. The hunters couldn't get a shot, and some folks said 'twas a sure-enough ghost. "But if 'twas a ghost, it was the fust one that ever left footprints in the snow. That's sure," chuckled M'Graw. "I went over there with Old Betsey once; but never got a shot at it. Jest the same I seen the footprints, and I knowed what it was." "What was it?" "Looked like a ghost flying past in the twilight. It was an albino--white deer. I told 'em so. And fin'ly Tom Lawrence, as I said, shot it. Why they hadn't got it before, I guess, was because them that shot at it shivered so for fear 'twas a ghost they couldn't hit the broad side of a barn!" and M'Graw broke into a loud laugh. "I did not know that deer were ever white," Agnes said. "One o' the wonders of nature," Ike assured her. "And not frequent seen. But that critter was one--and a big one. Weighed upwards of two hundred pound. Tom give me a haunch, and when it was seasoned some, 'twasn't much tougher than shoe-leather. _Me_, I kill me a doe when I want tender meat. My teeth is gettin' kind of wore down," chuckled the old man. "Was it really all white?" asked Neale. "Well, that buck's horns an' hoofs was considerable lighter in color than ordinary. With them exceptions, and a few hairs on the forehead and a tuft on the hind leg, that critter was perfectly white. Queer. Jest an albino, as I said," M'Graw concluded between puffs. Beside the chimney on a big nail driven into a log, hung a string of rusty keys, with one big shiny brass one by itself. Agnes said: "I guess you have to lock everything up when you leave home, don't you, Mr. M'Graw?" "Me? Never lock a thing. We don't have no tramps. And if I leave home I always leave a fire laid and everything so that a visitor can come right in and go to housekeeping. It's a purty mean man that'll lock up his cabin in the woods. No, ma'am. I never lock nothin'." "But those keys?" the Corner House girl suggested curiously. "Oh! Them? Just spare keys I picked up. All but this," and he reached for the brass key briskly. "This is the key to the Lodge padlock, I'm goin' to take it up to that Mr. Howbridge of yours and tell him something about it. I'll walk back with you." He slipped into his leather jacket and buckled up his leggings. Then banking the fire on the hearth, he said he was ready to go. He put the big brass key in his pocket, but as he had intimated, he left the cabin door unlocked. Once outside, they saw that the sun was clouded over again. "That storm is surely a-coming," Ike observed. "I shouldn't wonder, when it does get here, if it turns out to be a humdinger. 'Long threaten, long last,' they say." When they arrived at the Lodge the old man took a look at the fox Neale had hung up. He examined the small hole under the ear where the bullet had gone into the animal's head. "Nice shot," he muttered. "Dropped him without a struggle, I reckon. And you sure are right, boy," he added to Neale. "It was a twenty-two. Nothin' bigger. Humph! mighty funny, that. "Well, you let it hang here and I'll skin it for you before I go back home. Fust off I want to see your Mr. Howbridge." As M'Graw went through the hall to find the lawyer, Neale and Agnes were called by Luke from one of the sheds. His voice and beckoning hand hurried them to the spot. "What do you know about this?" cried Luke. "Here are two perfectly good sleds--a big one and a smaller. And one of those drivers that have just started back for Coxford, told me where there was a dandy slide." "Crackey, that's fine!" agreed the eager Neale. Agnes, too, was delighted. The other girls were eager to try the coasting. "But we must get away without the children. It is too far for them to go," Ruth said. "At least, we must try it out before we let them join us." "They are all right at the front with their snow man. I just saw them," Agnes said. "Come on!" Agnes was always ready for sport. They started away from the house, the two boys dragging the bobsled. There were about four inches of fluffy, dry snow on top, and under that the drifts were almost ice-hard. "Ought to make the finest kind of sledding," Luke declared. Meanwhile Ike M'Graw had found Mr. Howbridge reading a book in a corner of one of the comfortable settees in the big living-room. He dropped the book and stood up to greet the woodsman with a smile. "How are you, this morning, M'Graw?" asked the lawyer. "How about the key?" "Here 'tis," said the guide. "Found it just where it should be. Looked as though it had never been touched since I was gone. But, of course, as I tell you, anybody might have been in my cabin. I don't lock nothin' up." "If the key was used, it was by somebody who knew it was the key and where to find it," Mr. Howbridge said reflectively. "You struck it there," agreed Ike. "And there's only two keys to that big padlock. Unless there's been one made since Mr. Birdsall died," he added. "If anybody borrowed the key and got in here, they got out again and locked the front door and returned the key." "So 'twould seem. You say there wasn't no marks in the snow when your folks fust came?" "No." "It snowed the day after I went away from here to Ebettsville. They must have come here and gone before that snow then. That snow covered their tracks. How's that?" "Not so good," the lawyer promptly told him. "You forget the live embers in the grate. Those embers would not have stayed alive for five days." "Ain't that a fac'?" muttered the old man. They pondered in silence for a moment. Hedden suddenly entered the room. He seemed flurried, and his employer knew that something of moment had occurred. "What is the matter, Hedden?" the latter asked. "I have to report, sir, that somebody has been at the goods in the pantry--the canned food and other provisions that we brought up." "What do you mean?" asked Mr. Howbridge curiously. "The chef, sir, says that quite a good deal of food has been stolen. He put the stuff away. There is a lot of it gone, sir--and that since last night at dinner time." "Humph! Isn't that strange?" murmured the lawyer. M'Graw grunted and started for the front door. "Where are you going, M'Graw?" asked Mr. Howbridge. "I'm going to find out who shot that fox," was the woodsman's enigmatical answer. CHAPTER XVII ALL DOWN HILL The party of young people with the bobsled was very merry indeed just as soon as they got out of hearing of the Lodge. By striking into a path which opened into the wood right behind the barns, they cut off any view the two little girls and Sammy Pinkney might have caught of their departure. "I feel somewhat condemned for leaving them behind," Ruth said. "Yet I know it is too far for such little people to go along and get back for lunch." "Oh, they are having a good time," Cecile said. "You make yourself a slave to your young family, Ruthie," and she laughed. "We will make it up to the kids," Luke joined in. "After we have tried the slide they can have a shot at it." "That's all right," grinned Neale O'Neil. "But if Tess Kenway thinks she has been snubbed or neglected--well! you will not hear the last of it in a hurry, believe me." This part of the wood into which the young people had entered was a sapling growth. Not many years before the timber had been cut and there were only brush clumps and small trees here now. Flocks of several different kinds of birds--sparrows, buntings, jays, swamp robins, and others--flew noisily about. There were berries and seeds to be found in the thickets. The birds had begun to forage far from the swamps--a sign that the snow was heavy and deep in their usual winter feeding places. "The dear little birdies!" cooed Agnes, waving her gloved hand at a flock that spread out fan-wise in the covert, frightened by the approach of the young people. Suddenly there arose a vast racket--a whirring and trampling sound, as though it were of runaway hoofs. Agnes shrieked and glanced about her. The other girls looked startled. "That horse! It's running away!" cried Agnes. "Oh, Neale!" "Shucks!" said that youth, scornfully. "'The dear little birdies!' Ho, ho! I thought you liked 'em, Aggie?" "Liked what?" she demanded, as the noise faded away into the wood. "The birdies. That was a flock of partridges. They can make some noise, can't they? Food in the swamps must be getting mighty scarce, or they would not be away up here." "Who ever would have thought it?" murmured Cecile. "Partridges!" "Wish I had a gun," said Luke. "Don't be afraid. They won't bite," chuckled Neale O'Neil. "And we won't be likely to meet anything much more dangerous than birds in the day time." "Yet we saw that big cat yesterday," Ruth said. "It ran all right. We might have brought Tom Jonah; only he was playing with the kids," said Neale. "Anyway, the best he would do would be to scare up creatures in the thickets that we otherwise would not know were there." "Now, stop that, Neale O'Neil!" cried Agnes. "Are you trying to frighten us?" "Shucks, Aggie!" he returned. "You know the kind of wild animal we scared up this morning when we found Ike M'Graw's place." "Oh! Oh!" cried Agnes, with laughter. "What's the joke?" asked Luke. So Neale told the rest of the party how he and Agnes had followed the footprints of the "deer" clear to the old man's cabin. "And there we could hear them squealing in their pen," was the way Neale finished it. "Two mighty hunters, you!" chuckled Luke. The road over which they dragged the sled soon became steep. They were now climbing a long hill through heavier timber. It was a straight path, and the crown of the ascent was more than a mile from Red Deer Lodge. Half way up they passed a fork in the timber road. The roads were not rutted at all, for they were full of firm snow. This second road dipped to the north, running down the steep hill and out of sight. "That chap who told me about this slide told me to 'ware that road," Luke said. "Around that curve he said it was steep and there'd be no stopping the sled for a long way. If we stick to the right track, well slide back almost to the Lodge itself." "That'll help some," Cecile said. "I am getting tired tramping over this snow. It's a harder pull than I imagined it would be." "We were very wise not to let the children come," Ruth remarked. Uphill for all of a mile was, in truth, no easy climb. Agnes and Neale O'Neil began to bicker. "I'm no horse," said Neale rather grumpily, when Agnes suggested that the boys could drag the girls on the sled. "No; your ears are too long," she retorted impishly. "Now, children!" admonished Ruth, "How is it you two always manage to fight?" "They're only showing off," chuckled Luke Shepard. "In secret they have a terrible crush on each other." "Such slang!" groaned his sister. "Real college brand," said Agnes cheerfully. "I do love slang, Luke. Tell us some more." "I object! No, no!" cried Ruth. "She learns quite enough high-school slang. Don't teach her any more of the college brand, Luke." They puffed up the final rise and arrived at the top of the ascent. This was the very peak of the ridge on which Red Deer Lodge was built. Because it was winter and all but the evergreens and oaks were denuded of leaves, they could see much farther over the surrounding landscape than would have been possible in the leafy seasons; however, on all sides the forest was so thick at a distance that a good view of the country was not easily obtained. The valley toward the north was black with spruce and hemlock. One could not see if there were clearings in the valley. It seemed there to be an unbroken and primeval forest. This valley was included in the Birdsall estate, and the timber which the Neven Lumber Company wished to cut practically lay entirely in that wild valley. The hills to the west were plainly visible. Their caps were either bald and snow covered, or crowned with the black-green forest. Toward the lakeside the slopes were alternately tree covered and of raw stumpage where the timber had recently been cut. These "slashes" were ugly looking spots. "That is what all that part yonder of this estate will look like when the lumbermen get through," said Ruth. "Isn't it a shame?" "But trees have to be cut down some time. I heard M'Graw say that much of the timber on this place was beginning to deteriorate," Luke said in reply. "Shucks!" exclaimed Neale O'Neil, "if a tree is beautiful, why not let it stand? Why slaughter it?" "There speaks the altruistic spirit of the young artist," laughed Luke. "Ask Mr. Howbridge. How about the money value of the tree?" "Shucks!" Neale repeated, but with his eyes twinkling. "Is money everything?" "Let me tell you, boy," said Luke a little bitterly; "it buys almost everything that is worth while in this world. I want beautiful things, too; but I know it will cost a slew of money to buy them. I am going to set out and try for money first, then!" "Hear the practical youth!" said Cecile. "That is what he learns at college. Say! aren't we going to slide downhill? Or did we come up here to discuss political economy?" Luke, holding up his hand in affirmation, declared: "I vow to discuss neither polit, bugs, pills, psyche, trig--" "Oh, stop!" commanded Ruth, yet with curiosity. "What are all those horrid sounding things?" "Pshaw!" cried the collegian's sister, "I know that much of his old slang. 'Trig' is trigonometry, of course; 'psyche' is psychology; 'pills' means physics; 'bugs' is biology; and 'poit,' of course, is political economy. Those college boys are awfully smart, aren't they?" "I want to sli-i-ide!" wailed Agnes, stamping her feet in the snow. "I am turning into a lump of ice, standing here." "Get aboard, then," answered Neale. She plumped herself on the sled. Luke straddled the seat just behind the steering wheel. The other girls took their places in rotation after Agnes, while Neale made ready to push off and then jump on himself at the rear. "Ready?" he cried. "Let her go!" responded the steersman. "Hang on, girls!" commanded Neale, as he started the sled with a mighty shove. The bobsled moved slowly. The runners grunted and strained over the soft snow that packed under them and, at first, retarded the movement of the sled. But soon the power of gravitation asserted itself. Neale settled himself on the seat. The wind began to whistle past their ears. In front a fine mist of snow particles was thrown up. Faster and faster they rushed down the descent. The young people had thought this trail very smooth as they climbed it; but now they found there were plenty of "thank-you-ma'ams" in the path. The bobsled bumped over these, gathering speed, and finally began to leave the snow and fairly fly into the air when it struck a ridge. The girls screamed when these hummocks arrived. But they laughed between them, too! It was a most exciting trip. Like an arrow the sled shot past the fork in the road, keeping to the left. But it would have been a very easy matter, as Luke Shepard saw, to turn the sled into the steeper descent. They started up a gray and white rabbit beside the path, and it raced them in desperate fright for several hundred yards, before it knew enough to turn off the road and leap into the brush. Luke's head was down and his eyes half closed as he stared ahead. But Neale gave voice to his delight in reëchoed shouts. There were slides in Milton. The selectmen gave up certain streets to the young folk for coasting. But those streets were nothing like this. On and on the bobsled flew, its pace increasing with, every length. Although this woodroad was in no place really steep, the hill was so long, and its slant so continuous that the momentum the sled gathered carried it over any little level that there might be, and at the foot of the decline still shot the merry crew over the snow at a swift pace and for a long distance. Indeed, when the sled stopped they were almost at the back of the Red Deer Lodge premises. A mellow horn was calling them to lunch when they alighted. "Oh! wasn't it bully?" gasped the delighted Agnes. "I never did have such a sled-ride!" "How about your trip up the lake!" Cecile asked. "Oh! But that scooter was different." The other girls were quite as pleased with the slide as Agnes; and the three ran into the house to dress for lunch, chattering like magpies, while the boys put the sled away under the shed. When Luke and Neale went into the house they found Ike M'Graw skinning the fox in the back kitchen, Tom Jonah being a much interested spectator. The woodsman beckoned Neale to him. "Look here, young feller," he said. "You seen this critter shot last night, you say?" "Yes," replied the boy. "Where was it shot from? I'm derned if I can find any place where the feller stood along the edge of the woods to shoot him." "No. I couldn't find any footprints either," Neale confessed. "Not knowing from which direction the bullet came--" "Oh, but I do know that, Mr. M'Graw. I am pretty positive, at least. I have been doubtful whether to say anything about it or not--and that's a fact." "What d'you mean?" demanded the old man, eyeing him shrewdly. "Well, I thought when I heard the shot and the fox was killed that the explosion was right over my head." "What's that? Over your head! In the attic?" "That is where the shot came from--yes." "Air you positive?" drawled the old man. "I went up there this morning and saw the place where the fellow had rested the barrel of his gun across the window sill to shoot." "My! My!" muttered Ike thoughtfully. "And there wasn't nobody up there this morning?" "No. And I asked Hedden, and he said neither of the other men knew how to use a gun and that they all were in bed at the time the fox was shot." "Do tell!" muttered the woodsman. "Then they--well, the feller that shot the fox was up there in the attic about bedtime, was he?" "Yes. Who do you suppose he was, Mr. M'Graw?" asked Neale curiously. "Well, I wouldn't want to make a guess. This here man workin' in the kitchen tells me that there wasn't a foot mark in the snow at all when he got up and went out of the back door here the fust time this morning. And, of course, there wasn't no footprints at the front of the house, was there?" "Oh, no! Not until after breakfast time." "Uh-huh! Well, after this John had tramped back an' forth to the woodshed and the like half a dozen times, anybody could have gone out of here without their footprints being noticed. Ain't that a fac'?" He said this to himself more than to Neale, who had become vastly interested in the subject. He eagerly watched the old man's weather-beaten face. Suddenly the woodsman raised his head and looked at Neale thoughtfully. He asked a question that seemed to have nothing at all to do with the subject in hand. "What kind of a dog is this here Tom Jonah?" Ike demanded. "Ain't he got no nose?" CHAPTER XVIII FIGURING IT OUT Of course Ike M'Graw could see for himself very easily that Tom Jonah had a nose. It was pointed just then at the fox pelt in the old woodsman's hands, and was wrinkled as the dog sniffed at the skin. So Neale O'Neil knew that the man meant something a little different from what he said. He, in fact, wanted to know if Tom Jonah was keen on the scent, and Neale answered him to that end. "We think he's got a pretty good nose, Mr. M'Graw, for a Newfoundland. Of course, Tom Jonah is not a hunting dog. If he runs a rabbit he runs him by sight, not by scent. But give him something that one of the children wears, and he'll hunt that child out, as sure as sure! They play hide and seek with him just as though he were one of themselves--only Tom Jonah is always 'it.'" "Uh-huh?" grunted the old man. Then he said: "Don't seem as though any stranger could have come down from the attic and got through that hall yonder without this dog making some sort of racket." "I never thought of Tom Jonah," admitted Neale. "He was in here all night, they tell me," went on Ike. "Yes. But didn't the kitchen man, John, let him out when he first came downstairs this morning?" "No. I asked him. He said the dog didn't seem to want to go out. He opened that door yonder into this back kitchen and called the dog. This here dog come to the door, but he did not want to go out and turned away. So John shut the door again." "Crackey!" exclaimed Neale. "Then there was somebody in here, and don't you forget it, Mr. M'Graw!" "Uh-huh? But why didn't the dog give tongue? Was it somebody the dog knowed? You see, son, there's been food stole from that pantry yonder durin' the night. Could it be the feller that shot the fox from the attic winder was right in here when John called the dog, loadin' up his knapsack with grub?" "Why--why--" "This dog must ha' knowed him--eh?" "I--I suppose so. But who could it be?" demanded Neale with wondering emphasis. "Surely it was none of our servants. And Luke Shepard and Sammy and I were in bed in one room. The girls--Mr. Howbridge--Mrs. MacCall--" "I guess," said the old man, grinning, "that the lady and that lawyer man can be counted out of it. None of you brought a twenty-two rifle with you, anyway." "No." "That's what the fox was shot with. Here's the pellet," and Ike brought the little flattened lead bullet out of his vest pocket. "If it hadn't been a good shot--spang through the brain--'twould never have killed the fox. He had his head on one side, yappin', and that bullet took him right. "Now, better keep still about this. No use frightening the ladies. Girls an' women is easy frightened, I expect. I'll speak again to Mr. Howbridge about it. But this here dog--" He shook his head over Tom Jonah's shortcomings, while Neale ran away to wash his hands and face before appearing at the lunch table. The children around the table were in something of an uproar. Mrs. MacCall and Ruth were obliged to be firm in order to quiet Sammy, and Tess, and Dot. For Agnes, unable to keep anything to herself, had blurted out all about the lovely sled-ride the older ones had enjoyed. Immediately the three younger children decided that they had been cheated. "We wanted to go tobogganing, too," Tess declared. "I just _love_ sliding downhill," wailed Dot. "Huh!" sniffed Sammy Pinkney. "A feller can't have no fun where there's big fellers and big girls. They always put you down, and leave you out of the best things." "You shall go sliding tomorrow if the snow holds off," Ruth promised. "Why not this afternoon, Ruthie?" begged Tess. "Sister's got something else to do this afternoon. Wait until tomorrow," the oldest Kenway replied. "It's snowing already," muttered Sammy disconsolately. There were a few flakes in the air. But it did not look as though any heavy fall had begun. "I don't see why we need to have you go with us to slide," Tess said, pouting. "We go sliding without you in Milton." "This is different, Tess," Ruth said firmly. "Now, let us hear no more about it! You will annoy Mr. Howbridge." Sammy winked slyly at the two little girls. "Just you wait!" he mouthed so that only Tess and Dot heard him. "Oh, Sammy!" murmured Dot. "What'll you do?" "Just you wait!" repeated the boy, and that mysterious statement comforted Dot a good deal, if it did not Tess Kenway. Dot believed that Sammy was fertile in expedient. She had run away with him once "to be pirates." Before the meal was over, Hedden came in and bent beside Mr. Howbridge to whisper into his ear. "Oh! Has he come back again? I wondered where he went so suddenly," said the lawyer. "Yes. Tell him I'll come out to see him as soon as I am through." Neale knew that he referred to M'Graw. Bright-eyed and interested, he bent forward to say to Mr. Howbridge: "I just told Mr. M'Graw something that I guess you'd wish to know, too, Mr. Howbridge. May I go with you when you speak to him?" "Certainly, my boy. There's nothing secret about it--not really. We are only puzzled about a suspicion that we have--" "That there was somebody in the house that ought not to be here," whispered the boy. "That's it. How did you know?" "I'll tell you later," returned Neale O'Neil. Agnes was glaring at him in a most indignant fashion. It always angered the second Corner House girl if Neale seemed to have any secret that she did not share. "What's the matter with you?" she hissed, when Neale turned away from their host. "Don't you know it isn't polite to whisper at table, Neale O'Neil?" "What are you doing it for, then?" he asked her, grinning, and would vouchsafe no further explanation of the secret between Mr. Howbridge and himself. As soon as the lawyer arose from the table to go out to the kitchen to interview Ike, Neale jumped up to go with him. Agnes saw him depart with sparkling eyes and a very red face. She was really angry with Neale O'Neil. The boy was too much interested in the mystery of the shooter of the fox and how he had got in and out of Red Deer Lodge to be much bothered by Agnes' vexation. He and the lawyer found the old woodsman sitting in the servants' dining-room where he had been eating. "Well, sir," he began, when Mr. Howbridge and the boy entered, "'twixt us all, I reckon we're gettin' to the bottom of this here mystery. Did I tell you I couldn't find no place where the feller stood out there in the snow last evening to shoot that fox from?" "No." "But it's a fac'. Now you tell him, sonny, what you told me about what you found in the attic. I've been up and made sure 'twas so." Neale told the surprised Mr. Howbridge of the proved fact that the fox was shot from one of the attic windows. "And 'twas a play-toy rifle that done it--a twenty-two," said the woodsman, as though to clinch some fact that had risen in his own mind, if not in the minds of the others. "Now, let's figger it out. We got enough fac's now to point purty conclusive to who done it. Yes, sir." "Why, Ike, I don't see that," observed Mr. Howbridge. "But you will, Mister, in a minute or so," declared the old man, nodding with confidence. "Now, look you: Whoever was in this here house and made that fire in Miz' Birdsall's sittin'-room, was here when your people came day before yesterday." "No!" ejaculated Mr. Howbridge. "Yes!" repeated M'Graw with decision. "But you found that key in your cabin, did you not?" "Yes. But I tell you I've figgered that out. Whoever 'twas come here, got the key, come in here, opened the back door, and then locked the front door on the outside same as always." "Wait! No buts about it," interrupted the woodsman. "I got it figgered to a fare-you-well, I tell you. Now! The feller locked the front door, went back to my shanty and hung up the key, and then came back in by the rear door. See? He--ahem!--was in here when that man, Hedden, of yours, and the others, come." "But there were no footprints of human beings about the house in the snow." "That's all right. The feller that built the fire upstairs had done all his walking around before the snow fell the day after I went to Ebettsville. Don't you see? He didn't leave here because his footprints would be seen, and he couldn't lock the house up behind him if he did leave and make it look as though it had never been opened." "You are guessing at a lot of this!" exclaimed the lawyer, not at all convinced. "No. I'm jest figgerin'. Now, this Neale boy here heard that shot fired upstairs that killed the fox. He went up this mornin' and saw where the shot was fired from. I seen it, too. So the feller that opened the Lodge and that lit the fire was up there at ten or half past last evening, for sure." "Well?" murmured the lawyer. "He didn't go out during the night, or his footprints would have been seen by John this morning in the new-fallen snow." "That sounds right." "It is right!" said the old man vigorously. "Now we come to this here dog you brought." "Oh, yes!" cried Mr. Howbridge. "How about Tom Jonah? Surely if there had been a stranger about--one who stole food from the pantry--he would have interfered." "Mebbe he would. And mebbe again he wouldn't. He's a mighty friendly dog." "But he is a splendid watchdog," interposed Neale O'Neil. "That may be, too," Ike said, quite unshaken in his opinion. "If anybody had come in from outside and undertaken to disturb anything, that old dog would probably have been right on the job." "I see your point," Mr. Howbridge admitted. "But this person who came down from the garret must have been a stranger." "Now we're gittin' to it. Let's figger some more," said M'Graw, with a chuckle. "If you think hard, an' figger close enough, I guess 'most any puzzle can be solved." CHAPTER XIX SAMMY TAKES THE BIT IN HIS TEETH M'Graw began slowly to fill his pipe. Mr. Howbridge saw that it was useless to hurry him, so he smiled at Neale and waited. When the tobacco was alight to suit him, Ike continued his "figgerin'." "When this here dog," he said, looking at Neale in turn, "is at home, I guess he knows everybody in the neighborhood, don't he?" "Yes. But surely, you don't think anybody from Milton is up here at Red Deer Lodge, except just these people that Mr. Howbridge brought?" "Hold on. I'm doin' the askin'. You just answer me, sonny," chuckled Ike. "Now, let's see. He does know lots o' folks--especially young folks--around where he lives when he's at home, don't he?" "Why, Tom Jonah," said Neale, "knows every boy and girl that comes past the old Corner House. He's a great friend of the kids." "Jest so," said M'Graw, as Mr. Howbridge started and was about to speak. But the woodsman put up a hand and said to the lawyer: "Wait a minute. This man, Hedden, has looked over the stuff you brought up here in the line of canned goods and sech. He says what was stole was mostly sweets--canned peaches, an' pears, an' pineapple, an' sugar-stuff, besides condensed milk. Jest what children would like." "The twins!" exclaimed Mr. Howbridge. "Do you think it could be possible, after all, Ike?" "Goodness!" gasped Neale. "Looks mighty like children's work," said the woodsman reflectively. "I knowed little Ralph had a twenty-two rifle. I taught him to shoot with it. He does me proud when it comes to shootin'. Yes, sir." "But to get clear up here--" "Them is purty smart children," said the old man. "And it looks, as I say, like their work. Who else would give themselves dead away by shootin' that fox out of the winder? No grown person would have done that if they didn't want to be caught in the house. "Then, Ralph and Rowena would have knowed where that key hung. They'd be more'n likely to build the fire in their ma's sittin'-room. Now, when they sneaked out o' the house this mornin', they'd take just this kind of stuff that's been took from the pantry." "I see. I see." "And the dog clinches it. He's a friend to all children. He'd never have stopped them, especially as they was in the house and didn't come from outside." "I believe you are right," admitted Mr. Howbridge. "I'm great on figgerin'," said the woodsman. "Now, let's see what sort of a nose that there dog's got." "You mean Tom Jonah?" "Yes. I ain't got no dog. There ain't none nearer'n Sim Hackett's beagle at Ebettsville that's wuth anything on the trail. Them youngsters must have gone somewhere, Mr. Howbridge. And they can't be fur off. We've got to find 'em before this here storm that's breedin' comes down on us. There must be tracks somewheres, and a trail a good dog can sniff." "I understand what you mean. But how shall we start the dog on their trail! We have nothing the twins have worn," said Mr. Howbridge. "Let's look around," suggested Ike. "Up-stairs in that sittin'-room, where you found the live coals--or, your man did--there's a closet where some of the twins' clo'es used to hang. Mebbe there's some there now. If that there dog has got a nose at all, an' he sniffed them children good this mornin', he'll know the smell of 'em again. Yes, sir." "That is a good idea," admitted Mr. Howbridge. "You go out and see if you can find any impressions of the children's feet in the snow, Ike. I will hunt in the rooms upstairs for something the twins may have worn." "Stockin's are best--stockin's that ain't been washed," said the woodsman. "Or mittens, or gloves. Come on, sonny," he added to Neale O'Neil. "You come with me and we'll try to find some trail marks in the snow." He glanced at the window. "And we've got to hurry. It's snowin' right hard now, and will smother marks and everything if it keeps on this way for long." Just then, while there was so much interest being felt in the Birdsall twins and the possibility of their having been at Red Deer Lodge, somebody should have felt a revived interest in three other children--Sammy Pinkney and the two youngest Corner House girls. They had gone out after lunch, presumably to continue the building of the snow man in front of the Lodge. The older girls and Luke were engaged in their own matters, and thought not at all of the little folks. But Sammy, Tess and Dot had quite tired of playing in the snow. "They're awful mean not to have taken us slidin' with them," declared Sammy, sitting on the front step and making no effort to continue the work of snow man building. "I love to slide," repeated Dot, sadly. "And now it's going to snow," said Tess, biting her lip. "If it snows a lot we can't slide tomorrow." "Awful mean," reiterated Sammy. "Say! Aggie said there was a small sled back there where they found the big one. Let's go and see it." Any idea seemed good to the disappointed little girls. Even just looking at the sled they could use, if nothing happened, was interesting. They followed Sammy. But Sammy had more in his mind than just the idea of looking at the sled. Only, from past experience, he knew that to get Tess and Dot Kenway to leave the path of rectitude took some sharp "figuring." So he, like Ike M'Graw, was exercising his faculties. They came to the shed. "Oh, what a nice sled!" cried Dot, as Sammy drew out a shiny sled, big enough for three or four little folks, and with a steering arrangement in front. "It's a better sled than the one I have at home," admitted Sammy. "I guess we could slide all right on that," said Tess slowly. "Guess we could!" agreed the boy. "I'd like a ride on it," said Dot wistfully. "Get on, kid. Me and Tess will drag you," said Sammy. Dot overlooked the objectionable way in which Sammy had addressed her and hurried to seat herself on the sled. Sammy and Tess took hold of the rope. It was not very hard to pull such a light body as that of the fairylike Dot through the soft snow. Sammy wisely turned away from the Lodge and followed the tracks of the bobsled. In two minutes they were out of sight of the Lodge, and even of the sheds. At that time Neale and the old woodsman had not come out for the purpose of searching the vicinity of the Lodge for the footprints of the Birdsall twins. Sammy and the two smallest Corner House girls moved up the woods path which the other sledding party had found and followed. If Ruth and the others had gone this way, surely they could safely follow the same route. Although the snow was increasing, even the cautious Tess Kenway saw no danger menacing the trio. But at first she had no idea just what Sammy had determined upon. In fact, Sammy Pinkney had taken the bit in his teeth, and he was determined to do exactly what they had been forbidden to do. If the older ones could slide downhill, why could he and the little girls not have the same pleasure? He and Tess drew Dot for a long way, much to that little girl's delight. Then the uphill grade tired Tess so much that she had to stop. "Shift with Dot," Sammy said. "Come on, Dot. You and I will drag Tess a piece." The little girl was willing, and she and her sister changed places. Dot could not do much to aid Sammy, but he buckled down to the work and pulled manfully. When he had to stop, puffing, they were then so far up the hill that his suggestion that they keep on to the top and slide back, met with even Tess' approval. "We've come so far, we might's well finish it," she said. "Well, I hope it isn't much farther," said Dot, "for it's awful hard walking in this snow. And it's snowing harder, too." "Don't be a 'fraid-cat, Dottie," snorted Sammy. "I never saw such a girl!" "Am not a 'fraid-cat!" declared the smallest Corner House girl, prompt to deny such an impeachment. "Snow don't hurt. But you can't see where you are going when it snows so thick," "Shucks!" said Sammy. "We can't get lost on this road, can we, Tess?" "No-o," agreed Tess. "I guess we can't. We can't get off the path, that's sure. And we can see the marks the big sled made all the way." These tracks, however, were rapidly being effaced. The children were not cold, for as the snow increased it seemed to become warmer, and the hard walking helped to keep them warm. They had to put Dot back on the sled and draw her the final two or three hundred yards to the top of the hill. There, fast as the snow was gathering, they could see where the other coasters had turned the bobsled around and prepared to launch themselves from the top of the hill. "I guess they slid almost all the way home," said Tess, with some anxiety. "I hope we can do as well, Sammy." "Sure," agreed Sammy. "Ain't no need to worry about that. Now I'm goin' to lie right down, and Dot can straddle me. Then you push off and hang on at the back end of the sled, Tess. Don't you kids fall off." "I wish you wouldn't call me a kid, Sammy Pinkney," complained Dot. "And don't wiggle Bo if I've got to sit on you." "Well, I got to get fixed," Sammy rejoined. "Hang on now. All ready, Tess?" "Yes. My! how the wind blows this snow into your face." "Put your head down when we get started. I've got to keep lookin' ahead. Bet this is a dandy slide--and such a long one!" "Here we go!" cried Tess, pushing with vigor. The sled started. It seemed to slide over the soft snow very nicely. She scrambled on, and, sitting sideways, clung with both hands to the rails. Dot was hanging to Sammy's shoulders. "Choo! Choo! Choo! Here we go!" yelled Sammy, wriggling with eagerness. "_Do_ keep still, Sammy!" begged Dot. But the sled did not gain speed. The gathering snow impeded the craft even on the down grade. "Kick! Kick behind, Tess!" yelled Sammy. "Kick _hard_." "I--I am kicking," panted his friend. "Why don't the old thing go better?" "This snow is loadin' right up in front of it," sputtered Sammy. "It's too de-e-ep! Aw--shucks!" The sled almost stopped. Then it went over a thank-you-ma'am and slid a little faster. The slide was nowhere near as nice as they had expected. Why! they were not going downhill much faster than they had come up. The snow was sifting down now very thickly, and in a very short time the trio was likely to have to drag the empty sled through deep drifts. Even Sammy was secretly sorry they had come such a long way from the Lodge. Although it was barely mid-afternoon, it seemed to be growing dark. They struggled to make the sled slide, however; neither Sammy nor Tess was a child who easily gave up when circumstances became obstinate. Tess continued to dig her heels into the snow, and when the sled almost stopped, Sammy plunged his arms elbow deep into the snow to aid in its movement. But suddenly they went over a hummock. It seemed a steep descent on the other side. In spite of the gathering snow the sled got under better headway. "Hurrah, Tess!" yelled Sammy. "We're all right now." "I--I hope so!" gasped the older girl. "Oh! Oh!" shrieked Dot. "We're going!" They really were going--or, so it seemed. Faster and faster ran the sled, for the hill had suddenly become steep. It was snowing too thickly for any of them to notice that this part of the track was entirely new to them. They shot around a turn and took another dip toward the valley. Sammy did not mind the snow beating into his face now. He yelled with pleasure. The little girls hung on, delighted. The sled sped downward. All marks of the bobsled's runners were long since lost under the new snow. The hill grew steeper. Sammy's yells were half stifled by the wind and snow. It did seem as though that slide was a very long one! In climbing the hill the trio had had no idea they had walked so far. And how steep it was! Over a level piece the sled would travel at a moderate rate, and then shoot down a sudden decline that almost took their breath. Surely they must have traveled almost to the Lodge from which they had started. Finally the path became level. Great trees rose all about them. They could see but a short distance in any direction because of the falling snow. The sled stopped. The girls hopped off and Sammy struggled to his feet and shook the snow out of his eyes. "Je-ru-sa-_lem_!" he choked. "What a slide! Did you ever, Tess?" "No, I never did," admitted Tess quite seriously. "Oh!" cried Dot. "Let's go home. I'm co-co-o-old. Why--why--" she gasped suddenly, looking about on all sides. "Well, don't cry about it," snorted Sammy. "Of course we'll go home. We must be almost there now--we slid so far." "Oh, yes. We _must_ be near Red Deer Lodge," agreed Tess. It did not look like any place they had ever seen before. The trees were much taller than any they had noticed about the Lodge. Yet there was the open path ahead of them. They set Dot upon the sled again, and Tess helped Sammy drag it and her sister straight ahead. Somewhere in that direction they were all three sure Red Deer Lodge was situated. CHAPTER XX FOLLOWING ANOTHER TRAIL After all the activities of the forenoon both by the older boys and girls of the vacation party at Red Deer Lodge, and by the children as well, the soft snow was considerably marked up by footprints around the premises. Ike M'Graw and Neale O'Neil, searching for prints of the feet of those who they thought had left the vicinity of the house early that morning, struck directly off for the edge of the clearing. "The best we can do," M'Graw declared, "is to follow the line of the woods clean around the clearing. Somewhere, whoever 'tis got that fox and lifted the canned goods, must have struck into the woods. They ain't hidin' in the barns or anywhere here. I've been searchin' them. That's certain." Neale had very bright eyes, and not much could escape them; but the snow was coming down fast now and even he could not distinguish marks many yards ahead. Here and there they beheld footprints; but always examination proved them to be of somebody who belonged at the Lodge. The prints in the snow Luke and his sister and Ruth had made soon after breakfast fooled Neale for a moment, but not for long. They saw the woodsman's big prints, too, where he had been looking for the marks of the fox hunter. There were the marks Neale himself and Agnes had made when they had followed the "deer." All these various marks bothered the searchers; and all the time, too, the snow was falling and making the identification of the various prints of feet the more difficult. "This here's worse than nailing the animals that they say went into the ark that time Noah set sail for Ararat," declared Ike, chuckling. "Whoever followed them critters up to the gangplank must have been some mixed up-- "Hello! What's this?" They had come around behind the sheds. Here was the entrance to the road on which Neale and Luke with the three older girls had coasted that forenoon. The woodsman was pointing to marks in the snow, now being rapidly filled in. Neale said: "Oh, we were sliding on this hill, you know." "Uh-huh? Who was?" "Five of us. With a big bobsled." "Now, you don't tell me that bobsled made them marks," interposed the old man. "I know that bobsled." "Why--I--" "Them runner marks was made by little Ralph Birdsall's scootin' sled. I know that, too. Who's gone up to slide this afternoon?" "That must be the kids!" exclaimed Neale. "I wonder if Ruth knows they are out here playing! I remember now I didn't see them at the front of the house." "You don't suppose they've gone far?" "Oh, I guess they will come to no harm around here. Ruth would not let them go away from the Lodge to play." "Humph!" muttered the old man. But he went on. There was really no reason for Neale to be worried about the children. They were almost always well behaved. At least, they seldom disobeyed. Besides, it was only a few minutes later when Mr. Howbridge, well muffled against the storm, appeared with Tom Jonah on a leash. The old woodsman had just got down on his knees in the snow to examine two lines of faint impressions that left the path John's footprints had made to the farther shed. "Now, what's this? A deer jumped out here--or what?" Neale waited and Mr. Howbridge held the dog back. Ike got up and followed the half-filled impressions a little farther. They headed directly for the thicker woods to the north of the Lodge premises. "Might have been feet--small feet. And two sets of 'em," said Ike. "Hi, Mister! did you find anything up in that closet belongin' to the twins?" "Here is a pair of bed slippers. Knitted ones. They are much too small for a grown person," the lawyer declared. M'Graw took the articles thoughtfully into his big hands. "Humph! Look like little Missie's slippers. Certainly do. Roweny, you know. Wonder if this old dog knows anything." He offered the slippers to Tom Jonah to sniff. The dog had been used to following a scent in times past; often they would send him after Dot or Tess or Sammy. He snuffed eagerly at the knitted shoes. "Don't know how strong the scent is on 'em. It's been some time, p'r'aps, since little Roweny wore 'em. But--" Tom Jonah whined, sniffed again, and then lifted up his muzzle and barked, straining at the leash. "Looks like he understands," said the old man, reaching for the leash and taking the bight of it from Mr. Howbridge's hand. "Good dog! Now, go to it. These here footprints--if that's what they are--are fillin' in fast." Tom Jonah put his nose to the marks in the snow. He sniffed, threw some of the light snow about with his nose, and started off. He followed the faint trail into the woods. But Neale doubted if the dog followed by scent. Once, in the thicket the marks were only visible here and there. The fresh snow was sifting down faster and faster. The dog leaped from one spot to another, whining, and eagerly seeking to pick up the scent. "It's awful unlucky this here snow commenced as it has. Hi! I don't see what we can do," sighed Ike. "Do you really believe those marks were the twins' footsteps?" "I do. I believe they was in the house when your folks came, Mr. Howbridge," M'Graw said. "But now--" Tom Jonah halted, threw up his shaggy head, and howled mournfully. "Oh, don't, Tom Jonah!" cried Neale O'Neil. "It sounds like--like somebody was dead!" "Or lost, eh?" suggested Ike. "Ain't no use. He--nor a better dog--couldn't follow a scent through such snow. We're too late. But I'd like to know where them children went, if these is them!" They turned back toward the Lodge, rather disheartened. If the two Birdsall children, who had been left to the care of Mr. Howbridge, were really up here alone in the wilderness--and perhaps shelterless at this time--what might not happen to them? What would be the end of this strange and menacing situation? Nobody spoke after M'Graw expressed himself until they came to the path on which they had previously seen the marks of the small sled and the footprints of Sammy and the two youngest Corner House girls. These traces were now entirely obliterated. It was snowing heavily and the wind was rising. "Hi gorry!" ejaculated the old woodsman, "how about those other children? Are they at home where they ought to be?" "Whom do you mean?" asked the lawyer, rather startled. But Neale understood. He looked sharply about. Not an impression in the snow but that of their own feet was visible. "I'll go and see if the sled is returned to the place they got it from," he said, and dashed away to the shed. Before Mr. Howbridge and M'Graw had reached the Lodge Neale O'Neil came tearing after them. "Oh, wait! Wait!" he shouted. "They haven't come back with the sled. What do you suppose can have happened to Sammy and Tess and Dot?" CHAPTER XXI ROWDY About the time Neale O'Neil was asking his very pertinent question about the whereabouts of Sammy and Tess and Dot, that trio had stopped, breathless and not a little frightened, in a big drift at what seemed the bottom of a deep hole. The snow swirled about them so, and they seemed to have come so far down from the place where they had pushed off on the sled, that they believed it was a deep hole; and there seemed no possibility of getting out of it. "I--I guess," quavered Dot, "that we'll just have to lie right down here and let the snow cover us all--all up." "I do wish, child, when you get into trouble that you wouldn't give up all hope, right first off!" exclaimed Tess, rather exasperated at her sister. "Of course we are not going to give up and lie down in this snow." "Of course not!" echoed Sammy Pinkney. Nevertheless, Sammy experienced a chill up and down his spine, and the short hairs at the back of his neck stiffened. It was borne upon his mind all of a sudden that they were lost--utterly lost! He could not understand how they had got off of the straight path to Red Deer Lodge; but he was very sure that they had done so and, as far as he knew, they were miles and miles away from that shelter and from their friends. Yet there seemed nothing to do but keep on through the snow--as long as they could press forward. Tess was quite as plucky as he made believe to be. And they could haul Dot a little way at a time on the sled. "But we're going on, Sammy, without getting anywhere," was Tess' very wise observation. "I think we ought to scrouge down under something until the snow stops." "Just like the Babes in the Woods," wailed Dot, who knew all the nursery stories. "Do be still!" cried her sister, quite tartly. "Sammy and I are going to find you a nice place to stop, Dot." "Well, I hope it's a place with a fire in it, 'cause I'm cold," complained the smallest Corner House girl. They all wished for a fire and shelter, but the older ones feared with reason that both comforts would not be immediately found. Sammy had not ventured forth this time prepared for all emergencies, as he had the time that Dot and he ran away to sail piratically the canal. He had no means of making a fire, even if he could find fuel. Sammy was not without fertility of ideas, however; and these to a practical end. It must never be said of him, when the lost party got back to Red Deer Lodge, that he had not done his duty toward his companions. He saw that the lower branches of some of the big spruce trees swept the snow--indeed, their ends were drifted over in places. Under those trees were shelters that would break both the wind and the snow. He said this to Tess, and she agreed. "But we must keep a hole open to look out of," she said. "Otherwise we won't see the folks when they come hunting for us." "Je-ru-sa-_lem_! If they come along this road while it's snowing like this lookin' for us, we'd never see 'em," muttered the boy. But he kept this opinion to himself. Vigorous action claimed Sammy Pinkney almost immediately. While Dot "sniffled," as he called it, on the half-buried sled, Sammy started to dig under the boughs of a tree near at hand. The wind seemed to be less boisterous here, but the snow was drifting rapidly. Back of the tree the steep hillside rose abruptly, somewhat sheltering the spot. Sammy burrowed through the drift like a dog seeking a rabbit. He found a way between two branches of the spruce, over which the snow had packed hard at a previous fall. He had to break away fronds of the tough branches to open a hole into the dark interior. "Come on!" he shouted, half smothered by the snow he was pawing out. "Here's a hole." "Oh, Sammy! suppose there should be something in there?" gasped Tess, her lips close to his ear. At this suggestion Master Sammy drew back with some precipitation. "Aw, Tess! what d'you want to say such things to a feller for?" he growled. "If there is anything in there we'll find it out soon enough." Dot's sharp ears had heard something of this. She shrieked: "Oh! Is it mice? I hm afraid of mice, and I won't go in there till you drive them all out, Sammy." "Je-ru-sa-_lem_!" murmured Sammy, with vast disgust. "Don't girls beat everything?" "I don't care! I don't like mice," reiterated the smallest Corner House girl. "Huh!" declared Sammy, wickedly, "maybe there'll be wolves under there." "Wolfs? Well, I haven't my Alice-doll here, so I don't care about wolfs. But mice I am afraid of!" At that Sammy took a deep breath, gritted his teeth, and dived out of sight. He found that there was quite a sharp incline over hard snow to the bottom of the hole. All around the trunk of the tree, and next to it, was bare, hard ground. It made a roomy shelter, and it was just as warm as any house could be without a fire. There was a quantity of dry and dead branches under here to scratch him and tear at his clothing. Sammy broke these off as he crawled around the tree, making the way less difficult for the little girls when they should enter. A little light entered by the hole down which he had plunged. It made the interior of the strange shelter of a murky brownness, not at all helpful in "seeing things." Sammy was quite sure there was no wolf housed in here; but about the mice or other small rodents he was not so sure. However, he called to the little girls cheerfully to come down, and Dot immediately scrambled in, feet first. Tess followed her sister with less precipitation. Like Sammy, she felt the burden of their situation much more than did Dot. "Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof," was Dot's opinion. Sammy crawled out again and rescued the sled which was already buried in the snow. He dragged it to the opening and left it right over the hole so as to keep the snow from drifting in upon them. "But it makes it so dark, Sammy!" said Tess, a little sharply. "Wait a while. You can see better pretty soon. Your eyes get used to the dark--just like you went down cellar at night for a hod of coal." "Oh, I wouldn't!" declared Dot. "But I'm not afraid of the dark. It's nothing you can feel." So they were very cozy and fairly warm under the tree. Soon the snow had heaped so thickly over the mouth of their shelter that they could not even hear the wind. They had eaten a good lunch. Sammy had some nuts in his pockets. It was now about four o'clock. They were not likely to suffer for anything needful for some time. And, of course, neither of the three thought that their stay under the spruce tree would be for long. "If the snow doesn't stop pretty soon, and so we can get out and find the way home, Neale O'Neil and Aggie will come for us," Dot said, with considerable cheerfulness for her. "I'm all warm now, and I don't care." Sammy did not feel altogether as sure that they would escape from the difficulty so easily; but he did not openly express his belief. He was, like the little girls, glad to have found shelter. With provisions and a fire, he said, they could stay here like Crusoes. "You know, Robinson Crusoe lived in a cave, and in a hut. And he was all alone till he got some goats and a Man Friday." "We might have brought Billy Bumps along," said Dot thoughtfully. "I guess I wouldn't want to live with an old goat," Tess observed, with scorn. They had no means of measuring the passage of time, and of course it seemed that "hours and hours" must have passed before Sammy tried to look out through the opening the first time. And this was no easy work. The snow had gathered so quickly and packed down so hard upon the sled that the boy could scarcely raise it. Finally, by backing under the sled and rising up with it on his shoulders, the sturdy little fellow broke through the drift. "I got it!" he shouted back to Tess and Dot. "But, oh, Je-ru-sa-_lem_! ain't it snowin' though? Bet it never snowed so hard before. I guess we'll have to stay here till they dig us out." "Oh, Sammy! All night?" gasped Dot. "Well, I don't know about that. But until this old snow stops, anyway." He, nor the little girls, scarcely appreciated the fact that the worst blizzard of the winter had broken over that territory, and that trails and paths were being utterly obliterated. The keenest scented dog, and the most experienced woodsman, could not have traced the three children to their present shelter. Sammy came in and fixed the sled again to keep out the snow. He felt pretty serious--for him. Sammy Pinkney was not in the habit of looking for the worst to happen. Quite the contrary. Yet he could not throw off anxiety as easily as Dot could. As long as she was not hungry, and was warm, the smallest Corner House girl felt quite cheerful. They could see a little better in their cozy nest now, and being assured that there were no mice, thought of other wild creatures of the forest did not disturb Dot Kenway. "Let's play something," said Dot. "Cum-ge-cum!" "What do you come by?" asked Tess quickly. This was an old, old game of guessing that Aunt Sarah Maltby had taught the little folks. "I come by the letter 'S,'" declared Dot. "Snow," guessed Sammy promptly. "No." "It's got to be the 'nitial of something in this--this house," Tess observed. "Shoes, Dottie?" "No. 'Tisn't shoes. And 'tis in the house--if you call this a house." "Shirt," Sammy declared. "Nopy!" "Sled?" guessed Tess. "No, it is not 'sled,'" said the littlest girl. "Stockin's?" suggested Sammy. "I've got a hole in one o' mine. Feels like my big toe was stranglin' to death, so it does." "S-s-s--" "Oh, stop!" shrieked Dot suddenly. "What's that at the door?" The two little girls shrieked again and scrambled behind the trunk of the tree. Sammy was just as scared as a child could be, but he sat right where he was and watched the dim light grow at the hole over which he had pulled the sled. Something was scratching there, dragging the sled away from over the hole in the snowdrift. Sammy did not know that even the hungriest animal in the forest was snugly housed during this storm. The creatures of the wild do not hunt when the weather is so boisterous. It might have been a wolf, or a bear, or a lynx, _or a tiger_, as far as the small boy knew. Just the same, having the responsibility of Tess and Dot on his mind, he had to stay and face the unknown. Suddenly a voice spoke from without. It said with much disgust: "Oh, shut up your squalling. I'm not going to bite you." "Je-ru-sa-_lem_!" murmured Sammy. "What's this?" In a minute he was reassured, for the sled was torn away and a head and shoulders appeared down the opening through the drift. "Hello!" exclaimed the voice again. "How did you get here? How many of you are there?" "Two girls and a boy. And we slid here," said Sammy, gulping down a big lump in his throat. "_Girls?_" gasped the stranger, who seemed to be very little older than Sammy himself. "Girls out in this blizzard?" "No. We're all safe in here under the tree," said Sammy, with some indignation. "I wouldn't let 'em stay out in the storm." "Oh!" exclaimed the stranger. "And do you intend to stay here till it stops snowing?" "Why not?" demanded Sammy. "That won't be until tomorrow--maybe next day," was the cheerful response. "I guess you don't know much about storms up here in the woods." "Nope. We come from Milton." "Oh!" exclaimed the other. "You're some of that bunch from Red Deer Lodge, aren't you?" "Ye--yes, sir," Tess interposed politely. "Do you suppose you could show us the way home?" "Just now I couldn't," said the other, wriggling his way into the shelter. "This is pretty good in here. But you'd better come to my cave." "Oh! do you live in a cave?" asked Sammy. "Isn't it dark?" asked Tess. "Are there fishes in it with blind eyes?" demanded Dot, who had heard something about the fish of the streams in the Mammoth Cave, and thought all caves were alike. "Fish?" snorted the newcomer. "I guess not! Wish there were. We'd eat them. And we need meat." "Is--is your cave far?" asked Sammy, in some doubt. "No. Just back of this tree. And we'd better get back there quick, or the door will be all snowed under. This is a big, big storm." "Who are you?" Tess asked. "If you don't mind telling us. This is Sammy Pinkney; and I'm Tess Kenway; and this is my sister, Dot." "Huh!" said the stranger. "I--I'm Rowdy." "Rowdy?" repeated Tess, wonderingly. "That's what they call me," said the other hastily. "Just Rowdy. And we'd better go to my cave." "But you don't live out here in the woods all by yourself, do you?" asked Sammy, in much surprise. "No. But--but my father's gone a long way off." The boy hesitated a moment, and then added: "Gone to Canada--trapping. Won't be back for ever so long. So I live in the cave." "Oh, my!" murmured Tess. "Je-ru-sa-_lem_!" exclaimed Sammy. "Ain't you afraid to live here alone?" "I'm not afraid," said their new friend. "And there's nobody to boss you all the time here. Come on. You follow me. Drag along the sled. We might need that after the snow's stopped." He started to crawl out through the hole into the storm again, and the trio from Red Deer Lodge decided that there was nothing better to do than to follow him. CHAPTER XXII IN THE CAVE The snow beat down upon them so when they were outside of the shelter that the little girls could scarcely get their breath. Dot clung to Tess' hand and bleated a few complaining words. But the strange boy said sharply: "Don't be blubbering. We'll be all right in a minute. I want to hunt for something around here. That's what I come out of the cave for." "Am not blubbering!" muttered Dot, quite indignant. "But this old snow--" "Oh, I've got it!" shouted the strange boy, leaping ahead through the snow with great vigor. "Come on! Don't lose sight of me." "You bet we won't," said Sammy, urging Tess and Dot on ahead of him and dragging the sled after. "What is it?" asked Tess, curiously. "A trap," said the other. "Oh!" "What kind of a trap?" asked the eager Sammy. "Rabbit trap. Box trap. Rafe and I brought it down here with us and set it this morning. I put a handful of corn in it and I saw rabbit tracks all about just before it began to snow so hard. Here it is." The speaker had knelt down in the snow and was uncovering some long, narrow object with his hands. "It's sprung, anyway. You see, the door's dropped," he said. "The rabbit pokes right in after the corn, and when he begins to eat the bait clear at the end of the box, he trips the trigger and the door falls. Yes! He's here!" "Oh, Je-ru-sa-_lem_! A real rabbit?" gasped Sammy Pinkney. "A poor little bunny?" murmured Tess, her tender heart at once disturbed at the thought of the trapped animal. "Huh! If we are snowed up in that cave for a week or so," said the boy called Rowdy, "you'll be mighty glad I caught this rabbit." He had lifted the door and thrust in his left hand to seize the animal. "Oh! Oh!" squealed Dot. "Won't it bite you?" "It doesn't bite with its hind legs," said Rowdy with scorn. "Ah! I got him." He drew forth the rabbit, kicking and squirming. The little mouse-like cry the poor beast made sounded very pitiful to Tess. She murmured: "Oh, don't hurt him!" "Je-ru-sa-_lem_!" exclaimed Sammy to Rowdy. "Ain't girls the worst ever?" "Huh!" said the strange boy, suddenly glaring at Sammy Pinkney, "what do you know about girls?" He was a dark boy, with ragged black hair that had evidently been sheared off roughly by an amateur barber. He was dressed warmly and in good clothes. He wore leggings that came up to his hips. He was bigger, and must have been older than Sammy. He stood up now, with the kicking rabbit held by the hind legs. The trapped animal was fat and was of good size. "Oh! Oh!" cried Dot. "He'll get away from you." "Like fun he will." "How are you going to kill him?" Sammy, the practical, asked. "Break its neck," was the prompt reply. "Oh! How awful!" gasped Tess. "Won't it hurt him?" "It won't know anything about it," said Rowdy. He was already holding the rabbit away from him almost at arm's length and poised his right hand, edge out, for the blow that was to finish the creature. Sharp and quick was the blow, the outer edge of the boy's hand striking across the back of the rabbit's neck just at the base of the brain. The vertebra was snapped in this way and the creature instantly killed--a merciful and sudden death. The rabbit kicked but once, and then was still. "Oh! Oh!" murmured Tess. "Oh, don't worry," said Rowdy. "Ike M'Graw showed me how to do that." "Oh!" cried Dot. "_We_ know Mr. Ike M'Graw--so we do." "How did you come to know him?" demanded Rowdy, quickly and suspiciously, it seemed. "He isn't at home now." "Yes, he is," said Sammy. "He was up at Red Deer Lodge last night and he was there again this morning." "Oh!" ejaculated Rowdy, standing and holding the rabbit as though the information gave him considerable mental disturbance. "I--I thought he'd gone away for good." Then he turned suddenly and plunged into the drifting snow. "Come on!" he exclaimed again. "This snow is drifting awfully." Sammy drove the little girls ahead of him again. "Aw, go on!" he muttered. "He's all right. He's got some kind of a hide-out." "I don't believe I like that Rowdy," said Tess softly. "He--he's real cruel. All boys are, I s'pose." "They have to be," returned Sammy. "Why?" demanded Tess, in wonder. "Cause girls are such softies," declared the impolite Sammy. They plunged ahead, wading far above their waists now. Behind the trees the hillside rose abruptly. It towered so above their heads in the snow that the children were almost scared. Suppose that hill of snow should tumble right down on top of them! "Goodness!" exclaimed Tess, with some exasperation. "Where is your old cave?" "Come on," said Rowdy, patiently. "It's here somewhere. But the old snow--Ye-e--yi, yi!" he suddenly yelled. Faintly there came an answering voice--half smothered, wholly eerie sounding. "Oh! Who's that?" demanded Sammy. "Him," said Rowdy shortly. "Then don't you live alone?" Tess demanded. "I have my brother with me," said Rowdy, plunging on to the right. The snow beat into their faces and eyes, almost blinding them and wholly stopping their chatter. Above their heads the huge trees rocked, limbs writhing as though they were alive and in pain. And from these writhing limbs the snow was shaken down in avalanches. One great blob of snow fell square on Sammy, trudging on behind the procession, and he went down with a howl like a wolf, buried to his ears. "Oh, Sammy! Sammy!" shrieked Tess, above the wind. "Are you hurt?" "I--I'm smothered!" groaned the boy, struggling to get out of the heap of snow. "Hey, you Rowdy! Get us out of this, or we'll be buried and lost." "Come on!" sang out the bigger boy from up ahead. "O-ee! Rafe!" he shouted. A figure appeared before them--the figure of a boy not much bigger than Rowdy. "What have you there?" a hoarse voice demanded. "A rabbit." "I mean who are those behind you?" and the hoarse voice was very tart now. "A couple of girls and a boy," said Rowdy. "I picked 'em up back there by the trap." "Well! But we don't keep a hotel," said the second boy. "Hush!" commanded Rowdy. "Where are your manners? And they come from the Lodge," he added. "How are we going to feed so many people?" was the rather selfish demand of the second boy from the cave. "Mercy! you're a regular pig, Rafe," exclaimed Rowdy. "Go on. Take this rabbit. I'll help the little girl. She's almost done for." Dot Kenway really was breathless and almost exhausted. She was glad to be taken in the strong arms of Rowdy. He staggered along behind the one called Rafe, and so came to an opening behind a bowlder which seemed to have been rolled by nature against the hillside. The hole was sheltered from the direct effect of the wind that was drifting the snow in a huge mound against the bowlder. Rafe, with the rabbit, dived first into the hole. Rowdy followed, with Dot in his arms. "Oh! Oh!" cried the littlest girl with delight. "Here's a fire." "Isn't that splendid?" demanded Tess, who came next and saw the blaze at the back of the cave, between two stones. "Why! what a nice cave you've got here." The fire lit up the cave, for it was only about a dozen feet square. Only, it was not really square, being of a circular shape at the back. The smoke from the fire rose straight up and disappeared through a hole in the low roof through which there must have been considerable draught. Of course, there was a strong smell of wood smoke in the cave; but not enough smoke to make one's eyes smart. There were some old blankets and rugs on the floor for carpet. Against one side wall was a great heap of balsam boughs, over which were flung robes. When Sammy came staggering in with the sled he fairly shouted his approval of the cave. "Je-ru-sa-_lem_! what a jim-dandy place. Say! I bet Neale O'Neil would like to see this." "Well, you needn't be bringing anybody here and showing it. This is our own particular hideout--Rowdy's and mine. So now," observed Rafe, who seemed to be less friendly than his brother. "Oh, hush," pleaded the latter. "Do be hospitable, Rafe. Don't you know these kids are our guests?" "'Guests!'" snorted the other. "Yes, they are." "Oh, please don't quarrel about us," urged Tess Kenway gently. "We'll go right away as soon as it stops snowing, and we'll never tell anybody about this cave if you don't want us to." "Don't mind him," said Rowdy. "He's got a cold and a grouch. Come on, Rafe; help me pluck this rabbit." "Oh, I'll do that!" cried the red-faced Sammy. "Let me!" While the little girls were glad to sit before the fire on the blankets, he wished to make himself useful. Besides, to help skin a real rabbit was a height of delight to which Sammy Pinkney had never before risen. "All right," said Rowdy. "You get the potatoes and onions ready, Rafe. We have salt and pepper and we can have a nice rabbit stew." "Just fry it," recommended the other cave dweller. "That's less trouble." "You do as I say!" exclaimed Rowdy, sternly. "There are five of us instead of two to eat, and we've got to make this rabbit go a long way." "Well, who brought them in? I didn't," said Rafe, angrily. "You knew we didn't have any too much to eat." "You are a nice one!" began Rowdy, when Tess broke in with: "I'm awful sorry we came if we are going to make trouble. We can go back under that tree--can't we, Sammy?" "I'm not going back there," Dot said stubbornly. "There's no fire there. If this other boy doesn't like us because we are girls, can't he go out and live under the tree himself?" This idea seemed to amuse Rowdy a good deal. He laughed aloud--and the laugh did not sound just like a boy's laugh, either. Tess stared at him wonderingly. "If Rafe's going to be so mean," he said, "he ought to be put out. Go ahead and peel the potatoes and onions, Rafe." "Sha'n't. That's girl's work," growled Rafe. "Oh! If you've got a knife I'll peel them," said Tess. "I don't mind." "All right," Rowdy said. "Give her the knife, Rafe. Put over the pot with some snow in it. The little girl can feed that till there is a lot of water ready. We'll want some for tea." "Don't want tea," growled Rafe. "I want coffee." "Oh, stop that, Rafe, or I'll slap you good!" promised Rowdy, his vexation finally boiling over. "I never saw such a boy. Come on here, Sammy. Hold this rabbit by the hind legs and I'll skin it in a jiffy." With the help of a knife to start the rabbit's hide, Rowdy "plucked" the bunny very handily. It was drawn and cleaned, too, and soon Rowdy was disjointing it as one would a chicken, using a flat stone for a butcher block. "It--it looks so much like a kitten," murmured Tess. "Do you suppose it is really good to eat?" "You wait till you taste it," chuckled Rowdy, who seemed to be a very practical boy indeed. "I'm going to make dumplings with it, too. I have flour and lard. We'll have a fine supper by and by. Then Rafe will feel better." Rafe merely coughed and grunted. He seemed determined not to be friendly, or even pleasant. Tess was an experienced potato peeler. She often helped Linda or Mrs. MacCall at home in Milton. In the matter of the onions she was quite as successful, although she confessed that they made her cry. "I don't see why onions act so," Dot said, wiping her own eyes. "There ought to be some way of smothering 'em while you take their jackets off. Oh, Tess, that one squirted right into my face!" "You'll have to take your face away from me, then," said her sister. "I can't tell where the onion's going to squirt next. They are worse than those clams we got down at Pleasant Cove, about squirting." "Goodness' sake!" exclaimed Rowdy. "Clams and onions! Never heard them compared before. Did you, Rafe?" "Don't bother me," growled Rafe, from the bed where he had lain down. Rowdy kept right on with his cooking. There being plenty of snow melted, he put down the disjointed rabbit with a little water and pepper and salt to simmer. Later he put in the onions and the potatoes. But they all had to simmer slowly for some time before the dumplings were made and put into the covered pot with the rabbit stew. The children were all very hungry indeed (all save Rafe, the grouch) before Rowdy pronounced the stew ready to be eaten. By that time it was late in the evening. It seemed to the younger children as though they had been living in the cave already for a long, long time! CHAPTER XXIII ANXIETY In this valley into which Sammy and the two youngest Corner House girls had coasted without realizing their unfortunate change of direction, the blizzard that had swept down from the north-east upon the wilderness about Red Deer Lodge did not reveal to the castaways its greatest velocity. The wind was mild in the valley compared to the way it swept across the ridge on which the Birdsalls' home had been built. Already, when Neale O'Neil discovered the absence of the small sled Sammy and Tess and Dot had taken, the storm was becoming threatening in the extreme. Urged by Mr. Howbridge, Neale ran into the house to make sure that Sammy and the little girls were really gone. Nobody indoors knew anything about the trio. Instantly anxiety was aroused in the minds of every one. Hedden, John and Lawrence, as well as Luke Shepard, soon joined in the search. Ike M'Graw of course took the lead. He knew the locality, and he knew the nature of the storm that had now developed after forty-eight hours of threatening. "No use lookin' for them twins," he had told Mr. Howbridge bluntly. "If they got away from here this mornin' with grub and a gun, they'll likely be all right for a while. They know where to hole up, it's likely, over this storm. 'Tain't as though they hadn't lived in the woods a good deal, winter and summer. When this storm is over I'll have a look for them twins, and like enough I'll find 'em all right. They air smart young shavers--'specially little Missie. "But these here young ones you brought with you--well, they don't know nothin' about the woods. If they started up that road to have a slide, no knowin' where they are now. They've got to be found and brought home. Yes, sir!" Ruth and the other girls had come running to the back kitchen where the party was making ready for departure. Agnes and Cecile were in tears; but although Ruth felt even more keenly that she had neglected the little folks, and because of that neglect they were lost, she kept her head. The oldest Kenway hurried matters in the kitchen, and before Ike was ready to start with his crew, she brought two big thermos bottles, one with hot milk and the other with hot coffee. "That's a good idee, Miss," said the woodsman, buttoning up his leather coat. "But we'll probably get them youngsters so quick they won't be much cold. Scared, mostly." All the members of the searching party did not feel so confident as Ike's expression pictured his feelings. And perhaps Ike said this only to help ease the minds of those who remained at the Lodge. Neale and Luke walked side by side as they set forth against the wind that now blew so hard. The snow sheeted them about so quickly that they were lost to the vision of the girls and Mr. Howbridge before they had gone twenty yards. The boys were right behind M'Graw. The other men trailed them. "Don't you fellers stray off the road we're goin' to follow," advised the old woodsman. "This is a humdinger of a storm, and it's goin' to get worse and worse from now on." "Those poor kids will be buried in it," Luke shouted in Neale's ear. "We'll dig 'em out, then," returned Neale, confidently. "Don't give up the ship before we've even started." But there was not much talk after getting into the road up which they knew Sammy and the little girls had started with the sled. In fact, they could not talk. By this time the blizzard was at its height, and it was blowing directly in their faces as they advanced. Over boot-tops, over knees, even leg-deep where the drifts were, the searchers pressed on. Hedden overtook the backwoodsman and shouted: "Hadn't we better separate, Mr. M'Graw, and beat the bushes on either side of this road?" "No. Don't believe it's safe. And I don't think them little shavers separated. They've holed-in together somewhere by this time, or--" He did not finish his remark, but plowed on. He did not pass a hummock or snow-covered stump beside the road that he did not kick into and quite thoroughly examine. Every time Neale O'Neil saw one of these drifts he felt suddenly ill. Suppose the little folks should be under that heap of snow? Nor did Luke bear the uncertainty in lighter vein. There were tears frozen on his cheeks as they pressed on. The falling snow and sleet, driven by the wind, seemed like a solid wall ahead of them. This buffeted the searchers with tremendous power. It took all their individual force to stand against the storm. When they finally reached the summit of the road, where the young people had started the bobsled for the long slide that forenoon, they had found no sign of Sammy and the little girls. Lawrence, one of the men, was completely exhausted. Ike made him sit down in the shelter of a tree and dosed him with a big draught of the hot coffee. "Don't want to have to lug you back in our arms, young man," snorted the old woodsman. "You city fellers ain't got much backbone, I allow." Meanwhile the other members of the searching party examined every brush pile and heap of snow for a circle of twenty yards around the point where Ike and Lawrence waited. Neale and Luke shrieked themselves hoarse calling the names of the trio of lost children. "Do you suppose any wild animal has attacked them, or frightened them, Mr. M'Graw?" Hedden asked. "Lynx and them is holed up, all right," declared the backwoodsman with conviction. "Nothing would bother them while this storm lasts. But I declare I don't see why we ain't found 'em," he added, shaking his head. "Not if they come this way." "I don't think they would have gone beyond this spot, do you?" Neale asked. "Here's the top of the hill. They must have started for this place with the sled." "'Twould seem so," agreed Ike M'Graw. "I doubt if they could have walked so far from the house," said Luke. "'Twasn't snowin' like this when they was on the way. But if they come up here and slid down again, why didn't we find 'em on our way up? Beats me!" "Perhaps we should have brought Tom Jonah with us," Neale observed. "He might have nosed them out." "The old dog couldn't scurcely git through this here snow," said M'Graw. "I don't guess he can help us much till the storm's over. But let's go back. Them young ones must have turned out o' this road somewheres. Stands to reason the snow scared 'em and they started back. They must have got out o' this woodroad, and then--" He slowly shook his head. His anxiety was shared by all. Wherever the children had gone, they were surely overtaken by the storm. If they had found some shelter-they might be safely "holed up" till the storm stopped. But if not, neither Ike M'Graw nor the others knew where to look for them. And the blizzard was now sweeping so desperately across the ridge that the sturdiest of the party could scarcely stand against it. Had it not been at their backs as they headed for Red Deer Lodge again, it is doubtful if they would have got to their destination alive. The last few hundred yards the party made by holding hands and pulling each other through the drifts. It was a tremendous task, and even M'Graw was blown when Red Deer Lodge was reached. Lawrence was the worst off of them all. Neale and Luke literally dragged him through the storm from the sheds to the rear door of the Lodge. He would probably have died in the drifts had he been alone. The girls and Mrs. MacCall, as well as Mr. Howbridge, were awaiting the return of the searchers with the utmost anxiety. Not only were they disturbed over the loss of the three children, but the possibility of the men themselves not returning had grown big in their minds. The rapidity with which the snow was gathering and the fierceness of the gale threatened disaster to the searchers. When M'Graw fell against the storm door at the rear of the house and burst it open, everybody within hearing came running to the back kitchen. When Ruth saw that they did not bring with them the two little girls and Sammy, she broke down utterly. Her despair was pitiful. She had held in bravely until now. To think that they had come up here to Red Deer Lodge for a jolly vacation only to have this tragedy occur! For that it was tragedy even Ike M'Graw now admitted. There was no knowing when the storm would cease. If the children had not been providentially sheltered before the gale reached this high point, it was scarcely possible that they would be found alive after the blizzard was over. At this hour no human being could live for long exposed to the storm which gripped the whole countryside. * * * * * There was anxiety in the cave in the valley as well as at Red Deer Lodge about this same hour. But it must be confessed that the children who had taken refuge in the cave were mostly anxious about that rabbit stew! Was there going to be enough to go around? And had Rowdy made the dumplings all right and seasoned the stew so that it would be palatable? [Illustration: "The housekeeping arrangements of the cave were primitive."] "Why, you're all sitting around here and sniffing at that stew every time I lift the pot cover like hungry dogs," declared Rowdy. "I guess if it doesn't turn out right, you'll eat me." "Oh, no," said Dot. "We wouldn't like to do that, for we aren't cannon balls." "You aren't _what_?" cried the boy, amazed. "Oh, dear, Dot! Why _will_ you get so mixed up in your words?" Tess wailed. "She doesn't mean 'cannon balls,' Rowdy; she means cannibals.' And we aren't. It is bad enough to have to eat rabbit when it looks so much like a cat." This very much amused Rowdy and Sammy Pinkney; but Rafe, the grouchy brother, would not be even friendly enough to laugh at the smallest Corner House girl. "I don't know what's got into him," said Rowdy. "He never was this way before." Rafe lay on the bed of balsam branches, and when his brother tried to stir him up he growled and said: "Let me alone!" But when the stew was done he was ready for his share. The housekeeping arrangements of the cave were primitive. There were a few odd plates and dishes. But knives and forks were not plentiful, and the tea had to be drunk out of tin cups, and there were only three of them. There was condensed milk for the tea; and besides the dumplings which Rowdy had made, there were crackers and some cold cornbread left from a previous meal. Rowdy seemed to be a pretty good cook for a boy of his age. And he was just as handy with dishes and in housekeeping matters as a girl. The visitors praised his rabbit stew. They really had to do that because they ate so much of it. Rafe grumbled that they took more than their share. "I'd like to know what's got into you!" Rowdy said to his brother in great disgust. "You are just as mean as poison ivy--so there!" "I am not!" "Yes, you are. And what are you scratching that way for?" "Because my chest itches. What does anybody scratch for?" growled Rafe. After eating, Rafe rolled up in a robe and went to sleep at one end of the bed. The others helped Rowdy clean up; and, as he said, "just to pay Rafe off for being so mean," they had dessert which Rafe had no part in. Rowdy produced a can of pears and they opened and ate them all! "Je-ru-sa-_lem_!" ejaculated Sammy, when this was finished, "ain't it fun living in a cave? I'd rather be here than up to that Red Deer Lodge place. Hadn't you, Tess?" "No-o," admitted the honest but polite little girl. "I can't say just that. But I think Rowdy's cave is very nice, and we are having a very nice time here." Dot frankly yawned. She had been doing that, off and on, all through supper. "I'm afraid there won't be anybody to put my Alice-doll to bed tonight," she said. "And I haven't any nightgown with me. Why, Tess! what shall we do?" "I guess you wouldn't want to take off your clothes here. It isn't warm enough," said Rowdy. "But can't we say our prayers?" murmured the startled Dot. "Of course, Tess and I spent the night once right out under a tree--didn't we, Tessie? Last summer, you know, when we went on that tour in our automobile. But we said our prayers first." "I guess we'd all better say our prayers and go to bed," said Rowdy. "This is a pretty big storm, and maybe it won't stop snowing for ever so long. The more we sleep, the less we'll know about it." Therefore, a little later, the four joined the already slumbering Rafe upon the heaped up branches; wrapping themselves as best they could in the torn robes and pieces of carpet. It was not a very comfortable bed or very nice bedding; but they were all too weary to criticize the shortcomings of Rowdy's cave. At least, it was shelter from the storm. CHAPTER XXIV RAFE IS CROSS Sammy Pinkney awoke to hear barking. But it was not Tom Jonah, as he had dreamed it was. He was chilly, too, and when his eyes got used to the semi-darkness of the cave he was sleeping in, Sammy discovered that Rafe had deliberately removed the share of the bedclothes that had been over Sammy and spread them over himself. "Aw, say!" muttered Sammy. "Ain't he fresh?" Then Rafe barked again. "He certainly has one fierce cold!" muttered Sammy. "I ain't got the heart to start nothing on him." Instead he got up and crept over, to the fireplace where there were still some red embers. Rowdy, or somebody, had evidently been up more than once to put fuel on the fire, and now Sammy did the same and blew the coals until the wood caught and blazed. Beside the fireplace was a great stack of billets of seasoned wood. Evidently this cave had been used as a living place for a long time; or perhaps it had merely been stocked with fuel for a long time. Sammy hoped it was well stocked with food, too. For Sammy was hungry, right then! It seemed to him that the rabbit stew had been eaten a long time before. There was no clock; but judging from the way he felt he thought he must have slept the clock around. He wondered if the storm had ceased. Was there likelihood of their being able to get back to Red Deer Lodge this morning (if it was morning), or would they have to remain until some one came to dig them out? The fire having sprung up now, and the flickering light aiding him to see his way about the cavern, Sammy moved toward the entrance. This aperture beside the huge bowlder was scarcely higher than Sammy himself. Before it Rowdy and Rafe, the two strange boys, had hung a piece of matting. When Sammy pulled this matting away he saw snow--snow that filled the hole "chock-er-block," as he expressed it. "Je-ru-sa-_lem_!" muttered the startled Sammy, "I guess it did snow some. How are we ever going to dig out of here?" There was a slab of wood standing beside the opening, leaning against the rock. Sammy seized this and began to dig desperately at the snow. So interested did he become in digging through the bank that filled the cave entrance that he did not pay much attention to where he flung the snow behind him. He was still digging like a woodchuck when Rowdy's voice reached him: "What are you trying to do? Going to fill this cave with snow?" "Say!" said Sammy, "it's getting-up time. And there's an awful lot of snow here. I guess we're buried alive, that's what I guess!" Just then Rafe coughed again, and his brother hopped up and went to him. "Don't scatter that snow all about, Sammy," he commanded. Then to Rafe: "What's the matter, Rafe, dear? Don't you feel any better?" "I'm--I'm chilly," chattered the boy with the cough. "I'll cover you up better," said Rowdy, getting his own blanket. "And we'll have more fire and some breakfast. Are you hungry, Rafe?" "I'm thirsty," said Rafe, rather whiningly. "I want some--some coffee." "I'll make some right away. Don't be sick, now, Rafe. I don't see what we should do for you if you got sick. What _are_ you scratching for?" "Because I itch," replied Rafe drowsily. But he snuggled down under the coverings until the coffee should be made. He seemed in a pleasanter humor, at least, than on the evening before. Rowdy bustled about, making coffee and stirring up some kind of bread by the light of the fire. Soon the fuel heaped upon the blaze made the cave warm again, although the smoke set them all to coughing. The two little girls woke up. Dot demanded a light. "I don't like this old smoky fire to see by," she complained. "Why don't you keep your fire in a stove, Rowdy?" "Haven't a stove," replied Rowdy promptly. "How did you girls sleep?" "All right, I guess," Tess replied. "What are you doing, Sammy? Can we go home this morning?" Sammy was still digging. He tramped the snow into a corner behind him. But the more snow he dug out of the hole the more there seemed to be. He took a round stick as tall as he was himself and pushed it up through the snowbank, and it let in no light at all. "Je-ru-sa-_lem_!" he cried. "There's all the snow in the world blown into this hole, I guess. We'll never get out of here!" "Oh!" squealed Dot, "don't say that, Sammy. Of course we must get out. It's coming Christmas, you know, and I've got to finish my motto that I'm making for Ruthie. It's got to be done, and I didn't bring it with me." "But," said Tess, yet with some hesitation now, "the folks will surely come to find us. Don't you say so, Rowdy?" "If they know where you are," said Rowdy. "But we didn't tell 'em," growled Sammy, coming to the fire to get warm. "That'll be all right," Dot declared, seeing no difficulty. "Tom Jonah will find us. You know, we never can hide from Tom Jonah." Tess explained to Rowdy that Tom Jonah was a dog, and a very good dog, too. But she secretly had some doubts, as did Sammy, that the old dog would be able to find them away down at the bottom of this hole where they had coasted. She was careful to say nothing to frighten Dot, or to discourage her. They were all much interested in Rowdy's preparations for breakfast. He produced a strip of bacon and he fried some of this in a pan while the bread was cooking. There was no butter, and the coffee was rather muddy; but not even Dot complained, as long as she got her share. While they ate, they talked. At least, Rowdy and the visitors talked. Rafe drank the coffee and ate his share of the breakfast, and then went back to the bed and heaped almost all the coverings over him. He had little red specks on his chest and arms, and he said he could not get warm. Sammy was desirous of getting out through the cave entrance to see if it had stopped snowing and what the prospect was for clear weather. But he dug for an hour after breakfast without accomplishing much. Then Rowdy came to help him. "I tell you what I think," said the Milton boy, in a low voice, so the girls would not hear. "I b'lieve all that snow that was up on that hill has just come tumbling down before this cave--so there!" "An avalanche!" gasped Rowdy. "I don't know what you call it. But that's what I think," repeated Sammy. "We'll never dig out of here in this world." "But I guess we've got to," said Rowdy sharply. "We can't live here long." "It ain't a bad sort of a place," said Sammy cheerfully. "I guess Robinson Crusoe didn't have a better cave." "He had more food than we have," said Rowdy thoughtfully. "And you kids do eat a lot. If I'd known you were coming here to live I'd have brought more stuff to eat--I surely would!" "Can't we catch any more rabbits?" suggested Sammy. "How are you going to catch rabbits when we can't get outside this cave?" returned Rowdy. "I guess all boys are foolish. That sounds just like Rafe." "Say! You're a boy yourself," said Sammy, in surprise. "You needn't talk." "Oh!" rejoined Rowdy, and said nothing more for a time. But they gave up digging through the snowbank. The snow seemed packed very hard, and it was difficult to dig with a slab of wood. If there had been an avalanche over the mouth of the cave their chances for digging out were small, indeed. Luckily none of the children realized just what that meant. Living in the cave was some fun, as Sammy declared. At least, it had the virtue of novelty. The time did not drag. They played games, paid forfeits, and Tess told stories, and Rowdy sang songs. He had a very sweet voice, and Tess told him that he sang almost as well as Agnes did. "And Agnes sings in the church chorus," explained Tess. "And I think you cook 'most as good as a girl," said Dot. "I guess you cook 'most as good as our Linda, at home, in Milton." If Rowdy considered these statements compliments he did not say so. Indeed, he seemed to be very silent after they were made. He sat beside Rafe on the bed for some time, and they whispered together. Rafe seemed to get no better, and he slept a good deal. So did the other children sleep, after a while. Having no means of telling whether one day or two had passed, after eating a second time they all curled down, covering themselves as best they could, and found in slumber a panacea for their anxiety. It was not Sammy who awoke the next time, but Tess. She became wide awake in a moment, hearing a sound from somewhere outside of the cave. She sat up to hear it repeated. Something was scrambling and scratching in the snow. She even heard a "woof! woof!" just as though some animal tossed aside the snow and blew through it. Tess was badly frightened. "Sammy! Rowdy! Oh, please!" she cried. "Is it a bear?" "Is what a bear?" demanded Rowdy, waking up in some confusion. "I guess you've been dreaming, Tess." "That isn't any dream!" cried the Corner House girl, and she sprang up, seizing Dot in her arms. Rowdy screamed now; not at all like a boy would cry out. He leaped from the bed and ran to the other side of the room. There, hanging on two pegs, was a small rifle. Sammy had eyed it with longing. But Rafe, awakened as well, shouted: "No good taking that, Rowdy! It isn't loaded. You know I shot away the last cartridge at that old fox." "Oh, Rafe! I told you then you were foolish," said Rowdy. "What shall we do?" "What is it?" yelled Sammy, tumbling out of bed. "It's a wolf!" replied Rowdy. "I can hear it! Listen!" Dot added her voice to the din. "Tell that wolf we haven't anything to throw to him, so he might's well go away," she declared. Rowdy ran to the hole in the snow. It seemed to be suddenly lighter there. Was the beast that was scratching through letting daylight into the cave? Rafe shrieked and leaped out from under his coverings. "You'll be killed, Rowdy! Don't go there!" he cried. Dashing across the floor of the cave, he seized Rowdy and pulled him out of the way. "Give me the gun!" he ordered, wresting it from Rowdy's hands. He seized it by the barrel and poised it as a club. "Get out, Rowdy!" he commanded. "This isn't any place for a girl!" At that amazing statement the little girls from the old Corner House and Sammy Pinkney were so utterly surprised that they quite forgot the savage animal that seemed to be trying to dig into the cave to attack them. CHAPTER XXV HOLIDAYS--CONCLUSION It was rather fortunate that Ralph Birdsall had shot way his last cartridge in killing the fox three nights before from the garret window of Red Deer Lodge. Otherwise he might have hurt Tom Jonah. For the old dog scrambled through the drift ahead of the searching party that had started out as soon as the gale ceased. Tom Jonah was pretty near crazy--or he acted so. Barking and leaping, the dog threw himself upon Ralph and tumbled him over. He was prodigal with his expressions of joy and affection, going from one to the other of the five children, and in his boisterousness tumbling them in heaps. "I never did! Tom Jonah! why don't you behave?" demanded Tess. "And I have been telling Rowdy and Rafe, these nice boys, just how good and smart you are." "Je-ru-sa-_lem_!" gasped Sammy, finally getting his breath. "They ain't boys!" "Who aren't boys?" asked Tess, wonderingly. "Well--well, _this_ one isn't," said Sammy, pointing at Rowdy. "He's a girl, that's what he is." "Why, Rowdy! I _thought_ there was something funny about you," Tess Kenway said. "You--you were so much nicer than boys are. I declare!" But this point was discussed no further at the time. For into the entrance to the cave came tumbling Neale O'Neil and Luke Shepard, covered with snow and shouting their joy, while behind them was Ike M'Graw. "Ralph! Roweny!" shouted the old timber cruiser. "Jest what sort of doin's do you call this?" Neale and Luke greeted the three lost Milton children with vehemence. Afterward Sammy confessed that maybe it was a good thing to get lost, for then you found out how much folks thought of you. These three, with Tom Jonah, made up the searching party this time. They had come away from Red Deer Lodge without letting the others know where they were going. It was really Agnes who started them off on the right trail. While the gale still rocked Red Deer Lodge in its arms and nobody could go out of doors, Agnes remembered about the fork in the road where she and her friends had coasted. "If the little ones tried to slide, they might have taken that wrong road," she said. "They could have slid right into it without knowing. Where does it go, Mr. M'Graw?" It did not take Ike long to study out what she meant. Then he did some more "figgering." He knew exactly where the branch road led to. He was so successful in this figuring that he encouraged the young people from Milton to believe as he did. He saw a chance for the three little folks who had gone sliding to be safely housed in the cave that he called "Ralph and little Missie's playhouse." The Birdsall twins had often camped out in that cave hollowed in the hillside at the bottom of the valley. If Sammy and Tess and Dot had slid down there, more than likely, so Ike said, they had found the cave and had taken refuge there. In addition (but this was his own secret) the timber cruiser believed that the twins, having been in Red Deer Lodge, had started for that very cave some hours before the gale broke. If the young Birdsalls were there, the lost children would be safe enough. This had proved to be the case. Nevertheless, the old woodsman scolded Ralph and Rowena heartily. "What d'you mean?" he demanded, "by running way from your guardian! Mr. Howbridge is as fine a man as ever stepped in shoe-leather. I'm ashamed of you children. And when you did come clean up here, why didn't you come to my shack and stay?" "We did go there; but you were away. Then we thought we had a right to live in our own house. You know papa built it," said Rowena, bravely. "We didn't know anybody was coming there this winter. And we brought some food with us from Coxford. Then those people came, and we waited till we could get out without being caught at it." "Some young ones! Some young ones!" groaned M'Graw. "Well, now, you'll go back to the Lodge and see what Mr. Howbridge has to say to you. And you dressed like a boy, Roweny!" "I don't care," said "Rowdy." "Ralph dressed up like a girl at first. We came up here that way. But other kids picked on us so that I thought I'd better be a boy as well as Ralph. And we had these clothes at Red Deer Lodge. I make as good a boy as he does a girl." "Say!" asked Neale O'Neil, vastly interested, "you two stopped a week at the village on the ice and fished, didn't you?" "Yes," said Rowena. "And you were girls there?" "Yes." "Well," said Neale, laughing now, "what I want to know is, which of you it was that thrashed those two boys that tried to steal your set-lines?" "That was Rowena!" croaked Ralph from the bed. "I acted just like a girl ought to and let them take the lines; but Rowena fought them, and licked them good, too!" There was a deal of talk after that, but most of it was done following the arrival of the party at Red Deer Lodge. As soon as that had occurred, however, and Mrs. MacCall had heard Ralph cough and heard about the itching, she made an examination. "There!" she declared, half an hour later after she had put the boy between blankets and given him a hot drink, "I might have known something would happen if we came up to this out-of-the-world place." "I should think something had happened!" murmured Ruth, who still held Dot in her lap and hugged her as though she could not let her go again. "What is the matter with Ralph?" "Chickenpox. And it's coming out thick on him right this minute." "Oh! Oh! _Chickens?_" gasped the smallest Corner House girl. "Are they roosting on him? No wonder Rafe scratched." "And like enough you'll be scratching my lassie," said the Scotch woman. "One an' all of you. I never knew it to fail. If one bairn gets it, all the others in the neighborhood catches it." Nor was she a poor prophet. All the little folks, even Rowena, developed mild cases of chickenpox and were kept in the house for most of the holidays. Holidays they were, nevertheless. Perhaps the little Corner House folk had never had so good a time over Christmas and New Year's. Ralph and Rowena Birdsall proved to be rollicking, good-natured children, and they felt themselves at home at Red Deer Lodge and could entertain Tess and Dot and Sammy Pinkney. "We won't blame them for giving us chicken scratches," said Dot to Tess. "At least, Ralph did. But he couldn't help it. And mine's most gone, anyway." The "older young folks," as Mr. Howbridge called them, had most delightful times out of doors, as well as in. There was four or five feet of snow on the ground, on the level, and it was packed hard enough to make splendid snow-shoeing. Ike M'Graw had plenty of snowshoes, and he taught them all how to use them. When they became adept he led them in short jaunts all about the section in which Red Deer Lodge was situated. The boys went out with him at night, hunting. Neale and Luke both killed rabbits, and Neale shot a bigger fox than the one Ralph Birdsall had knocked over. Those were wonderful days; but the nights were still more wonderful, for they were moon-lighted for most of the holiday time. There is nothing better than coasting by moonlight, and of that sport Ruth, Agnes and Cecile, as well as the two boys, had their fill. Nor did they overlook the two holidays, Christmas and New Year's. Ike cut and trimmed a huge Christmas tree and that was set up in the main hall of the Lodge and decorated in a most beautiful manner. Presents had been brought up from Milton for everybody. And although Ralph and Rowena Birdsall and Ike M'Graw were "added entries," as Luke said, they were not allowed to feel slighted when the presents were given out on Christmas night. A big sledge came through from Coxford two days after Christmas, and this brought additional supplies for the party at Red Deer Lodge. There came on the sledge, too, the red-faced Mr. Neven who wished to buy the standing timber on a part of the Birdsall tract. There was much talk between the lumberman, Mr. Howbridge and M'Graw regarding the timber. But Ike proved himself a good "figgerer" in more ways than one. The lawyer remained determined to accept the old timber cruiser's report as correct and finally Neven came to their terms. Before the holiday of the Milton party was ended, a big gang of lumbermen came up the tote-road from Coxford and the lake, ready to set up a camp in the valley near the twins' cave, and finish the season by cutting over several acres of the Birdsall piece. "I won't want to see our place up here again until the new timber is grown," cried Rowena, mournfully. "Then you'll have to wait till we get through college," Ralph told her. "Mr. Howbridge is going to have us live with him till we go to college. But I expect he'll bring us up here once in a while if you change your mind, Rowdy, and want to come." "Don't call me 'Rowdy,' Ralph," said his sister. "That was only for our trip up here. And, anyhow, I am not going to be a boy--never--any more!" "We're going to have a lot to tell the kids back home," remarked Sammy Pinkney one day before they left Red Deer Lodge. "Je-ru-sa-_lem_! think of that long slide, Tess." "But it ended bad," said Tess. "It ended good!" cried the boy. "Didn't we find Ralph and Rowena, and live in a cave, and eat rabbit stew, and--" "And get chicken scratches," put in Dot. "But mine don't scratch any now. The chickens went away quick." THE END CHARMING STORIES FOR GIRLS (From eight to twelve years old) THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS SERIES BY GRACE BROOKS HILL Four girls from eight to fourteen years of age receive word that a rich bachelor uncle has died, leaving them the old Corner House he occupied. They move into it and then the fun begins. What they find and do will provoke many a hearty laugh. Later, they enter school and make many friends. One of these invites the girls to spend a few weeks at a bungalow owned by her parents; and the adventures they meet with make very interesting reading. Clean, wholesome stories of humor and adventure, sure to appeal to all young girls. 1 CORNER HOUSE GIRLS. 2 CORNER HOUSE GIRLS AT SCHOOL. 3 CORNER HOUSE GIRLS UNDER CANVAS. 4 CORNER HOUSE GIRLS IN A PLAY. 5 CORNER HOUSE GIRLS' ODD FIND. 6 CORNER HOUSE GIRLS ON A TOUR. 7 CORNER HOUSE GIRLS GROWING UP. 8 CORNER HOUSE GIRLS SNOWBOUND. 9 CORNER HOUSE GIRLS ON A HOUSEBOAT. 10 CORNER HOUSE GIRLS AMONG THE GYPSIES. 11 CORNER HOUSE GIRLS ON PALM ISLAND. BARSE & HOPKINS, PUBLISHERS NEWARK, N. J.--NEW YORK, N. Y. THE POLLY PENDLETON SERIES BY DOROTHY WHITEHILL Polly Pendleton is a resourceful, wide-awake American girl who goes to a boarding school on the Hudson River some miles above New York. By her pluck and resourcefulness, she soon makes a place for herself and this she holds right through the course. The account of boarding school life is faithful and pleasing and will attract every girl in her teens. 1 POLLY'S FIRST YEAR AT BOARDING SCHOOL 2 POLLY'S SUMMER VACATION 3 POLLY'S SENIOR YEAR AT BOARDING SCHOOL 4 POLLY SEES THE WORLD AT WAR 5 POLLY AND LOIS 6 POLLY AND BOB Cloth, Large 12mo., Illustrated. BARSE & HOPKINS, PUBLISHERS NEWARK, N. J.--NEW YORK, N. Y. CHICKEN LITTLE JANE SERIES By LILY MUNSELL RITCHIE Chicken Little Jane is a Western prairie girl who lives a happy, outdoor life in a country where there is plenty of room to turn around. She is a wide-awake, resourceful girl who will instantly win her way into the hearts of other girls. And what good times she has!--with her pets, her friends, and her many interests. "Chicken Little" is the affectionate nickname given to her when she is very, very good, but when she misbehaves it is "Jane"--just Jane! Adventures of Chicken Little Jane Chicken Little Jane on the "Big John" Chicken Little Jane Comes to Town With numerous illustrations in pen and ink By CHARLES D. HUBBARD BARSE & HOPKINS, PUBLISHERS NEWARK, N. J.--NEW YORK, N. Y. DOROTHY WHITEHILL SERIES FOR GIRLS Here is a sparkling new series of stories for girls--just what they will like, and ask for more of the same kind. It is all about twin sisters, who for the first few years in their lives grow up in ignorance of each other's existence. Then they are at last brought together and things begin to happen. Janet is an independent go-ahead sort of girl; while her sister Phyllis is--but meet the twins for yourself and be entertained. 6 Titles, Cloth, large 12mo. Covers in color. 1. JANET, A TWIN 2. PHYLLIS, A TWIN 3. THE TWINS IN THE WEST 4. THE TWINS IN THE SOUTH 5. THE TWINS' SUMMER VACATION 6. THE TWINS AND TOMMY JR. BARSE & HOPKINS, PUBLISHERS NEWARK, N. J.--NEW YORK, N. Y. 
21718	----	THE BIG OTTER, BY R.M. BALLANTYNE. CHAPTER ONE. SLEEPING IN SNOW. Cold comfort is naturally suggested by a bed of snow, yet I have enjoyed great comfort and much warmth in such a bed. My friend Lumley was particularly fond of warmth and of physical ease, yet he often expressed the opinion, with much emphasis, that there was nothing he enjoyed so much as a night in a snow-bed. Jack Lumley was my chum--a fine manly fellow with a vigorous will, a hardy frame, and a kindly heart. We had a natural leaning towards each other--a sort of undefinable sympathy--which inclined us to seek each other's company in a quiet unobtrusive way. We were neither of us demonstrative; we did not express regard for each other; we made no protestations of undying friendship, but we drew together, somehow, especially in our hunting expeditions which were numerous. On holidays--we had two in the week at the outpost in the American backwoods where we dwelt--when the other young fellows were cleaning gulls or arranging snow-shoes for the day's work, Lumley was wont to say to me:-- "Where d'you intend to shoot to-day, Max?" (Max was an abbreviation; my real name is George Maxby.) "I think I'll go up by the willows and round by Beaver Creek." "I've half a mind to go that way too." "Come along then." And so we would go off together for the day. One morning Lumley said to me, "I'm off to North River; will you come?" "With pleasure, but we'll have to camp out." "Well, it won't be the first time." "D'you know that the thermometer stood at forty below zero this morning before breakfast?" "I know it; what then? Mercurial fellows like you don't freeze easily." I did not condescend to reply, but set about preparing for our expedition, resolving to carry my largest blanket with me, for camping out implied sleeping in the snow. Of course I must guard my readers--especially my juvenile readers--from supposing that it was our purpose that night to undress and calmly lie down in, or on, the pure white winding-sheet in which the frozen world of the Great Nor'-west had been at that time wrapped for more than four months. Our snow-bed, like other beds, required making, but I will postpone the making of it till bed-time. Meanwhile, let us follow the steps of Lumley, who, being taller and stronger than I, _always_ led the way. This leading of the way through the trackless wilderness in snow averaging four feet deep is harder work than one might suppose. It could not be done at all without the aid of snow-shoes, which, varying from three to five feet in length, enable the traveller to walk on the surface of the snow, into which he would otherwise sink, more or less, according to its condition. If it be newly fallen and very soft, he sinks six, eight, or more inches. If it be somewhat compressed by time or wind he sinks only an inch or two. On the hard surface of exposed lakes and rivers, where it is beaten to the appearance of marble, he dispenses with snow-shoes altogether, slings them on his gun, and carries them over his shoulder. Our first mile lay through a clump of pine-wood, where snow had recently fallen. When I looked at my comrade's broad back, and observed the vigour of his action as he trod deep into the virgin snow at every stride, scattering it aside like fine white powder as he lifted each foot, I thought how admirably he was fitted for a pioneer in the wilderness, or for the work of those dauntless, persevering men who go forth to add to the world's geographical knowledge, and to lead the expeditions sent out in search of such lost heroes as Franklin and Livingstone. My own work was comparatively light. I had merely to tread in the beaten path. I was not, however, thereby secured from disaster, as I found when, having advanced about half a mile, my right shoe caught a twig to which it held for a moment, and then, breaking loose, allowed me to pitch head down with such violence that I almost reached mother earth four feet below the surface. This kind of plunge is always awkward owing to the difficulty of rising, and usually disagreeable, owing to the manner in which snow stuffs itself into neck, ears, nose, eyes, mouth--if open--and any convenient crevice of person or garments. The snow-shoes, too, which are so serviceable when you are above them, become exasperatingly obstructive when you are below them. After a struggle of two minutes I got my head clear, winked the snow out of my eyes, blew it from my mouth and nostrils, and looked up. Lumley was standing there with a bland smile on his amiable face; he seldom laughed, though he sometimes chuckled! "What do you mean by grinning there like a Cheshire cat?" I exclaimed, "why don't you lend a hand?" "What do you mean by tumbling there like a Christmas goose?" he retorted, "why don't you look out for stumps and twigs as I do?" He made some amends for this reply by extending his hand and helping me to rise. In a few minutes we were clear of the pine-wood, and came out upon a piece of swampland, where the stunted willow bushes just showed their tops above the surface of the snow. This led us to a bend of the broad river, near to which, further down, stood our outpost--Fort Dunregan. For four months there had been neither sight nor sound of water in that river. It was frozen to the bottom, except in the middle where its dark unseen waters flowed silently under six feet or more of solid ice through many a river-channel and lake to the distant sea. In fact, save for the suggestive form of its banks, the river might have been mistaken for an elongated plain or piece of open land. The surface of the snow here was, from exposure to wind and sun, as hard as pavement. We therefore took off our snow-shoes, and, the necessity for maintaining the Indian-file position being removed, we walked abreast. "The air is keen here," remarked Lumley, pulling the thick shawl that was round his neck as far up over his mouth as his well-developed nose would permit. "It is," said I, following his example with greater success, my own nose being a snub. There was no wind; not even a breeze--there seldom is at such temperature--but there was a very slight movement of the air, caused by our own advance, which was just sufficient to make one appreciate the intensity of the cold. It became necessary now to pay frequent attention to our noses and cheek-bones and toes, to prevent frostbite. But the sun was brilliant and the air invigorating. So was the aspect of nature, for although there was no grandeur in the character of the scenery, there was extreme beauty in the snow lacework of the trees and leafless shrubs; in the sky, whose bright blue was intensified by the white drapery of earth; and in the myriads of snow-crystals which reflected the dazzling sun with prismatic splendour. Indeed, the scene was too dazzling, and as there was a tendency in it to produce snow-blindness, we soon returned to the friendly shelter of the woods. "Tracks!" exclaimed Lumley, in a low voice, pointing to the ground, where footmarks were clearly visible, "and fresh," he added, turning up the snow under the track with the butt of his gun. "Ptarmigan!" said I in a whisper, pointing towards a little knoll, not quite a gunshot ahead of us, where some dozens of the beautiful snow-white creatures stood gazing at us in motionless surprise. Their plumage was so white that we had not observed them at first, almost the only black specks about them being their sparkling eyes, and the tips of their wings and tails. Our guns were pointed instantly. I am ashamed to say that we were guilty of shooting them as they stood! In that land we shot for food as much as for amusement, and, some of us being poor shots, we were glad to take our game sitting! Nay, more, we tried to get as many of the birds in line as possible, so as to make the most of our ammunition. We were not sportsmen in the civilised sense of that term. The extreme stillness of the woods was broken by the report of our guns in quick succession. A very cloud of pure white birds arose, as if Nature had taken to snowing upwards in rather large flakes, and seven victims remained behind. "A good supper," remarked Lumley, as we bagged the game and re-loaded. It is not my intention here to describe a day's shooting. Let it suffice to say that a little before nightfall we arrived at a place where was a snowy mound capped by a clump of spruce firs of small size but picturesque appearance. "Behold our camp!" said Lumley. "Not inviting at present," said I, as we slowly toiled up the mound, for we were weary, having walked about twenty miles, weighted with heavy flannel-lined deerskin-coats, blankets, and cooking utensils, besides a small quantity of pemmican, sugar, tea, and ship's biscuit, axes and firebags. It is true, the cooking utensils were few and simple, consisting of only two tin kettles and two tin mugs. Dreary indeed--lonesome, desolate, and eerie was our mound when we got to the top of it. By that time the sun had set, and a universal ghostly grey, fast deepening into night, banished every sensation of joy aroused by the previous lightness. Although the scene and circumstances were nothing new to us we could not shake off the depressing influence, but we did not allow that to interfere with our action. Silently, but vigorously--for the cold was increasing--we felled several small dead trees, which we afterwards cut into lengths of about four feet. Then we cleared a space in the snow of about ten or twelve feet in diameter until we reached the solid earth, using our snow-shoes as shovels. What we threw out of the hole formed an embankment round it, and as the snow lay at that spot full four feet deep, we thus raised the surrounding wall of our chamber to a height of six feet, if not more. Standing on the edge of it in the ever-deepening twilight, and looking down into the abyss, which was further darkened by the overspreading pines, this hole in the snow suggested a tomb rather than a bed. At one end of it we piled up the firewood. Extending from that towards the other end, we spread a carpet of pine-branches, full six inches thick. To do all this took a considerable amount of time and labour, and when Lumley stood up at last to strike a light with flint, steel, and tinder, we felt pretty well exhausted. The night had by that time become profoundly dark, insomuch that we had to grope for the various articles we required. "We've been rather late of beginning to make the camp," said I, as I watched the sparks. "Never mind, Max, my boy, we shall soon be all right," replied my friend, as one of the sparks at last caught on the tinder. In a few seconds the spark was blown into a blaze, and placed in the midst of a handful of dry moss and thin chips. This was applied to some dry twigs under our piled-up logs, and a vivid tongue of flame shot upward. Blessed fire! Marvellous light! It is a glorious, wonder-working influence, well chosen by the Almighty as one of his titles. There is no change in Nature so intense as that from darkness to light as well in physical as in spiritual things. No sudden change from heat to cold, or from calm to storm; no transformation ever achieved in the most gorgeous of pantomimes, could have the startling effect, or produce the splendid contrast that resulted from the upward flash of that first tongue of fire. It was a vivid tongue, for the materials had been well laid; a few seconds later it was a roaring tongue, with a host of lesser tongues around it--all dancing, leaping, cheering, flashing, as if with ineffable joy at their sudden liberation, and the resulting destruction of dismal darkness. Our snow-abyss was no longer black and tomb-like. Its walls sparkled as though encrusted with diamonds; its carpet of pine-branches shone vividly green; the tree-stems around rose up like red-hot pillars, more or less intense in colour, according to distance; the branching canopy overhead appeared to become solid with light, and the distance around equally solid with ebony blackness, while we, who had caused the transformation, stood in the midst of the ruddy blaze like jovial red-hot men! "There's nothing like a fire," I remarked with some enthusiasm. "Except supper," said Lumley. "Gross creature!" I responded, as he went about the preparation of supper with a degree of zest which caused me to feel that my epithet was well deserved. "Gross creature!" he repeated some time afterwards with a pleasant smile of intense enjoyment, as he sat in front of the blaze sipping a can of hot tea, and devouring pemmican and biscuit with avidity. "No, Max, I am not a gross creature. Your intellects are probably benumbed by the cold. If phrenologists are right in dividing the human brain into compartments, wherein the different intellectual powers are said to be located, I should think that some of those chambers lying nearest to the top of the skull are apt to freeze at a temperature of forty below zero, in which case the perfect working of the half-paralysed machine can scarcely be looked for. Hold your head to the fire, and thaw it while I expound this to you." "Stay," said I, holding out my tin pannikin for more tea; "inward heat as well as outward is necessary to my thorough comprehension of _your_ expositions." "True, Max, all the faculties of such mind as you possess, in their most active condition, are required to enable you to take in the simplest proposition. Just give my bird a turn, like a good fellow." He referred to a ptarmigan which, plucked, split open, roughly cleaned, and impaled on a stick, was roasting in front of the fire. I turned his bird and my own, while he continued:-- "To gratify the appetite with thorough and hearty appreciation after working hard for your food, or walking far to find it, is not gross. Grossness consists in eating heavily when you have not toiled, and stimulating with fire-water, pepper, or mustard, your sluggish appetite. To call me a gross creature, then--" He stopped short, and, looking up, performed that operation with the nose which is styled sniffing. "What do I smell?" "My bird--burnt!" I shouted, snatching at the stick on which it was impaled. In doing so I capsized our can of tea. Lumley looked at it with a sigh, while I regarded with a groan the breast of my bird burnt to a cinder. "Max, you should remember that a fire strong enough to subdue forty degrees below zero is intense--also, that our supply of tea is limited. All this comes of your unwisely calling me a gross creature." "No, it comes of the intense application of my unthawed intellect to your absurd expositions." "Whatever it comes of," returned Lumley, "we must remedy the evil. Here, fall upon my ptarmigan. I'm not quite ready for it, being still engaged with the pemmican. Meanwhile, I'll replenish the kettle." So saying, he took up the kettle, went to the margin of our hole, and filled it with fresh snow well pressed down. This being put on the fire, soon melted; more snow was added, till water enough was procured, and then fresh tea was put in to boil. We were not particular, you see, as to the mode of infusion. While my friend was thus engaged, I had plucked, split, cleansed and impaled another bird. In a marvellously short time--for our fire was truly intense--the tea and ptarmigan were ready, and we proceeded with supper as comfortably as before. "Now I shall continue," said Lumley, with a satisfied clearing of the throat, "the exposition of grossness,--" "Oh, pray spare me that," said I, quickly, "but tell me, if you can, why it is that such a tremendous fire as that does not melt our snow walls." "Put your head nearer to it, Max, for some of the phrenological chambers must still be frozen, else it would be clear to you that the intensity of the cold is the reason. You see that only a small part of the snow quite close to the fire is a little softened. If the fire were hotter it would melt more of it--melt the whole hole and us too. But the cold is so great that it keeps the walls cool and us also--too cool indeed, for while my face and knees are roasting my back is freezing, so I shall rise and give _it_ a turn. Now," he continued, rising and turning his back to the blaze as he spoke, "I will resume my remarks on gross--" "You've no objection to my making our bed while you lecture?" said I, also rising. Lumley had not the least objection, so, while he held forth, I spread a large green blanket over our carpet of pine-brush. A bundle of the same under the blanket formed a pretty good pillow. Wrapping myself tightly round in another blanket (for physical heat evaporates quickly in the frozen regions) I lay down. My friend lay down beside me, our feet being towards the fire. After a silent interval, while lying thus, gazing up through the overhanging branches at the stars that twinkled in the clear frosty sky, our thoughts became more serious. The grandeur of creation led us to think and speak of the Creator--for we were like-minded friends, and no subject was tabooed. We conversed freely about whatever chanced to enter our minds--of things past, present, and to come. We spoke of God the Saviour, of redemption and of sin. Then, with that discursive tendency to which most minds are prone, we diverged to home and civilised lands, contrasting these with life in the wild-woods of the Great Nor'-west. After that we became sleepy, and our converse was more discursive--at times even incoherent--in the midst of which Lumley reverted to his unfinished exposition of grossness, and, in the enthusiasm of his nature, was slowly working himself back into a wakeful condition, when I put an abrupt end to the discourse by drawing a prolonged snore. It was a deceptive snore, unworthy of success, yet it succeeded. My friend turned round and, with a contented sigh, went to sleep. After a brief space the snore which had been a fiction became a reality, and thus, on our bed of snow, in the depths of an Arctic night, in the heart of the frozen wilderness, and while the mighty fire burned slowly down, we unitedly took our departure for the land of Nod. CHAPTER TWO. THE WINTER PACKET. On returning next morning towards the outpost from our encampment in the woods, Lumley and I made a discovery which excited us greatly. It was nothing more than a track in the snow, but there was a revelation in the track which sent the blood tingling through our veins. It was not the track of a Polar bear. We should have been somewhat surprised, no doubt, but not greatly excited by that. Neither was it the track of a deer or an Arctic fox. It was only the track of a sledge! "Is that all?" exclaims the reader. No, that is not all. But, in order that you may understand it better, let me explain. Fort Dunregan, in which we dwelt, stood more than a thousand miles distant from the utmost verge of civilised life in Canada. We were buried, so to speak, in the heart of the great northern wilderness. Our nearest neighbour lived in an outpost between one and two hundred miles distant, similar to our own in all respects but even more lonely, being in charge of a certain Scotsman named Macnab, whose army of occupation consisted of only six men and two Indian women! The forests around us were not peopled. Those vast solitudes were indeed here and there broken in upon, as it were, by a few families of wandering Red-Indians, who dwelt in movable tents--were here to-day and away to-morrow--but they could not be said to be peopled, except by deer and bears and foxes and kindred spirits. Of course, therefore, we were far beyond the every day influences of civilised life. We had no newspapers, no mails; no communication whatever, in short, with the outer world except twice in the year. The one occasion was in summer, when a brigade of boats arrived with our outfit of goods for the year's trade with the few scattered Indians above referred to; the other occasion was in the depth of our apparently interminable winter, when a packet of letters was forwarded from outpost to outpost throughout the land by the agents of the Hudson's Bay Company which we served. This half-yearly interval between mails had a double effect on our minds. In the first place, it induced a strange feeling that the great world and all its affairs were things of the past, with which we had little or nothing to do--a sort of dream--and that the little world of our outpost, with its eight or ten men and three or four Indian women, its hunting, and trapping, and firewood-cutting, and fishing, and trading, and small domestic arrangements and dissensions, was the one place of vital importance and interest, before which empires and dynasties and the trifling matter of politics sank into mere insignificance! In the second place, it created an intense longing--a hungering and thirsting--for news of our kindred "at home." Our chief, Mr Strang, and our two selves, with another fellow-clerk who was named Spooner, as well as most of our men, were from "the old country," where we had left fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters--in some cases sweethearts--behind us. It may be conceived then with what anxiety and yearning we looked forward to the periodical break in the weary six months of total silence that had enveloped us. Men in civilised, or even semi-civilised communities, cannot understand this. Convicts on penal servitude for long periods may have some faint notion of it, but even these have periods of literary intercourse more frequently than we had. The reader must just take the statement on trust therefore, that our anxious yearnings were remarkably powerful. What might not have occurred in these six months of dark silence! Who might not have been married, born, laid low by sickness, banished to the ends of the earth like ourselves, or even removed by death! Is it surprising, then, that we caught our breath and flushed, and that our hearts leaped when we came unexpectedly upon the track of the two men who had dragged news from home for hundreds of miles over the snow? We knew the tracks well. Our intimate acquaintance with every species of track that was possible in that particular region, rendered a mistake out of the question. There was the step of the leader, who wore a snow-shoe the shape of which, although not unknown, was somewhat unfamiliar to us. There was the print of the sled, or toboggan, which was different in pattern from those used at Dunregan, and there was the footprint of the man in rear, whose snow-shoe also made an unfamiliar impression. "The packet!" exclaimed Lumley, opening his solemn grey eyes to their widest as he looked up from the track to me. "At last!" I returned, unconsciously betraying the prolonged state of suspense with which my mind had been afflicted. "Come along!" said my companion, starting off homeward at a pace that was almost too much for me. We soon reached the outpost, and there stood the makers of the track which had roused in us so much excitement. Two strong men, chosen expressly for a duty which required mental endurance and perseverance as well as physical vigour. They stood at the door of the entrance-hall, talking with Mr Strang, the one with his snow-shoes slung over his shoulder on the butt of his gun, the other using the same implements as a rest for his hands, while Spooner, in a state of great excitement, was hastily undoing the lashings of the sled, to get at the precious box which contained "the packet." "Well, gentlemen, here it is at last," said our chief, with a genial smile as we came up. "Yes, we followed the track immediately we struck it," said Lumley, stooping to assist Spooner in his work. We soon had the box carried to our chief's private room, while the two strangers were had off by our men to their own house, there to be feasted on venison, ptarmigan, salt-pork, fish, and pease-pudding to satiety, and afterwards "pumped" to a state of exhaustion. I followed our chief, who had a provokingly deliberate way of opening the packet and examining its contents, while my feverish agitation and expectancy increased. There was a humorous twinkle in his eye, I thought, which told of mischievous purpose, while he kept up a murmuring commentary. "Hm! as I expected--no news from Macnab. What's this?--ah! The Governor! A voluminous epistle, and--hallo! Lumley's friends must be fond of him. His packet is the biggest in the box. And Spooner too, not so bad for him. Here, take these to them. Stay--here is a bundle of letters for the men. You'd better deliver these yourself." I hesitated, while a mist of great darkness began to descend on my soul. "Nothing for me, sir?" I asked faintly. "There seems to be--nothing--stay! what's this?--why, I thought it was a big book, but, yes, it _is_ a packet for you, Mr Maxby--there!" My heart leaped into my mouth--almost out of it--as I received a thick packet wrapped in newspaper. Hastening to what was called the clerk's winter house with these treasures I distributed them, and handed the men's packet to one of themselves, who was eagerly awaiting it. Then I went to my room and barricaded the door to prevent interruption. In Bachelors' Hall, as we styled our apartments, we had an inveterate habit of practical joking, which, however interesting and agreeable it might be at most times, was in some circumstances rather inconvenient. To guard against it at such times we were in the habit of retiring to our respective dens and barricading the doors, the locks being sometimes incapable of standing the strain brought to bear on them. On this particular occasion I made my barricade stronger than usual; sat down on my bed and opened the packet from home. But here I must let the curtain fall. I cannot suppose that the reader, however amiable, will sympathise with the joys and sorrows of an unknown family, interesting though they were to me. I may state, however, that before I got through the budget it was so late that I turned into bed and read the remainder there. Then, as the fire in the hall-stove sank low, the cold obliged me to put on above my voluminous blankets (we dared not sleep in sheets out there) a thick buffalo robe, which, besides having on the outside the shaggy hair of the animal, to which it had belonged, was lined with flannel. Thus nestled into a warm hole, I read on until a shout arrested me and brought me suddenly back from the hills of bonny Scotland to the frozen wilderness. "I say," shouted Lumley at the back of the door, which he saluted with a kick, "my sister is married!" "Poor thing!" said I. "Who to?" "Open the door." "I can't. I'm in bed." "You must." "I won't." "No! then here goes." He retired as he spoke, and, making a rush, launched himself against my door, which, however, withstood the shock. "Here, Spooner," I then heard him say, "lend a hand; let us go at it together." They went at it together. The lock gave way; the chest of drawers went spinning to the other side of the room, and Lumley tumbled over Spooner as both fell headlong to the floor. As this was by no means an unfamiliar mode of entering each other's rooms, I took no notice of it, but proceeded to inquire about the married sister; and Lumley, sitting down on my bed with Spooner, for neither of them had yet undressed, began to tell me of home and friends with as much eagerness as if I had been a member of both families. Young Spooner interrupted Lumley now and then when a touch of coincidence struck him with reference to his own family affairs, and I could not resist the pleasure of occasionally making some such remark as, "How odd! that's very like what happened to my little brother Bob," etcetera, whereupon Spooner would immediately become excited and draw a parallel more or less striking in regard to his own kindred and so we went on far into the night, until we got our several families mixed up to such an extent that it became almost impossible to disentangle them; for, being three families, you know, we became inextricably confused as to which was which, though each was perfectly clear in regard to his own! Thus, to me, Jane Lumley became confused with Janet Spooner, so that Janet Lumley and Jane Spooner were always tripping over each other in my brain, while my dear cousin Maggie Maxby became a Maggie Spooner to Lumley, and a Maggie Lumley to Spooner, and to each sometimes a Janet or a Jane respectively. If the reader will multiply into this question two mothers and three fathers, four brothers and six sisters, besides numberless aunts, uncles, and cousins, male and female, he will easily perceive how between mental perplexity and a tendency to slumber, we at last gave the matter up in a sort of jovial despair. We were startled suddenly from this condition by a crash and an exceedingly sharp and bitter cry. It must be remarked here, that, in order to subdue King Frost in those northern strongholds of his, we had, besides double doors and double windows and porches, an enormous cast-iron stove from the famous Carron foundry. It stood in the centre of our hall, so that its genial favours might be distributed with equal justice to the various sleeping-rooms that opened out of the hall all round. From this stove an iron pipe arose, and, turning at a right angle when within a couple of feet of the ceiling, proceeded to the chimney at the upper end of the hall. When the thermometer stood much below zero, we were accustomed to raise the stove and part of its pipe to a dull-red heat, which had the effect of partially melting the contents of the water-jugs in our bedrooms, and of partially roasting the knees of our trousers. To keep this stove up to its work was the duty of an Indian youth, whom we styled Salamander, because he seemed to be impervious to heat. He was equally so to cold. When I first went to Dunregan I used to pity Salamander, on hearing him every morning enter our hall with a gust of air that seemed cold enough to freeze a walrus, and proceed to strike a light and kindle our fire. My own nose, and sometimes an eye, was all that protruded from the buffalo robe at such times. But Salamander never shivered, and always grinned, from which I came to understand that my pity was misplaced. About nine o'clock each night he left us to look after the great Carron stove ourselves, and we were all pretty good stokers. Self-interest kept us up to duty. Sometimes we overdid it, raising the dull-red to brightness now and then. On this particular occasion, in the exuberance of his feelings, Lumley, before bursting into my room, had heaped on as much dry wood as the stove could hold. It chanced to be exceedingly resinous wood. He also opened the blow-hole to its utmost extent. Being congregated in my bedroom, as I have described, deeply engaged in eager comments and family reminiscences, we failed to observe that the great Carron stove roared like a wrathful furnace, that it changed from a dull to a bright red in its anger, and eventually became white with passion. As "evil communications" have a tendency to corrupt, the usually innocent pipe became inflamed. It communicated the evil to the chimney, which straightway caught fire, belched forth smoke and flames, and cast a ruddy glare over the usually pallid snow. This chanced to meet the eye of Salamander as he gazed from his "bunk" in the men's house; caused him to bounce up and rush out--for, having a taste for sleeping in his clothes, he was always ready for action--burst open our door with a crash, and rudely dispel our confusedly pleasant intercourse with the exceedingly sharp and bitter cry before mentioned. "Hallo!" shouted Lumley and Spooner simultaneously, as they bounded rather than rose from my bed. Before they had crossed the threshold I was out of bed and into my trousers. There is nothing like the cry of "Fire!" for producing prompt action--or paralysis! Also for inducing imbecile stupidity. I could not find my moccasins! Thought is quick--quicker than words. Amputation at the knee joints stared me in the face for a certainty if I went out with naked feet. In desperation I seized my capote and thrust both feet into the sleeves, with some hazy intention of tying a knot on each wrist to protect the toes. Happily I espied my moccasins at the moment, pulled them on--left shoe on right foot, of course--and put the coat to its proper use. By this time Salamander, contrary to all traditions of Indian stoicism, was yelling about the fort with his eyes a flame and his hair on end. The men were out in a few seconds with a ladder, and swarmed up to the roof of our house, without any definite notion as to what they meant to do. Mr Strang was also out, smothered in winter garments, and with an enormous Makinaw blanket over all. He was greatly excited, though the most self-possessed among us--as most chiefs are, or ought to be. "Water! water!" shouted the men from the roof. A keen breeze was blowing from what seemed the very heart of King Frost's dominion, and snow-drift fine as dust and penetrating as needles, was swirling about in the night-air. Water! where was water to come from? The river was frozen almost to the bottom. Ice six feet thick covered the lakes and ponds. The sound of trickling water had not been heard for months. It had become an ancient memory. Water! why, it cost our cook's assistant a full hour every day to cut through the result of one night's frost in the water-hole before he could reach the water required for daily use, and what he did obtain had to be slowly dragged to the fort by that slowest of creatures, an ox. Nevertheless there _was_ water. In the warmest corner of the kitchen--at that hour about zero--there stood a water-barrel. "Run, cook--fetch a bucketful!" cried our chief. Cook, who had "lost his head," obediently ran, seized a big earthenware jug, dipped it into the barrel, and smashed it to atoms on a cake of thick ice! This had the effect of partially recovering his head for him. He seized an axe, shattered the cake, caught up a bucket, dipped it full and rushed out spilling half its contents as he ran. The spillings became icicles before they reached the flaming chimney, but the frost, keen as it was, could not quite solidify the liquid in so short a space of time. Blondin, the principal bearer of the winter packet who was a heroic man and chief actor in this scene, received the half-empty bucket. "Bah!" he exclaimed, tossing bucket as well as water contemptuously down the wide chimney. "Bring shuvill, an' blunkits." Blondin was a French-Canadian half-caste, and not a good linguist. A shovel was thrown up to him. He seized it and shovelled volumes of snow from the house-top into the chimney. A moment later and two blankets were thrown up. Blondin spread one over the flames. It was shrivelled up instantly. He stuffed down the remains and spread the second blanket over them, while he shouted for a third. The third came, and, another bucket of water arriving at the same moment, with a large mass of snow detached from the roof, the whole were thrust down the chimney _en masse_, the flames were quenched and the house was saved. During this exciting scene, I had begun to realise the great danger of fire in the chimney of a wooden house, and, with the aid of my comrades, had been throwing the contents of Bachelors' Hall out into the snow. We now ceased this process, and began to carry them back again, while the men crowded round the iron author of all the mischief to warm their half-frozen bodies. I now observed for the first time that Blondin had a black patch on the end of his nose. It was a handsome feature usually, but at that time it was red, swelled, and what may be termed blobby. "What's the matter with it, Blondin?" I asked. "My noz was froz," he replied curtly. "You'd better have it looked to, or it'll be worse than froz, my man," said Lumley. Blondin laughed and went off to attend to his nose in the men's house, accompanied by the others, while we set to work to clean ourselves and our abode. Thereafter, with moderated fire, we again got under our buffalo robes, where we spent the remainder of a disturbed night in thinking and dreaming about the thrilling contents of the winter packet. CHAPTER THREE. DEEPER DESOLATION. Eight months of winter! Those who have read and entered into the spirit of Arctic voyagers, may have some idea of what that means, but none save he or she who has had experience of it can fully understand it. To us who dwelt at the little outpost in the Great Nor'-west, snow and ice had become so familiar--such matter-of-course conditions of existence--that green fields and flowers were a mere reminiscence of the remote past. The scent of a rose was a faded memory--indeed the scent of anything belonging to the vegetable kingdom had not once saluted our nostrils during those eight months. Pure white became one of the chief and most impressive facts of our existence in regard to colour, if we may so call it--white, varying in tone, of course, to pearly grey. Cold, of varied intensity, was the chief modifier of our sensations. Happily light was also a potent factor in our experiences--bright, glowing sunshine and blue skies contrasted well with the white and grey, and helped to counteract the cold; while pure air invigorated our frames and cheered our spirits. "I tell you what, boys," said Lumley, one afternoon as he entered the hall with gun and snow-shoes on shoulder, and flung down a bag full of ptarmigan, "winter is drawing to a close at last. I felt my deerskin coat quite oppressive to-day; does any one know what the thermometer stood at this morning?" "Yes, it was twenty-two above zero," answered Spooner, who was attempting to smoke a pipe beside the stove; "I went to register it just after breakfast." "I thought so--only ten below freezing point; why, it feels quite summery, and the snow has a softness that I have not noticed since last autumn. I hope dinner will soon be ready, for I'm very sharp set. Why, Spooner, what are you making such faces for?" "Am I making faces?" said Spooner, blushing and trying to look unconcerned. "Of course you are, a marmozette monkey with the toothache could scarcely make worse." Spooner attempted to laugh, and I felt it difficult to refrain from joining him, for I knew well the cause of his faces. He was the youngest of us three and exceedingly anxious to imitate Lumley, who was unfortunately a great smoker; but Spooner, like myself, had been born with a dislike to smoke--especially tobacco smoke--and a liability to become sick when he indulged in the pipe. Hence, whilst foolish ambition induced him to smoke, outraged nature protested; and between the two the poor fellow had a bad time of it. He had a good deal of determination about him, however, and persevered. The dinner-bell rang at the moment, and put an end to further badinage. Lumley was right. Spring was in truth at hand, and a host of new anticipations began from that day to crowd upon our minds. About the same time there came another break in the monotony of outpost life which had, if possible, a more powerful and exciting influence on us than the arrival of the winter packet. Now at this point I must beg the reader's pardon for asking him to go with me to a still more desolate and remote outpost than our own. Between one and two hundred miles nearer to the pole the little post of Muskrat House lay under a beetling cliff, near the banks of an affluent of the great Saskatchewan river. It was in charge of Peter Macnab, before mentioned, who, in command of his army of six men and two women, held the post against all comers--the chief comers there being the North Wind and Jack Frost. Poor Macnab was a jovial and sociable Scottish Highlander, who had been condemned to worse than Siberian banishment because of being one of the most active, enterprising, and pushing fellows in the service of the Fur-Traders. His ability to manage men and Indians, and to establish new trading-posts, excelled that of his fellows. He regarded it as a complimentary though trying circumstance when Mr Strang sent him to establish the post which was named by him Muskrat House, but he faced the duty--as he faced everything--like a man; did his best for his employers, and made the most of the situation. But it is not easy for even the strongest mind and lightest heart to be jovial when buried for eight months in snow more than twelve hundred miles beyond the influences of civilised life; and it is hard to be sociable with six uneducated men and two Indian women for one's companions. Macnab tried it, however, and was in a measure successful. He had his Bible with him--the one given him long ago by his mother--and a bound volume of Chambers's Edinburgh Journal, and three copies of the _Times_ newspaper nearly two years old, and a few numbers of an American paper called the _Picayune_. With these materials he set to work--after each day's labour of water-drawing, firewood-cutting, and trapping was done--to educate his army in religion, politics, political economy, and the varied ramifications of social life. He had intelligent and grateful scholars. If they had not been so, Macnab would at all events have made them obedient pupils, for he was a physically large and powerful man--and might was unavoidably right in those regions! Still, with all his energy and resources, the genial Highlander began, towards the end of winter, to feel an intense longing for a little intercourse with his equals. Returning one night to the solitude of his little room, as was his wont, after a couple of hours' intercourse with his men in their own house, he sat down before his stove and addressed it thus:-- "It won't last long, I fear. My brain is gradually turning into something like mashed potatoes, and my heart into a tinder-box, ready enough to catch fire, but with neither flint nor steel to light it! The Indians won't be here for many weeks, and when they do come what good can I get from or do to them? Wow! wow! it's terribly slow work. Oh! Jessie, Jessie, my dear, what would I not give if I only had _you_ here!" Lest the reader should suppose Macnab to be a love-sick swain, I may remark here that Jessie was a sister whom he had left on the shores of Loch Ness, and with whom he kept up a vigorous biennial correspondence. As the stove made no reply, he continued his address. "If I only had a few books now, it wouldn't be so hard to bear. To be sure, the Bible is a great resource--a blessed resource; but you see I want something light now and then. A laugh, you know, seems to be absolutely needful at times. Why, now I think of it, we wouldn't have been given the power to laugh if it hadn't been necessary, and the last hearty laugh I had was, let me see--that time three months ago, when my long-nosed interpreter mistook a dead mouse in the soup--ha! ha!--for a bit of pemmican, and only found out his mistake when the tail got between his teeth!" The solitary man burst into peals of laughter at the reminiscence, and then, becoming suddenly grave, looked slowly round the room. "If I could only have an echo of that," he resumed, "from somebody else! Well, well, I'll just go and have another chat with Jessie." So saying, Macnab rose, drew a small table near to the stove, laid upon it a very large desk made by himself of pine-wood, and, placing a sheet of paper thereon, began to write. The sheet of paper merits notice. Like the man who wrote, it was extremely large, being several sizes bigger than foolscap, and very loosely ruled. As I have said, communication with the outer world being possible only twice in the year, our Highlander resolved, as usual, to make the most of his opportunities. Hence he not only used the largest paper which the company provided, but filled up several such sheets with the smallest possible writing, so that Jessie might ultimately get something worth having. It is but justice to add that Macnab wrote not only a very small but a remarkably clear and legible hand--a virtue which I earnestly commend to correspondents in general, to those of them at least who wish their epistles to meet with thorough appreciation. It was late when our solitaire completed that evening's addition to his already voluminous letter, and he was thinking about going to bed when a stamping in the porch outside announced that a visitor was clearing the snow from his moccasins. "One o' the men forgot something, I fancy," muttered Macnab to himself. The latch was lifted, for locks were not deemed necessary in those regions, and the door opening slowly disclosed the copper-hued visage and tall bony figure of a very powerful and handsome native of the soil--perhaps I should rather say--of the snow! "Hallo! hey! come in," shouted Macnab, giving way to a gush of his pent-up social feelings; "why it's good for sore eyes to see a new face, even a red one. What cheer? what cheer? Where d'ye hail from? Come in, come in, and welcome!" The hearty Highlander spoke the Indian tongue fluently, but in the excitement of his feelings mingled it with a good deal of English and an occasional growl of expressive Gaelic. The Indian, whose horned cap and person were well powdered with snow, stepped slowly over the threshold, extending his hand to the Highlander's grasp, and looking cautiously round with rolling black eyes, as if he half expected a dynamite explosion to follow his entrance. His garments bore evidence of rough usage. Holes in his moccasins permitted portions of the duffle socks underneath to wander out. Knots on his snow-shoe lines and netting told of a long rough journey, and the soiled, greasy condition of his leathern capote spoke of its having been much used not only as a garment by day but as a shirt by night. Placing his gun and snow-shoes in a corner, after solemnly responding "watchee, watchee," to Macnab's "what cheer," the red-man seated himself on the floor beside the stove, with silent disregard of the chair that his host politely offered. It is the custom of North American Indians--on arriving at an establishment--to withhold the most interesting portion of what they may have to communicate until after they have had a pipe, or a feed, and have answered the questions put on the less interesting objects of their visits. Being well aware of this trait of character, Macnab forebore to question too closely this fine-looking Indian until he had well thawed and smoked himself. Ultimately, however, he brought him to the point. To the north-westward of Muskrat House, many long days' march, he said (of course in his native tongue) there was a grand country full of fine furs and fine people, who found it a very long journey indeed to come all the way to Muskrat House to trade their furs. Would his white father go and build a house there, near Lake Wichikagan, and shoot and fish, and trade?--waugh! To which Macnab replied that he was glad to hear about the plenty of furs and the friendly natives and the fine country, and that he would take the matter into his consideration--waugh! To this the red-man responded "ho!" and then "how!"--not interrogatively but interjectionally--with much gravity. That night Macnab took the matter into consideration with his wonted vigour, and came to the conclusion that it was of sufficient importance to warrant a visit on his part to headquarters--Dunregan being headquarters to Muskrat House. Accordingly, he went to the men's house and introduced the stranger, whose name in the Indian tongue signified Big Otter. The men received him with as much joy as if he had been an angel of light. "Get a sled and four of the best dogs ready to start by daybreak to-morrow," said Macnab to one of his men, "and have breakfast sharp," he added, turning to the cook. "You'll go with me to Dunregan, won't you, Big Otter?" Big Otter was ready for anything at a moment's notice! When daylight glimmered faintly in the east the following morning, Macnab sat at his table devouring venison steaks, pancakes, and tea. Big Otter sat opposite to him, having condescended to use a chair in order to be on a level with the table. The chair gave him much anxiety, however. He evidently feared to fall off or upset it, for, on rising to reach some food opposite, he had tilted it back, and received a tremendous though unacknowledged start from the crash that followed. Half an hour later, Macnab, having left his interpreter in charge of the establishment, was beating the track on snow-shoes through the forest, his four wolfish-looking dogs following with a sled-load of provisions and bedding, and Big Otter bringing up the rear. The day turned out to be bright calm, and frosty. It was in thorough unison with Macnab's feelings, for the near prospect of soon meeting with men somewhat like himself produced a calm and bright condition of mind which he had not experienced for many a day. It is true that the frost can scarcely be said to have represented the Highlander's temperament; but if there be truth in the saying that extremes meet, it may be admissible to say that intense cold, which had the effect of expanding water into ice so that it rent the very rocks, might be appropriately compared with that intense warmth of Macnab's feelings which had the effect of all but bursting his very bosom! There was not a breath of air stirring when the two men passed from the forest, and struck out upon the marble surface of the great lake which lay at the distance of about two miles from their establishment. The sun was rising at the time on the horizon of the ocean-like lake, gloriously bright and cheering, though with no appreciable warmth in its beams. Diamonds innumerable glittered on the frosted willow-boughs; the snow under the travellers' tread gave forth that peculiar squeak, or chirping sound, which is indicative of extreme Arctic frost, and the breath from their mouths came out like the white puffs of a locomotive, settling on their breasts in thick hoar-frost, and silvering such of their locks as straggled out beyond the margin of their caps. There was no life at first in the quiet scene, but, just as they passed through the last clump of bushes on the margin of the lake, a battalion of ptarmigan, seemingly a thousand strong, burst with startling whirr from under their very feet, and skimmed away like a snow-cloud close to the ground, while an Arctic fox, aroused from his lair by the noise, slank quietly off under the false belief that he had not been seen. The rise of the ptarmigan had another effect, on which the travellers had not counted. The four wolfish dogs were so startled by the whirr, that their spirits were roused to the mischievous point. Up to that moment they had been toiling and panting through the soft snow in the woods. They had now emerged upon the hard, wind-beaten snow of the open ground and the lake. The sudden freedom in the action of their limbs, coupled with the impulse to their spirits, caused the team to bound forward with one accord. The sled swung round against Macnab's legs, and overturned him; and the tail-line was jerked out of Big Otter's grasp. In a vain effort to recover it, that solemn savage trod, with his right, on his own left snow-shoe, and plunged into a willow bush. Thus freed altogether, the dogs went away with railway speed over the hard snow, ever urged to more and more frantic exertions by the wild boundings of the comparatively light sled behind them. "After them, lad!" shouted Macnab, as he cast off his snow-shoes and gave chase. The Indian followed suit in desperate haste, for his receptive mind at once perceived the all but hopeless nature of a chase after four long-legged dogs, little removed from genuine wolves, over a hard level course that extended away to the very horizon. Happily, there was a small island not far from the shore of the lake, on which grew a few willow bushes whose tops protruded above the overwhelming snow, and whose buds formed the food of the ptarmigan before mentioned. Towards this island the dogs headed in their blind race just as the white man and the red began to regret the comparative slowness of human legs. "Good luck!" exclaimed Macnab. "Waugh!" responded his companion. There was ground for both remarks, for, a few minutes later, the dogs plunged into the bushes and the sled stuck fast and held them. This was a trifling incident in itself, but it shook out of the travellers any remains of lethargy that might have clung to them from the slumbers of the previous night, and caused them to face the tramp that lay before them with energy. "Oh, you _ras_cals!" growled Macnab, as he went down on his knees beside the leading dog to disentangle the traces which had been twisted up in the abrupt stoppage. I know not whether those dogs, being intellectually as well as physically powerful beyond their fellows, understood the uncomplimentary term and lost their tempers, but certain it is that the words were no sooner uttered than the hindmost dog made an unprovoked assault on the dog in front of it. Of course the latter defended itself. The dog next to that, being probably pugnacious, could not resist the temptation to join in, and the leader, feeling no doubt that it was "better to be out of the world than out of the fashion," fell upon the rest with remarkable fury. Thus the sled, traces, and dogs, instantly became a tumultuous mass of yelling, gasping, heaving, and twisting confusion. Big Otter carried a short, heavy whip. Without uttering a word, he quietly proceeded to flog the mass into subjection. It was a difficult duty to perform, but Big Otter was strong and persevering. He prevailed after some time. The mass was disentangled; the subdued dogs went humbly forward, and the journey, having been thus auspiciously begun, was continued until nightfall. They had left the lake and Muskrat House some thirty miles behind them, and had got into a thick and profoundly still part of the great wilderness, when the waning light warned them to encamp. CHAPTER FOUR. THE WINTER JOURNEY. It was not long before our travellers had a large space cleared of snow, its floor spread with pine-branches, a roaring fire kindled, a couple of ptarmigan roasting and the tea-kettle bubbling, while the dogs in the background solaced themselves with raw birds to their heart's content. Then the red-man and the white man smoked a friendly pipe. They would probably have smoked even if it had been an unfriendly pipe! "I wonder," said Macnab, who was apt to become speculative and philosophical over his pipe after supper, "I wonder if dogs ever envy us our pipes? You look so comfortable, Big Otter, as you sit there with half-shut eyes letting the smoke trickle from your mouth and nose, that I can't help thinking they must feel envious. I'm sure that I should if I were not smoking!" The Indian, who was neither a speculator nor a philosopher--though solemn enough for either or both--replied, "Waugh!" "Very true," returned the Highlander, "I have no doubt your opinion is quite correct, though not as clearly put as might be wished. Have you ever been at Fort Dunregan?" "Once when Big Otter was a little boy, he stood beside the Great River," answered the Indian, gravely; "but the white man had no tent there at that time." "The white man has got some pretty big tents there now--made of wood most of 'em," returned Macnab. "In a few days you shall judge for yourself, if all goes well." The red-man smoked over this remark in silence for a considerable time, evidently engaged in profound thought. He was one of those children of nature whose brains admit ideas slowly, and who, when they are admitted, turn them round and round and inside out without much apparent advantage. At last he looked earnestly at his companion and asked--"Is there fire-water at Fort Dunregan?" "Well, no--I believe not. At least there is none for red-men. Why do you ask? Did you ever taste fire-water?" The Indian's dark eyes seem to gleam with unwonted light as he replied in tones more solemn than usual:-- "Yes. Once--only once--a white brother gave some fire-water to Big Otter." "Humph!" ejaculated Macnab, "and what did you think of it!" "Waugh!" exclaimed the red-man, sending a cloud out of his mouth with such energy that it seemed like a little cannon-shot, while he glared at his friend like a superannuated owl. "Big Otter thought that he was in the happy hunting-grounds with his fathers; his heart was so light and his limbs were so strong, but that was only a dream--he was still in this world. Then he took a little more fire-water, and the dream became a reality! He was away with his fathers on the shining plains; he chased the deer with the lightness of a boy and the strength of a bear. He fought, and his foes fell before his strong arm like snowflakes on the river, but he scalped them not. He could not find them--they were gone. Big Otter was so strong that he had knocked both their lives and bodies into the unknown! He saw his father and his mother--and--his wife and the little one who--died. But he could not speak to them, for the foes came back again, and he fought and took some more fire-water to make him fight better; then the world went on fire, the stars came down from the sky like snow when the wind is high. The Big Otter flew up into the air, and then--forgot--" "Forgot what?" asked Macnab, much interested in his red friend's idea of intoxication. "Forgot everything," replied the Indian, with a look of solemn perplexity. "Well, I don't wonder; you must have had a good swig, apparently. How did ye feel next morning?" If the Indian's looks were serious before, they became indescribably solemn now. "Big Otter felt," he replied with bated breath, "like bags of shot-- heavy like the great stones. He could scarcely move; all his joints were stiff. Food was no longer pleasant to his tongue. When he tried to swallow, it would not remain, but came forth again. He felt a wish to drink up the river. His head had an evil spirit inside which squeezed the brain and tried to burst open the skull. His eyes, also, were swelled up so that he could hardly see, and his nose was two times more big than the day before." "That must have been an awful size, Big Otter, considering the size of it by nature! And what d'ye think was the cause of it all?" As this question involved thought, the Indian smoked his pipe in silence for some time, staring for inspiration into the fire. "It must have been," he at length replied, "hunting with his fathers before the right time had come. Big Otter was not dead, and he chased the deer too much, perhaps, or fought too much. It may be that, having only his earth-body, he ate too much." "Don't ye think it's just possible," suggested Macnab, "that, having only your earth-body, you _drank_ too much?" "Waugh!" replied the red-man. Then, after a few minutes' devotion to the pipe, he added, "Big Otter would like very much to taste the fire-water again." "It's well for you, my boy," returned the other, "that you can't get it in these regions, for if you could you'd soon be in the happy hunting-grounds (or the other place) without your earth-body." At this point the Highlander became more earnest, and treated his companion to what would have passed in civilised lands for a fair temperance lecture, in which he sought to describe graphically the evils of strong drink. To this the Indian listened with the most intense attention and an owlish expression, making no audible comment whatever-- with the exception, now and then, of an emphatic "Waugh!" but indicating his interest by the working of his features and the glittering of his great eyes. Whether the reasoning of Macnab had much influence at that time could not be ascertained, for he was yet in the middle of one of his most graphic anecdotes when the Indian's owlish eyes shut with a suddenness that was quite startling, and he roused himself just in time to prevent his chin from dropping on his chest. "Waugh!" he exclaimed with a slightly-confused look. "Just so," replied Macnab with a laugh, "and now, boy, we'll turn in, for it strikes me we're going to have warmish weather, and if so, we shall have to make the most of our time." Soon the blankets were spread; the fire was replenished with mighty logs; the travellers lay down side by side and in a few minutes snored in concert; the flames leaped upwards, and the sparks, entangling themselves on the snow-encrusted branches of bush and tree, gleamed there for an instant, or, escaping, flew gaily away into the wintry sky. While the two men were sleeping, a change came over the scene--a slow, gentle, scarce perceptible change, which, however, had a powerful influence on the prospects of the sleepers. The sky became overcast; the temperature, which had been down at arctic depth for many months, suddenly rose to that of temperate climes, and snow began to fall--not in the small sharp particles to which the fur-traders of the great northern wilderness are accustomed, but in the broad, heavy flakes that one often sees in England. Softly, silently, gently they fell, like the descent of a sweet influence--but steadily, persistently, continuously, until every object in nature became smothered in the soft white garment. Among other objects the two sleepers were buried. The snow began by powdering them over. Had any one been there to observe the process, he would have seen by the bright light of the camp-fire that the green blankets in which they were wrapt became piebald first; then assumed a greyish-green colour, which speedily changed into a greenish-grey, and finally into a pure white. The two sleepers might thus have represented those figures in chiselled marble on the tombs of crusaders, had it not been that they lay doubled up, for warmth--perhaps also for comfort--with their knees at their chins, instead of flat on their backs with their hands pressed together. By degrees the correct outline of their forms became an incorrect outline, and gradually more and more rotund--suggesting the idea that the buried ones were fat. As the night wore on the snow accumulated on them until it lay several inches deep. Still they moved not. Strong, tired and healthy men are not easily moved. The fire of course sank by degrees until it reached that point where it failed to melt the snow; then it was quickly smothered out and covered over. The entire camp was also buried; the tin kettle being capped with a knob peculiarly its own, and the snow-shoes and other implements having each their appropriate outline, while some hundredweights, if not tons, of the white drapery gathered on the branches overhead. It was altogether an overwhelming state of things, and the only evidence of life in all the scene was the little hole in front of each slumberer's nose, out of which issued intermittent pufflets of white vapour. So the night passed by and the morning dawned, and the wintry sun arose like a red-hot cannon ball. Then Macnab awoke with a start and sat up with an effort. "Hallo!" was his first exclamation, as he tried to clear his eyes, then he muttered something in Gaelic which, being incomprehensible, I cannot translate, although the worthy man has many a time, since the day of which I write, tried to explain it to me! It may have been his action, or it may have been indignant northern fairies, I know not, but certain it is that the Gaelic was instantly followed by an avalanche of snow from the branch over the Highlander's head, which knocked him down and reburied him. It also knocked Big Otter up and drew forth the inevitable "Waugh!" "Humph!" said Macnab, on clearing himself a second time, "I was half afraid of this. We've got our work cut out for us." The Indian replied not, but proceeded to light the fire and prepare breakfast, while his companion cleared the camp of some of its snow. The wolfish dogs took a lively interest in these proceedings, but lent no assistance beyond wagging their tails, either in approval or in anticipation of breakfast. Of course breakfast was a repetition of the previous supper, and was soon disposed of both by men and dogs. Then the latter were harnessed to their sledge, the snow-shoes were put on, and the journey was resumed--Macnab manfully leading the way. And let not the reader imagine that this leadership involved little or no manhood. Northern snow-shoes are about five feet long, and twelve or fifteen inches broad. The netting with which the frames are filled up-- somewhat like the bottom of a cane chair--allows fine well-frozen snow to fall through it like dust and the traveller, sinking it may be only a few inches in old well-settled-down snow, progresses with ease. But when a heavy fall such as I have described takes place, especially in spring, and the weather grows comparatively warm, the traveller's circumstances change greatly for the worse. The new snow being light permits him to sink deep into it--perhaps eight or ten inches--at every step; being also soft, that which falls upon the shoes cannot pass through the netting, but sticks there, giving him many extra pounds weight to lift as he goes heavily along. Add to this that his thick winter garb becomes oppressive in mild weather, and you will perceive that Macnab's duties as beater of the track were severe. At first their progress was very slow, for it was through the thick woods, where fallen trees and bushes obstructed them as well as deep snow, but towards noon they came out on a more open country--in summer a swamp; at that time a frozen plain--and the travelling improved, for a slight breeze had already begun to make an impression on the new snow in exposed places. "Now, Big Otter," said Macnab, coming to a halt, "we'll have some grub here, and then you will take a turn in front." The Indian was ready for anything. So were the dogs--especially for "grub." Indeed it was obvious that they understood the meaning of that word, for when Macnab uttered it they wagged their tails and cocked their ears. It was a cold dinner, if I may describe the meal by that name. The work was too hard, and the daylight in which to do it too brief, to admit of needless delay. A frozen bird thrown to each of the dogs, and a junk of equally frozen pemmican cut out of the bag with a hatchet for the travellers, formed the repast. The latter ate it sitting on a snow-wreath. They, however, had the advantage of their canine friends in the matter of hard biscuits, of which they each consumed two as a sort of cold pudding. Then they resumed the march and plodded heavily on till near sunset, when they again selected a suitable spot in the woods, cleared away the snow, and encamped as before. "It's hard work," exclaimed Macnab with a Celtic sigh, as he sipped his tea that night in the mellow light of the log fire. "Waugh! Big Otter has seen harder work," returned the Indian. "No doubt ye have, an' so have I," returned Macnab; "I mind, once, when away on a snow-shoe trip on the St. Lawrence gulf, bein' caught by a regular thaw when the snow turned into slush, an' liftin' the snow-shoes was like to tear one's legs out o' their sockets, not to mention the skinning of your toes wi' the snow-shoe lines, an' the wet turning your moccasins into something like tripe. Yes, it might be worse, as you say. Now, boy, I'll turn in." The next day travelling was no better, and on the next again it became worse, for although the temperature was still below the freezing point, snow continued to fall all day as well as all night, so that our travellers and their dogs became like animated snowballs, and beating the track became an exhausting labour. But difficulties cannot finally stop, though they may retard, a "Nor'-wester." On the sixth day, however, they met with a foe who had power to lay a temporary check on their advance. On the night of the fifth day out, another change of temperature took place. A thermometer, had they carried one, would probably have registered from ten to twenty below zero of Fahrenheit. This, however, was so familiar to them that they rather liked the change, and heaped up fresh logs on the roaring fire to counteract the cold; but when a breeze sprang up and began to blow hard, they did not enjoy it so much, and when the breeze increased to a gale, it became serious; for one cannot face intense cold during a gale without the risk of being frost-bitten. In the shelter of the woods it was all right, but when, towards noon, they came out on an extended plain where the wild winds were whirling the wilder snow in blinding drifts, they halted and looked inquiringly at each other. "Shall we try it?" asked Macnab. The Indian shook his head and looked solemn. "It's a pity to give in without--" A snow-drift caught the Highlander full in the mouth and literally shut him up! The effect was not to subdue, but to arouse. "Yes," he said in a species of calm ferocity, when the gale allowed him the power of utterance, "we'll go on." He went on, followed by the obedient native and the unhappy dogs, but he had not taken half a dozen steps when he tripped over a concealed rock and broke a snow-shoe. To walk with a broken snow-shoe is impossible. To repair one is somewhat difficult and takes time. They were compelled, therefore, to re-enter the sheltering woods and encamp. "You're better at mending than I am," said Macnab to the Indian. "Set to work on the shoe when the camp is dug out, an' I'll go cut some firewood." Cutting firewood is not only laborious, but attended with danger, and that day ill-fortune seemed to have beset the Highlander; for he had barely cut half a dozen logs, when his axe glanced off a knot and struck deep into the calf of his left leg. A shout brought Big Otter to his side. The Indian was well used to such accidents. He bound up the wound securely, and carried his comrade into camp on his back. But now Macnab was helpless. He not only could not walk, but there was no hope of his being able to do so for weeks to come. "Lucky for us we brought the dogs," he remarked when the operation was completed. "Waugh!" exclaimed the Indian by way of assent, while he busied himself in preparing food. It was indeed lucky, for if they had dragged the provision-sled themselves, as Macnab had once thought of doing, it would have fallen to Big Otter's lot to haul his comrade during the remainder of the journey. As it was, the dogs did it, and in the doing of it, despite the red-man's anxious and constant care, many a severe shake, and bump, and capsize in the snow did the unfortunate man receive before that journey came to a close. He bore it all, however, with the quiet stoicism characteristic of the race from which he sprang. CHAPTER FIVE. THE WOUNDED MAN. It is needful now to return to Fort Dunregan. The long winter is not yet past, but there are symptoms, as I have said, that it is coming to a close. Snow and ice are still indeed the prevailing characteristic of the region, but the air is no longer intensely cold. On the contrary, a genial warmth prevails, inducing the inhabitants to discard flannel-lined leathern capotes and fur caps for lighter garments. There is a honeycombed look about the snow-drifts, which gives them an aged appearance; and, above all, there is an occasional dropping of water--yes, actual water--from the points of huge icicles! This is such an ancient memory that we can scarce believe our senses. We sniff, too, as we walk about; for there are scents in the air--old familiar smells of earth and vegetation--which we had begun to fancy we had almost forgotten. The excitement caused by the arrival of the winter packet had also by that time passed almost out of memory, and we had sunk back into that calm state of patient waiting which may probably be familiar to the convict who knows that some months of monotonous existence still lie before him; for, not until the snow and ice should completely clear away and the summer be pretty well advanced could we hope for the blessed sight of a new face and the cheering sound of a fresh human voice. Of course we had the agreeable prospect of hearing ere long the voices of wild-fowl in their noisy northern flight, but such a prospect was not sufficient to satisfy poor secluded humanity. "Oh that I were a bird!" exclaimed Spooner, one morning as we were seated round the Carron stove in our hall. "No need to wish that," said Lumley, "for you're a goose already!" "Well, I'd even consent to be a real goose," continued Spooner, "if I could only thereby use my wings to fly away over the snowy wilderness and alight in my old home." "What a surprise you'd give them if you did!" said Lumley, "especially if you came down with your ruffled feathers as clumsily as you tumbled into the saw-pit the other day when--" He stopped, for at that moment I said "Hush!" and held up a finger. "Sleigh-bells!" exclaimed Spooner, with a catch of his breath. "Nothing new in that," said Lumley: "we hear them every day." "Nothing new," I retorted, "to your unmusical ear, but these bells are not _our_ bells--listen!" I started up as I spoke, flung open the outer door, and we all listened intently. Clear and pleasant they rang, like the music of a sweet new song. We all gave a shout, clapped on our caps, and ran out to the fort gate. There an almost new sensation thrilled us, for we beheld a team of dogs coming up weary and worn out of the wilderness, preceded by a gaunt yet majestic Indian, whose whole aspect--haggard expression of countenance, soiled and somewhat tattered garments, and weary gait--betokened severe exhaustion. On the sled, drawn by four lanky dogs, we could see the figure of a man wrapped in blankets and strapped to the conveyance. "Who _can_ it be?" exclaimed Lumley, as he hastened out to meet the new arrivals. "A sick man from somewhere," suggested Spooner. "Perhaps the governor," said I, "on an unexpected tour of inspection." As we drew near we could see that the recumbent figure waved a hand and cheered. "Macnab," said I, as the familiar voice struck my ear. "Ill--dying!" gasped the anxious Spooner. "No dying man ever cheered like that!" cried Lumley, "except a hero of romance in the hour of death and victory!" A few seconds more and the matter was put at rest, while we warmly shook the hearty and genial Highlander by both hands. "Help me out, boys," he said; "I'm tired o' this sled, and think I can do the little remaining bit o' the journey on foot with your help." We disentangled him from the sledge and set him on his feet. "Hold on, Lumley," he said, with a smile on his haggard and unshaven face, "I want to embrace you, like the Frenchmen. There--my arm round your neck--so. Now, Max, I want to embrace you likewise wi' the other arm. I've grown awful affectionate in my old age. You are rather short, Max, for a good crutch, but you're better than nothing. You see, I've only got one good leg." "But what has happened to the other--when, how, and where?" we exclaimed in chorus. Macnab answered the questions to our chief, who came forward at the moment with welcome in his visage and extended hands. "It's only a cut, sir, stupidly done with my own hatchet when we had been but a few days out. But rest will soon put me to rights. My poor man, Big Otter, is more to be pitied than I. But for him I should have perished in the snow." "What cheer? what cheer?" said our chief, grasping the Indian's hand on hearing this. "What cheer?" we all exclaimed, following his example. "Watchee! watchee!" echoed Big Otter, returning the hearty salutation as well as his tongue could manage it, and giving us each a powerful squeeze with his huge bony hand, which temporary exhaustion had not appreciably reduced in strength. The native was obviously a sociable, well-disposed man, for his eyes glittered and his white teeth gleamed and his bronzed visage shone with pleasure when Macnab explained the cause of our sudden burst of affection for him. Thus chatting and limping we got the Highlander slowly up to the hall, set him down in our only armchair--a wooden one without stuffing--and fetched him a basin of hot soup, that being a liquid which our cook had always more or less frequently on hand. "Ha! boys!" cried Macnab, smacking his lips, "that's the thing to put life into a man! I've not had anything like it for many a day. You see, we had a small misfortune soon after my accident, which cost us our kettle, and rendered soup or tea impossible." "How was that?" inquired our chief, sitting down, while we gathered round the stove to listen. "Well, you see, sir, not long after my accident, there came a sharp frost which made the surface of the snow hard after the thaw, so the dogs could run on the top of the crust without breaking it, but Big Otter, bein' heavy, broke through--by the way, I hope he's bein' looked after." "You may be sure of that," said Spooner. "I saw him safely placed in the men's house, and Salamander, who, it turns out, is a sort of relation of his, set to work to stuff him with the same sort of soup you think so much of. I only hope they've enough to keep him going, for before I left the house he had drunk off two bowls of it almost without taking breath, though it was scalding hot." "Good. He'll do it ample justice," returned Macnab, taking another pull at his own bowl. "I hope you're well provisioned, for Big Otter's an awful consumer of victuals. Well, as I was saying, the surface of the snow got frozen thinly, and the work o' tramping after the sled and holding on to the tail-line was uncommonly hard, as I could see, for I lay with my head to the front, looping back on the poor man. But it was on the exposed places and going down the slopes that the greatest difficulty lay, for there the dogs were keen to run away. Once or twice they did fairly get off, and gave me some rough as well as long runs before my man could catch them up. At last we came one afternoon to an open plain where the snow had felt the thaw and been frozen again pretty hard. The moment we got on it away went the dogs. Big Otter tried to run, but one of his shoes went through the crust and the other didn't, so down he came, and had to let go the line. I felt easy enough at first, for the plain was level, but after a time it became lumpy, and I got some ugly bumps. `Never mind,' thought I, `they'll be sure to come to some bushes, and that'll pull them up.' Just as I thought so, we came to a slope, and the team went slap over a bank. The sled and I threw a complete somersault. Fortunately we came down on the dogs, which broke our fall, though it half killed them! "When Big Otter came and turned me right side up, I found that I had sustained no damage whatever, but, woe's me! our tin kettle was almost knocked flat. The worst of it was that in trying to put it right we drove a big hole in the bottom of it, so we had to bid farewell to hot food, except what we roasted. We could also melt snow by plastering up the hole so as to get enough to drink, but boiling water was quite out of the question." "Well, Macnab," said our chief, rising, "since you have got the soup over at last, come along with me and let's hear about your Indian friend's proposals." We assisted our visitor into the mess-room, which was also our principal council-chamber, and there left him to talk business with Mr Strang while we returned to Bachelors' Hall to let off our effervescing spirits by indulging in a running commentary on the unexpected visit, and a minute analysis of the characters of Macnab and Big Otter, which, I must add, was decidedly favourable. "It seems to me a piece of good luck that he has got here at all," said Lumley, after we had finished the analysis. "Why so?" asked Spooner. "Because there are some unmistakable symptoms that winter is about over, and that snow-shoe and dog-sleigh travelling will soon be impossible." That Lumley was right, the change of weather during the next few days clearly proved, for a thaw set in with steady power. The sun became at last warm enough to melt ice and snow visibly. We no longer listened with interest to the sounds of dropping water from eaves and trees, for these had become once more familiar, and soon our ears were greeted with the gurgling of rills away in mysterious depths beneath the snow. The gurgling ere long gave place to gushing, and it seemed as if all nature were dissolving into liquid. While this pleasant change was going on we awoke with song and laugh and story the echoes of Bachelors' Hall--at no time very restful echoes, save perhaps in the dead hours of early morning; and even then they were more or less disturbed by snoring. For our sociable Highlander, besides having roused our spirits by his mere presence to the effervescing point, was himself much elated by the mighty change from prolonged solitude to joyous companionship. "My spirit feels inclined," he remarked one day, "to jump clean out of my body." "You'd better not let it then," said Lumley, "for you know it might catch cold or freeze." "Not in this weather, surely," retorted Macnab, "and if I did feel coldish in the circumstances, couldn't I borrow Spooner's blanket-capote? it might fit me then, for I'd probably be a few sizes smaller." "Come, Mac," said I, "give us a song. You know I'm wildly fond of music; and, most unfortunately, not one of us three can sing a note." Our visitor was quite willing, and began at once to sing a wild ditty, in the wilder language of his native land. He had a sweet, tuneful, sympathetic voice, which was at the same time powerful, so that we listened to him, sometimes with enthusiasm swelling our hearts, at other times with tears dimming our eyes. No one, save he who has been banished to a wilderness and long bereft of music, can understand the nature of our feelings--of mine, at least. One evening, after our wounded man had charmed us with several songs, and we all of us had done what we could, despite our incapacity, to pay him back in kind, he pulled a sheet of crumpled paper out of his pocket. "Come," said he, unfolding it, "I've got a poet among the men of Muskrat House, who has produced a song, which, if not marked by sublimity, is at least distinguished by much truth. He said he composed it at the rate of about one line a week during the winter, and his comrades said that it was quite a picture to see him agonising over the rhymes. Before they found out what was the matter with him they thought he was becoming subject to fits of some sort. Now, then, let's have a good chorus. It's to the tune of `The British Grenadiers.'" THE WORLD OF ICE AND SNOW. Come listen all good people who dwell at home at ease, I'll tell you of the sorrows of them that cross the seas And penetrate the wilderness, Where arctic tempests blow-- Where your toes are froze, An' the pint o' your nose, In the world of Ice and Snow. You've eight long months of winter an' solitude profound, The snow at your feet is ten feet deep and frozen hard the ground. And all the lakes are solid cakes, And the rivers all cease to flow-- Where your toes are froze, An' the pint o' your nose, In the world of Ice and Snow. No comrade to enliven; no friendly foe to fight; No female near to love or cheer with pure domestic light; No books to read; no cause to plead; No music, fun, nor go-- Ne'er a shillin', nor a stiver, Nor nothin' whatsomediver, In the world of Ice and Snow. Your feelin's take to freezin', so likewise takes your brain; You go about grump-and-wheezin', like a wretched dog in pain; You long for wings, or some such things, But they're not to be had--oh! no-- For there you are, Like a _fixed_ star, In the world of Ice and Snow. If you wished you could--you would not, for the very wish would die. If you thought you would--you could not, for you wouldn't have heart to try. Confusion worse confounded, Would aggravate you so-- That you'd tumble down On the frozen ground In the world of Ice and Snow. But "never-give-in" our part is--let British pluck have sway And "never-say-die," my hearties--it's that what wins the day. To face our fate in every state, Is what we've got to do, An' laugh at our trouble Till we're all bent double-- In the world of Ice and Snow. Now all ye sympathisers, and all ye tender souls; Ye kind philanthropisers, who dwell between the poles, Embrace in your affections Those merry merry men who go-- Where your toes are froze, An' the pint o' your nose, In the world of Ice and Snow. It almost seemed as though the world of ice and snow itself had taken umbrage at Macnab's song, for, while we were yet in the act of enthusiastically prolonging the last "sno-o-ow," there sounded in our ears a loud report, as if of heavy artillery close at hand. We all leaped up in excitement, as if an enemy were at our doors. "There it goes at last!" cried Lumley, rushing out of the house followed by Spooner. I was about to follow when Macnab stopped me. "Don't get excited, Max, there's no hurry!" "It's the river going to break up," said I, looking back impatiently. "Yes, I know that, but it won't break up to-night, depend on it." I was too eager to wait for more, but ran to the banks of the river, which at that place was fully a mile wide. The moon was bright, and we could see the familiar sheet of ice as still and cold as we had seen it every day for many months past. "Macnab's right," said I, "there will be no breakup to-night." "Not so sure of that," returned Lumley; "the weather has been very warm of late; melting snow has been gushing into it in thousands of streams, and the strain on the ice--six feet thick though it is--must be tremendous." He was checked by another crashing report; but again silence ensued, and we heard no more till next morning. Of course we were all up and away to the river bank long before breakfast, but it was not till after that meal that the final burst-up occurred. It was preceded by many reports--towards the end by what seemed quite a smart artillery fire. The whole sheet of ice on the great river seemed to be rising bodily upwards from the tremendous hydraulic pressure underneath. But though the thaws of spring had converted much snow into floods of water, they had not greatly affected the surface of the ice, which still lay hard and solid in all its wintry strength. A greater Power, however, was present. If the ice had been made of cast-iron six feet in thickness, it must have succumbed sooner or later. At last, as Macnab said, "She went!" but who shall describe _how_ she went? It seemed as if the mighty cake had been suddenly struck from below and shattered. Then the turmoil that ensued was grand and terrible beyond conception. It was but an insignificant portion of God's waters at which we gazed, but how overwhelming it seemed to us! Mass rose upon mass of ice, the cold grey water bursting through and over all, hurling morsels as large as the side of a house violently on each other, till a mighty pile was raised which next moment fell with a crash into the boiling foam. Then, in one direction there was a rush which seemed about to carry all before it, but instead of being piled upwards, some of the masses were driven below, were thrust deep into the mud, and a jam took place. In a few minutes the ice burst upwards again, and the masses were swept on to join the battalions that were already on their way towards the distant lake amid noise and crash and devastation. It seemed as if ice and snow and water had combined to revive the picture if not the reality of ancient chaos! Thus the drapery of winter was rudely swept away, and next morning we had the joy of seeing our river sweeping grandly on in all the liquid beauty of early and welcome spring. CHAPTER SIX. AN EXPRESS AND ITS RESULTS. Some weeks after the breaking up of the ice, as we were standing at the front gate of Fort Dunregan, we experienced a pleasant surprise at the sight of an Indian canoe sweeping round the point above the fort. Two men paddled the canoe, one in the bow and one in the stern. It conveyed a message from headquarters directing that two of the clerks should be sent to establish an outpost in the regions of the far north, the very region from which Macnab's friend Big Otter had come. One of the two canoe-men was a clerk sent to undertake, at Dunregan, the work of those who should be selected for the expedition, and he said that another clerk was to follow in the spring-brigade of boats. "That's marching orders for _you_, Lumley," said Macnab, who was beside us when the canoe arrived. "You cannot tell that," returned Lumley. "It may be that our chief will select Max or Spooner. Did you hear any mention of names?" he asked of the new clerk, as we all walked up to the house. "No, our governor does not tell us much of his intentions. Perhaps your chief may be the man." "He's too useful where he is," suggested Macnab. "But we shall know when the letters are opened." Having delivered his despatches, the new arrival returned to us in Batchelors' Hall, where we soon began to make the most of him, and were engaged in a brisk fire of question and reply, when a message came for Mr Lumley to go to the mess-room. "I've sent for you, Lumley," said our chief, "to say that you have been appointed to fill an honourable and responsible post. It seems that the governor, with his wonted sagacity, has perceived that it would be advantageous to the service to have an outpost established in the lands lying to the westward of Muskrat House, on the borders of Lake Wichikagan. As you are aware, the Indian, Big Otter, has come from that very place, with a request from his people that such a post should be established, and you have been selected by the governor to conduct the expedition." As our chief paused, Lumley, with a modest air, expressed his sense of the honour that the appointment conferred on him, and his willingness to do his best for the service. "I know you will, Lumley," returned Mr Strang, "and I must do you the justice to say that I think the governor has shown his usual wisdom in the selection. Without wishing to flatter you, I think you are steady and self-reliant. You are also strong and big, qualities which are of some value among rough men and Indians, not because they enable you to rule with a strong hand, but because they enable you to rule without the necessity of showing the strength of your hand. Bullies, if you should meet with any, will recognise your ability to knock them down without requiring proof thereof. To say truth, if you were one of those fellows who are fond of ruling by the mere strength of their arms, I should not think you fit for the command of an expedition like this, which will require much tact in its leader. At the same time, a large and powerful frame--especially if united to a peaceable spirit--is exceedingly useful in a wild country. Without the peaceable spirit it only renders its possessor a bully and a nuisance. I am further directed to furnish you with the needful supplies and men. I will see to the former being prepared, and the latter you may select--of course within certain limits. Now go and make arrangements for a start. The lakes will soon be sufficiently free of ice, and you are aware that you will need all your time to reach your ground and get well established before next winter sets in." "Excuse me, sir," said Lumley, turning back as he was about to depart. "Am I permitted to select the clerk who is to go with me as well as the men?" "Certainly." "Then I should like to have Mr Maxby." Our chief smiled as he replied, "I thought so. I have observed your mutual friendship. Well, you may tell him of the prospect before him." Need I say that I was overjoyed at this prospect? I have always felt something of that disposition which animates, I suppose, the breast of every explorer. To visit unknown lands has always been with me almost a passion, and this desire has extended even to trivial localities, insomuch that I was in the habit, while at fort Dunregan, of traversing all the surrounding country--on snow-shoes in winter and in my hunting canoe in summer--until I became familiar with all the out-of-the-way and the seldom-visited nooks and corners of that neighbourhood. To be appointed, therefore, as second in command of an expedition to establish a new trading-post in a little-known region, was of itself a matter of much self-gratulation; but to have my friend and chum Jack Lumley as my chief, was a piece of good fortune so great that on hearing of it I executed an extravagant pirouette, knocked Spooner off his chair by accident--though he thought it was done on purpose--and spent five or ten minutes thereafter in running round the stove to escape his wrath. As to my fitness for this appointment, I must turn aside for a few moments to pay a tribute of respect to my dear father, as well as to tell the youthful reader one or two things that have made a considerable impression on me. "Punch," said my father to me one day--he called me Punch because in early life I had a squeaky voice and a jerky manner--"Punch, my boy, get into a habit of looking up, if you can, as you trot along through this world. If you keep your head down and your eyes on the ground, you'll see nothing of what's going on around you--consequently you'll know nothing; moreover, you'll get a bad habit of turning your eyes inward and always thinking only about yourself and your own affairs, which means being selfish. Besides, you'll run a chance of growing absent-minded, and won't see danger approaching; so that you'll tumble over things and damage your shins, and tumble into things and damage your clothes, and tumble off things and damage your carcase, and get run over by wheels, and poked in the back by carriage-poles, and killed by trains, and spiflicated in various ways--all of which evils are to be avoided by looking up and looking round, and taking note of what you see, as you go along the track of life--d'ye see?" "Yes, father." "And this," continued my father, "is the only mode that I know of getting near to that most blessed state of human felicity, self-oblivion. You won't be able to manage that altogether, Punch, but you'll come nearest to it by looking up. Of course there are times when it is good for a man to look inside and take stock--self-examination, you know--but looking _out_ and _up_ is more difficult, to my mind. And there is a kind of looking up, too, for guidance and blessing, which is the most important of all, but I'm not talking to you on that subject just now. I'm trying to warn you against that habit which so many people have of staring at the ground, and seeing and knowing nothing as they go along through life. I've suffered from it myself, Punch, more than I care to tell, and that's why I speak feelingly, and wish to warn you in time, my boy. "Now, there's another thing," continued my father. "You're fond of rambling, Punch, and of reading books of travel and adventure, and I have no doubt you think it would be a grand thing to go some day and try to discover the North Pole, or the South Pole, or to explore the unknown interior of Australia." "Yes, father," I replied, in a tone which made him laugh. "Well, then, Punch, I won't discourage you. Go and discover these places by all means, if you can; but mark me, you'll never discover them if you get into the habit of keeping your eyes on the ground, and thinking about yourself and your own affairs. And I would further advise you to brush up your mathematics, and study navigation, and learn well how to take an observation for longitude and latitude, for if you don't know how to find out exactly where you are in unknown regions, you'll never be a discoverer. Also, Punch, get into a habit of taking notes, and learn to write a good hand, for editors and publishers won't care to be bothered with you if you don't, and maybe the time will come when you won't be able to make out your own writing. I've known men of that stamp, whose penmanship suggested the idea that a drunk fly had dipped its legs in the ink-pud an' straggled across his paper." These weighty words of my dear father I laid to heart at the time, and, as a consequence I believe, have been selected on more than one occasion to accompany exploring parties in various parts of the world. One very important accomplishment which my father did not think of, but which, nevertheless, I have been so fortunate as to acquire, is, sketching from Nature, and marking the course of rivers and trend of coasts. I have thus been able not only to make accurate maps of the wild regions I have visited, but have brought home many sketches of interesting scenes of adventure, which words alone could not have sufficed to pourtray. But to return from this long digression. I set about my preparations without delay, and was soon ready with a small but very select amount of baggage. You may be sure also that Lumley was active in his preparations, and the result was that, on a fine afternoon in the early spring, we--that is, Lumley, Macnab, Big Otter, and I--set out on our expedition in a strong new boat which was manned by two Indians, two Scotchmen, and a number of Canadian half-breeds--all picked men. I must not however, drag my readers through the details of our arduous voyage, not because those details are devoid of interest or romance, far from it, but because I have other matters more interesting and romantic to relate. I will, therefore, pass them over in silence, and at once proceed to the remote region where our lot at that time was to be cast. One beautiful evening we encamped on the margin of one of those innumerable lakelets which gleam like diamonds on the breast of the great wilderness, through which for many weeks we had been voyaging. The vast solitudes into which we had penetrated, although nearly destitute of human inhabitants, were by no means devoid of life, for aquatic birds of varied form and voice made sweet music in the air, as they swept over their grand domains on whirring wing, or chattered happily in their rich feeding-grounds. Those pleasant sounds were augmented by the axes of our men as they busied themselves in cutting firewood, and preparing our encampment. The spot chosen was a piece of level sward overhung by trees and surrounded by bushes, except on the side next the little lake where an opening permitted us to see the sheet of water gleaming like fire as the sun sank behind the opposite trees. By that time we had traversed hundreds of miles of wilderness, stemming many rivers and rivulets; crossing or skirting hundreds of lakes which varied from two hundred miles to two hundred yards in length; dragging our boat and carrying our baggage over innumerable portages, and making our beds each night, in fair weather and foul, under the trees of the primeval forest, until we had at last plunged into regions almost unknown--where, probably, the foot of a white man had never before rested. On the way we had passed Muskrat House. There, with feelings of profound regret, we parted from our genial Highlander, promising, however, to send him an unusually long account of all our doings by the packet, which we purposed sending to headquarters sometime during the winter. The particular duty which Lumley and I undertook on the evening in question was the lighting of the fire, and putting on of the kettles for supper. We were aided by our guide, Big Otter, who cut down and cut up the nearest dead trees, and by Salamander, who carried them to the camp. "Three days more, and we shall reach the scene of our operations," said Lumley to me, as we watched the slowly-rising flame which had just been kindled; "is it not so?" he asked of Big Otter, who came up at the moment with a stupendous log on his shoulders and flung it down. "Waugh?" said the Indian, interrogatively. "Ask him," said Lumley to Salamander, who was interpreter to the expedition, "if we are far now from the lodges of his people." "Three times," replied the red-man, pointing to the sun, "will the great light go down, and then the smoke of Big Otter's wigwam shall be seen rising above the trees." "Good; I shall be glad when I see it," returned Lumley, arranging a rustic tripod over the fire, "for I long to begin the building of our house, and getting a supply of fish and meat for winter use. Now then, Salamander, fetch the big kettle." "Yis, sar," replied our little servant, with gleeful activity (he was only sixteen and an enthusiast) as he ran down to the lake for water. "Cut the pemmican up small, Max. I've a notion it mixes better, though some fellows laugh at the idea and say that hungry men are not particular." "That is true," said I, attacking the pemmican with a small hatchet; "yet have I seen these same scoffers at careful cookery doing ample and appreciative justice to the mess when cooked." "Just so. I have observed the same thing--but, I say, what is Big Otter looking so earnestly at over there?" "Perhaps he sees a bear," said I; "or a moose-deer." "No, he never pays so much attention to the lower animals, except when he wants to shoot them. He shakes his head, too. Let's go see. Come, Salamander, and interpret." "Big Otter sees something," said Lumley through Salamander as we approached. "Yes, Big Otter sees signs," was the reply. "And what may the signs be?" "Signs of wind and rain and thunder." "Well, I suppose you know best but no such signs are visible to me. Ask him, Salamander, if we may expect the storm soon." To this the Indian replied that he could not tell, but advised that preparation should be made for the worst. It may be well here to remark that although Lumley and I, as well as some of our men, had acquired a smattering of the Indian tongue, our chief deemed it expedient to give us a regular interpreter whose knowledge of both languages was sufficiently extensive. Such an interpreter had been found in the youth whom we had styled Salamander, and whose real name I have now forgotten. This lad's knowledge of Indian was perfect. He also understood French well, and spoke it badly, while his comprehension of English was quite equal to any emergency, though his power of speaking it was exceedingly limited. What he spoke could scarcely be styled a broken tongue; it was rather what we may call thoroughly smashed-up English! Such as it was, however, it served our purpose well enough, and as the lad was a willing, cheery, somewhat humorous fellow, he was justly deemed an acquisition to our party. While on this subject I may add that Blondin, who brought the winter packet to Dunregan, was one of our number--also, that both our Scotsmen were Highlanders, one being named Donald Bane, the other James Dougall. Why the first called the second Shames Tougall, and the second styled the first Tonal' Pane is a circumstance which I cannot explain. Among the French-Canadian half-breeds our blacksmith, Marcelle Dumont and our carpenter, Henri Coppet, were the most noteworthy; the first being a short but herculean man with a jovial temperament, the latter a thin, lanky, lugubrious fellow, with a grave disposition. Both were first-rate workmen, but indeed the same may be said of nearly all our men, who had been chosen very much because of their readiness and ability to turn their hands to anything. Soon the kettles boiled. In one we infused tea. In another we prepared that thick soup so familiar to the Nor'-wester, composed of pemmican and flour, which is known by the name of _robbiboo_. From a frying-pan the same substances, much thicker, sent up a savoury steam under the name of _richeau_. There was not much conversation among us at the commencement of the meal, as we sat round the camp-fire, but when appetite was appeased muttered remarks were interchanged, and when tobacco-pipes came out, our tongues, set free from food, began to wag apace. "Dere is noting like a good _souper_," remarked Marcelle Dumont, the blacksmith, extending his burly form on the grass the more thoroughly to enjoy his pipe. "Shames Tougall," said Donald Bane, in an undertone, and with the deliberate slowness of his race, "what does he mean by soopy?" "Tonal'," replied Dougall with equal deliberation, "ye'd petter ask his nainsel'." "It be de French for _supper_," said Salamander, who overheard the question. "Humph!" ejaculated Dougall and Bane in unison; but they vouchsafed no further indication of the state of their minds. "You're a true prophet, Big Otter," said Lumley, as a low rumbling of distant thunder broke the silence of the night, which would have been profound but for our voices, the crackling of the fire, and the tinkle of a neighbouring rill. Soon afterwards we observed a faint flash of lightning, which was followed by another and deeper rumble of heaven's artillery. Looking up through the branches we perceived that the sky had become overcast with heavy clouds. Suddenly there came a blinding flash of lightning, as if the sun in noonday strength had burst through the black sky. It was followed instantly by thick, almost palpable darkness, and by a crash so tremendous that I sprang up with a sort of idea that the end of the world had come. The crash was prolonged in a series of rolling, bumping thunders, as though giants were playing bowls with worlds on the floor of heaven. Gradually the echoing peals subsided into sullen mutterings and finally died away. CHAPTER SEVEN. A TREMENDOUS STORM AND OTHER EXPERIENCES. It need hardly be said that we all sprang up when the thunder-clap shook the earth, and began hastily to make preparation for the coming storm. The broad flat branches of a majestic pine formed a roof to our encampment. Dragging our provisions and blankets as near as possible to the stem of the tree, we covered them up with one of our oiled-cloths, which were somewhat similar in appearance and texture to the tarpaulings of seafaring men, though light in colour. Then we ran down to the lake, carried all our goods hastily to the same spot, covered them up in like manner, and finally dragged our boat as far up on the beach as possible. Several blinding flashes and deafening peals saluted us while we were thus employed, but as yet not a drop of rain or sigh of wind disturbed us, and we were congratulating ourselves on having managed the matter so promptly, when several huge drops warned us to seek shelter. "That will do, boys," cried Lumley, referring to the boat, "she's safe." "_Voila! vite_!" shouted Marcelle, our volatile son of Vulcan, as the first big drops of rain descended on him. He sprang towards the sheltering tree with wild activity. So, indeed, did we all, but the rain was too quick for us. Down it came with the suddenness and fury of a shower-bath, and most of us were nearly drenched before we reached our pine. There was a good deal of shouting and laughter at first, but the tremendous forces of nature that had been let loose were too overwhelming to permit of continued levity. In a few minutes the ground near our tree became seamed with little glancing rivulets, while the rain continued to descend like straight heavy rods of crystal which beat on the earth with a dull persistent roar. Ere long the saturated soil refused to drink in the superabundance, and the crystal rods, descending into innumerable pools, changed the roar into the plash of many waters. We stood close together for some time, gazing at this scene in silent solemnity, when a few trickling streams began to fall upon us, showing that our leafy canopy, thick though it was, could not protect us altogether from such a downpour. "We'd better rig up one of the oiled-cloths, and get under it," I suggested. "Do so," said our chief. Scarcely had he spoken when a flash of lightning, brighter than any that had gone before, revealed to us the fact that the distant part of the hitherto placid lake was seething with foam. "A squall! Look out!" shouted Lumley, grasping the oiled-cloth we were about to spread. Every one shouted and seized hold of something under the strong conviction that action of some sort was necessary to avert danger. But all our voices were silenced in a dreadful roar of thunder which, as Donald Bane afterwards remarked, seemed to split the universe from stem to stern. This was instantly followed by a powerful whirlwind which caught our oiled-cloth, tore it out of our hands, and whisked it up into the tree-tops, where it stuck fast and flapped furiously, while some of our party were thrown down, and others seemed blown away altogether as they ran into the thick bush for shelter. For myself, without any definite intentions, and scarce knowing what I was about, I seized and clung to the branches of a small tree with the tenacity of a drowning man--unable to open my eyes while sticks and leaves, huge limbs of trees and deluges of water flew madly past, filling my mind with a vague impression that the besom of destruction had become a veritable reality, and that we were all about to be swept off the face of the earth together. Strange to say, in this crisis I felt no fear. I suppose I had not time or power to think at all, and I have since that day thought that God perhaps thus mercifully sends relief to His creatures in their direst extremity--just as He sends relief to poor human beings, when suffering intolerable pain, by causing stupor. The outburst was as short-lived as it was furious. Suddenly the wind ceased; the floods of rain changed to slight droppings, and finally stopped altogether, while the thunder growled itself into sullen repose in the far distance. But what a scene of wreck was left behind! We could not of course, see the full extent of the mischief, for the night still remained intensely dark, but enough was revealed in the numerous uprooted trees which lay all round us within the light of our rekindled camp-fire. From most of these we had been protected by the great pine, under which we had taken shelter, though one or two had fallen perilously near to us--in one case falling on and slightly damaging our baggage. Our first anxiety, of course, was our boat, towards which we ran as if by one impulse, the instant the wind had subsided. To our horror it was gone! Only those who know what it is to traverse hundreds of leagues of an almost tenantless wilderness, and have tried to push a few miles through roadless forests that have grown and fallen age after age in undisturbed entanglement since the morning of creation, can imagine the state of our minds at this discovery. "Search towards the woods, men," said Lumley, who, whatever he might have felt, was the only one amongst us who seemed unexcited. We could trace no sign of anxiety in the deep tones of his steady voice. It was this quality--I may remark in passing--this calm, equable flow of self-possession in all circumstances, no matter how trying, that rendered our young leader so fit for the work, with which he had been entrusted, and which caused us all to rely on him with unquestioning confidence. He never seemed uncertain how to act even in the most desperate circumstances, and he never gave way to discontent or depression. A gentle, good-humoured expression usually played on his countenance, yet he could look stern enough at times, and even fierce, as we all knew. While we were stumbling in the dark in the direction indicated, we heard the voice of Salamander shouting:-- "Here it am! De bot--busted on de bank!" And "busted" it certainly was, as we could feel, for it was too dark to see. "Fetch a blazing stick, one of you," cried Lumley. A light revealed the fact that our boat, in being rolled bodily up the bank by the gale, had got several of her planks damaged and two of her ribs broken. "Let's be thankful," I said, on further examination, "that no damage has been done to keel or gun'le." "Nor to stem or stern-post," added Lumley. "Come, we shan't be delayed more than a day after all." He was right. The whole of the day that followed the storm we spent in repairing the boat, and drying such portions of the goods as had got wet, as well as our own garments. The weather turned out to be bright and warm, so that when we lay down to rest, everything was ready for a start at the earliest gleam of dawn. "Lumley," said I, next day, as we rested after a good spell at the oars, "what would have become of us if our boat had been smashed to pieces, or bodily blown away?" "Nothing very serious would have become of us, I think," he replied with an amused look. "But consider," I said; "we are now hundreds of miles away from Muskrat House--our nearest neighbour--with a dense wilderness and no roads between. Without a boat we could neither advance nor retreat. We might, of course, try to crawl along river banks and lake shores, which would involve the wading or swimming of hundreds of rivulets and rivers, with provisions and blankets on our backs, and even then winter would be down on us, and we should all be frozen to death before the end of the journey. Besides, even if we were to escape, how could we ever show face after leaving all our supply of goods and stores to rot in the wilderness?" "Truly," replied my friend with a short laugh, "the picture you paint is not a lively one, but it is I who ought to ask _you_ to consider. There are many ways in which we might overcome our supposed difficulties. I will explain; and let me begin by pointing out that your first error lies in conceiving an improbability and an impossibility. In the first place it is improbable that our boat should get `smashed to pieces.' Such an event seldom occurs in river navigation, except in the case of going over something like Niagara. In the second place it is impossible that a boat should be blown bodily away. But let us suppose that, for the sake of argument, something of the kind had happened, and that our boat was damaged beyond repair, or lost; could we not, think you, fabricate a couple of birch-bark canoes in a country where such splendid birch-trees grow, and with these proceed to our destination?" "Very true," said I, "that did not occur to me; but," I continued, waxing argumentative, "what if there had been no birch-trees in this part of the country?" "Why then, Max, there would be nothing to prevent our placing most of our goods _en cache_, construct a small portable raft for crossing streams, and start off each man with a small load for Big Otter's home, at which we should arrive in a week or two, and there set about the erection of huts to shelter us, begin a fishery, and remain until winter should set fast the lakes and rivers, cover the land with snow, and thus enable us to go back for our goods, and bring them forward on sledges, with aid, perhaps, from the red-men." "True, true, Lumley, that might be done." "Or," continued my friend, "we might stay where the disaster overtook us, remain till winter, and send Big Otter on to tell his people that we were coming. When one plan fails, you know, all you've got to do is to try another. There is only one sort of accident that might cause us a deal of trouble, and some loss--and that is, our boat getting smashed and upset in a rapid, and our goods scattered. Even in that case we might recover much of what could swim, but lead and iron would be lost, and powder damaged. However we won't anticipate evil. Look! there is a sight that ought to banish all forebodings from our minds." He pointed as he spoke to an opening ahead of us, which revealed a beautiful little lake, whose unruffled surface was studded with picturesque bush-clad islets. Water-fowl of many kinds were swimming about on its surface, or skimming swiftly over it. It seemed so peaceful that I was led to think of it as a miniature paradise. "Come, Henri, chante, sing," cried Lumley, with a touch of enthusiasm in eye and tone. Our carpenter, Coppet, was by general consent our leading singer. He possessed a sweet tenor voice, and always responded to a call with a willingness that went far to counteract the lugubrious aspect of his visage. On this occasion he at once struck up the canoe-song, "_A la claire fontaine_," which, besides being plaintive and beautiful, seemed to me exceedingly appropriate, for we were at that time crossing a height of land, and the clear, crystal waters over which we skimmed formed indeed the fountain-head of some of the great northern rivers. The sudden burst of song had a wonderful effect upon the denizens of Clear Lake, as we named the sheet of water; for, after a brief momentary pause in their chatter--as if of incredulity and blazing surprise--they all arose at once in such myriads that the noise of their wings was not unlike what I may style muffled thunder. Before the song was well finished we had reached the other end of the lakelet, and found that a deep river ran out of it in a nor'easterly direction. The current of the river was powerful, and we had not proceeded many miles down its course when we came to a series of turbulent rapids. As we entered them I could not help recalling Lumley's remarks about the risks we ran in descending rapids; but no thought of actual danger occurred to me until I saw Blondin, who was our bowman, draw in his oar, grasp a long pole with which he had provided himself, and stand up in the bow, the better to look out inquiringly ahead. Now, it must be explained that the bowman's is the most important post in river navigation in the Nor'-west--equal, at all events, to that of steersman. In fact the two act in concert; the bowman, whose position commands the best view of rocks and dangers ahead, giving direction, and the watchful steersman acting sympathetically with his long oar or sweep, so that should the bowman with his pole thrust the head of the boat violently to the right the steersman sweeps its stern sharply to the left, thus causing the craft to spin round and shoot aside from the danger, whatever it may be. Of course the general flow and turmoil of a rapid indicates pretty clearly to skilled eyes where the deepest water lies; nevertheless, in spite of knowledge, skill, and experience, disasters will happen at times. "Monsieur," said Blondin in French to Lumley, as we gained a smooth piece of water at the foot of a short rapid, "I know not the rocks ahead. It may be well to land and look." "Do so, Blondin." We ran the boat's head on shore, and while the bowman and our leader went to look at the rapids in advance, most of our men got out their pipes and began to chat quietly. Our scouts quickly returned, saying that the rapids, though rough, were practicable. Soon we were among them, darting down with what would have seemed, to any inexperienced eye, perilous velocity. The river at the place was about a hundred yards wide, with an unusually rugged channel, but with a distinctly marked run--deep and tortuous--in the middle. On both sides of the run, sweeping and curling surges told of rocks close to the surface, and in many places these showed black edges above water, which broke the stream into dazzling foam. "Have a care, Blondin," said our chief, in a warning voice, as the bowman made a sudden and desperate shove with his pole. A side current had swept us too far in the direction of a forbidding ledge, to touch on which might have been fatal. But Henri Coppet, who acted as steersman as well as carpenter, was equal to the occasion. He bent his lanky form almost double, took a magnificent sweep with the oar, and seconded Blondin's shove so ably that we passed the danger like an arrow, with nothing but a slight graze. That danger past we were on the brink of another, almost before we had time to think. At the time I remember being deeply impressed, in a confused way, with the fact that, whatever might await us below, there was now no possibility of our returning up stream. We were emphatically "in for it," and our only hope lay in the judgment, boldness, and capacity of the two men who guided our frail bark--doubly frail, it seemed to me, when contrasted with the waters that surged around, and the solid rocks that appeared to bar our way in all directions. Even some of our men at the oars, whose only duty was to obey orders promptly, began to show symptoms of anxiety, if not of fear. "Smooth water ahead," muttered Lumley, pointing to a small lake into which the turbulent river ran about a quarter of a mile further down. "All right soon," I said, but just as I spoke the boat lightly touched a rock. Blondin saw that there was not sufficient depth in a passage which he had intended to traverse. With a shout to the steersman he thrust his pole over the side with all his might. The obedient craft turned as if on a pivot, and would have gone straight into a safe stream in another second, if Blondin's pole had not stuck fast either in mud or between two rocks. In a moment our bowman was whisked over the side as if he had been a feather. Letting go the pole he caught the gunwale and held on. The boat was carried broadside on the rocks, and the gushing water raised her upper side so high that she was on the point of rolling over when all of us--I think instinctively--sprang to that side and bore her down. "Over the side, some of you," cried Lumley, leaping into the water on the lower side, followed by six of us, including myself. Some of us were breast deep; others, on rocks, stood higher. "Now--together--shove!--and hold on!" There was no need to give us the latter caution. Our boat shot into deep water and we all held on for life. Fortunately the more open part of the rapid had been gained. The steersman without aid could keep us in deep water, and, before we had fairly scrambled back into our places, we were floating safely on the quiet lake into which the river ran. You may be sure that we had matter not only for gratulation but for conversation that night at supper; for, after discussing our recent adventure in all its phases, nearly every one of our party had numerous similar incidents to tell of--either as having occurred to himself, or to his friends. But the pleasure of that night's intercourse and repose was materially diminished by a pest, with which for some time previously we had not been much afflicted. Who has not heard of mosquitoes? We may inform those who have never seen or felt them that they are peculiarly virulent and numerous and vicious and bloodthirsty in the swampy lands of North America, and that night we had got into a region of swamps. It may also, perhaps, be unknown to some people that mosquitoes do not slumber--unless, indeed, they do it on a preconcerted plan of relieving guard. Either there is a "day and night shift" or they do not rest at all. As a consequence _we_ did not rest. Groans and maledictions were the order of the night. We spent much time in slapping our own faces, and immolated hundreds of the foe at each slap, but thousands came on to refill the ranks. We buried our heads under our blankets, but could not sleep for suffocation. Some of the men left their faces exposed, went to sleep in desperate exhaustion, after hours of fruitless warfare, and awoke with eyes all but shut up, and cheeks like dumplings. Others lay down to leeward of the fire and spent the night in a compound experience of blood-sucking and choking. One ingenious man--I think it was Salamander--wrapped his visage in a kerchief, leaving nothing exposed save the point of his nose for breathing purposes. In the morning he arose with something like a huge strawberry on the end of his prominent feature. Indeed, it was a wearing night to follow such a trying day! CHAPTER EIGHT. DEEP IN THE WILDERNESS WE FIND OUR HOME WHICH IS SHARED WITH THE WILD BEAST, THE WILD BIRD, AND THE SAVAGE. Availing myself now of that wonderful power which we possess of projecting the mind instantaneously through space and time, I will leave our adventurous fur-traders, and, conveying my reader still deeper into the heart of the great wilderness, set him down on the margin of one of those lesser sheets of water which lie some distance in a south-westerly direction from that mighty fresh-water ocean called Athabasca. This lake, although small when compared with the vast reservoirs which stud those northern wilds, is, nevertheless, of goodly dimensions, being about six miles in diameter, and studded here and there with numerous islets, some of which are almost bare rocks of a few yards in extent, while others are not less than a quarter of a mile in circumference, and thickly wooded to the edge. It is a somewhat peculiar lake. It does not lie, as many lakes do, in the bottom of a valley, from which the spectator lifts his eye to surrounding heights, but rests in a little hollow on a height of land, from many points of which the eye looks down on the surrounding low country. It is true, that in one direction, westward, a line of distant blue hills is seen, which are obviously higher than our lake, for the land rises gently towards them; but when you ascend a wooded knoll close by, the summit of which is free from underwood, it is seen at a glance that on all other sides the land is below you, and your eye takes in at one grand sweep all round the compass a view of woodland and plain, mound and morass, lake, river, and rivulet, such as is probably unequalled--certainly unsurpassed--in any other part of the known world. Solitude profound--as far as men and their works are concerned--marked this lovely region at the time of our arrival, though there was the most telling evidence of exuberant animal life everywhere, to the ear as well as to the eye; for the air was vocal with the plaintive cries and whistling wings of wild-fowl which sported about in blissful enjoyment of their existence, while occasional breaks in the glassy surface of the water, and numerous widening circles, told that fish were not less jovial in the realms below. This was at last the longed-for Lake Wichikagan. Man, however, was not altogether absent, though less obviously present, at that time. At the extreme western end of the lake, where the view of the regions beyond was most extensive as well as most beautiful, there was a bright green patch of land, free from underwood as well as trees-- a sort of natural lawn--which extended with a gentle slope towards the lake; ending in a pebbly beach on which the waters rested so calm and pure that it was difficult to distinguish the line where dry land and water met. A little to the right of this beautiful spot there grew a small clump of bushes, and in the midst of these there crouched two Indians. One was middle-aged, the other was entering on the period of early manhood, and a strongly marked resemblance in feature and form indicated plainly that they stood to each other in the relation of father and son. Both were clothed in leather, with the usual ornamentation of beads, scalp-locks, and feathers. Their faces, however, were not disfigured with war-paint--a sign that at that time they were at peace with all mankind. It might have struck an observer, however, that for men of peace they were in suspiciously warlike attitudes. The elder savage stooped low to conceal himself behind the foliage, and held a long single-barrelled gun in readiness for instant action, while the youth, also stooping low, held an arrow ready fitted to his short bow. The eyes of both glared with expressions that might have been indicative of joy, hope, hate, revenge, expectation, or anything else you please--for a glare is unquestionably an ambiguous expression at the best, needing a context to expound it. "Let two die," muttered the elder redskin--of course in his own tongue. (I had the details from his own lips afterwards, and translate them as literally as may be.) "Ho!" replied the son, without moving his glare from the direction from which the two doomed ones were expected to emerge. Presently a flock of grey wild-geese came majestically along, close to the margin of the lake--flying low, as well as slow, and following the curvings of the shore as if in search of a suitable feeding-place at which to alight. The green of the natural lawn had evidently attracted these birds, for they skimmed over the bushes behind which our Indians crouched almost within pistol-shot. Like statues the red-men stood until the geese were over them; then an arrow from the son's bow quivered in the heart of one bird, and brought it fluttering heavily to the ground. At the same instant the echoes around answered to the father's gun, and another goose lay dead upon the sward. "Waugh!" exclaimed both Indians as they stepped forth and picked up their game. These sons of the wilderness were not, however, very communicative, for they spake never a word more. Perhaps they were hungry, and it is well-known that hungry men are not sociable. At all events they maintained a profound silence while they cut down a small decayed tree, made a good fire, and prepared dinner, or--as the sun was beginning to decline at the time--I may call it supper. The mode of preparation was simple. Of course they plucked the geese; an operation which revealed the fact that both birds were plump and fat. Next they split them open with their scalping-knives, and, going down to the lake, cleaned them out with the same weapons. Then, transfixing them on two pieces of stick, after the manner of red-men, they stuck them up before the fire to roast. The roasting did not take long, for they were either partial to underdone food or impatient, and began at once upon such portions of the birds as were first ready, by cutting them off and chewing away without removing the remainder of the roasts from the fire. By degrees the solid parts were devoured. Then the drumsticks and other extremities were picked; after that the merry-thoughts and smaller bones were cleaned, and not until every fragment of edible matter was consumed did father or son cease his toil or utter a word. "Waugh!" exclaimed the father at last, regarding the skeleton of his meal with a sad look, as if grieved that all was over. "Hough!" responded the son with a sigh of satisfaction, as he wiped his fingers on the grass and sheathed his scalping-knife. Then, searching in their little pouches, which contained flint steel, tinder, etcetera, they drew forth two little stone pipes with wooden stems, which they filled and began to smoke. The first whiff seemed to break the magic spell which had hitherto kept them silent. With another emphatic "Waugh!" the elder savage declared that the goose was good; that it distended him pleasantly, and that it warmed the cockles of his heart--or words to that effect. To which the son replied with a not less emphatic "Hough!" that he was entirely of the same opinion. Thus, whiffing gently, letting the smoke slowly out of their mouths and trickling it through their nostrils, so as to get the full benefit--or or damage!--of the tobacco, those sons of the wilderness continued for some time to enjoy themselves, while the sun sank slowly towards the western horizon, converting every lake and pond, and every river and streamlet, into a sheet, or band, or thread of burnished gold. At last the elder savage removed his pipe and sent a final shot of smoke towards the sky with some vigour as he said, rather abruptly,--"Mozwa, my brother must be dead!" "I hope not, father," returned the youth, whose name, Mozwa, signifies in the Cree language "moose-deer," and had been given to the lad because he possessed an unusual power of running great distances, and for long periods, at a sort of swinging trot that left all competitors of his tribe far behind. "I also hope not," said his father, whose name was Maqua, or "bear," "but I am forced to think so, for when Big Otter promises he is sure to perform. He said to Waboose that he would be home before the berries were ripe. The berries are ripe and he is not home. Without doubt he is now chasing the deer in the happy hunting-grounds with his fathers." Waboose, to whom this promise had been made, was a favourite niece of Big Otter, and had been named Waboose, or "rabbit," because she was pretty innocent, soft, and tender. "My father," said Mozwa, rather solemnly, "Big Otter has not broken his word, for _all_ the berries are not yet ripe." He plucked a berry which chanced to be growing near his hand, as he spoke, and held it up to view. "Waugh!" exclaimed the elder savage. "Hough!" returned the younger. What more might have been said at that time no one can tell, for the conversation was cut short by a sound which caused both Indians to listen with intense earnestness. Their eyes glittered like the eyes of serpents, and their nostrils dilated like those of the wild-horse, while each man gently moved his right hand towards his weapon. And if the too inquisitive reader should ask me how I could possibly come to know all this, seeing that I was not there at the time, I reply that the whole matter was related to me with minute and dramatic power by young Mozwa himself not long afterwards. There was indeed ground for the excitement and earnest attention of those red-men, for the sweet and distant notes of a Canadian canoe-song had at that moment, for the first time, awakened the echoes of that part of the Great Nor'-west. The two men were not indeed ignorant of the fact that such songs were sung by Canadian voyageurs--Maqua had even heard some of them hummed once by the men of Muskrat House, when, a good while before, he had paid a visit to that remote trading-post--but never before had father or son listened to the songs sung in full chorus as they now heard them. Spell-bound they waited until the sound of oars mingled with the gradually strengthening song. Then their fingers closed convulsively upon their weapons and they sprang up. "What does my son think?" "He thinks that the white man may be on the war-path, and it behoves the red-man like the serpent to creep into the grass and lie still." The elder savage shook his head. "No, Mozwa. The white man never goes on the war-path, except to track down murderers. When he goes through the land he travels as the red-man's friend. Nevertheless, it is well to be on our guard." As he spoke, the song, which had been increasing in strength every moment, suddenly burst forth with great power in consequence of the boat which bore the singers rounding a rocky point and coming into full view. To sink into the grass, imitate the serpent and vanish from the scene, was the work of a few seconds on the part of Maqua and his son. Meanwhile the boat, which I need scarcely say was ours, came sweeping grandly on, for the fineness of the evening, the calmness of the lake, the splendour of the scene, and the prospect of a good supper, to be followed by a good night's rest lent fresh vigour to the arms as well as to the voices of our men. "Hold on a bit, boys," cried Jack Lumley, standing up in the stern and looking shoreward, "this seems a pretty good place to camp." "There is a better place a few yards further on," said Big Otter, who pulled the stroke oar. "I know every foot of the country here. It is a soft--" "What does Big Otter see?" asked Lumley, for the Indian had come to a sudden stop, and was gazing earnestly ahead. "He sees the smoke of a fire." "Is it likely to be the fire of an enemy?" "No--more like to be the camp of some of my people, but their wigwams are two days beyond this lake. Perhaps hunters are out in this direction." "We shall soon see--give way, lads!" said Lumley, sitting down. In a few minutes the boat was on the beach. We sprang ashore, and hastened to the spot where a thin wreath of smoke indicated the remains of a camp-fire. Of course we carried our arms, not knowing whom we should meet with. After examining the spot carefully, Big Otter stood up and was about to speak to our chief, when a slight peculiar chirp was heard in the bushes. It is probable that we should have deemed it that of some small bird and paid no attention to it if our Indian had not suddenly bent his head on one side as if to listen. At the same time he replied to the chirp. Again the sound was heard, and Big Otter, turning round quickly, without uttering a word, entered the bushes and disappeared. "Stand ready, lads!" said Lumley in a quiet voice, bringing forward the muzzle of his gun, "there's no saying what may come of this." Scarcely had he spoken when a rustling was heard in the bushes. Next moment they were thrust aside and Big Otter reissued from them, followed by two Indians, whom he introduced to us as his brother and nephew. At the same time he gave us the gratifying information that his tribe had moved up from the region in which they usually dwelt for the purpose of hunting and fishing in the neighbourhood of the lake, and that the camp was not more than six or seven miles distant, from the spot on which we stood. To this Lumley replied by expressing his gratification at the news, and shaking hands with the two Indians, who, however, received the shake with some distrust and much surprise, until Big Otter explained the nature and meaning of the white man's salutation. He also explained the meaning of "What cheer." On hearing which Maqua, not to be outdone in politeness, extended his hand for another shake, and exclaimed "Watchee!" with profound gravity. Mozwa, with some hesitation, imitated his father's example. While we were thus pleasantly engaged, a sonorous trumpet sound was heard behind the clump of small trees near us. A moment later and two magnificent wild swans sailed over the tree-tops and above our heads. They made a tumultuously wild swoop to one side on discovering the near proximity of their enemy man but were too late. Almost before any of the party had time to move a muscle, two sharp cracks were heard, and both swans fell stone dead, with a heavy splash, at the margin of the lake. It was our chief, Jack Lumley, who had brought them down with his double-barrelled fowling-piece. I have omitted to mention that Lumley was one of the noted crack-shots of the country at that time--noted not only for the deadly precision, but also for the lightning-like rapidity of his aim. The Indians, albeit themselves pretty fair marksmen, were deeply impressed with this evidence of skill, and it went far to strengthen the influence which our chief's manly proportions and genial countenance had already begun to exercise. "That's a good beginning, Lumley," said I, "for it not only impresses our new friends favourably, but provides excellent fresh meat for supper." "Yonder comes better meat for supper," he replied, pointing towards a neighbouring height, where we could see the forms of two men approaching, with the carcase of a deer between them. It was Donald Bane and James Dougall who had been thus successful. These sons of the Scottish Highlands, being ardent sportsmen as well as good marksmen, had been appointed to the post of hunters to our party, and were frequently sent ashore to procure fresh meat. "The country is swarmin' wi' game, Muster Lumley," said Bane, as they came up, and flung down the deer. "Not only teer an' rabbits, but tucks an' geese, an' all sorts o' pirds. Moreover, Tougall, she got into a bog after wan o' the peasts, an' I thought I wass goin' to lose him altogither. `Shames Tougall,' says I, `don't you go anither step till I come to you, or you're a lost man,' but Shames went on--he was always an obstinate loon--" "Dat is true," remarked Salamander. "Hold yer noise!" said Bane. "Well, sur, Tougall went on, an' sure enough the very next step down he went up to the neck--" "No, Tonald," interrupted Dougall, "it wass not up to the neck; it wass only to the waist. The nixt after that it wass up to the neck, but _then_ I wass soomin'." "Ye would hey bin soomin' yet, Shames, if I had not pulled ye oot," said his friend. "Oo ay, Tonald Pane. That iss true, but--" "Well, Dougall," interrupted Lumley at this point, "it will be better to dry your garments than discuss the question just now. We will encamp here, so go to work, boys." There was no need for more. During our long journey into these far-off wilds each man had fallen into his allotted place and work, and the force of habit had made us so like machines that I think if we had suddenly become a party of somnambulists we would have gone through the same actions each evening on landing. Accordingly, Lumley and I gathered small branches and rekindled the Indians' fire, which had by that time almost gone out. Marcelle Dumont being professionally a forger of axes, and Henri Coppet, being an artificer in wood, went off to cut down trees for firewood; and Donald Bane with his friend set about cutting up and preparing the venison, while Blondin superintended and assisted Salamander and the others in landing the cargo, and hauling up the boat. "Max," said Lumley to me that evening during an interval in our devotion to steaks and marrow-bones, "look around for a moment if you can tear your gross mind from the contemplation of food, and tell me what you see?" He made a sweep with his arm to indicate the surrounding scenery, which was at the moment irradiated by the after-glow of the setting sun, as well as the brightening beams of the full moon. "I see," said I, looking up, "a lovely lake, dotted with islets of varied shape and size, with the pale moon reflected almost unbroken in its glassy waters." "What else do you see?" asked Lumley. "I see around and beyond a prospect of boundless woodland, of plain, mound, hill, lake, and river, extending with a grand sweep that suggests ideas which can only be defined by the word Immensity. I see altogether a scene the like of which I never looked upon before--a scene of beauty, peacefulness, and grandeur which gladdens the eye to behold and fills the heart with gratitude to its Maker." "You say well, Max," returned my friend, "and it seems to me that we may regard this Lake Wichikagan which we now look upon as our inheritance in the wilderness, and that the spot on which we now sit shall be, for some time at least, our future home." CHAPTER NINE. A BRIGHT APPARITION--FOLLOWED BY RUMOURS OF WAR. While we were thus feasting and chatting on the green sward of the region which seemed destined to be our future home, an object suddenly appeared among the bushes, near the edge of the circle of light cast by our camp-fire. This object was by no means a frightful one, yet it caused a sensation in the camp which could hardly have been intensified if we had suddenly discovered a buffalo with the nose of an elephant and the tail of a rattlesnake. For one moment we were all struck dumb; then we all sprang to our feet, but we did not seize our firearms--oh no!--for there, half concealed by the bushes, and gazing at us in timid wonder, stood a pretty young girl, with a skin much fairer than usually falls to the lot of Indian women, and with light brown hair as well as bright blue eyes. In all other respects--in costume, and humble bearing--she resembled the women of the soil. I would not willingly inflict on the reader too much of my private feelings and opinions, but perhaps I may be excused for saying that I fell over head and ears in love with this creature at once! I make no apology for being thus candid. On the contrary, I am prepared rather to plume myself on the quick perception which enabled me not only to observe the beauty of the girl's countenance, but, what is of far more importance, the inherent goodness which welled from her loving eyes. Yes, reader, call me an ass if you will, but I unblushingly repeat that I fell--tumbled--plunged headlong in love with her. So did every other man in the camp! There is this to be said in excuse for us, that we had not seen any members of the fair sex for many months, and that the sight of this brilliant specimen naturally aroused many pleasant recollections of cousins, sisters, nieces, aunts, mothers, grandmothers--well, perhaps I am going too far; though, after all, the tender, loving-kindness in this girl's eyes might well have suggested grandmothers! Before any of us could recover the use of our limbs, Big Otter had glided rapidly towards the girl. Grasping her by the hand, he led her towards Lumley, and introduced her as his sister's daughter, Waboose. The red-man was evidently proud as well as fond of his fair niece, and equally clear did it become in a short time that the girl was as fond and proud of him. "Your relative is very fair," said Lumley. "She might almost have been the daughter of a white man." "She _is_ the daughter of a white man." "Indeed!" "Yes; her father was a white hunter who left his people and came to dwell with us and married my sister. He was much loved and respected by us. He lived and hunted and went on the war-path with us for many years--then he was killed." "In war?" I asked, beginning to feel sympathetic regard for the father of one who had stirred my heart to--but, I forget. It is not my intention to bore the reader with my personal feelings. "No," answered the Indian. "He perished in attempting to save his wife from a dangerous rapid. He brought her to the bank close to the head of a great waterfall, and many hands were stretched out to grasp her. She was saved, but the strength of the brave pale-face was gone, and we knew it not. Before we could lay hold of his hand the current swept him away and carried him over the falls." "How sad!" said Lumley. "What was the name of this white man?" "He told us that his name was Weeum--but," said the Indian, turning abruptly to Waboose, whose countenance betrayed feelings which were obviously aroused by other matters than this reference to her lost father, "my child has news of some sort. Let her speak." Thus permitted, Waboose opened her lips for the first time--disclosing a double row of bright little teeth in the act--and said that she had been sent by her mother in search of Maqua and his son, as she had reason to believe that the camp was in danger of being attacked by Dogrib Indians. On hearing this, Maqua and Mozwa rose, picked up their weapons, and without a word of explanation entered the bushes swiftly and disappeared. Big Otter looked after them for a moment or two in grave silence. "You had better follow them," suggested Lumley. "If you should require help, send a swift messenger back and we will come to you." The Indian received this with a quiet inclination of the head, but made no reply. Then, taking his niece by the hand, he led her into the bushes where his relatives had entered and, like them, disappeared. "It seems like a dream," said I to Lumley, as we all sat down again to our steaks and marrow-bones. "What seems like a dream, Max--the grub?" "No, the girl." "Truly, yes. And a very pleasant dream too. Almost as good as this bone." "Oh! you unsentimental, unsympathetic monster. Does not the sight of a pretty young creature like that remind you of home, and all the sweet refining influences shed around it by woman?" "I cannot say that it does--hand me another; no, not a little thing like that, a big one full of marrow, so--. You see, old boy, a band of beads round the head, a sky-blue cloth bodice, a skirt of green flannel reaching only to the knees, cloth leggings ornamented with porcupine quills and moccasined feet, do not naturally suggest my respected mother or sisters." For the first time in our acquaintance I felt somewhat disgusted with my friend's levity, and made no rejoinder. He looked at me quickly, with slightly raised eyebrows, and gave a little laugh. With a strong effort I crushed down my feelings, and said in a tone of forced gaiety:-- "Well, well, things strike people in strangely different lights. I thought not of the girl's costume but her countenance." "Come, then, Max," returned my friend, with that considerate good nature which attracted men so powerfully to him, "I admit that the girl's face might well suggest the thought of dearer faces in distant lands--and especially her eyes, so different from the piercing black orbs of Indian squaws. Did you note the--the softness, I was going to say truthfulness, of her strangely blue eyes?" Did I note them! The question seemed to me so ridiculous that I laughed, by way of reply. I observed that Lumley cast on me for the second time a sharp inquiring glance, then he said:-- "But I say, Max, we must have our arms looked to, and be ready for a sudden call. You know that I don't love fighting. Especially at the commencement of our sojourn would I avoid mixing myself up with Indians' quarrels; but if our guide comes back saying that their camp is in danger, we must help him. It would never do, you know, to leave women and children to the mercy of ruthless savages." "Leave woman and children!" I exclaimed vehemently, thinking of only one woman at the moment, "I should _think_ not!" The tone of indignation in which I said this caused my friend to laugh outright. "Well, well," he said, in a low tone, "it's a curious complaint, and not easily cured." What he meant was at the time a mystery to me. I have since come to understand. "I suppose you'll all agree with me, lads," said Lumley to the men who sat eating their supper on the opposite side of the fire, and raising his voice, for we had hitherto been conversing in a low tone, "if Big Otter's friends need help we'll be ready to give it?" Of course a hearty assent was given, and several of the men, having finished supper, rose to examine their weapons. The guns used by travellers in the Great Nor'-west in those days were long single-barrels with flint-locks, the powder in which was very apt to get wet through priming-pans and touch-holes, so that frequent inspection was absolutely necessary. As our party consisted of twelve men, including ourselves, and each was armed--Lumley and myself with double-barrelled fowling-pieces--we were able, if need be, to fire a volley of fourteen shots. Besides this, my chief and I carried revolvers, which weapons had only just been introduced into that part of the country. We were therefore prepared to lend effective aid to any whom we thought it right to succour. Scarcely had our arrangements been made when the lithe agile form of Mozwa glided into the camp and stood before Lumley. The lad tried hard to look calm, grave, and collected, as became a young Indian brave, but the perspiration on his brow and his labouring chest told that he had been running far at the utmost speed, while a wild glitter in his dark eye betrayed strong emotion. Pointing in the direction whence he had come, he uttered the name--"Big Otter." "All right. I understand you," said Lumley, springing up. "Now, boys, sharp's the word; we will go to the help of our guide. But two of you must stay behind to guard our camp. Do you, Donald Bane and James Dougall, remain and keep a bright look-out." "Is it to stop here, we are?" asked Bane, with a mutinous look. "Yes," exclaimed our leader so sharply that the mutinous look faded. "An' are we to be left behind," growled Dougall, "when there's fightin' to be done?" "I have no time for words, Dougall," said Lumley in a low voice, "but if you don't at once set about preparation to defend the camp, I'll give you some fighting to do that you won't relish." Dougall had no difficulty in understanding his leader's meaning. He and his friend at once set about the required preparations. "Now then, Mozwa," said Lumley. The young Indian, who had remained erect and apparently unobservant, with his arms crossed on his still heaving chest, turned at once and went off at a swift trot, followed by all our party with the exception of the ill-pleased Highlanders, who, in their eagerness for the fray, did not perceive that theirs might be a post of the greatest danger, as it certainly was one of trust. "Tonald," said Dougall, sitting down and lighting his pipe after we were gone, "I wass vera near givin' Muster Lumley a cood threshin'." "Hum! it's well ye didn't try, Shames." "An' what for no?" "Because he's more nor a match for ye." "I don't know that Tonald. I'm as stout a man as he is, whatever." "Oo ay, so ye are, Shames; but ye're no a match for him. He's been to school among thae Englishers, an' can use his fists, let me tell you." At this Dougall held up a clenched hand, hard and knuckly from honest toil, that was nearly as big as a small ham. Regarding it with much complacency he said, slowly:-- "An' don't you think, Tonald, that I could use my fist too?" "Maybe you could, in a kind o' way," returned the other, also filling his pipe and sitting down; "but I'll tell ye what Muster Lumley would do to you, Shames, if ye offered to fight him. He would dance round you like a cooper round a cask; then, first of all, he would flatten your nose--which is flat enough already, whatever--wi' wan hand, an' he'd drive in your stummick wi' the other. Then he would give you one between the two eyes an' raise a bridge there to make up for the wan he'd destroyed on your nose, an' before you had time to sneeze he would put a rainbow under your left eye. Or ever you had time to wink he would put another under your right eye, and if that didn't settle you he would give you a finishin' dig in the ribs, Shames, trip up your heels, an' lay you on the ground, where I make no doubt you would lie an' meditate whether it wass worth while to rise up for more." "All that would be verra unpleasant, Tonald," said Dougall, with a humorous glance from the corners of his small grey eyes, "but I duffer with ye in opeenion." "You would duffer in opeenion with the Apostle Paul if he wass here," said the other, rising, as his pipe was by that time well alight, and resuming his work, "but we'll better obey Muster Lumley's orders than argufy about him." "I'll agree with you there, Tonald, just to convince you that I don't always duffer," said the argumentative Highlander, rising to assist his not less argumentative friend. The two men pursued their labour in silence, and in the course of an hour or so had piled all the baggage in a circle in the middle of the open lawn, so as to form a little fortress, into which they might spring and keep almost any number of savages at bay for some time; because savages, unlike most white men, have no belief in that "glory" which consists in rushing on certain death, in order to form a bridge of dead bodies over which comrades may march to victory. Each savage is, for the most part, keenly alive to the importance of guarding his own life, so that a band of savages seldom makes a rush where certain death awaits the leaders. Hence our two Highlanders felt quite confident of being able to hold their little fort with two guns each and a large supply of ammunition. Meanwhile Mozwa continued his rapid trot through wood and brake; over swamp, and plain, and grassy mound. Being all of us by that time strong in wind and limb, we followed him without difficulty. "Lads, be careful," said Lumley, as we went along, "that no shot is fired, whatever happens, until I give the word. You see, Max," he continued in a lower tone, "nothing but the sternest necessity will induce me to shed human blood. I am here to open up trade with the natives, not to fight them, or mix myself up in their quarrels. At the same time it would be bad policy to stand aloof while the tribes we have come to benefit, and of which our guide is a member, are assailed by enemies. We must try what we can do to make peace, and risk something in the attempt." Arrived at the Indian camp, we found a band of braves just on the point of leaving it, although by that time it was quite dark. The tribe--or rather that portion of it which was encamped in leathern wigwams, on one of the grassy mounds with which the country abounded--consisted of some hundred families, and the women and children were moving about in great excitement, while the warriors were preparing to leave. I was struck, however, by the calm and dignified bearing of one white-haired patriarch, who stood in the opening of his wigwam, talking to a number of the elder men and women who crowded round him. He was the old chief of the tribe; and, being no longer able to go on the war-path, remained with the aged men and the youths, whose duty it was to guard the camp. "My children," he said, as we came up, "fear not. The Great Spirit is with us, for our cause is just. He has sent Big Otter back to us in good time, and, see, has He not also sent white men to help us?" The war-party was detained on our arrival until we should hold a palaver with the old chief and principal braves. We soon ascertained that the cause of disagreement between the two tribes, and of the declaration of war, was a mere trifle, strongly resembling in that respect the causes of most wars among civilised nations! A brave of the one tribe had insultingly remarked that a warrior of the other tribe had claimed the carcase of a moose-deer which had been mortally wounded, and tracked, and slain by him, the insulter. The insulted one vowed that he shot the deer dead--he would scorn to wound a deer at all--and had left it in hiding until he could obtain assistance to fetch the meat. Young hotheads on both sides fomented the quarrel until older heads were forced to take the matter up; they became sympathetically inflamed, and, finally, war to the knife was declared. No blood had yet been shed, but it was understood by Big Otter's friends--who were really the injured party--that their foes had sent away their women and children, preparatory to a descent on them. "Now, Salamander," said Lumley, who, although he had considerably increased his knowledge of the Indian language by conversing with the guide during our voyage, preferred to speak through an interpreter when he had anything important to say, "tell the old chief that this war-party must not go forth. Tell him that the great white chief who guides the affairs of the traders, has sent me to trade furs in this region, and that I will not permit fighting." This was such a bold--almost presumptuous, way of putting the matter that the old red chief looked at the young white chief in surprise; but as there was neither bluster nor presumption in the calm countenance of Lumley--only firmness coupled with extreme good humour--he felt somewhat disconcerted. "How will my white brother prevent war?" asked the old chief, whose name was Muskrat. "By packing up my goods, and going elsewhere," replied Lumley directly, without an instant's hesitation, in the Indian tongue. At this, there was an elongation of the faces of the men who heard it, and something like a soft groan from the squaws who listened in the background. "That would be a sad calamity," said old Muskrat, "and I have no wish to fight; but how will the young white chief prevent our foes from attacking us?" "Tell him, Salamander, that I will do so by going to see them." "My young braves will be happy to go out under the guidance of so strong a warrior," returned Muskrat, quite delighted with the proposal. "Nay, old chief, you mistake me, I will take no braves with me." "No matter," returned Muskrat; "doubtless the white men and their guns will be more than a match for our red foes." "Still you misunderstand," said Lumley. "I am no warrior, but a man of peace. I shall go without guns or knives--and alone, except that I will ask young Mozwa to guide me." "Alone! unarmed!" murmured the old man, in astonishment almost too great for expression. "What can one do against a hundred with weapons?" "You shall see," said Lumley, with a light laugh as he turned to me. "Now, Max, don't speak or remonstrate, like a good fellow; we have no time to discuss, only to act. I find that Muskrat's foes speak the same dialect as himself, so that an interpreter is needless. I carry two revolvers in the breast of my coat. You have a clasp-knife in your pocket; make me a present of it, will you? Thanks. Now, have our men in readiness for instant action. Don't let them go to rest, but let them eat as much, and as long, as they choose. Keep the old chief and his men amused with long yarns, about what we mean to do in these regions, and don't let any one follow me. Keep your mind easy. If I don't return in three hours, you may set off to look for me, though it will I fear be of no use by that time; and, stay, if you should hear a pistol-shot, run out with all our men towards it. Now, Mozwa, lead on to the enemy's camp." The young Indian, who was evidently proud of the trust reposed in him, and cared nothing for danger, stalked into the forest with the look and bearing of a dauntless warrior. CHAPTER TEN. SALAMANDER GIVES AND RECEIVES A SURPRISE, AND WAR IS AVERTED BY WISE DIPLOMACY. It has been already said that our interpreter, Salamander, possessed a spirit of humour slightly tinged with mischief, which, while it unquestionably added to the amusement of our sojourn in those lands, helped not a little to rouse our anxieties. On returning to our men, after parting from Lumley, for the purpose of giving them their instructions, I found that Salamander was missing, and that no one could tell where he had gone. I caused a search to be made for him, which was unsuccessful, and would have persevered with it if there had not pressed upon me the necessity of obeying my chief's orders to keep the savages amused. This I set about doing without delay, and having, like my friend, been a diligent student of the language on the journey, found that I succeeded, more than I had ventured to hope for, in communicating my ideas. As the disappearance of Salamander, however, was the subject which exercised my mind most severely at the time, and as he afterwards gave me a full account of the cause in detail, I shall set it down here. Being possessed that evening, as he confessed, with a spirit of restlessness, and remembering that our two Highlanders had been left to guard the camp at Lake Wichikagan, he resolved to pay them a visit. The distance, as I have said elsewhere, was not much more than six miles--a mere trifle to one who was as fleet as a young deer and strong as an old bear. He soon traversed the ground and came up to the camp. At first he meant merely to give the men a surprise, but the spirit to which I have already referred induced him to determine on giving them a fright. Approaching very cautiously, therefore, with this end in view, he found that things were admirably arranged for his purpose. Donald Bane and James Dougall, having finished their fortress in the centre of the open lawn, as already described, returned to their fire, which, it may be remembered, was kindled close to the edge of the bushes. There they cooked some food and devoured it with the gusto of men who had well earned their supper. Thereafter, as a matter of course, they proceeded to enjoy a pipe. The night, besides being fine and calm, was unusually warm, thereby inducing a feeling of drowsiness, which gradually checked the flow of conversation previously evoked by the pipes. "It is not likely the redskins will come up here to give us a chance when there's such a lot of our lads gone to meet them," said Bane, with a yawn. "I agree with you, Tonald," answered Dougall grumpily. "It is quite new to hev you agreein' with me so much, Shames," returned Bane with another yawn. "You are right. An' it is more lively to disagree, whatever," rejoined Dougall, with an irresistible, because sympathetic, yawn. "Oo ay, that's true, Shames. Yie-a-ou!" This yawn was so effusive that Dougall, refusing to be led even by sympathy, yawned internally with his lips closed and swallowed it. The conversation dropped at this point, though the puffs went on languidly. As the men were extended at full-length, one on his side, the other on his back, it was not unnatural that, being fatigued, they should both pass from the meditative to the dreamy state, and from that to the unconscious. It was in this condition that Salamander discovered them. "Asleep at their posts!" he said mentally. "That deserves punishment." He had crept on hands and knees to the edge of the bushes, and paused to contemplate the wide-open mouth of Bane, who lay on his back, and the prominent right ear of Dougall, whose head rested on his left arm. The debris of supper lay around them--scraps of pemmican, pannikins, spoons, knives, and the broken shells of teal-duck eggs which, having been picked up some time before, had gone bad. Suddenly an inspiration--doubtless from the spirit of mischief--came over Salamander. There was one small unbroken egg on the ground near to Bane's elbow. Just over his head the branch of a bush extended. To genius everything comes handy and nothing amiss. Salamander tied the egg to a piece of small twine and suspended it to the twig in such fashion that the egg hung directly over Bane's wide-open mouth. At a glance he had seen that it was possible to lay a light hand on the inner end of the branch, and at the same time bend his mouth over Dougall's ear. He drew a long breath, for it was a somewhat delicate and difficult, being a duplicate, manoeuvre! Pressing down the branch very slowly and with exceeding care, he guided the egg into Bane's mouth. He observed the precise moment when it touched the sleeper's tongue, and then exploded a yell into Dougall's ear that nearly burst the tympanum. Bane's jaws shut with a snap instantly. Need we--no, we need not! Dougall leaped up with a cry that almost equalled that of Salamander. Both men rushed to the fortress and bounded into it, the one spurting out Gaelic expletives, the other rotten egg and bits of shell. They seized their guns and crouched, glaring through the various loopholes all round with finger on trigger, ready to sacrifice at a moment's notice anything with life that should appear. Indeed they found it difficult, in their excited condition, to refrain from blazing at nothing! Their friendly foe meanwhile had retired, highly delighted with his success. He had not done with them however. By no means! The spirit of mischief was still strong upon him, and he crept into the bushes to meditate. "It wass an evil speerut, Shames," gasped Donald Bane, when he had nearly got rid of the egg. "Did you smell his preath?" "No, Tonald, it wass not. Spirits are not corporeal, and cannot handle eggs, much less cram them down a man's throat. It wass the egg you did smell." "That may be so, Shames, but it could not be a redskin, for he would be more likely to cram a scalpin' knife into my heart than an egg into my mouth." "Iss it not dreamin' ye wass, an' tryin' to eat some more in your sleep? You wass always fond of overeatin' yourself--whativer--Tonald." Before this question could be answered, another yell of the most appalling and complex nature rang out upon the night-air, struck them dumb, and seemed to crumple up their very hearts. Salamander had been born with a natural gift for shrieking, and being of a sprightly disposition, had cultivated the gift in boyhood. Afterwards, being also a good mimic, he had made the subject a special study, with a view to attract geese and other game towards him. That he sometimes prostituted the talent was due to the touch of genius, to which I have already referred. When the crumpled-up organs began to recover, Bane said to Dougall, "Shames, this iss a bad business." Dougall, having been caught twice that evening, was on his guard. He would not absolutely agree with his friend, but admitted that he was not far wrong. Again the yell burst forth with intensified volume and complicated variation. Salamander was young; he did not yet know that it is possible to over-act. "Shames!" whispered Bane, "I hev got a notion in my hid." "I hope it's a coot w'an, Tonald, for the notions that usually git into it might stop there with advantage. They are not much to boast of." "You shall see. Just you keep talkin' out now an' then as if I wass beside you, an' don't, whativer ye do, fire into the bushes." "Ferry coot," answered Dougall. Another moment, and Donald Bane glided over the parapet of their fort at the side nearest the lake; and, creeping serpent-fashion for a considerable distance round, gained the bushes, where he waited for a repetition of the cry. He had not long to wait. With that boldness, not to say presumption, which is the child of success, Salamander now began to make too many drafts on genius, and invented a series of howls so preposterously improbable that it was impossible for even the most credulous to believe them the natural cries of man, beast, demon, or monster. Following up the sound, Donald Bane soon came to a little hollow where, in the dim light, he perceived Salamander's visage peering over a ridge in the direction of the fortress, his eyes glittering with glee and his mouth wide-open in the act of giving vent to the hideous cries. The Highlander had lived long in the wilderness, and was an adept in its ways. With the noiseless motion of a redskin he wormed his way through the underwood until close alongside of the nocturnal visitor, and then suddenly stopped a howl of more than demoniac ferocity by clapping a hand on Salamander's mouth. With a convulsive wriggle the youth freed his mouth, and uttered a shriek of genuine alarm, but Bane's strong arm pinned him to the earth. "Ye dirty loon," growled the man in great wrath, "wass you thinkin' to get the better of a Heelandman? Come along with ye. I'll give you a lesson that you'll not forget--whatever." Despite his struggles, Bane held Salamander fast until he ceased to resist, when he grasped him by the collar, and led him towards the little fort. At first, Salamander had been on the point of confessing the practical joke, but the darkness of the night induced him to hope for another escape from his position. He had not yet uttered a word; and, as he could not distinguish the features of the Highlander, it was possible, he thought, that the latter might have failed to recognise him. If he could give him the slip, he might afterwards deny having had anything to do with the affair. But it was not easy to give the slip to a man whose knuckly hand held him like a vice. "Shames," said Bane as he came near the fortress, "I've cot the peast! come oot, man, an' fetch a stick wi' you. I'll ha'd 'im while you lay on." Salamander, who understood well enough what he might expect, no sooner heard Dougall clambering over the barricade than he gathered himself up for a tremendous wriggle, but received such a fearful squeeze on the neck from the vice-like hand of his captor that he was nearly choked. At the moment a new idea flashed into his fertile brain. His head dropped suddenly to one side; his whole frame became limp, and he fell, as it were, in a heap on the ground, almost bringing the Highlander on the top of him. "Oh! the miserable cratur," exclaimed Bane, relaxing his grasp with a feeling of self-reproach, for he had a strong suspicion that his captive really was Salamander. "I do believe I've killed him. Wow! Shames, man, lend a hand to carry him to the fire, and plow up a bit flame that we may see what we've gotten." "Iss he tead, Tonald?" asked Dougall, in a pitiful tone, as he came forward. "No, Shames, he's no tead yet. Take up his feet, man, an' I'll tak' his shouthers." Dougall went to Salamander's feet, turned his back to them, and stooped to take them up as a man takes a wheelbarrow. He instantly received a kick, or rather a drive, from Salamander's soles that sent him sprawling on his hands and knees. Donald Bane, stooping to grasp the shoulder, received a buffet on the cheek, which, being unexpected, sent him staggering to the left, while the sly youth, springing to his feet bounded into the bushes on the right with a deep-toned roar ending in a laugh that threw all his previous efforts quite into the shade. The Highlanders rose, but made no attempt to pursue. "My friend," said Bane, softly, "if that wass not an evil speerut, I will be fery much surprised." "No, Tonald, it wass _not_ a speerut," replied the other, as they returned to their fortress. "Speeruts will not be kickin' an' slappin' like that; they are not corporeal." While these scenes were enacting on the margin of Lake Wichikagan, Lumley and Mozwa arrived at the enemy's camp. It was a war-camp. All the women and children had been sent away, none but armed and painted braves remained. They were holding a palaver at the time. The spot was the top of an open eminence which was so clear of underwood that the approach of a foe without being seen was an impossibility. Although the night was rather dark, Lumley and his guide had been observed the instant they came within the range of vision. No stir, however, took place in the camp, for it was instantly perceived that the strangers were alone. With the grave solemnity of redskin warriors, they silently awaited their coming. A small fire burned in their midst, for they made no attempt at concealment. They were prepared to fight at a moment's notice. The red flames gleamed on their dusky faces, and glittered in their glancing eyes, as Lumley and Mozwa strode boldly into the circle, and stood before the chief. Intense surprise filled the hearts of the warriors at this unexpected apparition of a white man, but not an eye or muscle betrayed the smallest symptom of the feeling. "The pale-face is welcome," said the chief, after a short pause. "The pale-face is glad to meet with his dark-skinned brother, and thanks him," returned Lumley. If the surprise at the sudden appearance of the pale-face was great, the astonishment to find that he spoke the Indian tongue was greater; but still the feeling was not betrayed. After a few short complimentary speeches, our hero came at once to the point. "My brothers," he said, looking round on the dusky warriors, who remained sitting all the time, "the white chief of the fur-traders has sent me into this country to trade with you." This statement was received with a "waugh" of satisfaction from several of the warriors. "And," continued Lumley, "I have brought men--strong men, who can work well--to help me to build a house, so that we may live among you and hunt together." He paused here to let the statement have its full effect. Then he continued:-- "I have also brought plenty of guns, and powder, and lead." Again he paused, and an emphatic "waugh" proved that the remark was fully appreciated. "The white man knows," continued Lumley, in a more flowing style, "that his red brothers have need of many things which they do not possess, while the white man is in need of furs, and does not possess them. It is for the good of each that we should exchange. The Great Spirit, who is all-wise, as well as all-good, has seen fit to scatter His children over a wide world, and He has given some of them too much of one thing, some of them too much of another. Why has He done so? May we not think that it is for the purpose of causing His children to move about the world, and mingle, and help each other, and so increase Love? Some of the bad children prefer to move about and steal. But there is no need. It is easier to do good than to do evil. If all men would help and none would steal, there would be more than enough for all." Again a pause. Some of the savages, who were thoughtful men, were greatly tickled in their minds by the arguments set forth. Others, who could not understand, were deeply impressed. "Now," continued Lumley, coming to the marrow of his discourse, "the red-men have more than enough of furs." "Waugh!" in a tone of emphasis, that implied "that's true." "And the pale-faces have few furs, but want some very much." "Waugh?" interrogatively, in a tone that implied "what then?" "Well, but the pale-faces are not poor. They are rich, and have far too much of many things. They have far too much of those pleasant sweet things called sugar and molasses (the Indians involuntarily licked their lips). Too much cloth as bright as the sun at setting, and as blue as the sky at noon (the Indian eyes glistened). Too many guns, and too much powder and shot (the savage eyes glared). They have more beads, and blankets, and hatchets, and tobacco, than they know what to do with, so they have sent some of these things here to be given to you in exchange for furs, and food, and leather." The waughs! and hows! and hos! with which these remarks were followed up were so hearty, that Lumley thought it best to make a considerable pause at this point; then he resumed:-- "But, my brothers,"--he stopped for a considerable time, and looked so grave, that the hearts of the red-men sank, lest the glorious vision which had been suddenly revealed to them, should be as suddenly withdrawn in some way. "But," repeated Lumley, again, with a sort of awful emphasis, "the pale-faces detest war. They can fight--yes, and when they _must_ fight, they _will_ fight, but they do not love fighting, and if they are to stay here and open up trade with their guns, and their powder, and their blankets, and beads, and cloth (he wisely went all over it again for the sake of effect), there must be peace in the land. If there is war the pale-faces will take all their good things and go away--waugh!" Finishing off in the true red-man style, Lumley sat down with decision, as though to say, "Now, the ball is at your own feet, kick it which way you please." Then the chief of the savages rose with dignity, but with a tinge of eagerness which he could not altogether conceal, and said:-- "Let not my white brother talk of going away. War shall cease at his bidding. Let him and his pale-faced warriors fell trees, and build wigwams, and hunt. We have plenty furs--the black fox, the red fox, the beaver, the marten, the minks, the bear, and many other animals are plentiful. We will exchange them for the goods of the white man. We will bury the hatchet, and smoke the calumet of peace, and the sound of the war-whoop shall no more be heard in the land--waugh!" "Are my brothers ready to go to the camp of Big Otter, and make friends at once?" asked Lumley. This was a testing question, and for some time remained unanswered, while the chiefs and braves looked preposterously solemn. At last, however, they seemed to make up their minds, and the chief replied, "We are ready." That night the hostile savages met on the shores of Lake Wichikagan, and encamped with the fur-traders. Fires were lighted, and kettles put on, a royal feast was prepared; and the reunited tribes of red-men finally buried the war-hatchet there, and smoked the pipe of peace. CHAPTER ELEVEN. LUMLEY ON DUTY--FORT WICHIKAGAN BEGINS TO GROW. The bold and prompt manner in which peace was established among the contending savages of Lake Wichikagan did more to raise my friend Jack Lumley in their estimation than if he had fought a hundred successful battles, and subdued a nation of foes. It seemed to be felt on all hands that he was a man who could be trusted, and his pointed reference to the Great Spirit conveyed an impression that truth and justice must be his guiding principles. And on this point these children of nature read his character correctly, for, as I have had frequent occasion to observe, my friend was strictly truthful, and, I might almost say, sternly just. Duty indeed was his pole-star--duty to God and man. "Max," he once said to me when we had got into a confidential chat beside our camp-fire, "let me advise you to take a sound view, and a good grasp, of what men call duty. There is a right and a wrong in everything that the mind or hand of man can be brought to bear upon. It is our duty to discover and do the right if we can--to recognise and avoid the wrong. True success in life depends upon this principle being acted on at all times, and in all things. Even what worldly men deem success--the acquisition of wealth, fame, etcetera--is largely dependent on strict regard to duty." Of course I heartily agreed with him in this matter, but I am free to confess that I feel woefully far short of the standard to which he attained. Perhaps a soft and somewhat undecided nature had something to do with my failure. I say not this by way of excuse but explanation. Whatever the cause, I felt so very far below my friend that I looked up to him as a sort of demigod. Strange to say, his affection for me was also very strong. He never seemed to perceive my weak points--but, then, he was of a large-hearted, generous disposition, and he came to be loved not only by me and the Indians, but by the men of the expedition, some of whom, although good workers, were rather turbulent fellows. All things having been satisfactorily arranged, as detailed in the last chapter, we now set about preparation for wintering. The first point to settle was the site for our establishment, and a council of the whole party was called to settle it on the lawn-like spot on the margin of our lake where the first fire had been kindled. "No spot could be better, I think," said our chief, as we stood in a picturesque group around him, with Masqua, Mozwa, and several other Indians looking on. "The little rising ground and clump of wood at the back will shelter us from the north winds; the underwood on the east and west is sufficiently high to form a slight protection in those directions, and to the south the island-studded bosom of Lake Wichikagan lies spread out before us, to supply us with fish and water, and a cheering prospect." "And to remind Donald Bane and James Dougall," said I, "of Loch Lomond or Loch Ness." "I rather think," said Lumley, "that it strikes Dougall as having more resemblance to Loch Awe, if we may judge from the awesome expression of his face." "Weel, Muster Lumley," returned Dougall with a slight smile, "not to spoil your choke, sir, it wass thinkin' o' the fush I wass, an' wonderin' if they wass goot fush." "Big Otter says they are good," returned our chief, "and I think we may rely on his opinion. There's a little stretch of rock over there, jutting out from the shore, which could be made into a capital pier for our boats and canoes without much labour. What say you, Henri Coppet; could not a few trees and some planks be easily fitted to these rocks?" "Oui, monsieur--yes, sir--very easily," answered the carpenter, in French. "Ay, an' wan or two big stones on the other pint o' rocks there," observed Donald Bane, "would make a goot breakwater, an' a fine harbour, whatever." "And I'm sure nothing could be finer than the view," said I, with feelings of enthusiasm. "Well, then, since we all seem agreed on that point--here shall our house be raised," rejoined Lumley, driving the point of a stick he carried into the ground. "Come now, boys, go to work. Max, you will superintend the placing of the goods in a secure position and cover them with tarpaulin in the meantime. We'll soon have a hut ready. Dumont, set up your forge under yon pine-tree and get your tools ready. Overhaul your nets, Blondin, and take Salamander to help you--especially the seine-net; I'll try a sweep this afternoon or to-morrow. Come here, Max, I want to speak with you." "Now, Max," he said, when we had gone aside some distance, "see that you arrange the goods so that they may be easily guarded, and don't let the redskins come too near. They may be honest enough, but we won't throw temptation in their way. We shall want one of them, by the bye, to keep house for us. What say you to hiring Waboose?" "Out of the question," said I, quickly. "Why so, Max?" "Why, because--don't you see--she's far above that sort o' thing, she's quite a kind of princess in the tribe. Haven't you noticed how respectful they all are to her? And, besides, she is so--what one might almost call ladylike. I am convinced that her father must have been a gentleman." "Perhaps so," returned Lumley, with a quiet laugh; "well, we won't insult her by asking her to fill such a position. Away to work now. I will sketch out the plan of our establishment. When the goods are all safe, send your men to fell heavy timber for the houses, and let them also cut some firewood. Off you go." In a few minutes we were all at work, busy as bees--carrying, hauling, cutting, hammering and chopping; while some of the Indians looked on, intensely interested, others assisted under the direction of Big Otter, and the woods resounded with the noise of the new-born activity. Soon Blondin had a net down, and before evening we had caught enough of that splendid staple of the North American lakes, the whitefish, to supply us with a good meal and leave something over for our red friends. I observed during these operations that, after planning, sketching, and measuring, our chief took his axe into the wood and felled a tall pine, from which he proceeded to remove the branches and bark. Towards evening he took a spade, and dug a deep hole in the ground on the most prominent part of the lawn, in front of what was to be our future home. "Come now, four of you," he said, "and help me to set up our flag-staff." I ran with three others to assist, and in another minute or two the end of the tall taper stick was dropped into the hole and fixed there. A hole had been already bored in the top and a rope rove through it, to which Lumley soon attached the corners of a small red bundle. "Ho! lads," he shouted, when all was ready, in a voice that rang out full and strong, "Fall in!" We had previously been trained to obey this order with the utmost alacrity, by running towards our leader, carrying our loaded guns with us, and forming into line, so as to be ready for any emergency. It was a fancy of Lumley to drill us thus, and we fell in with his humour, most of us counting it a piece of fun, to break off from what we chanced to be doing at the moment the order was given, and trying who should be first to reach the spot where he stood. As our guns were always loaded and primed, we never had to lose time in charging them. On the occasion of which I write, we amazed and somewhat alarmed the Indians by our prompt action, for we stood together in a silent row in less than half a minute after the summons was shouted. "I have called you up, lads," said Lumley, "to take part in a little ceremony. Through the goodness of the Almighty we have been brought in safety and health to our new home. It is already part of the Queen of England's dominions, and I now take possession of it in the name of the Hudson's Bay Company. May God prosper and bless us while we stay here!" He hoisted, as he spoke, the small red bundle, which when shaken out proved to be a flag on which were the letters HBC in white. "Now, boys, send a volley at the new moon up there. Ready--present-- fire! Hoorah!" The crash of the united volley and the wild huzza which followed caused many a redskin's heart to leap, and would doubtless have caused many a foot to run, but for the fact that their own redskin brother--Big Otter--was one of the firing party, and, perhaps, the wildest cheerer of the band! The ceremony ended, orders were given to knock off work for the day, and set about the preparation oh supper. The food was sweet that night, sweeter than usual, for we were very hungry; the stars were bright that night, brighter than usual, for we were very happy at the auspicious commencement of our sojourn; and our sleep was unusually sound, for we felt safer than ever under the guidance of a chief who had proved himself so capable of turning threatened war into peace. This being the condition of things, it was not surprising that we indulged in a longer rest than usual, and continued to slumber long after the sun had risen and converted Lake Wichikagan into a glorious sheet of silver. It is true that our guide, with that sense of responsibility which seems to weigh heavy on guides even when asleep, had awakened at the usual hour of starting--daybreak--and, from the mere force of habit, had given forth his accustomed and sonorous "Leve! leve!"--rise, rise. From the mere force of habit, too, we all turned round to have a few seconds repose on our other sides before obeying the order, but suddenly light flashed into our minds, and various growls in varied keys saluted our guide. "Go to sleep, men," said our chief, with a half laugh, which ended in a sigh of contentment. French growls of doubtful meaning issued from the lips of Dumont and Coppet, but Blondin condescended on no remark at all, unless "Pooh!" may be considered such. "Hoots! man--heigh-ho!" remonstrated Donald Bane, while his comrade Dougall merely said, "Wow!" and followed it with a prolonged snore. For myself, I felt inclined to laugh, but, being much too lazy to do so, turned over, and was instantly lost again in oblivion. The whole camp was immediately in the same condition, and thus, as I have said, we remained till the sun was high. Soon after daybreak, however, the Indians began to stir in their camp-- which lay a little apart from ours--and, ascending a slight eminence, whence they could look down on our slumbering forms at their leisure, squatted there and continued to gaze--perhaps to wonder how long we meant to rest. They were soon joined by others--men, women, and children--from the neighbouring camp. Self-restraint, at least in some matters, is a characteristic of the red-men, and they remained very patiently and silently there; even the children spoke in whispers, and gazed in solemn earnestness at our slumbering camp. When we rose and began active preparations for breakfast, the little ones melted away--influenced either by fear or by the orders of their parents. They returned, however, in greater force than ever when we began the labours of the day. Being all more or less naked, they resembled a band of brown monkeys without tails, whose great eyes were capable of expressing only one powerful sentiment--that of surprise! Thus, watched with deep interest by a large portion of the tribe, we proceeded to the erection of the first house. "The Hall will stand here, Max," said Lumley to me, as I approached him, bearing one end of a long squared log on my shoulder, the other end of which was carried by Big Otter, while Bane and one of the Canadians supported the centre of it. "Set it down there, lads--a little more this way--so." We laid the timber on the green sward facing the lake, in such a way that it corresponded with the front line of a large square which had been traced on the turf by Lumley. "Stay with me, Max, I want your help and advice." The men went back to the bush, from which, at the same moment, four others of our party issued, bearing a similar log. It was laid at the other side of the square, parallel to the first one. In a few minutes the two end logs were carried up and deposited in their places. These logs had all been cut, squared, mortised at their ends, and fitted together in the woods before being brought to the lawn. "Now, the question is," said Lumley, as he stood with coat off, shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and pencil and plan in hand, "shall we turn the front of the house a little more to the south or a little more to the east? We must decide that now, before fixing the framework together." "We should get more of the rising sun," said I, "if we turned it more towards the east. And you know we shall not have too much of its beams in winter to gladden our hearts and eyes." "Right, Max, but then we might have too much of the east winds to trouble our toes and noses." "Still the view eastward," said I, "is so extensive and varied--so full of sublimity." "While that to the southward," urged Lumley, "is so soft and beautiful-- so full of poetry and romance." "Come, Jack, don't laugh at me. You know that I am not jesting; I mean what I say." "I know it, Max, but though I may seem to be half jesting, is it not possible that I, too, may thoroughly mean what I say?" He pointed as he spoke to the southward, where certain combinations of light and shade thrown on the numerous islets as well as on the clouds-- all of which were reflected in the clear water--presented a scene which it is easier to imagine than describe. I at once admitted the justice of his remark, and it was finally settled that the house should face due south. "Fix the frame together now, Coppet," said Lumley to our carpenter, who came forward with a load of small timbers, "and let it face as it now lies. The ground is fortunately so flat that we won't require much levelling of foundations. Now, the next thing, Max," he added, turning to me and consulting the plan, "is this--have we made the best possible arrangement of our space? You see I am not much of an architect, but luckily we have not to contend with the civilised difficulties of lobbies and staircases." "You intend our palace to have only one storey, I suppose?" said I. "Just so, Max. Arctic gales, you see, might carry a top storey off. We shall have no lobby at all--only a front door and a back door entering direct upon our hall. Of course I shall have a porch and door outside of each, to keep wind and snow out. Now, see here. There, you observe, is the foundation frame now being laid down. Well, one-third of the space in the middle is to be the hall--our drawing-room, dining-room, library, snuggery, smokery, public-room, etcetera, all in one. It will extend from front to rear of the building; but at the back, you see, I have marked a little oblong space which is to be boarded off as a sort of larder, and gun-room, and place for rubbish in general. It will extend along the width of the hall, leaving only space for the back door." "What a capital contrivance!" said I; "it will, besides being so useful, break in on the oblong shape of the hall and give variety of form." "Just so, Max; then the space left on each side of the hall shall be partitioned off into four rooms--two on either side--with the doors opening into the hall. No passages, you see, anywhere, and no wasted space. One room for me, one for you, one for Salamander, who is to be our man-servant as well as interpreter, and one for Blondin, whom I intend to make a sort of overseer of the men. We shan't want a spare room, for we won't be troubled much, I fear, with guests; but if such a blessing should ever descend on us, we can turn Blondin or Salamander out. They will have to mess with the men at any rate; and, by the way, we must start the men's house and the store immediately, for I intend to carry on all three at the same time, so that we and the men and the goods may all get housed together." "Are you to have attics?" I asked. "No; but there will be a space under the sloping roof, which can be turned into a garret, and may be reached through a trap-door by a movable ladder. As to windows, the hall is to have two--one on each side of the door, which will give the house the lively aspect of appearing to have two eyes and a nose. The bedrooms will each have one window in its side, and you may take the one looking eastward if you choose, Max. In winter these windows shall have double frames and glass to keep the cold out. Go now, my boy, and see to the foundation of the men's house." Need I say that we all toiled with hearty good-will; for, although the weather was pleasantly warm at the time, we knew that the short-lived autumn would quickly pass and render a good roof over our heads most desirable. Soon a pit-saw which we had brought with us was set to work, and planks began to multiply. Henri Coppet and his men swung their great axes, and trees began to fall around, and to take unwonted shapes. The ring of Marcelle Dumont's anvil was heard from morn till eve, echoing through the wild-woods; and powerful bands, and nuts, and screws, of varied size and form, were evolved from our bundle of iron bars. Thus the whole party wrought with untiring energy, and our future abode began to grow. At all this our red friends gazed with countenances expressive of inconceivable surprise and profound admiration. CHAPTER TWELVE. A NARROW ESCAPE--A STRANGE MEETING, AND A HALF-REVEALED MYSTERY. One afternoon, not very long after our arrival at Lake Wichikagan, Lumley and I found ourselves on the summit of a rising ground which was scantily clothed with trees, and from the top of which we could see the region all round like a map spread at our feet. We were out after a black bear whose footprints had led us to the spot. "Bruin has escaped us this time," said Lumley, "and I don't feel disposed to go after him any further. You see, Max, I must be up early to-morrow to superintend Coppet at his water-mill, so I would advise resting here a bit to refresh ourselves at this spring, and then make tracks for home." He descended as he spoke towards a small basin in the rocks, into which fell a rivulet formed by the spring referred to, and flung himself down beside it. Seating myself at his side I said:-- "Coppet needs superintendence, I suspect, for although he is an excellent carpenter and reliable workman, I'm not sure that he understands complicated or large works--except, indeed, the building of houses; but then he has been taught that since he was a boy." "That's just it, Max," returned Lumley, filling the hollow of his hand with clear water for want of a better drinking-cup, "he can do anything which he has been taught, but I find that he cannot originate, and suspect that he has not a very deep knowledge of the strength of materials or the power of forces. The worst of it is that neither you nor I are very profound in such matters. However, we must do our best and make everything ten times stronger than there is any occasion for, and thus make up for the lack of engineering knowledge." "Shall you want my help to-morrow earlier than usual?" I asked. "No--not till after breakfast." "Well then, as there is no necessity for my going to bed before my ordinary time, I'll let you return alone, for I don't feel at all disposed to give up this bear after tracking him so many hours. He's only a small one, to judge from his footprints, and I am a pretty sure shot, you know." "Be it so, Max--but don't be late, else I'll have to send men to look for you!" Lumley got up and left me--making a straight line for Fort Wichikagan, as we had named our outpost, and leaving me in a dreamy state of mind beside the spring. It was a delightful afternoon in that most charming period of the American season which is styled the Indian summer; when mosquitoes, sand-flies, and all other insect-tormentors disappear, and the weather seems to take a last enjoyable fortnight of sunny repose before breaking into winter. I fell into a pleasant reverie. The backwoods of the Great Nor'-west vanished from my mental view, and, with eyes half closed, I indulged in memories of home and all its sweet associations. Bethinking me suddenly of my reason for remaining where I was, I sprang up, seized my gun, and began to follow the trail of the bear. Before descending from the eminence, however, I took a look round the landscape, and saw the figure of an Indian woman in the distance, proceeding towards our fort. Although too far-off to be distinguished by feature, I could clearly perceive the light-blue cotton kerchief which formed part of the dress of Waboose. At once my interest in the bear vanished, and I began to follow the Indian girl instead. I had not seen her since the evening of our arrival at the lake, and I felt a strong desire to make further inquiries as to the circumstances of her father's life among the Indians and his unfortunate death. Waboose had not seen me. By making a wide and rapid detour I got in front of her and sat down on a fallen tree at a spot where she was sure to pass. As she drew near, I could not fail to observe how graceful her port was, and how different from that of the other girls with whom her lot had been cast. "Assuredly," muttered I to myself, "her father was a gentleman!" Leaving my gun on the bank on which I had been seated, I advanced to meet her. She showed a very slight symptom of surprise, and, I thought, of uneasiness, on seeing me, but made no remark until I had spoken. At first I was about to adopt the Indian style of address, and begin with "my red sister," but the phrase, besides being false, appeared to me ridiculous; still, the ice had to be broken somehow, so I made a bungling plunge. "Blue-eyes wanders far to-day from the wigwams of her--her--people?" A gleam of surprise mingled with pleasure rippled over her pretty face when she found that I could speak to her in the native tongue. "Yes," she replied in the same language. "I have wandered far. I was the bearer of a message." As she volunteered no more I continued: "If Waboose goes to her wigwam, will she object to the pale-face bearing her company?" With something like a graceful inclination of the head, the Indian girl gave me to understand that she had no objection. "An _Indian_!" thought I, "she's a _lady_ in disguise, as sure as I am a fur-trader!" Of course I was careful not to give her, either by tone or look, the slightest hint of what was passing in my mind, and was about to continue my remarks, when a rustling in the bushes caused us both to look round quickly. The foliage parted next moment close to us, and before I had time to think a large brown bear bounded into the open space. It seemed to be taken as much by surprise as we were, and I have no doubt would have turned and fled if it had not been so near. It rose on its hind legs, however, to attack us, and then I perceived that it was not the small bear which Lumley and I had been tracking. The blood rushed to my head when I remembered that the monster stood between me and the bank on which my gun was lying! Then the feeling that the helpless Indian girl was at its mercy filled me with feelings which are indescribable. Thought is swifter than the lightning-flash. Much more than I have written flashed through my brain during those two or three seconds, but one overmastering idea filled me--I would save _her_, or perish! I glanced sharply round. To my surprise she had fled! So much the better. I could at least keep the creature engaged till she had got well away. Drawing the small hatchet which like all Nor'westers I carried in my belt, I rushed at the bear and made a cut at its head with all the force that lay in my arm. Where the blow fell I know not, but apparently it was ineffective, for, with a quick vicious turn of its paw, the bear struck my weapon from my hand with such violence that it flew over the tree-tops as if shot from a catapult, and I stood unarmed--helpless--at the creature's mercy! The terrible feeling that death was so near almost unnerved me, but the thought of Waboose caused me to utter a roar of mingled rage and despair as I doubled my fist and launched it full against the monster's nose! At that moment a loud report at my ear deafened and almost stunned me. Next instant the bear lay dead at my feet. I looked round and beheld Waboose standing close to me with my gun in her hands! "Noble heroine!" I exclaimed, but as I exclaimed it in English she did not understand. She had, indeed, a very slight smattering of that language--of which more hereafter--but "Noble heroine" was not at that time in her vocabulary! Instead of trembling or looking pale, as I might have expected to see her, Waboose looked at me in the most composed manner, and with something on her lip that seemed to me like a smile of amusement. In some confusion, I thanked her for having saved my life. She did not object to the thanks, but replied by asking me if it was the usual practice of white men to attack bears with their fists. I could not help laughing at this. "No, Waboose," I replied, as I recharged my gun, "it is by no means usual; but when a man has no other weapon at hand, he is compelled to use his fists. And let me tell you," I added, for I was somewhat nettled by the obvious laugh that nestled in the girl's blue eyes,--"let me tell you that we English are pretty good at using our fists." "I know that," she replied, becoming suddenly very grave as we walked on. "You know that?" I repeated in surprise; "how came you to know that?" "My dear father was English," she answered in a low sad tone that smote me to the heart for having felt nettled--though I believe I did not show the feeling on my face or in my tone. "Ah! Big Otter told me that," said I, in an earnest tone of sympathy. "If it does not hurt her feelings too much to recall the past, I should like Waboose to tell me about her father." The girl looked at me in surprise. I had a fancy, at the time, that this was the result of the novel sensation of a man having any consideration for her feelings, for Indian braves are not, as a rule, much given to think about the feelings of their women. Indeed, from the way in which many of them behave, it is probable that some red-men think their women have no feelings at all. In a low, melodious voice, and with some of that poetic imagery which marks the language, more or less, of all North American Indians, the girl began to speak--raising her eyes wistfully the while to the sky, as if she were communing with her own thoughts rather than speaking to me. "My father was good--oh! _so_ good and kind," she said. "When I was small, like the foolish rabbit when it is a baby, he used to take me on his shoulders and run with me over the prairie like the wild mustang. Sometimes he put me in his bark canoe and skimmed with me over Lake Wichikagan till I fancied I was a grey-goose or a swan. Ah! those were happy days! No one can ever understand how much my father loved me. My mother loves me much, but she is not like my father. Perhaps it is the nature of the pale-faces to love more deeply than the red-men." Waboose uttered this last sentence as if she were questioning the sky on the point. I felt at the time that there was at least one pale-face who loved her better than all the red-men or women on earth, but a sense of justice caused me to repudiate the general idea. "No, Waboose," said I, firmly, "that is a mistake. Rough surroundings and a harsh life will indeed modify the heart's affections, but the mere colour of the skin has nothing to do with it. The heart of the redskin can love as deeply as that of the white man--both were made by the same Great Master of Life." The girl cast her eyes meditatively on the ground and murmured simply, "It may be so." The reader must not suppose that I expressed my meaning in the Indian tongue during this conversation as clearly as I have set it down in English. No doubt I mangled the sentences and confused the ideas sadly, nevertheless Waboose seemed to have no difficulty in understanding me. I had certainly none in comprehending her. I was about to ask Waboose to relate the circumstances of her father's death while in the act of rescuing her mother, but feeling that it might cause her needless pain, and that I could get the details as easily from some of the Indians, I asked her instead where her father came from. She looked at me sadly as she replied-- "I cannot tell. My dear father had nothing to conceal from me but that. On all other things his heart was open. He spoke to me of all the wonders of this world, and of other places that my people know nothing of, and of the great Master of Life, and of His Son Jesus, who came to save us from evil, and of the countries where his white brothers live; but when I asked him where he came from, he used to pat my head and smile, and say that he would perhaps tell me one day, but not just then. I shall never know it now." "At all events you must know his name, Waboose?" "His name was Weeum," replied the girl quickly. "Was that all?" "All," she replied with a quick look, "was not that enough?" "Well, perhaps it was," I replied, scarce knowing what to say. "And why did he give you the name of Waboose?" I asked. "Because when I was small I was round and soft," replied the girl, with a slight smile, "like the little animal of that name. He told me that in his own language the animal is called rubbit." "Rabbit, not rubbit," said I, with a laugh. "My father taught me rubbit," returned Waboose, with a simple look, "and he was _always_ right." I felt that it would be useless to press my correction, and therefore changed the subject by asking if her father had never tried to teach her English. Immediately she answered, with a somewhat bashful air-- "Yes, a leetil." "Why, you can _speak_ English, Waboose," I exclaimed, stopping and looking down at her with increasing interest. "No--note mush, but me un'erstan' good--deal," she returned, with a hearty laugh at my expression. I found on trial, however, that the girl's knowledge of English was so slight that we could not readily converse in it. We therefore fell back on the Indian tongue. "I wish I had known your father, Waboose," I said earnestly. "He must have been a very good man." She looked at me gratefully. "Yes," she returned, "he was _very_ good." As she said this Waboose cast on me a look which I could not understand; it was so intense, as if she were trying to read my thoughts, and at the same time seemed mingled with doubt. Then, with some hesitation, she said-- "My father left a secret with me. He told me never to show it to my tribe, as they could not understand it--not even to my mother." "What is the secret, Waboose?" I asked, seeing that she hesitated again and looked at me with another of her searching glances. "I do not know," she replied. "It must indeed be a secret, if none of your people know it, and you don't know it yourself," I returned with a peculiar smile. "It is a written secret, I believe, but I--I--do not know. He told me never to show it to any but a white man--to one whom I felt that I could trust. May I trust _you_?" she asked, looking me full in the face. The question naturally surprised as well as flattered me. "You may trust me, Waboose," I said earnestly, laying my hand involuntarily on my heart, "I would die rather than deceive or injure you." She seemed satisfied and resumed in a low tone-- "Not long before my dear father died he took me into the woods to walk in a place that we were both fond of. We had long sweet talks in that wood; sometimes walking under the trees, sometimes sitting on the hill-tops, and always happy--very happy! One day he looked sad. He took my hand as we sat together on a bank. He said, `I have sometimes longed to open up all my heart to you, my rubbit,' (he was fond of calling me by the English name), `but I cannot do so yet.'" "`Why not, my father?' I asked. "`Because--because--' he answered, `it could do no good, and it might do harm. No, my rubbit, the time may come, but not now--not yet. Listen; for your mother's sake I left the home of the pale-faces and came to live with your tribe. For her sake I shall remain. But you know that life is uncertain. We cannot tell when the Great Master of Life may call us away. Sometimes he calls us suddenly and we are forced to leave our works unfinished. I may be called away thus, before the time comes when I may tell you what I want you to know. If so, you will find it all here.' "My father took from the breast of his coat a small bundle wrapped in birch-bark and placed it in my hands. "`Do not open it,' he said. `Do not show it to man or woman in the tribe. They could not understand, but if ever a white man comes here, _whom you feel that you can trust_, show it to him.' "My father rose as he said this, and as he seemed to wish not to speak more about it, I did not trouble him, but I went and hid the parcel with care. It was almost immediately afterwards that my dear father was taken from me." We were suddenly interrupted at this point by the appearance of a man in the distance walking smartly towards us. I could perceive, as he drew near, that it was James Dougall. "Well, well, Muster Maxby," he said on coming up, "it's gled I am to find you. I've been seekin' you far an' near." "Nothing wrong, I hope, Dougall," said I with some anxiety, on observing that the man was perspiring and panting vehemently. "No, no, nothin' wrong, Muster Maxby, only it's runnin' aboot the wuds I've been, lookin' for ye an' skirlin' like a pair o' pipes. We're aboot to draw the seine-net, ye see, an' Tonald Pane said it would be a peety, says he, to begin when ye wur awa', an' Muster Lumley agreet wi' um, an' sent me oot to seek for 'ee--that's a'." "Come along then, Dougall, we won't keep them waiting." Nodding adieu to Waboose, I hurried away towards Fort Wichikagan, followed by the sturdy Highlander. CHAPTER THIRTEEN. FISHING AND ITS RESULTS--ENGINEERING AND ITS CONSEQUENCES. I found on reaching Wichikagan that the fun was about to begin. Blondin, who was our chief fisherman, had let down a long seine-net, which was being drawn slowly in by a band of natives, whose interest in a process which they had never before seen was deepening into excitement, as they observed here and there a symptom of something shooting below the surface of the still water, or beheld a large fish leap frantically into the air. At first, when the net was being prepared, those children of the forest had merely stood by and looked on with curiosity. When Blondin and his men rowed out from the shore, letting the net drop off the stern of our boat as they went, they indulged in a few guesses and undertoned remarks. When the boat gradually swept round and turned shoreward again, having left a long line of floats in its wake, they perceived that a large sheet of water had been enclosed, and a feeling of wonder, combined with a half guess as to what all this portended caused their black orbs to enlarge, and the whites thereof to glisten. But when they were requested to lay hold of a rope attached to the other end of the net and haul, the true state of the case burst upon their awakened minds and proportionate excitement followed. As the circle of the net diminished and the evidences, above referred to, of life in the water became more frequent, gleeful expectation took the place of wonder, and a disposition to chatter manifested itself, especially among the women and children, who by that time had eagerly laid hold of the drag-rope. Soon it became apparent that a mighty mass of fish had been enclosed, and the creatures seemed themselves to become suddenly alive to their danger, for the crowded condition of their element--which, no doubt, caused only surprise at first--became so inconvenient that with one accord they made a terrified rush to the right. Failing to obtain relief they turned and rushed to the left. Discomfited again, they dashed lakeward. Each rush was followed by a howl of anxiety from the natives; each failure was hailed with a yell of joy. Three birch-bark canoes followed the net to send the more obstreperous of the fish shoreward. Finding that they could not escape, the finny prisoners seemed to lose their wits and took to rushing skyward, with splashing consequences that almost drove the red-men mad! "Hold on! not so hard! You'll break it!" shouted Lumley to the men and women at the rope. "What a tremendous haul!" said I, as I joined my friend, who stood at the outer end of our little wharf, enjoying the scene. "I hope the net won't break," he replied. "If it does we shall lose them all, and the disappointment to the Indians might be almost too much to bear. See, they prepare for action!" This was very obvious. The men of the tribe, who might be described as glaring maniacs, had dropped their robes, and, almost naked, ran waist-deep into the water in a vain attempt to catch some of the larger fish as they were slowly forced towards the beach. Even some of the women lost self-control and, regardless of petticoats, floundered after the men. As for the children, big and little, they developed into imps of darkness gone deranged. Suddenly a very wave of fish was sent upon the shore, where, of course, they began to leap about wildly. Not less wildly did the Indians leap among them, throttling the big ones and hurling armfuls of the lesser ones high up on the sward. By that time the net was close in shore. The whole of the enclosed space became a sweltering mass. Treading on the fish at last, many of both men and boys slipped in the water, and fell down over head and ears, so that the spectacle was presented of human beings bounding out of the water in apparent emulation of their prey. The excitement was almost too much for them. Several of the boys were seen to rush up into the woods and dash back again, with no apparent reason except the desire to get rid of superabundant energy. One brave, in particular, so far forgot the characteristic dignity of the red-man, that he rushed up on the bank, bent forward, clapped a hand on each knee, threw back his head, shut his eyes, opened wide his mouth, and sought to relieve his feelings in one stupendous roar. But it would not do. He became suddenly solemn, glared again, and went at the fish more furiously than ever. Our men in the canoes landed, and rendered assistance. Salamander was in one of the canoes which ran alongside of the wharf. The only other occupant was Donald Bane, who sat in the stern and steered. Salamander was greatly excited. As the canoe ran up to the wharf, the bow was thrust over the net-rope, and he gazed at the struggling creatures below with intense delight on his brown visage. "You had petter take care," said Donald Bane, as he grasped the edge of the wharf, and cautiously rose up, "for canoes are easily overturned." But Salamander was too much engrossed to hear or reply. The Highlander, who had not forgotten the trick formerly played on him and his countryman by the interpreter, stepped carefully out on the wharf. As he did so, he gave the canoe a little tilt with his foot, and Salamander went head-foremost down among the fish! A simulated cry of consternation broke from Donald Bane. "Wow--wow!" he exclaimed, as Salamander's head appeared with a number of little fish struggling in his hair, and a pike or jack-fish holding on to the lobe of his left ear, "the poor cratur! Tak a grup o' my hand, man. Here! wow! but it seems a fery frundly jack-fush that--whatever." Amid much spluttering, Salamander was hauled out, and, regardless of his mishap, both he and Donald immediately joined the others in securing their prey. "It wass a grand haul, man, Tonald," said Dougall that night at supper. "Oo ay, Shames. It was no that paad," replied Donald. And, truly, it _was_ a grand haul; for, not only did we obtain enough of every species of fish that swarmed in Lake Wichikagan, to provide a right royal feast to ourselves and our red friends, but a good many were left over and above to form the commencement of a store for the future. By that time we had fairly commenced the fishery with a view to a winter supply. The weather was still delicious, and had begun to grow cool at nights, but as there was yet no frost, all the fish we took had to be hung up by the tail, and thus partially dried. Afterwards, when the frost fairly set in, this hanging process was dispensed with, for fish, once frozen in those regions, remain perfectly fresh during the entire winter, so that those eaten in spring are quite as good as those consumed in autumn. Lumley now set me to superintend the digging and constructing of an ice-house, which should be ready to receive in spring the ice that would be required to keep our provisions fresh during the following summer. It consisted merely of a shallow square pit or hole in the ground, over which a log hut was constructed. The pit we intended to floor with solid cubes of ice measuring about a yard on each side. This lowest foundation, in those northern ice-houses, never melts, but a fresh stratum is laid above it which is cleared out and renewed every spring, and it is amongst this that the meat or fish to be preserved is laid in summer. Another piece of work that Lumley gave me to superintend at this time was the construction of a water-wheel and dam to drive our pit-saw. You see, I had a turn for mechanics, and was under the impression that my powers in that way were greater than they afterwards turned out to be. We were sitting at tea alone in our hall at the time the subject was mooted. "Where have you sent the carpenter?" I asked, as I pushed in my pannikin for more of the refreshing beverage. I must interrupt the thread of my narrative here for a moment to say that we took no crockery with us on that expedition. Our cups were tin pannikins, our plates were made of tin; our pots and kettles were either tin or copper. We had no sugar basins, or butter-dishes, or table-cloths, or any of the other amenities of civilised life. But everything we had was strong and serviceable, and the same may be said of the things we constructed. The deal tables and chairs made for us by Coppet were very strong if not elegant, and the plank walls and ceiling of our rooms were cheerful, though neither papered nor whitewashed. It has often struck me, while sojourning in the great Nor'-west, that civilised man surrounds himself with a great many needless luxuries which do not by any means add to his comfort, though the removal of them might add considerably to his distress. But to return. "Coppet is off," said Lumley in reply to my question, "to get some timber for oars, as well as birch-bark to make a canoe or two; we must also set about making a new boat some day or other." "Lumley," said I, "it has often occurred to me that it takes a terrible deal of time to cut trees into planks with our pit-saws, and occupies far too much of the time of two men who might be much more profitably employed." "True, Max--what then?" "Why then," said I, "what would you say if I were to construct a saw-mill!" "I'd say you were a clever fellow," replied my friend, with one of his knowing looks. "But what say you to my making the attempt?" "Do so, by all means, my boy--only don't use up too many pit-saws in the attempt!" I saw that he did not believe in my powers, and became all the more determined to succeed. Accordingly, I went next day with Coppet and Dumont, on whom of course I depended for the carrying out of my designs, to examine the ground where the mill-dam was to be made. "You see," I explained, "we have a superabundance of water in the rivulet at the back of the fort, and by collecting it we may get any amount of power we please, which is of importance, because it will enable us to simplify the machinery." "Oui, oui, monsieur," said Coppet, who either was, or wished to appear, very knowing on such matters. "Now," continued I, "here is a natural basin formed by rocks, which only wants a small dam at its lower end to enable us to collect water enough to drive the biggest mill in the world. By making our opening at the very bottom of the basin, the pressure of water, when it is full, will be so great that a very small water-wheel, without any multiplying gear, will suffice to drive our saw--don't you see?" "Oui, monsieur, oui," answered Dumont, whose knitted brows showed that the worthy blacksmith was at least doing his best to understand me. "Well, then," I continued, "you see that we shall have no difficulty as to the dam. Then, as to the wheel, it will be a simple one of not more than four feet diameter, presented vertically to what I may term the water-spout, so that its axle, which will have a crank in it, will work the saw direct; thus, avoiding toothed wheels and cogs, we shall avoid friction, and, if need be, increase the speed easily, d'you see?" "Bon, monsieur--good, good," exclaimed Coppet, becoming quite enthusiastic in his appreciation of my plans. "Of course," I continued, "the saw can easily be fitted to a frame, and a very simple contrivance can be made to drive along the larger frame that will carry the logs to be sawn; but these are trifling matters of detail which you and I will work out at our leisure, Dumont." "Oui, monsieur, oui," replied the blacksmith, with tighter knitted brows, and with a readiness of assent which I do believe the good fellow would have accorded if I had proposed to fit a new axis to the world. "There is only one thing that troubles me," said I: "how are we to gauge or estimate the force of our water-spout so as to regulate our mill when made? Do you understand such matters--the measurement of force-- Coppet?" The carpenter shook his head. "That's unfortunate. Do you, Dumont?" "Non, Monsieur." "H'm! I'm sadly ignorant on the point myself," I continued. "Of course I know that so many cubic feet of water will exert a certain pressure, but then I don't know what that certain pressure is, nor how to find out how many cubic feet our somewhat irregular dam will contain. Nor do I know precisely the strength of the material required in the dam to resist the water." Dumont humbly suggested here that we could at all events act on the principle that guided Adam and Eve in the formation of their first water-mill, and find out by experiment. And Coppet said that we could get over the difficulty about the strength of materials by making everything ten times stronger than was required. "You are right lads," said I, much amused with the earnest manner in which they gave the advice. "Now let us go at it without delay, so that we may get into working order before the frost stops us." We set to with enthusiasm, and progressed with our labour much faster than I had expected. The natural basin, to which I have referred, lay just below a ledge of rock over which the rivulet flowed into it, forming a pretty deep pool about ten feet in diameter. Flowing out of this pool, it ran about twelve feet further through a narrow gorge, where it dropped over another ledge. Now, all that we had to do was to shut up the outlet of the narrow gorge with a strong dam, and so cause the pool to swell and rise into a small but very deep pond. Our first step was to divert the channel of the brook so as to leave us free to construct the dam. The nature of the ground rendered this easy enough. Then, before going further, we made the trough which was to conduct the water out of the dam. It was made of four strong planks about ten feet long and eight inches wide, forming, so to speak, a square pipe. This we laid firmly in the bottom of the basin with its end projecting over the lower ledge. To the inner end we attached a perpendicular piece of wooden piping which rose several feet from the ground. This was meant to prevent mud and stones from getting into, and choking, the pipe. This done, we laid some very large timbers over the pipe and across the opening of the gorge, above and between which we put heavy stones and large quantities of gravel--also turf and twigs, and all sorts of rubbish. Thus was the dam begun, and we continued the process until we raised it to a height of some twenty feet or so. "What a magnificent pool it will be to dive in!" said Lumley, one day, when he came to see us at work. "Won't it," said I; "especially in winter!" "Whatever happens to your works, the dam, I think, will never give way," continued Lumley; "it seems to me unnecessarily strong." Not to try the reader's patience, I may say at once that we advanced with our labour without a hitch until it was nearly finished. To the opening in the pipe or spout we attached a powerful sluice, by which to stop the flow desired, and, all being ready, broke down the dyke that had turned aside our stream, and let the water in. Of course we had constructed an overflow part of the basin, by which to conduct the surplus water back to its proper channel below our works. It was a trying moment when we first let the water in. Would it leak?-- would it break down?--was in everyone's mind. I had no fear as to the latter point, but felt uncertain as to the former. We had much longer to wait, however, for the filling than I had expected; but when at last it was full up to the brim, and the trees around were reflected on its surface, and no leak appeared anywhere, I could not resist giving a cheer, which was heartily taken up and echoed by our whole party--for we had all assembled to watch the result. "Now, Coppet, lend a hand at the winch. We'll open the sluice and observe the force." After a few turns our winch refused to move, and only a small part of the opening had been uncovered, from which the water was squirting furiously. "Something wrong," said I, looking down at the men below. "Just take a look, Salamander, and see what it is." Our lively interpreter went down on hands and knees and made an earnest examination, despite the squirting water. "Oh! I sees. All right now," he shouted, "heave away!" "Get out of the way, then," we cried, as we once more applied all our force to the winch. It turned with unexpected suddenness, the sluice flew up, and out came a straight column of water with extreme violence. It hit Salamander full in the stomach, lifted him off his legs, and swept him right down the gully, pitching him headlong over another ledge, where he fell with such force that his mortal career had certainly been ended then and there but for a thick juniper bush, which fortunately broke his fall. As it was, he was little the worse of his adventure, but he had learned a lesson of prompt obedience to orders which he did not soon forget. I now planned a sort of movable buffer by which the force of the water-spout could be diminished or even turned aside altogether. It acted very well, and, under its protection, we set up the saw and started it. We were all assembled again, of course, at the first starting of the saw, along with a good many of our red friends, whose curiosity in our various proceedings knew no bounds. Opening the sluice slowly, and fixing the buffer so as to turn at least three-quarters of the furious water-spout aside, I had the extreme satisfaction of seeing the saw begin to rip up a large log. It went on splendidly, though still with somewhat greater force than I desired. But, alas! my want of critical knowledge of engineering told heavily against us, for, all of a sudden, the sluice broke. The buffer still acted, however, and being needlessly strong, was, I thought, safe, but the hinges of the thing were far too weak. They gave way. The violent spout thus set free dashed against the wheel with its full force, turning it round with a whirr-r-r! that sent the saw up and down so fast as to render it almost invisible. We stood aghast! What fearful termination to the machine impended we could not guess. A moment later and the crank broke, entangled itself with the wheel and stopped it. As if maddened by this additional resistance, the water-spout then swept the whole concern away, after which, like a wild-horse set free, it took a leap of full thirty feet--a straight column of solid water--before it burst itself on the ground, and rushed wildly down to the lake! It was a humiliating termination-- and showed how terrible it is to create a power which one cannot control. I draw a veil over the story here. My feelings forbid me to write more! CHAPTER FOURTEEN. ARRIVAL OF STRANGE INDIANS. About this time a band of strange Indians came in with a large supply of valuable furs. They had heard, they said, of the establishment of the new post, and had gladly come to trade there, instead of making their customary long journey to Muskrat House. The change to these Indians was, in truth, of the utmost importance, for so distant were some of their hunting-grounds from Macnab's establishment, that nearly all the ammunition obtained there--the procuring of which was one of the chief desires of their hearts--was expended in shooting for mere subsistence on the way back to their hunting-grounds. It will be easily understood, then, that they received us with open arms. By this time we were quite prepared for their visit. The two dwelling-houses for ourselves and the men were completed, so also was the store for our goods. There only remained unfinished one or two outhouses and our back kitchen, the latter a detached building, afterwards to be connected with the main dwelling by a passage. The store was an unusually strong log-house of one storey with a very solid door. It was attached to the side of our dwelling, with which it was connected by an inner door, so that we could, if necessary, enter it without having to go outside--a matter of some importance in case we should ever be forced to defend the fort. I had just returned, much dispirited, from a visit to the camp of our own Indians, when this band of strangers arrived. Remembering my last conversation with Waboose, and being very curious to know what were the contents of the mysterious packet she had mentioned, I had gone to the camp to visit her, but, to my extreme regret, found that Big Otter and several of the Indians had struck their tents and gone off on a long hunting expedition, taking their families with them-- Waboose among the rest. On finding, however, that strange Indians had arrived with a goodly supply of furs to trade, thoughts of all other matters were driven out of my mind, the depression of spirits fled, and a burst of enthusiasm supervened as the thought occurred to me that now, at last, the great object of our expedition was about to begin in earnest. I verily believe that the same spirit of enthusiasm, or satisfaction--call it what you will--animated more or less every man at the fort. Indeed, I believe that it is always so in every condition of life; that men who lay claim to even the smallest amount of spirit or self-respect, experience a thrill of justifiable pride in performing their duty well, and earning the approval of their official superiors. My own thoughts, if defined, would probably have amounted to this-- "Now then, here's a chance at last of driving a good trade, and we will soon show the Governor and Council of the Fur-traders that they were well advised when they selected John Lumley as the chief of this trading expedition into the remote wilderness!" "Come, Max," cried my friend, whom I met hastening to the store as I arrived, "you're just in time. Here's a big band of redskins with splendid packs of furs. I fear, however, that what is our gain will to some extent be poor Macnab's loss, for they say they used to take their furs to him in former years." "But, then," said I, "will not the company gain the furs which used to be damaged, and therefore lost, on the long voyage to Muskrat? Besides, the Indians will now be enabled to devote the time thus saved to hunting and trapping, and that will also be clear gain." We reached the store as I said this, followed by a dozen Indians with large packs on their shoulders. These were the chief men of the tribe, who were to be attended to first. The others, who had to await their turn with what patience they could command, followed behind in a body to gaze at least upon the outside of the store--that mysterious temple of unknown wealth of which all of them had heard, though many of them had never seen or entered one. Putting a large key into the lock, Lumley turned it with all due solemnity, for it was his plan among savages to make all acts of importance as impressive as possible in their eyes. And this act of visiting for the first time the stores--the palace of wealth--the abode of bliss--the red-man's haven of rest--was a very important act. It may not seem so to the reader, but it was so to the savage. The very smell of the place was to him delicious--and no wonder, for even to more cultivated nostrils there is an odour about the contents of a miscellaneous store--such as tea, molasses, grindstones, coffee, brown paper, woollen cloths, sugar, fish-hooks, raisins, scalping-knives, and soap--which is pleasantly suggestive. Entering, then, with the dozen Indians, this important place, of which I was the chief and only clerk, Lumley salesman and trader, and Salamander warehouseman, the door was shut. Becoming instantly aware of a sudden diminution in the light, I looked at the windows and observed a flattened brown nose, a painted face and glaring eyes in the centre of nearly every pane! When I looked at this band of powerful, lithe, wiry, covetous savages, and thought of the hundreds of others whom they could summon by a single war-whoop to their side, and of the smallness of our own party, I could not help feeling that moral influence was a powerful factor in the affairs of man. No doubt they were restrained to some extent by the certain knowledge that, if they attacked and killed us, and appropriated our goods without the preliminary ceremony of barter, the white men would not only decline to send them goods in future, but would organise a force to hunt down and slay the murderers: nevertheless, savages are not much given to prudential reasoning when their cupidity or passions are roused, and I cannot help thinking that we owed our safety, under God, to the belief in the savage mind that men who put themselves so completely in their power, as we did, and who looked so unsuspicious of evil, _must_ somehow be invulnerable. Be that as it may, we calmly acted as if there could be no question at all about our being their masters. Lumley conveyed that impression, however, without the slightest assumption of dignity. He was all kindness, gentleness, and urbanity, yet treated them with that unassertive firmness which a father exercises--or ought to exercise-- towards a child. "Now then, Salamander," said Lumley, when he was inside the counter, and the Indians stood in a group on the other side, "tell the principal chief to open his pack." Lumley, I may remark, made use of Salamander as an interpreter, until he found that the dialect of those Indians was not very different from that to which he had been accustomed. Then he dispensed with his services, and took up the conversation himself, to the obvious astonishment as well as respect of the Indians, who seemed to think the white chief had actually picked up a new language after listening to it for only half an hour! The principal chief opened his pack slowly and spread its contents on the counter with care. He did not hurry himself, being a very dignified man. There were beavers, martens, otters, silver-foxes, and many other valuable furs, for which large sums are given in the European markets. To obtain these, however, the Company of Traders had to expend very large sums in transporting goods into those northern wilds, and still larger sums would have to be paid to voyageurs, clerks, and employes generally, as well as risks run and time spent before these furs could be conveyed to market and turned into gold--hence our red chief had to content himself with moderate prices. These prices, moreover, he did not himself put on his furs. Lumley did that for him, according to the tariff used by the fur-traders all over the country, every article being rated at a standard unit of value, styled a "made-beaver" in some parts of the country--a "castore" in other parts. On the counter was marked, with a piece of chalk, the value of each fur--a beaver was valued at so many castores, according to its quality, a fox at so many--and when the sum was added up, the total was made known by a number of goose-quills being presented to the chief, each quill representing a castore. The Indians, being acquainted with this process, did not require to have it explained. Profoundly did that chief gaze at his bundle of quills on receiving them from Lumley after Salamander had swept his furs into a corner. He was studying, as it were, the credit balance of his bank-account before investing. "Now then, chief," asked Lumley, with an urbane expression of countenance, "what shall I give you?" The chief gazed solemnly round the store with his piercing black eyes, while all the other piercing black eyes around gazed at him expectantly! At last his gaze became riveted on a particular spot. The surrounding black eyes turned to that spot intently, and the chief said: "_Baskisigan_." "Ah, I thought so--a gun?" said Lumley; "hand one over, Salamander." The interpreter went to a box which contained half a dozen of the common cheap articles which were supplied for the trade. Long, single-barrelled affairs they were, the barrels of blue metal, stocks extending to the muzzles and stained red, brass mountings of toy-like flimsiness, and flint-locks; the entire gun being worth something less than a pound sterling. These weapons were capable, nevertheless, of shooting pretty straight, though uncomfortably apt to burst. One having been handed to the chief he received it with a grasp of almost reverential affection, while Lumley extracted from his funds the requisite number of quills in payment. "What next?" asked Salamander, and again the solemn gaze went slowly round the store, on the shelves of which our goods were displayed most temptingly. Black eyes riveted once more! What is it? "A green blanket." "Just so. Fetch a four-point one, Max, he's a big man." I took up one of our largest-sized thick green blankets, handed it to the chief, and Lumley abstracted a few more quills from the bundle. At this point the red-man seemed to get into the swing of the thing, for a white blanket of medium size, and another of very small dimensions, were demanded. These represented wife and infant. After this a tin kettle and a roll of tobacco were purchased. The chief paused here, however, to ponder and count his quills. "Do you observe," said Lumley to me, in a low voice, "what a well-balanced mind he has?" "I can't say that I do, Lumley." "No? Don't you see; first a gun--self-and-family-preservation being the first law of nature; then, after thus providing for war and hunting, comes repose, d'you see? a big blanket, which immediately suggests similar comfort to the squaw, a smaller blanket; then comes comfort to the baby, a miniature blanket; then, how naturally the squaw and the squawker conduct his mind to food--a tin kettle! after which he feels justified in refreshing himself with a slight luxury--tobacco! But you'll see that he will soon repress self, with Indian stoicism, and return to essentials." Lumley was right for he had barely ceased to speak, when the chief turned and demanded an axe; then fish-hooks; then twine for lines; then awls for boring holes in the bark with which he made his canoes; then powder and shot and pipes. After this, another fit of tenderness came over him, and he bought some bright scarlet and blue cloth--doubtless for the squaw or the baby--and some brilliantly coloured silk thread with needles and variegated beads to ornament the same. Soon his quills dwindled away till at last they disappeared; yet his wants were not fully supplied--would the pale-face chief advance him some goods on credit? Oh yes--he seemed a good and trustworthy brave--the pale-face chief had no objection to do that! Accordingly I opened a ledger and inserted the man's name. It was almost Welsh-like in difficulty of pronunciation, but, unlike a Welshman, I spelt it as pronounced, and set down in order the additional goods he required. When Lumley thought he had given him enough on credit, he firmly closed the account, gave the man a small gratuity of tobacco, powder and shot, etcetera, and bade another chief come forward. It was slow but interesting work, for, as the Indians grew familiar with the place and our ways, those of them who were loquacious, or possessed of humour, began to chat and comment on the goods, and on the white man's doings in a way that was very diverting. After the chief men had traded their furs, the rank and file of the band came on, and, as is the case with all rank and file, there were some indifferent, and a few bad characters among them. It was now that I observed and admired the tact, combined with firmness, of Lumley. He spoke to these Indians with exactly the same respect and suavity that had characterised him when trading with the chiefs. When he saw any one become puzzled or undecided, he suggested or quietly advised. If a man's eye appeared to twinkle he cut a mild joke with him. If one became too familiar, or seemed disposed to be insolent he took no notice, but turned aside and busied himself in arranging the goods. At last, however, an incident occurred which called for different treatment. There was among the Indians a long-legged, wiry fellow who had been named Attick, or Reindeer, because he was a celebrated runner. Those who disliked him--and they were numerous--said he was good at running away from his foes. However that might be, he was undoubtedly dexterous in the use of his fingers--and it was through this propensity that we were first introduced to him. It happened thus: Lumley, whose powers of observation often surprised me, had noticed that Attick looked often and with longing eyes at a very small roll of tobacco which belonged to one of his comrades, and lay on the counter temptingly near at hand. Slowly, and, as it were, inadvertently, he advanced his hand until it touched the tobacco, then, laying hold on it, when the owner was busy with something else, he carried it towards the bosom of his leather hunting-shirt. Before it reached that place of concealment, however, Lumley quickly, yet so quietly that the act was scarce perceived, seized the elbow of the chief and gave him a look. Attick promptly put the tobacco down and looked at Lumley with a scowl, but the pale-face chief was smilingly giving some advice to the man, with whom he was trading. He thought that the man would not attempt anything more of a similar kind, at least at that time, but he was mistaken. He under-estimated the force of covetousness and the power of temptation in a savage. Soon afterwards he saw Attick deftly pass a packet of bright beads, belonging to another comrade, from the counter to his breast, where he let it remain, grasped in his hand. Immediately afterwards the owner of the beads missed them. He turned over his goods hastily, but could not find the packet and looked suspiciously at Salamander, who had been standing near all the time, besides fingering the things occasionally. "A comrade has stolen it," said Lumley, in a quiet voice and without looking at any one save the robbed man. This was received with scowls and strong marks of disapprobation. "Not so! The interpreter, the pale-face, has stolen it," returned the Indian fiercely. Instead of replying, Lumley vaulted lightly over the counter, stood before the astonished Attick, thrust his hand into the bosom of that savage, and, by main force, dragged forth the thieving fist still closed over the missing packet. The Indians were too much taken by surprise at the promptness of the act to speak--they could only glare. "My friends," said Lumley, still maintaining, however, something of kindliness in his look of stern gravity, "the Great Master of Life does not love thieving, and no thief will be permitted to enter this store." What more he would have said I know not for, swift as lightning, Attick drew his knife and made a plunge at my friend's heart. Expecting a scuffle, I had also leaped the counter. Lumley caught the wrist of the savage; at the same time he exclaimed, "Open the door, Max." I obeyed, expecting to see the Indian kicked out, but I was wrong, for my friend, with a sharp twist turned Attick's back to his own breast, then, seizing him by both elbows, he lifted him off his feet as if he had been a mere infant, carried him forward a few paces, and set him gently down outside. Then, stepping back, he shut the door. A roar of laughter from those without showed the light in which they viewed the incident, and the amused looks of some of those in the store told that at least they did not disapprove of the act. Without paying any regard to these things, however, Lumley returned to his place, and with his usual air of good humour continued to barter with the red-men. Thus the work of trading went on for three days, and, during that time, there was much fraternising of what I may call our home--Indians with the newcomers, and a great deal, I regret to say, of gambling. We found that this evil prevailed to a great extent among them, insomuch that one or two of them gambled away all that they possessed, and came to us with very penitent looks, asking for a small quantity of goods on credit to enable them to face the winter! I need scarcely say that our amiable chief complied with these requests, but only on the solemn promise that the goods so advanced should not be risked in gambling, and I have reason to believe that these men were faithful to their promises. This gambling was of the simplest kind, consisting of the method which is known by the name of "odd or even?" In the evenings the chiefs were encouraged to come into our hall and palaver. They availed themselves of the invitation to come, and sometimes palavered, but more frequently smoked, with owlish solemnity, squatting on the floor with their backs against the wall. Nevertheless, on these occasions we gained a good deal of information, and Lumley availed himself of the opportunities sometimes to lecture them on the sin of gambling. He always, I observed, laid much more stress on the idea that the Great Master of Life was grieved with His children when they did evil, than that He visited the sin with disagreeable consequences. On one of these occasions an elderly chief surprised us by suddenly putting the question, "Do the pale-faces trade fire-water?" Every pipe was removed from every lip, and the glittering eyes of expectancy, coupled with the all but total cessation of breathing, told of the intense interest with which they awaited the answer. "No," replied Lumley, "we sell none. We do not love fire-water." A deep but quiet sigh followed, and the pipes were resumed in silent resignation. And, I must add, I felt devoutly thankful that we did _not_ sell fire-water, when I looked at the strong features and powerful frames of the red-men around me. CHAPTER FIFTEEN. A CATASTROPHE, A LETTER, AND A SURPRISE. Autumn at length gradually drew to a close, and we began to make preparations for the long winter that lay before us. Our saw-mill, having been repaired and improved, had worked so well that we had cut a considerable quantity of planks, as well for the boats which we intended to build as for the houses. It was fortunate that this had been accomplished before the occurrence of an event which put an effectual stop to that branch of our industries. It happened thus: One afternoon the fine weather which we had been enjoying so long gave place to boisterous winds and deluges of rain, confining us all to the fort and making us feel slightly miserable. "But we mustn't grumble, Max," said Lumley to me, as we looked out of our small windows. "We must take the evil with the good as it comes, and be thankful." "Please, I wasn't grumbling," said I, sharply. "No? I thought you were." "No, I was not. It must have been internal grumbling by yourself that you heard," I retorted, sauntering back to the fire, which by that time we had begun to light daily. "I daresay you're right, Max; it has often struck me as a curious fact that, when one is cross or grumpy, he is apt to think all the rest of the world is also cross or grumpy. By the way, that reminds me--though I don't see why it should remind me, seeing that the two things have no connection--that Coppet came to me last night saying he had discovered a slight leak in the dam. We'd better look to it now, as the rain seems to have moderated a little." We went out forthwith, and found Coppet already on the spot, gazing at a small rill of water which bubbled up from behind a mass of rock that jutted out from the cliff and formed a support for the beams of our dam. "Something wrong there, Coppet," said Lumley, inspecting the place carefully. "Oui, monsieur--it is true." "Can you guess where it comes through?" I asked. "Vraiment, monsieur, I know not, but surely the dam it is quite strong." "Strong!--of course it is, unnecessarily strong," said I, looking up at its edge, over which the water, rendered muddy by the rains, flowed in a considerable volume. "What think you, Lumley?" I asked my friend's opinion somewhat anxiously, because I observed that he seemed to examine the place with unusually grave looks. "Max," he said at last, "your engineering is defective. It is true that the beams and stuffs of which the dam is composed could resist all the weight or force of water that can be brought to bear on them--even an untrained eye like mine can see that--but you had not observed that this mass of rock, against which the whole affair rests, has got a crack in it, so that it is partially, if not altogether, detached from the cliff. No doubt it is a large heavy mass, but the strain upon it must be very severe, and its stability depends on its foundations." "The foundations seem secure enough," said I, looking down. "True, but natural foundations are sometimes deceptive, and that bubbling spring may be quietly washing these away. We must use a little art here. Go, Coppet," he added, turning to the carpenter, "fetch all the men, and your tools, and as many heavy timbers as you can readily lay hands on. Come, Max, help me to lift this one." The decision of Lumley's manner and the energetic way in which he threw off his coat and set to work, convinced me that he thought danger of some sort was impending. I therefore followed his example, and set to with a will. We fixed a heavy log in front of the suspected mass of rock, placing its end against the centre of the mass, and sinking the other end into the ground--having previously, however, sunk a strong crossbeam into the ground to bear the pressure of that end. "This of itself," said my chief, "will go far to avert evil, but we will adopt your tactics, Max, and, by giving it superabundance of strength, make assurance doubly sure." In pursuance of this plan, he ordered the men to plant several ponderous logs in the same position as the first beam, over which other logs were thrown crosswise, and the whole was weighted with heavy stones. During our operations, which occupied us all till evening, the rain increased tenfold, and at last came down in absolute sheets, flooding our dam to such an extent that it overflowed nearly all round the brim in pretty solid cataracts of dirty water, which brought down branches and leaves and other debris from the higher parts of the stream. I was gratified to see, however, that our embankment showed no symptoms of weakness, and felt assured that the powerful structure we had just set up was more than sufficient to prevent any rupture in the rock itself. Comforted by these thoughts, Lumley and I returned to the hall in a burst of thunder, lightning, and rain--thoroughly saturated, and in a condition to do ample justice to the sea-biscuit, fried salt-pork, hung whitefish and tea, which Salamander had prepared for supper. Blondin, being a polite, intelligent fellow as well as our foreman, was privileged to take his meals with us, besides occupying one of our four rooms. In consequence of this we conversed chiefly in the patois French of the country, for the worthy man was not deeply learned in English. Salamander messed with the men in their own house, after preparing and spreading our meals. "What say you to a game of chess?" said Lumley to me, after the tea-things had been carried away by Blondin. "By all means," I replied, going to a corner cupboard, in which we kept miscellaneous articles, and bringing out the chess-board. This board and its men, by the way, merit passing remark, for they were fashioned by our chief entirely, and very neatly, out of the pith of a bush, the name of which I forget; and, on the voyage, many an hour that might otherwise have been tedious we whiled away with this interesting game. I knew nothing of it when we began, but Lumley taught me the moves, and I soon picked up enough of the game to enable me to fight a fairish battle before being beaten. At first Lumley always won, and was wont to signalise his victory by the expression of a modest hope that the tables would be turned ere long. That hope--whether genuine or pretended--was not long of being gratified, for as my mind by degrees began to grasp the mysteries of chess, I succeeded in winning a game now and then. On this particular night, however, the tables were turned literally, and in a way that we little expected. Blondin, being left to himself, had sought the companionship of his pipe, and was dozing over the fire, more than half asleep--at least not more awake than was consistent with the keeping of his pipe between his lips. Ever and anon he was startled into a more wakeful condition by the tremendous blasts which frequently shook the house; but these did not disturb him much, for he had helped to build the house, and knew that it was strong. We were all indeed pretty well tired by our recent exertions, and rather sleepy, so that the game languished a little. Salamander, having obtained permission to retire, was in bed in his own corner-room, entertaining us with a duet through the nose--if I may call that a duet in which both nostrils played the same air. "Check!" said Lumley, rousing himself a little, and placing a knight in such a position as to endanger my king. "Mate!" I exclaimed ruefully. "Hallo!" cried Blondin, waking up at the familiar word. "No--not that sort of mate," said I, with a laugh, "but the--" I stopped abruptly, for at that moment we heard a sound that sent a thrill to our hearts. It was something between a rend and a crash. We looked at each other in consternation. "The dam's going," exclaimed Lumley. Another crash, that there was no misunderstanding, proved that it was gone. We ran towards the back door, but before reaching it, we had an additional proof that was even more convincing than the last. A rush of tumultuous water was heard outside. Next moment the back door was burst inward, and a deluge of water met us. Lumley, who was nearest the door, was swept off his legs, and came against me with such violence that I fell over him. Blondin, who was furthest off, tried to stop us, but also went down, and all three were swept into the lower side of the hall amid a jumble of tables, chairs, billets of wood, stray garments, and chessmen. The fire had been put out; so had the candle, and we were thus in nearly pitch darkness, when we heard a yell from Salamander. It was followed by a great splash, and we dimly perceived something like a half-naked ghost floundering towards us. It was Salamander! "Hold on!" shouted Lumley. "Dere's noting to hold on to, monsieur," cried the interpreter in desperation, as he tripped over something and rose again--gasping. The rush was over in half a minute, but the great weight of water that had entered held the front door, which opened inwards, so tight, that our hall was converted into a water-tank about three feet deep, while a huge mass of logs and debris outside blocked the opening of the back door. "Stay, don't move till I get a light," cried Lumley, wading to the corner cupboard, where, on an upper shelf, we kept our candles, with flint, steel, and tinder. While he was striking a light we all stood silent and shivering, but when a candle was with difficulty lighted, I burst into an irresistible fit of laughter for the scene we presented was ludicrous in the extreme. It was not our woe-begone looks which tickled me, so much as the helpless, drowned-rat-like aspect we had all assumed--all except our chief, whose tall, strong figure holding a candle over his dishevelled head looked like the spirit of destruction presiding over a scene of desolation. A rapping at the front door was the first thing that recalled us to the necessity for action. "Is it drownded ye all are, Muster Lumley?" It was the voice of Donald Bane. "Not quite," cried Lumley, with a laugh and a shiver. "Come in, Donald." "Ay, ay, sur, I would come in if I could, but the door won't open." "Shove hard, Donald." "I wull, sur. Here, Shames, lend a hand." We heard both the Highlanders put their broad backs against the door and groan in Gaelic as they heaved, but they might as well have tried to lift the house. They caused the door to crack, however. "Wheesht! What's that Shames?" "We've splut the toor, Tonald." "Never mind; heave again, boys," cried Lumley. At that moment poor Salamander, who was groping about with nothing but his shirt on, stumbled over something, and, in trying to recover himself, pitched head first against the door with considerable violence. This was a climax. The door, although it had withstood the pressure from without, could not resist this additional pressure within. It collapsed and burst outwards suddenly. The great mass of water went forth with the gushing hilarity of a prisoner set free, and, with something like a roar of triumph, carried Salamander like a chip on its crest. He was launched into the bosom of the amazed James Dougall, who incontinently went with the stream, laying hold of and carrying off Donald Bane as he passed. After a few turns over on the lawn, the three men regained their footing, and made their way back to the house, while the stream, subsiding almost immediately, left us in peace to make the best of what James Dougall called a paad chob! What had actually occurred was this: the rock that held the main supports of our dam, being detached from the cliff as Lumley had surmised, had been undermined by the unusual floods of the previous week. Even in that condition it might have remained fast, so strong was our artificial buttress, but as the foundation wore away the rock heeled over to one side a little; this deranged the direct action of the buttresses, and in an instant they flew aside. The rock was hurled over, and the whole of our dam was dashed in dire confusion into the bed of the stream. It was this choking of the natural channel which sent the great flood over our lawn, and, as we have seen, created such a hubbub in the hall. Of course all danger was now past. The roaring torrent soon forced its way into its own bed again, and all we had to do was to repair damages as well as we could, and make ourselves as comfortable for the night as circumstances would admit of. Fortunately the next day was fine and warm, with brilliant sunshine. Being Sunday we let everything remain just as it was, for Lumley and I were of the same mind in regard to the Sabbath-day, and, from the commencement of our expedition, had as far as possible rested from all week-day labour on that day. Both of us had been trained to do so from infancy. Well do I remember my dear old father's last advice to me on this subject. "Punch," said he, "wherever you go, my boy, `remember the Sabbath-day to keep it holy.' You'll be tempted to do ordinary work, and to go in for ordinary amusement on that day, but don't do it, my boy--don't do it. Depend upon it, a blessing always attends the respecter of the Sabbath." "But, father," said I, venturing for the first time in my life to echo what I had often heard said, "is it true, as some people assert, that the Sabbath is a Jewish institution, and no longer binding on Christians? Pardon my venturing to repeat this objection--" "Objection!" interrupted my father, "why, dear boy, there's nothing I like better than to hear fair, honest objections, because then I can meet them. How can the Sabbath be a Jewish institution when the commandment begins with `remember'? The day to be remembered was instituted at Creation, given to man as a blessed day of rest from toil, and recognised as binding by our Saviour, when He sanctioned works of necessity and mercy on that day." I never forgot my father's advice on this subject, and have experienced mental, physical, and spiritual benefit as the result. Owing to our belief in the Sabbath, then, we invariably, while travelling, remained in camp on that clay, and found that we not only did not lose, but actually had gained in speed at the end of each week-- comparing our rate of progress with that of those who did not rest on Sundays. And I now recall to mind a certain bishop of the Church of England who, while travelling in the great Nor'-west between two well-known stations, made the fastest journey on record, although he regularly remained in camp on the Sabbath-day. On that day, also, after our arrival at Lake Wichikagan, and all through the winter, Lumley made a regular practice of assembling the men and reading a sermon from a book which he had brought for the purpose. And he did not neglect instruction of another kind, to which I shall refer as well as to our winter amusements, in the proper place. During all this time our larder had been well supplied by Blondin with fresh fish from the lake, and by the Indians with haunches of reindeer and moose, or elk, venison. They also brought us beaver-meat, the tails of which were considered the best portions. Bear's-meat was offered us, but we did not relish it much, possibly from prejudice; but we would have been glad of it, doubtless, if reduced to short allowance. Of course wild-fowl of all kinds were plentiful, and many of these were shot by Lumley and myself, as well as by our men. Some of the geese we had at first salted, but, the frost having come, we were by that time able to preserve fish and meat quite fresh for winter use--so that both net and gun were in constant occupation. One day, while Lumley and I were sitting at dinner--which we usually took about noon--we were agreeably surprised by the appearance of a strange Indian, and still more agreeably surprised by his entering the hall and holding out a packet to Lumley. Having delivered it, the man, who looked wayworn, strode to the fire, sat quietly down and began to smoke a pipe which I had handed to him ready charged. "Why, what's this?" exclaimed Lumley, unwrapping the covering of the packet, "not a letter, surely!--yes, I declare it is--and from Macnab too. Come, this _is_ an unlooked-for treat." I was quite excited--indeed we both were--for a letter in those regions was about as rare as snow in July. Lumley opened it hastily and read as follows:-- "My dear Lumley, you will be surprised to get a letter from me, and dated, too, from an unknown post. Yes, my boy, like yourself, I have been transferred from my old home, to this region, which is not more than two hundred miles from your present residence. The governor sent me to establish it soon after you left. I have named it the _Mountain House_, because there's a thing the shape and size of a sugar-loaf behind it. So, I'll hope to look you up during the winter. Before going further let me give you a piece of news--I've got my sister out here to stay with me! Just think of that!" At this point Lumley laid down the letter and stared at me. "Why, Max, such a thing was never heard of before! If he had got a wife, now, I could have understood it, but a sister!" "Well, whatever she is to him, she's a civilised white woman, and that's a sight worth seeing in those regions. I wonder what she's like?" said I. "Like himself, of course. Tall, raw-boned, square-shouldered, red-haired (you know he told us she was red-haired), square-jawed, Roman-nosed--a Macnab female could be nothing else." "Come," said I, "don't be impolite to Highland females, but go on with the letter." Lumley obeyed, but the letter contained little more of interest. We cared not for that, however. We had now a subject capable of keeping us in speculative talk for a week--the mere fact that there was actually a civilised woman--a _lady_ perhaps--at all events a Macnab--within two hundred miles of us! "No doubt she's a rugged specimen of the sex," said Lumley, as we sat beside the fire that night, "no other kind of white female would venture to face this wilderness for the sake of a brother; but she _is_ a white woman, and she _is_ only two hundred miles off--unless our friend is joking--and she's Macnab's sister--Jessie, if I remember rightly-- "`Stalwart young Jessie, The flower of--'" "Come, Lumley, that will do--good-night!" CHAPTER SIXTEEN. THE JOYS OF CAMPING OUT--IMPORTANT ADDITIONS TO THE ESTABLISHMENT-- SERIOUS MATTERS AND WINTER AMUSEMENTS. At last winter came upon us in earnest. It had been threatening for a considerable time. Sharp frosts had occurred during the nights, and more than once we had on rising found thin ice forming on the lake, though the motion of the running water had as yet prevented our stream from freezing; but towards the end of October there came a day which completely changed the condition and appearance of things. Every one knows the peculiar, I may say the exhilarating, sensations that are experienced when one looks out from one's window and beholds the landscape covered completely with the first snows of winter. Well, those sensations were experienced on the occasion of which I write in somewhat peculiar circumstances. Lumley and I were out hunting at the time: we had been successful; and, having wandered far from the fort, resolved to encamp in the woods, and return home early in the morning. "I do love to bivouac in the forest," I said, as we busied ourselves spreading brush-wood on the ground, preparing the kettle, plucking our game, and kindling the fire, "especially at this season of the year, when the sharp nights render the fire so agreeable." "Yes," said Lumley, "and the sharp appetites render food so delightful." "To say nothing," I added, "of the sharp wits that render intercourse so pleasant." "Ah, and not to mention," retorted Lumley, "the dull wits, stirred into unwonted activity, which tone down that intercourse with flashes of weakly humour. Now then, Max, clap on more wood. Don't spare the firing--there's plenty of it, so--isn't it grand to see the thick smoke towering upwards straight and solid like a pillar!" "Seldom that one experiences a calm so perfect," said I, glancing upward at the slowly-rising smoke. "Don't you think it is the proverbial calm before the storm?" "Don't know, Max. I'm not weather-wise. Can't say that I understand much about calms or storms, proverbial or otherwise, and don't much care." "That's not like your usual philosophical character, Lumley," said I--"see, the column is still quite perpendicular--" "Come, Max," interrupted my friend, "don't get sentimental till after supper. Go to work, and pluck that bird while I fill the kettle." "If anything can drive away sentiment," I replied, taking up one of the birds which we had shot that day, "the plucking and cleaning of this will do it." "On the contrary, man," returned Lumley, taking up the tin kettle as he spoke, "true sentiment, if you had it, would induce you to moralise on that bird as you plucked it--on the romantic commencement of its career amid the reeds and sedges of the swamps in the great Nor'-west; on the bold flights of its maturer years over the northern wilderness into those mysterious regions round the pole, which man, with all his vaunted power and wisdom, has failed to fathom, and on the sad--I may even say inglorious--termination of its course in a hunter's pot, to say nothing of a hunter's stom--" "Lumley," said I, interrupting, "do try to hold your tongue, if you can, and go fill your kettle." With a laugh he swung off to a spring that bubbled at the foot of a rock hard by, and when he returned I had my bird plucked, singed, split open, and cleaned out. You must understand, reader, that we were not particular. We were wont to grasp the feathers in large handfuls, and such as would not come off easily we singed off. "You see, Lumley," said I, when he came back, "I don't intend that this bird shall end his career in the pot. I'll roast him." "'Tis well, most noble Max, for I wouldn't let you pot him, even if you wished to. We have only one kettle, and that must be devoted to tea." It was not long before the supper was ready. While it was preparing Lumley and I sat chatting by the fire, and gazing in a sort of dreamy delight at the glorious view of land and water which we could see through an opening among the trees in front of us; for, not only was there the rich colouring of autumn everywhere--the greens, yellows, browns, and reds of mosses, grasses, and variegated foliage--but there was a bright golden glow cast over all by the beams of the setting sun. Ere long all this was forgotten as we lay under the starry sky in profound slumber. While we slept, the Creator was preparing that wonderful and beautiful change to which I have referred. Clouds gradually overspread the sky--I observed this when, in a half-sleeping state I rose to mend our fire, but thought nothing of it. I did not, however, observe what followed, for sleep had overpowered me again the instant I lay down. Softly, silently, persistently, and in large flakes, the snow must have fallen during the entire night, for, when we awoke it lay half a foot deep upon us, and when we shook ourselves free and looked forth we found that the whole landscape, far and near, was covered with the same pure white drapery. The uniformity of the scene was broken by the knolls of trees and shrubs and belts of forest which showed powerfully against the white ground, and by the water of the numerous ponds and lakes and streams which, where calm, reflected the bright blue sky, and, where rough, sparkled in the rising sun; while every twig and leaf of bush and tree bore its little fringe or patch of snow, so that we were surrounded by the most beautiful and complicated forms of lacework conceivable of Nature's own making. "It is glorious to look at," said Lumley, after our first burst of enthusiasm, "but it will be troublesome to walk through, I fear." We did not, however, find it as troublesome as we had expected; for, although nearly a foot deep, the snow was quite dry, owing to the frost which had set in, and we could drive it aside with comparative ease when we started on our journey homeward. Arrived at the fort we found our men and the few Indians who had not left us for their hunting-grounds, busy at the nets, or finishing the buildings that were yet incomplete. We also found that Big Otter had come in, bringing with him his wife, and his niece Waboose, with her mother. The health of the latter had broken down, and Big Otter had brought her to the fort in the hope that the white chief could do something for her. "I'll do what I can," said Lumley, on hearing her case stated, "though I make no pretence to being a medicine-man, but I will do this for you and her:--I will engage you, if you choose, to help Blondin at his fishery, and your wife to make moccasins for us. I'll also let you have that little hut beside our kitchen to live in. You'll find it better and warmer than a wigwam, and as there are two rooms in it you won't be overcrowded." Big Otter was delighted with this arrangement, and I took him away at once to show him the hut he was to occupy. As this was the first time I had met with the unknown Englishman's widow, and the mother of Waboose, it was with no little interest and curiosity that I regarded her. She was evidently in very bad health, but I could easily see that when young she must have been a very handsome woman. Besides being tall and well-formed, she had a most expressive countenance and a dignified air, coupled with a look of tender kindness in it, which drew me to her at once. She seemed in many respects much superior--in manners and habits--to the other Indian women of the tribe, though still far below her daughter in that respect, and I could easily perceive that the latter owed her great superiority and refinement of manner to her father, though she might well have derived her gentleness from her mother. What the illness was that broke that mother down I cannot tell. It resembled consumption in some respects, though without the cough, but she improved in health decidedly at first on getting into her new house, and set to work with zeal to assist in the making of moccasins and other garments. Of course Waboose helped her; and, very soon after this arrival, I began to give her lessons in the English language. Lumley quizzed me a good deal about this at first, but afterwards he became more serious. "Now, Max, my boy," he said to me, one evening when we were alone, in that kindly-serious manner which seemed to come over him whenever he had occasion to find fault with any one, "it is all very well your giving lessons in English to that Indian girl, but what I want to know is, what do you expect to be the upshot of it?" "Marriage," said I with prompt decision, "if--if she will have me," I added with a more modest air. My friend did not laugh or banter me, as I had expected, but in an earnest tone said:-- "But think, Max, you are only just entering on manhood; you can't be said to know your own mind yet. Suppose, now, that you were to express an intention to marry Waboose, the Hudson's Bay Company might object till you had at least finished your apprenticeship." "But I would not think of it before that," said I. "And then," continued Lumley, not noticing the interruption, "if you do marry her you can never more return to the civilised world, for she is utterly ignorant of its ways, and would feel so ill at ease there, and look so much out of place, that you would be obliged to take to the woods again, and live and die there--and--what would your father say to that?" I confess that this reference to my dear father shook me. "But, Lumley," said I, "she is _not_ a mere Indian girl, and would _not_ look out of place anywhere. Her father was obviously a gentleman, and has tried, with much success I find, to cultivate a naturally gentle and delicate mind and disposition in his child. Surely, very little is required to make a lady of her--I mean in the sense that society understands by that term--and even if that were not possible, is mere polish to be weighed in the balance against gentleness, sweetness, unselfishness, tenderness, truthfulness, modesty, loving-kindness--to say nothing of beauty--" A hearty laugh interrupted me here. "Oh! Max, I admit that polish must go down before such a splendid array of virtues. But," added my friend, becoming grave again, "is Waboose a Christian?" "Yes," I replied, stoutly, "a far, far better Christian than I am, for I find that her father has taught her the truths of the Bible--and you-- you see that _fruit_ in her which I fear you don't see much of in me." "Well, we have not had much time to see the fruit yet, but now I must speak to you as your chief. You say you have no thought of marriage till your apprenticeship is up. That is a good while yet. You may change your mind." "Never!" said I, with emphasis. "Well, I respect your honourable feelings, my boy, but it is just possible that even if she were willing (which has yet to be proved) she may change _her_ mind, therefore you must promise me faithfully that in all this teaching of English there shall be no lovemaking. You are bound _in honour_, Max, to avoid trying to win her affections, or in any way to influence her till--till time, a considerable time--shall have passed." "I promise you, Lumley, with all my heart. I think it is ennobling to a man to love a girl because of her pure and sterling qualities irrespective of her looks, and I would count it foul disgrace to do anything to win her unless I saw my way quite clearly to wed her." "Which you do not at present, Max?" "Which I do not at present, Lumley, so I will continue the lessons with the air and manner of a heartless pedagogue!" This having been arranged between us, the subject was dropped, and not again referred to for many months. Meanwhile winter advanced with rapid strides. One night an intense frost set in and covered the entire lake, as far at least as we could see, with a sheet of pure ice. It had set fast in a profound calm, and the surface was so smooth that every tree and bush on the outlying islets was reflected as if in water. Indeed, it could scarcely be told that the ice was not water except by going on it. Being a somewhat expert skater, and having brought my skates with me, I put them on, resolved to enjoy a few hours of what used to be a favourite amusement when I was a boy. Lumley could not skate, to my regret; besides, he had no skates, and none of the men had ever learned the art, so that I was forced to skate alone. And at this time I learned a lesson about solitary amusement which I never afterwards forgot. "Max," said Lumley, as I went down to the lake, skates in hand, "while you're off amusing yourself I'll go finish the track on the hillside-- that will afford amusement enough for me and the men. I'll give them a holiday, as it is such a splendid day." "That's a new kind of holiday," said I with a laugh, as I fixed on my skates, "to set them to the finishing of a track!" The track referred to was a straight wide cutting up the face of the hill at the side of the fort. Lumley had ordered the men to clear it of trees and shrubs, from the hill-top--which extended far behind as well as high above the fort--down to the edge of the lake. It had remained in this unfinished state for some time, and now, being covered with snow, formed a long white-floored avenue to the hill-top. "I'm sorry you can't join me," said I, making a few circles before starting. "It feels _so_ selfish to go off alone." "Never mind, old boy, off you go, and see that you don't get upon weak ice." Lumley waved his hand as he spoke, and I shot swiftly away over the glassy lake. Oh! it was a glorious burst, that first dash over an apparently illimitable sheet of water, for, although small for an American lake, the opposite shore of Wichikagan was so far-off as to appear dim and low, while, in one direction, the sky and water met at the horizon, so that I enjoyed the romantic feeling of, as it were, skating out to sea! The strength of youth thrilled in every nerve and muscle; the vigour of health and life coursed in every vein. I felt, just then, as if exhaustion were impossible. The ice was so smooth that there was no sensation of roughness under foot to tell of a solid support. The swift gliding motion was more like the skimming of the swallow than the skating of a man. The smallest impulse sent me shooting ahead with an ease that almost surprised me. In sensation, as well as in appearance, I was rushing over a surface of water in which the sun was reflected with a brilliancy that quite dazzled me. I became almost wild with delight. Indeed I grew reckless, and gave a sort of leap--with what intent I know not--which caused the back of my head to smite the ice and my body to proceed fifty yards or more on its back, with the legs in the air and a starry constellation corruscating in the brain! Considerably sobered by this, I arose and cut the figure of eight thoughtfully for five minutes. After this I resumed my rapid pace, which I kept up until the necessity of pausing to recover breath impressed me. Making a wide circle outwards with my left leg in the air and my right hand pointed to the sky in the most approved manner, I gradually caused the circle to diminish until I came to a stand. Looking back, I saw Fort Wichikagan like a mere speck on the horizon. In the opposite direction the lake still presented a limitless horizon. On either side the distant shores marked, but could hardly be said to bound, the view, while, closer at hand, the islets were reflected in the ice as clearly as if it had been water. I felt as if standing on a liquid ocean. Once more a bounding sense of joyous freedom and strength filled me. The starry corruscations had vanished. The bump on the back of my head had ceased to grieve me. Away I went again like--but words fail me. Imagery and description avail nothing when the indescribable is reached! After an hour of this enjoyment I took to circling, and, in the exuberance of my feelings, attempted some quite new and complex performances, which resulted in a few more corruscations and bumps. But these were trifles. I heeded them not. At last, however, I stood still and became thoughtful. We must all become thoughtful sooner or later. A sense of loneliness began to oppress me, and I longed for companionship in my joy. Knowing that this was a useless longing, I cast it aside and resumed my evolutions, rushes, bumps, and corruscations. But it would not do. The longing returned with redoubled violence. After another hour I turned to skate homeward, very much toned down in spirits, and deeply convinced of the truth--in more senses than one--of the words, "It is not good that man should be alone." Before leaving this subject I may add that I tried skating again the next day, but again grew weary of it in less than an hour for want of companionship; that I made up my mind, in disgust to try no more; and that, on the day following, sympathetic Nature aided me in my resolve by covering the entire lake with eighteen inches of snow--thus rendering my once favourite exercise impossible. But, to return. When I drew near to the fort, I observed that several black specks were gliding with lightning speed down the white track on the hillside which Lumley had undertaken to finish. These specks, after descending the steep hill, slid over the level shore and shot far out upon the lake, where some of them seemed to roll over and over. Wondering what this could be, I put on a spurt. Suddenly the truth dawned upon me. My friend Lumley had cleared the slope for the purpose of sledging down it! "Max," he had remarked to me, long before, when talking about our men and our plans, "`All work and no play,' you know, `makes Jack a dull boy;' so I'll get up some kind of winter amusement for the lads which will keep them in health and spirits." Need I say that my recent cogitations and experience led me to join this riotous crew with redoubled ardour? Taking off my skates hurriedly and climbing up the hill, I leaped on the tail of Big Otter's toboggan, without invitation, just as he was starting at the top of the snow-slope to follow Lumley. I gave the sled such an impetus that we overtook our chief, and upset him just as he reached the lake, causing him to collide with Donald Bane and James Dougall, who, seated on the same toboggan, were anxiously striving to keep their balance. The result was, that we all resolved ourselves into a conglomerate of toboggans and men, which went shooting and struggling over the smooth lake for fifty yards or upwards at the rate of twelve miles an hour, if not more. This, of course, afforded unutterable delight to the rest of our men, and to Waboose and her mother; as well as to several Indians, who had just arrived. Among these last were Attick and Maqua with his son Mozwa. It was rough but health-giving, as well as enjoyable, work, and sent us to our respective beds that night in a condition of readiness to fall promptly into a state of absolute oblivion. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. DESCRIBES A TREMENDOUS VISITATION--A FEAST--A SURPRISE--AND AN ATTEMPT AT MURDER. I must beg the reader now to leap with me into the middle of winter. It is New Year's Day. That festive season of the year is not less marked and honoured in the Great Nor'-west than it is in civilised lands, though there are comparatively few to honour it, and their resources are somewhat meagre. These facts do not however, diminish the hearty zeal of the few--perchance they tend rather to increase it. Be that as it may, I now convey the reader to an ice-bound forest. Deep snow has buried the frozen ground. Masses of snow weigh down the branches of the leafless trees; and evergreens, which are not leafless, are literally overwhelmed, almost obliterated, by the universal covering. But the scene is by no means dismal. A blue sky overhead and a bright sun and calm frosty air render it pre-eminently cheerful. The ground is undulating, and among these undulations you may see two men and a couple of sledges slowly making their way along. The sledge in rear is the ordinary provision-sled used by winter travellers in that land; it is hauled by an Indian. The one in front is styled a cariole. It resembles a slipper-bath in form, is covered with yellow parchment, gaily painted, and drawn by four fine wolf-like dogs. The rider in that cariole is so whelmed in furs as to be absolutely invisible. The man who beats the track has a straight, stalwart frame, and from what of his countenance is left exposed by his fur cap and whiskers, one may judge that he is a white man. Slowly and silently they plod along through the deep snow--the sleigh-bells on the dog's harness tinkling pleasantly. Ere long they come out upon a lake, where, the snow being beaten pretty hard, they proceed rapidly--the dogs trotting, and the leader, having changed to the rear, holding on to the cariole-line to restrain them. Towards the afternoon the travellers draw towards the end of the lake, and then a spirit of mischief seems to enter into the wolf-like dogs, for, on turning round a point which reveals a wide reach of hard snow stretching away towards a distant group of buildings more than half buried in drift, they make a sudden bound, overturn the stalwart white man, jerk the tail-line from his grasp, and career away joyously over the ice, causing their bells to send up an exceeding merry and melodious peal. From certain incomprehensible growls that escape the stalwart white man as he picks himself up, it might be conjectured that he had taken to the Chipewyan tongue; perhaps a Scotsman might have been led by them to recall the regions that lie north of the Grampians. Lumley and I were sitting in the hall of Fort Wichikagan, awaiting the advent of dinner, when the sound of the sleigh-bells just referred to broke upon our ears. We bounded from our seats as if galvanised, seized our caps and rushed out. "A cariole!" shouted Lumley. "Run away!" said I. As I spoke, the figure of a man was seen rushing round the point in pursuit. "Macnab!" cried Lumley, with blazing eyes, "I'd know his figure at twenty miles off. I say, Max, the runaway cariole must certainly contain the sister--the carroty-haired Jessie! Hurrah! We must stop it, my boy, else the dogs will run slap into the fort, and dash the fair six-footer against one o' the houses. Look out, man!" But Lumley was wrong. Either the dogs had run as much as they desired, or the decided manner in which we faced them caused them to swerve aside, and stop when they came close to us. The swerve had the effect of overturning the cariole gently, and emptying its contents at our feet, and out from the mass of wraps and furs there arose--not a red-headed six-footer, but a young and sprightly girl, with clear dark complexion, a neat, rounded little figure, and a pair of magnificent black eyes, which, at the moment, were opened to their utmost with an expression of intense amazement. Lumley gazed at this apparition open-mouthed, with a look of blank surprise. I believe that my own visage must also have worn some remarkable expression, for suddenly the girl's gorgeous eyes half closed, and she burst into a hearty fit of laughter. "Well, this _is_ a surprise!" exclaimed Lumley, on recovering some of his usual self-possession. "So it would seem," replied the apparition, still laughing, "for it has robbed you of common politeness. Why don't you introduce yourself and welcome me? No doubt you are my brother's friend, Mr Lumley!" She drew a very small white hand from a very large leather mitten, and held it out. "Forgive me, Miss Macnab--for of course you can be no other," said Lumley, advancing promptly and grasping the hand, "but your--your-- sudden, and I may almost say magical, appearance has so taken me by surprise, that--that--" "Yes, yes, I understand, Mr Lumley--that you find it difficult to recover yourself,--why, your friend Mr Maxby has not yet recovered," said the fair Jessie, turning and holding out her hand to me. She was right. I had not recovered, but stood there open-mouthed and eyed, bereft of speech, until the necessity for action was thrust upon me. My apologies were, however, cut short by the coming up of her brother, who, while yet a long way off, began to shout in his stentorian tones:-- "Hallo! Lumley, my boy, how are ye? Here we are at last. A happy New Year, Max. Glad to see you once more--all alive and hearty? Eh? More than I expected to find _you_, Jess, after such a run with these rascally dogs--absolute wolves! But it might have been worse. Give us a shake o' your fists, my boys, on this happy New Year's Day." By this time our hearty friend was beside us, shaking us both vigorously by the hands, wishing us all manner of good luck, and compliments of the season, and otherwise letting off the steam of his exuberant feelings. "You've introduced yourselves, I see," he continued; "come, Lumley, give your arm to Jessie, and show us the way to the fort." "If Miss Macnab," began Lumley, advancing, but his speech was here cut short. "Miss Macnab!" echoed the explosive Peter in a sarcastic shout, "call her Jessie, man! who ever heard of a `_Miss_ Macnab' in the backwoods? When men take to living in the wilderness, it's time to cast off all the humbuggin' politenesses o' civilised life." "Pardon me, Macnab," returned my friend, with more than his usual urbanity, "I differ from you there." "Oh, ay, I daresay ye do," interrupted the other. "It's been said of Scotsmen that `they can aye objec',' and I think it's equally true of Englishmen that they can always differ!" "Men who live in the wilderness," continued Lumley, merely answering the interruption with a smile, "ought to be unusually particular about keeping up all the politenesses of civilised life, instead of dropping them, and ought to be inexpressibly thankful when a soft and civilising influence, like Miss Macnab, condescends to visit them with a ray of sunshine from the old country." "Bravo, Lumley," cried Macnab, with a boisterous laugh, "that speech was worthy of an Irishman! Call her what you like, my good fellow, so long as you never call her too late for meals; but come along now and let's have something to eat, for I'm famishing." By this time the Indian with the sled had joined us, so we all went off to the fort in a state of boisterous joy, of which those unfortunates who have never been banished from their fellows for months--or for years--can form no conception. As dinner was opportunely smoking on the table when we entered the hall, our visitor's hilarity was, if possible, increased. Moreover, we had company that New Year's Day, for a knife and fork had been laid in the hall for every man at the fort. You see, Lumley was a strict disciplinarian, and, therefore, could afford at special times to relax without loss of dignity and with a great increase of good-will on the part of all under him. At all other times we and the men--excepting our guide--messed apart; but on Christmas and New Year's Days all distinctions were laid aside, discipline was relaxed, and we acted on the principle of that brotherhood which is based upon the assumption that all men have the same objects in life and the same hopes after death. That morning we had all played football on the ice together, had slidden and tumbled down the snow-slope together, and now we were about to mess together in the hall. Still further, our company was to be increased, and our festive board to be graced, by the presence of Waboose and her mother. Little had we imagined, when all this was planned, that we were to have the addition of our old friend Macnab, and that glorious beam from the sun of civilisation, his sister Jessie! I will, however, make but brief reference to this festive occasion, and proceed to tell of an event which created an unexpected sensation in our little community, and might have closed our New Year's Day amusements with a terrible tragedy. After dinner we circled round the blazing fire and enjoyed ourselves listening to Macnab, who had a happy facility in giving a graphic account of his sledge journey from the Mountain Fort--his recently built trading-post--to Fort Wichikagan, and I observed particularly that the presence of a lady among us had a most wonderful and irresistible influence in softening the tones and the manners of all. As the evening advanced tea was introduced--we had nothing stronger, and did not, indeed, feel any desire for fire-water. Under the inspiriting influence of this beverage, several of our men were induced to tell stories, which were more or less humorous. During the meal--at which Lumley insisted that "Miss Macnab" should preside, to the immense disgust of Salamander--I observed that the dark-haired white girl and the fair-haired Indian, drew very closely together. It appeared to me that they had fallen in love with each other at first sight, a fact which afforded me lively satisfaction, though I had no very clear perception as to why it should do so. Songs naturally followed the cheering cup, and at this point Lumley became unusually bold. "I wonder," he said, with a peculiar air of modesty which somewhat puzzled me, "if I may venture to ask Miss Macnab for a song." "Ha! ha!" shouted her brother, before she could reply, "you _may_ venture to ask, my boy, but you'll find it difficult to draw a song out of Jessie. Why, she never could sing a note!" "I've a good mind to sing now, Peter," said the girl with a laugh, "just to prove that you are a false man." "No, no, Jessie, spare me," returned the Highlander, "but get out your accordion, and--" "Accordion!" almost shouted Lumley, "do you play the accordion? Have you really got one here?" It is but right to say, in justification of Lumley's enthusiasm, that music of any kind was so seldom heard in those wilds, that the mere prospect of hearing good music excited us, for of course our natural thought was that a girl like Jessie Macnab could not perform anything but good music. As she rose to go for the instrument to Salamander's room--which had been made over to her--a growling Gaelic exclamation made me aware of the fact that the faces of Donald Bane and James Dougall were beaming with hope, mingled with admiration of their countrywoman. She had naturally paid these men a good deal of attention, and, in addition to her other good qualities, spoke their native tongue fluently. As Dougall afterwards said, "She hes the Gaelic!" On returning to the hall with the once familiar and well-remembered instrument, I believe every man there felt a tendency to worship her. But who shall describe the effect produced when she began to play, with the utmost facility and with deep feeling, one of the most beautiful of the plaintive Scottish melodies? Bane and Dougall shaded their rugged faces with their rugged hands to hide the tears that could not be restrained. Lumley, whose mind, although untouched by associations, was peculiarly susceptible to sweet sounds, sat entranced. So did Big Otter, who could only glare; because instrument, tune, and performer, were alike new and magical to him. Even Salamander forgot his jealousy and almost collapsed with wonder. As for Dumont, Coppet, and the others--they clasped their hands, opened their eyes and mouths, and simply drank it in. There was no applause when the air ceased, but a deep sigh from every one seemed to be the indication of a return to ordinary consciousness. Waboose and her mother did not sigh, however. They sat still and gazed in silent wonder. Jessie Macnab, with a slight blush at the unexpected effect, ran her fingers lightly over the keys of her instrument, and then suddenly began to play a Highland reel with tremendous vigour! If an electric shock had traversed the marrow or our backbones, the result could not have been more surprising. "Wow! Tougall, man!" exclaimed Bane, starting up and flinging away his chair. Dougall said nothing, but he uttered a Celtic yell suggestive of war and all its horrors to Big Otter, and, starting up, began the Highland fling opposite to his friend in the most violent manner. As I was not a bad dancer of Scots' reels myself, and the music had caused me also to boil over, I started up likewise and faced Macnab, who, being equally affected, stood up to me in a moment, and away we went, hammer and tongs, with stamp and whoop and snap of finger--oh! the scene is indescribable. Indeed, I may say that to an ordinary civilised man who never saw it, the scene is inconceivable, so--we will pass on. While these stirring events were taking place inside the hall, a black-faced, red-painted savage was flattening his ugly nose against a pane of glass outside one of the windows. It was Attick, whom our chief had convicted of stealing about the time of our arrival. That unpleasant savage had never forgiven Lumley, and, being exceedingly vindictive, had resolved to murder him! With this end in view, he had been prowling about the place for several days, having arrived with a band of his tribe who had assembled at Christmas-time to enjoy some of the good cheer which they understood to be going at that season among the pale-faces. On New Year's night unknown to his comrades--for it was his intention to do the deed secretly, and leave the imputation upon all--he watched his opportunity, and thought he had found it when, after the dance was over and the guests had retired, he saw Lumley seated by the fire in conversation with the newly-arrived pale-face girl. Macnab and I had gone with the men to their house for some purpose--I forget what--so that the two were left alone. Attick might easily have opened the door and shot his victim, but the report, he knew, would have roused every one; besides, his absence at the moment and his dirty gun would have betrayed him to his comrades; so, being a strong man, he preferred the scalping-knife, with the use of which he was of course familiar. Now, it chanced that there hung a small looking-glass over the hall fireplace. In that glass Lumley could see not only himself, but the door and windows of the room behind him, as he sat chatting with Jessie Macnab. Happening to glance into the glass, he observed the flattened nose of Attick on the window-pane with the glaring eyes above it. A _tete-a-tete_ with the fair Jessie was too pleasant, however, to be interrupted by such a trifle; he therefore continued the conversation, though he kept a sharp look-out behind him. Presently he saw the door open--open so gently that it gave forth no sound. Immediately after, a blackened and savage head appeared with a diabolical expression on the countenance. It was followed slowly by a hand in which a gleaming knife was clutched. Lumley now fully understood what was meditated, for he recognised Attick through his war-paint. He did not move, however, for he felt that if he sprang up too soon the savage could easily leap back through the doorway and escape into the dark woods. He therefore laid strong constraint on himself and waited. Miss Macnab's back was turned to the savage, but not having the advantage of the glass, she could not see him, and continued her pleasant prattle. Like a dark, noiseless shadow, the Indian advanced, and raised his knife. "Then you like this wilderness life?" asked Jessie, at that moment. "Yes, I confess, Miss Macnab, that it has its charms as well as its disagreeables--the utter want of society being the worst of the latter." "I should have thought," said the girl, looking up, "that you--but-- but--why do you gaze and frown so fiercely at that--" She was promptly answered, for Lumley sprang up at the moment with panther-like agility, wheeled round, seized the uplifted arm, and, with a wrench so violent as to break it, he hurled the savage to the ground. Jessie Macnab sprang up in consternation, but did not give way to that supposed female-in-alarm necessity--a scream. At the same moment Macnab and I entered. "Hallo! Lumley. What's all this?" cried Macnab. "Nobody hurt, I hope?" "I fear the Indian is hurt somewhat," said our chief, looking down at his enemy, who lay stunned upon the floor. "Go, Max, assemble our men and fetch all the Indians." In a few minutes all were assembled in the hall, when Lumley, in a low, stern voice, related what had occurred, appealing to Jessie to corroborate what he said. "Now," he added in conclusion, turning to the Indians, "I have no quarrel with you. There lies your comrade. He has forfeited his life to me, but I forgive him. Take him away." Lumley said no more, as, in solemn surprise and silence, the Indians lifted up their comrade and bore him out of the hall; but he took good care to make no reference whatever to the looking-glass, and I verily believe that to this day it is believed by the red-men of that region that Lumley has eyes in the back of his head. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. THE MYSTERIOUS PACKET--FRIENDS DEPART, AND LUMLEY IS CAUGHT SINGING. The uncertainty of all sublunary things is a truism so trite that I do not mean to insult the reader's understanding by attempting to prove it. I merely refer to it in order to say that the great Nor'-west is not exempt from that general rule of uncertainty. At first peace and prosperity attended us, at least in all the main lines of life, with only trivial variations, and we felt disposed to believe that the sunshine would continue to gladden us throughout the whole winter. But such was not to be the case. Soon after the events narrated in the last chapter, clouds began to gather, the peaceful flow of our life was interrupted, and at last a storm burst which filled the inhabitants of our little fort with consternation. After the attempted murder by Attick on New Year's Day, the Indians left the fort, taking their wounded friend along with them. No doubt they felt that it would be scarcely reasonable in them to expect to be entertained with the good things of the pale-faces after the dastardly attempt that had been made on our chief's life. But Attick, who had been wounded more deeply in his feelings than in his body, resolved to be revenged. He was the more urged to this because his savage affections had been fixed on, and no doubt he had been sharp enough to perceive my own regard for the girl, and was jealous enough to believe that I would take advantage of my position and of her residence at the fort to supplant him. Bad men invariably find like-minded spirits ready to help them in their dark designs. Among the redskins of his tribe Attick found no difficulty in securing the allegiance of one or two men, who were in the habit of looking up to him as their leader, and it was not very long before he found his opportunity--as shall soon be told. When the Macnabs had spent three weeks with us, they set off on the return journey to the Mountain Fort, taking Waboose along with them--for Jessie Macnab had taken so strong a fancy to the fair-haired half-caste that she had prevailed on her to agree to visit the Mountain Fort in company with her mother, from whom she refused to be separated even for a few days. Before their departure, however, I had a conversation with Waboose, in which I reminded her of the packet about which she had spoken to me on a memorable occasion in the woods. I may remark here in passing that I had conscientiously held to my promise to Lumley, and had carefully abstained from making the slightest effort to gain the girl's affections, or to show her the state of my own feelings. Indeed, I had rather avoided her as much as possible without appearing rude or unkind. Of course I could not however, help showing my pity for, and sympathy with, her poor invalid mother, and as I was the only one in our little community who possessed the smallest knowledge of medicine or surgery I was forced to visit their hut daily in the capacity of doctor. "Waboose," said I, during the conversation above referred to, "you need not be anxious about your mother. I feel assured that her complaint is of such a nature that her general health will be benefited by a trip over the snow--provided she is kept warm and does not travel too far each day. Of course there is no fear of that, with you and Miss Macnab to look after her, and I have given careful directions to Mr Macnab how to treat her." "You are very kind," replied the girl with much earnestness of tone and manner. "And now, Waboose," I continued, "you remember saying long ago you would show me the packet that--" "Yes, it is here," she said, quickly, taking it out of the folds of a light shawl which covered her shoulders--the gift of Jessie--and handing it to me. "Thank you. Well, I will examine it carefully this afternoon and give it back to you to-morrow before you start." "No, keep it. I can trust you," she said, with a simple look that somehow depressed me, for it was almost too simple and sisterly to my mind. "Besides," she added, "it is safer in your hands than mine, and when I come again you will explain to me what it contains." Next day the party left us. It consisted of Macnab, who, with his wonted energy of nature, was leader and beater of the track; the sprightly Jessie in a cariole drawn by four dogs; Waboose's mother in a similar cariole, and the fair Waboose herself, on snow-shoes, for she preferred the mode of travelling to which she had been most accustomed. Two Indians dragging provision-sleds brought up the rear. It had been arranged that I should convoy the party to their first bivouac in the snow, spend the night with them, and continue to journey with them the second day as far as was consistent with the possibility of returning to the fort that night. Jack Lumley accompanied us at first, but another small party of Indians had come in to stay at the fort at that time, and although he had, I am certain, a very strong desire to go further, with his usual self-sacrificing spirit when duty pointed another way, he turned and left us at the end of a few miles. I spent the night in the snow-bivouac as arranged, and continued to journey onward with the party next day, until Macnab refused to let me go another step. "Now, Max," he said, laughingly, "you must turn here. Why, man, it will be midnight before you get in, good walker though you be. Come, good-bye." "Well, well, I suppose it's better to turn since you seem tired of my company," said I, turning to Jessie, who stood up in her sleigh to shake hands. "Good-bye, Miss Macnab." "Jessie, man, Jessie--none of your Miss Macnabs here, else I'll tumble you into the snow by way of farewell," shouted the irrepressible Highlander. "Very well, good-bye, Jessie," said I, with a laugh, though my heart was heavy enough. "Good-bye, Waboose--farewell all." With a wave of his hand Macnab tramped on ahead, the sleigh-bells rang out merrily and the rest of the party followed. After they had gone a few yards Waboose turned and waved her hand again. As I looked on her fair face, glowing with health and exercise, her upright, graceful figure in its picturesque costume and her modest mien, I felt that two beams of light had shot from her bright blue eyes and pierced my heart right through and through. It was a double shot--both barrels, if I may say so--well aimed at the centre of the bull's-eye! Next moment she was gone--the whole party having dipped over the brow of a snow-drift. "An Indian! a half-caste!" I exclaimed in a burst of contempt, going off over the plain at five miles an hour, "nothing of the sort. A lady--one of Nature's ladies--born and br---no, not bred; no need for breeding where genuine purity, gentleness, tenderness, simplicity, modesty--" I stuck at this point partly for want of words and partly because my snow-shoes, catching on a twig, sent my feet into the air and stuck my head and shoulders deep into a drift of snow. Though my words were stopped, however, the gush of my enthusiasm flowed steadily on. "And what can be more worthy of man's admiration and respectful affection?" I argued, as I recovered my perpendicular, coughed the snow out of my mouth and nose, and rubbed it out of my eyes; "what more worthy of true-hearted devotion than this--this--creature of--of light; this noble child of nature--this _Queen of the Wilderness_?" I repeated "This Queen of the Wilderness" for a considerable time afterwards. It seemed to me a happy expression, and I dwelt upon it with much satisfaction as I sped along, sending the fine snow in clouds of white dust from my snow-shoes, and striding over the ground at such a pace that I reached Fort Wichikagan considerably before midnight in spite of Macnab's prophecy. I am not naturally prone thus to lay bare the secret workings of my spirit. You will, therefore, I trust, good reader, regard the revelation of these things as a special mark of confidence. On reaching the fort I observed that a bright light streamed from the hall windows, casting a ruddy glow on the snow-heaps which had been shovelled up on each side of the footpath in front, and giving, if possible, a paler and more ghostly aspect to the surrounding scenery. I went to one of the windows and, imitating Attick, flattened my nose against a pane. A pain was the immediate result, for, the glass being intensely cold, I was obliged to draw back promptly. Lumley was seated alone at one side of the fire, in the familiar attitude of a man who meditates profoundly--or sleepily; namely, with his legs stretched straight out in front of him, his hands deep in his trousers-pockets, and his chin sunk on his breast, while his eyes stared fixedly at the flames. I was about to quit my post of observation when a sudden action of my friend arrested me. Drawing up his legs, grasping his knees with his hands, turning his eyes to the ceiling with that gaze which implies that planks and roof count for nothing in the way of intercepting the flight of Mind to the realms of Inspiration, Lumley opened his handsome mouth and broke forth into song. He had a magnificently harsh voice. I could distinguish both air and words through the double windows. The song was that which I have already quoted elsewhere--"Lovely young Jessie, the flower of Dunblane." The deep pathos of his tone was thrilling! It flashed a new thought into my brain. Then I became amazed at my own blind stupidity. I now understood the meaning of that restless activity which had struck me recently as being so uncharacteristic of my sedate friend; that anxiety to have all our food well cooked and nicely served, in one who habitually took food just as it came, and cared nothing for quality or appearance; that unusual effort to keep our hall neat and in order; those sharp reproofs to the astonished Salamander for failure in punctuality at meal-hours; that very slight indication of a more frequent use of the brush and comb, in one whose crisp curls required little aid from such implements. Under the excitement of my discovery I burst into the room with, "Oh! Lumley, you deceiver!" cutting him short in the very middle of those repeated "lovely young Jessies" which constitute the very pith and marrow of the song. "Why, Max! back already?" cried my friend, starting up with a slightly-confused look, which confirmed my suspicion, and rattling on at a pace which was plainly meant to carry me past the subject. "How you must have walked, to be sure, unless, indeed, you convoyed them only a short part of the way; but that could not have been the case. It would have been so unlike your gallant nature, Max--eh? Well, and how did they get on? Snow not too soft, I hope? Encampment comfortable? But no fear of that of course, with Peter Macnab as leader. No capsizes?" "None," said I, seizing advantage of a slight pause; "everything went as well as possible, and the carioles went admirably--especially Jessie's." I looked at him pointedly as I said this, but he coolly stooped to lift a billet and put it on the fire as he rattled on again. "Yes? That's just what I hoped for, though I could not be quite sure of it for she has the old one which I had patched up as well as possible. You see, as Macnab said--and of course I agreed with him--it was only fair that the invalid should have the strongest and easiest-going conveyance. By the way, Max, I've heard some news. Do you know that that scoundrel Attick is stirring up the tribes against us?" "No--is he?" said I, quite forgetting the fair Jessie, at this piece of information. "Yes, and the rascal, I fear, may do us irreparable damage before we can tame him, for he has considerable influence with the young and fiery spirits among the savages--so Big Otter says. Fortunately his power lies only in the tongue, at present, for it seems I broke his arm the night he tried to murder me; but that will mend in time." "Very unfortunate," said I, "that this should happen at the beginning of our career in this region. We must thwart his plans if we can." "Moreover," continued Lumley, with a sly look, "I am told that he has the presumption to aspire to the hand of Waboose!" "Indeed!" I exclaimed, as a flame of indignation seemed to shoot through my whole frame; "we must thwart his plans in _that_ direction emphatically." "Of course, of course," said my friend, gravely; "it would never do to let such a sweet girl throw herself away on a savage; besides, she's such a favourite with Jessie Macnab, you know. It would never do-- never." I looked at him quickly, but he was gazing abstractedly at the fire. I felt that I was no match for my friend at badinage, and gave it up! "But what do you think he could do!" I asked with some anxiety, after a few minutes' thought. "You know that Waboose would as soon think of marrying that bloodthirsty savage as she would think of marrying a--a--" "A pine-tree or a grizzly bear. Yes, I know," interrupted Lumley, "he will never get her with her own consent; but you know that savages have a knack of marrying women without their consent and then there is the possibility of his attempting to carry her off--and various other possibilities." I saw that my friend was jestingly attempting to test my feelings, but I made no reply at first, though I felt strongly on the subject. "Well, Lumley," said I, at length, "your first suggestion I meet with the reply that the consent of parents is not ignored among Indians, and that Waboose's mother is an Indian of so high-minded and refined a nature--partly acquired, no doubt, from her husband--that _she_ will never consent to give her daughter to such a man; such a brute, I might say, considering what he attempted. As to Waboose herself, her father's gentle nature in her secures her from such a misfortune; and as to her being carried off--well, I don't think any savages would be bold enough to try to carry off anything from the grip of Peter Macnab, and when we get her back here we will know how to look after her." "It may be so," said Lumley, with a sigh; "and now, my boy, to change the subject, we must buckle to our winter's work in right good earnest; I mean what may be styled our philanthropic work; for the other work-- firewood-cutting, hunting, store arranging, preparation for the return of Indians in spring, with their furs, and all the other odds and ends of duty--is going along swimmingly; but our classes must be resumed, now that the holidays are over, for we have higher interests to consider than the mere eating that we may live, and living that we may eat." "All right," said I heartily, for I was very glad to help in a species of work which, I felt gave dignity to all our other labours. "I'll get the slates out and start the men at arithmetic to-morrow evening, from the place where we left off. What will you do? Give them `Robinson Crusoe' over again?" "No, Max, I won't do that, not just now at all events. I'll only finish the story and then begin the `Pilgrim's Progress.' You observed, no doubt that I had been extending my commentaries on `Robinson,' especially towards the last chapters." "Yes--what of that?" "Well, I am free to confess that that was intentionally done. It was a dodge, my boy, to get them into the habit of expecting, and submitting to, commentary, for I intend to come out strong in that line in my exposition of the Pilgrim--as you shall see. I brought the book with this very end, and the long winter nights, in view. And I mean to take it easy too--spin it out. I won't bore them with too much at a time." "Good, but don't spin it out too long, Lumley," said I; "you know when men set their hearts on some magnificent plan or scheme they are apt to become prosy. I suppose you'll also take the writing class, as before?" "I suppose I must," returned my friend, with a sigh, "though it goes against the grain, for I was never very good at penmanship, and we have lost our best scholars too, now that Waboose and her mother are gone." "By the way, that reminds me," said I, "that Waboose gave me the packet which she received from her father not long before he was drowned. Here it is." I drew it from my breast-pocket and held it up. "She told me her father had said it was no use her opening it, as she could not read it, but that she was to give it to the first white man whom she could trust; you remember my mentioning that to you? she gave it to me only yesterday, and I have not yet found time to read it." "Did she say she could trust _you_, Max!" "Of course she did. Why not?" "Oh, certainly, why not?" repeated my friend, with a peculiar look. "Did she say you might communicate its contents to _me_?" "Well, no, she did not," I replied, feeling rather perplexed. "But I am quite sure that, if she meant to trust me at all, she meant to trust to my discretion in the whole matter; and--Jack Lumley," I added, getting up and grasping my friend's hand, "if I cannot trust _you_ I can trust nobody." "That will do," he said, returning the squeeze. "You are safe. Go ahead." The packet was wrapped in a piece of birch-bark, and tied with a bit of fibrous root. This covering removed, I found a white cambric handkerchief, inside of which was something hard. It turned out to be the miniature of a handsome man, somewhere between forty and fifty. Beside it was a manuscript in English. On one corner of the kerchief was marked in faded ink the name "Eve." Holding out the portrait I said,--"You see. I knew he was a gentleman. This must be her father." "No doubt," replied Lumley--"but what says this letter?" Unfolding the manuscript I spread it carefully on my knee and began to read. CHAPTER NINETEEN. OPENING OF THE MYSTERIOUS PACKET. The manuscript was without date or preface, and its contents interested as well as surprised us not a little. It began at once as follows:-- "Whoever receives this packet and letter from my daughter receives a sacred trust which he dare not shake off, and which I solemnly charge him in the sight of God to take up and fulfil. At the moment while I write I am well and strong, and not old. It is my firm intention, if God spares me, to pursue the course which is herein detailed, but I know too well the risk and dangers of the wilderness to feel assured that I shall live to act out my part. I therefore write down here, as briefly as I can, my story and my wishes, and shall give the letter with my miniature to my darling Waboose--whose Christian name is Eve, though she knows it not--with directions not to open it, or let it out of her hands, until she meets with a white man _whom_ _she_ _can_ _trust_, for well assured am I that the man whom my innocent and wise-hearted Eve can _trust_--be he old or young--will be a man who cannot and will not refuse the responsibility laid on him. Why I prefer to leave this packet with my daughter, instead of my dear wife, is a matter with which strangers have nothing to do. "I begin by saying that I have been a great sinner, but thank God, I have found Jesus a great Saviour. Let this suffice. I was never given to open up my mind much, and I won't begin now--at least, not more than I can help. It is right to say, at the outset, that I have been regularly married by a travelling Wesleyan minister to my dear wife, by whom also Eve and her mother were baptized. "My fall began in disobedience to my mother. Probably this is the case with most ne'er-do-wells. My name is William Liston. My father was a farmer in a wild part of Colorado. He died when I was a little boy, leaving my beloved mother to carry on the farm. I am their only child. My mother loved and served the Lord Christ. And well do I know that my salvation from an ungovernable temper and persistent self-will is the direct answer to her unceasing prayers. "I left home, against her will, with a party of backwoodsmen, my heart being set on what I once thought would be the free and jolly life of a hunter in the great American wilderness. I have lived to find the truth of that proverb, `All is not gold that glitters,' and of that word, `There is no rest, saith my God, to the wicked.' "I was eighteen when I left home. Since then I have been a homeless wanderer--unless a shifting tent may be considered home! Long after my quitting home, and while staying with a tribe of Indians at the head waters of the Saskatchewan river, I met an Indian girl, whose gentle, loving nature, and pretty face, were so attractive to me that I married her and joined her tribe. The marriage ceremony was, as I have said, confirmed by a Wesleyan minister, whose faithful words made such an impression on me that I resolved to give up my wild life, and return with my wife and child to my old home. My character, however--which is extremely resolute and decided when following the bent of my inclinations, and exceedingly weak and vacillating when running counter to the same--interfered with my good intentions. The removal of the tribe to a more distant part of the land also tended to delay me, and a still more potent hindrance lay in the objection of my wife--who has been faithful and true to me throughout; God bless her! She could not for a long time, see her way to forsake her people. "Ever since my meeting with the Wesleyan, my mind has been running more or less on the subject of religion, and I have tried to explain it as far as I could to my wife and child, but have found myself woefully ignorant as well as sinful. At last, not long ago, I procured a New Testament from a trapper, and God in mercy opened my eyes to see and my heart to receive the truth as it is in Jesus. Since then I have had less difficulty in speaking to my wife and child, and have been attempting to teach the latter to read English. The former, whose mother and father died lately, has now no objection to go with me to the land of the pale-faces, and it is my present intention to go to my old home on the return of spring. I have not heard of my poor mother since I left her, though at various times I have written to her. It may be that she is dead. I hope not--I even think not, for she was very young when she married my father, and her constitution was strong. But her hair was beginning to silver even before I forsook her--with sorrow, I fear, on my account. Oh! mother! mother! How unavailing is my bitter regret! What would I not give to kneel once more at your feet and confess my sin! This may perhaps be permitted--but come weal, come woe, blessed be God we shall meet again. "If my prayer is granted, this paper will never be seen by human eyes. If God sees fit to deny me this, and I should die in the wilderness, then I charge the man to whom my packet is given, to take my wife and daughter to Colorado; and if my mother--Mrs William Liston, of Sunny Creek--be still alive, to present them to her with this written paper and miniature. If, on the other hand, she be dead, then let him buy for them an annuity, or otherwise invest four thousand pounds for their benefit, according to the best of his judgment. How to come by the four thousand pounds I will now explain. "Away in the beautiful and sequestered valley at the head of Lake Wichikagan there stands a stunted pine, near a rock fallen from the cliff above. The spot is not easily found, but my Eve knows it well. It was a favourite resort of ours when we went picnicking together. There is a small hole or dry cave in the cliff just behind the fallen rock. Two feet underneath the soil there will be found a bag containing a set of diamonds worth the sum I have named, with a smaller bag containing five hundred pounds in gold. It may not be amiss to say that both jewels and money have been honestly come by. The money I dug out of the Californian mines, and bought the jewels in a drunken frolic when in Canada--`for my future wife,' as I then boasted. My dear wife has never seen them, nor has Eve. They do not know of their existence. The five hundred pounds in gold is to be retained for himself by the man who accepts this trust to enable him to pay his way and carry it out. "William Liston." It is difficult to express the conflict of feelings that assailed me when I had finished reading this remarkable manuscript. For some time Lumley and I gazed at each other in silence. "You accept the trust, I suppose?" said my friend at last. "Of course. How could I do otherwise?" "But you cannot remain in the service of the Hudson's Bay Company if you do. They would never give you leave of absence for such a purpose." "No matter. I will not ask leave of absence. I will resign. My time was up, you know, this year. I will write to the governor by the spring-brigade, and start away for Colorado in summer." "But this poor man may have been slightly deranged," suggested Lumley. "He says that at one time he led a wild life. It is possible that his brain may have been affected, and he only dreams of these jewels and the gold." "I think not," said I, decidedly; "the letter is so calm and simple in style that the idea is absurd; besides, we can soon test it by visiting the valley and the spot referred to. Moreover, even if there were no money, and the poor man were really deranged, he could never have imagined or invented all that about his mother and Colorado if it were not true. Even if we fail to find the jewels and cash I will accept the trust and fulfil it." "What! without money?" "Ay, without money," said I firmly, though I am bound to confess that I did not at the moment see clearly how the thing was in that case to be done. But I was--and, indeed, still am--of an ardent disposition, and felt sanguine that I should manage to fulfil the obligations of this remarkable trust somehow. "Well, Max, you and I will visit this valley to-morrow," said Lumley, rising; "meanwhile we will go to bed." Accordingly, next morning, after breakfast Lumley and I slung our snow-shoes over our shoulders on the barrels of our guns,--for the lake was as hard as a sheet of white marble,--and started off to pay a visit to the spot indicated, in what I may style poor Liston's will. It was a bright bracing day--quite calm, but with keen frost, which tended to increase the feelings of excitement already roused by the object we had in view. As we passed through the lake's fringe of willows, the tops of which just rose a foot or two above the drifted snow, a great covey of ptarmigan rose with a mighty whirr, and swept along the shore; but we took no heed of these--our minds being bent on other game! The distance to the upper end of the lake was considerable, and the day was far advanced when we reached it. As we took to the land the covey of ptarmigan, which had preceded us to the place, again rose. This time, however, we were prepared for them. Lumley shot a brace right and left, taking the two last that rose with sportsman-like precision. I confess that I am not a particularly good shot--never was--and have not much of the sportsman's pride about me. I fired straight into the centre of the dense mass of birds, six of which immediately fell upon the snow. "What a lot of flukes!" exclaimed my companion, with a laugh, as he recharged. "Luck before precision, any day!" said I, following his example. "Ay, Max, but there is this difference, that luck is rather uncertain, whereas precision is always sure." "Well, be that as it may," said I putting on my snow-shoes, for the snow in the wood we were about to enter was deep and soft, "we have enough for a good supper at all events." "True, and we shall need a good supper, for we must camp out. There is no chance of our finding this treasure--even if it exists--until we have had a good search, and then it will be too late to return home with comfort, or even safety, for it is difficult on a dark night to distinguish tracks on the hard snow of a lake, as I've sometimes found to my cost." We set up several other coveys of ptarmigan as we traversed the belt of willows lying between the lake and the woods, and when we entered the latter, several grouse, of a species that takes to trees, fluttered away from us; but we did not molest them, having already more than we could consume swinging at our belts. We went straight up the valley to what we deemed the most sequestered part of it, and then paused. "This looks somewhat like the spot, doesn't it?" said Lumley, glancing round. "Yonder is a cliff with rocks at the base of it." "Yes, but too many rocks," said I; "the paper mentions only one; besides, it refers to a stunted pine, and I see nothing of that sort here." "True, it must be higher up the valley. Come along." On we plodded, hour after hour, halting often, and examining with care many a secluded spot that seemed to answer, more or less, the description of the spot for which we searched, but all in vain. Sunset found us as far from our object as ever, and as hungry as hawks. Darkness of course put an end to the search, and, with a feeling of disappointment and weariness that I had not experienced since arriving in that region, I set to work to fell and cut up a tree for fire wood, while Lumley shovelled a hole in the snow at the foot of a pine, and otherwise prepared our encampment. But youth is remarkably elastic in spirit! No sooner was the fire crackling, the kettle singing, and the delicious odour of roasted ptarmigan tickling our nostrils, than disappointment gave way to hope and weariness to jollity. "Come, we shall have at it again to-morrow," said Lumley. "So we shall," said I--"mind that kettle. You have an unfortunate capacity for kicking things over." "One of the disadvantages of long legs, Max. They're always in the way. Get out the biscuit now. My ptarmigan is ready. At least, if it isn't, I can't wait." "Neither can I, Jack. I sometimes wish that it were natural to us to eat things raw. It would be so very convenient and save sh---a--lot-- of--time." Hunger and a wrenched-off drumstick checked further utterance! That night we lay in our snow camp, gazing up at the stars, with our feet to the fire, talking of gold and diamonds with all the eagerness of veritable misers--though it is but justice to myself to add that Eve's blue eyes outshone, in my imagination, all the diamonds that ever decked the brow of Wealth or Beauty! When at last we slept, our dreams partook of the same glittering ideas--coupled, of course, with much of the monstrous absurdity to which dreams are liable. I had just discovered a gem which was so large that I experienced the utmost difficulty in thrusting it into my coat-pocket, and was busy shovelling small diamonds of the purest water into a wheelbarrow, when a tremendous whack on my nose awoke me. Starting up with an indignant gasp I found that it was a lump of snow, which had been detached by the heat of our fire from a branch overhead. "What's wrong, Max?" growled my companion, who lay curled up in his buffalo robe, like a huge Newfoundland dog. "Bin dreamin'?" "Yes," said I, with a loud yawn, "I was dreaming of shovelling up diamonds by the thousand when a lump of snow fell and hit my nose!" "Str'nge," sighed Lumley, in the sleepiest voice I ever heard, "so's I-- dr'm'n 'f g'ld'n sass-gs an' dm'nd rupple-ply." "What nonsense are you talking, man? What were you dreaming of?" "'F gold'n saus'ges an' dim'nd rolly-p'ly. I say--'s fire out?" "Nearly." "'S very cold. G't up--mend it, l'ke good f'llow. I'll help you, d'rectly." He finished off with a prolonged snore, so I rose with a slight laugh, mended the fire, warmed myself well, observed in a sleepy way that the night was still bright and calm, and then lay down in a state of semi-consciousness to drop at once into a nest made of golden filigree filled with diamond eggs! Next morning we rose at daybreak, relighted the fire and had breakfast, after which we resumed our search, but still--without success. "I fear that my surmise as to the state of poor Liston's mind is correct," said Lumley. "We have searched the whole valley, I believe." "Nay, not quite," I returned, "it is much varied in form, and full of out-o'-the-way nooks. Besides, we have not yet discovered the stunted pine, and you know the paper says the spot is difficult to find. As to Liston's mind I feel quite sure that it was all right, and that the man was a good and true one. The father of Waboose could not have been otherwise." I said this somewhat decidedly, for I felt sorely disappointed at our failure, and slightly annoyed at my friend's unbelief in one whose last writing proved him--at least to my mind--to be genuine and sincere. "Well, Max," returned Lumley, with his wonted pleasant look and tone, "it may be that you are right. We will continue our search as long as there seems any chance of success." Accordingly, we ranged the valley round, high and low, until we had visited, as we thought, every nook and cranny in it and then, much dispirited, returned home. One morning, about three months after these events, Lumley came into my bedroom where I was drawing a plan for a new store. "Max," said he, sitting down on the bed beside me, "I mean to start this afternoon on a visit to the mountain fort. You know I promised Macnab that I would look him up about this time and fetch Waboose and her mother back." "Indeed. When do you start!" "This afternoon." I was not surprised at the suddenness of this announcement. Our chief was eminently a man of action. He seldom talked much about plans, but thought them well out, and when his mind was made up acted without delay. "You'll take my letter to the governor and tell Mac to forward it with his spring packet?" said I. "Yes, that is just what I came to see you about. Is it ready--and are you quite decided about retiring?" "Quite decided. See, here is the letter. And don't forget your promise to say nothing to Waboose or anyone else about Liston's packet." "Not a word, my boy." That afternoon my friend set off on snow-shoes accompanied by two men. "Any message, Max?" he said, at parting. "Of course. My kind regards to everybody." "Nothing warmer to _anybody_?" "Oh, yes," I returned quickly, "I forgot you may, if you choose, say something a little more affectionate to Miss Macnab!" "I will, Max, I will," he replied, with a loud ringing laugh and a cheery good-bye. Some time after that an Indian came to the fort bearing a letter from Lumley. It was written, he said, merely because the Indian chanced to be travelling towards Wichikagan, and contained nothing of importance. To my surprise and disappointment it contained no reference whatever to Waboose. On turning over the last page, however, I found a postscript. It ran thus: "P.S.--By the way, I had almost omitted to mention Eve. My dear boy, I believe you are right. She is one of Nature's ladies. Jessie has prevailed on her to put on one of her dresses and be her companion, and when they are walking together with their backs towards me, upon my word I have difficulty in deciding which is the more ladylike of the two! And that you will admit, is no small compliment from me. Jessie has been giving her lessons in English, and music and drawing too. Just think of that! She says she is doing it with an end in view. I wonder what that end can be! Jessie is sometimes difficult to understand. She is also remarkably wise and far-sighted. I expect to be home soon-- farewell." CHAPTER TWENTY. I COME OUT IN A NEW LIGHT, AND HAVE A VERY NARROW ESCAPE. During the absence of my friend everything went on at the fort in the usual quiet way, with this difference, that part of our educational course had to be given up, and I had to read the Pilgrim's Progress instead of my friend, for the men had become so deeply interested in the adventures of Christian that they begged of me to continue the readings. This I agreed to do, but confined myself simply to reading. I observed, however, that my audience did not seem to appreciate the story as much as before, and was getting somewhat disheartened about it, when one evening, as I was about to begin, Donald Bane said to me-- "If ye please, sur, the other laads an' me's been talking over this matter, an' they want me to say that they would pe fery much obleeged if ye would expound the story as you go along, the same as Muster Lumley did." This speech both surprised and embarrassed me, for I had never before attempted anything in the way of exposition. I felt, however, that it would never do for a man in charge of an outpost in the Great Nor'-West to exhibit weakness on any point, whatever he might feel; I therefore resolved to comply. "Well, Donald Bane," I said, "it had been my intention to leave the exposition of the allegory to Mr Lumley, but as you all wish me to carry on that part of the reading I will do my best." So saying, I plunged at once into the story, and got on much more easily than I had expected; ideas and words flowing into my mind copiously, insomuch that I found it difficult to stop, and on more than one occasion was awakened by a snore from one of the audience, to the fact that I had sent some of them to sleep. In the midst of this pleasant, and I hope not unprofitable, work, an event occurred which had well-nigh stopped my commentaries on the Pilgrim's Progress, and put an end to my career altogether. I had gone out one morning with my gun to procure a few fresh ptarmigan, accompanied by Big Otter. Our trusty Indian was beginning by that time to understand the English language, but he would not condescend to speak it. This, however, was of slight importance, as I had learned to jabber fluently in the native tongue. We speedily half-filled the large game-bag which the Indian carried. "I think we'll go into the thicker woods now," said I, "and try for some tree grouse by way of variety." Big Otter gave a mild grunt of assent. He was not naturally given to much talking, and, being amiable, was always ready to conform to any plan without discussion, unless expressly asked. Indeed, even when expressly asked, it was not always possible to get a satisfactory answer out of him. "Do you think we should go up the Dark Valley, or over the Rocky Knoll," said I, referring to two well-known spots a considerable distance from the fort. "The pale-face chief knows best." "Yes, but the pale-face asks what the red-face thinks," said I, somewhat amused by the answer. "He thinks that there are grouse in the Dark Valley, and also in the lands towards the setting sun over the Rocky Knoll." "If I were to ask you, Big Otter, which of the two directions you would like to take, what would you reply?" "I would reply, `The direction that best pleases the pale-face chief.'" "Now, Big Otter," said I, firmly, for I was determined to get an answer out of him, "in which of the two paths are we most likely to find the greatest number of birds?" "Assuredly in the path which shall be chosen by the pale-face. Is he not a great hunter? Does he not know the land?" I gave in with a short laugh, and, turning, led the way over the Rocky Knoll into the dense forest at the back of the fort. Passing through a belt of this, we came upon more open ground, where the trees grew in clumps, with willow-covered spaces between. Beyond that we re-entered the thick woods, and at once set up a covey of the birds we were in search of. There were six of them, and they all perched on a neighbouring tree. Now it is sometimes the case that the birds of which I write are so tame that they will sit still on a tree till they are all shot, one by one, if only the hunter is careful to fire at the lowest bird first, and so proceed upwards. If he should kill the top bird first, its fluttering fall disturbs the rest, causing them to take wing. Fully aware of this fact, Big Otter and I fired alternate shots, and in a few seconds brought down the whole covey. This quite filled one of our bags. "You may take it home, Big Otter," said I, "and tell them not to be alarmed if I don't return till to-morrow. Perhaps I shall camp out." With his usual quiet grunt of acquiescence my red-skinned companion shouldered the full bag, and left me. I then struck into the thick woods, with the general bearings of which I was well acquainted, and soon after came across the fresh tracks of a deer, which I followed up hotly. I am naturally a keen sportsman, and apt to forget both time and distance when pursuing game. As to distance, however, a backwoods hunter who intends to encamp on the spot where night finds him, does not need to concern himself much about that. I therefore plodded on, hour after hour, until the waning light told of the approach of darkness, and convinced me that further pursuit would be useless. Looking round me then, for a suitable spot on which to make my encampment, I experienced almost a shock of surprise, not unmingled with alarm, on making the discovery that I had forgotten to bring my fire-bag! To some people the serious nature of this may not at first be apparent. But they may appreciate the situation in some degree when I tell them that on that occasion I suddenly found myself about twenty miles from home, fatigued, hungry, with the night descending over the wilderness, the thermometer about thirty-five below zero, of Fahrenheit's scale, with the snow for my bed, and without that all important flint, steel and tinder, wherewith to procure fire for the cooking of my food and the warming of my frame! It is true I had my gun, which was a flint one, so that by rubbing some slightly moistened gunpowder on a piece of rag, which I tore from my shirt for the purpose, and snapping the lock over it there was a possibility of a spark catching, but unfortunately the flint was a much worn one which I had chipped away to such an extent during the day, to improve its fire-producing powers, that only the merest glimmer of a spark was evolved after many snappings, and it was so feeble as to be quite unable to catch hold of my extemporised tinder. After prolonged and fruitless efforts the intense cold began to chill me, and being well aware of the great danger of getting benumbed, or of falling into that torpid state of indifference to life, coupled with intense desire for rest which precedes death from cold, I made up my mind at once, tired and hungry though I was, to turn round and walk straight back to the fort. I knew myself to be quite capable of walking forty miles on snow-shoes in ordinary circumstances. My being tired and the darkness of night, were against me, but what of that? it would only require me to brace myself to a severer task than usual! I had not gone many miles, however, on the return journey, when a doubt occurred as to whether I was taking the right direction. In the confidence of my knowledge of the country I had carelessly left my old track, which was indeed rather a devious one, and had struck what I believed to be a straight line for the fort. It was by that time too late to retrace my steps and too dark to distinguish the features of the landscape. I stopped for a minute to think, and as I did so the profound oppressive silence of the night, the weird pallid aspect of the scarce visible snow, and the dark pines around me, which were only a shade or two darker than the black sky above, together with the ever-increasing cold, made such an impression on my mind that the prayer, "God help me!" burst almost involuntarily from my lips. Feeling that delay surely meant death, I started off again with redoubled energy, and this impulse of determination, along with the exercise, increased my temperature somewhat, so that hope became strong again, and with it muscular energy. Suddenly I came upon a snow-shoe track. I went down on my knees to examine it, but the light was insufficient to make it out clearly. What would I not have given for a match at that moment! However, as the size of the shoe-print seemed to my _feeling_ the same with that of the shoe I wore, I concluded that it must certainly be my own track out from home--all the more that it ran almost parallel with the line I was following. Getting upon it then, I stepped out with much greater ease and with a lighter heart. After a time the track led me to a slightly open space where the light was better. I thought that objects seemed familiar to me as I looked round. Advancing, I came on a spot where the snow was much trodden down. There was a bank of snow near. I went towards it while a terrible suspicion flashed into my mind. Yes, it was the very spot on which I had been sitting hours before, while I was making fruitless efforts to obtain a light from the flint of my gun! I had been doing that of which I had often read and heard, walking unwittingly in a circle, and had actually come back to the spot from which I set out. What my feelings were on making this discovery it is scarcely possible to describe. My first act was to look up and exclaim as before, "God help me!" But there was nothing impulsive or involuntary in the prayer this time. I fully realised the extent of my danger, and, believing that the hour had come when nothing could save my life but the direct interposition of my Creator, I turned to Him with all the fervour of my heart. At the same time I am bound to confess that my faith was very weak, and my soul felt that solemn alarm which probably the bravest feel at the approach of death, when that approach is sudden and very unexpected. Nevertheless, I am thankful to say that my powers of judgment and of action did not forsake me. I knew that it would be folly to attempt to follow my track back again through the intricacies of the forest in so dark a night, especially now that the track was partly mingled and confused with that which I had made in joining it. I also knew that to give way to despair, and lie down without a fire or food, would be to seal my own doom. Only one course remained, and that was to keep constantly moving until the return of day should enable me to distinguish surrounding objects more clearly. I went to work therefore without delay, but before doing so once again solemnly and earnestly committed my soul and body to the care of God. And, truly, the circumstances of my case intensified that prayer. I felt as if I had never really prayed in earnest in my life before that night. Then, laying aside my gun, blanket and cooking utensils, so as to commence my task as light as possible, I went to the most open space of ground I could find, and there described a large circle with my snow-shoes on. This was the track on which I resolved to perform a feat of endurance. To walk all night without intermission, without rest, so as to keep up my animal heat was the effort, on the success of which depended the issue of life or death. I began with that vigour which is born of hopeful determination to succeed or die. But, as time wore on, the increasing weakness and exhaustion began to render me less capable of enduring the intense cold. Having my wallet on my back I took out some biscuit and pemmican and ate it as I walked. This revived me a good deal, nevertheless I restrained myself, feeling convinced that nothing but steady, quiet perseverance would carry me through. Soon thirst began to torment me, yet I did not dare to eat snow, as that would have merely injured the inside of my mouth, and frozen the skin of my lips. This feeling did not however last long. It was followed by a powerful sense of drowsiness. This I knew to be the fatal premonitory symptom, and strove against it with all my power. The better to resist it I began to talk aloud to myself. "Come now, my boy, you mustn't give way to _that_. It is death, you know. Hold up! Be a man! Act as Lumley would have acted in similar circumstances. Dear Lumley! How he would run to help me if he only knew!" Suddenly the words, "In Me is thy help," seemed to sound in my very ears. I stopped to listen, and was partly roused, but soon hurried on again. "Yes, yes," I exclaimed aloud, "I know the text well," but the words had scarcely left my lips when I stumbled and fell. Owing to my sinking powers I had failed to keep the centre of the track; my right snow-shoe had caught on the edge of it and tumbled me into the soft snow. How shall I describe the delicious feeling of profound rest that ensued when I found myself prone and motionless? Equally impossible is it to describe the agonising struggles that I made to induce my unwilling spirit to rouse my listless body. Those who have striven in semi-consciousness to throw off the awful lethargy of nightmare may have some conception of my feelings. I knew, even then, that it was the critical moment--the beginning of the end. In a burst of anxiety I began to pray--to shout with all my strength--for deliverance. The effort and the strange sound of my own voice roused me. I staggered to my feet and was able to continue my walk. Being somewhat brighter than I had been before the tumble, I perceived that the circular track was by that time beaten hard enough to bear me up without snow-shoes, so I put them off and walked with much more ease. From this point however my mind became so confused that I can give no reliable account of what followed. I was conscious at various periods during that dreadful night of becoming alive to several incidents and states of mind. I recollect falling more than once, as I had fallen before, and of experiencing, more than once, that painful struggle against what I may style mental and physical inertia. I remember breaking out frequently into loud importunate prayer, and being impressed with a feeling of reviving energy at such times. Sometimes a text of Scripture seemed to flash before my eyes and disappear. On these occasions I made terrible efforts to grasp the text, and have an indistinct sensation of increased strength resulting from the mere efforts, but most of the texts faded as quickly as they came, with the exception of one--"God is our Hope." Somehow I seemed to lay firm hold of that, and to feel conscious of holding it, even when sense was slipping away, but of the blanks between those conditions I know nothing. They may have been long or they may have been short--I cannot tell. All remains on my memory now like the unsubstantial fragments of a hideous dream. The first thing after that which impressed itself on me with anything like the distinctness of reality was the sound of a crackling fire, accompanied with the sensation of warmth in my throat. Slowly opening my eyes I became aware of the fact that I was lying in front of a blazing fire, surrounded by Big Otter, Blondin, and Dougall, who stood gazing at me with anxious looks, while Henri Coppet knelt at my side, attempting to pour some warm tea down my throat. "Dere now, monsieur," said Coppet, who was rather fond of airing his English, especially when excited, "Yoos kom too ver queek. Ony drink. Ha! dere be noting like tea." "Wow! man, mind what yer aboot. Ye'll scald him," said Dougall, anxiously. "You hole yoos tongue," replied the carpenter contemptuously, "me knows w'at mees do. Don' wants no Scoshmans for tell me. _Voila_! Monsieur have swaller _un peu_!" This was true. I had not only swallowed, but nearly choked with a tendency to laugh at the lugubrious expression of my friends' faces. "Where am I?" said I, on recovering a little, "What has happened?" "Oo ay, Muster Maxby," answered Dougall, with his wonted nasal drawl; "somethin' _hess_ happened, but it's no sae pad as what _might_ hev happened, whatever." As this did not tend to clear my mind much, and as I knew from experience that the worthy Celt refused to be hurried in his communications, I turned an inquiring look on Blondin, who at once said in French-- "Monsieur has been lost and nearly frozen, and Monsieur would surely have been quite frozen if James Dougall had not discovered that Monsieur had left his fire-bag at home, by mistake no doubt; we at once set out to search for Monsieur, and we found him with his head in the snow and his feet in the air. At first we thought that Monsieur was dead, but happily he was not, so we kindled a fire and rubbed Monsieur, and gave him hot tea, which has revived him. _Voila_! Perhaps Monsieur will take a little more hot tea?" While Blondin was speaking, the whole scene of the previous day and of the terrible night rushed in upon my brain like a flood, and I thanked God fervently for my deliverance, while I complied with the man's suggestion and sipped some more tea. It revived me much, but on attempting to rise I found myself so weak that I fell back helplessly with a deep sigh. "Ye've no need to trouble yoursel', Muster Maxby," said Dougall, "we've brought the new dowg-sleigh for 'ee." Looking in the direction in which he pointed, I observed not far-off the splendid new dog-sleigh which we had spent much time in making and painting that winter. Our fine team of four semi-wolf dogs, gay with embroidered harness as they lay curled up on the snow, were attached to it. "I suspect I should have died but for your thoughtful care, Dougall," I said, gratefully, as the good fellow assisted to place me in the vehicle and wrap the buffalo robes around me. "Hoots! Muster Maxby," was the remonstrative reply. Big Otter placed himself in front of the _cortege_ to beat the track. The dogs followed him with the sleigh-bells ringing merrily. Blondin took hold of the tail-line, and the others brought up the rear. Thus comfortably, with a bright sun shining in the blue sky, I returned to Fort Wichikagan. CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. A BUFFALO HUNT FOLLOWED BY A PALAVER, AN ARRIVAL, AND A TRAITOR-CHASE. We must turn away now, for a short time, to another, though not far distant, part of the Great Nor'-West. It is a more open country than that immediately around Fort Wichikagan, and lies to the south of it. Here and there long stretches of prairie cut up the wilderness, giving to the landscape a soft and park-like appearance. The scenery is further diversified by various lakelets which swarm with water-fowl, for the season has changed, early spring having already swept away the white mantle of winter, and spread the green robes of Nature over the land. It is such a region as a millionaire might select, in which to build a palace, but no millionaire has yet beheld the lovely spot. With unlimited wealth at his command he still confines himself to the smoke and dust of civilisation, leaving the free air and the brilliant beauty of the wilderness to the wild-fowl and the penniless hunter, and the wandering savage! In the midst of one of the stretches of rolling prairie-land, great herds of buffalo are scattered in groups, browsing with all the air of security peculiar to domestic cattle. Happily their memories are short. They seem prone to enjoy the present, forgetful of the past and regardless of the future--happily, I say, for those humpy and hairy creatures are not unacquainted with man's devices--the sudden surprise, the twang of the red-man's bow and the crack of the hunter's rifle. It was the forenoon of a splendid day, when this peaceful scene was broken in upon by obstreperous, fighting, peace-destroying man. A little cloud of dust on the horizon was the first indication of his approach, and a very antique buffalo-bull was first among the thousands of innocents to observe the cloud. It stirred the memory of other days, no doubt within his capacious bosom, and probably sent a thrill through his huge frame, which, terminating naturally in his tail, caused that appendage to vibrate and curl slightly upwards. At the same time he emitted softly a low rumble, which might have served for the bass of a cathedral organ. Most of the cows near the patriarch looked up in evident surprise, as though to say, "What in all the world do you mean by _that_?" But the patriarch took no notice of them. He kept his wicked little eyes fixed intently on the cloud of dust, twitching his tail nervously, and rumbling cathedral-organically. If I might venture to guess at the mental operations of that patriarch, I should say that he was growling to himself, "Is that you again, you galloping, spitfiring, two-legged, yelling monsters?" or some such bovine expression. By degrees the cloud came nearer and enlarged. Simultaneously the groups of buffaloes drew together and began to gaze--perchance to remember! The patriarch became excited, wriggled his tail, which was ridiculously small for his body, pawed the ground, trotted hither and thither, and commenced playing on all the deeper notes of his organ. At last there could be no doubt. The two-legged monsters came on, mounted on four-legged brutes, which began to trot as the distance between them diminished. This was enough. The patriarch tossed his haunches to the sky, all but wriggled off his tail, gave utterance to a bursting bellow, and went scouring over the plains like a gigantic wild pig. The entire buffalo host performing a similar toss and wriggle, followed close on his heels. At this the redskins put their steeds to the gallop, but did not at once overtake their prey. Clumsy though their gait was, the buffaloes were swift and strong, causing the whole plain to resound under their mighty tread. Indian steeds, however, are wiry and enduring. By slow degrees they lessened the distance between them--both pursued and pursuers lengthening out their ranks as the "fittest" came to the front. Thundering on, they approached one of the large clumps of woodland, with which the plain was covered, as with islets. The patriarch led to the left of it. The savages, sweeping aside, took to the right. The sudden disappearance of the pursuers seemed to surprise the patriarch, who slackened his pace a little, and, lifting his shaggy head, looked right and left inquiringly. "Was it all a dream!" he thought--no doubt. If he thought it was, he received in a few minutes a rude awakening, for the redskins came sweeping round the other end of the clump of trees, yelling like fiends, brandishing their weapons and urging their steeds to the uttermost. To snort, bellow, turn off at a tangent, and scurry along faster than ever, was the work of a moment, but it was too late! The savages were in the midst of the snorting host. Bows were bent and guns were levelled. The latter were smooth-bores, cheap, and more or less inaccurate, but that mattered not. Where the range was only two or three yards, guns and bows were true enough for the end in view. At such work even bad shots met their reward. Arrows sank to the feathers; bullets penetrated to the heart or shattered the bones. Ere long numerous black lumps on the prairie told of death to the quadrupeds and success to the bipeds. But I do not drag the reader here merely to tell of savage sport and butchery. The Indian was only following his vocation--working for his food. That same evening two of the Indians stood on a hillock, a little apart from their camp where smoking fires and roasting meat and marrow-bones, and ravenously-feeding men and women, and gorging little boys and girls, formed a scene that was interesting though not refined. One of the Indians referred to was Big Otter. The other was Muskrat, the old chief of his tribe. "Does my father not know?" said Big Otter, deferentially, "that Attick plans mischief against the pale-faces of Wichikagan?" "No, Big Otter," returned the old chief with a scowl; "Muskrat does not know that, but he hears, and if it is true he will have Attick flayed alive, and his skin dressed to make moccasins for our young squaws." "It is true," rejoined Big Otter, sternly. "His plan is to attack the fort by night, kill the pale-faces, and carry off the goods." "Attick is a fool!" said Muskrat, contemptuously. "Does he not know that no more goods would evermore be sent into our lands if we did that, and also that the pale-faces always hunt murderers to death? No; if that had been possible, or wise, Muskrat would have done it himself long ago." After this candid statement he stared solemnly at his companion, as though to say, "What think ye of that, my brave?" Apparently my brave did not think much of it one way or other, for he only looked indifferent and said, "Waugh!" "Big Otter's ears are sharp," continued Muskrat. "How did he come to hear of Attick's intentions?" The younger Indian paused thoughtfully before replying. "Waboose told me," he said. "Does the daughter of Weeum the Good hold communion with evil spirits?" asked the old chief, with a slight elevation of the eyebrows. "Not willingly, but evil spirits force themselves upon the daughter of Weeum the Good. My father knows that Attick is presumptuous. He wishes to mate Waboose." "Yes, I knew he was presumptuous, but I did not know he was so great a fool," replied the old chief scornfully. "My father knows," continued Big Otter, "that when the pale-face chief went and brought Waboose back to Fort Wichikagan, Attick was staying there in his wigwam by the lake. The big chief of the pale-faces, who fears nothing, had forgiven him. Attick went to Waboose, and offered to take her to his wigwam; but the daughter of Weeum the Good turned away from him. Attick is proud, and he is fierce. He told Waboose that he would kill all the pale-faces. Although a fool, he does not boast. Waboose knew that he was in earnest. She went to the pale-face Muxbee (by which name Big Otter styled my humble self), and told him all, for she has set her heart on Muxbee." "Did she tell you so?" asked Muskrat, sharply. "No; but the blue eyes of Waboose tell tales. They are like a kettle with holes in the bottom--they cannot hold secrets. They spoke to Attick as well as to me, and he became jealous. He swore he would take the scalp of Muxbee. One day, soon after the lake opened, Muxbee asked Waboose to go with him in a canoe to the valley at the head of lake Wichikagan. Attick followed in another canoe, but kept far behind. They did not know it was Attick. Waboose found it out afterwards. Muxbee did not talk to Waboose of love. The ways of the pale-faces are strange. Once I thought that Muxbee liked Waboose, and that, perhaps, he might wed with her, and stay with us as the Good Weeum did, but I doubt it now. He only asked her to take him to the stunted pine where her father was so fond of going with her. When there he went looking here and there about the rocks, and found a splendid thing--I know not what--but Waboose told me it shone and sparkled like the stars. Beside it was a bag of the yellow round things that the pale-faces love so much. He told her he had expected to find these things, but she must not ask him questions just then--he would tell her afterwards. I suppose he is a great medicine-man, and holds intercourse with the spirit-world." Big Otter paused thoughtfully a few seconds, and then continued:-- "When he was putting these things in his breast, Waboose caught sight of Attick among the bushes, and pointed him out. Muxbee sprang up and levelled his gun with the two pipes at him, but did not fire. Attick fled and they saw him no more." "Did Waboose tell Big Otter all this?" asked the old chief. "Yes. Waboose has no secrets from her mother's brother." "And why has Big Otter left the pale-faces, and brought Waboose away from them?" asked Muskrat. "Because he fears for the pale-faces, that Attick will kill them and carry off Waboose. By bringing Waboose here with us we draw Attick along with us away from the pale-faces, and as long as Waboose is in our camp she is safe. Attick dare not harm her." A gleam of intelligence lit up the swarthy features of the old chief as he said "Waugh!" with much satisfaction. But both he and Big Otter were wrong in their calculations. So far, indeed, the latter was right. The presence of Waboose in the camp effectually drew Attick after them, and thus removed danger from the inhabitants of Fort Wichikagan, but they were wrong when they thought their camp a place of safety for the poor girl. "Did Muxbee not care when Big Otter carried Waboose away?" asked the old man. "He did not know she was going, and I did not tell her she was not to return. I took her away with her mother when Muxbee was out hunting. I told the big pale-face chief that I must go with my tribe to hunt the buffalo in the south, and that they must go with me. He was very unwilling to let them go at first but I was resolved, and Waboose is a good obedient girl." That night two events occurred in the redskin camp which caused a good deal of surprise and commotion. The first was the sudden disappearance of Waboose and her mother. They had been gone some time, of course, before any one thought of suspecting flight. The moment that suspicion was aroused, however, Big Otter went straight to the wigwam of Attick. It was deserted! He knew well the bad and weak men of the tribe who were led or swayed by Attick. Hurrying to their tents he found that these also had fled. This was enough. "Masqua," he said to the first Indian he chanced to meet at the moment of quitting the last wigwam, "Attick has carried off Waboose. Assemble some of the young men. Choose only the strong, and those whose horses are swift. Go yourself with your son Mozwa--gallop round the camp till you find in which direction they have gone--then return to me at the council tent and wait." Masqua understood the value of prompt obedience. Without a word of reply he turned and bounded away. Big Otter hurried to the council tent, where old Muskrat was already surrounded by his chiefs. There was less than usual of the grave deliberation of North American Indians in that meeting, for the case was urgent. Nevertheless, there was no bustle, for each bronzed warrior knew that the young men would require a little time to hunt up the trail of the fugitives, mingled as it must be with the innumerable footprints of man and beast in the neighbourhood of a camp; and, until that trail was found, they might as well deliberate calmly--especially as all the men met at the council armed, and ready to vault on the steeds which were already pawing the earth outside. These horses were restrained by youths who longed for the time when they too might be styled braves, and meet in council. "Is all prepared?" asked the old chief, as Big Otter entered the tent. "The young men are out," was the curt reply. "Good. The night is dark, but my warriors have sharp eyes, and the moon will rise soon. No effort must be spared. The daughter of Weeum the Good must be brought back. It is not necessary to bring back Attick or his men. Their scalps will do as well." "Waugh!" pronounced with much emphasis showed that the old man's words were not only understood, but thoroughly appreciated. At this moment occurred the second event which I have said was the cause of surprise in the camp that night, if not of commotion. While the old chief was yet speaking, his words were checked by the sound of horses' hoofs beating heavily on the prairie. "The young men," said Muskrat; "they have been swift to find the trail." "Young men in haste bringing news do not trot," said Big Otter. "Waugh!" assented the council. "There are but two riders," murmured the chief, listening intently to the pattering sounds, which rapidly grew louder. He was right, for, a few seconds later, two horsemen were seen to trot into the camp, and make straight for the council fire. Some of the Indians had turned out with arms ready as they approached, but on hearing a word or two from one of the riders, they quietly let them pass. Pulling up sharply, one of the strangers leaped to the ground, flung his reins to the other, and entered the council tent where he was received with looks of surprise, and with the ejaculation from Big Otter of the single word "Muxbee!" Yes, good reader, that stranger was none other than myself, and my companion was Salamander. To account for our sudden appearance I must explain. On returning to Fort Wichikagan four days after Big Otter had left, and hearing what had occurred, I told Lumley I would follow in pursuit and fetch Waboose back. He remonstrated, of course, but in vain. "You know that a sacred trust has been imposed upon me," said I, earnestly, "and I have resolved to fulfil it. The manner in which I should set about it has perplexed me sorely, I confess, but this sudden departure relieves me, at all events, from uncertainty as to my present course of duty. If Waboose goes off with the tribe to no one knows where, she may never be found again. You are aware that she is still ignorant of the contents of the packet, and the value of the found treasure. I have kept her so, temporarily, by your advice. If I had told her and her kindred, she would not probably have gone away, but it is too late to regret that, now. By going off at once I may overtake the tribe. Three days' journey on foot will bring me to Indians who are rich in horses. Once well mounted I can push on, and will easily overtake them if you will lend me Salamander to aid in following up the trail." "But what of the service?" asked Lumley, with a sad smile, for he saw I was resolved. "You are not yet free." "True, but you know that Spooner is already on his way here to replace me, my resignation having been accepted. In a week, or two at farthest, he will arrive, when I shall be absolutely free to go where I please. Meanwhile, to prevent even a shadow of impropriety, I ask your majesty for a fortnight's leave of absence to go a-hunting. Surely you won't refuse so small a favour? I will be sure to find Waboose, and bring her back by that time." "Well, Max, my boy, I won't refuse. Go, and God go with you. I shall expect to see you again in two weeks, if not sooner." "Unless, of course, circumstances render my return so soon impossible." "Of course, of course," said Lumley. Thus we parted, and thus it was that Salamander and I found ourselves at last in the Indian camp. The pursuit, however, had been much longer than I had expected. More than the stipulated fortnight had already passed. But to return from this digression. After we had looked at each other silently for a few seconds in the council tent, as already described, I advanced to Big Otter and held out my hand. I then shook hands with the old chief, sat down beside him, and expressed a hope that I did not intrude. "We palaver about the disappearance of Waboose," said the old chief. "Disappearance! Waboose!" I exclaimed, turning abruptly to Big Otter. "Attick has fled," said the Indian, sternly, "carrying Waboose and her mother along with him." "And you sit here idly talking," I exclaimed, almost fiercely, as I sprang up. Before I could take action of any kind, the young Indian, Mozwa, entered the tent abruptly, and said a few words to Muskrat. At the same moment the councillors rose. "We go in pursuit," whispered Big Otter in my ear. "Mount, and join us." Almost bewildered, but feeling perfect confidence in my Indian friend, I ran out, and vaulted into the saddle. Eager and quick though I was, the redskins were mounted as soon as myself. No one seemed to give orders, but with one accord they put their horses to the gallop, and swept out of the camp. The last words of the old chief as we darted off, were-- "Bring her back, my braves, and don't forget the scalps of Attick and his men!" CHAPTER TWENTY TWO. THE CHASE, THE CAPTURE, AND THE REVELATION. A stern chase is usually a long one. There are not many proverbs the truth of which comes more powerfully home than this--at least to those who have had the misfortune to engage in many such chases. To make a slant at a fugitive, so as to cut him off, or to make a short cut and head him, is pleasant if you be strong in wind and limb, but to creep up right astern, inch by inch, foot by foot, yard by yard, and to overcome him at last by sheer superiority and perseverance, is a disheartening task. That was the task we undertook the night we left the Indian camp, and went off at full gallop over the rolling prairie in pursuit of the scoundrel Attick and his crew. But Indians are by nature persevering, and, for myself, I was roused to the highest pitch of indignation and anxiety. Salamander and I had ridden far and fast that day, besides which we had eaten only a mouthful of pemmican and biscuit since breakfast; nevertheless, under the excitement of the moment our weariness vanished, our hunger fled, and we engaged in the pursuit with all the ardour of the youngest brave among them. Fortunately I had secured two exceptionally fine horses, so that they were quite able to compete with the inferior, though fresher, horses of the Indians. "How long is it since you discovered that they were gone?" said I, as I galloped alongside of Big Otter. "Not more than an hour," he replied. "Do you think they had a long start before that?" "I cannot tell. Perhaps two hours, perhaps four. Certainly not five, for they were seen in camp when the sun was high." I was greatly relieved to learn that they had not got a longer start of us, and very thankful that I had come up in time to join the pursuers. I was calming down somewhat under the influence of these thoughts, when I had a sudden feeling of being shot from a cannon into the air. This was succeeded by a sensation of having my nose converted into a ploughshare, and that was instantly followed by oblivion! In the uncertain light my steed had put his foot in a badger hole--that was all, but it sufficed to check the pace of the whole party! On recovering I found my head on Salamander's knee. I felt dreamy and indifferent. "What has happened?" I asked, in English. Our interpreter, who had a tendency to answer in whatever language he was addressed--whether English, French, or Indian--replied-- "Yoos bin a-most busted, sar!" Suddenly the true state of the case flashed upon me. Langour fled. I leaped up, and scrambled somehow into the saddle. "Have I been long insensible, Salamander?" I asked, as we resumed our headlong pace. "On'y what time I kin count twinty, sar." Rejoiced to find that no longer time had been lost, I galloped along contentedly, and in silence, though with a rather confused feeling in my brain, and a sensation of being possessed of six noses rolled into one. Although no one, as I have said, seemed to lead the party when we started, I soon found that Big Otter was really our chief. He rode ahead of us, and more than once pulled up to dismount and examine the trail. On these occasions the rest of the party halted without orders, and awaited his decision. Once we were completely thrown off the scent. The fugitives had taken to a wooded tract of country, and it required our utmost caution not to lose the trail. Presently we came to a small stream and crossed it, but the trail ended abruptly here. We were not surprised, being well aware of the common Indian device of wading in a stream, which holds no footprints, so as to throw pursuers out. Dividing our force, one party went up stream, the other down, but although eager, sharp, and practised eyes examined the banks, they could not discover the spot where the fugitives had again taken to dry land. Returning to the place where we had divided, Big Otter again examined the trail with minute care, going down on his knees to turn over the blades of grass and examine the footprints. "Strange," said I, impatiently, "that so simple a device should baffle us." As I spoke, the chief arose, and, dark though it was, I could see a gleam of intelligence on his swarthy visage. "Attick thinks he is wise," he said, in a low voice, "but he has no more brains than a rabbit. He was from childhood an idiot." Having paid his tribesman this compliment, he remounted, and, to my surprise, went straight back the way we had come. "What means this!" I asked, unable to restrain my impatience. "Attick has doubled back, that is all. If there had been more light we should easily have seen that. We shall soon find the place where the trail breaks off again." The Indian was right. On clearing the wooded land we found that the moon was up, and we followed the trail easily. Coming to a hillock in the open ground, the top of which was covered with thick and stunted bushes, we rode into them and there experienced much difficulty in picking our way. Suddenly Big Otter turned at a right angle from the line we had been hitherto pursuing, and, putting his horse to the gallop, held on with the decision of one who knows he is on the right road. As the prairie was open, and the moon growing brighter, we had now no difficulty in following up the fugitives, and pressed on as fast as our horses could go. Daylight came and found us still galloping; but as there was no sign of those whom we pursued, and as our horses were getting tired, we halted at a small stream for a short rest and breakfast. "They must be well mounted," said I, as we sat on the banks of the stream appeasing our hunger with masses of dried buffalo meat, while the horses munched the grass near us. "Attick is always well mounted," replied Big Otter; "but his men may not be so well off, and women are difficult to urge on when they are unwilling." "Then you have no doubt that we shall overtake them?" I asked. "We _must_ overtake them," was the laconic reply. I felt somewhat comforted by the decision of the Indian's tone, and a good deal more so by his ordering his warriors to remount before half an hour had passed. He did not however, press on as hard as before, fearing, no doubt that the horses would break down. I felt assured that Attick would not dare to halt until he believed himself almost beyond pursuit; and, as the chase therefore bade fair to be a very long one, it seemed wise thus to spare the horses. About noon, however, we passed through a strip of woodland, and, on coming out at the other side, observed a party of horsemen on the distant horizon. "Waugh!" exclaimed Big Otter, shaking the reins of his steed and going off at racing speed. We soon began to overhaul the cavalcade, and then perceived that they were doing their utmost to get away from us. "It is Attick and his party--is it not?" I asked, excitedly. "It is Attick," was the brief reply. Another belt of woodland lay a little to the right on the horizon. The fugitives headed for it. We urged our horses to their utmost speed and soon dashed through the belt of wood, expecting to see the fugitives on the plain beyond. What was our surprise, then, to find them assembled in a group, calmly tying up their horses, and kindling a fire as if for the purpose of cooking their mid-day meal. As most of the men had laid aside their guns, and we outnumbered them by two to one, we checked our headlong course, and trotted quietly up to them. To my great joy I saw, as we approached, that the girl who stooped to kindle the fire was Waboose. Her mother sat on a bank near her, looking very pale and worn. Attick, who still carried his gun in the hollow of his left arm, expressed well-feigned surprise at seeing us. "Big Otter seems to be on the war-path," he said, "but I have seen no enemies." "Big Otter's enemy stands before him," returned our leader, sternly. "Attick has been very foolish. Why did he run away with the daughter of Weeum the Good?" "Attick scorns to run away with a squaw. Waboose agreed to go with him on the hunt. There she is: ask her." This was a bold stroke of the wily savage. Instead of flying from us, he pretended to have been merely hurrying after a band of buffalo, which was said to be moving southward, and that he had halted in the chase for a short rest and food. This plan he had hastily adopted, on perceiving that it was impossible to escape us, having previously warned Waboose that he would shoot her dead if she did not corroborate what he said. But Attick was incapable of believing that fearless heroism could dwell in the breast of a woman, and little knew the courage of the daughter of Weeum the Good. He mistook her silence and her downcast eyes for indications of submission, and did not doubt that the delicate-looking and shrinking girl was of much the same spirit as the other women of his tribe. Great, then, was his astonishment when he saw the Saxon blood in her veins rush to her fair brow, while she gazed at him steadily with her large blue eyes, and said-- "The tongue of Attick is forked. He lies when he says that the daughter of Weeum agreed to follow him. He knows that he carried her from the camp by force against her will." Attick had thrown forward and cocked his gun, but happily the unexpected nature of the girl's reply, and the indignant gaze of her eyes, caused an involuntary hesitation. This did not afford time for any one to seize the intending murderer, but it enabled me hastily to point my rifle at the villain's head and fire. I have elsewhere said that my shooting powers were not remarkable; I missed the man altogether, but fortunately the bullet which was meant for his brain found its billet in the stock of his gun, and blew the lock to atoms, thus rendering the weapon useless. With a fierce shout he dropped the gun, drew his scalping-knife, and sprang towards Waboose, or--as I had by that time found a pleasure in mentally styling her--Eve Liston. Of course every man of our party sprang forward, but it fell to Salamander to effect the rescue, for that light-hearted and light-limbed individual chanced to be nearest to the savage when I fired at him, and, ere the knife was well drawn, had leaped upon his back with the agility of a panther. At the same moment Big Otter flung his tomahawk at him. The weapon was well, though hastily, aimed. It struck the savage full on the forehead, and felled him to the earth. The rest of Attick's party made no attempt to rescue him. Like all bad men, they were false to each other in the hour of need. They quietly submitted to be disarmed and led away. We had to encamp early that evening, because the unwonted and severe exercise to which Waboose's mother had been exposed had rendered her quite unfit to travel further without rest. Attick, who had soon recovered sufficiently to be able to walk, was bound, along with his men, and put under a guard. Then the encampment was made and the fires kindled. While this was being done I led Waboose aside to a little knoll, from which we could see a beautiful country of mingled woodland and prairie, stretching far away to the westward, where the sun had just descended amid clouds of amber and crimson. "Is it not glorious!" I exclaimed. "Should we not be grateful to the Great Spirit who has given us such a splendid home?" Waboose looked at me. "Yes, it is glorious," she said--"and I am grateful; but it is strange that you should use the very same words that were so often on the lips of my father just before he--" She stopped abruptly. "Just before he went home, Eve," I interposed; "no need to say died. Your father is not dead, but sleepeth. You shall meet him again. But it is not very strange that men should use the same words when they are animated by the same love to the Great Spirit." The girl raised her large eyes with a perplexed, inquiring look. "What troubles you, Eve?" I asked. "Eve!" she repeated, almost anxiously. "Twice you have called me by a name that father sometimes used, though not often, and when he used it he always spoke low and _very_ tenderly." I felt somewhat perplexed as to how I should reply, and finally took refuge in another question. "Tell me, Waboose," said I, "did your father ever tell you his own name?" "Of course he did," she answered, with a look of surprise--"you know well it was Weeum." "Yes, William," said I; "but--" "No--Weeum," she said, correcting me. "Once or twice I have heard him say Willum, but all our people call him Weeum." "Had he no other name?" I asked. "No. Why should he have another? Is not one enough?" "You never heard of Liston?" "Liston?--No, never." "Waboose," said I, with sudden earnestness, "I am going to tell you something that will probably surprise you, and I will show you something that may give you pleasure--or pain--I know not which. You remember, that when I found the curious ornaments near to the stunted pine-tree, I asked you not to question me at that time about the packet you gave to me long ago. Well, the time has come when I ought to tell you all about it. But, first, look at this." I had taken from my pocket, while speaking to her, the miniature of her father, which I now handed to her. She fixed her eyes on it with a startled look, then sprang up with an exclamation, at the same time drawing one hand across her eyes, as if to clear away some mists that dimmed them. Eagerly she gazed again, with parted lips and heaving bosom, then burst into a passionate flood of tears, pressing the miniature alternately to her lips and to her heart. I stood helplessly gazing at her--anxious to comfort but unable. "Oh! why, why," she cried, suddenly dropping the miniature, "why do you mock me with this? It is so little, yet so like. It looks alive, but it is dead. It is nothing--a mockery!" The poor girl caught it up, however, and began to kiss and caress it again. Some time elapsed before her passionate grief was sufficiently subdued to permit of her listening to me. When it was nearly exhausted, and found vent only in an occasional sob, I took her hand gently and said-- "Give me the picture now, Waboose. I will wrap it up again, for I have much to say." Then, unfolding the last writing of the poor fellow whom the Indians had styled Weeum the Good, I slowly translated it into the Indian language. It was not an easy task; for, besides feeling that it stirred the heart of the listener with powerful emotions, I had great difficulty in taking my eyes off her changeful face, so as to read the manuscript. "Now, Eve Liston--for that is your real name," said I, when I had finished, "what do you think ought to be done?" The girl did not reply at once, but sat so long with her hands clasped tightly on her lap, and her eyes fixed wistfully on the ground, that I had to repeat the question. "What is to be done?" she replied, simply; "of course, what father wished to be done." "And are you ready to go with me to the far south to see your father's mother? Can you trust me to protect you?" "Oh, yes," she replied, with a straightforward look that almost disconcerted me; "have you not protected me well already?" "And are you willing, Eve, to leave your tribe and go off alone with me?" "Alone!" she repeated, with a look of surprise; "oh! no--not alone. Mother must go too, and also Big Otter." Once more I felt somewhat confused, for, to say truth, I had totally forgotten her mother and Big Otter for the moment. "Well now, Eve--for I intend to call you by that name in future, except when in the presence of your people--I must talk this matter over with your mother and Big Otter. I have some fear that the latter may object to go with us." "He will not object," said Waboose, quietly. "He loved my father, and always obeyed him." "Very good. So much the better. Now, as to the valuable jewels--the ornaments, I mean." "Have you got them here!" asked Eve. "Yes. Knowing the risk I shall run of losing them or having them stolen from me, I have had a belt made which fits round my waist under my clothes, in which the jewels and the money are placed. If I can manage to get them and you safely conveyed to Colorado, all will be well, but it is a long, long journey, Eve, and--" I was interrupted at this point by Big Otter, who came to tell us that supper was ready, and that, as the region in which they were encamped was sometimes visited by hostile Indians, as well as by white trappers-- many of whom were great scoundrels--it would be prudent to keep within the circle of sentinels after dark. CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. ATTACKED BY BANDITS--A SAD DEATH AND A SUDDEN RESCUE. It was well that we had been warned not to go beyond the camp, for there happened at that time to be abroad on the prairies a band of miscreants who would certainly have shot whoever they had caught straying. The band was composed of white men--that class of white men who, throwing off all moral and social restraints, give themselves up to the practice of every species of iniquity, fearing neither God nor man. They were, in short, a band of robbers and cut-throats, whose special business at that time was hunting buffalo, but who were not averse to sell their services to any nation that chanced to be at war, or to practice simple robbery when opportunity offered. These men held the opinion that Indians were "vermin," to exterminate which was commendable. When, therefore, they discovered our camp by the light of the fires, they rode towards it with the utmost caution, taking advantage of every bush and knoll until our sentinels observed them. Then they rushed upon us like a hurricane, sending a volley of bullets before them. Several of our men fell, mortally wounded. Our sentinels ran in, and a wild attempt at defence was made; but it was in vain, we had been taken completely by surprise, and, as the only chance of safety, our party scattered in all directions, each man making for the nearest woods. Only Big Otter, Salamander, and I remained beside the camp-fires, resolved to defend our helpless females or die with them. This brought about a most unexpected turn of affairs, for the villains were so eager to hunt and kill the flying Indians, that every man went in hot pursuit of a fugitive, leaving us for the moment absolutely alone! We were not slow in taking advantage of this. Although at the onset some of our terrified horses broke their fastenings and galloped away, others remained quiet. Among these last I observed, were my own horse and that of Salamander, which I have already said were splendid animals. Scarcely believing our good fortune, we all bounded towards these. In a moment I had mounted. Eve seized my hand, put her foot on my toe, and, with a light spring, seated herself behind me. Big Otter, vaulting on Salamander's steed, swung Eve's mother up behind him. "Catch another horse--there are plenty good enough for a light weight like you, Salamander," said I, as I put my horse to its utmost speed. Salamander was not slow to obey, but had scarcely mounted when a loud halloo told that our action had been observed. I did not look back. One consuming idea filled my mind, and that was to save Eve Liston. That the miscreants who now thundered after us would show us no mercy I felt well assured, and plied the heavy thong I carried with all my might. The noble steed did not require that. It strained every muscle to the uttermost. I felt cheered to observe that Big Otter kept well up with me, and could hear that Salamander was not far behind. We now felt that our only hope, under God, lay in the superiority of our horses, and for some time we listened to the pattering of the hoofs behind us with intense anxiety. Soon I began to fancy that we were distancing them, and ere long we became sure of this, at least as to the most of our pursuers, but there was one who kept drawing closer and closer. Presently a shot was fired and a bullet whizzed close past my head. At that moment Big Otter reined up so violently as to throw his horse almost on its haunches. I checked my speed but did not rein up. Looking back, I saw my Indian friend wheel round, raise his gun to his shoulder and fire. The moon was bright, and I could see that the man who had been closing with us dropped to the ground. Whether he was killed or only wounded we did not wait to ascertain, but dashed on again as fast as ever. We soon drew rein, however, on observing that the fall of our pursuer had checked his companions. On reaching him they halted, dismounted, and finally gave up the chase. We soon left them out of sight behind us, but still we held on at a hand-gallop, resolved to put as much distance as possible between us before encamping. During all this exciting chase Waboose's mother had clung to her stalwart support with the uncomplaining patience of Indian women; but we were deeply concerned to find on halting that she was too much exhausted to dismount and that blood was trickling from her lips. Indeed, she would have fallen to the ground if Big Otter had not caught her in his arms. "Are you wounded, mother?" exclaimed Eve, going down on her knees, seizing one of the poor woman's hands and kissing it tenderly. "No, Waboose, but I think there is something wrong here." She pressed her breast gently and coughed up some blood. "She is quite worn out," said I. "Come, Big Otter, let us carry her to a more comfortable place, and make a fire. A cup of tea will soon revive her." I spoke cheerily, with a view to comfort Eve, but I confess that great anxiety filled me when I looked at the poor woman's wan face and emaciated frame. The blood, too, appeared to me a fatal symptom, though I had but a hazy idea of everything relating to disease. The place we had selected for our encampment was a dense mass of forest which covered the prairie in that part to an extent of about two square miles. Near the outer margin of this patch there was a curious steep mound which rose so high that from the top of it one could see over the surrounding trees. It rose somewhat in the form of a cone with a flat space at the apex of not more than twenty feet in diameter. On the outer rim of this apex was a fringe of rocks and low bushes. It was, in fact, a natural fortress, which seemed so suitable for us in our circumstances that we at once set about making our camp on the top of it. We took care, however, to kindle our fire in the lowest-lying and densest thicket we could find at the foot of the mound. We also made the fire as small and free from smoke as possible, for fear of attracting any one to the spot. While I was busy down in the dell preparing the tea, Salamander having been left to take care of the camp on the mound, Big Otter came to me. I was alarmed by the solemn expression of his face. "Nothing wrong, I hope?" said I, anxiously. "The wife of Weeum the Good is dying," said the Indian, mournfully. "Oh! say not so," I exclaimed, "how dreadful to poor Waboose if this were to happen just now! You must be mistaken." "Big Otter may be mistaken. He is not a medicine-man, but he saw a young girl of his tribe with the same look and the same flow of blood from the mouth, and she died." "God forbid!" I exclaimed, as I took up the kettle in which the tea was being made. "See, it is ready, I will take it to her. It may at least revive her." I hurried to the top of the mound, where poor Eve sat by the couch of brush we had spread, holding her mother's hand and gazing into her face with painful anxiety. She looked up hastily as I approached, and held up a finger. "Does she sleep?" I asked, in a low voice, as I seated myself beside the couch and set down the kettle. "Yes--I think so--but--" She stopped, for at the moment her mother opened her eyes, and looked wistfully round. "Weeum!" she murmured, in a faint voice. "I thought I heard him speak." "No, dear mother," said Eve, beginning to weep silently. "Your spirit was in the land of dreams." "See," said I, pouring some hot tea into a cup and stirring it. "I have brought you some of the pale-faces' sweet-water. I always carry a little of it about with me when I go hunting, and had some in my wallet when we started on this wild race. Was it not fortunate? Come, take a little, it will strengthen you, mother." It was the first time I had called her mother, and I did so from a feeling of tenderness, for she seemed to me at the time certainly to be dying; but she misunderstood my meaning, for she looked at me with pleased surprise, and then laughed very softly as she glanced at Eve. I perceived, however, from the innocent look of inquiry returned by the latter, that she did not understand her. After taking some of the tea, the poor woman revived, and I whispered to her daughter,--"Don't you think it might please her to see the little picture?" "Perhaps. I am not sure. Yes, give it to me. I will show it, but say nothing about my father's writing or wishes. I have not yet been able to speak to her." To our disappointment she could make nothing of the portrait. Perhaps the moonlight was insufficient, though very bright, but it is more probable that her sight was even then failing. "What is that?" said Eve, with a startled look, pointing at something behind me. I turned sharply round, and beheld a column of bright flame shooting high up into the night-air. An exclamation of bitter chagrin escaped me, for I knew well what it was. After I had got the fire kindled down in the thicket on our arrival, I had noticed that I had laid it close to the roots of a dead fir-tree, the branches of which were covered to the top with a species of dried moss. At the time I knew that there was danger in this, but as our fire was to be very small, and to be extinguished the moment we were done with it, I had allowed it to remain rather than be at the trouble of shifting and rekindling it. I afterwards found that Big Otter had left the fire in charge of Salamander, and gone to shift the position of the horses; and Salamander had left it to fetch water from a neighbouring spring. Thus left to itself, the fire took advantage of the chance to blaze up; the moss on the dead tree had caught fire, and the instantaneous result was a blaze that told of our whereabouts to whoever might be on the look-out within ten or fifteen miles of us in every direction. Immediately afterwards Big Otter and Salamander came leaping into our fortress. "What is to be done now?" I asked, in a tone of deep mortification. "I would say mount and fly," replied the Indian, "if it were not for _her_." He pointed to the dying woman as he spoke. "It is quite out of the question," said I. "She cannot be moved." "The pale-face talks wisdom," said Big Otter. "We must put the place in a state of defence, and watch instead of sleep." A deep sigh from Salamander told that the proposed mode of spending the night was most unsatisfactory. Having no other resource left, however, we at once set about our task. A number of large loose stones lay about on the little plateau that crowned our mound. These we rolled close to the edge of it, and ranging them in line with those that were already there, formed a sort of breastwork all round. Our three guns we had of course brought with us, as well as ammunition, and as mine was a double-barrelled fowling-piece we had thus four shots at command at any moment. The weapons being already charged, we placed ourselves at three points of our circle and prepared for a weary watch. The blaze of the burning fir-tree soon went out, and there were fortunately no other dead trees at hand to be kindled by it. The moon had also become obscured with clouds, so that we were left in comparative darkness. The dead silence which it was needful to maintain, and the occasional murmur of the dying woman rendered our position eerie and sad in the extreme. At such times, when danger threatens and everything that is calculated to solemnise surrounds one, thought is apt to be very busy; and often, in such circumstances, the mind is more prone to be occupied with distant scenes and persons than with those near at hand. Ere long the sick woman appeared to have fallen asleep, and her daughter was seated in perfect silence by her side. No sound whatever fell upon my listening ear, for the night was intensely calm, and in spite of my efforts to resist it, my thoughts strayed away to the home in "the old country"; to scenes of boyhood, and to the kind old father, who used, as a term of endearment, to call me "Punch." A slight motion on the part of Salamander recalled me, and, by way of rousing myself to the necessity of present watchfulness, I examined the priming of my gun. Then it occurred to me that a bullet, if fired at a foe in the dark, would be very unlikely to hit; I, therefore, drew both charges, and loaded with buckshot instead. You see, thought I, there is no absolute necessity to kill any one. All I can possibly wish to do is to disable, and big shot is more likely to do that without killing, than bullets. While thus engaged the clouds rolled off the moon, and I saw my companions clearly, sitting like statues at their posts. In a few minutes I heard the sweet, low voice of Eve. She was speaking to her mother. As I sat there and observed her fair hair and skin, and recalled (for I could not just then see) her blue eyes, I found it difficult to believe that there was even a drop of Indian blood in her veins. "Not that I object to Indian blood," I said to myself, mentally, in self-justification, "by no means. Indians are God's creatures as well as white men, and many of them are a great deal better creatures than many white men, but--" At this point my mental remarks ceased, for I observed, to my surprise, that Eve opened a small book, and from the continuous tone of her voice, I knew that she was reading. "It must be the Testament," thought I, "which poor Liston mentioned in his manuscript as having been obtained from a hunter." The voice became more distinct as she proceeded, and I could make out that she read the English slowly and with great difficulty, and then translated it into Indian to her mother. "God so loved the world," she read with peculiar emphasis, and paused, as if wishing to impress the blessed truth, "that He gave his only-begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish but have everlasting life." She closed the book at this point and I observed that she bent over the sick woman a long time. Suddenly there arose on the still night-air a low wail, so deep--so suggestive of a breaking heart, that I sprang up and leaped to the girl's side. There was no occasion to ask what had occurred. The mother lay there dead, with the jaw dropped and the glazing eyes staring at the sky. Kneeling down I gently closed the eyes, and with a napkin bound up the face. Big Otter glided towards us, followed by Salamander. One glance sufficed. They cast a look of pity at the orphan, who, with her face on her knees, sobbed as if her heart would break. Then, without a word, they glided back to their posts. I turned to Eve and took her hand. "Dear girl," I began--but she checked me. "Go," she said, "danger may be near; your post is unguarded." Raising her hand to my lips I left her without a word, and resumed my watch. Again profound silence reigned around, broken only now and then by an irrepressible sob from Eve. Some hours afterwards--I knew not how many, for I had been half asleep-- Big Otter came to me. "We may not stay here," he said. "Come, I need your help." Without reply I rose and followed. It was still very dark. He went to where the body of the Indian woman lay. It was cold and stiff by that time. In passing I noticed that poor Eve acted as sentinel for Big Otter--occupied his post and held his gun. I found that a shallow grave had been hollowed out close to where the corpse lay. Understanding at once the purpose for which I had been called, I kneeled at the head while the Indian kneeled at the feet. Grasping the shoulders carefully I waited for a word or look from Big Otter, but instead he turned his head to one side and uttered the single word,--"Come!" Eve glided instantly towards us, went down on her knees, and printed a long passionate kiss on the cold forehead. Then the Indian looked at me, and we lifted the body into the grave. Eve spread a blanket carefully over it, and at once left us to resume her post at the breastwork, while we covered in the grave with earth and dead leaves. We had barely accomplished this duty when a loud report rudely broke the silence of the night, and a rushing of feet was heard at the foot of the mound. Leaping to my post, I instantly fired one of the barrels of my gun. Several fierce cries followed, showing that the buckshot had taken effect, and from the nature of the cries we at once perceived that our assailants were white men. I purposely reserved my second barrel, for my comrades, having also fired, were swiftly reloading, and, therefore, defenceless. It was well that I did so, for two men, who had not been in the first rush, now came up the mound at a run. Aiming right between them, I fired and shot them both. They fell with hideous cries, and, rolling head over heels down the steep ascent, went crashing into the bushes. "They are the men from whom we have just escaped," said I to Big Otter; but my Indian friend was so elated by the success of my shot and withal so excited by the fray, that instead of answering, he gave vent to a terrific war-whoop in true Indian style. The attacking party had come on in front from the direction of the plains. To my consternation, Big Otter's war cry was replied to in our rear. Turning quickly, I saw the dark forms of several savages running up the slope of our fortress. These, like the white men, had been attracted to us by our column of fire. I was going to send a charge of buckshot amongst them, when my Indian friend stopped me. "Let them come," he said, quickly. "They and the white men are sworn foes. Be ready to follow me." This last was said to all of us, for we had instinctively drawn to the centre of our plateau with the idea of fighting back to back with the foes who surrounded us. Again we heard the white men charging up the front of our little hill, but, before they reached the top, a dozen savages had leaped into our enclosure. "Help! against the pale-face dogs," cried Big Otter, pointing his gun, and firing at them as they came up. A wild war-whoop rang out from the Indians, who were only too ready to accept the invitation to fight the pale-faces. A defiant cheer burst in reply from the white men, who were equally eager for the fray. "Come!" whispered Big Otter at this point. We had no difficulty in slipping away at the rear unperceived amid the din and smoke, and ran to where our horses had been tied. Mounting, like squirrels, we went off like the wind in the direction of the open prairie, and soon left our little fortress far behind us, with the redskins and the pale-faces fighting on the top of it like wild cats! CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. THE POWER OF SLEEP--PLANS DISCUSSED AND A FAR JOURNEY RESOLVED ON. It was broad daylight when we once again drew rein, and then we were all so overcome with sleep and exhaustion, after the prolonged watching and excitement of the night, that we could scarcely sit on our horses. Eve, who sat behind me, grasping my waist with both arms, swayed so heavily once or twice, as nearly to throw me down. "We _must_ stop," said I to Big Otter, who was close beside me. "Yes," replied the Indian; but his tone told that he was barely awake. "If you doosn't me _drop_," said Salamander. The worthy interpreter seemed to think English the easiest language in the circumstances. "Oh! I'm _so_ sleepy," said poor Eve, whose grief helped to increase her exhaustion. "Come, we will camp in this thicket!" said Big Otter, turning his horse in the direction of a long strip of bush that lay a few hundred yards to our right. On reaching it, we penetrated, almost mechanically, to the thickest part of it, dismounted, and fastened our horses to the trees. Turning instantly, to assist Eve in making a couch of leaves, I found that she had lain down where she had dismounted, and was already fast asleep. "Here, Salamander, lend a hand to lift her," I said, looking round; but Salamander was also in the land of Nod, flat on his back, with his eyes shut, and his mouth open. Turning to Big Otter, I found that he was standing staring at me with an expression of such awful solemnity that I was partially roused with a feeling of alarm. "Hallo!" I exclaimed, "what has happened?--speak, man!" But Big Otter only gazed more intensely than ever, swayed slightly to and fro, and gave a sort of wink, or rather a slap together of both eyes. Then I understood that the wretched man was only glaring like an owl in the sunshine, in his tremendous efforts to keep awake. He assisted me, however, to lift Eve to a more comfortable position, and while he was in the act of laying her fair head gently on a pillow of moss, I observed that he sank down and instantly fell into a profound slumber; but even in that hour of mingled danger and exhaustion, the Indian did not neglect to hold his gun to his breast with a firm grasp. I also had enough wit left to keep my double-barrel in my hand, and was in the act of examining the locks, seated at Eve's feet, where my own senses forsook me. We lay there, perfectly silent and motionless, during the whole of that day, for it was not until the sun was descending towards the western horizon that we awoke. I happened to be the first to move. Rising softly, so as not to disturb the others, I went to search for water, and was fortunate enough to find a small pool, which, though not very clear, was nevertheless sufficiently good to slake our thirst. Sitting down beside the pool, I lifted my heart and voice in thanksgiving to God for having thus far delivered and guided us. While thus engaged a slight rustling in the bushes caused me to spring up. It was caused by Big Otter, who had followed me. "What does the pale-face think?" he asked, sitting down beside me. "He thinks that the Great Master of Life has delivered us from our enemies. He is good," said I, being still influenced by the devotional feeling which had been broken in upon. For a few moments the Indian did not reply, but continued to look thoughtfully at the ground. At length he spoke. "Was the Great Master of Life good when He let Waboose's mother die in the midst of war and weakness? Was He good to Waboose when He left her fatherless and motherless?" "Yes, He was good," I answered, confidently. "He took the mother of Waboose home to dwell with Himself and with her father Weeum. And men and women, you know, cannot be taken to the happy land without leaving their children behind them--fatherless and motherless." Big Otter did not reply, but I saw by his grave look that he was not satisfied. After a brief pause he resumed,--"Was the Great Master of Life good to the wicked pale-faces, when He allowed the red-men to slay them in their sins?" "Yes," I returned, "He was good, because the Great Master of Life cannot be otherwise than good. He has made our brains capable of understanding that, and our hearts capable of resting on it. But He is our Father. Children do not understand all that a father does. Big Otter has touched on a great mystery. But what we know not now we shall know hereafter. Only let the red-man be sure of this, that whatever we come to know in the hereafter will tend more and more to prove that the Great Master of Life is good." For a long time the Indian remained silent, and I could not tell by the expression of his grave face whether my reasoning weighed with him or not; I therefore offered up a brief prayer that the Spirit of God might open his eyes--as well as my own--to see, and our hearts to receive, the _truth_, whatever that might be. Then I said,--"The thoughts of Big Otter are deep, what do they lead to?" "No," he replied, "his thoughts are not deep, but they are confused, for he has heard his pale-face brother call Waboose, Eve. How did he come to know that name? It was only used by Weeum, and seldom by him--never by any one else." It struck me that now was as suitable a time as might present itself to let the Indian know about the contents of the packet, so I said,--"Listen, Big Otter, I have something important to tell." From this point I went on, and, in as few words as possible, related all that the reader knows about the packet, and the wishes of poor William Liston. I also showed him the miniature, at which he gazed with visible but suppressed emotion. "Now," said I, in conclusion, "what do you think we should do?" "What Weeum wished must be done," he replied simply but firmly. "You were fond of Weeum?" I said. "Yes, Big Otter loved him like a brother." "Don't you think," said I, after some minutes' thought, "that it is our duty first to return to the camp of your tribe, and also that I should send Salamander back to Fort Wichikagan to tell where I have gone, and for what purpose? For Salamander is not free like myself. He is still a servant of the fur-traders." "No, that is not your duty," said the Indian decidedly. "Your duty is to obey the commands of Weeum! My tribe will not die of grief because Waboose does not return. As for Salamander--send him where you please. He is nobody--nothing!" Although not quite agreeing with Big Otter in his contemptuous estimate of the value of Salamander, I believed that I could get along quite well without him; and therefore resolved to send him back--first to the Indian camp to tell of our safety and intentions, and then to the fort with an explanatory letter to Lumley, who, I knew full well, would be filled with great anxiety on my account, as well as with uncertainty as to how he should act, destitute as he was of the slightest clue to my fate or my whereabouts. "And you, my friend," I said, "what will your movements be?" "Big Otter will go and help you to obey the commands of Weeum," he replied. "There is no wife, no child, waiting for him to return. He must be a father to Waboose. Muxbee will _be_ her brother. The trail to Colorado is long. Big Otter has been there. He has been a solitary wanderer all his life, and knows the wilderness well. He has crossed the great mountains where the snow lies deep even in summer. He can be a guide, and knows many of the mountain tribes as well as the tribes of the prairie--Waugh!" "Well, my friend," said I, grasping the Indian's strong hand, "I need not tell you that your decision gives me joy, and I shall be only too glad to travel with you in the capacity of a son; for, you know, if you are to be a father to Waboose, and I am to be her brother, that makes you my father--don't you see?" The grave Indian smiled faintly at this touch of pleasantry, and then rose. "We have nothing to eat," he said, as we returned to the place where we had slept, "and we cannot hunt in the night. Is your bag empty?" "No," said I, glancing at the contents of my wallet, "there is enough of biscuit and pemmican to give us a light meal." "That will do," he returned; "we need rest more than food just now." This was indeed true; for, notwithstanding that I had slept so soundly during that day, I still felt a strong disinclination to rouse myself to action, and an intense desire to lie down again. These feelings being shared by my companions, it was resolved to spend the night where we were, but we took good care to kindle no fire to betray us a second time. We roused Eve and Salamander to take some food, after which we all lay down, and, ere long, were again sound asleep. This double allowance of rest had the most beneficial effect upon our frames. We did not awake till an early hour the following morning, and felt so much refreshed as to be ready and anxious to set off on our journey, without the delay of breakfasting. This was fortunate, for the scraps that remained in my wallet would only have sufficed for one meal to a man of ordinary appetite; and, as it was important to expedite Salamander on his return journey, these had to be given to him. Poor fellow! he was much cast down on hearing of my decision in regard to him. "But, sar," he said, with a sorrowful countenance, "w'at for I no go vith you?" "Because you are still a servant of the Fur Company, and not entitled to break your engagement. Besides, it is desirable that Big Otter's people should know why he and Waboose have left them, and where they have gone; and if you explain matters correctly they will be quite satisfied, for they all respect the memory of Weeum the Good. Moreover, it is important that Mr Lumley should know what has prevented my return, both to relieve his mind, and prevent his sending out to search for me." "But sar," objected Salamander, "w'at if me meets vid de vite scoundrils?" "You must fight them, or run away from them." "Vell, me kin fight but me kin more joyfulerly run avay. But," he continued, still objecting, "me got no grub." "Here is enough for one day," I said, giving him all I possessed, "if you spin it out. To-morrow you can roast and eat your moccasins, and the third day you can starve. Surely that's not hard on a strong young fellow like you; and if you push on fast enough you'll reach the camp of the redskins early on the third day." Salamander sighed, but made no further objection, and half an hour later he left us. As we now possessed only two horses, it naturally fell to my lot, being a light weight compared with Big Otter, to take Eve up behind me. "We must get a horse for Waboose," said the Indian, as we galloped over the prairie that day. "There is a tribe of Blackfoot Indians not far from here who have good horses, and understand the value of gold, for some of them have been to the settlements of the pale-faces. You tell me that you have gold?" "Yes, I found a bag of five hundred gold pieces with the diamonds in Weeum's packet." Big Otter looked at me inquiringly, but did not speak, yet I guessed his thoughts; for, though I had shown him Liston's letter and the miniature, I had not shown him the gold or the jewels, and he must have wondered where I carried them; for he knew, of course, that they were necessarily somewhat bulky and were not in my wallet, which I had emptied more than once in his presence. I therefore explained to him:-- "You know, perhaps, that gold is heavy, and five hundred pieces are bulky and troublesome to carry; so I have had a piece of cloth made with a hole in the middle of it for my head to go through; one end of it hangs over my breast under my shirt, like a breastplate, and one end hangs over my back, and on each of these plates there are rows of little pockets, each pocket the size of a gold piece. Thus, you see, the gold does not feel heavy, being equally distributed, and it does not show, as it would if carried in a heap--besides, it forms a sort of armour-- though I fear it would not resist a rifle-bullet!" "Waugh!" exclaimed Big Otter, with an intelligent look. "As to the diamonds, they are not bulky. I have concealed them in an under-belt round my waist." As Big Otter had predicted, we came to a large village of Blackfoot Indians two days afterwards, and were received with cordial friendship by the inhabitants, who knew my Indian well. He had visited them during his wanderings many a time, and once, at a very critical period in their history, had rendered important service to the tribe, besides saving the life of their chief. A new tent was set aside for our use, and a small one pitched close to it for Waboose, whose dignified yet modest bearing made a profound impression on those children of the wilderness. They recognised, no doubt that Indian blood flowed in her veins, but that rather increased their respect for her, as it gave them, so to speak, a right to claim kinship with a girl who was obviously one of Nature's aristocracy, besides possessing much of that refinement which the red-men had come to recognise as a characteristic of some of the best of the pale-faces. Indeed, I myself found, now that I had frequent opportunities of conversing with Eve Liston, that the man who had been affectionately styled Weeum the Good by the Indians, had stored his child's mind with much varied secular knowledge, such as Indians never possess, besides instilling into her the elevating and refining precepts of Christianity. Being of a poetical turn of mind, he had also repeated to Eve many long and beautiful pieces from our best poets, so that on more than one occasion the girl had aptly quoted several well-known passages--to my inexpressible amazement. "I wonder," said I, when we three were seated in our tent that night, refreshing ourselves with a choice morsel of baked buffalo-hump, with which the hospitable Blackfeet had supplied us, "how it comes to pass that Indians, who are usually rather fond of gifts, absolutely refuse to accept anything for the fine horse they have given to Waboose?" "Perhaps," said Eve, with a little smile, in which the extreme corners of her pretty mouth had the peculiar tendency to turn down instead of up--"perhaps it is because they are grateful. Indians are not altogether destitute of that feeling." "True, Eve, true; it must be that. Will you tell us, Big Otter, how you managed to make these fellows so grateful?" "I saved the chief's life," returned the Indian, curtly. "Yes; but how, and when?" "Four summers have passed since then. I was returning from a trip to the Rocky Mountains when it happened. Many bad pale-faces were in the mountains at that time. They were idle bad men from many lands, who hated work and loved to fight. One of them had been killed by a Sioux Indian. They all banded together and swore that they would shoot every Indian they came across. They killed many--some even who were friendly to the white men. They did not ask to what tribe they belonged. They were `redskin varmints,' that was enough! "The Strong Elk, whose hospitality we enjoy to-night, was chief of the Blackfeet. I was on my way to visit him, when, one evening, I came upon the camp of the pale-faces. I knew that sometimes they were not friendly to the red-man, so I waited till dark, and then crept forward and listened. Their chief was loud-voiced and boastful. He boasted of how many Indians he had killed. I could have shot him where I lay and then escaped easily, but I spared him, for I wished to listen. They talked much of the Strong Elk. I understood very little. The language of the pale-face is difficult to understand, but I came to know that in two hours, when the moon should sink, they would attack him. "I waited to hear no more. I ran like the hunted buffalo. I came to Strong Elk and told him. It was too late to move the camp, but we put it in a state of defence. When the pale-faces came, we were ready. Arrows, thick as the snowflakes in winter, met them when they came on, and many of them bit the dust. Some ran away. Some, who were brave, still came on and leaped our barricades. They fought like fiends. Their boastful chief saw Strong Elk and rushed at him. They grappled and fell. The pale-face had a keen knife. It was raised to strike. One moment more, and the Blackfoot chief had been in the happy hunting-grounds with his fathers, when the gun of Big Otter came down on the skull of the boastful one. It was enough. Strong Elk was saved-- and he is grateful; waugh!" "Well, he has reason to be!" said I, much impressed by the modest way in which the story was told. "And now," I added, "since we have got a capital horse, and the journey before us is long, don't you think we should start to-morrow!" "Yes, to-morrow--and it is time for Waboose to rest. She is strong, but she has had much to weary her, and her grief is deep." With a kindly acknowledgment of the Indian's thoughtful care of her, Eve rose and went to her tent. Big Otter lighted his pipe, and I lay down to meditate; but almost before I had time to think, my head drooped and I was in the land of forgetfulness. It is not my purpose, good reader, to carry you step by step over the long, varied, and somewhat painful journey that intervened between us and Colorado at that time. It was interesting--deeply so--for we passed through some of the most beautiful as well as wildest scenery of the North American wilderness. We kept far to the westward, near the base of the Rocky Mountains, so as to avoid the haunts of civilised men. But space will not permit of more than a brief reference to this long journey. I can only say that on arriving at a village belonging to a remote tribe of Indians, who were well-known to my guide, it was arranged that Big Otter and Waboose should stay with them, while I should go to the cities of the pale-faces and endeavour to convert my diamonds into cash. Happening to have a friend in Chicago I went there, and through his agency effected the sale of the diamonds, which produced a little over the sum mentioned by William Liston in his paper. This I took with me in the convenient form of bills on well-known mercantile firms, in the region to which I was bound, and, having wrapped them in a piece of oiled silk and sewed them inside of the breastplate that contained my gold, I set off with a light heart, though somewhat weighted shoulders, to return to my friends in the Far West. CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE. TELLS OF A WONDERFUL MEETING AND A FRUSTRATED FOE. I must change the scene now, and advance the courteous reader considerably in regard to time as well as place on the journey which we have pursued so long together. It is one of those scenes of romantic beauty on the extreme frontiers of civilisation, where the rifle has not even yet given place to the plough; where the pioneer husbandman and the painted warrior often meet--the one to look with patronising superiority on the savage, whom he means to benefit; the other to gaze curiously at the pale-face, and to wonder, somewhat indignantly, when and where his encroachments are to cease. Woodlands and prairies, breezy uplands and grassy bottoms, alternate in such picturesque confusion, and such lovely colours co-mingle, that a painter--had one been there--must have deemed the place at all events the vestibule of paradise. There is a small hamlet on the slope of a hill, with a broad river winding in front, a few hundred yards from the hamlet, which opens out into a lake. On the margin of this lake lie a few boats. On the surface of it float a few more boats, with one or two birch-bark canoes. Some of these are moving to and fro; the occupants of others, which appear to be stationary, are engaged in fishing. There is the sound of an anvil somewhere, and the lowing of cattle, and the voices of children, and the barking of dogs at play, and the occasional crack of a gun. It is an eminently peaceful as well as beautiful backwood scene. To a particular spot in this landscape we would direct attention. It is a frame-house, or cottage, which, if not built according to the most approved rules of architecture, is at least neat, clean, comfortable-looking, and what one might style pretty. It is a "clap-boarded" house, painted white, with an edging of brown which harmonises well with the green shrubbery around. There is a verandah in front, a door in the middle, two windows on either side, and no upper storey; but there are attics with dormer windows, which are suggestive of snug sleeping-rooms of irregular shape, with low ceilings and hat-crushing doorways. This cottage stands on the apex of a little hill which overlooks the hamlet, commands the river and the lake, as well as an extensive view of a sparsely settled district beyond, where the frontier farmer and the primeval forest are evidently having a lively time of it together. In short the cottage on the hill has a decidedly comfortable come-up-quick-and-enjoy-yourself air which is quite charming. On a certain fine afternoon in autumn Eve Liston, _alias_ Waboose, Big Otter and I, rode slowly up the winding path which led to this cottage. We had been directed to it by the postmaster of the hamlet,--a man who, if he had been condemned to subsist solely on the proceeds of the village post-office, would have been compelled to give up the ghost, or the post, in a week. "We must be careful, Eve, how we break it to her," said I, as we neared the top. Arrived at the summit of the hill we found a rustic table, also a rustic seat on which was seated a comely matron engaged in the very commonplace work of darning socks. She cast on us a sharp and remarkably penetrating glance as we approached. Doubtless our appearance was peculiar, for a pretty maiden in savage costume, a somewhat ragged white man, and a gigantic savage, all mounted on magnificent steeds and looking travel-stained and worn after a journey of many weeks, was not probably an everyday sight, even in those regions. Dismounting and advancing to act as spokesman, while my companions sat motionless and silent in their saddles, I pulled off my cap. "I have been directed to this house as the abode of Mrs Liston," said I with a tremor of anxiety, for I knew that the comely matron before me could not be she whom I sought, and feared there might be some mistake. "You have been directed aright, sir. May I ask who it is that desires to see her?" "My name is Maxby," said I, quickly, for I was becoming nervously impatient. "I am quite a stranger to Mrs Liston, but I would see her, because I bring her news--news of importance--in fact a message from her long-lost son." "From Willie Liston?" exclaimed the lady, starting up, and seizing my arm, while she gazed into my face with a look of wild surprise. "Is he--but it cannot be--impossible--he must be--" "He is dead," said I, in a low, sad voice, as she hesitated. "Yes," she returned, clasping her hands but without any of the wild look in her eyes now. "We have mourned him as dead for many, many years. Stay, I will call his--but--perhaps--sometimes it is kindness to conceal. If there is anything sad to tell, might it not be well to leave his poor mother in ignorance? She is old and--" "No, madam," I interrupted, "that may not be. I have a message from him to his mother." "A message! Then you knew him?" "No; I never saw him." "Strange! You have a message from him, yet never saw him. Can you not give me the message, to convey it to her? She is getting frail and a shock might be serious. I am William Liston's cousin, and have come to take care of my aunt, and manage her farm." "The message, by Mr Liston's wish," said I, "was to be delivered by me to his mother. I will be very careful to deliver it gently." "Well, I will bring her to you. She usually comes out about this time to enjoy the sunset. I will trust to your discretion; but bear in remembrance that she is not strong. Forgive me," she added, turning to my companions, "this surprise has made me forget my duty. Will your friends dismount?" Eve at once dismounted, and shook the hand which the lady extended; but Big Otter sat quite still, like a grand equestrian statue, while the lady entered the house. I saw that the poor girl was much agitated, but, true to her Indian training, she laid powerful constraint on herself. In a few minutes an old lady with the sweetest face and most benignant aspect I ever saw, came out of the cottage and advanced to the rustic seat. Before sitting down she looked at us with a pleasant smile, and said,--"You are heartily welcome. We are always glad to see strangers in these distant parts." While speaking she tremblingly pulled out, and put on, a pair of spectacles to enable her to have a clearer view of her visitors. The scene that immediately followed took me very much by surprise, and completely frustrated all my wise plans of caution. She looked at me first and nodded pleasantly. Then she looked at Eve, who was gazing at her with an intense and indescribable expression. Suddenly the old lady's eyes opened to their widest. A death-like pallor overspread her old face. She opened her arms wide, bent forward a little towards Eve, and gasped,--"Come to me--Willie!" Never was invitation more swiftly accepted. Eve bounded towards her and caught her in her arms just in time to prevent her falling. The poor old mother! For years she had prayed and longed for her lost Willie, though she never once regarded him as "lost." "Is not the promise _sure_?" she was wont to say, "Ask and ye shall receive." Even when she believed that the erring son was dead she did not cease to pray for him--because he _might_ be alive. Latterly, however, her tone of resignation proved that she had nearly, if not quite, given up all hope of seeing him again in this life, yet she never ceased to think of him as "not lost, but gone before." And now, when at last his very image came back to her in the form of a woman, she had no more doubt as to who stood before her than she had of her own identity. She knew it was Willie's child--one glance sufficed to convince her of that--but it was only Willie--the long-lost Willie--that she thought of, as she pressed the weeping girl with feeble fervour to her old and loving heart. During the time that this scene was enacting, Big Otter remained still motionless on his horse, without moving a muscle of his grave countenance. Was he heartless, or was his heart a stone? An observer might readily have thought so, but his conduct when the old lady at last relaxed her hold of Eve, proved that, Indian like, he was only putting stern restraint on himself. Dismounting with something of the deliberate and stately air of one who is resolved not to commit himself, the Indian strode towards Mrs Liston, and, tenderly grasping one of her hands in both of his, said,--"Weeum!" Truly there is but a step from the sublime to the ridiculous, and in some cases that step is an exceeding short one. It seemed so to me now, as I beheld the tall Indian stooping to gaze with intense earnestness into the tear-besprinkled face of the little old lady, who gazed with equally intense amazement into his huge, dark visage. "What _does_ he mean by Weeum?" she asked, with an appealing look at me. "Weeum," I replied, "is the Indian way of pronouncing William. Your late son, dear madam, was much beloved and respected by the tribe of Indians, with whom he dwelt, and was known to them only by the name of William, or Weeum. This man was his most intimate and loving friend and brother-in-law." The poor old lady was deeply affected while I spoke, for of course my words confirmed at last, her long resisted fear that Willie was indeed no longer of this world. Big Otter waited a few seconds, still holding her hand, and then, turning to me, said in his native tongue,--"Tell the pale-face mother that the sister of Big Otter was the wife of Weeum; that Big Otter loved Weeum better than a brother, and that Weeum loved Big Otter more than any man of his tribe. Every one loved Weeum the Good. He was so kind, and so brave! At first he was very fierce, but afterwards that passed away, and when Waboose began to grow tall and wise, Weeum turned soft like a woman. He spoke often to the red-men about the Great Master of Life, and he taught Big Otter to love the Great Master of Life and the name of Jesus. Often Weeum talked of going to the far south to see one whom he called a _dear old one_. We did not understand him then. Big Otter understands him now. So shall it be in the great hereafter-- things that are dark now shall be light then. But Weeum could not leave his wife and child, and we would not let him take them away. Sometimes Weeum spoke mysteries. One day he said to me, `Brother, I _must_ go to the far south to see the dear old one. I will take my wife and child, and will return to you again--if the great Master of Life allows. If, however, I die or am killed, Waboose will reveal all that is in Weeum's heart. She cannot reveal it now. She will not even understand until a _good_ pale-face visits your tribe.' Weeum said no more. He left the mind of Big Otter dark. It is no longer dark. It is now clear as the sun at noon. The `good pale-face' is here (pointing to me as he spoke), and the `dear old one' is before me." He paused a moment at this point, and then, with an evident effort to suppress emotion, added,--"Weeum was drowned, soon after the day he spoke to me, while trying to save life. Since then there has been no sun in the sky for Big Otter." The poor old mother listened to this speech with intense interest and deepening emotion, but I could see that the tears which flowed over the wrinkled cheeks were tears of gladness rather than of sorrow. It could scarcely at that time come as news to her that her son was dead, but it did come as a gladsome surprise that her wilful Willie had not only found the Saviour himself--or, rather, been found of Him--but that he had spent his latter days in striving to bring others to that great Source of blessedness. Being too much overcome to speak, she submitted to be led away into the cottage by the comely matron, who had been a keen and sympathetic observer of all that passed. Of course Eve accompanied them, for Weeum's mother refused to let go her hand, even for a moment, and Big Otter and I were left outside alone. "Come," said I, vaulting into my saddle, "you and I will go and have a gallop, my friend, and see the land, for I mean to dwell here and would strongly advise you to do the same." "Waugh!" exclaimed the Indian, as he leaped on the back of his steed, and followed me. "You see," said I, as we rode along, followed by the admiring gaze of the village children--for, accustomed though they were to savages, they had never seen so grand an Indian as Big Otter on so magnificent a horse--"you see, they will require some time to clear up matters in the cottage, for Eve's English, good though it be, is not perfect, and all their minds will naturally be a little confused at first. You did me good service to-day, my friend." "How? The speech of Muxbee is mysterious." "Don't you see," I replied, "that the speech you made to old Mrs Liston, broke the ice as it were, and told her nearly all that I had to tell. And if you knew how many anxious hours I have spent in thinking how I should best break the sad news to the poor old mother, you would better understand how grateful I am to you." "The speech of Muxbee is still full of mystery. What does he mean by breaking news? When Big Otter has got news to tell, he tells it. When people have got something to hear, why should they not hear it at once?" I felt that there are some things which some minds cannot understand; so, instead of answering, changed the subject. "See," said I, pointing to a part of the uncleared bush into which we had ridden, "there are two redskins. One is about to let fly an arrow. Hold on--we may disturb his aim!" My companion looked, and with a start threw forward the muzzle of his gun. Little did I think, riding as we then were in a semi-civilised region-- what the aim was that I was so anxious not to disturb. I was suddenly and rudely enlightened when I heard the twang of the bow, and saw the arrow flying straight towards me. It was too late to leap aside, or dodge it. Full on the centre of my chest the shaft struck me. I experienced something of the shock that one feels when death is suddenly and very unexpectedly brought near. I have a distinct recollection of the solemn impression made by the belief that my last hour had come, yet I did not fall. I saw that the savage was hastily fitting another arrow to the bow, but was so stunned by surprise that I made no effort to save myself. Happily Big Otter had his wits about him. He fired before the arrow winged its flight, and shot the Indian dead. The other savage at once turned and fled, but my companion gave chase and overtook him in a few seconds. Seeing that he could not escape he turned round, flung down his weapons in token of submission, and stood sullenly before his captor. Big Otter at once leaped off his steed, seized the man, bound his arms behind him with a thong, and led him to the spot where the dead man was lying on his face. Meanwhile, I had discovered that the arrow which should have pierced my heart had been stopped by one of the gold pieces which formed my breastplate! It had, indeed, pierced the coin, but had only entered my flesh about a quarter of an inch! Thanking God for the wonderful deliverance, I plucked it out, and, casting it away, rode up to the place where the dead man lay. My companion had turned him over, and to my great surprise, revealed the face of my old foe, Attick! "Waugh!" exclaimed Big Otter, turning to the captured savage. "Are there not deer enough in the woods, and buffalo enough on the plains, that the red-man should take to testing his arrows on pale-faces?" "I did not shoot," was the stern reply. "True, but you were the companion, perhaps the friend, of the dead man." "I was _not_ his friend," replied the savage, more sullenly than ever. "Then how came you to be with him when making this cowardly attack?" I asked, in a tone which was meant to conciliate. The tone had the desired effect. The savage explained that about three weeks previously he had, while in danger of being killed by a grizzly bear which he had wounded, been rescued by Attick, who told him that he was in pursuit of a foe who had injured him deeply, and whom he meant to hunt to death. Out of gratitude the Indian had consented to follow him--believing his story to be true. Attick explained that he had followed his foe from the far north, day by day, week by week, month by month, seeking an opportunity to slay him; but so careful a watch had been kept by his foe and the Indian and woman who travelled with him that he had not up to that time found an opportunity. Attick and his new ally had then dogged us to Sunny Creek--the village at which we had arrived--and, finding that we no longer feared danger from hostile Indians, and had relaxed our vigilance, they had made up their minds to stay there patiently till the deed could be accomplished. That day, while consulting about the matter in the woods, we had suddenly and unexpectedly appeared before them, and Attick had discharged his arrow. "But" concluded the savage, with a perplexed look, "the pale-face cannot be killed. Arrows cannot pierce him." "You are right," said I, suddenly coming to a decision in regard to the man. "Neither bullet nor arrow can kill me till my work is done, and the Great Master of Life permits me to die. Go--and be more careful whom you follow in future." I cut the thong that bound him, as I spoke, and set him free. Without a word, though with an irresistible look of surprise, the savage turned, picked up his weapons and strode majestically into the bush. "My brother is not wise," remarked Big Otter. "That may be so," said I, "but it grieves me that the blood of one Indian has been shed on my account, and I don't want to let the authorities here have the chance of shedding that of another. Come, we must let them know what has happened." So saying I turned and rode off. We went direct to the authorities above-mentioned, told who we were and what we had done, guided a party of men to the scene of the intended murder; and then, while the stars were beginning to twinkle in the darkening sky, returned to see what was going on in the little cottage on the hill at Sunny Creek. CHAPTER TWENTY SIX. ONE OF THE DIFFICULTIES OF CORRESPONDENCE ENLARGED ON--COMING EVENTS, ETCETERA. About six weeks after the events narrated in the last chapter, I seated myself before a desk in a charming attic-room in the cottage--no need to say what cottage--and began to pen a letter. I was in an exceedingly happy frame of mind. The weather was agreeable; neither too hot nor too cold; circumstances around me were conducive to quiet contemplation, and my brain was quite clear, nevertheless I experienced unusual difficulty in the composition of that letter. I began it at least half-a-dozen times, and as many times threw my pen down, tore it up and began another. At last I received a summons to dinner, and had then got only half-way through my letter. Our dinner-party consisted of old Mrs Liston, her comely niece, Mrs Temple, who by the way was a widow, Eve Liston, and myself. Big Otter, unable to endure the restraints of civilisation, had gone on a hunting expedition for a few days, by way of relief! "You is very stupid, surely, to take three hours to write one letter," remarked Eve, with that peculiar smile to which I have before referred. "Eve," said I, somewhat sternly, "you will never learn English properly if you do not attend to my instructions. _You_ is plural, though _I_ am singular, and if you address me thus you must say you _are_ not you _is_." "You _are_ right in saying you are singular," interposed Aunt Temple, who was rather sharp witted, and had intensely black eyes. Eve had called her "aunt" by mistake at first, and now stuck to it. "I don't think there is another man in the district," continued the matron, "who would take so long to write a short letter. You said it was going to be short didn't you?" "Yes--short and sweet; though I doubt if the dear old man will think it so at first. But he'll change his mind when he gets here." "No doubt we will convert him," said Aunt Temple. "Eve will, at all events," said I. There was not much more said at that dinner which calls for record. I will therefore return to the attic-room and the letter. After at least another hour of effort, I succeeded in finishing my task, though not entirely to my satisfaction. As the letter was of considerable importance and interest--at least to those concerned--I now lay it before the reader. It ran thus:-- "My Dear Father, "I scarcely know how to tell you--or how to begin, for I fear that you will not only be very much surprised, but perhaps, displeased by what I have to write. But let me assure you, dear father, that I cannot help it! It almost seems as if the thing had been arranged for me, and as if I had had no say in the matter. The fact is that I have left the service of the Fur-Traders, and am engaged to be married to a dear beautiful half-caste girl (quite a lady, however, I assure you), and have made up my mind to become a farmer in one of the wildest parts of Colorado! There--I've made a clean breast of it, and if that does not take away your breath, nothing will! But I write in all humility, dearest father. Do not fancy that, having taken the bit in my teeth, I tell you all this defiantly. Very far from it. Had it been possible, nothing would have gratified me more than to have consulted you, and asked your approval and blessing, but with three thousand miles of ocean, and I know not how many hundred miles of land between us, that you know, was out of the question; besides, it could not have altered matters, for the thing is fixed. "My Eve's mother was an Indian. A very superior woman, indeed, let me hasten to say, and an exceptionally amiable one. Her father was an English gentleman named William Liston--son of a clergyman, and a highly educated man. He was wild and wilful in his youth, and married an Indian, but afterwards became a really good man, and, being naturally refined and with amiable feelings, spent his life in doing good to the people with whom he had cast his lot, and perished in saving the life of his wife. Eve evidently takes after him. "As to my Eve herself--" I will spare the reader what I said about Eve herself! Suffice it to say that after an enthusiastic account of her mental and physical qualities, in which, however, I carefully refrained from exaggeration, and giving a brief outline of my recent experiences, I wound up with,--"And now, dear father, forgive me if I have done wrong in all this, and make up your mind to come out here and live with us, or take a farm of your own near to us. You know there is nothing to tie you to the old country; you were always fond of the idea of emigrating to the backwoods; your small income will go twice as far here as there, if properly laid out, and you'll live twice as long. Come, dear dad, if you love me. I can't get married till you come. Ever believe me, your affectionate son--George Maxby." Reader, shall we visit the dear old man in his dingy little house in old England while he peruses the foregoing letter? Yes, let us go. It is worth while travelling between four and five thousand miles to see him read it. Perhaps, if you are a critical reader, you may ask, "But how came _you_ to know how the old gentleman received the letter?" Well, although the question is impertinent, I will answer it. I have a small cousin of about ten years of age. She dwells with my father, and is an exceedingly sharp and precocious little girl. She chanced to be in the parlour waiting for my father--who was rather given to being late for breakfast--when my letter arrived. The familiar domestic cat was also waiting for him. It had mounted the table and sat glaring at the butter and cream, but, being aware that stealing was wrong, or that the presence of Cousin Maggie was prohibitive, it practised self-denial. Finding a story-book, my cousin sat down on the window seat behind the curtain and became absorbed--so much absorbed that she failed to notice the entrance of my father; failed to hear his--"Ha! a letter from Punch at last!"--and was only roused to outward events by the crash which ensued when my father smote the table with his fist and exclaimed, "im-possible!" The cups and saucers almost sprang into the air. The cat did so completely, and retired in horror to the furthest corner of the room. Recovering itself, however, it soon returned to its familiar post of observation on the table. Not so Cousin Maggie, who, observing that she was unperceived, and feeling somewhat shocked as well as curious, sat quite still, with her mouth, eyes, and especially her ears, wide-open. From Maggie then--long afterwards--I learned the details. My father sat down after smiting the table, gasped once or twice; pulled off and wiped his spectacles; put them on again, and, laying strong constraint on himself, read the whole through, aloud, and without a word of comment till he reached the end, when he ejaculated--"in-con-ceivable!" laid the letter down, and, looking up, glared at the cat. As that creature took no notice of him he incontinently flung his napkin at it, and swept it off the table. Then he gave vent to a prolonged "wh-sh!" burst into a fiendish laugh, and gave a slap to his thigh that shattered the cat's peace of mind for the remainder of that morning, after which he re-opened the letter, spread it carefully out on the table, and, in the most intensely cynical tones, began a disjointed commentary on it as follows:-- "Your `dear father,' indeed! That's the first piece of humbug in your precious letter. Very `dear' I am to you, no doubt. And _you_--you--a chit--a mere boy (he forgot that several years had elapsed since I left him). Oh! no--I'm neither surprised nor displeased--not at all. The state of my mind is not to be expressed by such phraseology--by no means! And you were always such a smooth-faced, quiet little beggar that--well--no matter. `Couldn't help it!' indeed. H'm. `Quite a lady!' Oh! of _course_. Necessarily so, when you condescended to fall in love with her! `Humility!' well! `Given up the service,' too! `Colorado!' `One of the wildest parts'--as if a tame part wouldn't have done just as well! A `farmer!' Much _you_ know about farming! You don't tell all this `defiantly.' Oh! no, certainly not, but if you don't _do_ it defiantly, I have misunderstood the meaning of the word self-will till I am bald. Why didn't you `consult' me, then? Much _you_ care for my blessing--and `the thing is fixed!'" Exasperation was too much developed at this point to permit of blowing off steam in the form of sarcastic remark. My poor father hit the table with such force that the cream spurted out of its pot over the cloth-- and my father didn't care! The cat cared, however, when, at a later period, it had the cleaning up of that little matter all to itself! This last explosion caused so much noise--my cousin told me--as to attract the attention of my father's only domestic, who bounced into the room and asked, "did 'e ring." To which my father returned such a thundering "No!" that the domestic fled precipitately, followed by the cat--rampant. "_Your_ `Eve!' indeed," said my father, resuming the sarcastic vein. "`Mother an Indian'--a Hottentot, I suppose, or something of that sort-- short skirt of peacock feathers; no upper part worth mentioning, flat nose and lips, and smeared all over with fat, I dare say. Charming mother-in-law. Calculated to create some impression on English society. No wonder you've chosen the _wilds_ of Colorado! Ah, now, as to `my Eve herself'--just let us have it strong, my boy--h'm, `sweet'--yes, yes--`amiable,' exactly, `fair hair and blue eyes'--ha, you expect me to swallow _that_! oh, `graceful,' ha! `perfection,' undoubtedly. `Forgive' you! No--boy, I'll _never_ forgive you. You're the most arrant ass--idiot--but this caps all--`come out here and live with us!' They'll give me one quarter of the wigwam, I suppose--curtained off with birch-bark, _perhaps_, or deerskin. `Your affectionate'--dolt! wh-why-- what do you glare like _that_ for?" This last question was put to my small cousin, who, in the horror of her belief that my father had gone mad, had agitated the window-curtain and revealed herself! My poor dear father! I can imagine the scene well, and would not have detailed it so minutely here if--but enough. I must not forecast. The afternoon on which this letter was despatched Big Otter returned to Sunny Creek cottage with a haunch of fat venison on his lusty shoulders. He found us all grouped round the rustic table in front of the door, enjoying a cup of fragrant tea, and admiring the view. Eve was sitting on a low stool at the feet of Mrs Liston, engaged in ornamenting a bright blue fire-bag with bead and quill work of the most gorgeous colouring and elegant design. The design, of course, was her own. Mrs Liston was knitting small squares of open cotton-work, of a stitch so large that wooden needles about the size of a goose-quill were necessary. It was the only work that the poor old lady's weak eyesight and trembling hands could accomplish, and the simple stitch required little exercise of mind or muscle. When Mrs Liston completed a square she rolled it away. When sixteen squares were finished, she sewed them together and formed a strip about eight feet long and six inches broad. When sixteen such strips were completed, she sewed them all together and thus produced a bed-quilt. Quilts of this sort she presented periodically, with much ceremony and demonstration of regard, to her most intimate friends. In that region the old lady had not many intimate friends, but then it luckily took much time to produce a quilt. The quilt then in hand--at that time near its completion--was for Eve. "Thank you _so_ much for your venison," said Mrs Liston, as the hunter, with an air of native dignity, laid the haunch at her feet. "Take it to the kitchen, dear," she added to Mrs Temple, who was pouring out the tea. "It has just come in time," said Mrs Temple, with a pleasant nod to Big Otter; "we had quite run out of fresh meat, and your friend Muxbee is such a lazy boy that he never touches a gun. In fact I don't know how to get him out of the house even for an hour." As this was said in English, Big Otter did not understand it, but when he saw the speaker stoop to pick up the venison, he stepped quickly forward and anticipated her. "Thank you, carry it this way," said Aunt Temple (as I had begun to style her), leading the Indian to the pantry in rear of the cottage. "Well, Big Otter," said I, when they returned, "now do you find the country round here in regard to game?" "There is much game," he answered. "Then you'll make up your mind to pitch your wigwam here, I hope, and make it your home." "No, Big Otter's heart is in his own land in the far north. He will go back to it." "What! and forsake Waboose?" said Eve, looking up from her work with an expression of real concern. With a gratified air the Indian replied, "Big Otter will return." "Soon!" I asked. "Not very long." "When do you start?" "Before yon sun rises again," said Big Otter, pointing to the westward, where the heavens above, and the heavens reflected in the lake below, were suffused with a golden glow. "Then I shall have to spend the most of the night writing," said I, "for I cannot let you go without a long letter to my friend Lumley, and a shorter one to Macnab. I have set my heart on getting them both to leave the service, and come here to settle alongside of me." "You see, your friend Muxbee," said Aunt Temple, using the Indian's pronunciation of my name, "is like the fox which lost his tail. He wishes all other foxes to cut off _their_ tails so as to resemble him." "Am I to translate that?" I asked. "If you can and will." Having done so, I continued,--"But seriously, Big Otter, I hope you will try to persuade them to come here. Give them a glowing account of the country and the climate, and say I'll not marry till they come to dance at my wedding. I would not wait for that however, if it were not that Eve thinks she is a little too young yet, and besides, she has set her heart on my father being present. I'll explain all that in my letters, of course, but do you press it on them." "And be sure you tell the dark-haired pale-face," said Eve, "that Waboose expects her to come. Give these from her friend Fairhair--she was fond of calling me Fairhair." Eve rose as she spoke, and produced a pair of beautiful moccasins, which had been made and richly ornamented by her own hands. At the same time she presented the fire-bag to the Indian, adding that she was glad to have had it so nearly ready when he arrived. "For whom are these pretty things, my dear?" asked Mrs Liston. "The fire-bag, mother, is for Big Otter, and the moccasins is--" "Are, Eve--are--plural you know." "_Is_," replied Eve, with emphasis, "for my dear friend, Jessie, the black-haired pale-face." "Well done, Waboose!" exclaimed Aunt Temple. "I'm glad to see that you improve under my tuition." "You _can't_ spoil her," I retorted, quietly. "Well, my dear," said Mrs Liston, "send a message from me to your dark-haired pale-face that I shall begin a quilt for her next week." "I hope she will come to receive it," said Aunt Temple. "Tell her that, Muxbee, with my love, and add that I hope we shall be good friends when we meet. Though I doubt it, for I can't bear Highlanders--they're so dreadfully enthusiastic." "How much of that message am I to send?" I asked. "As much as you please. I can trust to your discretion." That evening I retired to my snug little attic-room earlier than usual, and, spreading out a large sheet of narrow-ruled foolscap paper before me, began a letter to my old chum on the banks of lake Wichikagan. I had much to relate, for much had happened since I had sent off the brief note by Salamander, and I found it difficult to check my pen when once it had got into the flow of description and the rush of reminiscence and the gush of reiterative affection. I had covered the whole of the first sheet of narrow-ruled foolscap, and got well into the second sheet-- which I had selected unruled, that I might write still more narrowly-- when I heard a gentle tap at the door. I knew the tap well--sprang up and opened the door. Eve stood there, looking as modest and beautiful and elegant as ever--which is saying a good deal, for, in deference to Mrs Liston's prejudices, she had exchanged her old graceful tunic reaching to a little below the knee, and her pretty bead-wrought leggings, and other picturesque accompaniments of Indian life, for the long dress of civilisation. However, I consoled myself with the fact that _nothing_ could spoil her, and recalled with satisfaction the words (I don't quite remember them), which refer to a rose smelling equally sweet under any other name. "Prayers," said Eve. Lest any one should feel perplexed by the brevity of her announcement, I may mention that dear old Mrs Liston's habit was to recognise her "Best Benefactor" night and morning by having worship in the household, and invariably conducted it herself in her soft, slightly tremulous, but still musical voice. As we descended the stairs, Eve said,--"You must sit beside me to-night, Geo'ge. When you sit opposite you gaze too much and make me uncomfortable." "Certainly, dear one," said I. "But pray don't call me Geo'ge--say Geo-r-ge. There's an r in it, you know." "Yes, Geo-o-o-r-r-r-r-ge!" "Eve," I whispered, as we sat on the sofa together, while Mrs Liston was wiping her spectacles, "I've been earnestly considering that last attempt of yours, and I think upon the whole, that `Geo'ge' is better." CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. A PECULIAR WEDDING AND A WONDERFUL WALK. Turn we once again to the great wilderness, and if we do so with half the zest felt by Big Otter when he set forth on his journey, we will certainly enjoy the trip, you and I, whoever you be. But we must take the journey at a bound. It is Christmas-time once more. Lake Wichikagan has put on its top-coat of the purest Carrara marble. The roof of the little fort once again resembles a French cake overloaded with creamy sugar. The pines are black by contrast. The willows are smothered, all save the tops where the snow-flakey ptarmigan find food and shelter. Smoke rises from the various chimneys, showing that the dwellers in that remote outpost are enjoying themselves as of old. The volumes of smoke also suggest Christmas puddings. Let us look in upon our old friends. In the men's house great preparation for something or other is going on, for each man is doing his best with soap, water, razor, brush, and garments, to make himself spruce. Salamander is there, before a circular looking-glass three inches in diameter in the lid of a soap-box, making a complicated mess of a neck-tie in futile attempts to produce the sailor's knot. Blondin is there, before a similar glass, carefully scraping the bristles round a frostbite on his chin with a blunt razor. Henri Coppet, having already dressed, is smoking his pipe and quizzing Marcelle Dumont--who is also shaving--one of his chief jokes being an offer to give Dumont's razor a turn on the grindstone. Donald Bane is stooping over a tin basin on a chair, with his hair and face soap-sudded and his eyes tight shut, which fact being observed by his friend Dougall, induces that worthy to cry,--"Tonal', man--look here. Did iver man or wuman see the likes o' _that_!" The invitation is so irresistible to Donald that he half involuntarily exclaims, "Wow, man, Shames--what is't?" and opens his eyes to find that Shames is laughing at him, and that soap does not improve sight. The old chief, Muskrat, is also there, having been invited along with Masqua and his son Mozwa, with their respective squaws, to the great event that is pending, and, to judge from the intense gravity--not to say owlish solemnity--of these redskins, they are much edified by the proceedings of the men. In the hall preparations are also being carried on for something of some sort. Macnab is there, with his coat off, mounted on a chair, which he had previously set upon a rickety table, hammering away at a festoon of pine-branches with which one end of the room is being decorated. Spooner is also there, weaving boughs into rude garlands of gigantic size. The dark-haired pale-face, Jessie, is there too, helping Spooner--who might almost be called Spooney, he looks so imbecile and sweet. Jack Lumley is likewise there. He is calm, collected, suave, as usual, and is aiding Macnab. It was a doubly auspicious day, for it was not only Christmas, but, a wedding-day. "It seems like a dream," cried Macnab, stopping his noisy hammer in order to look round and comment with his noisy voice, "to think, Jessie, that you should refuse at least a dozen sturdy Highlanders north o' the Grampians, and come out to the backwoods at last to marry an Englishman." "I wish you would attend to what you are doing, brother," said Jessie, blushing very much. "She might have done worse," remarked Spooner, who happened to be an Englishman. Lumley said nothing, but a pleased smile flickered for a minute on his lips, while Macnab resumed his hammering with redoubled zest to a chuckling accompaniment. "It would be nothing," he resumed, turning round again and lowering his hammer, "if you hadn't always protested that you would _never_ marry, but--oh, Jessie, I wonder at a girl who has always been so firm in sticking to her resolves, turning out so fickle. I really never thought that the family of Macnab could be brought so low through one of its female members." "I know one of its male members," said Lumley, in a warning voice, "who will be brought still lower if he keeps dancing about so on that rickety--there--I told you so!" As he spoke, Peter Macnab missed his footing and came down on the table with a crash so tremendous that the crazy article of furniture became something like what Easterns style a split-camel--its feeble legs spread outwards, and its body came flat to the ground. Sprawling for a moment Macnab rose dishevelled from a mass of pine-branches and looked surprised. "Not hurt, I hope," said Lumley, laughing, while Jessie looked anxious for a moment. "I--I think not. No--evidently not. Yes, Jessie, my dear, you may regard this as a sort of practical illustration of the value of submission. If that table had resisted me I had been hurt, probably. Giving way as it did--I'm all right." "Your illustration is not a happy one," said Lumley, "for your own safety was purchased at the cost of the table. If you had taken the lesson home, and said that `pride goes before a fall,' it would have been more to the purpose." "Perhaps so," returned Macnab, assisting to clear away the split table: "my pride is at its lowest ebb now, anyhow, for not only does Jessie Macnab become Mrs Lumley within an hour, but I am constrained to perform the marriage ceremony myself, as well as give her away." The Highlander here referred to the fact that, for the convenience of those numerous individuals whose lives were spent in the Great Nor'-west, far removed at that time from clergymen, churches, and other civilised institutions, the commissioned gentlemen in the service of the Hudson's Bay Company were legally empowered to perform the marriage ceremony. Of course Jessie regretted much the impossibility of procuring a minister of any denomination to officiate in that remote corner of the earth, and had pleaded for delay in order that they might go home and get married there; but Lumley pointed out firstly, that there was not the remotest chance of his obtaining leave of absence for years to come; secondly, that the marriage tie, as tied by her brothers would be as legally binding as if managed by an Archbishop of Canterbury or a moderator of the Scottish General Assembly; and thirdly, that as he was filled with as deep a reverence for the Church as herself, he would have the rite re-performed, ("_ceremonially_, observe, Jessie, not _really_, for that will be done to-day,") on the first possible opportunity. If Jessie had been hard to convince, Lumley would not have ended that little discourse with "thirdly." As it was, Jessie gave in, and the marriage was celebrated in the decorated hall, with voyageurs, and hunters, and fur-traders as witnesses. Macnab proved himself a worthy minister, for he read the marriage-service from the Church of England prayer-book with an earnest and slightly tremulous tone which betrayed the emotion of his heart. And if ever a true prayer, by churchman or layman, mounted to the Throne, that prayer was the fervent, "God bless you, Jessie!" to which the Highlander gave vent, as he pressed the bride to his heart when the ceremony was over. There were some peculiarities about this wedding in the wilderness which call for special notice. In the first place, the wedding-feast, though held shortly after mid-day, was regarded as a dinner--not as a breakfast. It was rather more real, too, than civilised feasts of the kind. Those who sat down to it were hungry. They meant feeding, as was remarked by Salamander when more "venison steaks" were called for. Then there was no champagne or strong drink of any kind. Teetotalism--with or without principle--was the order of the day, but they had gallons of tea, and they consumed them, too; and these stalwart Nor'westers afterwards became as uproarious on that inspiring beverage as if they had all been drunk. There was this peculiarity, however, in their uproar, that it was reasonable, hearty, good-humoured; did not degenerate into shameful imbecility, or shameless impropriety, nor did it end in stupid incapacity. It subsided gradually into pleasant exhaustion, and terminated in profound refreshing slumber. Before that point was reached, however, much had to be done. Games had to be undertaken as long as the daylight lasted--chief among which were tobogganing down the snow-slope, and football on the ice. Then, after dark, the Hall was lighted up with an extra supply of candles round the room--though the powerful blaze of the mighty wood fire in the open chimney rendered these almost unnecessary, and another feast was instituted under the name of supper, though it commenced at the early hour of six o'clock. At this feast there was some speechifying--partly humorous and partly touching--and it remains a disputed point to this day whether the touching was more humorous or the humorous more touching. I therefore refrain from perplexing the reader with the speeches in detail. Only part of one speech will I refer to, as it may be said to have had a sort of prophetic bearing on our tale. It fell from the lips of Lumley. "My friends," he said, with that grave yet pleasant urbanity which I have before said was so natural to him, "there is only one regret which I will venture to express on this happy day, and it is this, that some of those who were wont to enliven us with their presence at Fort Wichikagan, are not with us to-night. I really do not think there would be a single element wanting in the joy which it has pleased a loving God to send me, if I could only have had my dear young friend, George Maxby, to be my best man--" He had to pause a few moments at this point, because of noisy demonstrations of assent. "And I am quite sure," he continued, "that it would have afforded as much satisfaction to you as it would to my dear wife and me, if we could only have had our sedate friend, Big Otter--" Again he had to pause, for the shouting with which this name was received not only made the rafters ring, but caused the very candles on the walls to wink. "If we could only have had Big Otter," repeated Lumley, "to dance at our wedding. But it is of no use to sigh after the impossible. The days of miracles are over, and--" As he spoke the hall door slowly opened, and a sight appeared which not only bereft the speaker of speech, but for a few minutes absolutely petrified all the rest of the company. It was the face and figure of a man--tall, gaunt and worn. Now, good reader, as Lumley said (without very good authority!) the days of miracles are over, yet I venture to think that many events in this life do so much resemble miracles that we could not distinguish them from such unless the keys to their solution were given to us. I give you the key to the supposed miracle now in hand, by asking you to accompany me deep into the wild-woods, and backward in time to about an hour before noon of the day preceding Christmas. It is a tangled shady spot to which I draw attention, the snow-floor of which is over-arched by dark pine-branches and surrounded by walls of willows and other shrubs. There is a somewhat open circular space in the centre of the spot, into which an Indian on snow-shoes strode at the hour mentioned. Even his most intimate friends might have failed at a first glance to recognise Big Otter, for he was at the time very near the close of a long, hard, wearisome journey, during the course of which he had experienced both danger and privation. Latterly he had conceived an idea, which he had striven with all his powers--and they were not small--to carry out. It was neither more nor less than to arrive in time to spend Christmas Day with his friends at Fort Wichikagan. But to accomplish this feat, commencing at the time he conceived it, required that the Indian should travel without fail upwards of forty miles every day. This, on snow-shoes, could only be done by a very Hercules, and that only for a few days at a stretch. Big Otter knew his powers of endurance, and had carried out his resolve nearly to completion, when a storm arose so fierce, with temperature so bitterly cold, that he could not force against it, and thus lost the greater part of a day. Still, the thing was not impossible, and, as the difficulties multiplied, our Indian's resolve to conquer increased. In this state of mind, and much worn and fagged in body, with soiled and rent garments that told of weeks upon weeks of toil, he entered the circle, or open space before referred to, and, coming to a stand, rested the butt of his gun on one of his snowshoes, heaved a deep sigh, and looked round, as if undecided how to act. But Big Otter's periods of indecision never lasted long. Being naturally of a sociable turn of mind he partially revealed his mental condition by low mutterings which I take leave to translate. "Yes, I can do it. The pale-faces are pleasant men; pleasanter at Christmas-time than at other times. They love song, and Big Otter loves to hear song, though he does not love to do it. Men do not love to try what they cannot do. The pale-faces have much food, too, on Christmas Day, and much good-will. Big Otter loves both the good-will and the food, especially that round thing they are so fond of--plum-puddinn they call it. They dance much also. Dancing gives not much joy, though Big Otter can do some of it--but plum-puddinn is glorious! Waugh! I will do it!" Having communed with himself thus far, the Indian leaned his gun against a tree, flung down his provision-bag, took off his snow-shoes, cleared away the snow, kindled a fire, spread his bed of pine-brush and his blanket above it--and, in short went through the usual process of encamping. It was early in the day to encamp, but there was only one way in which our Indian could hope to partake of the plum-puddinn, and that was to walk a little over fifty miles at one stretch. That distance still lay between him and Fort Wichikagan, and it had to be traversed within fourteen and fifteen hours--including rests and food. To prepare himself for the feat Big Otter drew from his wallet an enormous mass of venison which he roasted and consumed. Then he filled a small portable kettle with snow, which, with the aid of a fierce fire, he soon converted into tea. You see our Indian was becoming civilised by intercourse with pale-faces, and rather luxurious, for he carried tea and sugar on this journey. He did not deem butter a necessity, but could afford to dispense with that, because of having the remains of a rogan, or birch basket, of bear's grease (unscented, of course!) which he had reserved at the end of his fall hunt. The meal, or rather the gorging, over, Big Otter rolled himself head and feet in a blanket, pillowed his head on the provision-wallet, and suddenly went to sleep. Hour after hour passed, but not the slightest motion was perceptible in that recumbent figure save the slow regular rise and fall of the deep chest. The short-lived sun of winter soon passed its zenith and began to decline towards its early couch in the west, but still the sleeper lay motionless like a log. At last the shades of early evening began to fall, and then Big Otter awoke. He rose at once, stretched himself with a sort of awful energy, rolled up his blanket, put on his snow-shoes, caught up wallet and gun, and set off on his journey. To see a strong man stride over the land on snowshoes is a grand sight at any time, but to see Big Otter do it on this occasion would have been worth a long journey. With his huge and weighty frame and his mighty stride he made nothing of small obstacles, and was but little affected by things that might have retarded ordinary mortals. Small bushes went down before him like grass, larger ones he turned aside, and thick ones he went crashing through like an African elephant through jungle, while the fine frosted snow went flying from his snow-shoes right and left. There was no hesitancy or wavering as to direction or pace. The land he was acquainted with, every inch. Reserve force, he knew, lay stored in every muscle, and he was prepared to draw it all out when fatigue should tell him that revenue was expended and only capital remained. As the sun went down the moon rose up. He had counted on this and on the fact that the land was comparatively open. Yet it was not monotonous. Now he was crossing a stretch of prairie at top speed, anon driving through a patch of woodland. Here he went striding over the surface of a frozen river, or breasting the slope of a small hill. As the night wore on he tightened his belt but did not halt to do so. Once or twice he came to a good-sized lake where all impediments vanished. Off went the snowshoes and away he went over the marble surface at a slow trot--slow in appearance, though in reality quicker than the fastest walk. Then the moon went down and the grey light of morning--Christmas morning--dawned. Still the red-man held on his way unchanged-- apparently unchangeable. When the sun was high, he stopped suddenly beside a fallen tree, cleared the snow off it, and sat down to eat. He did not sit long, and the breakfast was a cold one. In a few minutes the journey was resumed. The Indian was drawing largely on his capital now, but, looking at him, you could not have told it. By a little after six o'clock that evening the feat was accomplished, and, as I have said, Big Otter presented himself at a critical moment to the wonder-stricken eyes of the wedding guests. "Did they make much of him?" you ask. I should think they did! "Did they feed him?" Of course they did--stuffed him to repletion--set him down before the massive ruins of the plum-puddinn, and would not let him rise till the last morsel was gone! Moreover, when Big Otter discovered that he had arrived at Fort Wichikagan, not only on Christmas Day, but on Chief Lumley's wedding-day, his spirit was so rejoiced that his strength came back again unimpaired, like Sampson's, and he danced that night with the pale-faces, till the small hours of the morning, to the strains of a pig-in-its-agonies fiddle, during which process he consumed several buckets of hot tea. He went to rest at last on a buffalo robe in a corner of the hall in a state of complete exhaustion and perfect felicity. CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT. THE WILDERNESS AGAIN--NEW PLANS MOOTED--TREACHEROUS ICE, AND A BRAVE RESCUE. The well-known disinclination of time and tide to wait for any man holds good in the wilderness of the Great Nor'-west, as elsewhere. Notwithstanding the momentous events which took place at Fort Wichikagan and in Colorado, as detailed in preceding chapters, the winter passed away as usual, spring returned, and the voice of the grey-goose and plover began once more to gladden the heart of exiled man. Jack Lumley sat on a rustic chair in front of the Hall, gazing with wistful eyes at the still ice-covered lake, and occasionally consulting an open letter in his hand with frowning looks of meditation. The sweet voice of Jessie Lumley came from the interior of the Hall, trilling a tuneful Highland air, which, sweeping over the lawn and lake, mingled with the discords of the plover and geese, thus producing a species of wild-wood harmony. Peter Macnab--who, since the memorable day when the table became a split-camel under his weight, had been to the Mountain Fort and got back again to Wichikagan--came up, sat down on a bench beside his brother-in-law, and said,--"Shall I become a prophet?" "Perhaps you'd better not, Macnab. It is not safe to sail under false colours, or pretend to powers which one does not possess." "But what if I feel a sort of inspiration which convinces me that I do possess prophetic powers, at least to some extent?" "Then explode and relieve yourself by all means," said Lumley. "You have read that letter," resumed Macnab, "at least fifty times, if you have read it once." "If you had said that I had read it a hundred and fifty times," returned Lumley, "you would have been still under the mark." "Just so. And you have meditated over it, and dreamed about it, and talked it over with your wife at least as many times--if not more." "Your claim to rank among the prophets is indisputable, Macnab--at least as regards the past. What have you got to say about the future?" "The future is as clear to me, my boy, as yonder sun, which gleams in the pools that stud the ice on Lake Wichikagan." "I am afraid, brother-in-law," returned Lumley, with a pitiful smile, "that your intellects are sinking to a par with those of the geese which fly over the pools referred to." "Listen!" resumed the Highlander, with a serious air that was unusual in him. "I read the future thus. You have already, as I am aware, sent in your resignation. Well, you will not only quit the service of the HBC, but you will go and join your friend Maxby in Colorado; you will become a farmer; and, worst of all, you will take my dear sister with you." "In some respects," said Lumley, also becoming serious, "you are right. I have made up my mind that, God willing, I shall quit the service--not that I find fault with it, very much the reverse; but it is too much of a life of exile and solitude to my dear Jessie. I will also go to Colorado and join Maxby, but I won't take your sister from you. I will take you with me, brother-in-law, if you will consent to go, and we shall all live together. What say you?" Macnab shook his head, sadly. "You forget my boy, that your case is very different from mine. You have only just reached the end of your second term of service, and are still a youth. Whereas, I am a commissioned officer of the Fur Trade, with a fairish income, besides being an elderly man, and not very keen to throw all up and begin life over again." There was much in what Macnab said, yet not so much but that Lumley set himself, with all his powers of suasion and suavity, to induce his brother-in-law to change his mind. But Lumley had yet to learn that no power of Saxon logic, or personal influence, can move the will of a man from beyond the Grampian range who has once made up his mind. When all was said, Macnab still shook his head, and smiled regretfully. "It's of no use wasting your breath, my boy,--but tell me, is Jessie anxious for this change?" "She is anxious. She naturally pines for female society--though she did not say so until I urged her solemnly to tell me all her mind. And she is right. It is not good for woman, any more than for man, to be alone, and when I am away on these long expeditions--taking the furs to the depot, searching out the Indians, hunting, etcetera,--she is left unavoidably alone. I have felt this very strongly, and that was why, as you know, I had made up my mind during the winter, and written to the governor and council that, as my time had expired, I meant to retire this spring." "Yes, boy, I know," returned Macnab. "I foresaw all this even long before you began to move in the matter, and I also took steps with a view to contingencies. You know that I am entitled to a year's furlough this spring. Well, I wrote during the winter to say that I intended to avail myself of it. Now, then, this is what I intend to do. When you retire, and go off to the States, I will go with you on leave of absence. We won't lose time by the way, for you may depend on it that Maxby will not delay his wedding longer than he can help. Fortunately, his old father won't be able to wind up his affairs in England, and set off to Colorado quite as quickly as the son expects, so that will help to delay matters; and thus, though we can hardly expect to be in time for the wedding, we will at least be time enough to claim a revival and extension of the festivities. Then, you know, Big Otter--" "Aye, what of him?" asked Lumley, seeing that Macnab paused. "Well, I think we may prevail on him to go with us, as our guide, till we reach the civilised world, after which, we can take him in charge-- turn the tables as it were--and guide him to Sunny Creek." "Yes--or send him on in advance of us, through the wood in a straight line, like the swallow, to announce our approach." At this point, Jessie, who had been busy with the household bread, came to the door with a face radiant from the combined effect of hard work and happiness. "What is the subject of all this earnest conversation, Jack?" she asked, pulling down the sleeves that had been tucked up above her elbows. "Ask your brother, Jess," said Lumley, rising. "I shall have time before supper to pay a visit to Big Otter on a matter of some importance." He passed into the house to take up his gun and powder-horn, while Jessie sat down on the rustic chair, and her brother returned to the subject that had been interrupted. Now there occurred that afternoon an event which might have put a final and fatal termination to the plans which had just been so eagerly discussed. I have said that spring was so far advanced at that time, that pools of water were formed on the ice of Lake Wichikagan. The heat which caused these had also the effect of softening the snow in the woods, so as to render walking in snow-shoes very laborious. As walking without them, however, was impossible, Lumley had no other course left than to put them on and plod away heavily through the deep and pasty snow. Big Otter at that time occupied the important position of hunter to the establishment. He supplied it with fresh meat and dwelt in a small wigwam, about six miles distant from the fort, on the borders of a little lake--little at least for that region, but measuring somewhat over three miles in diameter. He also, for his own advantage and recreation, carried on the business of a trapper, and had that winter supplied many a silver fox and marten to the fur-stores at Wichikagan. When Lumley set out to visit the chief he knew that there was a possibility of his being out after deer, but in that case he meant to await his arrival, at least until nightfall, and then he could leave a hieroglyphic message, which the Indian would understand, requiring his immediate presence at the fort. In any case Lumley thought nothing of a twelve-mile walk, even though the snow _was_ soft and deep. Nothing worthy of notice occurred until he reached the lake above-mentioned, on the borders of which he halted. Looking across the bay, on the other side of which the hunter's wigwam stood, he could discern among the pines and willows, the orange-coloured birch-bark of which it was made, but no wreath of blue smoke told of the presence of the hunter. "H'm! not at home!" muttered Lumley, who then proceeded to debate with himself the propriety of venturing to cross the bay on the ice. Now, it must be told that ice on the North American lakes becomes exceedingly dangerous at a certain period of spring, for, retaining much of its winter solidity of appearance, and, indeed, much of its winter thickness, it tempts men to venture on it when, in reality, it has become honeycombed and "rotten." Ice of this kind--no matter how thick it be,--is prone to give way without any of those friendly cracks and rends and other warnings peculiar to the new ice of autumn, and, instead of giving way in angular cakes, it suddenly slides down, letting a man through to the water, by opening a hole not much larger than himself. Of course Lumley was well aware of this danger--hence the debate with himself, or rather with his judgment. "It looks solid enough," said Lumley. "Looks are deceptive," said his judgment. "Then, it's rather early yet for the ice to have become quite rotten," said Lumley. "So everyone goes on saying, every spring, till some unfortunate loses his life, and teaches others wisdom," said judgment; "besides, you're a heavy man." "And it is a tremendous long way round by the shore--nearly four times the distance," murmured Lumley. "What of that in comparison with the risk you run," remarked judgment, growing impatient. "I'll venture it!" said the man, sternly. "You're a fool!" cried the other, getting angry. It is surprising with what equanimity a man will stand insulting language from himself! With something like a contemptuous smile on his lips, Lumley took off his snow-shoes and set off to cross the bay. As he had anticipated, he found it as firm as a rock. The surface, indeed, had a dark wet look about it, and there were various pools here and there which he carefully avoided; but there was no other indication of danger until he had got three-quarters of the way across. Then, without an instant's warning, the mass of ice on which he stood dropped below him like a trap-door and left him struggling in a compound of ice and water! The first shock of the cold water on his robust frame was to give it a feeling of unusual strength. With a sharp shout, caused by the cold rather than alarm, he laid both hands on the edge of the ice, and, springing like an acrobat out of the water to his waist, fell with his chest on the still sound ice; but it was not long sound. His convulsive grip and heavy weight broke it off, and down he sank again, over head and ears. It is not easy to convince a very powerful man that he may become helpless. Lumley rose, and, with another Herculean grip, laid hold of the edge of the ice. His mind had not yet fully admitted that he was in absolute danger. He had only been recklessly vigorous at the first attempt to get out--that was all--now, he would exercise caution. With the coolness that was natural to him--increased, perhaps, by the coolness of the water--he again laid his hands on the edge of the ice, but he did not try to scramble upon it. He had been a practised gymnast at school. Many a time had he got into a boat from deep water while bathing, and he knew that in such an effort one is hampered by the tendency one's legs have to get under the boat and prevent action--even as, at that moment, his legs were attempting to go under the ice. Adopting, therefore, his old plan and keeping his hands on the edge of the ice, he first of all paddled backwards with his legs until he got himself into a quite perpendicular position, so that when he should make the spring there would be no fear of retarding his action by scraping against the ice with his chest. While in this position he let himself sink to the very lips--nay, even lower--and then, acting with arms and legs at the same moment, he shot himself full half his length out of the water. The whole process was well calculated, for, by sinking so deeply before the spring, he thus made use of the buoyancy of water, and rendered less pressure with his hands on the ice needful. But, although he thus avoided breaking the ice at first he could not by any device lessen the weight of his fall upon it. Again the treacherous mass gave way, and once more he sank into the cold lake. Cold, far more than exertion, tells on a man in such circumstances. A feeling of exhaustion, such as poor Lumley had never felt before, came over him. "God help me!" he gasped, with the fervour that comes over men when in the hour of their extremity. Death seemed at last evidently to confront him, and with the energy of a brave man he grappled and fought him. Again and again he tried the faithless ice, each time trying to recall some device in athletics which might help him, but always with the same result. Then, still clinging to life convulsively, he prayed fervently and tried to meet his fate like a man. This effort is probably more easy on the battle-field, with the vital powers unexhausted, and the passions strong. It was not so easy in the lone wilderness, with no comrade's voice to cheer, with the cold gradually benumbing all the vital powers, and with life slipping slowly away like an unbelievable dream! The desire to live came over him so strongly at times, that again and yet again, he struggled back from the gates of the dark valley by the mere power of his will and renewed his fruitless efforts; and when at last despair took possession of him, from the depths of his capacious chest he gave vent to that:-- "Bubbling cry Of some strong swimmer in his agony!" Sleeping soundly in his wigwam, Big Otter heard the cry. Our Indian was not the man to start up and stare, and wonder, and wait for a repetition of any cry. Like the deer which he had so often roused, he leaped up, bounded through the doorway of his tent, and grasped gun and snow-shoes. One glance sufficed to show him the not far distant hole in the ice. Dropping the gun he thrust his feet into the snowshoes, and went off over the ice at racing speed. The snow-shoes did not impede him much, and they rendered the run over the ice less dangerous. Probably Lumley would not have broken through if he had used his snow-shoes, because of the larger surface of ice which they would have covered. To come within a few yards of the hole, slide to the edge of it on his chest, with both snow-shoes spread out under that, by way of diffusing his weight over as much surface as possible, was the work of only a few minutes. But by that time the perishing man was almost incapable of helping himself. The great difficulty that the rescuer experienced was to rouse Lumley once more to action, for the torpor that precedes death had already set in, and to get on his knees on the edge of the ice, so as to have power to raise his friend, would only have resulted in the loss of his own life as well. To make sure that he should not let go his hold and slip, Big Otter tied the end of his long worsted belt round his friend's right wrist. "Now," he said, earnestly, "try once more." "Too late--too late! God bless you, Big--" He stopped, and his eyes closed! "No!" cried the Indian, vehemently, giving the perishing man's head a violent shake--then, putting his mouth close to his ear, added in a deep tone--"Not too late for the Master of Life to save. Think! The dark-haired pale-face waits for you." This was a judicious touch. The energy which could not be aroused by any consideration of self was electrified by the thought of the waiting wife. Lumley made one more desperate effort and once again cried to God for help. Both acts contributed to the desired end, and were themselves an answer to the prayer of faith. Mysterious connection! Hope revived, and the vital fluid received a fresh impulse. In the strength of it Lumley raised himself so far out of the water that the Indian was able to drag half his body on the ice, but the legs still hung down. Creeping back a few feet, the Indian, still lying flat on his face, cut a hole in the ice with his hatchet into which he stuck his toe, and seized hold of the end of his worsted belt. "That's right," said his friend, faintly--"wait." Big Otter knew that full consciousness had returned. He waited while Lumley, gently paddling with his legs, got them into a horizontal position. "Now!" cried Lumley. The Indian pulled--softly at first, then vigorously, and Lumley slid fairly on the ice. The rest, though still dangerous, was easy. In a few minutes more the red-man had the pale-face stripped beside a rousing fire in the wigwam--and thus he brought him back to life from the very gates of death. "You have saved me, my good friend," said Lumley, when he began to recover. "The Great Master of Life saved you," returned the Indian. "He made use of me--for which I thank him." It was not until late on the following day that Lumley felt strong enough to return to the fort, and relate what had occurred. Then the plans for the future were laid before Big Otter, and, to the satisfaction of all parties, he agreed at once to fall in with them. "But," said he, "Big Otter will not stay. He loves the great wilderness too well to be content to live among the wooden wigwams of the pale-faces." "Well, we won't bother ourselves on that point just now," said Macnab, "and so, as that's comfortably settled, I'll pack up and away back to my mountain fort to get ready for a trip, with you and Lumley and Jessie, to Colorado." CHAPTER TWENTY NINE. THE LAST. Once more I change the scene, from the wild regions of the north to the little less wild lands of Colorado. On a certain bright forenoon in Autumn I stood in the doorway of Sunny Creek Cottage watching a clumsy vehicle as it laboured slowly up the hill. I was alone that day, old Mrs Liston, Eve, and "Aunt Temple" having gone off in the waggon for a long drive to visit a relative with hunting proclivities, who had built himself a log-hut in a ravine of the neighbouring mountains, that he might be in closer proximity to the bears and deer. With some curiosity I approached the lumbering machine to assist the occupant, who seemed unable, or too impatient, to open the door. It was a stiff door, and swung open with a jerk which caused the occupant's hat to fall off, and reveal a bald head. "Father!" I gasped. "Punch, my boy!" The dear old man tripped in his haste to get down, plunged into my bosom, threw his arms round my neck to save himself, and almost bore me to the ground. Neither of us being demonstrative in our affections, this unpremeditated, not to say unintentional, embrace I felt to be quite touching. My father obviously resolved to make the most of his opportunities, for he gave me a thoroughly exhaustive hug before releasing me. "I--I--didn't m-mean," said my father, blazing with excitement, and gasping with a mingled tendency to laugh and weep, "didn't mean to come it quite so strong, P-Punch, my boy, b-but you'll make allowance for a momentary weakness. I'm getting an old man, Punch. What makes you grin so, you backwoods koonisquat?" The last sentence, with its opprobrious epithet (coined on the spot), was addressed with sudden asperity to the driver of the clumsy vehicle, who was seated on his box, with mouth expanded from ear to ear. "Wall, stranger, if you will insist on knowin'," said he, "It's sympathy that makes me grin. I _do_ like to see human natur' out of its go-to-meetin' togs, with its saddle off, an' no bridal on, spurtin' around in gushin' simplicity. But you're wrong, stranger," continued the driver, with a grave look, "quite wrong in callin' me a koonisquat. I _have_ dropt in the social scale, but I ain't got quite so low as that, I guess, by a long chalk." "Well, you compound of Welshman and Yankee, be off and refresh yourself," returned my father, putting an extra dollar, over and above his fare, into the man's hand, "but don't consume it on your filthy fire-water cock-tails, or gin-slings, or any other kind of sling-tails. If you must drink, take it out in strong hot coffee." The man drove off, still grinning, and I hurried my father into the cottage where, while I set before him a good luncheon, he gave me a wildly rambling and interjectional account of his proceedings since the date of his last letter to me. "But why did you take me by surprise in this way, dear daddy; why didn't you let me know you were coming?" "Because I like to take people by surprise, especially ill-doing scapegraces like--by the way," said my father, suddenly laying down his knife and fork, "where is she?" "Where is who?" "She--her, of course; the--the girl, the Hottentot, the savage. Oh! George, what an ass you are!" "If you mean Eve, sir," said I, "she is away from home--and everybody else along with her. That comes of your taking people by surprise, you see. Nobody prepared to receive you; nothing ready. No sheets aired even." "Well, well, Punch, my boy, don't be sharp with your old father. I won't offend again. By the way," he added, quickly, "you're not married _yet_? eh?" "No, not yet." "Ah!" said my father with a sigh of relief, as he resumed his knife and fork, "then there's the barest chance of a possibility that if--but you've asked her to marry you, eh?" "Yes, I have asked her." "And she has accepted you?" "Yes, she has accepted me. I wrote all that to you long ago." "Ah!" said my father, with a profound sigh of resignation, "then there is _no_ chance of a possibility, for if a man tries to win the affections of a girl and succeeds, he is bound in honour to marry her-- even though he were the Emperor of China, and she a--a Hottentot. Now, Punch, I have made up my mind to like the girl, even though she painted scarlet circles round her eyes, and smeared her nose with sky-blue--but you _must_ let your poor old father blow off the steam, for you have been such a--a donkey!--such a hasty, impatient, sentimental, romantic idiot, that--another glass of that milk, my boy. Thank'ee, where do you get it? Beats English milk hollow." "Got it from one of our numerous cows, daddy," said I, with a short laugh at this violent change of the subject, "and my Eve made the butter." "Did she, indeed? Well, I'm glad she's fit for even that small amount of civilised labour; but you have not told me yet when I shall see her?" "That is a question I cannot exactly answer," said I, "but you will at all events be introduced to-night to her father's mother, and her cousin (whom we call aunt), as well as to a young lady--a Miss Waboose--who is staying with us at present. And now, father," I added, "come, and we'll have a stroll round the farm. I don't expect the ladies back till evening. Meanwhile, I want you to do me a favour; to humour what I may call a whim." "If it's not a very silly one, Punch, I'll do it, though I have not much confidence in your wisdom _now_." "It is simply that you should agree, for this night only, to pass yourself off for a very old friend of mine. You need not tell fibs, or give a false name. You are a namesake, you know. There are lots of Maxbys in the world!" "Weak, my boy; decidedly weak. They'll be sure to see through it and I won't be able to recollect not to call you Punch." "No matter. Call me Punch. I'll tell them you are a very familiar old friend--a sort of relation, too, which will account for the name." "Well, well," said my father, with a smile of pity, "I'll not object to humour your whim, but it's weak--worthy of a man who could engage himself to a miserable red-Indian Hottentot!" This being finally settled, and my father having been pretty well exhausted by his ramble round the farm, I set him down on the rustic chair with a newspaper and left him, saying that I should be back in an hour or so. I knew the road by which the waggon was to return, walked along it several miles, and then waited. Soon it drove up to the spot where I stood. They were surprised to see me, but more surprised when I ordered the ladies to get out, and walk with me, while the coachman drove on slowly in advance. Then I hurriedly told of my father's arrival, and explained more fully than I had yet ventured to do his misconceptions and prejudices as to Eve. "Now, I want you all," said I, "to help me to remove these prejudices and misconceptions as quickly as possible by falling in with my little plans." Hereupon I explained that my father was to be introduced as an old friend and namesake, while Eve was to be presented to him as a visitor at the cottage named Miss Waboose. I had feared that old Mrs Liston would not enter into my plan, but found that, on the contrary, having a strong sense of humour, she quite enjoyed the notion of it. So did Aunt Temple, but Eve herself felt doubtful of her ability to act out her part. I had no doubt on that point, for she had undertaken it, and well did I know that whatever Eve undertook she could, and would, accomplish. It might be tedious to recount in detail the scenes that followed. The dear old man was charmed with Miss Waboose--as I had fully expected--and Miss Waboose was more than charmed with the dear old man! So that when we bade the ladies good-night, he kissed her fair forehead with quite fatherly tenderness. When I conducted the old man to his room I was struck, and made quite anxious, by the disconsolate expression of his face, and asked earnestly what was wrong. "Wrong!" he exclaimed, almost petulantly. "Everything's wrong. More particularly, _you_ are wrong. Oh, George, I _can't_ get over it. To think that you are tied hard and fast--_irrevocably_--to--a red-Indian-- a painted savage--a Hottentot. It is too--too bad!" He kicked off one of his shoes so viciously at this point, that it went straight into, and smashed, a looking-glass; but he didn't seem to care a straw for that. He did not even condescend to notice it. "And to think, too," he continued, "that you might have had that adorable young lady, Miss Waboose, who--in spite of her heathenish name--is the most charming, artless, modest young creature I ever saw. Oh! Punch, Punch, what a consummate idiot you have been." It was impossible to help laughing at my poor father's comical expression of chagrin, as he sat on the edge of his bed, slapped his hands down on both knees and looked up in my face. "Excuse me, daddy, but what ground have you for supposing that Miss Waboose would accept me, even if I were free to ask her hand?" "Ground? Why the ground that she is fond of you. Any man with half an eye could see that, by the way she looks at and speaks to you. Of course you have not observed that. I trust, my boy, you are too honourable to have encouraged it. Nevertheless, it is a fact--a miserable, tantalising, exasperating fact--a maddening fact, now that that hideous red-Indian--Hottentot stands in the way." "That red-Indian--Hottentot," said I, unable any longer to cause my dear father so much pain, "does _not_ stand in the way, for I am happy to tell you that Miss Waboose and Eve are one and the same person." "Come, come, Punch," returned my parent, testily, "I'm in no humour for jesting. Go away, and let me get to bed and pillow my head on oblivion if possible." I do assure you, reader, that I had no slight difficulty in persuading my father that Eve Liston and Waboose were really the same person. "But the girl's _fair_," objected my father, when the truth began to force an entrance. "Yes--`passing fair,'" said I. "And with blue eyes and golden hair!" said he. "Even so," said I. "No more like a savage than I am?" said my father. "Much less so," said I. When at length he did take in the fact, he flung his arms round my neck for the second time that day, and did his best to strangle me. Then, under a sudden impulse, he thrust me out into the passage and shut and locked the door. "You won't pillow your head on oblivion now, will you, daddy?" I asked through the keyhole. "Get away, you deceiver!" was the curt reply. But surprises did not come singly at that time. Call it a miracle, or a coincidence, or what you will, it is a singular fact that, on the very next day, there arrived at Sunny Creek cottage four travellers--namely, Jack Lumley, the black-haired pale-face, Peter Macnab, and Big Otter. On beholding each other, Jessie Lumley and Eve Liston, uttering each a little shriek, rushed into each other's arms, and straightway, for the space of five minutes, became a human amalgam. "Not too late, I hope?" said Lumley, after the first excitement of meeting was over. "Too late for what?" said I. "For the wedding, of course," said he. "By no means. It is fixed for this day three weeks." "Good--Jessie and I will have the knot tightened a little on the same day by the same man." "Wind and weather permitting," said Macnab, with his wonted irreverence. "Now, Maxby, my boy, take us into the house, and introduce us to old Mrs Liston. But what splendid creature is this coming towards us?" "Why that's Aunt Temple," I whispered, as she came forward. "Let me introduce you, aunt, to Mr Macnab--the jolly fur-trader of whom you have heard me speak so often and so much." Macnab made a profound obeisance, and Aunt Temple returned a dignified bow, expressing herself, "much pleased to make the acquaintance," etcetera, and saying that Mrs Liston, being unable to come out to greet them, was anxious that we should enter. "Particularly Big Otter," said Aunt Temple, turning to the grave chief, "for whom she has a very great regard." Thus invited and specially complimented, our tall Indian stooped to enter the cottage door, but not being accustomed to the wooden wigwams of the pale-faces, he did not stoop low enough, struck his head against the top, and rather damaged an eagle's feather, with which his hair was decorated. Nothing, almost, could upset the dignity and imperturbable gravity of Big Otter. He stooped lower to conquer the difficulty, and when inside drew himself up to his full height, so that the eagle's feather touched the ceiling, and tickled up some flies that were reposing in fancied security there. Glancing round till his black eyes caught sight of old Mrs Liston in a darkish corner on a sofa, he stepped forward, and, stooping to grasp one of her small hands in both of his, said tenderly--"Watchee." "What cheer--what cheer?" said the accommodating old lady, responding to the salutation in kind. "Tell him, George, that I'm _so_ happy to see once again the friend of my beloved William." "Big Otter rejoices to meet again the mother of Weeum," replied the Indian. "And tell him," said Mrs Listen, "that I hope he has now come to stay with us altogether." The Indian smiled gravely, and shook his head, intimating that the question required consideration. When the other members of the party were introduced--Jessie and Eve having been separated for the purpose--we all adjourned to the verandah to interchange news. Need it be said that we had much to hear and tell? I think not. Neither need the fact be enlarged on, that we all retired late that night, in a state of supreme felicity and mental exhaustion. There was one exception, however, as regards the felicity, for Mrs Liston, out of regard for the friend of her darling William, insisted that Big Otter should occupy the best bedroom on the ground floor. The result was eminently unsatisfactory, for Big Otter was not accustomed to best bedrooms. Eve conducted the Indian to his room. He cared nothing for his comfort, and was prepared humbly to do whatever he was bid. He silently followed her and looked round the room with open-mouthed wonder as she pointed to his bed and, with a pleasant nod, left him. Resting his gun in a corner--for he never parted with that weapon night or day--and laying his powder-horn and shot-pouch on the ground, he drew his tomahawk and scalping-knife, and was about to deposit them beside the horn, when his eye suddenly fell on a gigantic Indian crouching, as if on the point of springing on him. Like lightning he sprang erect. Then an expression of intense humility and shame covered his grave features on discovering that a large mirror had presented him with a full-length portrait of himself! A sort of pitiful smile curled his lip as he took off his hunting coat. Being now in his ordinary sleeping costume he approached the bed, but did not like the look of it. No wonder! Besides being obviously too short, it had white curtains with frills or flounces of some sort, with various tags and tassels around, and it did not look strong. He sat cautiously down on the side of it, however, and put one leg in. The sheets felt unpleasant to his naked foot, but not being particular, he shoved it in, and was slowly letting himself down on one elbow, when the bed creaked! This was enough. Big Otter was brave to rashness in facing known danger, but he was too wise to risk his body on the unknown! Drawing forth his leg he stood up again, and glanced round the room. There was a small dressing-table opposite the bed; beside it was the large glass which had given him such a surprise. Further on a washhand-stand with a towel-rack beside it, but there was no spot on which he could stretch his bulky frame save the middle of the floor. Calmly he lay down on that, having previously pulled off all the bedclothes in a heap and selected therefrom a single blanket. Pillowing his head on a footstool, he tried to sleep, but the effort was vain. There was a want of air--a dreadful silence, as if he had been buried alive--no tinkling of water, or rustling of leaves, or roar of cataract. It was insupportable. He got up and tried to open the door, but the handle was a mystery which he could not unriddle. There was a window behind the dressing-table. He examined that, overturning and extinguishing the candle in the act. But that was nothing. The stars gave enough of light. Fortunately the window was a simple cottage one, which opened inwards with a pull. He put on his coat and belt, resumed his arms, and, putting his long leg over the sill, once more stood on his native soil and breathed the pure air! Quietly gliding round the house, he found a clump of bushes with a footpath leading through it. There he laid him down, enveloped in one of Mrs Liston's best blankets, and there he was found next morning in tranquil slumber by our domestic when she went to milk the cows! Before the three weeks were over Peter Macnab almost paralysed Aunt Temple by a cool proposal that she should exchange the civilised settlements for the wilderness, and go back with him, as Mrs Macnab, to the Mountain Fort! The lady, recovering from her semi-paralytic affection, agreed to the suggestion, and thus Peter Macnab was, according to his own statement, "set up for life." Shall I dwell on the triple wedding? No. Why worry the indulgent reader, or irritate the irascible one, by recounting what is so universally understood. There were circumstances peculiar, no doubt to the special occasion. To Eve and myself, of course, it was the most important day of our lives--a day never to be forgotten; and for which we could never be too thankful, and my dear father pronounced it the happiest day of _his_ life; but I think he forgot himself a little when he said that! Then old Mrs Liston saw but one face the whole evening, and it was the face of Willie--she saw it by faith, through the medium of Eve's sweet countenance. But I must cut matters short. When all was over, Macnab said to his wife:-- "Now, my dear, we must be off at the end of one week. You see, I have just one year's furlough, and part of it is gone already. The rest of it, you and I must spend partly in the States, partly in England, and partly on the continent of Europe, so that we may return to the Great Nor'-west with our brains well stored with material for small talk during an eight or nine months' winter." Aunt Macnab had no objection. Accordingly, that day week he and she bade us all good-bye and left us. Big Otter was to go with them part of the way, and then diverge into the wilderness. He remained a few minutes behind the others to say farewell. "You will come and settle beside us at last, I hope," said Mrs Liston, squeezing the red-man's hand. The Indian stood gently stroking the arched neck of his magnificent horse in silence for a few moments. Then he said, in a low voice:-- "Big Otter's heart is with the pale-faces, but he cannot change the nature which has been given to him by the Great Master of Life. He cannot live with the pale-faces. He will dwell where his fathers have dwelt, and live as his fathers have lived, for he loves the great free wilderness. Yet in the memory of his heart the mother of Weeum will live, and Waboose and Muxbee, and the tall pale-face chief, who won the hearts of the red-men by his justice and his love. The dark-haired pale-face, too, will never be forgotten. Each year, as it goes and comes, Big Otter will come again to Sunny Creek about the time that the plovers whistle in the air. He will come and go, till his blood grows cold and his limbs are frail. After that he will meet you all, with Weeum, in the bright Land of Joy, where the Great Master of Life dwells for evermore. Farewell!" He vaulted on his steed at the last word, and, putting it to the gallop, returned to his beloved wilderness in the Great Nor'-west. THE END. 
28873	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 28873-h.htm or 28873-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/28873/28873-h/28873-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/28873/28873-h.zip) TRACK'S END Being the Narrative of Judson Pitcher's Strange Winter Spent There As Told by Himself and Edited by HAYDEN CARRUTH Including an Accurate Account of His Numerous Adventures, and the Facts Concerning His Several Surprising Escapes from Death Now First Printed in Full Illustrated by Clifford Carleton With a Correct Map of Track's End Drawn by the Author [Illustration: KAISER AND I FIGHTING THE TIMBER-WOLVES --see page 63] Harper & Brothers New York and London M - C - M - X - I Copyright, 1911. by Harper & Brothers Printed in the United States of America Published September, 1911 TO E. L. G. C. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. Something about my Home and Track's End: with how I leave the one and get acquainted with Pike at the other. 1 II. The rest of my second Night at Track's End, and part of another: with some Things which happen between. 12 III. A Fire and a Blizzard: with how a great many People go away from Track's End and how some others come. 22 IV. We prepare to fight the Robbers and I make a little Trip out to Bill Mountain's House: after I come back I show what a great Fool I can be. 32 V. Alone in Track's End I repent of my hasty Action: with what I do at the Headquarters House, and the whole Situation in a Nutshell. 43 VI. Some Account of what I do and think the first Day alone: with a Discovery by Kaiser at the End. 52 VII. I have a Fight and a Fright: after which I make some Plans for the Future and take up my Bed and move. 61 VIII. I begin my Letters to my Mother and start my Fortifications: then I very foolishly go away, meet with an Accident, and see Something which throws me into the utmost Terror. 69 IX. More of a strange Christmas: I make Kaiser useful in an odd Way, together with what I see from under the Depot Platform. 79 X. A Townful of Indians: with how I hide the Cow, and think of Something which I don't believe the Indians will like. 88 XI. I give the savage Indians a great Scare, and then gather up my scattered Family at the end of a queer Christmas Day. 97 XII. One of my Letters to my Mother, in which I tell of many Things and especially of a Mystery which greatly puzzles and alarms me. 105 XIII. Some Talk at Breakfast, and various other Family Affairs: with Notes on the Weather, and a sight of Something to the Northwest. 115 XIV. I have an exciting Hunt and get some Game, which I bring Home with a vast deal of Labor, only to lose Part of it in a startling Manner: together with a Dream and an Awakening. 128 XV. The mysterious Fire, and Something further about my wretched State of Terror: with an Account of my great System of Tunnels and famous Fire Stronghold. 141 XVI. Telling of how Pike and his Gang come and of what Kaiser and I do to get ready for them: together with the Way we meet them. 153 XVII. The Fight, and not much else: except a little Happening at the End which startles me greatly. 162 XVIII. After the Fight: also a true Account of the great Blizzard: with how I go to sleep in the Stronghold and am awakened before Morning. 171 XIX. I find out who my Visitor is: with Something about him, but with more about the Chinook which came out of the Northwest: together with what I do with the Powder, and how I again wake up suddenly. 185 XX. What the Outlaws do on their second Visit: with the awful Hours I pass through, and how I find myself at the End. 203 XXI. After the Explosion: some cheerful Talk with the Thieves, and a strange but welcome Message out of the Storm. 210 XXII. The last Chapter, but a good Deal in it: a free Lodging for the Night, with a little Speech by Mr. Clerkinwell: then, how Kaiser and I take a long Journey, and how we never go that Way again. 220 ILLUSTRATIONS KAISER AND I FIGHTING THE TIMBER-WOLVES _Frontispiece_ READING THE OUTLAWS' LETTER, DECEMBER SIXTEENTH 30 MY FAMILY AND I AT A MEAL, TRACK'S END 56 MAP OF TRACK'S END 64 THE BOIS CACHE INDIANS LOOTING THE TOWN ON CHRISTMAS DAY 91 MY MEETING WITH PIKE, TRACK'S END, FEBRUARY FIFTH 158 THE INDIAN GETTING MY RIFLE IN THE STRONGHOLD 183 PIKE HANDCUFFING ME IN THE DRUG STORE, MARCH NINETEENTH 205 MR. CLERKINWELL GIVING ME HIS WATCH AND CHAIN 229 NOTICE Should any reader of this History of my life at Track's End wish to write to me, to point out an error (if unhappily there shall prove to be errors), or to ask for further facts, or for any other reason, he or she may do so by addressing the letter in the care of my publishers, Messrs. Harper & Brothers, who have kindly agreed promptly to forward all such communications to me wheresoever I may chance to be at the time. I should add that my hardships during that Winter at Track's End did not cure me of my roving bent, though you might think the contrary should have been the case. Later, on several occasions, I adventured into wild parts, and had experiences no whit less remarkable than those at Track's End, notably when with the late Capt. Nathan Archway, master of the _Belle of Prairie du Chien_ packet, we descended into Frontenac Cave, and, there in the darkness (aided somewhat by Gil Dauphin), disputed possession of that subterranean region with no less a character than the notorious Isaac Liverpool, to the squeaking of a million bats. And I wish hereby to give notice that no one is to put into Print such accounts of that occurrence as I may have been heard to relate from time to time around camp-fires, on shipboard, and so forth, since I mean, with the kind help of Mr. Carruth, to publish forth the facts concerning it in another Book; and that before long. JUDSON PITCHER. LITTLE DRUM, FLAMINGO KEY, _July_, 1911. TRACKS END TRACK'S END CHAPTER I Something about my Home and Track's End: with how I leave the one and get acquainted with Pike at the other. When I left home to shift for myself I was eighteen years old, and, I suppose, no weakling; though it seems to me now that I was a mere boy. I liked school well enough, but rather preferred horses; and a pen seems to me a small thing for a grown man, which I am now, to be fooling around with, but I mean to tell (with a little help) of some experiences I had the first winter after I struck out for myself. I was brought up in Ohio, where my father was a country blacksmith and had a small farm. His name was William Pitcher, but, being well liked by all and a square man, everybody called him Old Bill Pitcher. I was named Judson, which had been my mother's name before she was married, so I was called Jud Pitcher; and when I was ten years old I knew every horse for a dozen miles around, and most of the dogs. It was September 16th, in the late eighteen-seventies, that I first clapped eyes on Track's End, in the Territory of Dakota. The name of the place has since been changed. I remember the date well, for on that day the great Sisseton prairie fire burned up the town of Lone Tree. I saw the smoke as our train lay at Siding No. 13 while the conductor and the other railroad men nailed down snake's-heads on the track. One had come up through the floor of the caboose and smashed the stove and half killed a passenger. Poor man, he had a game leg as long as I knew him, which was only natural, since when the rail burst through the floor it struck him fair. I was traveling free, as the friend of one of the brakemen whom I had got to know in St. Paul. He was a queer fellow, named Burrdock. The railroad company set great store by Burrdock on account of his dealings with some Sioux Indians. They had tried to ride on top of the cars of his train without paying fare, and he had thrown them all off, one by one, while the train was going. The fireman told me about it. Burrdock was taking me out to Track's End because he said it was a live town, and a good place for a boy to grow up in. He had first wanted me to join him in braking on the railroad, but I judged the work too hard for me. If I had known what I was coming to at Track's End I'd have stuck to the road. Perhaps I ought to say that I left home in June, not because I wasn't welcome to stay, but because I thought it was time I saw something of the world. Mother was sure I should be killed on the cars, but at last she gave her consent. I went to Galena, from there up the Mississippi on a packet to St. Paul, and then out to Dakota with Burrdock. The snake's-heads delayed us so that it was eleven o'clock at night before we reached Track's End. Ours was the only train that ran on the road then, and it came up Mondays and Thursdays, and went back Tuesdays and Fridays. It was a freight-train, with a caboose on the end for passengers, "and the snake's-heads," as the fireman said. A snake's-head on the old railroads was where a rail got loose from the fish-plate at one end and came up _over_ the wheel instead of staying down _under_ it. Track's End was a new town just built at the end of the railroad. The next town back toward the east was Lone Tree; but that day it burned up and was no more. It was about fifty miles from Track's End to Lone Tree, with three sidings between, and a water-tank at No. 14. After the fire the people all went to Lac-qui-Parle, sixty miles farther back; so that at the time of which I write there was nothing between Track's End and Lac-qui-Parle except sidings and the ashes of Lone Tree; but these soon blew away. There were no people living in the country at this time, and the reason the road had been built was to hold a grant of land made to the company by the government, which was a foolish thing for the government to do, since a road would have been built when needed, anyhow; but my experience has been that the government is always putting its foot in it. When I dropped off the train at Track's End I saw by the moonlight that the railroad property consisted of a small coal-shed, a turntable, a roundhouse with two locomotive stalls, a water-tank and windmill, and a rather long and narrow passenger and freight depot. The town lay a little apart, and I could not make out its size. There were a hundred or more men waiting for the train, and one of them took the two mail-sacks in a wheelbarrow and went away toward the lights of the houses. There were a lot of mules and wagons and scrapers and other tools of a gang of railroad graders near the station; also some tents in which the men lived; these men were waiting for the train with the others, and talked so loud and made such a disturbance that it drowned out all other noises. The train was left right on the track, and the engine put in the roundhouse, after which Burrdock took me over town to the hotel. It was called the Headquarters House, and the proprietor's name was Sours. After I got a cold supper he showed me to my room. The second story was divided into about twenty rooms, the partitions being lathed but not yet plastered. It made walls very easy to talk through, and, where the cracks happened to match, as they seemed to mostly, they weren't hard to look through. I thought it was a good deal like sleeping in a squirrel-cage. The railroad men that I had seen at the station had been working on an extension of the grade to the west, on which the rails were to be laid the next spring. They had pushed on ten miles, but, as the government had stopped making a fuss, the company had decided to do no more that season, and the train I came up on brought the paymaster with the money to pay the graders for their summer's work; so they all got drunk. There were some men from Billings in town, too. They were on their way east with a band of four hundred Montana ponies, which they had rounded up for the night just south of town. Two of them stayed to hold the drove, and the rest came into town, also to get drunk. They had good luck in doing this, and fought with the graders. I heard two or three shots soon after I went to bed, and thought of my mother. Some time late in the night I was awakened by a great rumpus in the hotel, and made out from what I heard through the laths that some men were looking for somebody. They were going from room to room, and soon came into mine, tearing down the sheet which was hung up for a door. They crowded in and came straight to the bed, and the leader, a big man with a crooked nose, seized me by the ear as if he were taking hold of a bootstrap. I sat up, and another poked a lantern in my face. "That's him," said one of them. "No, he was older," said another. "He looks like he _would_ steal a dog, anyhow," said the man with the lantern. "Bring him along, Pike." "No," said the man who had hold of my ear, "he ain't much more'n a boy--we're looking for grown men to-night." Then they went out, and I could feel my ear drawing back into place as if it were made of rubber. But it never got quite back, and has always been a game ear to this day, with a kind of a lop to it. Sours told me in the morning that they were looking for the man that stole their dog, though he said he didn't think they had ever had a dog. Pike, he said, had come out as a grader, but it had been a long time since he had done any work. I took a look around town after breakfast and found forty or fifty houses, most of them stores or other places of business, on one street running north and south. There were a few, but not many, houses scattered about beyond the street. Some of the buildings had canvas roofs, and there were a good many tents and covered wagons in which people lived. The whole town had been built since the railroad came through two months before. There was a low hill called Frenchman's Butte a quarter of a mile north of town. I climbed it to get a view of the country, but could see only about a dozen settlers' houses, also just built. The country was a vast level prairie except to the north, where there were a few small lakes, with a little timber around them, and some coteaux, or low hills, beyond. The grass was dried up and gray. I thought I could make out a low range of hills to the west, where I supposed the Missouri River was. On my way back to town a man told me that a big colony of settlers were expected to arrive soon, and that Track's End had been built partly on the strength of the business these people would bring. I never saw the colony. When I got back to the hotel Sours said to me: "Young man, don't you want a job?" I told him I should be glad of something to do. "The man that has been taking care of my barn has just gone on the train," continued Sours. "He got homesick for the States, and lit out and never said boo till half an hour before train-time. If you want the job I'll give you twenty-five dollars a month and your board." "I'll try it a month," I said; "but I'll probably be going back myself before winter." "That's it," exclaimed Sours. "Everybody's going back before winter. I guess there won't be nothing left here next winter but jack-rabbits and snowbirds." I had hoped for something better than working in a stable, but my money was so near gone that I did not think it a good time to stand around and act particular. Besides, I liked horses so much that the job rather pleased me, after all. Toward evening Sours came to me and said he wished I would spend the night in the barn and keep awake most of the time, as he was afraid it might be broken into by some of the graders. They were acting worse than ever. There was no town government, but a man named Allenham had some time before been elected city marshal at a mass-meeting. During the day he appointed some deputies to help him maintain order. At about ten o'clock I shut up the barn, put out my lantern, and sat down in a little room in one corner which was used for an office. The town was noisy, but nobody came near the barn, which was back of the hotel and out of sight from the street. Some time after midnight I heard low voices outside and crept to a small open window. I could make out the forms of some men under a shed back of a store across a narrow alley. Soon I heard two shots in the street, and then a man came running through the alley with another right after him. As the first passed, a man stepped out from under the shed. The man in pursuit stopped and said: "Now, I want Jim, and there's no use of you fellows trying to protect him." It was Allenham's voice. There was a report of a revolver so close that it made me wink. The man who had come from under the shed had fired pointblank at Allenham. By the flash I saw that the man was Pike. CHAPTER II The rest of my second Night at Track's End, and part of another: with some Things which happen between. I was too frightened at first to move, and stood at the window staring into the darkness like a fool. I heard the men scramble over a fence and run off. Then I ran out to where Allenham lay. He made no answer when I spoke to him. I went on and met two of the deputies coming into the alley. I told them what I had seen. "Wake up folks in the hotel," said one of the men; then they hurried along. I soon had everybody in the hotel down-stairs with my shouting. In a minute or two they brought in Allenham, and the doctor began to work over him. The whole town was soon on hand, and it was decided to descend on the graders' camp in force. Twenty or thirty men volunteered. One of the deputies named Dawson was selected as leader. "Are you certain you can pick out the man who fired the shot?" said Dawson to me. "Yes," I answered. "It was Pike." "If you just came, how do you happen to know Pike?" he asked. "He pulled me up last night by the ear and looked at me with a lantern," I said. "Well," replied the man, "we'll take you down and you can look at him with a lantern." They formed into a solid body, four abreast, with Dawson ahead holding me by the arm, as if he were afraid I would get away. To tell the truth, I should have been glad enough to have got out of the thing, but there seemed to be no chance of it. I was glad my mother could not know about me. We soon came up to the camp, and the men lined out and held their guns ready for use. Not a sound was to be heard except the loud snoring of the men in the nearest tent, which seemed to me almost _too_ loud. There was a dying camp-fire, and the stars were bright and twinkling in a deep-blue sky; but I didn't look at them much. "Come, you fellows, get up!" called Dawson. This brought no answer. "Come!" he called louder, "roust up there, every one of you. There's fifty of us, and we've got our boots on!" A man put his head sleepily out of a tent and wanted to know what was the trouble. Dawson repeated his commands. One of our men tossed some wood on the fire, and it blazed up and threw the long shadows of the tents out across the prairie. One by one the men came out, as if they were just roused from sleep. There was a great amount of loud talk and profanity, but at last they were all out. Pike was one of the last. Dawson made them stand up in a row. "Now, young man," said he to me, "pick out the man you saw fire the shot that killed Allenham." At the word killed Pike started and shut his jaws tightly together in the middle of an oath. I looked along the line, but saw that I could not be mistaken. Then I took a step forward, pointed to Pike, and said: "That's the man." He shot a look at me of the most deadly hatred; then he laughed; but it didn't sound to me like a good, cheerful laugh. "Come on," said Dawson to him. Then he ordered the others back into their tents, left half the men to guard them, and with the rest of our party went a little ways down the track to where an empty box-car was standing on the siding. "Get in there!" he said to Pike, and the man did it, and the door was locked. Three men were left to guard this queer jail, and the rest of us went back to the Headquarters House. Here we found that the doctor's report was that Allenham would probably pull through. The next morning a mass-meeting was held in the square beside the railroad station. After some talk, most of it pretty vigorous, it was decided to order all of the graders to leave town without delay, except Pike, who was to be kept in the car until the outcome of Allenham's wound was known. It wasn't necessary even for me to guess twice to hit on what would be the fate of Pike if Allenham should die. In two hours the graders left. They made a long line of covered wagons and filed away to the east beside the railroad track. They were pretty free with their threats, but that was all it amounted to. For a week Track's End was very quiet. Allenham kept on getting better, and by that time was out of danger. There was a good deal of talk about what ought to be done with Pike. A few wanted to hang him, notwithstanding that Allenham was alive. "When you get hold of a fellow like him," said one man, "you can't go far wrong if you hang him up high by the neck and then sort o' go off and forget him." Others proposed to let him go and warn him to leave the country. It happened on the day the question was being argued that the wind was blowing from the southwest as hard a gale as I ever saw. It swept up great clouds of dust and blew down all of the tents and endangered many of the buildings. In the afternoon we heard a shout from the direction of the railroad. We all ran out and met the guards. They pointed down the track to the car containing Pike rolling off before the wind. "How did it get away?" everybody asked. "Well," said one of the guards, "we don't just exactly know. We reckon the brake got off somehow. Mebby a dog run agin the car with his nose and started it, or something like that," and the man rolled up his eyes. There was a loud laugh at this, as everybody understood that the guards had loosened the brake and given the car a start, and they all saw that it was a good way to get rid of the man inside. Tom Carr, the station agent, said that, if the wind held, the car would not stop short of the grade beyond Siding No. 15. "My experience with the country," said Sours, "is that the wind always holds and don't do much else. It wouldn't surprise me if it carried him clean through to Chicago." I went back to the barn and sat down in the office. To tell the truth, I felt easier that Pike was gone. I well knew that he had no love for me. I sat a long time thinking over what had happened since I had come to Track's End. It seemed, as if things had crowded one another so much that I had scarcely had time to think at all. I little guessed all the time for thinking that I was going to have before I got away from the place. While I was sitting there on the bench an old gentleman came in and asked something about getting a team with which to drive into the country. There was a livery stable in town kept by a man named Munger and a partner whose name I have forgotten; but their horses were all out. The Headquarters barn was mainly for the teams of people who put up at the hotel, but Sours had two horses which we sometimes let folks have. After the old gentleman had finished his business he asked me my name, and then said: "Well, Judson, you did the right thing in pointing out that desperado the other night. I'm pleased to know you." My reply was that I couldn't very well have done otherwise than I did after what I saw. "But there's many that wouldn't have done it, just the same," answered the old gentleman. "Knowing the kind of a man he is, it was very brave of you. My name is Clerkinwell. I run the Bank of Track's End, opposite the Headquarters House. I hope to hear further good reports of you." He was a very courtly old gentleman, and waved his hand with a flourish as he went out. You may be sure I was tickled at getting such words of praise from no less a man than a banker. I hurried and took the team around to the bank, and had a good look at it. It was a small, square, two-story wooden building, like many of the others, with large glass windows in the front, through which I could see a counter, and behind it a big iron safe. I had given up sleeping in the house, with its squirrel-cage rooms, preferring the soft prairie hay of the barn. But when bedtime came this night Mr. Clerkinwell had not returned, so I sat up to wait for the team. He had told me that he might be late. It was past midnight when he drove up to the barn. "Good-evening, Judson," said he. "So you waited for me." "Yes, sir," I answered. "Do you know if Allenham or any one is on watch about town to-night?" "I think not, sir," I said. "I haven't seen nor heard anybody for over an hour." "Very careless, very careless," muttered the old gentleman. Then he went out, and in a moment I heard his footsteps as he went up the outside stairs to his rooms in the second story of his bank building. I put the horses in their stalls, and fed and watered them, and started up the ladder to the loft. What Mr. Clerkinwell had said was still running in my mind. I stopped and thought a moment, and concluded that I was not sleepy, and decided to take a turn about town. I left my lantern and went out to the one street. There was not a sound to be heard except the rush of the wind around the houses. The moon was almost down, and the buildings of the town and Frenchman's Butte made long shadows on the prairie. There was a dull spot of light on the sky to the southeast which I knew was the reflection of a prairie fire a long ways off; but there was a good, wide fire-brake a quarter of a mile out around the town, so there was no danger from that, even if it should come up. I went along down toward the railroad, walking in the middle of the street so as not to make any noise. The big windmill on the water-tank swung a little in the wind and creaked; and the last light from the moon gleamed on its tail and then was gone. I turned out across where the graders had had their camp. Here the wind was hissing through the dry grass sharp enough. I stood gaping at the stars with the wind blowing squarely in my face, and wondering how I ever came so far from home, when all at once I saw straight ahead of me a little blaze of fire. My first thought was that it was the camp-fire of some mover on the fire-brake. It blazed up higher, and lapped to the right and left. It was the grass that was afire. Through the flames I caught a glimpse of a man. A gust of wind beat down the blaze, and I saw the man, bent over and moving along with a great torch of grass in his hand, leaving a trail of fire. Then I saw that he was inside the fire-brake. In another moment I was running up the middle of the street yelling "Fire!" so that to this day it is a wonder to me that I did not burst both of my lungs. CHAPTER III A Fire and a Blizzard: with how a great many People go away from Track's End and how some others come. It was an even two hours' fight between the town of Track's End and the fire; and they came out about even--that is, most of the scattering dwelling-houses were burned, but the business part of the town was saved. There was no water to be had, nor time to plow a furrow, so we fought the fire mainly with brooms, shovels, old blankets, and such-like things with which we could pound it out. But it got up to the dwellings in spite of us. As soon as the danger seemed to be past, I said to Allenham, who had had charge of the fire brigade: "I saw a man set that fire out there. Don't you suppose we could find him?" "Pike, I'll bet a dollar!" exclaimed Allenham. "We'll try it, anyhow, whoever it is." He ordered everybody that could to get a horse, and soon we all rode off into the darkness. But though we were divided into small parties and searched all that night and half the next day, nothing came of it. I kept with Allenham, and as we came in he said: "There's no use looking for him any longer. If he didn't have a horse and ride away out of the country ahead of all of us, then he's down a badger-hole and intends to stay there till we quit looking. I'll wager he'll know better'n to show himself around Track's End again, anyhow." Toward night the train came in pushing Pike's box-car ahead of it. Burrdock, who had now been promoted to conductor, said he had bumped against it about six miles down the track. The little end door had been broken open from the inside with a coupling-pin, which Pike must have found in the car and kept concealed. With the window open it was no trick at all to crawl out, set the brake, and stop the car. Nobody doubted any longer that he was the one who had started the fire. I may as well pass over the next month without making much fuss about it here. Nothing happened except that folks kept going away. After the fire nearly all of those burned out left, and about the same time all of the settlers who had taken up claims in the neighborhood also went back east for the winter, some of them on the train, but most of them in white-topped covered wagons. There was almost no business in town, and if you wanted to get into a store you would generally first have to hunt up the owner and ask him to open it for you. I saw Mr. Clerkinwell occasionally. He always spoke kindly and wished me success. Then the great October blizzard came. Folks in that country still talk about the October blizzard, and well they may do so, because the like of it has never been known since. It came on the twenty-sixth day of October, and lasted three days. It was as bad as it ought to have been in January, and the people at Track's End, being new to the country, judged that the winter had come to stay, and were discouraged; and so most of the rest of them went away. It began to snow on the morning of the twenty-fifth, with an east and northeast wind. The snow came down all day in big flakes, and by evening it was a foot deep. It turned colder in the night, and the wind shifted to the northwest. In the morning it was blizzarding. The air was full of fine snow blown before the wind, and before noon you could not see across the street. Some of the smaller houses were almost drifted under. This kept up for three days. Of course the train could not get through, and the one telegraph wire went down and left the town like an island alone in the middle of the ocean. The next day after the blizzard stopped it grew warmer and the snow began to melt a little, but it was another four days before the train came. By the time it did come it seemed as if everybody in town was disgusted or frightened enough to leave. When the second train after the blizzard had gone back, there were but thirty-two persons, all told, at Track's End. Only one of these was a woman, and she it was that was the cause of making me a hotel-keeper on a small scale. The woman was Mrs. Sours, wife of my employer. One morning, after every one had left the breakfast-table except her husband and myself, she said to me: "Jud, couldn't you run the hotel this winter, now that there are only three or four boarders left, and them not important nor particular, only so they get enough to eat?" "I don't know, ma'am," I said. "I can run the barn, but I'm afraid I don't know much about a hotel." "Do you hear the boy say he can do it, Henry?" says she, turning to her husband. "Of course he can do it, and do it well, too. He always said his mother taught him how to cook. That means I'm a-going down on the train to-morrow, and not coming back to this wretched country till spring has melted off the snow and made it fit for a decent body to live in." "Well, all right," said Sours. "You may go; Jud and me are good for it." "Mercy sakes!" cried Mrs. Sours, "do you suppose I'm going to leave you here to be frozen to death, and starved to death, and killed by the wolves that we already hear howling every night, and murdered by Indians, and shot by Pike and that wretched band of horse-thieves that the Billings sheriffs who stopped here the other night was looking for? No, Henry; when I go I am going to take you with me." Sours tried to argue with her a little, but it did no sort of good, and the next day they both went off and I was left in charge of the hotel for the winter with three boarders--Tom Carr, the station agent and telegraph operator; Frank Valentine, the postmaster; and a Norwegian named Andrew, who was to take my place in the barn. Allenham had gone before the blizzard. Some others went on the same train with Mr. Sours and his wife. We were twenty-six, all told, that night. The weather remained bad, and the train was often late or did not come at all. On the last day of November there were an even fourteen of us left. On the morning of that day week Tom Carr came over from the station and brought word that he had just got a telegram from headquarters saying that for the rest of the winter the train would run to Track's End but once a week, coming up Wednesday and going back Thursday. "Well, that settles it with _me_," said Harvey Tucker. "I shall go back with it the first Thursday it goes." "Same with me," said a man named West. "I know when I've got enough, and I've got enough of Track's End." Mr. Clerkinwell, who happened to be present, laughed cheerfully. He was by far the oldest man left, but he always seemed the least discouraged. "Oh," he said to the others, "that's nothing. The train does us no good except to bring the mail, and it can bring it just as well once a week as twice. We were really pampered with that train coming to us twice a week," and he laughed again and went out. It was just another week and a day that poor Mr. Clerkinwell was taken sick. He had begun boarding at the hotel, and that night did not come to supper. I went over to his rooms to see what the trouble was. I found him on the bed in a high fever. His talk was rambling and flighty. It was a good deal about his daughter Florence, whom he had told me of before. Then he wandered to other matters. "It's locked, Judson, it's locked, and nobody knows the combination; and there aren't any burglars here," he said. I knew he was talking about the safe in the room below. We all did what we could for him, which was little enough. The doctor had gone away weeks before. He grew worse during the night. The train had come in that day, and I asked Burrdock if he did not think it would be best to send him away on it in the morning to his friends at St. Paul, where he could get proper care. Burrdock agreed to this plan. Toward morning the old gentleman fell asleep, and we covered him very carefully and carried him over to the train on his bed. He roused up a little in the car and seemed to realize where he was. "Take care of the bank, Judson, take good care of it," he said in a sort of a feeble way. "You must be banker as well as hotel-keeper now." I told him I would do the best I could, and he closed his eyes again. It was cold and blizzardy when the train left at nine o'clock. Tucker and West were not the only ones of our little colony who took the train; there were five others, making, with Mr. Clerkinwell, eight, and leaving us six, to wit: Tom Carr, the agent; Frank Valentine, the postmaster; Jim Stackhouse; Cy Baker; Andrew, the Norwegian, and myself, Judson Pitcher. After the train had gone away down the track in a cloud of white smoke, we held a mock mass-meeting around the depot stove, and elected Tom Carr mayor, Jim Stackhouse treasurer, and Andrew street commissioner, with instructions to "clear the streets of snow without delay so that the city's system of horse-cars may be operated to the advantage of our large and growing population." The Norwegian grinned and said: "Aye tank he be a pretty big yob to put all that snow away." [Illustration: READING THE OUTLAWS' LETTER, DECEMBER SIXTEENTH] In a little while the new street commissioner and I left the others at a game of cards and started out to go to the hotel. There was a strong northwest wind, and the fine snow was sifting along close to the ground. I noticed that the rails were already covered in front of the depot. The telegraph wire hummed dismally. We were plowing along against the wind when we heard a shout and looked up. Over by the old graders' camp there were three men on horseback, all bundled up in fur coats. One of them had a letter in his hand which he waved at us. "Let's see what's up," I said to Andrew, and we started over. At that the man stuck the letter in the box of a broken dump-cart, and then they all rode away to the west. When we came up to the cart I unfolded the letter and read: TO PROP. BANK OF TRACK'S END AND OTHER CITIZENS AND FOLKS: The Undersined being in need of a little Reddy Munny regrets that they have to ask you for $5,000. Leave it behind the bord nailed to the door of Bill Mountain's shack too mile northwest and there wunt be no trubble. If we don't get munny to buy fuel with we shall have to burn your town to keep warm. Maybe it will burn better now than it did last fall. So being peecibel ourselves, and knowing _how very peecibel_ you all are, it will be more plesent all around if you come down with the cash. No objextions to small bills. We know _how few there are of you_ but we don't think we have asked for too much. Yours Respecfully, D. PIKE, and numrous Frends. P.X. Thow somewhat short on reddy funs, We still no how to use our guns. This is poetry but we mean bizness. CHAPTER IV We prepare to fight the Robbers and I make a little Trip out to Bill Mountain's House: after I come back I show what a great Fool I can be. The next minute I was back in the depot reading this letter to the others. When I had finished they all looked pretty blank. At last Jim Stackhouse said: "Well, I'd like to know what we're going to do about it?" Tom Carr laughed. "If they come it will be the duty of the street commissioner to remove 'em for obstructing the car lines," he said. I don't think Andrew understood this joke, though the rest of us laughed, partly, I guess, to keep up our courage. "Well," went on Carr, "there's one thing sure--we can't send them five thousand dollars even if we wanted to; and we don't want to very much. I don't believe there is a hundred dollars in the whole town outside of Clerkinwell's safe." "What do you suppose there is in that?" asked Baker. "There might be a good deal and there might not be so much," said Carr. "I heard that he saved $20,000 out of the failure of his business back east and brought it out here to start new with. He certainly didn't take any of it away with him, nor use much of it here. He might have sent it back some time ago, but it hasn't gone through the express office if he did." "Nor it hasn't gone through the post-office," said Frank Valentine. "I guess it's in the safe yet, most of it." "Very likely," answered Carr. "But even if it is I don't believe Pike and those fellows would know enough to get it out unless they had all day to work at it; and what would we be doing all that time?" "Shooting," said Jim Stackhouse; but I thought he said it as if he would rather be doing anything else. I didn't know so much about men then as I do now, but I could see that Tom Carr was the only man in the lot that could be depended on in case of trouble. "Well, how are we fixed for things to shoot with?" went on Carr. "I've got a repeating rifle," answered Valentine. "So have you, and so has Cy. I guess Sours left some shooting-irons behind, too, didn't he, Jud?" "Yes; a Winchester and a shot-gun," I replied. "There are some other shot-guns in town, too," continued Valentine. "But I guess the best show for us is in Taggart's hardware store. When he went away he left the key with me, and there's a lot of stuff boxed up there." "Go and see about it and let's pull ourselves together and find out what we're doing," said Carr. "I think we can stand off those fellows all right if we keep our eyes open. I suppose they are up at the headquarters of the old Middleton gang on Cattail Creek, the other side of the Missouri. The men that went through here with that pony herd last fall were some of them, and the ponies were all stolen, so that Billings sheriff said. I guess Pike has joined them, and I should think they would suit each other pretty well." In a little while Valentine came back and said he had found a dozen repeating rifles, and that he thought there were more in some of the other boxes. There was also plenty of cartridges and some revolvers and shot-guns. "That fixes us all right for arms," said Carr. "Before night we must organize and get ready to defend the town against an attack if it should come; but I think the next thing is to send a letter out to Mountain's house and put it where they will look for the money, warning them to keep away if they don't want to be shot." "Yes," answered Valentine, "that will be best. Write 'em a letter and make it good and stiff." Tom went into the back room and soon came out with a letter which read as follows: TRACK'S END, _December_ 16. TO D. PIKE AND FELLOW-THIEVES,--You will never get one cent out of this town. If any of you come within range you will be shot on sight. We are well armed, and can carry out our share of this offer. COMMITTEE OF SAFETY. "I guess that will do," said Tom. "There isn't any poetry in it, but I reckon they'll understand it. Now, Jud, what do you say to taking it out and leaving it on Mountain's door?" "All right," I answered; "I'll do it." "Probably Jim had better go along with you," said Carr. "I don't think any of them are there, but you can take my field-glass and have a look at the place when you get out to Johnson's." We all went to dinner, and by the time Jim and I were ready to start the sky had clouded over and threatened snow. I said nothing, but slipped back into the hotel and filled my pockets with bread and cold meat. I thought it might come handy. It was so cold and the snow was so deep that we had decided to go on foot instead of horseback, but we found it slow work getting along. Where the crust held us we made good time, but most of the way we had to flounder along through soft drifts. At Johnson's we took a long look at Mountain's with the glass, but could see no signs of life. It began to snow soon after leaving here, and several times we lost sight of the place we were trying to reach, but we kept on and got there at last. The snow was coming down faster, and it seemed as if it were already growing dark. "It isn't going to be very safe trying to find our way back to-night," said Jim. "Let's see what the prospect for staying here is." We pushed open the door. It was a board shanty with only one room, and that half full of snow. But there was a sheet-iron hay stove in one end and a stack of hay outside. I told Jim of the food which I had brought. "Then we'll stay right here," he said. "It's ten to one that we miss the town if we try to go back to-night. Our tracks are filled in before this." We set to work with an old shovel and a piece of board and cleaned out the snow, and then we built a fire in the stove. We soon had the room fairly comfortable. The stove took twisted hay so fast that the work did more to keep us warm than the fire. We divided the food for supper, leaving half of it for breakfast. It made a pretty light meal, but we didn't complain. I wondered what we should do if the storm kept up the next day, and I suppose Jim thought of the same thing; but neither of us said anything about that. I sat up the first half of the night and fed the fire, while Jim slept on a big dry-goods box behind the stove, and he did as much for me during the last half. It was still snowing in the morning. We divided the food again, leaving half of it for dinner, which left a breakfast lighter than the supper had been. We were a good deal discouraged. But soon after noon it stopped snowing and began to lighten up. It was still blowing and drifting, but we thought we might as well be lost as to starve; so we left the letter behind the board on the door and started out. We got along better than we expected. The wind had shifted to the northwest, so it was at our backs. We passed Johnson's deserted house and finally came within sight of the town through the flying snow. We were not twenty rods from the station when suddenly Jim exclaimed: "Why, there's a train!" Sure enough, just beyond the station was an engine with a big snow-plow on it, with one freight-car and a passenger-car. A dozen men with shovels stood beside it stamping their feet and swinging their arms to keep from freezing. There were faces at the car-windows, and Burrdock and Tom Carr were walking up and down the depot platform. We came up to them looking pretty well astonished, I guess. "When I got to the Junction yesterday I got orders to take another train and come back here and get you folks," said Burrdock in answer to our looks. "Just got here after shoveling all night, and want to leave as soon as we can, before it gets to drifting any worse. This branch is to be abandoned for the winter and the station closed. Hurry up and get aboard!" Jim and I were both too astonished to speak. "Yes," said Tom Carr, "we were just starting after you when we saw you coming. We're going to take Sours's horses and the cow in the box-car. I just sent Andrew over after them--and the chickens, too, if he can catch them." I don't know how it was, but my face flushed up as hot as if it had been on fire. I felt the tears coming into my eyes, I was in that state of passion. "Tom," I said, "who was left in charge of Sours's things?" "Why--why, you were," answered Tom, almost as much astonished as I had been a moment before. "Who gave you authority to meddle with them?" I said. "Nobody. But I knew you wouldn't want to leave them here to starve, and I did it to save time." "They're not going to starve here," I said, getting better control of my voice. "Call Andrew back this minute. You've neither of you the right to touch a thing that's there." "But surely you're going with the rest of us?" said Tom. "No, I'm not," I answered. Tom turned and started toward the town. "Now, don't make a fool of yourself, young man," said Burrdock. "This here town is closed up for the winter. You won't see the train here again before next March." "The train won't see me, then, before next March," I said. "Jim, are you going with the rest of them?" "Well, I'm not the fellow to do much staying," he answered. I turned and started for the hotel; Burrdock muttered something which I didn't catch. I saw Andrew going toward the train, but without any of the animals. Tom came down the street and met me. He held out his hand and said: "Jud, I admire you. I'd stay with you if I could, but the company has ordered me to come, and I've got to go. But it's a crazy thing for you to do, and you'd better come along with us, after all." "No," I said, "I'm going to stay." (It was a foolish pride and stubbornness that made me say it; I wanted to go already.) "Well, good-by, Jud." "Good-by, Tom," I said. He walked away, then turned and said: "Now, Jud, for the last time: Will you come?" "No, I won't!" In another minute the train rolled away, with Tom standing on the back platform with his hand on the bell-rope ready to pull it if I signaled him to stop. But I didn't. I went on over to the Headquarters House. It was beginning to get dark; and the snow was falling again. The door was stuck fast, but I set my shoulder against it and pushed it open. The snow had blown in the crack and made a drift halfway across the floor. I put my hand on the stove. It was cold, and the fire was out. CHAPTER V Alone in Track's End I repent of my hasty Action: with what I do at the Headquarters House, and the whole Situation in a Nutshell. When I came to think of it afterward I thought it was odd, but the first thing that popped into my mind when I saw that the fire had gone out was that perhaps there were no matches left in the town. I ran to the match-safe so fast that I bumped my head against the wall. The safe was almost full, and then it struck me that there were probably matches in half the houses in town, and that I even had some in my pocket. I went over and peeped out of one corner of a window-pane where the wind had come in and kept back the frost. The snow was driving down the street like a whirling cloud of fog. I could hardly see the bank building opposite. An awful feeling like sinking came over me as I realized how matters stood; and the worst of it was that I had brought it upon myself. I rushed into the dining-room and looked out of a side window to see if the train might not be coming back; but there was only the whirlwind of snow. I went back in the office and threw myself on a lounge in one corner. If any one says that I lay there with my face in a corn-husk pillow and cried as if I were a girl, I'm not going to dispute him. If any girl thinks that she can cry harder than I did, I'd like to see her try it. But it, or something, made me feel better, and after a while I could think a little. But I could not get over knowing that it was all my own fault, and that I might be riding away on the train with friends, and with people to see and talk to. I realized that it was all my quick temper and stubbornness which was to blame, and remembered how my mother had told me that it would get me into trouble some day. "If Tom hadn't come at me so suddenly," I said out loud, with my face still in the husk pillow, "I'd have agreed to it. Dear old Tom, he meant all right, and I was a fool!" When at last I sat up I found it was so dark that I could hardly see. The wind was roaring outside, and I could feel fine snow against my face from some crack. I was stiff and cold, and just remembered that I had not had above a quarter of a meal all day. I thought I heard a scratching at the door, and opened it. Something rushed in and almost upset me; then I knew it was Kaiser, Sours's dog. I was never so glad to see anything before. I dropped down on my knees and put my arms around his neck and hugged him, and for all I know I may have kissed him. I guess I again acted worse than a girl. I remember now that I _did_ kiss the dog. I got up at last and felt around till I found the match-safe, and lit the wall lamp over the desk. I thought it made it so I could actually see the cold. Kaiser seemed warm in his thick coat of black hair, and wagged his tail like a good fellow. I don't know why it was, but I thought I had never wanted to talk so badly before. "We're glad they're gone, aren't we, Kaiser?" I said to him; then I thought that sounded foolish, so I didn't say anything more, but set to work to build the fire. When I went to the shed at the back door for the kindling-wood I found another friend, this time our cat, a big black-and-white one. I don't think I was quite so foolish about her as I had been about the dog, but I was glad to see her. After the fire was started I got a shovel and cleared the snow out of the office. Outside it was already banked halfway up the door, and the storm was still raging. As I turned from putting some coal on the fire I happened to see the hotel register lying on the desk. Another foolish notion seized me, and I took up the pen and as well as I could with my stiff fingers headed a page "December 17th," and below registered myself, "Judson Pitcher, Track's End, Dakota Territory." I think the excitement must have turned my brain, because I seemed to be doing silly things all the time. But I managed to stop my foolishness long enough to get myself some supper; which I guess was what I needed, because I acted more sensibly afterward. Everything in the house was frozen, but I thawed out some meat, and ate some bread without its being thawed, and boiled a couple of eggs, and had a meal which tasted as good as any I ever ate, and with enough left for Kaiser and the cat, who was named Pawsy, though I can't imagine where such a name came from. The office was by this time quite comfortable. I had brought a small table in from the kitchen and eaten my supper close to the stove. Though it was pitch-dark outside, it was not yet six o'clock, and as I felt calmer than I had before, I sat down in front of the fire to consider how matters stood. I think I realized what I was in for better than before, but I no longer felt like crying. If I remember aright, it was now that I gave the first thought to Pike and his gang. "Well," I said, speaking out loud, just as if there was somebody to hear me besides a cat and a dog, "I guess Pike won't do much as long as this storm lasts. But after that, I don't know. Maybe I can hide if they come." I thought a minute more and then said: "No, I won't do that--I'll fight, if I have a chance. They won't have any way of knowing that I am here alone, and if I can see them first I'll be all right." That is what I _said_; but I remember that I felt pretty doubtful about it all. I think I must have been trying not to let Kaiser know that I was afraid. After a while I fell to thinking of home and of my mother. When I thought of how she would worry when she didn't hear from me, it gave me an idea of leaving Track's End and trying to make my way east to civilization. It seemed to me that with a few days of good weather I ought to be able to get through if no more snow came; though I had no idea how far I might have to go, since for all I knew Lac-qui-Parle might also be abandoned; and, even if it were not, I knew that it had no trains and that I would probably have to travel overland to the other side of the Minnesota line before I could reach a settlement with any connection with the outside world. I was before long very gloomy thinking about my troubles; then I happened to remember the horses and cow about which I had tried to quarrel with poor Tom Carr, and I put on my overcoat and went out to look after them. I thought the wind would carry me away, and I had to shovel ten minutes by the light of a lantern half blown out before I could get the door open. But when I did get in I found them glad to see me; and I was glad to see them. And while shoveling away the snow I had shoveled away my fit of the blues; and from that day to this I've taken notice that the best way to get rid of trouble and feelings you don't want is to go to work lively; which is a first-class thing to remember, and I throw it in here for good measure. The cow mooed at me, and even the horses whinnied a little, though they were not what you might call children's pets, being broncos, and more apt to take a kick at you than to try to throw you a kiss. The chickens had gone to roost and didn't have much to say. They refused to come down for their supper, but the horses and the cow were very glad to get theirs. Then I milked the cow, told them all good-night, made everything about the barn as snug as I could, and shouldered my way through the storm to the house. I found both Kaiser and Pawsy wide awake and waiting for me. I don't think they liked the house being so deserted and lonesome. I gave them both some of the warm milk, and took a share of it myself. I was beginning to realize that I was tired by this time, and sat down in a big chair before the fire. The stove was a round, cast-iron one, shaped a good deal like a decanter. It burned soft coal, and, as it was going well, and was warm enough in the room, I threw the door open, making it seem very like a fireplace. I was over the excitement of the day, and fell to looking at the situation again. This is the way I made it out, to wit: First, that I was alone, except for the animals, and in charge of a whole town; that it was very improbable (as the blizzard still held) that any train would or could get through very soon--perhaps not before spring. Second, that the animals consisted of one large, shaggy, black dog (breed uncertain) named Kaiser; one large black-and-white cat named Pawsy; one cow named Blossom; two bronco horses, one named Dick, the other Ned; twenty-two hens and one rooster, without any particular names except that I called one of the hens Crazy Jane. Third, that there was enough hay in the barn for the horses and cow, though other feed would be short unless I could find more about town somewhere; that I ought to be able to scare up enough food for myself by going through the stores, though some kinds might be short; that there was plenty of coal. Fourth, that there were guns of all kinds, and probably a good supply of ammunition. Fifth, that there might be $20,000 in a safe across the street. Sixth, that there was a gang of cutthroats somewhere about who wanted the money, and would come after it the minute they knew I was alone; and might come sooner. By this time I was sleepy; so I covered up Kaiser on one end of the lounge, the cat on the other, put out the lamp, and went up-stairs and popped into bed. CHAPTER VI Some Account of what I do and think the first Day alone: with a Discovery by Kaiser at the End. I woke up with a start in the morning, thinking that it was all a bad dream; then I knew it wasn't, and wished it were; and next I was very glad to hear the blizzard still roaring as hard as ever, which may seem odd to you. But the fact is that I had thought a long time after I went to bed and had decided on two things--first, that I was safe from the robbers as long as the storm lasted, and, second and more important, that I had a plan which might serve to keep them away for a while at least after the storm stopped. I got up and looked out of the window, but I might as well have looked into a haystack for all I saw. I could not even see the houses on the other side of the street. I went down, said good-morning to the cat and dog, and started the fire. It was colder; I peeped at the thermometer through the window, and saw it was a dozen degrees below zero. I found the stock at the barn all right and cheerful; the chickens were down making breakfast of what I had given them for supper, all except Crazy Jane, who had finished eating and was trying to get out of the barn, maybe thinking that she could make a nest in a snowbank, or could scratch for angleworms. After I had finished the barn-work I went in and got breakfast. I started a fire in the kitchen and got a better meal than I had the night before. I went down cellar after some potatoes, and noticed that there were a plenty of them; with squashes, pumpkins, and other vegetables; all of which I knew before, but I observed that such things looked different to me now. I couldn't count much on the pumpkins because I didn't know how to make pumpkin pie, but I knew that the cow would be very glad to get them without their being made into pie. "It would be funny," I said, out loud, as if there were somebody to hear, "if cows should find out some day that pumpkins are better in pies and farmers should have to fix them that way before they would eat them." I found that I felt much better about the situation than I had the night before, though, of course, I still wished with all my heart that I was out of it all, and thought every minute what a fool I was to have acted the way I did. But there were so many things to do that I did not have time to worry very much, which I believe was all that kept me from going crazy. After breakfast I decided that the first thing I had best do was to look up the gun question. I found Sours's rifle in a closet. It was not loaded, but there was a box of cartridges on a shelf, and I wiped out the barrel and filled the magazine. It was fifteen-shot and forty-five caliber, and seemed like a good gun. I stood it under the counter in the office and out of sight behind an old coat. In the drawer of the desk was a revolver. It was a thirty-eight caliber, and pretty big to carry, but I thought it might be handy to have, so I stuffed it in my pocket. Taggart's hardware store was two doors toward the railroad from the hotel, but the sidewalk was so covered with snow, and the wind swept down the street with such fury, that it seemed next to impossible to get there. But I was anxious to see about the weapons, so I went out the back door and crept along close to the rear of the buildings till I reached it. The door was locked, but I could see through a window that a box had been recently broken open; but, as there were no guns in sight, I concluded that the men had probably carried them over to the depot. I tried to see this through the driving snow, but could not, so I did not dare to start out to find it, knowing how easy it is to become confused and lost in such a storm. As I stood back of the store I thought once that I heard the whistle of a locomotive; then I knew of course it was only the wind. "It'll be a long time before you hear any such music as that," I said to myself. There was nothing which would have sounded quite so good to me. I was glad to get back to the house, where I could draw a breath of air not full of powdered snow. I spent some time calking up cracks around the windows, where the snow blew in. While I was doing this it suddenly flashed into my mind, what if I should lose track of the days of the month and week? I thought I would write down every day, and got a piece of paper to begin on, when I noticed a calendar behind the desk. I took the pen and scratched off "December 17," which was gone, and which was the beginning of my life alone in Track's End; and the first thing every morning after that while I stayed I marked off the day before; and so I never lost my reckoning. Though, indeed, I was soon to wake up in another and worse place than Track's End; but of this I will tell later. I had very foolishly forgotten to wind the clock the night before, and it had stopped, and I had no watch by which to set it; but I started it, and trusted to find the clock at the depot still going, as it was an eight-day one. [Illustration: MY FAMILY AND I AT A MEAL, TRACK'S END] I soon found myself hungry, and took it for granted that it was dinner-time. The meals seemed pretty lonesome, because I had been used to having a great deal of fun with Tom Carr and the others at such times, much of it about my poor cooking. Kaiser and Pawsy appeared willing to do what they could to make it pleasant; and this time I put a chair at one end of the little table, and the cat jumped up in it and began to purr like a young tiger, while the dog sat on the floor at the other end and pounded the floor with his tail like any drummer might beat his drum. I also began to get them into the bad practice of eating at the same time I did; but I had to have some company. It must have been two hours after dinner, and I was moving my bed down into a little room between the office and kitchen, when I first saw that the fury of the wind was beginning to lessen. The sky began to lighten up, and from the front door I could soon catch glimpses of the railroad windmill. I saw that I must start the plan I had thought of the night before for keeping off the Pike gang without any delay. My idea was that I must not let them know that I was alone, and if possible make them think that there were still a good many people in town. I doubted if they had known the morning they left the letter that we were then reduced to six. I could not see how they should know it, and I felt sure that if they had known it they would have made an attack upon the bank. My plan, then, was to build and keep up fires in several other houses, so that if they came in sight they would see the smoke and think that there was still a good-sized population. I went first across the street to the bank building. The lower part of it was locked, but I went up the outside stairs and found everything in Mr. Clerkinwell's rooms as we had left it. There were also inside stairs, and I went down and soon had a good fire going in the lower room, and as I came out I was pleased to see that it made a large smoke. I next went to the north end of the street, where stood a building which had been a harness shop. It was locked, but I could see a stove inside; so I broke a back window, reached in with a stick, and shot back the bolt of the rear door, and soon had a good smoky fire here, too. I decided that one more would do for that day, and thought the best place for that would be in the depot. The wind had now pretty well abated, and the snow was only streaming along close to the ground. The depot was locked, but again I got in by breaking a window. There were the guns as I expected--five new Winchesters like Sours's. There were also a lot of cartridges, and three large six-shooters, with belts and holsters. It was half-past three by the clock, which was still going. I clicked at the telegraph instrument, but it was silent. I remembered that Tom had told me that the line had gone down beyond Siding No. 15, which was the first one east from Track's End. Everything made me think of Tom, and I looked away along the line of telegraph-poles where I knew the track was, down under the snow; but I could see no train coming to take me out of the horrible place. I soon had another fire going. After that I hid two of the rifles in the back room and carried the others over to the hotel. I climbed to the top of the windmill tower and took a look at Mountain's house with the field-glass, but could see nothing. I walked around town and looked in each of the houses with an odd sort of feeling, as if I half owned them. Kaiser went with me, and was very glad to get out. It was just after sundown when I got back to the door of the hotel. Up the street in front of the harness shop I saw a jack-rabbit sitting up and looking at me. Kaiser saw him, too, and started after him, though the dog ought to have known that it was like chasing a streak of lightning. I stood with my hand on the door-knob watching the rabbit leave the dog behind, when suddenly I saw Kaiser stop as another dog came around Frenchman's Butte. They met, there was a little tussle, which made the snow fly; then I saw Kaiser coming back on a faster run than he had gone out on, with the other dog close behind. "That's a brave dog I've got!" I exclaimed. I saw some other dogs come around the Butte, but I didn't look at them much, I was so disgusted at seeing Kaiser making such a cowardly run. On he came like a whirlwind. I opened the door and stepped in. He bolted in between my legs and half knocked me over. I slammed the door shut against the other dog's nose. The other dog, I saw, was a wolf. CHAPTER VII I have a Fight and a Fright: after which I make some Plans for the Future and take up my Bed and move. I don't know if the door really struck the wolf's nose or not, when I slammed it shut, but it could not have lacked much of it. Poor Kaiser rushed around the stove, faced the window, and began to bark so excitedly that his voice trembled and sounded differently than I had ever heard it before. I must have been a little excited myself, as I stopped to bolt the door, just as if the wolf could turn the knob and walk in. When I stepped back I met the wolf face to face gazing in the window, with his eyes flaming and mouth a little open. He was gaunt and hungry-looking. The rest of the pack were just coming up, howling as loud as they could. I ran to the desk and got the rifle; then I dropped on one knee and fired across the room straight at the wolf's throat. He fell back in the snow dead; and, of course, there was only a little round hole in the window-pane. Everything would have been all right if it had not been for a mean spirit of revenge in Kaiser, for no sooner did he see his enemy fall back lifeless than with one jump he smashed through the window and fell upon him savagely. He had not seen the rest of the pack, but the next second half a dozen of them pounced on him. I dared not fire again for fear of hitting him, so I dropped my gun, seized an axe which I had used to split kindling-wood, and ran forward. There was a cloud of snow outside, and then the dog tumbled back through the window with one of the wolves, and they rolled over and over together on the floor. I got to the window just as a second wolf started to come through the broken pane. I struck him full on the head with the axe, and he sank down dead, half outside and half inside. The others that pressed behind stopped as they saw his fate and stood watching the struggle on the floor through the window. Kaiser was making a good fight, but the wolf was too much for him, and soon the dog was on his back with the wolf's jaws at his throat. This was more than I could stand, and I turned and struck at the animal with my axe. I missed him, but he let go his hold, snapped at the axe, and when I started to strike again he turned and jumped through the window over his dead companion and joined the howling pack on the snow-drift in front of the house. I seized the gun again and rested it across the dead wolf, firing full at the impudent rascal who had come in and made Kaiser so much trouble. It was a good shot, and the wolf went down in the snow. I pumped up another cartridge, but the wolves saw that they were beaten, and the whole pack turned tail and ran off as fast as their legs could carry them. I took two more shots, but missed both. The wolves went around Frenchman's Butte, never once stopping their howling. As soon as they were out of sight I had a look at Kaiser. I found him all blood from a wound in his neck, and one of his fore legs was so badly crippled that the poor beast could not bear his weight on it. I got some warm water and washed him off and bound up his throat. When I was done I heard a strange yowl, and, looking about, spied Pawsy clinging on top of the casing of the door which led into the dining-room, with her tail as big as a bed-bolster. I suppose she had gone up early in the wolf-fight, not liking such proceedings. She was still in the greatest state of fright, and spat and scratched at me as I took her down. I next swept up the dog and wolf fur and cleaned the floor, and after I had got the place set to rights nailed a board over the broken window and carried the three dead wolves into the kitchen, where, after supper, I skinned them, hoping that some day their hides would go into the making of a fur overcoat for me; something which I needed. [Illustration: MAP OF TRACK'S END] I don't know if it was the excitement of the fight, or the awful stillness of the night, or what it was, but after I had finished my work and sat down in the office to rest I fell into the utmost terror. The awful lonesomeness pressed down upon me like a weight. I started at the least sound; dangers I had never thought of before, such as sickness and the like, popped into my mind clear as day, and, in short, I was half dead from sheer fright. There was not a breath of wind outside, or a sound, except once in a while a sharp crack of some building as the frost warped a clapboard or sprung out a nail; and at each crack I started as if I had been struck. The moon was shining brightly, but it was much colder; the thermometer already marked twenty degrees below zero. Suddenly there came, clear and sharp, the savage howling of a pack of wolves; it seemed at the very door. I jumped out of my chair, I was so startled, and stood, I think, a most disgraceful picture of a coward. Kaiser rose up on his three sound legs and began to growl. At last I got courage to go to the window and peep out, with my teeth fairly chattering. I could see them up the street, all in a bunch, and offering a fine shot; but I was too frightened to shoot. After a while they went off, and it was still again. I wondered which was worse, their savage wailing or the awful stillness which made the ticking of the clock seem like the blows of a hammer. I wished that there might come another blizzard. But at last I got so I could walk the floor; and as I went back and forth I managed to look at things a little more calmly. The first thing I decided on was that I must no longer, in good weather at least, sleep in the hotel. It was easy to see, if the robbers came in the night and found nobody in the other houses, that they would come straight to the hotel. I made up my mind to take my bed to some empty house where they would be little likely to look for any one, or where they would not be apt to look until after I had had warning of their coming. Another thing which I decided on was that I must keep up two or three more fires, and get up early every morning to start them. I saw, too, that I ought to distribute the Winchesters more, and board up the windows of the bank, and perhaps some of the other buildings, leaving loopholes out of which to shoot. Still another point which I thought of was this: Suppose the whole town should be burned? I wondered if I could not find or make some place where I would be safe and would not have to expose myself to the robbers if they stayed while the fire burned, as they probably would. I thought of the cellars, but it did not seem that I could make one of them do in any way. My fright was, after all, a good thing, because it made me think of all possible dangers, and consequently, as it seemed, ways to meet them. It was at this time that the idea of a tunnel under the snow across the street from the hotel to the bank occurred to me; but I was not sure about this. Still, some way to cross the street without being seen kept running in my mind. In short, I walked and thought myself into a much better state of mind, and, though I still started at every sound, I was no longer too frightened to control myself. When it came bedtime I decided to follow out my plan for sleeping away from the hotel without delay. There was an empty store building to the north of the hotel. It was new, and had never been occupied. I had often noticed that one of the second-story windows on the side was directly opposite one in the hotel, and not over four feet away. I carried up the ironing-board from the kitchen, opened the hotel window, put the board over for a bridge, stepped across and entered the vacant building. I thought I had never seen a place quite so cold before; but I carried over the mattress from my bed, together with several blankets, and placed them in a small back room in the second story. The doors and windows of the first story were all nailed and boarded up, and it seemed about the last place that you would expect to find any one sleeping. I left the dog and cat in the hotel, took one of the rifles with me, and pulled in my drawbridge. I almost dropped it as I did so, for at that instant the wolves set up another unearthly howling. I got into bed as quick as I could. They went the length of the street with their horrible noise; and then I heard them scratching at the doors and windows of the barn. I could have shot them easily in the bright moonlight; but I remember that I didn't do so. CHAPTER VIII I begin my Letters to my Mother and start my Fortifications: then I very foolishly go away, meet with an Accident, and see Something which throws me into the utmost Terror. The next day, the nineteenth of December, was Sunday. I had been left alone (or, rather, let me say the truth, I had like a fool refused to go) on Friday, which seems in this case to have been unlucky for me, however it may ordinarily be. I woke up early, half cramped with the weight of the bed-clothes, I had piled on so many; but I was none too warm, either. I put out my drawbridge and got back to the hotel and started the fire. Outside the thermometer stood close to thirty-five degrees below zero, but the sun was rising bright and dazzling into a clear, blue sky. Kaiser's leg was no better, and Pawsy was still nervous and kept looking at the windows as if she expected wolves to bolt in head-first; and I did not blame her much. It seemed to me that the wolves had howled most of the night. I only wished that the timber beyond Frenchman's Butte and the coteaux and the Chain of Lakes were a hundred miles away, for without them there would have been no wolves, or nothing but little prairie wolves or coyotes, which, of course, don't amount to much. As soon as my own fire was started I went about town and got the others going; this I called "bringing the town to life." As I stood at the depot and watched the long columns of smoke from the chimneys it scarcely seemed that I was the only inhabitant of the town. After I had had breakfast and done up the work at the barn, I sat down in the office and was glad enough that it was Sunday. I suddenly thought of a way to spend the day, and in ten minutes I was at something which I did every Sunday while I stayed at Track's End. This was to write a letter to my mother, stamp and direct it, and drop it in the slot of the post-office door. Of course it would not go very soon, but if nothing happened it would go some time; and, I thought, if I am killed or die in this dreadful place, the letters may be the only record she will ever have of my life here. I accordingly set to work and wrote her a long letter, telling her fully everything that had happened so far, but without much of my fears for the future. I told her I was sorry that I had got myself into such a scrape, but that, now being in, I meant to go through it the best I could. The next morning, Monday, I began work on my fortifications, by which name I included everything that would help to keep off invaders. I started two more fires, one in Townsend's store, at the south end of the street, and the other in Joyce's store, at the north end of town and nearly opposite the harness shop. I made another visit to Taggart's, and found some barrels of kerosene, which I needed, and more ammunition. Still another thing was a number of door-keys, so that I made up a string of them with which I could unlock almost every door in town. In Joyce's, besides groceries and such things, I found a buffalo overcoat, which I took the liberty of borrowing for the winter. It was so large for me that it almost touched the ground, but it was precisely what I needed, and, I think, once saved my life; and that before long. I kept at the fortification-work for four days pretty steadily, though I did not use the best judgment in picking out what to do first. I was fascinated, boy-like, with the tunnel idea, when, I think, with the knowledge I then had, it would have been wiser to have paid more attention to some other things; but, as luck would have it, it all came out right in the end. I boarded up a few of the windows, but not many, and did nothing whatever at providing a secret retreat in case of fire, though I had a plan in mind which I thought was good. Worst of all, I left the Winchesters about here and there without any particular attempt at hiding them. But I kept at the tunnel hammer and tongs. There were two front windows in the hotel office. At one of these the snow came only a little above the sill, which was the one where the wolf had come in; but the other was piled nearly to the top. It was even higher against the bank front opposite, and at no place in the street between was it less than four feet deep. Both buildings stood almost flat on the ground. I took out the lower sash of the window in the hotel and began work. I made the tunnel something over two feet wide and about four high, except where the drift was no more than this, where I did not think it safe to have the tunnel over three feet high. The snow was packed remarkably hard, and, as it all had to be carried out through the office in a basket and emptied in the street, it was slow work. But at last, on Thursday evening, it was done, and Kaiser and I passed through it; but nothing could induce the cat to come nearer than the window. I was very proud of my work, and went through the tunnel twenty times with no object whatever. The next morning I ought to have gone at other fortification-work, but instead I thought up the foolish notion that I ought to go out to Bill Mountain's to see if Pike had got our letter and had left any in reply. It was Friday, the day before Christmas, and I thought that the holiday would be more satisfactory if I knew about this; though, to tell the truth, I had not worried much about the gang's coming since I had been so taken up with the tunnel. I had been so careless that I might have been surprised twenty times a day. It was a pleasant morning, and not very cold. Andrew had left behind a pair of skees, or Norwegian snow-shoes--light, thin strips of wood, four inches wide and eight or ten feet long--and, though I had never been on them but once or twice, I determined to use them in going. I fixed the fires well, made everything snug about town, gave the stock in the barn some extra feed, put on my big overcoat, with a luncheon in one pocket and Sours's revolver in the other, and started. Kaiser's leg was still a little stiff, but I let him go along. I think I fell down three times before I got out of town; it was as many as this at least; and outside of town, there being more room, I fell oftener. But I soon began to improve and get along better. I decided to follow the railroad grade west, as it was most of the way higher than the prairie, and the snow on it was smoother. When I got opposite Mountain's I found the grade some ten or twelve feet above the prairie, but it looked a very easy matter to slide down on the skees. I had seen Andrew go down the steep side of Frenchman's Butte. I accordingly slid, went wrong, fell, turned my ankle, and found myself on the hard snow at the bottom unable to stand on my feet. I lay still some time thinking that perhaps my ankle might get better; but it got worse. It was still almost half a mile to Mountain's, but it was over two miles back to town. I felt that I might be able to crawl the half-mile, so I started, with the skees on my back. I hope I may never again have to do anything so slow and painful. Kaiser was prodigiously excited, and jumped around me and barked and said as plainly as words that he would like to help if he could. But, though I thought a hundred times that I should never reach there, I kept burrowing and floundering along and did accomplish it at last. It was far past noon. The sky had clouded over. I saw a new letter behind the board, but could not rise up to get it. I pushed open the door, crawled to the heap of hay by the stove, and lay on it, more miserable, it seemed, than ever before. I scarcely stirred till I noticed that it was beginning to get dark. Then I crept to the door and looked out; the snow was falling fast and in big flakes. I shut the door and crawled back to the hay. There seemed to be nothing to do. I knew I could not keep up a hay fire, even if I could start one. Besides, I had a sudden fear that some of the Pike gang might visit the shanty to look for an answer to their letter, and I thought if I simply lay still I might escape, even if they did come. I ate part of my luncheon, and gave Kaiser part. Then I drew my big overcoat around me as best I could, made the dog lie close up to me on the hay, and tried to sleep. My ankle pained me a good deal, and the bed was not comfortable. I thought as I lay there that my mother and father and all the folks at home must then be at the church for the Christmas-tree; and I could see the lights, and the bright toys on the tree, and all the boys and girls I knew getting their presents and laughing and talking; and the singing and the music of the organ came to me almost as if I had been there. Then I thought of how, if I were home, later I should hang up my stocking and find other gifts in it in the morning, and of what a pleasant time Christmas was at home. Every few minutes a sharp twinge of pain in my ankle would bring me back to my deplorable condition there in that deserted shack sunk in the frozen snow, and I would be half ready to cry; but, with all my thinking of both good and bad, I did at last get to sleep. Once, some time in the night, I woke up with a jump at a strange, unearthly, whooping noise which seemed to be in the room itself, but at last I made it out to be an owl to-whooing on the roof. Again I heard wolves, very distant, and twenty times in imagination there sounded in my ears the tramp of Pike's horses. When morning came I crawled to the door again. There were six inches of soft, new snow, but the sun was rising clear, and there were no signs of a blizzard. I got back to the hay and for a long time rubbed my ankle. I thought it was a little better. I ate the rest of the food and called myself names for ever having left the town. The fires, I knew, were out, and everything invited an attack of the robbers, while I lay crippled in a cold shack two miles away, on the road along which they would come and go. I had been in no greater terror at any time since my troubles began than I was now on this Christmas morning. Perhaps it was nine o'clock when I noticed that Kaiser was acting very peculiarly. He stood in the middle of the room with his head lowered and a scowl on his face. Then I saw the hair on his back slowly begin to rise; next he growled. I told him to hush, and waited. I could hear nothing, but I knew there must be good cause for his actions. At last I could stand it no longer. I dared not open the door, but I seized one corner of the dry-goods box, drew myself up, and hobbled to the window, regardless of the pain. Going straight for the town, a quarter of a mile away, were a dozen men on horseback. I could see by their trail that they had passed within fifty yards of where I was. CHAPTER IX More of a strange Christmas: I make Kaiser useful in an odd Way, together with what I see from under the Depot Platform. I think Kaiser was the best dog that ever lived. When I looked out of the window, what with seeing the men and with the pain which shot through my leg from my ankle, I sank down on the floor in a kind of faint. How long I lay there I know not, but when I came to Kaiser was standing over me licking my face. When he saw me open my eyes and move he uttered a sort of a whine, half like a cry and half like a little laugh, and began wagging his tail. I put my arms around his neck and drew myself up so that I was sitting on the floor. At this he began to bound about and bark as if he would say, "Cheer up, Jud; this is bad luck, but we will get through yet!" The pain in my ankle was half killing me, and suddenly it drove me desperate. I seized my foot in my hands, drew it up into my lap, and gave it a wrench that was like to break it off. I felt something crack inside, and half the pain stopped. "I've fixed it!" I cried to Kaiser, and tried to get up, thinking I could walk; but I went down in a heap, and saw that, though it was better, I was still far from walking. The ankle was swelled to twice its right size; but I felt sure that it must now improve. I made Kaiser stop his fuss and pulled open the door. I could just make out the horsemen going along the grade almost to the town. I crawled to the hay, and thought a long time. In the first place, I knew the fires were all out and that the new snow had covered all traces of any life about the town. The robbers would find the place deserted and would go to work upon the safe. How long it would take them to open it I did not know, but one of the many things I now regretted was that, while fooling around with my tunnel, I had neglected to take out and hide the tools that were in Beckwith's blacksmith shop, as I had intended to do; for with these I did not think it would take the men long to break into the safe. After they had got the money two things might happen: they might take it and return west, in which case they would be almost sure to stop at Mountain's and discover me; in fact, the only thing I could not understand was why they had not stopped as they went in. I knew how much mercy I could expect from Pike and the kind of men that were with him. The other course that they might take after getting the safe open was to stay in town for several days or even weeks; and in this case I should simply starve and freeze to death where I was. The reasons that made it seem likely that they would stay awhile were that there was no danger, plenty of food and fuel, and comfortable places to live and sleep. At first thought I saw one reason against it, and that was that there was no liquor in the town; and I knew they were the kind of men who would prize liquor higher than food. Then I remembered that, though the contents of the saloons had been shipped away when they were closed, I had heard there was a barrel of whiskey in the cellar of Fitzsimmons's grocery store; and I knew, of course, that they would find it. I thought again of my detestable tunnel, for if I had not had my mind on it so much the barrel might have occurred to me and I could have disposed of it somehow. I thought a long time, and this was the amount of it: That in any case I had best get back to town if I could. If I reached there while they were at work on the safe, I might be able to slip in unseen and hide somewhere till they were gone; and even if they did not go for some days, I might manage to keep out of sight and live after a fashion. Anything seemed better than staying where I was. I was half dead from thirst, and it seemed that no harm could now come from a little fire; so I soon had one started and some snow melting in an old tin can. The drink and the warmth revived me a good deal, and I decided to start immediately to crawl to the town. I thought with good luck I might make it in four hours. It was now probably eleven o'clock. I left my skees and started out. Kaiser bounded around me in the greatest delight, barking and throwing up a cloud of snow. But before I had gone twenty rods I sank half fainting with the pain of dragging my ankle. Poor Kaiser whined and licked my face. When I revived a little, I crept back and threw myself on the hay again, ready to die with despair. I lay there half an hour in the greatest mental and physical pain; then an idea that drove it all away struck me like a flash. I sat up and drew the skees to me on the floor, and placed them parallel and about ten inches apart. Then I took one of the legs of the stove and pounded a board off of the dry-goods box. It was four feet long and a foot or more wide. I beat some nails out of the box, and then placed the board lengthways on top of the skees and nailed it firmly. This made me a sled, low but long and light. I had on under my coat a jacket of coarse, strong cloth. This I took off and cut and tore up into strips, knotted them together, and made two stout ropes five or six feet long. I fastened one end of each of these to the front of the skees. Then I let out Kaiser's collar two or three holes, tied the other ends of my ropes to each side of it, making them precisely like harness traces, and pushed out of the door and sat down on my new sled. I had like to have forgotten the letter on the door, but drew myself up and got it and put it in my pocket. There was a monstrous red skull and cross-bones on the outside of it. If you think I did not have a time teaching that dog to draw me, then you are mistaken. The poor animal had not the least notion what I wanted of him, and kept mixing up his legs in the traces, coming back and bounding around me, and doing everything else that he shouldn't. I coaxed, and tried to explain, and worked with him, and at last boxed his ears. At this he sat down in the snow and looked at me as much as to say, "Go ahead, if you will, and abuse the only friend you have got!" At last I got him square in front, and, clapping my hands suddenly, he jumped forward, jerked the sled out from under me, and went off on the run with the thing flying behind. I lay in the snow with my five wits half scared out of me, expecting no less than that he would be so terrified that he would run to Track's End without once stopping. But I made out to do what I could, and called "Kaiser! Kaiser!" with all the voice I had. Luckily he heard me, got his senses again, and stopped. He stood looking at me a long time; then he slipped the collar over his head and came trotting back, innocent as a lamb, without the sled. There seemed to be nothing to do but to crawl to the sled, so I started, with Kaiser tagging behind and not saying a word. I think he felt he had done wrong, but did not know exactly how. The crawling pained my ankle somewhat, but not so much as before, and I got to the sled at last. I saw that it was near the trail which the men on horseback had made, and this gave me an idea: perhaps Kaiser would follow that. I pushed on over, and as soon as he saw the trail he pricked up his ears, began to sniff at the snow and look toward the town. I hitched him up again, headed him the right way, took a good hold, and shouted, "Sic 'em, Kaiser!" He started off like a shot and ran till he was quite out of breath. After he had rested and I had petted and praised him, we went on. He understood now what was wanted, and made no further trouble. We soon got up on the grade, and found it much smoother. Indeed, the horses had left a very good road, and by sitting well back on my odd sled, so that the board would not plow up the snow, it was not at all hard for Kaiser to draw me. We were soon near enough to the town, so that I began to tremble for fear of being seen. My eyes were troubling me a good deal; it was snow-blindness, but, as I had never heard of it, I was frightened, not knowing what to think. I could see the horses standing in a bunch in the open square between the depot and town, but the men were nowhere in sight, and I doubted not they were hard at work on the safe. After a good deal of labor I managed to get Kaiser to turn off to the south until the railroad buildings were between us and the town. Then I struck out straight for the water-tank, and in a few minutes was up to it. The space below the tank was inclosed, making a round, dark room filled with big timbers. One of my keys fitted the door, and I opened it, put Kaiser and the sled inside, and shut the door. The poor dog thought this was poor payment for his work, but I could not trust him loose. I picked up a narrow piece of board and broke it to the right length for a crutch, and so managed to hobble along upright to the end of the station platform. This was three or four feet from the ground, and beneath it were a lot of ties, old boxes, and other rubbish. I crawled under and around to the side next to the town, and peeped over a log of wood. The horses were standing in a huddle with their heads together, and I did not pay much attention to them. A little to one side I saw a big pile of blankets, bed-clothing, and other things taken from the hotel and stores; and on top of it all my guns and other weapons. I expected that they would take the guns, but was surprised at their bothering with the other stuff. I could hear no sounds of their working on the safe. All at once the door of Taggart's store opened and they came out carrying a lot of rope and other things. Then I saw that they were not the men I had thought, after all, but a band of Sioux Indians. CHAPTER X A Townful of Indians: with how I hide the Cow, and think of Something which I don't believe the Indians will like. When I saw what my visitors were I do not know if I was relieved or more frightened. I saw that I need no longer worry about the safe being robbed, but that seemed to be almost the only thing in their favor over the Pike gang. I knew, of course, that they had no ill feeling against me, and probably had no intention of harming any one; but, on the other hand, I well understood that if I should appear and try to stop their plundering the town they would not hesitate to kill me. By their dress I recognized them as Sioux from the Bois Cache Reservation, fifty or seventy-five miles north, because I had seen some of them during the fall while they were on their way to visit some of their relatives a hundred or more miles south at the Brulé Agency. I supposed they were going for another such visit, and had blundered on the town. These Bois Cache Indians I knew were a bad lot; many of them had been with Little Crow in the great Sioux Massacre in Minnesota in 1862, when hundreds of settlers were killed. They came directly to the pile of things near their horses, and put down the rope; and then they started off in all directions looking for more plunder. Two of them came to the depot and walked about on the platform over my head. I flattened out on the ground and scarcely breathed, expecting every minute that they would look under. I heard them talking and trying the windows. I thought they were going away; then there was a sound of breaking glass, and I heard them tramping about inside. Then they came out and went over to the pile again. I peeped out and saw that they had the two Winchesters which I had hidden in the depot. Another came from the town with a shot-gun which he had found somewhere. I had no doubt that they would find and carry off every weapon there was, and leave me with nothing except the small revolver which I had in my pocket. For an hour I lay there under the platform watching the Indians plunder the town. They already had much more in their pile than they could possibly carry away with the horses they had. Suddenly I saw that their plan most likely was to get everything they wanted together in the open square and then to burn the town, carry off what they could, and come back after the rest later on. Of course this put me in a great fright, but, though I racked my brain as never before, I could think of no way to prevent it. Soon I heard a great pounding, and suspected that they were breaking into the Headquarters barn, which I always kept locked, just out of force of habit. In another minute I knew I was right, as I heard a loud squawking of the chickens. Up from the direction of the barn and high over the roofs of the town I suddenly saw a bird soar, which I took to be a prairie chicken, or some sort of game bird, though where it came from I could not guess. Then, as it lit on the chimney of the blacksmith shop, and began a great cackling, I saw that it was only Crazy Jane. I could not help laughing, in spite of my troubles, and said out loud, "Ah, it takes somebody smarter than an Indian to catch her!" [Illustration: THE BOIS CACHE INDIANS LOOTING THE TOWN ON CHRISTMAS DAY] The sight of Crazy Jane and the sharp way she outwitted the savages did me good and made me wonder if I could not do as well; still I could think of nothing. Just then the Indians came out with the other chickens in grain-sacks, and leading Dick and Ned and Blossom. The horses they stood with their own, but I was horrified to see that they acted as if they were going to butcher the cow. One of them pointed a gun at her head and another began to flourish a knife. It looked as if they had got it into their savage heads that they wanted fresh beef and were going to slaughter the poor animal on the spot. To watch these preparations was, I think, the hardest thing I had to bear that day. She was a patient, gentle heifer, and I could not bear to think of seeing her butchered by a lot of villainous savages with less intelligence than she had herself. If I had had a gun or any fit weapon, I verily believe that I should have rushed out and defended her. But just before they began, one of their number came out of Fitzsimmons's store and called to them, and they all trotted over. The store was on the east side of the street. At the instant that the last of them disappeared in the door I rolled out from under the platform and began to hobble across the square. My intention was to get behind the stores on the west side of the street; and I had a wild notion of saving the cow in some way, I did not know how. It was a foolhardy thing to do, but I got behind the first store without being seen. But I was no nearer the cow, who was a little ways from the side of Fitzsimmons's, and I dared not go there. She saw me, however, and I held out my hand and said, "Come, bossy!" and she came over. I took her by the horn and led her along behind the buildings, knowing no more than a fool what I should do with her. Just then I came to the sloping outside cellar-door behind a store. The Indians had cleaned the snow off of it, but had not succeeded in getting in, as it was fastened with a padlock. I tried my keys. One of them opened it. The stairs were not steep, and I led the cow down and closed the door above us. The Indians had walked and ridden everywhere in the square and back of the stores, so I thought it would be hard for them to follow the cow's tracks. Nevertheless, the next moment I hurried back and with an old broom brushed lightly our trail behind the buildings; then returned to the cellar. I rested a few minutes till my ankle felt better, then I crept up the inside stairs to the store and peeped out the front window. Four or five of the Indians were standing where the cow had been, looking in all directions. After a while they all went back into Fitzsimmons's store and I slipped down and out the door by which I had got in, locked it, and made my way behind the buildings to the bank and went in. Here the Indians had not disturbed anything, there being nothing to their taste; but when I looked out a crack in the boards over the window I saw the whole eleven of them at the end of the street holding a powwow over the disappearance of their fresh beef. I thought it would be a good time to test my great pet, the tunnel, so I hobbled boldly through and entered the hotel. The first thing I saw was Pawsy in her old place over the dining-room door. She did not seem to like Indians any better than she did wolves. Everything which had not been carried off was in the greatest confusion. The Winchester which had been under the counter was gone. I stood with my crutch looking at the wreck, when, without hearing a sound, I saw the knob of the front door turn and the door push open. With one bound like a cat I went through the open door of the closet under the stairs. I had no time to close the door, and stood there pressed against the wall and trying not to tremble. It was dark in the closet, and that was my only hope. Three of the Indians filed by. They all wore moccasins, and their step was noiseless. They were talking, and passed on through into the kitchen and outdoors. I think they were looking for the cow, and took this as the best way to get to the barn. I pressed back farther in the closet and waited. Soon they came back, and again passed me, and went on out of the front door. I got out and crawled up-stairs, thinking to find a better hiding-place and wishing heartily that I was back under the platform. I looked out of an upper window and saw them all at the farther end of the street again. By-and-by they went into Fitzsimmons's store. Though I did not take my eyes off the store for two hours I saw no more of the Indians, and by this time it was so dark that I could no longer see them if they did come out. I began to hear a strange noise, and opened the window slightly and listened. It was the Indians shouting and singing. Then it dawned upon me that they had found the whiskey and that they were all getting drunk in Fitzsimmons's cellar. This, of course, gave me a new cause of dread, for, if a sober Indian is bad, a drunken one is a thousand times worse. I felt sure that they would now set the town on fire through accident even if they did not intend to do so. The fiendish howling constantly grew worse and was soon almost as bad as that of the wolves ever was. I still could think of nothing to remedy matters. By this time it was pitch-dark. I determined to have a look at them, anyhow. It occurred to me that probably they had begun at the whiskey before the cow disappeared, and that this had helped to make their search unsuccessful. I went down and out the back door of the hotel and crept along the rear of the buildings till I came to Fitzsimmons's. The yelling and whooping of those savages was something blood-curdling to hear. There was a window for lighting the cellar close to the ground in the rear foundation-wall. A wide board stood in front of it, but I dug the snow away, pushed this board a little to one side, and looked in. They seemed to be having a free fight, and many of them were covered with blood. A smoking kerosene lamp stood on a box, and around this they surged and fought and howled. As I looked the lamp was knocked to the floor and blazed up. One of the Indians fell on it and smothered the flames, and the struggling and diabolical yelling went on in the dark. As suddenly as the plan of making the skee sled had flashed upon me came another plan for driving every Indian out of town. I jumped up and ran away as fast as a poor crutch and a leg and a half could carry me. CHAPTER XI I give the savage Indians a great Scare, and then gather up my scattered Family at the end of a queer Christmas Day. How I ever got along through the darkness and snow on my crutch I scarce know, but in less time than it takes to say I tumbled in at the back door of the hotel. I went directly into the kitchen and felt about till I found a knife, which I put in my pocket. Then I stumped on into the office, leaned against the counter, and lit the wall lamp, took it out of its bracket, and made my way somehow to the cellar-door. I left my crutch and fairly slid down the stairs, holding the lamp in both hands above my head. Once down I set it on a small box, dropped on the cellar bottom, and drew over to me the largest pumpkin in the pile against the wall. What I thought to do was to make the most diabolical jack-lantern that ever was, and scare the drunken savages out of what little wit they had left. I took the pumpkin in my lap, and with the knife cut out the top like a cover. Then with my hands I dug out the seeds and festoons of stuff that held them. Then I turned up one side and plugged out two eyes and a long nose. I was going to make the corners of the mouth turn up, as I had always done when making jack-lanterns at home, but just as I started to cut it came to me that it would look worse if they turned down; so thus I made it, adding most hideous teeth, and cutting half of my fingers in my haste. Then I gave the face straight eyebrows and a slash in each cheek just as an experiment, and looked around for a candle. I could see nothing of the kind, nor could I remember ever having noticed one about the house. For a moment I knew not what to do; then my eyes rested on the lamp, and I asked myself why that would not do as well as a candle, or even better, since it gave more light. The hole in the top was not big enough to take in the lamp, but I cut it out more, and with half a dozen trials, and after burning all the fingers I had not already cut, I got the lamp in. The cover was now too small for the opening, but I grabbed another pumpkin and slashed out a larger one and clapped it into place. If I had had time I believe I should have been frightened at the thing myself, it was that hideous and unearthly-looking; but I did not have, so I took it under one arm, though it seemed half as big as a barrel, and pulled myself up-stairs. In another minute I was outdoors and hobbling along as fast as I could. The howling of the red beasts in the cellar still came as loud as ever. I got to the window, dropped on my knees, and took away the board. They did not yet have a light, and were struggling and caterwauling in the dark like, it seemed, a thousand demons. But I say I had the worst demon with me. The lamp was burning well. I set the thing on the ground, square in front of the window, with the horrible face turned in and looking down into the darkness. Then I rolled out of the way. I had truly thought that those savages had been making a great noise before, but it had been nothing to the sound which now came from the cellar. Such another shrieking and screaming I never heard before nor since. I would not have believed that any lot of human beings could make such an uproar. Then I heard them fighting their way up the stairs and go squawking and bellowing out the front door of the store. When I heard the last one go I seized up the pumpkin, took it on one shoulder, and with my stick went hippety-hopping out through the alley and along the sidewalk after them. They were going away in the darkness for their ponies like the wind. I went to the end of the walk and, holding the lantern in both hands, raised and lowered and waved it at them. Not once did they stop their howls of terror, and I could hear and partly see them tumbling onto their ponies in all ways and plunging off through the drifts to the west like madmen. I longed to be on Dick's back with my lantern to chase them, but I knew not where Dick was, and my ankle had already borne too much, as it told me plainly. I got back to the hotel as best I could, put up the lamp in its place and sat down to rest. But though I needed rest, I needed food more; so I started the fire and looked about for something to eat. I soon found that the Indians had left nothing except a few crusts of bread and some frozen eggs. But I boiled the eggs and made out a sort of a meal. As I finished I heard a yowl which I thought I knew, and, sure enough, when I looked up, there was the cat still on the door. This set me to laughing, and I said: "I wonder was ever a family so scattered before on a Christmas night as is mine? There is Kaiser shut in under a water-tank; Blossom locked in the cellar of a grocery store; Crazy Jane, the hen, on top of the smoke-stack of a blacksmith shop; the rest of the chickens sacked up and scattered on the ground; Dick and Ned, the horses, I don't know where; Pawsy, the cat, on top of the door; and Jud himself, the head of the family, here eating what the Indians have left, with a hurt ankle and a smell of roasted pumpkin all through his clothes." I had a good laugh over things, and then decided that I must do what I could for my scattered family, though my ankle seemed about ready to go by the board. So I first got down the cat and then lit the lantern and started out after Kaiser. Poor dog, he was beside himself to see me, and liked to have knocked me down in showing how glad he was. As we started back Kaiser stopped and began to growl at something out on the prairie, and I looked, and after a time made out Dick and Ned. They were very nervous, and would not let me come up to them, but I toiled around them at last and started them toward their barn. I next looked after Blossom. I found her lying down, as comfortable as you please, chewing her cud and right at home in the cellar. She had made a meal out of the coarse hay which came out of a crockery bale, and I thought I would leave her for the night. So I took a big pitcher out of the bale and milked her then and there, and took it home, and Kaiser and Pawsy and I disposed of it without more to-do. I was beginning to feel better about my family, and felt still more so when I found that Dick and Ned had gone into their stalls and had stopped their snorting, and only breathed hard when they saw me. Next I went after Crazy Jane; but though I coaxed and shooed, and threw chunks of frozen snow at her, while Kaiser barked his teeth loose, almost, it did no sort of good; she only looked at me and made a funny noise as a hen does when she sees a hawk. I could not climb up with my hurt ankle, so I had to leave her, much against my will. The chimney, I thought, was a good deal exposed for a sleeping-place in winter, but there was no wind and I didn't have much fear but that she would come out all right. I had like to have forgotten the other chickens; they never popped into my mind till I was back in the hotel, but I dragged myself out after them. I found the poor things stuffed in three sacks, as if they had been turnips, lying on the snow. I knew I could not carry them, and felt that I could scarce drag them even; so I hit upon the plan of taking a bit of rope from the pile of plunder and hitching Kaiser to the sacks, and so in that way we got them, one by one, to the barn at last and let them out, all cramped and ruffled. Kaiser was so proud of his work that he set up a bark which started the broncos into another fit of snorting. I think if there had been one more member of my family lost that I could have done nothing for it that night, my ankle was in such a state. I tried bathing it in hot water, and before I went to bed I had it fairly parboiled, which seemed greatly to relieve it. I was too tired to go across the drawbridge to my room, so I stretched out on the lounge in the office, not much caring if all the robbers in Christendom came. But I could not help wondering at my strange Christmas; and half the night I heard the wolves howling round the blacksmith shop and looking up (I knew) at Crazy Jane; but I thought they might as well howl around the gilt chicken on a weather-vane for all the good it would do them. CHAPTER XII One of my Letters to my Mother, in which I tell of many Things and especially of a Mystery which greatly puzzles and alarms me. Here I am going to put in the letter which I wrote to my mother a week from the next day after my strange Christmas, to show that I did write her long letters every Sunday, as I have said; though of course it was many weeks before she got this or the others: TRACK'S END, _Sunday, January 2d._ MY DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER,--I have written you so much bad news since I have been in this dreadful place that I am very glad to send you some good news at last, and that is that my ankle, of which I wrote you last Sunday, is all well. I kept up the hot-water applications and by the next morning it was so much better that I could walk on it. I hope I may not turn it again. I don't know as there is much other good news to write, except that it is good news, and maybe quite strange news, that I am still alive at all in such a place. I am getting along better with the cooking, though I am beginning to long for some fresh meat. The cow still gives a good mess of milk, and I now get three or four fresh eggs a day; thanks to the warm food which I give the hens, I guess. I do not believe that Crazy Jane has laid an egg since her night on the chimney, and I'm almost afraid she caught cold, as she has not had a genuine fight with another hen since. Kaiser and the cat and Dick and Ned are all well and in good appetite. I have heard rather less of the wolves of late, and I still think it would be easier to get the Man in the Moon to come to this town than any of those Indians. But the outlaws I still fear very much. Oh, something I ought to have written you last week! I mean this: I got a letter from them that day out at Mountain's, but I had no time to read it Christmas and the next day I forgot I had it till after I had put your letter in the post-office. This is what was in it: CITISENS TRACK'S END,--We will Rob your bank and burn your town if we don't get the small some we ask for. If adoing it we kill anyboddy it wun't be our fawlt. Leave the Munny as we told you to and save Bludd Shedd. PIKE AND FRIENDS. I look for them any time. My only hope is that the weather will be too bad for them to travel; but of course there must be some good weather. The snow is already so deep that it will be very hard for them to do much on horseback. The street is full, and it is very deep north, east, and south. The ground is almost bare for half a mile to the west, however; and they could come in on the grade. Of course they can come on snow-shoes at any time and go everywhere. I cannot even hope to keep out of having trouble with them. I have made no answer to this letter, and can't make up my mind whether it would be best to do so or not. I kept up work all the week on the fortifications, when the weather would permit; for there has been another great blizzard, the worst of the winter so far. I even worked all day yesterday, though it was New-Year's. Monday morning I again started all of my fires, but I found that in three of the buildings there was not enough coal to last long. So I hitched up Ned and Dick on an old sleigh of Sours's and took a good lot to each place from the sheds at the railroad. It was a lucky thing I did so, too, because it snowed more Tuesday night and began to blizzard Wednesday and kept it up till Friday without once stopping; and it would now be impossible to drive anywhere near the coal-sheds. I have got up a plan to do what I want to do without using much coal; I smother the fires, all except the one in the hotel, with stove griddles laid on them, and it makes a great smoke without much fire. The guns and ammunition I have disposed of here and there, in good places for me in case of attack, but hard to find for other folks. One I keep standing by my bed's head, but nobody would be apt to look there for either gun or bed, I hope. I take in my drawbridge always the minute I cross. The last blizzard has helped me a good deal. The street is now so full that the first-story doors and windows of the hotel and bank and most of the other buildings are covered. Not a bit of daylight gets into the hotel office, and I am writing this by lamplight, though the sun is bright outdoors. The hotel can now only be entered by the back door, which I have strengthened with boards and braces. I have also boarded up the second-story windows, as they are now not much above the level of the drifts. My tunnel might now be much higher and I am going to make it so that I can stand up straight all the way through. This is the only way there is to get into the bank now, unless you were to pound off the planks I have nailed over the upper windows, or shovel the snow away below. I drew over lumber from the yard the day I had the team hitched up for the coal. There are plenty of nails at Taggart's. The blacksmith tools which would be good to break open a safe with I have buried in the snow. I have not yet carried out the plan I told you about which might save me in case the town is burned. It is a big job, but I am going at it as soon as I can. There is much other work which I want to do. There is a large tin keg of blasting-powder at Taggart's which it seems as if I ought to use somehow. Sometimes I wish I had a cannon, but I don't know as it would be much use to me. I had a vast deal of work Monday and Tuesday carrying back the things those savage Indians lugged out in the square. I fastened up all of the buildings which they had torn open and straightened up things in the stores as best I could. Fitzsimmons's was in the worst confusion, and I could not do much with it. The cellar was such a wreck of barrels and boxes and crates and everything you can think of, all broken open and the things thrown everywhere, that I only looked down and gave it up then and there. As soon as I can get around to it I mean to build some more tunnels to some of the other houses. I think I ought to draw up a list of regular hours for getting up, fixing the fires, climbing the windmill tower to look with the field-glass, and such-like things, as I used to hear Uncle Ben tell was the way they did when he was in the army. I mean to go out every good day and take some target practice with my rifle. I wish I could close this letter here, and I would do so if it were going to you so that you would get it before you get others, or before you know that you are never to get others from me, if that is to be, as I fear it may. Oh, if I only had it to do over again, how quick I would take the chance to go away from this horrid place! If I live to get away I will never come here again. So I must tell you what little I can of this other matter. I am not here in Track's End alone. What it is that is here I do not know. How long it has been here I do not know. Where it stays, what it does, where it goes, I do not know. I have looked over my shoulder twenty times from nervousness since I began this letter. Last Monday night I hung a piece of bacon on a rafter in the shed back of the kitchen, after cutting off a slice for breakfast the next morning. I kept it there because it is a cool place and handy to the kitchen. Tuesday morning it was gone. I had left the outside door shut, and it was still shut in the morning. The door between the kitchen and shed was locked. I could see no tracks or marks of any kind. Wednesday morning the thumb-piece of the latch on the depot door was pressed down. I don't think I left it that way. A pail by the back door in which I had thrown some scraps which I was saving for the chickens was tipped over. I think some of the meat rinds were gone. The blizzard began that morning. Thursday morning the blizzard was still going on. I noticed nothing unusual. Friday morning a quilt and a blanket had been stolen from a bed in the hotel. Another quilt was drawn from the bed and lay on the floor. I think the window (it had not yet been boarded up) at the foot of the bed had been raised. The snowbank outside is high. The blizzard was still blowing. Yesterday morning I saw nothing wrong, but I thought about it a good deal during the day. I remembered of hearing strange sounds at night from the first of my being here alone. I had thought it wolves, owls, jack-rabbits, or something like that. Last night I decided to watch. The storm had stopped and the night was very still, but it was cloudy and dark and a flake of snow fell once in a while. I put on the big fur coat and sat on a box just inside the woodshed door, which was open on a crack. At about eleven o'clock I heard a faint noise at the barn as if something were in the yard at the side trying to get in at one of the windows. I swung my door open a little more, it creaked and I saw something dark go across the yard and over the fence. There was no sound that I could hear. I could not see that it touched the ground. It went behind a haystack by the fence. There was instantly another glimpse of it as it passed beyond the stack, going either behind or through the shed under which the men stood that night when Pike shot Allenham. I was not sure if I saw it the other side of there or not, but I could not see so well beyond the shed. The motion was gliding; I heard no footstep, nor sound of wings, nor anything. It snowed some more in the night. This morning I could find nothing wrong except that a clothes-line beyond the shed was broken. It had hung across the way which what I saw must have gone. Its ends were tied to posts at least seven feet from the ground, and if I remember aright, it has all the time been drawn up so that it did not sag at all. It was snapped off as if something had run against it. I must close now and do up my work for the night. I only ask that I may live to see you all again. If I do not, then may this reach you somehow. Your Dutiful Son, JUDSON PITCHER. CHAPTER XIII Some Talk at Breakfast, and various other Family Affairs: with Notes on the Weather, and a sight of Something to the Northwest. It was on the morning of Tuesday, January 25th, as I sat at breakfast with Pawsy in her chair at one end and with Kaiser at the other, drumming on the floor for another bit of bacon, that I said to myself: "It is just one month to-day since I clapped eyes on a human being; and the ones I saw then were not very good humans, being thieving and drunken Indians." And when I said this I had not forgotten (when had it been once out of my mind, waking or sleeping?) what I saw on New-Year's night; but I knew not if I were to count that as human or what. I remember that Sunday night after I finished the letter to my mother which I put in the last chapter, how I found it darker than I expected when I went out, and how I ran along the snowbanks with my heart thumping like to split, and threw the letter in the top of the post-office door (the rightful opening was long before buried under the snow) and then shot back to the hotel, not daring to look behind me or even stop to breathe. I was well ashamed of myself, at the time, but I could not help it. On that night it was even nine o'clock before I could get up courage to go to the barn and feed the stock. I think I was in a greater state of terror than on the night after the battle with the wolves. I walked the floor, back and forth, on tiptoe and listened; and the less there was to hear, the more I heard. At last I, after a fashion, put down my fright, and ventured out to the barn; but even then I could not whistle; I tried, but my lips would not stay puckered. I went to bed as soon as I could, and though I thought I should never get to sleep, I did at last. What my dreams were, or how many times I sat up in bed with a start, are things I do not like to think about. But notwithstanding this, I felt better in the morning and went at the work as hard as I could. But though, as I say, up to the 25th of January (and even beyond) I had no further glimpse of the mysterious visitor, I saw evidence of its presence often enough. Night after night the scrap-pail by the back door was rummaged and something taken from it, and once a chicken was missing from the barn. The only way that anything could get in was through a window into the hay-loft seven or eight feet above the drift. After I missed the chicken I nailed this up and lost no more. I thought there were a few scratches on the side of the barn below the window, but I could tell nothing from them. Almost every night it either snowed or drifted, or both, so there was almost no hope of ever finding tracks of any kind on the ground. One morning I found the windmill at the station thrown into gear and running full tilt, but the lever which controlled it may have slipped. Two or three times I thought I heard the windlass of the well near the barn creak, but I tried to make myself believe that it was only the wind. You may be sure that my sleep was very light, and I often heard Kaiser growling and barking late at night in the hotel. I never had the courage to sit up and watch again. I may have been more cowardly than I should have been; I leave that to the reader to say. One night I lay awake listening to the wolves howling up at the north end of the town. Suddenly their cry changed and they swept the whole length of the street like the wind, and much faster than they usually went when simply ranging for prey. They may have been chasing a jack-rabbit. Another night they howled so long right in front of the building I was in that I put down my foolish fears and got up and fired at them, hoping to scare them away and maybe get another skin for my coat. One fell, and the others made off at a great rate. I watched the one on the snow till I was sure he was dead, and I heard nothing more of the others that night. In the morning there was neither hide nor hair of the dead wolf. But the work I had to do kept my mind off of my terror a good deal, and saved me, I really believe, from going stark mad. I will tell about my great system of tunnels presently, but before I began it I did much else. One of the first things was to make a long, light sled for Kaiser to draw, and also a harness for him. The materials and tools for the one I got from the wagon-repair shop attached to Beckwith's blacksmith shop, and the same for the other from the harness shop, where I kept up one of my fires. I was always handy with all kinds of tools, inheriting a love for them from my father; besides, I had worked with him in the shop at home a good deal, and had thus become a fairly good mechanic for my age. I could handle a plane or a drawshave or a riveting-hammer, or even an awl, for the matter of that, with any of them. I used this dog rig chiefly for taking over ground feed from the depot to the barn for the horses and cow; but Kaiser learned to enjoy the work of dragging the sled so much that I soon came to use him nearly always in good weather in making my rounds to look after the fires or patrol the town. He would whisk me along on top of the frozen drifts at such a rate that it would nearly take my breath away sometimes. I practised with the skees till there was no danger of turning my ankle again, and would sometimes run races with him on them; but he could beat me all hollow unless there was a good, stiff load on the sled. Another thing that I made was a pair of leather spectacles, something which my mother had used often to tell me I needed when I was small and could not see something that was plain as a pikestaff. My spectacles were made out of a strip of black leather two inches wide which went over my eyes and around my head, with two slits through which I could look. These I wore on the dazzling bright days and was troubled no more by snow-blindness, which had made my eyes so painful the day I came back from Mountain's. It was about New-Year's that I began to spend my evenings in noting down in the hotel register what had happened during the day. I did this chiefly so that when I came to write to my mother Sunday I would forget nothing; and I am very glad now that I did so, for without the register and the letters (both of which I now have) about some things, especially dates, I might go wrong in writing this account. Besides, in the past, it has been much satisfaction when I have related any of the incidents of my winter at Track's End and some person, to show how smart he was, has tried to cast doubt on my word--it has been much comfort to me, I say, in such cases to have the register and letters to show him, with it all set down in black and white. Thus it comes I know that Pawsy caught a mouse in the barn on Wednesday, January 12th, at about half-past seven o'clock in the morning, while I was milking the cow. I think it was the only mouse at Track's End that winter, for I never saw or heard any other. There were no rats in the Territory then anywhere, unless it may have been at Yankton, or at some of the old Red River settlements about Pembina. Pawsy was a good hunter, and several times caught a snowbird, though I boxed her ears for this; and on Friday, the 21st, I found her near Joyce's store trying to drag home a jack-rabbit. She must have caught it by lying in wait, but I marveled how she killed the monstrous creature. But she was, indeed, one of the largest and strongest cats I ever knew. I would have trusted her to whip a coyote in a fair fight. I got three jacks in January myself with the rifle, and found them very good to eat; but the first one, after skinning it, I left overnight in the shed, and in the morning it was gone. That day I went to Taggart's and got two good bolts and put them on the shed door. Getting my meals I found very hard work, but I made out better than you might think, since my mother had taught me something about cooking. At first I neglected getting regular meals, snatching a bite of anything that I could lay my hands on; but I soon saw that this would not do if I were to keep in good health and strength. My boarders, too, were great hands to complain if they did not get their meals regularly. You might have thought that cat and dog were paying good money for their board, the way they would mew and whine if a meal were late. I took very good care of the chickens, giving them plenty of warm food, so from about Christmas I got a dozen or more eggs each week. The cow, too, I fed well on ground feed and hay, with pumpkins and sometimes a few potatoes, and she gave me a fair quantity of milk all winter; and on the eggs and milk, together with potatoes, bacon, and salt codfish, I and my boarders managed to live tolerably well. Pie I missed very much, and cookies and apple dumplings and such things, all of which my mother used to make very freely at home, and never keeping them hid. I looked longingly at the pumpkins, and once fetched a quantity of ginger from Joyce's, vowing I would attempt pumpkin pie; but I never got up my courage. Bread, also, I never attempted, though I got a package of yeast from the store and looked at it many times. The place of this was taken by pancakes, which I made almost every day, big and thick, which with molasses went very well; though a good cook, as like as not, would have said they were somewhat leathery. There was not an apple in town, nor any kind of fresh fruit, but there were dried apples and prunes, and canned fruit and vegetables, especially tomatoes. Of the canned things I liked the strawberries best, and ate many, though they tasted somewhat of the tin. There were plenty of crackers in the stores, and some dry round things, dark-colored, which called themselves gingersnaps; I took home a large package in great glee, thinking I had made a find; I ate one of them by main strength and gave the rest to the cow. Butter I made several times, with fair success, though it was not like mother's, being more greasy. Fresh meat I missed very much, though the few jack-rabbits I got helped out, and were good eating, as I have said, and smelled as good as anything could while cooking. Some other fresh meat I had also, as you shall see directly. Once I made up my mind to have some chicken. There was one hen who was very fat and never, I was sure, laid an egg. I took the hatchet, which was sharp enough, and went to the barn, intending to behead her, having it all planned how I should cook her for my Sunday dinner. When I got to the barn the hen seemed to know what I intended, and she looked at me with one eye, very reproachful, and I went back to the house with my hatchet and never made any more plans for fried chicken. There was much bad weather in January. Often I noticed that this was the way of it: It would snow for one day, blizzard for three, and then for two be still, steady, bitter cold. On these latter the thermometer would often go over forty degrees below zero, with the sun shining bright and the sky blue; but with a frightful big yellow-and-orange sun-dog each side of the sun, morning and evening, like two great columns; and sometimes there would be a big orange circle around the sun all day, with much frost in the air. Some of the nights were light, almost, as day with the northern lights flaming up from behind Frenchman's Butte all over the whole sky, and all colors and shapes. On these nights the horses (they had been wild ponies once) would stamp about in the barn, and Kaiser would growl in his sleep. When I rubbed the cat's back it would crack and sparkle. The wolves seemed to howl more and differently on these nights, and once I went to the station, thinking the fire there needed fixing, and I heard the telegraph instrument clicking fit to tear itself to pieces. Often the next day after the northern lights would come the storm. It was on the very day that I had said to Kaiser and Pawsy at breakfast (that is, January 25th) that it was a month since I had seen any human being, that I was at the depot after a load of ground feed, and in looking to the northwest thought I saw something moving. It did not take me long to go up the windmill tower. It was not past ten o'clock in the forenoon, so the light for looking toward the northwest was good, though of course, as the sun was shining, the snow was pretty dazzling. But I could still only make out that something was moving south or southwest. It was impossible to tell if it were men or horses or cattle. So I went down as fast as I could, jumped onto the sled, and the next minute Kaiser had me at the hotel, where I got the field-glass and went back. Up the tower I scrambled for another look. The snow was so dazzling that the glass did less good than you might suppose, but with it I could soon tell that it was a party of men on horseback following either another party or a drove of cattle or horses. The band ahead swung gradually about and came toward Track's End. The ones behind seemed to be trying to cut them off, but they failed to do it. On they came, and in ten minutes I could see that it was either cattle or horses that were being chased by twenty or twenty-five men on horseback. The cattle were following a low, broad ridge where the snow was less deep, and which spread out west of the town, making less snow there also, as I have mentioned before. I thought there was something peculiar about the riding of the men; I watched closely, and then I saw they were Indians. My first thought was that it was daylight and no jack-lantern would scare them away. I saw I must depend on harsher measures. In almost no time I had got over town, locked the barn, shut Kaiser in the hotel, run through my tunnel to the bank so as to be on the west side of town, and stood peeping out a loophole with two fully loaded Winchesters on a table beside me. CHAPTER XIV I have an exciting Hunt and get some Game, which I bring Home with a vast deal of Labor, only to lose Part of it in a startling Manner: together with a Dream and an Awakening. I had not had my eyes to the loophole ten seconds when I found out something more about the coming invaders; what I had taken for cattle were buffaloes, a thing which surprised me very much, for they were even then extremely scarce. There were about a dozen of them, and they were coming on all in a bunch and throwing up the snow like a locomotive. I saw that the buffaloes would follow the swell of ground and that it would bring them in close to town, and perhaps right across the square between the stores and the depot. But I did not believe that they could ever flounder through the drifts to the south and east, so it seemed as if the hunters would overtake them so near that they would probably stay and again take possession of the town. I think I should rather have seen the outlaws coming. I decided to fire at them and see if I could not drive them off. But it was not necessary. I think some of them must have been the same Indians that called on me Christmas Day, and went away so suddenly, without stopping to say good-by. I am sure of this, because when still a good half-mile from town they stopped and began circling around, and waving their guns in the air, and making all sorts of strange motions. I suppose they were trying to drive away the evil spirit which they thought was in the place, and which I had had in the pumpkin lantern, and which had also been in Fitzsimmons's barrel. Then one of them who had been sitting still on his horse rode a little forward and got off, and I could see a thin ribbon of blue smoke arising. I suppose he was the medicine-man of the tribe making medicine to frighten the evil spirit; or rather, perhaps, to get up their own courage to face it. This kept up for half an hour. The buffaloes in the mean time had walked slowly along till they were not much more than a hundred yards away, and stood looking at the houses in the greatest wonder; the first they had ever seen, it is safe to say. But it appeared that the Indian's medicine did not work any better than white men's medicine sometimes does; for they began very slowly to go back the way they had come. I could see them stop often, and circle around and, I suppose, hold long talks; but they could not get up their courage to venture closer to the place where the awful spirit with the flaming eyes and the fiery teeth had looked down upon them and chased them with his terrible limping gait. At last they passed entirely out of sight. My next thought was, of course, to try getting a buffalo myself, since I needed fresh meat as badly as the Indians, or worse. But by this time they had drawn back some distance and were out of range for any but a very good marksman, a thing which I was not. I should have to follow them, which I decided to do quick as a flash. Through the tunnel I rushed and out to the barn. In another minute I brought out Dick saddled and bridled. He had not been beyond a small yard for a month. He began to jump like a whirlwind. How I ever got on with my gun I don't know, but I think I must have seized the horn of the saddle and hung to it like a dog to a root, and some of his jumps must have thrown me up so high that I came down in the saddle. Anyhow, I found myself riding away straight south as if I were on a streak of chain-lightning. This would not do, so I pulled with all my strength and tried to turn him. I might as well have tried to turn a steamboat by saying "haw!" and "gee!" to it. But the pulling on the big curb-bit made him mad and he stopped and began to buck. I hung on with all hands and legs, and at last he bucked his head around in the right direction, and then I yelled at him, making the most outlandish noise I could, and he started across the square and straight for the buffaloes as if he had been shot out of a gun. You may see the exact course we took, and where the buffaloes were, by looking at my map. This map I have drawn with great care and much hard labor, spoiling several before I got one to suit me. I hope every one who reads this book will look at the map often, since it shows the lay of the land very well, I think, and just where everything happened. When Dick saw the buffaloes I think he knew what was up, because he began to act more reasonable. They saw me coming and stopped and looked back surprised. I thought they were going to wait, but they soon galloped on. I saw I must go to one side if I wished to get within range, and turned to the right. In a few minutes I came up abreast of them and within easy range, but I soon found that though I could guide my horse I could not stop him, pull as hard as I might. I could not even make him stop and buck again. He was going straight toward the north pole, and I thought it would not take him long to get there. One way to stop him came to me. It was a rash plan, but I saw no other. Ahead and a little more to the right was a mighty bank of snow in the lee of a little knoll. It sloped up gradually and did not look dangerous. I turned him full into it. At the third jump he was down to his chin, and I had gone on over his head. When at last I struck I went down a good ways beyond my chin; in fact my chin went down first, and if any part of me was in sight it must have been my heels. All I knew was that I was hanging to my gun as if it were as necessary as my head. Why the breath of life was not knocked out of me I don't know, but it wasn't, and I kicked and thrashed about till I got my head and shoulders to the surface, with a peck of snow down the back of my neck. I looked for the buffaloes, and there they stood in blank astonishment, wondering, I guess, if I always got off of a horse that way. I ran my sleeve along the barrel of my rifle, rested it over a lump of frozen snow and fired at the nearest one, which was standing quartering to me. I saw the ball plow up the snow beyond and to the left. They all started on. As mine turned his side square to me I fired again. He went down with a mighty flounder. The others rushed away. I waded nearer and finished him with one more shot. Dick was still aground in the snow, snorting like a steam-engine, but by the time I had tramped the drift down and got him out he was over his nonsense and carried me back to the barn quite decently. I was all for skinning and dressing my buffalo. To Taggart's I went and got some good sharp knives, and, taking Kaiser and the sled, started back. I don't think I ever worked so hard in my life as I did at that job. It was not very cold, which was one good thing. Every minute I expected the wolves, and I did not have long to wait either. Before three o'clock they came howling along the trail the buffaloes had made, and I had to stop and fire at them every few minutes to keep them off. I am sure they were not so hungry as usual or I never could have kept them back at all. Twice I killed one when I shot, but I dared not go up and get them, and they were soon devoured by the others. The pack kept growing larger as others came over from the timber north of the Butte. At last I got off the hide and loaded it on the sled. I wanted to take all of the meat, but it made too big a load, and I had to be satisfied with two quarters. I even had to give up taking the head, which was a fine large specimen. A little after four o'clock as the sun began to sink low the wolves became bolder, and I knew it was not safe to stay longer. The load was more than Kaiser could pull, so I saw I must take hold and help him. I fired five or six shots at the wolves as fast as I could pump them up, seized the rope and off we went. We were not ten rods away when the whole pack was upon the carcass fighting and tearing at it. They kept up the hideous battle all night and howled so much that it seemed as if their throats must be worn raw. Once back home I set at my regular work tired enough. But the fires were all low and I expected a day or two more of good weather, and the ease with which the Indians and buffaloes had got down from the north made me fear more than ever the coming of the outlaws from the west. I still had little hope of ever getting out of the place alive, but I could only work on and do all I could for my safety. I laid the quarters of meat on some boxes in the shed and bolted the door. I was so tired I think I must have slept sounder that night than for a long time. In the morning I found that the shed door had been forced open, one of the bolts being torn off and the other one broken. Even the hinges were bent. A big piece of the best part of each quarter was gone. I could not tell if it had been torn off or haggled off with a dull knife. It might even have been gnawed off; I could not tell. I looked for tracks of the robber with, as the saying is, my heart in my mouth; but to no purpose. Although it had neither snowed nor blown during the night, a deep layer of frost, like feathers made out of the thinnest ice, had settled everywhere toward morning and I could find nothing. That this new reminder of my unknown enemy brought on another attack of terror I need hardly say; but it was daylight and I conquered it better. The worst feeling I had to fight with was that whatever the thing was, it might be looking at me as I moved about town. I thought I saw eyes peering at me, sometimes of one kind, sometimes of another, out of every window, through every crack, over every roof, around every corner, from behind every chimney; even the tops of the freshly made snowbanks, blown over like hoods, were not free from them; and when I looked out on the prairie I expected to see something coming to catch me. I could scarce tell if I were more afraid on top of the drifts or under them in my tunnels, for here I constantly expected to meet something, or look back and see eyes. I think the loneliness and the strain of the expected robbers must have half turned my mind. If I had known what to look for and dread I think I should not have cared so much, but, not knowing, I imagined everything and became more terrified about I knew not what than were the Indians at my pumpkin lantern. Sometimes I was sorry that I had driven the Indians away; and there were times when I thought I should be glad to have the Pike gang come, just for company. Three days after the buffalo hunt, in the night, I thought the gang had come indeed; I was not more frightened at any time while I was at Track's End than I was that night. I had gone to bed as usual in the empty building, taking in my drawbridge and closing both windows behind me. The northwest wind had died away at sundown, and the night was still and the sky becoming cloudy. I looked for an east wind the next day and probably snow later. What hour I woke up I knew not, but it must have been about midnight. I know I awoke gradually, because I had a long dream before doing so. I thought a giant was shouting at me from a grove of green trees on a hillside; it kept up for a long time, deep, hoarse shouts which fairly shook the earth; I could not see him, but seemed to know what he was. I was not frightened, but stood in a meadow listening. Then there was a crash of a tree falling on the hillside, and the giant's shouts came twice as loud, and I awoke and fought the bed-clothes off my head and knew it was Kaiser barking. At first this did not startle me, since he often barked in the hotel at night, sometimes at the wolves, and other times, I had reason to think, at the thing which prowled in the night. The next instant I realized that his barks were much louder and that he was nearer. I started up and saw that a dull, flickering light was coming through the cracks in the boards over the window and moving on the wall. I thought of northern lights, then saw that it was on the north wall and not on the south. I leaped to the window and peeped out a crack and saw that there was a great fire somewhere; the snow was lit up like day almost, and I could see black cinders floating above the barn. I got into such of my clothes as I had taken off and rushed to the side window. Here the light did not come much, but I could see Kaiser standing with his feet on the hotel windowsill and his head and shoulders out the window. He had smashed through the glass, as he had that day when the wolves came. Not once did he stop his terrific barking. I pushed up my window and seized the drawbridge. I started to put it across, as I had done so many times before, but I was so excited and in such a foolish fright that it slipped out of my hands and fell between the buildings. I stood a full minute unable to move. The lower part of the hotel window was divided into two panes, and Kaiser had broken one of them. I could see that he had cut himself, and I was afraid of doing likewise. But there was no other way to get out. I put on my mittens and got out of my window, clinging to the upper sash and standing on the outside sill. Then, with a prodigious step, I landed on the other sill, seized the opening regardless of the jagged glass, crouched down and plunged into the room head first. Kaiser had drawn back as he saw me coming, but as I shot into the room he bounded in front of me, and we rolled over together there on the floor in the darkness. I was half dazed, but knew I smelled smoke, and heard the crackling of a great fire. CHAPTER XV The mysterious Fire, and Something further about my wretched State of Terror: with an Account of my great System of Tunnels and famous Fire Stronghold. Once I said, when I told of how I found myself helpless at Bill Mountain's, that I thought Kaiser the best dog that ever lived; here I may say I know it. Though he got in my way and made me turn a few somersets in the dark, he may have saved Track's End from destruction. When I got to my feet I felt my way across the room and through the hall to a room in the southeast corner of the hotel, where there was a loophole in the boards over the window. Through this I saw that the livery stable was a pillar of fire. How long I stood there at the loophole staring I know not; I think I did not move or scarcely breathe. It was a large building, the second story packed with hay; and below there were stored many wagons, some farm machinery, and a quantity of lumber and building material, all things that would burn well. Everything was ablaze, the roof fell in as I looked, and the flames and sparks and smoke reached up like a vast column, it seemed to the very clouds. At last I saw it was no time for idleness, so I turned away and went down-stairs. As I started to pull open the back door it came to me suddenly that Pike and his men must have come. I reached behind the desk and got Sours's Winchester. Then I went out, leaving Kaiser behind, much to his disappointment. The heat struck my face like a blast from a furnace, and the light dazzled my eyes. I crept very cautiously over the snowbank behind Hawkey's and Taggart's till I came to Fitzsimmons's. Here the heat almost scorched my face, and I saw that the paint on the building was beginning to blister. I peered everywhere for signs of the men, but saw nothing. I crept around the corner of the building and looked across the square, but there was no sign of human life. I expected nothing less than that the whole town would be burned up; but I was helpless. Finally I ran across the square and, leaving my rifle on the ground, scrambled up the windmill tower. It was truly a beautiful sight, as I knew despite my fears. The sky was covered with thick, low-hanging clouds, and save for the fire, the night was pitch-dark. The whole town lay below me, half lit up like day, half inky shadows. Even at this distance I could feel the heat, and the sullen roar and crackling of the flames never stopped. But though I shaded my eyes and peered everywhere among the houses and across the prairie, I could make out no living thing. Cinders were falling all over town, but there seemed to be little fire left in them when they alighted. The roofs were mostly flat and covered with tin, though the depot, the Headquarters barn, and a few others were of shingles. Suddenly a cinder unusually large fell on the depot roof and lay there blazing. I hurried down the tower, and hauled a ladder which I had noticed the day the Indians came from beneath the platform, thinking I might climb up and put out the fire with snow. There was no water to be had anywhere except from the well back of the hotel. But the flame died out, and I dragged the ladder across the square. It occurred to me that it would be no great loss to me should the depot burn. I could not know the good thing that was later to come out of it. It was so hot that I could not go behind Fitzsimmons's, so I dragged my ladder across the drifts of the street and through between the hotel and Hawkey's. When I came out in the rear of these I was startled to find a small blaze on the barn roof. I hurried to the barn with my ladder, got it in place, and then with pails of water from the well I managed to put it out. Once more it caught, and once the roof of the shed where Pike shot Allenham blazed up; but I dashed water on the fires and saved both buildings. At last the stable fire began to die down. The current of air from the northeast had become stronger, and the column of smoke was swaying more and more to the southwest. Just as daylight began to appear in the east the last remaining timber of the stable fell, and, though there was a great cloud of sparks and still much heat, I saw that unless a strong east wind should spring up there was no longer danger that the town would be consumed. By this time I was cold and stiff, my face scorched by the fire, and my clothes frozen with the water from the pailfuls I had carried. I went into the hotel. Kaiser was so glad to see me that he reared up and put his forepaws on my shoulders. I was patting and praising him, when suddenly the question, What caused the fire? flashed into my mind. There had been no trace of Pike. From the windmill tower I had been unable to see any trail leading from the way he would come. There was no explanation except that it must have been caused by the same thing that had made me so much other trouble. Till it was broad daylight I paced up and down the office floor, unable to stop. For two days I thought of little else, and brooded on it till I was half sick. It seems to me as I look back at it that every time I got fairly desperate through lonesomeness or pure fright I went and dug a snow tunnel. I was as bad as a mole for tunnels; and I meant to tell about my system before this; but so many things keep popping into my mind, what with my memory and with the old hotel register and the letters to my mother lying spread out before me, that I have not once got around to mention any of them except the first, which connected the hotel and the bank, directly across the street. I was so taken up with this that soon after New-Year's I decided to build some others. I was keeping up at that time five fires (or smokes) besides the one in the hotel, to wit: one in the harness shop and one in Joyce's, both at the north end of the street and opposite each other; one in the bank; one in Townsend's store at the south end of the street on the west side, and one in the depot out across the square in front of the south end of the street. There was a chance for a good tunnel to all of these except to the depot; here the northwest wind had swept across the square and the ground in some places was almost bare. But the street between the houses was filled up pretty much like a bread tin with a loaf, and starting from the north side of my first tunnel I began another and ran it straight up the street to between the harness shop and Joyce's, and here I ran side tunnels to each of these. The snow was rather low in front of Joyce's at first, and was not enough above the sidewalk to give me room, but the sidewalk here was high, being made of plank, as were all the walks in town; so I went under it by getting down on my hands and knees, and, as the building had no underpinning, I went on under and up through a trap-door in the floor. I got a good many things to eat from Joyce's, such as canned fruit and the like; but I always wrote down on a piece of paper nailed on the wall everything I got from any store, so that in the spring, if I were still alive, I could pay for it, or, if it were food, Sours could, since I was, of course, still working for him and it was his place to pay for my keep. South from the first tunnel I next ran another and curved it into Townsend's store. This was a fine, high tunnel; and it would have done your heart good to have seen Kaiser whisk about through all of them, filling the air with snow from waving his tail, just like a great feather duster, and oftentimes barking at the top of his voice. "Be still, sir," I would say to him; "you will disturb the neighbors," at the which he would bark the louder. I often wondered what a stranger on top of the drifts would have thought to have heard the dog's noise beneath his feet. It always seemed warm and comfortable in the tunnels, if they were made of snow; this you noticed particularly on a blizzardy day, since, of course, no wind whatever got into them. Indeed, on a windy day I doubt not a snow tunnel would be warmer than a house without a fire. But though Kaiser delighted in the tunnels, Pawsy would have nothing to do with any of them at all except the one which led from the woodshed to the barn. This I made last. I got into it from a shed window, which I cut down and fitted with a rough door. It went into the barn through a small door in the corner, which was in halves, like a grist-mill door. I opened only the lower half, and this tunnel I used mainly in bad weather. I had only just finished it the day before the fire. It was the day after the fire, when I was feverish for some way to get rid of my scare, that I decided to go to work on my place of retreat in case the town was burned. I had thought about building something of the kind for a long while, but could not seem to get it planned out in my mind just to suit me. The burning of the livery stable, of course, set me thinking harder than ever. The place had to be, of course, something that would not burn and some place that could not be found. The only thing that wouldn't burn was the snow, but in case of fire I knew that it would melt for some distance from the buildings. I had just had an example of this. Besides, there had to be a way to get into it which could not be seen either before or after the fire, and this entrance must be from a building so that I would not have to expose myself in going to it. The place must also be where I could stay a few days if I had to. A dozen times I thought I had got the whole thing planned out, and once I wrote about it to my mother, but I always found that something was weak about the plan somewhere. But I now concluded that I had struck on the right thing at last. A hundred feet back of the next building to the north of the one in which I had my bedroom was a small barn where the man who owned the place had kept a cow. It was so small that I always thought he must have measured his cow, like a tailor, and built the barn to fit. Fifty feet back (east) of this barn was a haystack. Before the snow came the top of it had been taken off so it was left about four or five feet high and the shape of a bowl turned wrong side up. It was in the lee of the barn, and the snow had piled up over it in a great drift so that you would never once have guessed that there was such a thing as a haystack within half a mile. It was, maybe, a hundred feet from the Headquarters barn to this stack, with four or five or more feet of snow all the way. My idea was to tunnel from the barn to the stack, dig out some hay on the south side and have a snug room half made of hay and half of snow. There was no underpinning beneath the Headquarters barn (most of the buildings in town simply stood on big stones a few feet apart) and the space where it should have been was filled in with a wide board and banked outside with hay. Under Ned's manger I sawed out a piece of this board big enough to crawl through, and hung it on leather hinges at the top, concealed by the manger. I then dug through the hay and had a clear field for my tunnel straight to the stack. I ran my tunnel, or rather burrow, as it was small and low, a little too much east, and missed the haystack by about three feet, but I probed for it with a long, stiff wire and soon found it. I carried in a hay-knife and cut me out a little room like an Esquimau's house, high enough to sit in and wide and long enough so that I could stretch out comfortably in it. The hay had been wet and was frozen, so there was no danger of its caving down on me. As the stack was all covered with snow no wind could get in, and I knew it would always be warm enough to be comfortable with plenty of clothes and blankets. I took in a buffalo-robe and some things of that sort and left them there. I also cached a box of food there, consisting of dried beef, crackers, and such things; enough, I calculated, to last three days. I could hardly tell what to do about water, but at last tried the plan of chopping ice into small pieces and putting them into some of Mrs. Sours's empty glass fruit-jars. My notion was that in case I was imprisoned there I could button a can inside of my coat and thus thaw enough of the ice to get a drink. I was very well pleased with what I called my fire stronghold. I could enter from a hidden place in the barn, and could get into the barn through the tunnel from the hotel, which connected with the whole tunnel system. I knew if every house in town burned that it would not melt the snow around the stronghold; and I thought if I were in it when the barn burned I could push down the snow where it melted along the tunnel so that it would not be noticed. In short I was so tickled over my Esquimau house that I took Kaiser the first night it was done and slept in it; and though it was one of the coldest nights we were comfortable. I heard the wolves sniffing about on the roof, but we were getting used to wolves. I didn't know that we were going to have to sleep under snow again before spring; and in less comfortable quarters. CHAPTER XVI Telling of how Pike and his Gang come and of what Kaiser and I do to get ready for them: together with the Way we meet them. Here, now, I must tell of how the outlaws came to Track's End, and of the fight we, that is to say, Pike and his gang on the one side and I, Judson Pitcher, on the other side, had that day. I may speak in prejudice, though I mean to be fair, when I say that I believe them to have been as bad a gang of cutthroats as you could well scare up. Though I fought them all as best I could I make no bones of saying that I should ten thousand times rather have been at home blowing the bellows, or doing anything else. I was very lucky with these villains and was not caught away from home flat on my back, as I had been by those other scoundrels, the Indians; if I had not been lucky I should not now be here to tell the tale. Those fellows meant no good to me nor to anybody else. It would have been no bad thing if they could all have been hanged by the neck. They came, then, to Track's End to rob, and to murder if needs be, on Saturday, February 5th. My good luck consisted in this: The evening before, just as the sun was about to go down, I saw them at Mountain's from the windmill tower with Tom Carr's field-glass. I had gone up on purpose to have a look about, as I did two or three times every day when the weather was so I could see. For three days the weather had been much better than at any time before, and it had even thawed a little; so I was not much surprised when I saw horses coming up to the shack from the west. I made out seven men all told, and some extra led horses. I could see that the men went into the shack and that many of the horses lay down. By this I knew they were tired, and guessed that the gang would probably stay there that night and rest. I was surprised that they had got through on horses at all. I stayed on the tower till it was so dark that I could not see any more. The longer I stayed the louder my heart thumped. I knew they might, after all, come that night, either with the horses or on snow-shoes, so I did what I could to get ready for them. The fires were all going well, and I lit several lamps about town. I wished a thousand times for the population I was pretending I had. I thought if I could have even one friend just to talk to perhaps my heart wouldn't act quite so unreasonably. But after a while it tired out and quieted down. My knees got stronger and more like good, sensible knees that you don't have to be ashamed of. I took a look at all the guns and wiped them up. I locked and bolted everything except the doors or windows which led into the tunnels. There wasn't anything more I could do except wait and try to keep that crazy heart of mine a little quiet. I knew that whenever or however they came they would be most likely to come in on the grade, so I thought the best place to wait was in Townsend's store, as they would have to come up facing the back of it. The windows were planked up; but I knew that there were no windows in town, or even sides of houses, either, which would stop a bullet from a good rifle. I calculated if they came in the night it would probably be about one or two o'clock, and if they waited till morning I could look for them when it began to get light. I went over to Townsend's early in the evening and sat down close to a back window in the second story. I had Kaiser with me. I think he was gradually getting the thing through his head, because he had stopped wagging his tail and begun to growl once in a while. I thought I could trust him to hear any sound for three or four hours, and I tried to sleep, but I couldn't. Every few minutes I went up a short ladder and put my head out the scuttle in the roof to look and listen. I heard a good deal, but except for the wolves away off it was all in my ears. About midnight by the stars I went to sleep in my chair before I knew it. When I woke up I gave a great jump. It seemed as if I had been asleep a week; and it certainly had been several hours. Kaiser was sitting on the floor beside my chair. I knelt down and threw my arms around his neck and gave him such a prodigious hug that it must have hurt him. "We will do the best we can!" I said to him. From the roof I could see a faint light in the east. The wind was fresher from the northwest and it was drifting a little; this was good. I scolded myself for having slept so long. I knew if they had come that I should not have been ready for them. I hurried around and fixed the fires. I drank a cup of coffee at the hotel, but couldn't eat anything. I think if I had had outlaws every day that my keep wouldn't have cost Sours very much. I was back at Townsend's in a jiffy. It was getting red in the east now, and the moon, which had shone all night, was about down. It was light enough so I could see pretty well by this time; but I heard the crunching of the crust by the horses' feet before I could see them at all. Then I saw the whole gang coming on a dog-trot along the grade, two abreast, with one ahead, seven pleasant neighbors coming to call on me at Track's End. I let them come as near as they deserved to come to any honest town and then fired a shot in front of them. I tried to see if the bullet skipped on the snow, but the smoke got in my eyes. Anyhow, they stopped pretty quick, and stood all in a bunch, talking. "Maybe you don't like to be shot at," I said out loud. I don't know how it was, but my heart was doing better. I thought I would wait and see before I did any more shooting. They talked a few minutes; then one of them got off his horse, handed his gun and belt to one of the others, took off his big fur coat, pulled out a white cloth and waved it and came walking very slowly toward the town. This seemed fair enough; I had heard my Uncle Ben tell about flags of truce in the war. I waved my handkerchief out of the port-hole and then waited three or four minutes as if we in the houses were talking it over; then I walked boldly out the back door. Kaiser wanted to go along, so I let him. The man walked very slowly, and I did the same, but we came up within a few steps of each other at last. This was out not very far from the water-tank. I had expected it was Pike himself, and, sure enough, it was, wearing a leather jacket with the collar turned up. [Illustration: MY MEETING WITH PIKE, TRACK'S END, FEBRUARY FIFTH] "It's you, is it, Jud?" said he in a kind of sneering tone. (It seemed strange to me to hear a man's voice, I had been so long alone.) "Yes, it's me," I answered. "What do you want?" "I sort of thought these here Track's Enders might send out a full-grown man to talk to me about such an important matter," he went on. "I was man enough to catch you a couple of times and it was only your good luck that you weren't hung up here in Track's End by the neck," I said, a little put out by the way he spoke, because I was almost as big as he was. "Oh, well, no matter. Now you--" "I'll tell you the reason I was sent out," I broke in, just thinking of something. "What is it?" "I can say all there is to say as well as anybody, but I'm a poor shot, so it was decided that if I didn't get back it wouldn't make much difference in the matter of shooting you fellows down if you come any nearer." He pulled his collar down and looked at me over his crooked nose. Kaiser began to growl, but I poked him in the ribs with my foot to let him understand that there was a flag of truce on and he must behave himself. I guess Pike didn't like it, because this sounded as if we couldn't trust him, but he didn't say anything. "Well," he broke out, "there's no use of us standing here and talking. We've come after that $5,000, and you fellers know it." "We told you all we had to say about that in the letter." "Then we'll bust that safe and burn your town," he said, like a savage. "Go ahead and try it," I answered. "We're ready for you." His face, which had looked black as night all the while, now turned white with rage. "We'll try it fast enough and we'll do it fast enough, too," he cried, with some prodigious oaths, bad enough for any pirate. "Look here; I ain't got any gun with me, and I s'pose you ain't, if you're any man at all. But you're as near your gun as I am mine, hey?" "Yes," I said. "Then this here flag of truce is ended right now. When I get hold of my gun I shoot, and you're welcome to do the same!" He turned and started back on the run. So there was nothing for me but to face about and do the same. CHAPTER XVII The Fight, and not much else: except a little Happening at the End which startles me greatly. It seems a good deal to believe, but I actually half think that Kaiser had begun to get hold of the fine points of a flag of truce, and that he understood it was ended. What makes me have this idea is that I think he must have taken after Pike at first, though I wasn't doing much looking back just then, being busy at something more important; but anyhow he wasn't with me till I was halfway to the store, when he passed me with a great bark and went on tearing up the snow a few steps ahead. I wish he had got ahead sooner, as I think I ran faster trying to keep up with him; but as it was I don't know but he saved my life. Either Pike got back before I did, or one of his cutthroats fired for him; I know not, probably the latter, but the shot was for me and well aimed, so well that I guess the bullet went where I was when it started. Thus it was: Kaiser was ahead, and reared up and threw himself at the store door, which, being unlatched, flew open; it stopped him a little, and I, being close behind, went down over him and into the store head first, as if I had been fired out of a cannon; and at that instant the bullet I spoke of struck the open door halfway up. I slammed the door shut, grabbed my rifle, stuck the muzzle through the port-hole, and pumped three shots out of it without once trying to aim. Then, without taking breath, I ran out the front by way of the tunnel to the bank, and so up-stairs, where with another rifle I pumped out two more shots, and then looked. The men had left the grade and were coming full tilt out around the water-tank and graders' carts, their horses rearing and floundering through the drifts. I fired twice, aiming carefully each time, but I don't think I hit. I saw they would soon be out of range. Again I dropped my gun, ran down-stairs and through tunnel No. 1 to the hotel and up-stairs to a corner window, double planked up, and giving me the range on the square and the foot of the street. I was there first, with the hammer of my Winchester back, and with Kaiser behind me wishing, I know, that dogs could shoot. The next second they came in sight and charged for the street. I aimed and fired; I hit this time; one of the horses went down and the man over his head. The other six came straight for the end of the street. I fired again, but saw no results. I counted on the drift stopping them. It did so less than I expected. Two went down in the snow; four came on. I fired and one man dropped off his horse. The hard crust was holding the other three. I fired again, but it did no good. Then the head one, on a pinto pony, went down like a flash out of sight, horse and man. He had gone into tunnel No. 3, leading to Townsend's store. I fired three shots as fast as I could work the lever, without stopping to aim. Then I looked out. The other two riders had turned tail. The horse of one had gone down in the snow and he was running away on foot; the other had got off the drifts without going down. I thought it was Pike. It seemed a good time to shoot at him, and I did so, but without so much as touching him, as I think. The man in the tunnel got out and dodged around the corner of Townsend's store before I could do my duty by him. They were all the next minute at the depot, either in it or behind it. This thing of their taking the depot was something which I had not thought of. They were now as well covered and protected as I; and it was still seven against one, because the man that I shot off of his horse got over with the others by the help of one whose horse went down in the drift. But their building was more exposed than mine, and they could do nothing about their robbery so long as they stayed there. They now began to fire their first shots since the one which followed me into Townsend's store. They were well-aimed shots, too, and the bullets came through my window as if the planks were gingerbread. A splinter of wood struck my left eye and closed it up; but I had it shut most of the time anyhow, aiming with the other, so it didn't matter. However, I didn't like the place, and went back into the room in the northwest corner and got a range on them from one of the front windows. I thought their bullets would glance off of the planks here, and they did; however, the ones which struck the side came right on through, lath partitions and all; but I kept close to the floor. All the time Kaiser stayed close behind me, barking so that I thought he would tear himself to pieces, and with the hair on his back standing straight up. I had two rifles and a hundred or more cartridges, and I began to give the depot a pretty stiff bombarding. I don't think I missed the building once, and I knew every ball went through the side; but what they did after that I couldn't tell. There were three windows in the depot on the side toward me, all close together near the east end, but none at all to the right of them. None of them were boarded up, and the robbers were pretty careful about showing themselves much at them. They gradually dropped off the platform on the other side and crawled under to the front from where I had watched the Indians that day. They were well protected here, but the wind swept across the west end of the square and blew such a spray of snow in their faces that they could not see to aim well. On the other hand the sun had now got up and the reflection came in my eyes and hurt my shooting. I wished that the horse was out of the way so I could get through tunnel No. 3 into Townsend's, where a side window, well planked, looked right down on the depot; but it was just as well that I couldn't, as I found out afterward. They were still thinking that there was a large population in Track's End, and I could see splinters flying all over town where they were plugging away at windows and doors. I soon noticed that they were not shooting quite so much, and thought some of them might be sneaking around and thinking of coming up from the west, so I went through to the bank once in a while, firing a few shots from its front window at the depot so as to keep up their large-population idea. At the third visit I looked out back and saw a man run from the coal-shed to behind the water-tank. I got ready and waited. Another ran across. I gave him a shot which made him jump. Then I fired half a dozen shots through the inclosed part below the tank, and if any of the balls missed the big timbers they must have gone through. I thought those fellows would keep awhile, and ran back to the hotel and began to pepper away at the depot again. This I kept up for an hour, I think, when I caught a glimpse of one of the men from the tank going back, and thought likely they had both gone. The outlaws made just one more rally, and it was very well planned, and if I had not been expecting it it might, after all, have gone hard with the town of Track's End. All at once they began an uncommonly lively firing from under the depot platform. I thought this might mean a charge from the other side, so I started to see. Joyce's store ran back farther than any of the others on that side of the street, and had a side window near the back corner; so I went there instead of to the bank. It was slow work crawling under the sidewalk and getting up through the trap-door, but I made it at last and ran to the window. Two of the men were charging straight across the square for the rear of Townsend's, carrying a big torch of sticks and twisted hay. The window was not boarded up, but I stuck my rifle barrel through the glass and fired at them. The bullet, I think, struck the torch, because I saw the fire fly in all directions. They dropped it and retreated in a great panic, while I shot again. I ran back to the hotel and began shooting once more at the depot. They never fired another shot. I went over to the bank and from the back window I could see them going away to the southwest, keeping under cover of the tank and coal-shed. They came around up on to the grade a half-mile to the west. I had a look at them through the glass. Some were walking and some riding. There seemed to be two men on one horse. I think that more than one of them was wounded, but the drifting snow now made it hard to see. I went back through the hotel and down the street to watch them from the tower above the snow. The pony which had fallen into the tunnel was still there. I noticed it wore an expensive Mexican saddle, all heavy embossed leather, with a high cantle, silver ornaments, big tapaderos on the stirrups, and a horsehair bridle with silver bit. There was a red blanket rolled up and tied on behind the saddle. As I went by Townsend's I saw that the window I wanted to get to was as full of holes as a skimmer, and I was glad the horse had blocked up my way. I noticed that the depot wasn't much better off, however, for holes. I went up the tower and watched the outlaws for half an hour. They stopped a few minutes at Mountain's to get their extra horses and then went on. The wind was coming fresher all the time and I was pretty well chilled when I got down. I was hurrying along across the drifts to the hotel when I noticed the horse in the tunnel again. But his fine saddle and bridle were gone. I knew instantly that it must be the work of my unknown night visitor, who had not stolen anything for some time. This was the first thing that had been disturbed by daylight; it was growing bolder. My heart had behaved itself so well during the fight that I had forgotten that I had such a thing; now it started to thumping so hard that I thought it was all there was to me. CHAPTER XVIII After the Fight: also a true Account of the great Blizzard: with how I go to sleep in the Stronghold and am awakened before Morning. So that is the true history of the fight, just as it all happened at Track's End, Territory of Dakota, on Saturday, February 5th; and thus, through good luck and being well intrenched behind my fortifications, and having plenty of Winchesters, I beat off the cutthroat outlaws and held the town. If they had waited one day longer for their coming they would have waited a good while longer; for the next day there came such a blizzard as I had never seen before nor since, which roared without ceasing six days, lacking twelve hours; and for two weeks more the weather stayed bad, and seemed to have relapses, as they say of a person sick. No robbers could have come through it, but the ones that had come got back to their headquarters through the first of it, as I have good reason to know. And for almost six weeks after the fight I lived regularly and without much disturbance, with Kaiser and the other animals for company by day and the howling of the wolves and my own thoughts by night. If the thoughts had given me no more trouble than the wolves I should have been happy, for I think I had got so that I could not sleep unless there was a wolf howling somewhere about in the neighborhood. The loneliness, the dread of the outlaws coming back, the mystery of what or who was in or near the wretched town besides myself, all kept with me and made me wish ten thousand times that I had never heard of the place, or of any place except home. Though of course I did not keep so miserable all the while. There was plenty of work to be done, and I kept at it most of the time. My eye soon got well. The day after I beat off the outlaws and had a little recovered from the work and strain of that and of the strange start the disappearance of the saddle gave me, I found so many things waiting to be done that I scarce knew what to turn my hand to first. But I had thought the poor pony in the tunnel deserved to be got out before anything else was done; and this I attended to an hour after the robbers had gone. I went out half expecting to find it gone, too, with its saddle; but it was not. It was quite tired out and stood hanging its head. To get it out the way it had tumbled in would take a great amount of shoveling in the hard snow, I soon saw, so I decided I would try to lead it through the tunnel and on out by way of the hotel, though it seemed an odd thing to do. So I put a halter on it and tried that plan, and though its back scraped a little in places, what with me ahead and with Kaiser behind barking a good deal, we got it along and into the office and then on through the storeroom and kitchen and out to the barn. Dick and Ned were much excited by the new arrival, and so for that matter was Blossom; and Crazy Jane was like to have cackled her head off. The poor things were the same as I, half dead from lonesomeness. Then I straightened up things about town which had been put out of order by the fight, fixed the fires again and cleaned up the guns. I didn't forget to go up the windmill tower several times to have a look for the outlaws, but I saw no more of them. Another thing I did was to lay some big slabs of frozen snow over the hole in the tunnel where the pony fell through, and it was a good thing I did this or I believe the blizzard would have gone near to filling the whole tunnel system. As it was it piled on more snow and covered all trace of the robbers' charge on the street. I think it would not be possible for me to make you understand what a blizzard that was, which began the next day and kept up for the best part of a whole week. All day and night it roared and pushed at the windows and drove the snow in every crack and hole; here piled it up and there swept it away clean down to the ground. Not once did I go out beyond the tunnels. The fire at the depot I let go out, and the others I kept up more to have something to do than for any use they were, because I knew no outlaws could ever come in such a storm. While the blizzard lasted I had a hard time to find enough to do to keep my mind off of my troubles. In an old recipe-book, which I found in the closet under the stairs, it told how to tan skins, so I began tanning my wolf-skins. I whittled out some puzzles, too, and made a leather collar for Pawsy; but she would not wear it. I forgot to say that after the fight I found her in her old place over the door. I taught Kaiser some tricks, too, and gave the cat a chance to improve herself in the same way, but she refused the opportunity. I did some reading, too, during these days. There was little to read in the Headquarters House, but among Tom Carr's things I found a book by Doctor Kane, telling of his life in the arctic regions, and this I enjoyed a great deal, feeling that I was in a country not much warmer, and that I must be more lonely than he was, since he always had human companions, while I had not one. In Mr. Clerkinwell's rooms over the bank I found some other books, all with very fine leather covers. Some of these I took the liberty of borrowing, but was very careful of them. One was _The Pilgrim's Progress_, and I liked most of it exceedingly, especially the fight in the king's highway which Christian had with Apollyon. Another book was a story, very entertaining, by Charles Dickens, about little Pip and the convict who came back from Australia; I felt very sorry for Pip when he had to go out on the wet marshes so early, he being so little and the marshes so big. There was another thing that I tried to amuse myself with, being nothing less than music. I found an old banjo belonging to Tom Carr and an accordion which Andrew had left behind. The banjo I could not do much with, but when I saw the accordion I said to myself that if I could blow the bellows in my father's forge, I ought to be able to work an accordion. So I went at it, hammer and tongs, and soon could produce a great noise, though mighty dismal, I think, and maybe what you would (had you heard it) have called heartrending, since whenever I started up Kaiser would point his nose to the ceiling and howl, very sad indeed. I think when one of our concerts was going on that could a guest have arrived at the Headquarters House he would have thought he had found a home for lunatics and not a hotel for an honest traveler who could pay his way. During the blizzard also I drew up in black and white a programme for each day which I decided I must follow out when the weather became better; though I had lived up to most of it from the first. Thus it was: Five o'clock--Get up, start fire in hotel and make cup of coffee. Five-thirty--Inspect fires in bank and three stores. Six o'clock--Feed horses and cow and chickens, and milk cow. Six-thirty--Get breakfast for self and Kaiser and Pawsy (which included washing the dishes, a hard job). Seven-thirty--Inspect depot fire and climb windmill tower and look over country with glass. Eight o'clock--Finish work at barn; and for two hours such miscellaneous work as might be doing, as tunnels or other fortifications. Ten o'clock--Windmill mounting again; miscellaneous work for two hours. Noon--Dinner for family and work at barn. One-thirty--Inspection of fires and windmill mounting; followed by miscellaneous work. Three o'clock--Windmill mounting; miscellaneous work. Four-thirty--Final daylight inspection of country from windmill; miscellaneous work. Six o'clock--Supper and work at barn. Eight o'clock--General inspection of fires and town, including observation from windmill for lights or fires. Nine o'clock--Bed. This system I followed out pretty closely whenever the weather was at all fair. When there was no miscellaneous work I would practise on the skees, shoot at the target, or something of this sort. Quite often on days when the weather would allow (though there were few enough of them) I would go up around and beyond the Butte on a little hunt. I got several jack-rabbits and three more wolves. One of the wolves I left outside the shed, forgetting it. In the morning it was gone. There were not many thefts, however, and the shed was not broken into any more; though, to be sure, I had made the door twice as strong as it was before, and kept everything about town carefully and strongly locked, especially the buildings where the guns and ammunition were. During the worst storms I used to sleep on the lounge in the hotel office, but at other times I always retired to the other building and took in the drawbridge. Two or three times, just for a change, I took Kaiser and slept in the fire stronghold. Kaiser and Pawsy still remained as much company for me as they had been from the first. What I should ever have done in that solitude without them I don't know. The great bushy wag of Kaiser's tail, and the loud purr of the cat, were the two things that cheered me more than anything else. I do believe that cat to have had the loudest purr of any cat that ever lived. A young tiger need not have been ashamed of it. And as for the grand wave and flourish of Kaiser's tail, it is beyond all description. On one of my rabbit-hunting trips, about a week after the big blizzard, I very foolishly got both of my feet frost-bitten and paid the full penalty. The day seemed not quite so cold, and I did not put on the heavy pair of woolen stockings which I commonly wore outside of my shoes and inside of my overshoes. I crouched behind a snowbank beyond the Butte for some time waiting for a rabbit which I saw to come within range, something which he did not do, and was so interested in this that I did not notice what was happening to my feet. But what had happened was quite plain enough when I got home and a great ache set up in my toes. I got the dish-pan full of snow and thrust my feet in, to draw out the frost gradually; but this did not save me. Two days later I was fairly laid up. One whole day I could scarce crawl about the hotel office and keep the fire going. I could not get to the barn to feed the animals, though they were suffering for food and water; and what I called my war-fires in the other buildings I knew were out. My feet were much swollen, and the pain and the worry must have brought on a fever, and I lay on the lounge all day expecting nothing less than a fit of sickness; and what will become of me? I asked myself. I had no appetite for food, which alarmed me very greatly. I remember no day of my life at Track's End which seemed darker to me. Toward night I fell asleep, and awoke with Kaiser licking my face and whining. I remembered that I had seen in the pantry a package of boneset, an herb by which my father set great store, holding it a sovereign remedy for all common complaints. I roused up, and by clinging to the back of a chair hobbled after it, and steeped myself a large mugful, very hot, and I believe it did me good. Be this as it may, as the saying is, I was better the next day, and managed to feed the poor, hungry creatures at the barn; and the day after I was able to start the fires. But for a week my feet were very painful, and I suffered much. It was a little more cheerful as the days began to get longer as February went on, and in the latter part of the month I thought the weather seemed to grow slightly better on the whole. For three days after the big blizzard the thermometer had stood from forty to forty-five below zero each morning, and it did not get up much higher at any time during the day. On the last two days of February it thawed a little in the afternoon, and on March 2d the snow was soft enough so I could make snowballs to throw at Kaiser; but it soon turned cold again. There were northern lights many nights, flaming all over the heavens, like long swords, and on the night of February 15th there were some more prodigious than I would believe were possible had I not seen them with these eyes. They hung, wavering and trembling, over the whole northern sky almost to the zenith, like the lower edges of vast, mighty curtains, swaying and moving, now here, now there, and with all colors, yellow, violet, scarlet, blood red, as if the whole heavens were going to burn up, the thing being so marvelous that had I not seen lesser displays before I should have thought the world were at an end, no less, and have died, I do believe, of terror. As it was I stood in the snow by the barn gazing till my feet were like blocks of ice and I knew not if I were in Track's End or in the moon. Kaiser at first barked at the sight, then growled, then whined, and next ran yelping away to the shed, where I found him crept beneath a bench. Never in my life before nor since have I seen anything to equal the heavens that night. Early on the morning of February 24th I saw a beautiful mirage. I could see plainly, high in the air, the timber and bluffs along the Missouri, and the Chain-of-Lakes and coteaux. It lasted for a full half-hour. [Illustration: THE INDIAN GETTING MY RIFLE IN THE STRONGHOLD] It happened on the night of March 14th that I took it into my head to sleep another night in the stronghold with Kaiser, and so brought about one more startling thing. It seemed that I must always be doing something instead of staying content with things as they were. It had been thawing a little for several days and I was beginning to wonder if I could not hope for such weather that the train might get through before long and release me from the awful place; though I knew the snow was packed in the cuts all along the line to the east like ice, and that it would take a great thaw to make any impression on it. About nine o'clock I left the hotel, after carefully locking everything, and went through the tunnel to the barn with Kaiser, my rifle, and the lantern. I locked all the doors behind me, and then we crawled through the small door under Ned's manger, and that I fastened also. In the stronghold I rolled up in a blanket and the buffalo-robe with Kaiser beside me. I left the lantern burning in the tunnel just beyond my feet at the edge of the stack. Kaiser barked at something when we first got in; later I heard wolves sniffing about on the roof; then we both went to sleep. Some time in the night I awoke; what woke me I suppose I shall never know. But when I awoke I sat up suddenly as if I had never been asleep. I was face to face with the worst-looking creature I had ever seen in my life, black and blear-eyed and ugly, on his hands and knees in the tunnel beyond the lantern drawing my gun toward him by the stock. Then Kaiser sprang up like any wild beast; but I held him back by the collar. CHAPTER XIX I find out who my Visitor is: with Something about him, but with more about the Chinook which came out of the Northwest: together with what I do with the Powder, and how I again wake up suddenly. When I sat up there in the stronghold and saw that creature with the glare of the lantern on his hideous face I knew two things, and these were, first, that it was an Indian, and, second, that he was the thief who had made me so much trouble, though how I knew this latter I can't say. I knew, too, that I was at his mercy. What I should have done first I don't know if it had not been for Kaiser, but he acted so that it took all my strength to quiet him. I saw it would not do to let him spring at the wretch, who was now squatting in the snow at the mouth of the tunnel with my gun on his knee, the muzzle pointed straight at me. When at last Kaiser began to act like a reasonable being, I said to the Indian, pretty loud and sharp, so he wouldn't know I was scared: "What do you want?" He grunted and made a noise down in his throat, which I couldn't see meant anything. So I said: "Don't understand. Where'd you come from?" He only grunted again. I knew that a great many times an Indian will pretend he can't talk English when he can, so I kept at him. "What you going to do with the gun?" I next asked him. This seemed to interest him. He looked down at it over his thick eyelids and said in very good English: "Shoot thieves. Steal Indians' ponies." It flashed upon me that perhaps I could make him help me after all, though I could see that he was a renegade and a drunkard. "Did you see the fight?" I asked, beginning vaguely to suspect the truth. He gave a grunt which meant yes. "Heap good fight," he added. "Will you help fight if they come again?" He said nothing, but sat looking at Kaiser, who was still growling, and only kept back because I held him by the collar. "Where do you stay?" I asked. He made no answer. "How did you come here?" I went on. "Other Indians," he said. "Long sleep--gone when wake up." I thought I saw through the whole thing. "Did you see face--all fire--looking at you down in cellar?" He only gazed at me out of his little black eyes. I guessed that he had drunk more than the others and had gone to sleep before the bad spirit looked in at the window, and so had not seen it and had been left behind. "Did you see barn burn--big fire?" I asked. He made not a sound in reply to this. "Give me the gun," I said. He gave his head a little shake and jerked out a sharp grunt. "Give it to me and I give you another to-morrow." He made not a movement or sound. I could see that he had no intention of giving it up. "Do you live in cellar?" I asked. He made the sound that seemed to mean yes. I remembered that I had not gone down into Fitzsimmons's cellar after the Indians went away because things were in such confusion that I saw I could do nothing with them. Since that I had had no occasion to go into the store at all. I had no doubt that he had stolen everything I had missed, but had been unable to get a gun before, because I had kept them very carefully under lock and key. I thought from his looks that he had probably lived principally on the liquor in the cellar, with the groceries that were in the store and what meat he had stolen from me. I could feel that it was getting colder in the stronghold, and guessed that he had broken open the tunnel, either purposely, after hearing Kaiser bark, or by accident when walking over it, as the thaw had weakened the roof a good deal. "Want to get out," I said. "Go first!" He pressed back close to the wall of the tunnel. "You go--take dog," he said. I made Kaiser go ahead, took the lantern and followed, saying "Come" to the Indian. He did so, simply stooping down, though I crawled on my hands and knees. Sure enough, the tunnel was broken down near the barn. We got out through the hole and went across the drifts to the open place back of the hotel. I tried again to get the gun away from him, but he hung on to it tighter than ever. I asked him if he were hungry, and he forgot to grunt and said "yes." I brought out some food for him, and he stood in the shed and ate it like a hungry wolf. He gave a satisfied grunt when he got through, and I once more tried to get him to let me have the gun, but he hung to it without even a grunt, and started in the direction of the Fitzsimmons building. I went with him, as I could not understand how he had gone in and out for so long without my seeing some traces of it. He stalked on in silence, his moccasins not making a sound on the hard snow. There was a well with a high curb a few feet behind the Fitzsimmons building and directly opposite the window through which I had shown the jack-lantern. There was now a big bank of snow as high as the well curb from it to the building. He stepped over in the well curb, and, without looking back, disappeared through a hole in the side of it where he had pried off some of the boards. He had borrowed one of my ideas and made a tunnel between the well and window. I went back to the hotel, and though I did not like the notion of his having the gun, there was a great load gone from my mind. I saw that every mysterious happening could be explained by the presence of the Indian. I made no doubt he had set the livery stable on fire by using matches when visiting it to find something to steal. A few sounds and part of the glimpse I got of him that night when I watched in the shed would have to be charged to my imagination; but I guess it could stand it. I had to laugh at myself when I remembered how I had thought I heard strange noises before the Indians came at all. I think I slept better the rest of the night (though it was only a few hours) than I had for a long time, notwithstanding the shock I got when I sat up and saw the Indian, when my heart, instead of beating too much, just stood still and didn't beat at all. I saw nothing of the Indian the next morning, and after breakfast went to the Fitzsimmons store. I took the lantern and went down cellar. Everything was still in the greatest disorder. Boxes of groceries had been broken open, and empty cans were scattered everywhere. The missing saddle lay in one corner. I looked about for the Indian, and at first thought he was gone. But at last I found him half in a big box turned on its side, rolled up in blankets, some of which he had stolen from the bed in the hotel. One was a horse-blanket which I was sure came from the livery stable, so I now felt certain that he had been responsible for the fire. He was sound asleep. I poked him with my foot, but he did not move. I instantly knew that he had been drinking more of the whiskey and was sleeping off its effects. I picked up a hatchet, knocked off the spigot, and let the contents of the barrel run on the ground. I took my lantern and started for the cellar-stairs. I glanced back at the Indian, and just as I did so he moved one foot a trifle and I saw something under it. I went back and looked closer and saw that it was the stock of my rifle, of which I had not once thought that morning. I instantly decided that I must get it away from him. I stood my lantern in line with the foot of the stairs, knelt down and very slowly and cautiously began to pull the gun from beneath the Indian. He was lying on it full length, and I knew there was vast danger of waking him. He was much larger than I, and I made no doubt three times as strong. I fairly held my breath as the weapon slowly yielded to my efforts. I got it perhaps a third of the way out when it stuck fast, caught, perhaps, on some of the Indian's clothing. I pulled as hard as I could. It disturbed him, and he moved his feet, and then with one arm threw off the blanket from his shoulders. Like a flash I made up my mind to have that gun regardless of anything. I jumped forward, and with my knees and hands rolled that savage over as if he had been a log of wood, grabbed the rifle, and started for the stairs. I snatched at the lantern, but missed it and knocked it over. The flame wavered for an instant and went out. Up the stairs in total darkness I swarmed on all fours, dragging the gun by the muzzle, so that had the hammer caught on anything I am sure the bullet had gone clean through my body. I slammed the door at the top, scrambled out a side window where I had got in, and ran across the drifts to the hotel like a scared coyote, sitting down in the office weak as a cat. I expected no less than that he would follow me, but he did not, and I question if he roused up further from his drunken stupor. Looking back I see what a coward I showed myself; but it seemed quite natural at the time. It was this day, March 15th, that there began the big thaw. I could not hope spring had come to stay, and that there would be no more winter weather, but it gave me hope that a train might get through. I needed hope of some kind to keep up my spirits, because I felt that with a little good weather I could look for the Pike gang again. If I could have been sure that the train would come first I should have been gladder to see the thaw than anything else in the world; as it was I wished it might hold off till I could feel that spring had come in earnest. The 15th was warm, but the snow melted very little. The next morning came the chinook. It was straight from the northwest, where all the blizzards had come from, but it was warmer than any south wind. All day it blew, and the snowbanks disappeared as if they were beside a hot stove. Before night there was a hole in the roof of tunnel No. 3. When I went to bed there were patches of bare ground and pools of water in the square. The next morning the chinook was still blowing. It had been eating away at the snowbanks all night. I saw the top of the stronghold haystack from my bedroom window. Tunnel No. 1 had caved in. All day the wind kept up. By night the tunnel system was nothing but a lot of gaping cuts in the snow. The drifts had settled so much that the windows and doors were exposed, and it would soon be possible to ride on horseback along the street. I had never seen a chinook wind before, of course, but Tom Carr had told me about them. This one was a strong, steady wind sweeping all day and all night straight from the northwest, and seemed to blow right through the drifts. I had rather have seen the snow going in any other way, because I knew this wind only followed the valley of the Missouri River and I was afraid that it did not reach far enough east to thaw out the cuts on the railroad so that the longed-for train could get through. But on the other hand it of course covered all of the country between Track's End and the outlaws' headquarters, and I knew that there was now nothing to hinder their coming; and I was afraid that if they did come I could not keep them off. This day the Indian came out for the first time. I tried to talk with him some more, but could not get much out of him. He cast some very black looks at me, as I supposed for my taking away the gun and, more important, probably, knocking the spigot off of that barrel. This night I felt sure the outlaws would come again, and I did not go to bed at all. I stayed all night in Townsend's store, thinking to give them as warm a reception as I could. The next morning, the 18th, the chinook had stopped, but it was still thawing, though not so fast. There was scarcely any wind, but the sun was warm. I tried to take a nap after dinner, but I was too nervous. The prairie was half bare. The little drifts were all gone and the big ones had shrunk to little ones. There was a good deal of snow in the street yet, but it would be easy to ride through it. I walked about all day trying to think of what was best to do. I knew that I could not keep awake another night. At last I decided to try putting the Indian on guard part of the night. He had said (I thought that was what he meant) that the outlaws had stolen ponies from his tribe, and I concluded he could have no love for them, even if he had none for me. I found him in the store, but he was still sullen about the spigot. "Want you to watch to-night for robbers," I said to him. He only looked at me, so I repeated it, and added: "I will give you rifle, shoot if they come." At this he grunted and said, "All right." He waited a moment and seemed to be thinking; then suddenly he raised his left hand tightly shut above his head, looked at it with half-closed eyes, and said, "Ugh! scalp 'em!" It made my blood run cold to see that big savage standing there within arm's-length gloating over an imaginary scalp, knowing as I did that he would probably enjoy scalping me quite as much. But I said nothing except to make him understand that he could go to bed if he wanted to, and I would wake him when it was time. I thought I would stay up as long as I could myself. Twenty times that day I climbed the windmill tower and looked one way for the outlaws and the other for the train, but got no sight of either. The track was mostly bare as far as I could see, but I knew that even if the chinook had reached so far east many cuts around where Lone Tree had been and west even as far as the last siding, No. 15, would still be half full of snow and ice which would need a vast deal of shoveling and quarrying before any train could come through. It was growing colder, and after the sun went down it began to freeze. I thought I could easily sit up till midnight, and after it was dark began patrolling the sidewalk like a policeman. The Indian had gone to sleep in his cellar. There was an east wind which felt as if it might bring snow. I was getting so tired that I could scarce drag my feet and was having another fit of the shivers thinking about the outlaws, when suddenly, as I stood in front of Taggart's, something popped into my head which I had not thought of for almost three months. This was the big can of powder inside the store. I forgot my shivers and ran to the hotel for the lantern. Then I had another look at the powder-can. It was like any tin can, only big, almost, as a keg. There was an opening in the top with a cover which screwed on. I was wondering if there was not some way that I could put the can under the floor of the bank and blow up the robbers if they tried to open the safe. I felt that the chances for beating them off again in a fight, with no fortifications, were very slim. You may think it strange that I felt so sure the robbers would come again, after having been beaten off once. I was not certain of it, of course, but I knew Pike was not a man to give up easily, and that he must have fully understood how much the snow helped to defeat them. I knew that since the weather had moderated a spy might have come in the night and discovered that I was alone and how defenseless the town was. I had heard of fuse, but it happened that I had never seen any in my life. I remember I thought it must be white and soft like the string of a firecracker. So I began to rummage through all the drawers and boxes for fuse. One of the first things I came across was a coil of black, stiff, tarry string, but I threw it to one side and went on looking for fuse. After I had hunted half an hour and found none, I gave up. As I stood there thinking, a good deal discouraged, my eye lighted on the black coil again. My curiosity made me pick it up, and on looking at one end closely I thought I could see powder. I cut off about six inches of it and touched one end to the lantern flame. There was a little fizz of fire and I stood holding it in my hand and wondering what it was doing inside, when suddenly there was a bigger fizz at the other end and a streak of fire shot down inside my sleeve to my elbow. I concluded that I had found some fuse. In five minutes I had the powder and fuse in the bank. Then the hopelessness of putting it under the floor dawned upon me. I looked under the building and found a solid square of stones laid up beneath where the safe stood to keep the floor from settling. Everywhere else the water was six inches deep. I went back into the bank. Eight or ten feet in front of the safe was a high counter running straight across the room. Under it was a waste-basket, a wooden box of old newspapers, a spool-cabinet for legal papers, a copying-press, and some other stuff. I stood the can of powder in the waste-basket. It was a good fit, with room enough around the outside to stuff in some paper to hide it. Then I put the basket in the box of newspapers. I cut the fuse in two in the middle, unscrewed the cover and put the ends of the two pieces down in the powder, balancing the copying-press on top to hold them in place. I covered the whole thing up with newspapers. Then I brought an auger from Taggart's and bored a hole a little above the floor through the side of the building, and right on through the side of the building to the south, which stood so close that it almost touched the bank. There was nothing to either except a one-inch board and a thickness of lath and plastering. I passed the two lines of fuse through the two holes, and into the other building, which was a drug store. In the other building I tied a loose knot in the ends of the fuse and left it lying on the floor behind the counter and covered with a door-mat. Ten minutes later I had my Indian ally posted on the platform of the depot with his gun. "If pony thieves come, shoot at them," I said to him. "I'll get up and shoot at them too." "All right, me shoot," he said; "take plenty scalp." I went back to the drug store feeling better. There were now two chances for defeating the outlaws if they came; to beat them off, or blow them up with the powder. I lay down on the floor back of the counter with my head on the door-mat. The windows were boarded up, and I felt sure that even if they came they would never find me here. I woke up three hours later, as I had that first night six months before in the Headquarters House, with Pike hold of my ear, and a man pushing a smoky lantern in my face. CHAPTER XX What the Outlaws do on their second Visit: with the awful Hours I pass through, and how I find myself at the End. The first thing I heard was a loud laugh, and then: "How are you, Jud?" said Pike. "Back again, you see. Hope yer feeling all right." I saw I might as well make the best of it, though you may be sure I was half scared to death. "Yes, I'm feeling pretty well," I said. "I was able to be about the last time you were here, maybe you remember." Pike scowled at me. "Yes, that's so, you was," he said. "You stood us off in pretty good shape that time--you and the snow. We were fools not to find out that you were all alone. But we app'inted an investigating committee _this_ time, and we're onto your game. Just excuse me, but I'll have to ask you to wear a little of Taggart's jewelry while we tend to some important business." He pulled out a pair of handcuffs and slipped one of them around my wrist and shut it up so tight that it pressed into the flesh. Then he led me in front of the counter, slipped the other cuff through a brace under the front edge of the counter, and then clasped it around my other wrist, leaving the short chain which connected the cuffs behind the brace, so that I was a prisoner. He pushed up a chair and said: "Set down and make yourself comfortable, Jud. I'll see if I can't find a handful of buttons for you, and you can put 'em on the counter and play checkers with your nose." The men laughed at this, and Pike went on: "We met your pardner out here, the dark-complected feller. He was a-riding off our pinto that we left here by mistake last winter, with our saddle and things, and a-leading your two broncs, so we just stopped him and gathered 'em in, and I reckon they're _all_ our'n now, _most_ of 'em, _anyhow_. And in consideration of our only shooting him around the edges careful like, he give us some valuable information, such as just where you was a-sleeping, Jud, and where we'd find the blacksmith tools, and so forth. That's the way to get along with an Injun and have everything all easy-going--shoot 'im, _very careful_, around the edges." Again they all laughed, and then went out the back door, which, I noticed, had a small hole cut in it over the bolt big enough to let in a man's hand. There were five of them, counting Pike. The windows were boarded up and it was dark in the store, but as the door opened I saw that it was quite light outside and that it was snowing. [Illustration: PIKE HANDCUFFING ME IN THE DRUG STORE, MARCH NINETEENTH] As I sat there in the dark unable to move and with the handcuffs cutting into my wrists you may believe I was miserable enough. I expected nothing short of being killed by the gang before they left. I saw what a fool I had been to trust the scoundrelly Indian even as much as I had. It was a little satisfaction, however, to know that he had failed to get off with his stolen property even if it had fallen into the hands of a worse set of thieves. I soon heard them at work on the safe in the bank. Of course I thought of my fuse, but it was a dozen feet away, the other side of the counter, and I could see not a shadow of hope of getting at it. I think I sat there as much as two hours, listening to the noise in the next building, when Pike came in and said: "You'll be glad to hear, Jud, that we're getting along beautiful on that safe. We're a-going to blow the stuffing out of it the next thing _you_ know. Reckon if you ain't particular we'll just borrow a sleigh we see out here and a set of Sours's harness for a couple of our horses when we go away, 'cause we think the specie may be a little heavy. Besides, we're calculating there may be some other stuff around town worth taking off--Winchesters and such agricultural and stock-raising implements," and he laughed. He seemed to be in very good humor. He went back, and for another long while I heard nothing but steady drilling on the safe and a little of their talk, though I could not catch much of that. Sometimes, too, I could hear Kaiser barking. He was locked in the hotel, and I thought he knew I was in trouble and wanted to get out and help me. After what seemed hours Pike came in again. "We blow 'er open now very shortly," he said. "A reg'ler little Fourth o' July celebration of our own, hey, Jud?" Then he laughed and went on: "We need that money and you bet it's going to come handy." He looked at me, came closer with the lantern, and said: "Jud, what d'ye say to coming in with us and having your share like a man? You're a good one, if you _are_ young, and we can find plenty of work for you, and always you get your share." "No," I said, "I don't care to." He looked at me sharply a moment and then went on: "Just as you please, of course. But me and the boys was talking it over and we calculated it was the best way to dispose of you, a _pile_ the best for you and _some_ better for us." I had kept looking straight into his eyes, under his big eyebrows. "No," I said, "I won't do it." "Oh, take your choice," he answered, "take your choice. Just as you think best, of course. Only you know the old saying about how dead men don't tell any tales. And if you come in with us you get your share, just the same as if you'd done your part of the work." I said nothing. He waited a minute, then went out and shut the door. I sprang up and pulled and wrenched at the brace with all my strength. The handcuffs cut into my wrists, but I did not feel it. The brace stayed as firm as ever. I sat down weak and trembling with my last hope gone. A minute later there was a loud explosion in the bank, which shook the building I was in. Next came a cheer from the men. Then voices, and I heard Pike shout: "It's all afire here--bring a pail of water, Joe!" The well windlass creaked and I heard a man start in from the back. Next I heard Pike say, "We'll soon fix that fire," then came an explosion and a crash, like an earthquake, and the wall came down upon me, and the counter came over and I was half under it. I heard the cries of the men, and, wriggling about, I got out from under the counter and found my hands free from the brace, and the snowflakes coming in my face through where half the side of the building had been blown away. CHAPTER XXI After the Explosion: some cheerful Talk with the Thieves, and a strange but welcome Message out of the Storm. As I struggled to my feet out of the wreck I was so dazed that I had to lean against the wall to keep from falling. I felt something running down my face and at first wondered what it was; then I saw it was blood. One of my arms felt numb and I was afraid it was broken; and my hands were all torn and bruised. I could not see into the other building for the smoke and falling snow, but I could hear the groans and curses of the men. I thought that if any of them were able they might come to take revenge on me, and that I best go away, especially as I was helpless with the handcuffs still on my wrists. I managed to pull open the front door and ran to Taggart's, thinking that I might get the handcuffs off in some way. I found the box from which Pike had got them. There were two other pairs, with keys. I took the keys in my teeth and tried, but neither would fit mine. Then I went to the tin shop up-stairs. There was a file on the bench and I managed to get this into the vise and began rubbing the chain up and down on the edge of it. It was the hardest work I ever did, but I soon saw that I could get my hands free in time if I kept on. Once or twice I heard Pike shouting something and I could still hear Kaiser barking in the hotel. I don't know how long it took, but at last I got my hands separated, though of course the clasps were still tightly around my wrists. I looked out of the window and saw that the sleigh was in front of the bank with a pair of the outlaws' horses hitched to it. I was afraid that the safe had been blown open with the first explosion and that they were getting the money after all. I ran out the back door and along behind the buildings to the hotel. Kaiser bounded around me, and Pawsy was again in her old place over the door. I peeped through the cracks in the boards over one of the front windows. The whole front of the bank was blown away, but I could just make out through the snow that the inner door of the safe was still closed. Two of the men were lying in the bottom of the sleigh, motionless, whether dead or alive I knew not. Pike was on the floor of the bank, propped up on one elbow, giving orders to the one they called Joe, who was helping the fifth man into the sleigh, who seemed badly wounded and sat in the bottom of the box. Then Joe went back to help Pike. He took him by the arms and was dragging him toward the sleigh, when I suddenly made up my mind that I would keep Pike. I went to the closet and got Sours's double-barreled shot-gun. I knew there was no weapon that they would fear so much at close range. I opened the door and walked out into the street with it. "Just leave Pike right here," I said. "I'll take care of him. The rest of you go on." I guess they thought I was buried under the rubbish in the drug store, because I have seldom seen men more astonished. I walked up closer. Even Joe looked half wrecked, and his face was all blackened with powder. "Hello, Jud," called Pike. "You ain't a-going to strike a man when he's down, be you, Jud? I might 'a' been harder on you many a time than I was, Jud." "No, I won't hurt you, but you've got to stay, that's all," I said. "Help him over to the hotel and then go on with the others and don't come back," I added, looking at Joe. There was nothing for him but to do as he was told, because I held the gun on them both, and they had heard the click as I drew back the hammers. Pike's left leg seemed to be broken and he was all burned and blackened with the powder. I sent Joe for a mattress, which he put on the floor of the office and rolled Pike on it. Then he drove off with the others. So that is the whole account of the second visit of the outlaws to Track's End, just as it all happened, Saturday, March 19th. "Now, Pike," I said, after Joe had gone, "the first thing--out with that handcuff key!" He took it from his pocket and gave it to me. I unlocked each of my bracelets. They left deep red marks around my wrists. Pike asked for a drink of water and I got it for him. I could see that he was in pain. "You've played it on us again, Jud, I'll be hanged if you ain't," he said to me. "What'd you have under that counter, Jud?" "A can of blasting-powder," I answered. "Dangerous place to store it when there's explosions, and kerosene lamps and hot stoves, and fires, and such truck around. It done us fellers up, and that's a fact." "Well, I wasn't trying to make you feel at home," I replied. "How did you happen to be blowing open other folks's safes?" "Oh, it's all right, Jud, it's all right," he said. "I ain't finding no fault. Only I think you'd 'a' done better to join us and get your share." Though I still felt pretty dizzy and weak I started out to look about town. I found that the inside door of the bank safe was still tight shut, though the outer one was blown off. The building was wrecked and the drug store was not in much better shape. I could see that the bank had been afire, but that Joe had put it out with water from the well. Outside the barn I found Dick and Ned and the pony the Indian had taken, with three of the gang's horses which had been left behind, huddled together trying to keep out of the snow, which was still coming down at a great rate and was being swirled about by the wind. I let them in, and they were all very glad to get some feed, as were likewise the cow and chickens. I found that the Indian had pried open the back door with a crowbar from among the blacksmith's tools. Night was already coming on and I was so tired and sleepy that I could scarce keep up. So I made Pike as comfortable as I could, and went to bed and slept like a log. The first thing I knew in the morning was that the storm had turned into a raging blizzard. It was not yet very cold, but the snow was drifting as fast as it had any time during the winter. I found Pike more comfortable. I had hoped for the train, but the storm discouraged me. I began to wonder what I was going to do with him. That his leg was broken was certain, and I almost wished that I had let him go with the others. It was Sunday, and the first thing I did after breakfast was to write my regular letter to my mother, telling her all that had happened the past week; and it was a good deal. Then I started out to take another look around town. My sleep had done me a world of good, though I still felt stiff and lame. It was impossible to do much in the storm, but I covered up the bank safe with some blankets, and nailed boards over some windows in other buildings which had been broken by the explosion. I finally turned up at the depot and went in to see about the fire. As I opened the door I was astonished to hear the telegraph instrument clicking. I knew the line was down and could not make out what it meant. I understood no more about telegraphing than Kaiser, but in visiting Tom Carr during the fall I had learned to know the call for Track's End, which always sounded to me like clicket-ty-click-click, clicket-ty, over and over again till Tom opened the switch and answered. Well, as I stood listening I heard this call for Track's End, clicket-ty-click-click, clicket-ty. Then I saw that the line must have been repaired; but if this were so a train must have come nearly through; otherwise the repairmen could not have reached the break, which, I remembered, Tom said was just beyond Siding No. 15, fourteen miles east of Track's End. I went to the table and sat down and listened to the steady clicking, the same thing, nothing but the call. It gave me a good feeling even if I didn't know where it came from. I could not understand why any other office should be calling Track's End, as they must all know the station was closed for the winter. Then it came to me that a train must be on the way, and somebody thought it had got here. Just to see if I could, I reached over, opened the switch and tried giving the Track's End call myself. Of course I did it very slowly, with a long pause between each click; but I thought I would show the fellow at the other end that Track's End wasn't quite dead after all. Then I closed the switch, and instantly was surprised to hear the call repeated, but just as slowly and in the same way that I had given it. It came this way two or three times, then I gave it as best I could, then it came the same way once more. After this there was a long pause, and then it began to click something else, very slowly, dot, dash, dash, dot, and so forth, with a long stop between each. I picked up a pencil and marked it down, slowly, just as it came. Every two or three clicks there was a very long pause, and I would put down a monstrous big mark, thinking it might be the end of a letter; and when it stopped this is what I had, just as I wrote it down (I have the paper to this day), though it might as well have been Greek for all I knew of its meaning: [Transcriber's Note: an image of a series of handwritten dots, dashes, vertical marks, and other marks appears here in the text.] After a minute or two it began again, but I soon saw that I was getting the same thing. I leaned back in the chair and wished that I could read it. Then I sat up with sudden new interest, wondering if I could not find a copy of the Morse code somewhere and translate the message. It didn't seem likely that Tom would have one, as he was an old operator; but I began rummaging among his books and papers just the same. I had not gone far when I turned up an envelope directed to him on which was some printing saying that it contained a pamphlet about books for telegraphers. I opened it, and on the first page, as a sort of trade-mark, was what I wanted. In ten minutes I had my message translated. It read: "Starving. Siding fifteen. Carr." CHAPTER XXII The last Chapter, but a good Deal in it: a free Lodging for the Night, with a little Speech by Mr. Clerkinwell: then, how Kaiser and I take a long Journey, and how we never go that Way again. When I knew what the message said I saw that a train must have got to No. 15, and I jumped up and started for the door; then I ran back again and slowly spelled out O. K. on the instrument, and without waiting to see what came in reply hurried over to the hotel as fast as I could go. It was now eleven o'clock, and though the storm was as furious as ever I was determined to set out and try to reach the siding. If it had been before the thaw, with all of the winter snow on the ground, I never should have thought of doing it, but most of the old drifts were either gone or frozen so hard that they could be walked over without the least fear of breaking down; and as for the new drifts they were soft and not yet deep. I first thought of taking the horses and large sleigh and of keeping on the railroad track, but I remembered that there were a good many culverts and little bridges which I could not cross that way, and I knew to leave the track would mean to be lost instantly. So I saw that the best I could do was to take Kaiser and the small sled. I soon had this loaded with all the provisions that I thought we could get through with, though the selection was poor enough. But I got a lot of coffee from the store, with bacon and canned Boston baked beans and other such things. There was a little of the buffalo meat left, and as I had kept it buried in the snow during the thaw it was still as good as ever. This, with what eggs and other things in the hotel which I had, I put on, covered it all snugly with a blanket, tied the load firmly and was ready. I told Pike where I was going, though the next moment I saw from the look on his face that I should not have done so. Still, I could not see what harm he could do with his bruises and broken leg. I left food and water where he could reach them, and started out, walking beside Kaiser and helping him drag the load. It was just noon when I got off. We went to the station and started down the track. It was impossible to see more than a few rods, but the wind, which all along had been in the northeast, had now shifted to the northwest, so it was partly in my back. It was both snowing and blowing, and we waded through the damp, heavy, new snow, and slipped and stumbled over the old drifts. I soon saw that there was a big job before us; and I had not expected any pleasure excursion. The first accident was when I fell through between the ties over a culvert up to my chin. It was too high to get back that way, so I went on down and floundered out at the end and so fought my way back up. We soon got used to these, and generally I told where they were by the lay of the land, and either we went round them or walked carefully over on the ties. But before I had gone three miles I saw that my only hope of reaching the siding that night was in the wind going down; but it was all the time coming up. But we plodded on, in some places making pretty good time; but on the other hand we often had to stop to rest. Kaiser seemed not the least discouraged, and when we stopped even tried to wag his tail, but it was too bushy a tail to wag well in such a wind. After a while the blizzard became so blinding and the track so deep with snow that we had to leave it and follow the telegraph poles on the edge of the right of way, stopping and clinging to one pole till a little swirl in the snow gave me a glimpse of the next one; then we would plunge ahead for it, and by not once stopping or thinking I would usually bump up against it all right; though when I had gone fifty steps if I did not find it I would stop and stand still till a little lull made it so I could see the pole, and then sometimes I would find that I had passed it a few feet to one side. At last (but too soon) I thought I noticed that the light was beginning to fail; and it was certainly all the time growing colder. A little farther on we came to a deep cut through a coteau. The cut was so filled with new snow that we could not wade through, and the side of the hill was covered with the old snow and so slippery that we could not scramble over. The only thing to do was to go around it. This I thought we could do and not get lost by keeping close to its foot all the way around. We started and plowed on till I thought it time to see the telegraph poles again. We went on, but I saw the hill was not leading us right, and turned a little the other way. Another coteau was in our path and I turned to avoid it. For another five minutes we went on. I turned where I was sure the railroad must be, when suddenly it seemed as if the wind had changed and was coming out of the south. I knew it undoubtedly had not, but by this sign I understood that I was lost. I felt dazed and bewildered and was not sure if I were north or south of the track. But for another fifteen minutes we struggled on. I had lost all sense of direction. I stopped and tried to think. Every minute it was growing colder; how long I stood there I don't know, but I remember that I heard Kaiser whine, and started at it, and realized that I was growing sleepy. I knew what the sleepiness which comes on at such times means, and I turned around square to the wind and started on. A dozen steps away we came face to face with a big new snow-drift, its top blown over like a great white hood. I guessed that there was an old bank under this one. I took a stake from the sled, dropped on my hands and knees and began to poke about for it. I soon found it, broke through the frozen crust with the stake and began pawing out a burrow with my hands. I dug like a scared badger and in a few minutes had a place big enough. I wriggled out, pushed Kaiser in, took the blanket from the sled, backed into my snow cave again and rolled up as best I could in the blanket. In five minutes the mouth of the burrow was drifted over and we were in total darkness. I was not afraid to sleep now, as I knew, what with the snow, my big coat, and the blanket, not to mention Kaiser, I would be safe enough from freezing; so that is what I did till morning, scarce waking once. When I did wake, though I knew no more than anything if it were morning, I could no longer hear the wind roaring, so I burrowed out; which was no small job, either, since I had to dig through a wall of snow, packed solid as a cheese. But when Kaiser and I burst out, like whales, I guess, coming up to breathe, we found it clear and calm, with the sun just peeping up above a coteau and the frost dancing in the air. And we were not five rods from the railroad, though in that blizzard we could no more see it than we could Jericho. It took half an hour to dig out the sled and get started, with Kaiser barking, and his breath like a puff of a locomotive at every bark, it was so cold. I put on the skees now (which I had had tied on the sled) and off we went over the drifts, now packed hard, at a good rate. It was no more than ten o'clock when I saw a white cloud of smoke far ahead and knew we were coming to the siding; and Kaiser saw it too, I think, and we both started to run and couldn't help it. And half a mile farther we saw a man coming slowly; and who was it but dear old Tom Carr! I think I never was so glad to see anybody in my life. The poor fellow was so weak that he could hardly stand, but he was making a start for Track's End. "Jud," he said, "we started out Wednesday, with a dozen passengers, as many shovelers, and three days' food. We got to No. 15 Saturday. Then the storm came and the food was about all gone. Yesterday the storm kept up and the men could have done nothing even if they had had food. This morning they are at it, but they are so weak that they can't do much, but with what you've got on your sled we'll get through." He went back with me, and there were Burrdock and Sours and Allenham and some others, all shoveling at the cut with the men; and in the car was Mr. Clerkinwell, now recovered from his sickness, but weak from the lack of food. I won't try to tell how glad they were to see me; but I was gladder to see them. I felt that I was out of the prison of Track's End at last; and so many times I had thought I never should get out alive! "And why didn't you die a thousand times from loneliness," cried Mr. Clerkinwell, after he had talked a few minutes, "if from no other cause?" "Oh," I answered, "I had some company, you know; then there were callers, too, once in a while." Then I said to him that "I wrote every Sunday to my mother," at the which he patted me on the head, just as if I weren't taller than he! The men all came in and we got up a sort of a meal; at least there was plenty of coffee, bacon, and beans. Then they went at the shoveling again, the engineer got up steam, and soon we left the short platform and little cube of a house at the siding behind. There was a snow-plow on the engine, and the men now worked with so much energy that we bucked along through the cuts, and before sundown were at Track's End. So, on Monday, March 21st, the train which had gone away on Friday, December 17th, was back again, with a long whistle and a cheer from every man, and barks from Kaiser which lasted longer than all. I had told part of my story, and we all went over to the Headquarters House, Allenham to arrest Pike. He was gone. The barn had been broken open that morning and one of his ponies taken out. How he ever did it with his broken leg was more than any of us could tell, but he had done it, and it seemed no use to try to follow him. I saw my mistake in telling him so much; but it was too late to remedy it. The next day another train came, bringing a whole crowd of Track's-Enders; and that night they held a little meeting at the hotel and were for giving me a reward for what I had done (which was no more than I had been left to do); but I told them, No, that Mr. Sours had paid me my wages according to agreement and that I couldn't take any reward; but when Mr. Clerkinwell got up and took off his watch and chain (gold they were, you may be sure) and said I must take that whether or no, so that when I "looked for the time o' day I would always remember that a townful of people, and especially a certain old gentleman, thanked me and did not forget what I had done"--when Mr. Clerkinwell did this, I say, and I guess there were tears in his eyes, what could I do but take it? and take it I did, and wear it to this day. [Illustration: MR. CLERKINWELL GIVING ME HIS WATCH AND CHAIN] Mr. Clerkinwell told me afterward that there was a full $20,000 in the safe. So that is all there is to tell of my strange winter at Track's End, so many years ago. Three days later the regular trains began to run, and the first one took all of my letters to my mother; and no more than two days after she got them I was there myself, bringing only one important thing more than I had taken away (besides experience), and that was Kaiser. I had asked for him and got him; first I had thought to take away Pawsy, too, but concluded to leave her with Mrs. Sours, where she could get on the door in case of trouble. And since, though I have done my share of wandering about the world (and perhaps a little more than my share), I have never again visited Track's End; nor do I think I want to go back where the wolves howled so many dismal nights, and where the other things were worse than the wolves. 
42040	----	images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library (http://www.hathitrust.org/digital_library) Note: Images of the original pages are available through HathiTrust Digital Library. See http://mirlyn.lib.umich.edu/Record/008655736 Adventure Stories for Girls THE CRUISE OF THE O MOO by ROY J. SNELL The Reilly & Lee Co. Chicago Printed in the United States of America Copyright, 1922 by The Reilly & Lee Co. All Rights Reserved CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I A Mysterious Tapping 7 II The Blue Face in the Night 24 III Lucile's Quick Action Gas 36 IV Trapped in the Old Museum 51 V A Catastrophe Averted 65 VI The Blue God 78 VII The Mystery Deepens 90 VIII A Strange Game of Hide-and-Go-Seek 103 IX Someone Drops in from Nowhere 117 X The Real Cruise Begins 131 XI A Mysterious Adventure 148 XII The O Moo Rides the Storm 161 XIII Land at Last 177 XIV "A Phantom Wireless" 191 XV The Island's Secret 202 XVI An Unexpected Welcome 215 XVII Hot Water and a Ghost 226 THE CRUISE OF THE O MOO CHAPTER I A MYSTERIOUS TAPPING Lucile Tucker stirred in her berth, opened her eyes drowsily, then half-framed a thought into a whispered: "What was that?" The next instant she sat bolt upright. She had heard it again, this time not in a dream. It was a faint rat-tat-tat, with a hollow sound to it as if beaten on the head of a barrel. She strained her ears to catch the slightest sound but now caught only the constant lash-lash of the flag-rope as it beat the mast of the yacht, the O Moo, a sure sign of a rising storm. She strained her eyes to peer into the darkness to the right of her; she wanted to see her two companions who should be sleeping there to make sure they were still with her. She could not see; the shutters were tightly closed and there was no moon. The place was dark; black as soot. She stilled her breathing to listen again, but caught only the lash-lash of that flag-rope, accompanied now and then by the drumlike boom of canvas. The storm was rising. Soon it would be lashing the waves into white foam to send them crashing high above the breakwaters. She shivered. A storm aboard ship had always frightened her. Yet now as she thought of the term, "aboard ship," she shrugged her slim shoulders. Her lips parted in a smile as she murmured: "The cruise of the O Moo." Suddenly her thoughts were broken in upon by the repetition of that mysterious sound of a rat-tat-tat. "Like a yellow-hammer drumming on a hollow tree," was her unspoken comment, "only birds don't work at night. It's like--like someone driving--yes, driving tacks. Only who could it be? And anyway, why would they drive tacks into our yacht at midnight." The thought was so absurd that she dismissed it at once. Dismissing the whole problem for the moment, she began thinking through the events which had led up to that moment. She, with Marian Norton, her cousin--as you will remember if you chance to have read the account of their previous adventure as recorded in the book called "The Blue Envelope"--had spent the previous year on the shores of Behring Straits in Alaska and Siberia. There they had been carried through a rather amazing series of thrilling adventures which had not been without their financial advantages, especially to Marian. Lucile's father had been, when she had left her home at Anacortes, Washington, a well-to-do salmon fisherman. She had felt no fear of lack of money for further schooling. The two girls had therefore planned to study during this present year, Lucile at a great university situated near the shore of Lake Michigan and Marion in a renowned school of art in the same city. But fortune plays rude tricks at times. They had returned to find that Lucile's father's fortune had been dissipated by an unfortunate investment in fish-traps for catching a run of sock-eyed salmon, a salmon run which failed, and that Marian's father had grub-staked a "sure-winner" gold mine which had panned out not enough gold to pay for the miner's "mucklucks" (skin-boots). So Marian had given up the major portion of the money paid to her by the Ethnological Society for her sketches and Lucile had abandoned all hope of receiving money from her father for a university education. They had not, however, given up their plans for further schooling. "Have to live carefully and not spend an extra cent," had been Marian's way of summing up the situation. "And we can make it all right. Why, just look at the price for rooms at the university." She referred to a catalogue in her hand. "Twenty-three dollars a term. That is less than two dollars a week. We could pay that. Rooms outside the university certainly can't be any more--probably not as much." Lucile smiled now as she recalled this bit of crude reasoning. They had hurried on to the university with their little checking accounts. They had had-- But here again Lucile started and sprang half out of her berth. Came again that mysterious rat-tat-tat. "What can it be?" she whispered. "Marian! Florence! Wake up. Someone is--" These last words, uttered in a whisper, died on her lips. The other girls slept on. What was the use of waking them? Couldn't be anything serious. And if it were, what could they do at this mad hour of night? Suppose they routed out old Timmie, keeper of the dry dock, what could he do? It was black as jet out there. So she reasoned, and, having settled back between her blankets, began again the recalling of events. They had arrived in the city by the lake to be completely disillusioned. All university rooms had been reserved for months ahead. So too had all outside rooms which might be had for a reasonable price. To pay the price demanded for such rooms as were available had been impossible. They faced the danger of being obliged to return to their homes, and this, to such girls as they were, was a calamity unthinkable. Just at this critical moment, the O Moo had shown her masts above the horizon. She was a trim little pleasure yacht, thoroughly equipped for living on board. She belonged to a wealthy doctor named Holmes, a life-time friend of Lucile's father. "She's in dry dock down about two miles from the university," he had told the girls. "You're welcome to live in her for the winter. Canvas over her now but you can prop that up here and there, I guess. Make a snug place to camp, I'd say. Cabin's about ten by thirty and there's everything you'd need, from an eggbeater to an electric range. There's electric lights and everything; valve-in-the-head motor supplies 'em. Go on; live there if you want to; keep house and everything. Pretty stiff walk to the U. But there's the lagoon in winter, with good skating a mile and a half of the way. What say--want to try it? Old Timmie, the keeper of the dry dock, will see that nobody bothers you. There's some Chinamen living in a barge out there, some fishermen in a smack and a young chap in a gasoline schooner. Guess they are all peaceable folks, though. Might get another girl or two to go in with you. Plenty of room. We live on board her two months every summer, two families of us, six in all." If the girls had been captivated at once by this novel plan, once they had climbed aboard the yacht, they had been thrilled and delighted at the sight which met their eyes. "She--she's a regular little floating palace!" Lucile had stammered. "Tut! Tut!" Mr. Holmes had remonstrated, "not quite a palace, though comfortable enough, and not floating at all, at the present moment." "It will be a cruise--the winter cruise of the O Moo," Lucile had exclaimed in delight. Had she but known how real these words would be to her some time hence--"The winter cruise of the O Moo"--she might have shuddered with fear and been sorely tempted not to accept her new home. The power of divination was not one of her talents, so, with Marian at her side, she had proceeded to lift the heavy canvas which enshrouded the yacht's deck, and, having crept ... A truly wonderful cabin it was, all done in dark oak, with broad panels of green canvas along the walls, equipped with heavy oak tables and heavily over-stuffed chairs and lounges. It presented the appearance of a splendidly furnished but rather eccentric living room. Here at one end the touch of a lever sent an electric range springing up from the floor. A second lever lowered a partition between this suddenly improvised kitchenette and the living room. Two cupboards to the right of this kitchen displayed dishes and cooking utensils. The opposite wall furnished a table which folded up when not in use. Behind this was a fully equipped kitchen cabinet. "Convenient when in use, out of the way when not needed," had been the doctor's only comment. This kitchen was forward. Aft were to be found four double berths. Modeled after the upper berths of a Pullman sleeper, these gave the maximum of comfort and when folded up occupied no space at all. "It's wonderful!" had been the most the girls could say. "And, oh! Doctor Holmes, we'll pay you rent for it. You surely must allow us to do that," Marian had exclaimed. "Nonsense!" the good doctor had exclaimed. "Worked my way through school myself. Know what it means. All I ask is that you pass the good work on to some other fellow who needs a boost when you are through with school and making money." So here they were, and had been for two months, all comfortably established in the cabin of the O Moo. Dr. Holmes had suggested that they might be able to accommodate another girl. They had become acquainted with Florence Huyler, a freshman in the physical culture department, and had decided at once that she was just the girl to join them. Florence had not waited for a second invitation and here she was sleeping in the berth to Lucile's right. Just why she should have seemed most fitting as a companion for such an adventure I can best tell you as events progress. The long hike back and forth to the university and the art school had been a bit tiring at first, but in time they had come to enjoy it. Then winter had come and with it ice on the lagoon. Only yesterday they had had their first wonderful race over its shining surface. Her recollections came slower and slower and she was about to drift off into a dream when there came again that strange rat-tat-tat. Once more she sat bolt upright to peer into the darkness; once more she asked herself the questions: "What can it be? Should I waken Marian and Florence?" She did not waken them. To do so would seem, she thought, a trifle silly. The yacht stood upon a car with iron wheels which rested on a track raised five feet above the ground by a stout trestle work. The sides of the yacht towered above this trestle. Altogether the deck of the yacht was fully twenty feet from the ground. They ascended and descended by means of a rope ladder. This ladder, at the present moment, lay on the deck. No one could enter their cabin unless he were possessed of a ladder and any person attempting this would at once be detected and might be arrested for it, so why be afraid? But, after all, that sound was puzzling. She wanted to know what it meant. For some time she contemplated slipping on her dressing-gown to creep out on deck and peer over the side. But the wind was chill and still rising. The flag-rope was whipping the mast with ever-increasing fury. "Cold out there," she thought with a shiver. "Glad the O Moo is in dry dock and not on the water!" A sudden thought brought a new fear. Of a whole line of schooners and yachts on that track in the dry dock, the O Moo was the one closest to the water. What if she should slip back into the water and be driven out into the lake! Lucile shivered again. Then she smiled. How absurd. Did not a heavy cable hold her in place? Were not the wheels of the car, on which she rested, blocked? How then could she glide back into the lake? Fortunately, it did not occur to her that this very tap-tap-tapping might be the knocking of a hammer which was driving those blocks from their positions before the wheels of the car. Since this thought did not come to her and, since the tapping did not come again, she at last snuggled down among the blankets and fell asleep. Hardly had she wakened in the morning before she recalled this strange incident of the night. Hurriedly slipping into a middy suit and slippers, she raced up the short gangway and across deck, tossing the rope ladder over the side. The next moment she might have been seen walking slowly about the hull of the yacht. She was searching for traces of the strange tapping. Having passed along the south side, she climbed through the trestle and made her way along the north side. She was about to conclude that the night's experience had been purely an imaginary one when a white spot near the prow attracted her attention. She caught her breath as her hand reached for it. It was a square bit of paper held in place by four tacks which had apparently been driven into the hull with great deliberation. "That explains the tapping," she whispered to herself. "Sure had their courage right along with them. Thought we'd be afraid to interfere, being just girls, I suppose. Wonder what it is." She reached up and pulled the paper free from the tacks. As soon as she had it in her hand she realized that written on it was a message. She read it--read it twice--then stood there staring. The paper was of a peculiar rice-straw variety. The words were written in a strangely artistic fashion. Fine as the tracing of a woman's pen, each letter stood out distinct, done in curves of wonderful perfection, the work of a master penman. But she did not pause to admire the handwriting; it was the meaning of the words that startled her as she read: "You must not stay here. You shall not stay. I have said it." It was signed only with a crosslike figure, a bizarre sketch that might well have represented the claw of a bird--or a dragon, Lucile added with a little intake of breath. "I must show the girls," she exclaimed, and nimble as a squirrel, was away over the trestle and up the rope ladder. When the other girls had heard Lucile's story and had read the note they were more astonished than alarmed. "Huh!" exclaimed Florence, gripping an iron rod above her and lifting her full hundred and sixty pounds easily with one hand. "Who's telling us whether we can stay here or not?" "I'd say they better not let you get near them," smiled Lucile. Florence laughed and, releasing her grip on the rod, sat down to think. "Doesn't seem possible it could be anyone living in the other boats," she mused. "I've seen that young man they call Mark Pence, the fellow who lives in the gasoline schooner, just once. He seems to be decent enough." "And the old fishermen," put in Marian, "I hired two of them to pose for some sketches last week. Nice old fellows, they are; a little rough but entirely harmless. Besides, what difference could it make to them whether we live here or not?" "There's the Chinamen who run a little laundry in that old scow," said Lucile thoughtfully, "but they are the mildest-mannered of them all, with their black pajama suits and pigtails." "And that's all of them, except Old Timmie and his wife," said Florence, rising and pressing the lever which brought the electric range into position. "And as for Timmie, I'd as soon suspect my own father." "We'll tell him about it," said Lucile. "He might help us." They did tell Timmie, but he could throw no light on the subject. He appeared puzzled and a little disturbed, but his final counsel was: "Someone playing a practical joke on you. Pay no attention to it. Pay no attention at all." The girls accepted his advice. Indeed, there was nothing they could do about it. "All the same," was Lucile's concluding word, "I don't like it. Looks as if someone in this vicinity were doing something they should not do and were afraid we'd catch them at it. I for one shall keep an eye out for trouble." The other two girls agreed with her, and while they did not alter their daily program in the least, they did keep a sharp lookout for suspicious characters who might be lurking about the dry dock. CHAPTER II THE BLUE FACE IN THE NIGHT Lucile need not have kept an eye out for trouble. Trouble was destined to find her and needed no watching. As she expressed it afterward: "It doesn't seem to matter much where you are nor what you are doing, if you are destined for adventures you'll have them." But the thing which happened to her on the following evening, though doubly mysterious and haunting in its character, appeared to have no connection whatever to the incident of the note. The storm which had been rising all night had lulled with the morning sun, but by mid-afternoon was raging again with redoubled fury. Sending the spray dashing high above the breakwaters, it now and then cast a huge cake of ice clear of the water's tallest crest and brought it down upon the breakwater's rim with the sound of an exploding cannon. Carrying blinding sheets of snow before it, the wind rose steadily in force and volume until the most hardy pedestrian made headway against it with the greatest difficulty. When Lucile left the university grounds to face east and to begin forcing her way against the wind to the yacht, night had fallen. "Dark as it should be at seven--woo! what a gale!" she shivered, as buttoning her mackinaw tightly about her throat, she bent forward to meet the storm. For a half hour, her body beaten and torn by the wind, her face cut by driving sleet, she fought her way onward into the night. She had reached the shore of the lake and was making her way south, or at least thought she was. So dense was the darkness that it was with the utmost difficulty that she kept her directions. "Wish--wish I had tried getting a place to stay nearer the university," she half sobbed. As if in answer to these words, the storm appeared to redouble its fury. Seizing her with its whirling grip, it carried her in a semicircle, to land her at last against a stone wall. So great was the force of her impact that for the moment she lay there at the foot of the wall, only partly conscious of what was going on about her. When at last she was able to rise, she knew that she had completely lost her way. "Might as well follow the wall," she thought desperately. "Little more sheltered here. Bring me to some place after a time." The fury of wind and snow continued. At times she fancied she felt the spray from waves dampen her cheeks. She heard distinctly the break of these waves--"Against the wall," she told herself, shuddering as the thought came to her that she might suddenly reach the end of this wall and be blown into the lake. "Anyway I can't stay here," she muttered. "Too cold. Face is freezing, I guess." She paused to remove a glove and touch her cheek. The next instant she was rubbing it vigorously. "Frozen all right. Have to get in somewhere soon." Just at that moment her heart leaped wildly. For a moment the drive of snow had slackened. In that moment, a great, black bulk loomed up at her right. "Some building," she thrilled, and at once doubled her efforts to escape from the storm and reach this promised shelter. As, still hugging the wall, she came closer to the looming structure, she saw that it showed not a single gleaming light. The next moment her lips parted in an exclamation of dismay: "The old Spanish Mission! No one there--hasn't been for years." Once she had forced her mind to sober thought, she realized that she had no reason to hope for anything better. There were but four structures on that mile of park-front on the lake all deserted at this time of year: a broad, low pavilion; a huge, flat bath-house; a towering castle, relic of a great fair once held on these grounds, and this Spanish Mission, which never had been a real mission, but merely a reproduction of one dating back into other centuries, a huge wooden hull of a thing. Resembling a block-house, with its narrow windows and low doors, it had always stirred Lucile's curiosity. Now she was about to seek shelter in it, or at least in the lee of it. It was deserted, empty, fast falling into decay, a mysterious, haunty place. Yet, so buffeted by the storm was she, so frightened by the onrush of the elements, that she felt quite equal to creeping through some opening into its vast emptiness should an opening appear. And an opening did offer her opportunity to test her nerve. It was a window, the glass shattered by the storm. Her heart beating wildly, she squeezed through into the inky blackness. On tiptoe, she made her way down the wall to the right. She was obliged to feel for every step. There was not a ray of light. "Some big hall," she decided. After she had moved along for a space of forty feet or more she whispered: "The chapel!" Her heart skipped a beat. "Imagine being in a deserted chapel on such a night!" Suddenly overcome with the thought that she might stumble into an altar or a crucifix, she halted and stood there trembling. She had always felt a great awe for such things. She stood there until her legs ached with the strain of holding to one position. Then she pushed on slowly. Suddenly she brushed against something. Recoiling in fright, she stood there motionless. At last she had the courage to bend over and put out a hand. To her intense relief, she found that she had come upon a bench standing against the wall. Having tested its strength, she sat down. Leaning back, she rested. "That's better," she breathed. "The storm will soon be over. Then I'll get out of here and go to the yacht." The drive of the wind, the chill of the storm had made her drowsy. The night before her sleep had been disturbed. As she sat there her head drooped more and more. It began nodding, then suddenly came up with a jerk. Again she was awake! She would not fall asleep, she told herself. Would not. Would not! Yet, in three minutes she was nodding again. This time her chin sank lower and lower, until at last it rested on her breast, which moved slowly up and down in the rhythmic breathing of one who sleeps. How long she slept would be hard to tell. So natural was her awaking that she did not realize that she had been asleep at all. Yet she sensed that something about the place was different. A vague uneasiness stole over her. Once she had opened her eyes, she knew what it was. There was light--a strange light, somewhere in the room; a dim, almost imperceptible illumination pervaded all. As she turned her head, without moving in her seat, she with difficulty suppressed a scream. At the far end of the room was an apparition, or so at least it seemed. "A blue face! A face of blue fire. It can't be." She rubbed her eyes. "And yet it is." Her mind did all the talking. Her lips were numb. It is doubtful if she could have spoken had she dared to. But this was no time to speak. She did not believe in ghosts, yet there was a face, an illumined face; an ugly face, more fiendish than any she had ever seen. Appearing alive, it rose from the center of a decaying table standing before an altar. Beside the altar, revealed by the pale, bluish light which the face appeared to shed about it, were two tarnished candlesticks and back of it, against the wall, hung a crucifix. Completely paralyzed by the sight of this blue face in the night and by its awesome surroundings, she sat there quite motionless. The light of the blue face appeared to wax and wane, to come and go like the faint smiles that often pass over a child's face. Lucile was suddenly seized with the notion that the face was looking at her. At the same time there came the question: "Is there light enough to reveal my face?" She glanced down to the floor, then breathed a sigh of relief; she could not see her own feet. Silently drawing her scarf over her face, covering all but her eyes and hiding her hands beneath her coat, she sat there hardly daring to breathe. She did not have long to wait for, out of the darkness into the pale blue light, there stole three figures. Whether these were men or women, monks, nuns or devils, she could not tell, so closely were they enshrouded in robes or coats of black cloth. They knelt before the blue face and remained there motionless. To quiet her nerves, Lucile began to count. She had reached one hundred, when, for fear she would lose all control of herself and scream or run, she closed her eyes. She had counted to one thousand before she dared open them again. When she did so she found another surprise awaiting her. The kneeling figures were gone. Gone, too, was the face; or at least, it was no longer illumined. The place was dark as a dungeon. Strangely enough, too, the wail of the storm had subsided to a whisper. Only the distant boom of breakers told her that a terrific blizzard had passed over the lake. Rising without a sound, she tiptoed her way along the wall. Reaching the window, she leaped out upon the ground and was away like a flash. With knees that trembled so they would scarcely support her, she ran for a full half mile before she dared slow down and look back. The snowstorm was over, the moon half out. She could see for some distance behind her, but all she saw was a glistening stretch of snowy landscape. Then she made her way thoughtfully to the dry dock. Once on board the O Moo she told the other girls nothing of her adventures; merely said she had been delayed by the storm. But that evening as she attempted to study, she would now and then give a sudden start. Once she sprang up so violently that she upset her chair. "What in the world is the matter?" Marian demanded. "Nothing, just nerves," she said, forcing a smile, but she did not attempt to study after that. She went and curled up in a huge, upholstered rocker. Even here she did not fall asleep, but sat staring wide-eyed before her until it was bedtime. They had all been in their berths for fifteen minutes. Florence had dozed off when she was suddenly wakened by a hand on her arm. It was Lucile. "Please--please!" she whispered. "I can't sleep alone to-night." Florence put out a strong hand and drew her up into the berth, then pulled the covers down over them both and clasped her gently in her arms. Lucile did not move for some time. She had apparently fallen asleep when she suddenly started violently and whispered hoarsely: "No! No! It can't be; I--I don't believe in ghosts." At the same time a great shudder shot through her frame. "Tell me about it," whispered Florence, holding her tight. Then, in halting, whispered sentences, Lucile told of the night's adventure. "That's strange!" whispered Florence. "Reminds me of something an aged sailor told me once, something that happened on the Asiatic side of the Pacific. Too long to tell now. Tell you sometime though. Doesn't seem as if there could be any connection. Surely couldn't be. But you never can tell. Better turn over and go to sleep." Relieved of half her fear by the telling of the story, Lucile fell asleep and slept soundly until morning. CHAPTER III LUCILE'S QUICK ACTION GAS You must not imagine (and you might well be forgiven for doing so, if you have read the preceding chapters) that the experiences of the three girls whose lives are pictured here were a series of closely crowded thrilling adventures. It was not the case that no sooner was the curtain run down on one mysterious happening than the stage was set for another. Few lives are like that. Adventures do come to us all at times and we face them for the most part bravely. Some amuse and entertain, others startle and appall, but each teaches in its own way some new lesson of life. Adventures taken from the lives of others bring to us the greatest ratio of entertainment, but it is our own exciting and mysterious adventures that we speak of most often when we are clustered on the deck of some vessel or gathered about a camp fire. While not many pages of this book may be devoted to the everyday school life of these girls, they had it just the same. Florence and Lucile strolled the campus as other girls strolled. They cut classes at times. They passed difficult examinations with some credit. They reveled in the grandeur of the architecture of the buildings of the university. They thrilled at the thought that they were a part of the great throng that daily swarmed from the lecture halls, and were somewhat downcast when they came fully to realize their own insignificance when cast into such a tossing sea of humanity. Marian, the artist, also had her everyday rounds to make. She caught the 8:15 car downtown five days in the week to labor industriously with charcoal and brush. She saw her Alaskan sketches, which had been praised so often and so highly, picked to pieces by the ruthless criticism of a competent teacher, but she rallied from her first disappointment to resolve for better work in the future. She began to plan how this might be accomplished. Florence, Marian and Lucile were plain, ordinary, normal girls, yet in one respect they were different from others; at least Lucile and Marian were from the first, and Florence, being the strongest, most physically capable of them all, soon caught their spirit. They had about them a certain fearless outlook on life which is nearly always found in those who have spent many months in the far North--an attitude which seems to say, "Adventure and Trouble, I have met you before. I welcome you and will profit by and conquer you." Two or three rather ordinary incidents in their life on board the O Moo prove that the life they lived there was, on the whole, a very simple, normal life, yet they also illustrate the indisputable fact that the simplest matters in the world, the casting of a tin can off a boat for instance, may be connected with some interesting and thrilling adventure. As to that particular tin can, Marian bought it at a grocery store along with twenty-three other cans, filled with some unknown contents and sold at the ridiculously low price of eight cents per can. The reason that the price was so low and the contents unknown was that the labels had, during the process of handling, been accidentally torn off. The cans had been sent on to the retailer and were sold in grab-bag lots of two dozen each. "You see," the obliging grocer had explained, "there may be only corn or peas in them. Very well, they are even then worth twelve cents a can at the very least. But then again there may be blackberries in thick syrup, worth thirty or forty cents a can. Then what a bargain!" "Well, girls," Marian exclaimed when she had finished telling of her bargain and they of exclaiming over it, "what shall we have for dinner to-night? Loganberries in thick syrup or sliced pineapple?" "Oh, pineapple by all means!" Florence exclaimed. "Good enough for me," smiled Lucile. "All right. Here goes." Marian stabbed one of the unknown quantities with the can-opener, then applied her nose to the opening. "Corn!" she exclaimed in disgust. "Oh, well," consoled Florence, "we can eat corn once. Lucile doesn't care for it, but she can have something else. Here's a bowl; pour it out in that. Then open the loganberries. They'll do." Again the can-opener fell. Again came the disgusted exclamation, "Corn!" Lucile giggled and Florence danced a hornpipe of joy. "That's one on you, Marian, old dear," she shouted. "Oh, well, just give us plain peaches. They'll do." "Here's one that has a real gurgly sound when you shake it," said Lucile, holding a can to her ear and shaking hard. "I think it's strawberries." When Marian opened that can and had peered into it, she said never a word but, walking to the cabin door, pitched it, contents and all, over the rail and down to the crusted snow twenty feet below. There it bounced about for a time, spilled its contents upon the ground, then lay quite still, a new tin can glistening in the moonlight. But watch that can. It is connected with some further adventure. "Corn! Corn! Corn!" chanted Marian in a shrill voice breaking with laughter. "And what a bargain." "But look what I drew!" exclaimed Lucile, pointing to a can she had just opened. "Pineapple! Sliced pineapple!" the others cheered in unison. Then the three cans of corn were speedily forgiven. But the empty can lay blinking in the moonlight all the same. The other affair, which occurred a few days later, might have turned into a rather serious matter had it not been for Lucile's alert mind. Lucile had what she styled a "bug" for creating things. "If only," she exclaimed again and again, "I could create something different from anything that has been created before I know I should be supremely happy. If only I could write a real story that would get into print, or discover some new chemical combination that would do things, that would be glorious." From these words one is not long in concluding that Lucile was specializing in English and chemistry. The yacht afforded her exceptional opportunities to pursue her study of chemistry out of regular school hours, for Dr. Holmes, who devoted much time to delving into the mysteries of organic chemistry, had installed in a triangular space at the back of the cabin a perfectly equipped laboratory. Here, during the days of the summer tour, he spent much of his time. This laboratory he turned over to Lucile, the only provision being that she replace test-tubes, retorts and other instruments broken during the course of her experiments. Here on many a stormy afternoon, and often long into the night, she worked over a blue flame, concocting all manner of fluids and gases not required by the courses she was taking. "If only I could create--_create_!" she whispered to herself over and over. "Memory work I hate. Imitation I like only because it tells me what has been done and helps me to discover what has not been done. But to create--Oh--Oh!" She would at such times grip at her breast as if her heart were paining her at the very excitement of the thought. On one particular afternoon, she did create something--in fact she created a great deal of excitement. She had taken down a formula which Dr. Holmes had left in a notebook. "Looks interesting," she whispered to herself. She had worked herself up, that day, to a feverish heat, to a point where she would dare anything. As she read a closely written notation beneath the formula, her eyes widened. "It is interesting," she exclaimed. "Tremendous! I'll make it. Wouldn't dare try it on anyone, though." "Better have a gas mask," she told herself after a moment's thought. Digging about in a deep drawer she at last took out a strange canvas bag with a windpipe-like attachment. This she hung upon a peg while she selected the particular vials needed. After that she drew the gas mask over her head and plunged into the work. "Ten grains," she murmured; "a fluid ounce; three drams; three fluid ounces; heat this in a beaker; add two drams--" So she went on mumbling to herself in her excitement, like some witch in a play. "Too bad! Too bad! Won't hold it," she mumbled at last, after waiting for her concoction to cool. "Won't go in one vial. Have to use two." Having filled one thin glass vial and closed it with a glass-stopper, she was in the act of filling the second when the half-filled vial slipped from her hand and went crashing to the tile floor. "Oh! Help!" she uttered a muffled scream, and, before she realized what she was doing, threw the door leading into the main cabin wide open. Before her, regarding her in great astonishment, were Marian and Florence. For a few seconds they stood there, then of a sudden they began to act in the most startling manner. Jumping up and down, waving their arms, laughing, screaming, they vaulted over tables, knocked chairs end-over-end and sent books and papers flying in every direction. Having recovered her power of locomotion, Lucile dashed for the outer door. This she flung wide open. Then, watching her chance, she propelled her two delirious, dancing companions out into the open air. There, for a moment, she was obliged to cling to them lest they throw themselves over the rail, to go crashing to the frozen earth below. In another moment it was all over. The two wild dancers collapsed, crumpling up in heaps on the deck. "Oh, girls, I'm so sorry. I really truly am." Lucile's mortification was quite complete, in spite of the fact that she was fairly bursting with a desire to laugh. "What--what--made us do that?" Florence stammered weakly. "Gas, a new gas," answered Lucile. Then, seeing the look of consternation on the girls' faces, she hastened to add, "It's perfectly harmless; doesn't attack the tissues; works on the motor nerves like laughing-gas only it gets all the muscles excited, not just those of the face." "Well, I'll say," remarked Marian, "you really created something." "I only wish I had," said Lucile regretfully, "but that chances to be a formula worked out by Dr. Holmes. I merely mixed it up. The bottle slipped from my hand and smashed on the floor--I didn't aim to try it out on you." After the cabin had been thoroughly aired, the three girls went back to their work. As Lucile put the laboratory in order she noted the vial containing the remainder of the strange fluid. Having labeled it, "Quick action gas," she put it away on the shelf, little dreaming that she would find an unusual use for it later. It was two weeks after Lucile's mysterious experience in the old Mission building. Things had settled down to the humdrum life of hard work and faithful study. On Saturday night two girls from the university dormitories skated down the lagoon and walked down the beach to spend the evening at the "ship," as they called it. They were jolly Western girls. The five of them spent a pleasant evening popping corn, pulling candy and relating amusing incidents from their own lives. At eleven the visitors declared that they must go home. "Wait, I'll go a piece with you," suggested Florence, reaching for her skates. At the end of the lagoon the three put on their skates. Florence's were on first, for she wore a boyish style which went on with a clamp. Gliding out on the ice, she struck out in a wide circle, then returned to the others. Just as they came gliding out to meet her, she fancied she caught a movement in the branches of some shrubs at the left which grew down to the edge of the ice. For a second her eyes rested there, then she was obliged to turn about to join her companions. It was a glorious night; the skating was wonderful. Keen air caressed their cheeks as they shot over the glistening surface to the tune of ringing steel. Little wonder she forgot the moving bushes in the joy of the moment. Florence was a born athlete. Tipping the scale at one hundred and sixty, she carried not a superfluous ounce of fat. Four hours every day she spent on the gym floor or in the swimming pool. She was equipping herself for the work of a physical culture teacher and took her task seriously. She believed that most girls could be as strong as boys if they willed to be, and she proceeded to set a shining example. It was on her return trip that she was reminded of the moving bushes. Catching the distant ring of skates, she saw a person dressed in a long coat of some sort coming rapidly toward her. The channel where they would meet was narrow. Some instinct told her to turn back, to circle the island and to reach the nearest point to the yacht that way. Whirling about, she set herself going rapidly in the other direction. "Now that was a foolish thing to do," she told herself. "Probably someone saving a long walk by putting on his skates, same as I'm doing. Might embarrass him to have me turn about that way." She was getting in some long, strong strokes now. There were few who could gain on her when she chose to exert herself. She rounded the point of the island with a swift curve, then went skimming down the other side. Without further thought of the lone skater, she was nearing her goal and had gone into a long slide when, of a sudden the clip-clip of skates again came to her ears. It was hardly necessary for her to turn about to make sure that the stranger in the long coat had also rounded the island. For a second she glided on, uncertain what course to take. It was nearing midnight. She was alone on the lagoon, a long way from any habitation. A stranger was following her; why, she could not tell. To throw off her skates and gain the bank before he came up was impossible. She decided, without being greatly alarmed about it, again to circle the island and, if necessary, take a spin the whole length of the lagoon. CHAPTER IV TRAPPED IN THE OLD MUSEUM Florence had little fear for the outcome of this rather amusing adventure. She had been trailed over the ice by possible admirers before. She did not care to allow this one to catch up with her, that was all. She would skim along down to the far end of the lagoon where, a mile and a half away, the dome of the old museum loomed, a black bulk in the dark. She would then make the broad turn which this end of the lagoon afforded. She would have a clear mile and a half in which to put forth her best efforts. Surely she could outdistance the stranger and, with skates off, be away over the slope and down the beach toward the O Moo before he had reached this end of the lagoon once more. Saving her strength on the down trip, keeping an even distance from the mysterious skater, she glided onward toward the old museum. Just as she neared the broad end, where she was to make the turn, she glanced back. At that very moment, the flash of a powerful automobile lamp on the park drive a half mile away fell full upon the stranger's face. A little cry escaped her lips. This was no mere youthful enthusiast. His was the face of one whom few would trust. At that very moment his visage was twisted into an ugly snarl which said plainer than words: "Now, young lady, I have you!" "Why!" she whispered to herself, "that might be the face of a murderer!" At that same instant, there flashed through her mind the note of warning tacked on the schooner. Perhaps this was the man who had placed it there. In her consternation, she missed a stroke. One skate struck a crack in the ice; the clamp slipped; the skate went flying; disaster impended. Florence was not a person to be easily defeated. One instant she had kicked the remaining skate from her foot and the next she was racing away over the glistening ice. She stumbled and all but fell. But, gaining courage from the near-by sloping bank, she plunged on. Now she was ten yards away, now five. The metal cut-cut of skates behind her grew louder. Redoubling her efforts, she at last flung herself upon the snowy slope, to climb on hands and knees to the crest, then to race across a level space and gain the sheltering shadows of the museum. It had been a hard struggle. For a few seconds she leaned panting against the wall. One skate was still in her hand. Without thinking why, she tucked this skate into the belt of her coat. Her mind was in a whirl. What should she do? She was not safe here. For the man to remove his skates and scale the bank required but a moment. They were alone in the frozen park, a mile from any protection she could be sure of. She was not a good runner. "No," she whispered, "I couldn't do it." She chanced to glance up, and her lips parted in a suppressed exclamation. There was a window open above her. True, it was some fifteen feet up, but there was an iron grating on the window beneath it. "If only the grating is not rusted out," she murmured hopefully, and the next instant she had reached the ledge of brickwork and was shaking the railing vigorously. "It'll hold I guess." Up she went like a monkey climbing the side of a cage. At the top of this grating there came an agonizing second in which she felt herself in danger of toppling over before she gained her balance on the window ledge above. Her splendid training served her well. She threw herself across the stone casing and, for a few seconds, lay there listening. Hardly had she dropped noiselessly to the floor, some three feet below, than she heard the thud-thud of hurrying footsteps on the hard-packed snow. Holding her breath, she crouched there motionless, hoping beyond hope that she might hear those footsteps pass on around the building. In this hope she was disappointed. Like a hound who has lost his scent, the man doubled back, then paused beneath her window. The girl's heart raced on. Was she trapped? The man, she felt sure, would, somehow, gain access to the building. Nevertheless, she might escape him. The building had once been a museum, the central building of a great world exposition. No longer used as a museum, it stood there, an immense, unused structure, slowly dropping into decay. The floor on which she had landed was really a broad balcony with a rusty railing at its edge. From where she crouched she could see down into the main floor where stretched, twining and inter-twining, mile upon mile of rooms and corridors. Slipping out of her shoes, she buttoned them to her belt, then stole noiselessly along the balcony. Moving ever in the shadow of the wall, she came to a rusty iron stair. Here she paused. Would the stair creak, give her away? The man might at this moment be in the building on the ground floor. Yet, on this narrow balcony, she was sure sooner or later to be trapped. She must risk it. Placing one trembling foot on the top step, she allowed her weight to settle upon it. There followed no sound. Breathing more easily, she began the descent. Only once did her heart stand still; a bit of loose plaster, touched by her foot, bounded downward. She dared not pause. The die was cast. Once on the ground floor, she sprang across a patch of light and found herself in the shadows once more. Moving with the greatest possible speed, yet with even greater caution, avoiding bits of plaster, rustling papers and other impediments in her course, she made her way along a wall which to her heightened imagination seemed to stretch on for a mile. Once as she paused she thought she caught the sound of heavy breathing, followed by a dull thud. "Must have come in through my window," she decided, and, indeed there appeared to be no other means of access; all the ground floor doors and windows were either heavily shuttered or grated. "These shutters and gratings," she told herself, trying to still the fear in her heart by thinking of other things, "are relics of other days. Here millions of dollars worth of relics, curios, and costly jewels were once displayed. Mounted animals and birds, aisle after aisle of them, rooms full of rich furs and costly silks, jewels too in abundance. They're all gone now, but the shutters are still here and I am trapped. There's only one exit and that guarded. Well, perhaps another somewhere. Anyway, I can wait. Daylight drives wolves to their dens. If only I can reach the other balcony!" She had been in the building in the days of its glory, and had visited one of the curators, a friend of her mother. There were, on this other balcony, she remembered, a perfect labyrinth of rooms--cubbyholes and offices. Once she gained access to these she probably would be safe. But here was another stair. She must go up. Only partially enshrouded in darkness, it might betray her. Dropping on hands and knees, she began to climb. A bit of glass cut her stocking. She did not notice that. A crumpled sheet of paper fluttered away; that was maddening. A broad patch of light from far above her head threw her out in bold relief for a second. For a second only. Then, leaping to her feet, she raced down the balcony and again entered the shadows. Pressing a hand to her breast to still her heart's wild beating, she listened intently. Did she hear? Yes, there could be no mistake, there came a soft pit-pat, the footsteps of a person walking on tiptoes. "Like one of those mounted tigers come to life," she thought with a shudder. Slowly she moved along the wall. If only she could reach a door! If she only could! But that door was a distance of some fifty yards away. Could she make it? Stealthily she moved forward. Stopping now and then to listen, she caught as before the stealthy pit-pat of footsteps. Once some object rattled on the floor and she heard a muffled exclamation. Then she caught a creaking sound--was he mounting the stair? Had the banister creaked? Now she was twenty yards from the door, now ten, now five, and now--now she gripped its casing. Excitedly she swung around, only to find herself facing a rusted square of steel. The labyrinth of rooms was closed to her. She was trapped on a narrow balcony with no way to turn for escape. As she crouched there trembling, her hand touched something cold--her skate. Here was hope; if the worst came to worst, here was a formidable weapon and she was possessed of the power to swing it. Cautiously she drew it from her belt, then crouching low, gripping the small end, she waited. Came again the pit-pat-pit-pat. He was on the balcony, she felt sure of that now. Her hand gripped the skate until the blade cut through the skin, but still she crouched there waiting. * * * * * * * * When Florence failed to return, Marian and Lucile might have been seen pacing the floor while Marian pretended to study and made a failure of it. "I think we should go out and look for her," said Lucile. "Probably just a bit overcome by the wonderful skating in the moonlight," answered Marian, in what was intended as an unworried tone, "but we'll go down to the lagoon and have a look." "Wait just a moment," said Lucile as she disappeared inside her laboratory. When she returned, something beneath her coat bulged, but Marian did not ask her what it might be. After dropping down the rope ladder they hurried along the beach and across the park to the lagoon. From the ridge above it they could see the greater part of the lagoon's surface. Not a single moving figure darkened its surface. For fully five minutes they stood there, looking, listening. Then Marian led the way to the edge of the ice. By the side of a clump of bushes she had spied something. "What's that?" "Pair of men's rubbers," replied Lucile kicking at them. For a full moment the two stood and stared at one another. "She--she isn't down here," said Lucile at last. "Perhaps we had better go up and look among the boats." Silently they walked back to where the hundred boats were looming in the dark, their masts like slender arms reaching for the moon. As they rounded a small schooner, they were startled by a footstep. "Don't be afraid. It is only I," called a friendly voice. "Out for a stroll in the moonlight. Wonderful, isn't it?" Marian recognized the young man of the schooner, Mark Pence. She had talked with him once before. He had helped her home with her two dozen cans of label-less fruits and vegetables. Having liked him then, she decided to trust him now, so in a few well-chosen words she confided their fears for their companion's safety. "Shucks!" said the boy. "That'll be all right. She'll show up all right. Probably went farther than she intended. But--sure, I'll take a turn with you through our little village of boats. Be glad to." They wandered in and out among the various crafts. Scarcely a word was spoken until they came to the great black bulk of the scow inhabited by the Chinamen. "I'll rout 'em out. Might know something," said Mark. He knocked several times but received no response. He was about to enter when Lucile whispered: "Wait a minute. Were--were you in the war?" "A trifle. Not to amount to much." "Know how to use a gas mask?" "Well, rather. Six seconds is my record. Know that old joke about the 'quick and the dead,' don't you? I was quick." Lucile smiled. She was holding out an oblong package fastened to a strap, also a small glass bottle. "Take--take these," she whispered nervously. "You can't tell about those folks. Break the bottle if they go after you, then put on the mask. It's pretty powerful gas but does no permanent injury." Mark smiled as he slipped the strap over his shoulder. "Nonsense, I guess," he murmured, "but might not be. Just like going over the top, you never can tell." He drew a small flashlight from his pocket, then pushed the door open. He was gone for what to the girls seemed an exceedingly long time. When he returned he had little enough to tell. "Not a soul in the place, far as I could see," he reported. "But, man, Oh, man! It's a queer old cellar. Smells like opium and chop-suey. And talk about narrow winding stairs! Why, I bet I went down--" He paused to stare at the scow. "Why that tub isn't more than ten feet high and I went down a good twenty feet. Rooms and rooms in it. Something queer about that." The girls were too anxious for Florence's safety to give much attention to what he was saying. "Well, we are greatly obliged to you," said Lucile, taking her bottle and gas mask. "I guess there's nothing to do but go back to the yacht and wait." With a friendly good-night they turned and made their way back to the O Moo. CHAPTER V A CATASTROPHE AVERTED As Florence crouched in the dark corner of the deserted museum, many and wild were the thoughts that sped through her mind. Could she do it? If worse came to worst, could she strike the blow? She had the power; the muscles of her arm, thanks to her splendid training, were as firm as those of a man. Yes, she had the power, but could she do it? There could be no mincing matters. "Strike first and ask questions after," that must be her motto in such an extremity. There would be ample opportunity. A beast always hunts with nose close to the ground. The man would be a fair mark. The skate was as perfect a weapon as one might ask. Keen and powerful as a sword, it would do its work well. Yet, after all, did she have the nerve? While this problem was revolving in her mind, the pit-pat of footsteps grew more and more distinct. Her heart pounded fearfully. "He's coming--coming--coming!" it seemed to be repeating over and over. Then, suddenly, there flashed through her mind the consequences of the blow she must strike. The man must be given no chance to fight; one blow must render him unconscious. Whatever was done must be done well. But after that, what? She could not leave him alone in this great, deserted shell of a building. Neither could she await alone his return to consciousness. No, that would never do. She would be obliged to seek aid. From whom? The police, to be sure. But then there would be a court scene and a story--just such a story as cub reporters dote on. She saw it all in print: "Three girls living in a boat. One pursued by villain. An Amazon, this modern girl, she brains him with her skate." Yes, that would make a wonderful news story. And after that would come such publicity as would put an end to their happy times aboard the O Moo. That would mean the end of their schooldays, just when they were becoming engrossed in their studies; when they had just begun to realize the vast treasures of knowledge which was locked up in books and the brains of wise men and which would be unlocked to them little by little, if only they were able to remain at the university. The whole thing was unthinkable. She must escape. She must not strike the blow. There must be another way out. Yet she could think of none. Before her was an iron railing, but to go over this meant a drop of twenty feet. Beyond her at the end of the balcony, towered a brick wall; at her back, an iron door. To her left there sounded ever more plainly the pit-pat of tiptoeing feet. "I must! I must!" she determined, her teeth set hard. "There is no other way." And yet, even as she expected to hear the shift of feet which told of a turn on the balcony, some ten feet from where she cowered, the pit-pat went steadily forward. She could not believe her ears. What had happened? Then on the heels of this revelation, there followed another: The sound of the footsteps was growing fainter. Of a sudden the truth dawned upon her: The man was not on the balcony. He had not ascended the stairs. He was still on the floor below. Her sense of location had been distorted by the vast silence of the place. She was for the moment safe. A wave of dizziness swept over her. She sank into a crumpled heap on the floor. Reviving, she was seized with an almost uncontrollable desire to laugh, but, clenching and unclenching her hands, she maintained an unbroken silence. At length, her nerves in hand once more, she settled down to watchful waiting. With eyes and ears alert, she caught every new move of the prowler. As the sound of his footsteps died away in the distance, she settled herself to calmer thoughts. This place she was in was a vast cathedral of gloom. When the moon went under a cloud, blotting out the broad circle of light which fell from the vaulted dome, the darkness was so profound that she felt she must scream or flee. Yet there was something magnetic about the place. She might have been held there even though she were not pursued. It was a place to dream of. Some twenty-eight years before a hundred thousand people in a single day had passed in and out along the aisles of this vast structure. That had been in the days of its glory. All--the rich, the poor, the cultured, the illiterate, the laborer, the street gamin--had peered at the marvels displayed between its walls. And now--now two beings haunted its vast corridors, the one pursuing the other. How strange life was! A whiff of wind sweeping over the main floor sent a whirl of waste paper flying in circles halfway to the ceiling. Two tiny red eyes peered at her at a safe distance--then another and another. "Rats," she whispered. "Three of them." The pit-pat of feet became distinct again. Putting out her hand to grip the skate, she discovered that her fingers were too stiff for service. She had grown cold without sensing it. Rubbing her hands together, she warmed them. Her limbs too had grown stiff. Rising silently, she went through a series of exercises which sent the blood coursing through her veins. "Must get out of here some way," she told herself, "but how?" Then suddenly she thought of the girls. They would be anxious about her, might come out to seek her, only to fall into a trap. A trap? She thought of Lucile, slim, nervous. Lucile hovering as she had in the corner of that old Mission on that other night; thought too of the things Lucile had seen there; admired the nerve she had displayed. But what did it all mean? She could but feel that it all was connected in some way; the note of warning tacked to the schooner; Lucile's experience in the Mission and her present one, all fitted together in one. What was it all about? Were they innocently checkmating, or appearing to checkmate, some men in their attempt to perform some unlawful deed? Were these persons moonshiners, gamblers, smugglers, or robbers living in the dry dock? If so, who were they? Again the sound of footsteps grew indistinct in the distance. "Ought to be getting out of here," she told herself. "Getting late--horribly late and--and cold. The girls will be searching for me. There's an open window over there to my right. Terribly high up, but I might make the ground though." She listened intently, but caught no sound. Then stealthily, step by step, she made her way toward the window. Now she was fifty feet away from it, now thirty, now ten. And now--now she dropped silently to the floor and crept to the opening. There was no glass; she was glad of that. Flattening herself out, she peered over the sill to the void below. "Terribly far down. Easily thirty feet!" she breathed. "Two gratings; rotten too, perhaps. Ground frozen too." She reached far down and, gripping the top of the nearest window grating, threw all her strength into an effort to wrench it free. "That one's strong enough," she concluded; "but how about the other?" Again she lay quite still, listening. In the distance she fancied she caught the pit-pat again. "Better try it while I've got a chance," she decided. With the care and skill of a trained athlete she swung herself over the window sill, clung to the grating with her toes; dropped down; gripped the grating with her hands; slid her feet to the grating below; tested that as best she could; trusted her weight to it; swung low; touched the ground; then in her stocking-feet sped away toward the nearest street. Arrived at a clump of bushes which skirted the street, she sat down and drew on her shoes. Then with a loud "Whew!" she crossed the street and made her way toward the O Moo over a roundabout but safe route, which led her by the doors of closed shops and beneath huge apartments where some of Chicago's thousands were sleeping. Her mind, as she hurried on, was deep in the mystery and full of possible plans as to the uncertain future. "I suppose," she mumbled once, "we should give up the O Moo. Most people would say it was a wild notion, this living on a ship, but what's one to do? No rooms you can pay for, and who would give up a university education without a fight? What have we done? What are these people bothering us for anyway? What right have they? Who are they anyway?" This cast her into deeper reflections. The face she had seen was not that of Mark Pence. Whether it was one of the Orientals living on the scow, or one of the fishermen living in their fishing smack, she could not tell. She had never seen the fishermen. Even Marian had seen but two of them. "Might not be any of these," she concluded with a shrug. "Might have been some night prowler who will never come back." * * * * * * * * The two girls in the cabin of the O Moo had waited an hour. Lucile had fallen half-asleep. Marian had lifted a trap door and had started the small gasoline-driven generator which furnished them light and heat. The engine was racing away with a faint pop-pop-pop, when Lucile sat up suddenly. "Marian," she exclaimed, "what did that boy say about the scow those Chinese people live in?" "Why," said Marian, wrinkling her brow, "he said something about going down twenty feet." "That seems strange, doesn't it?" Lucile considered for a moment. "Yes, but then it was a winding stairway. Probably he isn't used to that kind. Perhaps he just thought it was farther down than it really was. I--" "What was that?" exclaimed Lucile, starting up. There had come a muffled sound from below, barely heard above the pop-pop of the engine. In a second Marian had stopped the generator. Each girl strained her ears to listen. It came again, this time more distinct; tap-tap-tap, a pause, then a fourth tap. "Florence!" exclaimed Lucile springing for the door. Three taps, a halt, then a tap was the signal for lowering the rope-ladder. A moment later Florence was being dragged into the cabin and ordered to give an account of herself. "Sit down," she said. "It's rather a long story. When I'm through you'll very likely be for leaving the O Moo in the morning, and I'm not so sure but that is the right thing to do. The cruise of the O Moo," she laughed a bit uncertainly, "gives some indication of turning out to be an ill-fated voyage." With Lucile and Marian listening intently Florence told her story. "Florence," said Lucile, when she had finished, "do--do you suppose that has anything to do with the old Mission affair I told you about?" "Or the warning tacked on our hull?" suggested Marian. "I don't know," said Florence thoughtfully, "It might. The point really is, though, are we leaving in the morning?" She was answered by an emphatic: "No! No!" "Do you know," said Lucile a few moments later as she sipped a cup of hot chocolate and nibbled at a wafer, "I peeped into that room in the old Mission yesterday. The shutter had been replaced but I could see through the cracks. There really wasn't anything on the table. The candles and crucifix were there, but nothing on the old table--not anything at all. I--I must just have imagined that face." "I'm not so sure," said Florence mysteriously. "Oh!" exclaimed Lucile suddenly, "You were going to tell me the story that face reminded you of--the story told by an old seaman." "I will," said Florence, "but not to-night. Just look," she sprang to her feet, "it's after three o'clock and to-day is already to-morrow." CHAPTER VI THE BLUE GOD As Florence returned from her lectures the following afternoon she passed across the end of the lagoon. Once she had found her skate, lost on the previous night, and thrust it into the bag with her books, she glanced up at the ragged giant of a building which lay sleeping there on its blanket of snow. She felt an almost irresistible desire again to enter and roam about its deserted corridors. Walking to the corner beneath the broken windows, she glanced to the right and left of her, allowed her gaze to sweep the horizon, then, seeing no one who might observe her actions, she sprang upon the edge of the wall, scaled the grating with the agility of a squirrel, tumbled over the upper window sill and found herself once more inside. In spite of the fact that it was now broad daylight and would be for an hour, she found her heart fluttering painfully. The experiences of the previous night were all too freshly burned on the tissues of her brain. As she tiptoed down the balcony, then dropped from step to step to the main floor below, the unpleasant sensations left her. She found herself walking, as she had some years before as a child, in the midst of a throng, exclaiming at every newly discovered monster or thing of delicate beauty. The treasures had long since been removed to newer and more magnificent quarters, but the memory of them lingered. She was wandering along thus absorbed when her foot touched something. Thinking it but a stray brick or crumbling bit of plaster, she was about to bestow upon it only a passing glance when, with a sudden exclamation, she stooped and picked it up. The thing at first sight appeared to be but a bundle of soiled silk cloth of a peculiar blue tint. Florence knew, however, that it was more than that, for when her toe had struck it, she had thought it some solid object. With trembling fingers she tore away the silk threads which bound it, to uncover a curious object of blue stone shaped like a short, squat candlestick. Indeed, there were traces of tallow to be seen in the cuplike hollow at the top of it. "Looks like it might be blue jade," she told herself. "If it is, it's worth something--" The whisper died on her lips. A thought had come to her, one which made her afraid of the gathering darkness, and caused her to hastily thrust the thing into the pocket of her coat and hurry from the building. That night, after the dinner dishes were washed, Florence, who had been fumbling with something in the corner, suddenly turned out the lights. Scratching a match, she lighted the half of a candle which she had thrust into the candlestick she had found in the museum. "Gather round, children," she said solemnly. Placing the candle on the floor, she sat down tailor-fashion before it. "Gather round," she repeated, "and you shall hear the tale of the strange blue god. It is told best while seated in the floor as the Negontisks sit, with legs crossed. It is told best by the dim and flaring light of a candle." "Oh! Good!" exclaimed Lucile, dropping down beside her. "But where did you get the odd candlestick?" asked Marian as she followed Lucile. "What a strange thing it is; made of some almost transparent blue stone. And see! little faces peer out at you from every angle. It is as if a hundred wicked fairies had been bottled up in it." All that Marian had said was true, and even Florence stared at it a long time before she answered: "Found it in the old museum. Probably left behind when the displays were moved out. I ought to take it down to the new museum and ask them, I guess." There was something in Florence's tone which told Lucile that she herself did not believe half she was saying but she did not give voice to those thoughts. Instead she whispered: "Come now, let us have the story of the blue god." "As the old seaman told it to me," said Florence, "it was like this: He had been shanghaied by a whaler captain whose ship was to cruise the coast of Arctic Siberia. So cruel and unjust was this captain that the sailor resolved to escape at the first opportunity. That opportunity came one day when he, with others, had been sent ashore on the Asiatic continent somewhere between Korea and Behring Straits. "Slipping away when no one was looking, he hid on the edge of a rocky cliff until he saw the whaler heave anchor and sail away. "At first it seemed to him that he had gone from bad to worse; the place appeared to be uninhabited. It was summer, however, and there were solman berries on the tundra and blueberries in the hills. There were an abundance of wild birds' eggs to be gathered on the ledges. The meat of young birds was tender and good; so he fared well enough. "But, not forgetting that summer would soon pass and his food supply be gone, he made his way southward until at last he came within sight of the camp fires of a village. "It was with much fear that he approached these strangers. He found them friendly enough, ready to share food and shelter with him providing he was willing to share their labor. "You wouldn't care to hear of his life among these natives. Only the part relating to the blue god is of importance. "He found that these people worshipped a strange god, or idol. This idol was a very ugly face carved out of a block of solid blue jade. When being worshipped it was always illumined by some strange light which caused it to appear to smile and frown at alternating intervals." Lucile leaned over and gripped the speaker's arm. "See how the faces in the candlestick smile and frown," she shuddered. Florence smiled and nodded, then proceeded with her story: "Little by little, as these people who called themselves Negontisks, who lived in skin tents and traveled in skin boats as the Eskimos do, and are considered by some to be the forefathers of the Eskimos, came to have confidence in the seaman, they told him the story of the blue god. "So ancient was this god that not the oldest man in the village could recall the time when it had first been accepted as their god. They did know, however, that one time when there were but five villages of their tribe, and when all these villagers had joined in a great feast of white whale meat and sour berries, on a slope at the foot of a great mountain a huge rock had come rattling down from the cliffs above and, passing through their midst, had crushed to death five of their number. "As is the custom with most barbaric tribes, these people considered that anything which had the power to destroy them must be a god. This rock, which proved to be of blue jade, became their god. And that they might have it ever with them as they traveled, that it might protect them and bring them good fortune, they carved from it five hollow faces, like masks. One of these was taken by each village. Then they went their way. "From that day, so the story goes, the Negontisk people were greatly prospered. They found food in abundance. No longer were there starving times. They had children in numbers and all these lived to grow to manhood. "As the tribe grew, they wished to create new villages. They returned to the place of the rock for new gods, only to find that the rock had vanished. "Their medicine men explained that, being a god, the rock had the power of going where it pleased. So there could be only five blue gods. But the people lived on and prospered. "As the years passed, many cruel practices grew up in connection with the worship of these gods. Some of them are so terrible that the old seaman would not tell me of them. One, however, he did tell; that was that all the illuminations of the gods were held in a tent made of many thicknesses of skins. Only men were permitted to be present during the illumination. The life of a woman or child who chanced to look into the tent at such a time must be sacrificed. Their blood must be spilled before the face of the blue god. Very strange sort of"--she broke off abruptly, to exclaim: "Why, Lucile, what makes you tremble so?" "Nothing, I guess." Lucile tried to smile but made a poor attempt at it. "It--it's ridiculous, I know," she stammered, "but you know I saw a blue face illumined and I am a girl, so--" "Nonsense! Pure nonsense!" exclaimed Marian. "You are in America, Chicago. This story comes from Siberia. Probably not one of those tribesmen has ever set foot on the American continent, let alone in Chicago. And if they did, do you suppose for a moment that our authorities would allow them to continue to perform these terrible religious rites?" Florence was silent. Suddenly Lucile whispered: "Listen! What was that?" For a moment the room was silent. Only the faint tick-tick of the clock in the wall disturbed the stillness. Then, faintly from outside there sounded a sort of metallic jingle. "Someone out there, below," whispered Marian. "He has kicked that tin can I threw out there; the third can of corn, remember?" The answer was a faint "Ah." Then again all was silence. Two or three moments had elapsed when there came a faint scratching sound, seemingly upon the side of the yacht. "Last time," said Marian, setting her teeth tight, "he got away with his note tacking. This time he shall not." Tiptoeing down the room without the least sound, she climbed upon her berth, which was made up for the night. By propping herself upright on her knees she could just see through a small, circular window. This window was directly opposite the opening made by propping up the canvas. Florence had placed herself between Marian and the candle. No light fell upon Marian to betray her presence. When one is in a dark room at night, he may peer into the moonlit outer world without being seen. Marian had poised there motionless for a full moment when, without altering her position other than turning her head, she whispered: "Lucile, bring me that bottle of gas." Understanding at once what bottle was meant, Lucile tiptoed down the length of the room, managed to open the laboratory door without noise, then put her hand to the shelf where the "Quick Action Gas" was kept. With this in her hand she returned to Marian. She whispered as she passed it up to her: "Be careful not to drop it in here. It would drive us all out and we're hardly dressed for that." Shrugging her shoulders beneath her dressing gown, Marian placed the bottle on the blankets, then reached for the catch which kept the window closed. This window was seldom opened and she was not sure but that the unused hinges would give out a rusty squeak. In this case her purpose would be thwarted. She could but try. Catching her breath, she turned the handle, then gave a slight pull. To her immense relief, there came no sound as the window swung inward. Seizing the bottle, she brought her hand even with her head, then sat poised there quite motionless as if impersonating the statue of a hand-grenade thrower. Then, suddenly, her whole body became tense. The hand holding the bottle flew back. It shot forward. CHAPTER VII THE MYSTERY DEEPENS When they saw Marian's hand go back for the throw, the two other girls, their fear overcome by curiosity, sprang silently to a position beside their companion. What they saw made them draw back in fright. Two rounds of a ladder extended above the outer rim of the boat. Above the last round appeared a face. This face, though almost completely hidden by a heavy muffler, was undoubtedly that of a man. Before they had time to move, however, they saw the bottle of liquid gas strike the top rail and burst. The liquid spattering over the man's face and clothing, brought forth a sharp exclamation. The next instant, seeming to struggle against an invisible foe, he made desperate attempts to dismount from his lofty position. In this he was partially successful. He disappeared from sight. But the next moment there came the thud of a falling body. The ladder was still in position. The three girls held their breath. "He fell," said Lucile in a tremulous whisper. "I only hope he--" "No you don't!" Lucile interrupted. "No one wishes a person seriously injured." Lucile shuddered. "Well, anyway he wasn't," said Florence, "for there he is. The gas is working splendidly." The man was dancing about below, swinging his arms and shouting madly. "Like a drunken man," whispered Marian, with a frightened laugh. "He'll be over it in a minute," said Lucile. "Liquid's all over his clothes--keeps evaporating and getting into his lungs." True to Lucile's prophecy, the man, a few moments later, having calmed down, appeared to pause to consider. It was evident that he wavered between two opinions. Twice he started in the direction of the ship, each time sending cold chills creeping up Lucile's spine. "We have no more gas," she whispered. "Make it sulphuric acid this time!" Marian whispered savagely. "No! No! You couldn't!" Lucile shuddered. Pausing each time, the man turned back. The second time he wheeled about and, racing madly down the beach, disappeared beyond a long line of pleasure boats. "Well," said Florence, gathering her dressing gown about her and springing through the window, "we have a ladder. Looks like a good one." "It _is_ a good one!" she exclaimed a moment later, "a brand new one. We'll show it to Timmie. Perhaps it will serve as evidence to trap the rascal." "Speaking of rascals," said Marian a few moments later as they sat looking at one another in silence, "what do you think is the meaning of all this?" "Perhaps he came for the blue candlestick," Lucile suggested. "How could he?" demanded Florence. "How would he know we had it? What would he want of it? It's only a curio. Belongs to the museum, I guess. Anyway, I'll see to-morrow. I'm going to take it to the new museum and show it to one of the curators, a Mr. Cole. I met him at a party on the campus a short while ago." Suddenly Lucile sprang to her feet, then rushed to the other end of the room. "Wha--what's the matter?" demanded Marian. "Going to prepare some more gas," Lucile called back over her shoulder. "Nothing like having a little chemist in the family these days. Gas is almost as useful in times of peace as it was in the days of war." Next morning Marian showed the ladder to the aged dry dock keeper. "No," he said after examining it carefully, "I never saw that before. It's new and not very heavy. Probably bought for the purpose and carried here. You say you didn't see the man's face?" "Not much of it." "Wouldn't recognize him?" "Probably not." "Well, I'll go round and see the folks close to here that sell ladders, but I guess it won't be any use. There's too many places where you can get ladders in a big city like this. He might 'a' stole it too. Mighty queer!" He shook his head as he walked away. That same day Florence wrapped the blue candlestick carefully in tissue paper, snapped three rubber bands about it, then made her way with it to the surface line where she took a car for down town. She kept a close watch to the right, to the left and back of her for any signs of being followed. She scrutinized the faces of those who entered the car with her and even cast a glance behind the car to see if there chanced to be a taxi following. Truth was, the events of the last hours had played havoc with her nerves. The candlestick in her possession was like the presence of some supernatural thing. It haunted her even in the day, as a thought of ghosts in a lonely spot at night might have tormented her. It was with a distinct sense of relief that, after leaving the car and passing over a half mile of board-walk, she entered the massive door of the new museum. For a moment, after entering, she permitted her eyes to roam up and down its vast, high-vaulted corridors, to catch the echo of voices which came murmuring to her from everywhere. She saw the massive pillars, the polished floors, the miles of glass cases, then a distinct sense of sorrow swept over her, a feeling of pity for the ragged giant of a building out by the lake front which had once housed all these treasures of beauty, antiquity and wealth. "Temporary! Temporary" kept running through her mind. "Too hastily built and of poor material. Now it is abandoned to decay. Life is like that. That's why one should struggle to lay foundations, to prepare one's self for life. For eighteen years, without education, one may be good enough. Then, like the old museum, one is cast aside, abandoned to decay." As these thoughts swept through her mind she resolved more strongly than before, that, come what might, she would continue her battle for a university education. Suddenly recalling her mission, she asked the attendant to tell her where she might find Mr. Cole. "Mr. Cole's office," said the man courteously, "is in the left wing, third floor. See those stairs at the other end of this hall?" "Yes." "Take those stairs. Go to the third floor. At the last landing go straight ahead. His door is the fourth to your right." "Thank you," and Florence hurried on her way. A moment later she was knocking at the door of the great archaeologist's studio. "Why, it's Miss Huyler!" he exclaimed as he opened the door to her. "Come right in. What may I do for you?" Ruthaford Cole was one of those rare men who have studied their subject so thoroughly and who have traveled so widely in search of further knowledge that they have no need to assume a false air of importance and dignity to make an impression. Under middle age, smooth-shaven, smiling, he carried the attitude of a boy who has picked up a few facts here and there and who is eager to learn more. But show him a bit of carving from the Congo and he is all smiles; "Oh! Yes, a very nice bit of modern work. Good enough, but done to sell to traders. Possesses no historical value, you know." A bit of ivory from the coast of Alaska, rudely scratched here and there, a hole torn out here, an end broken off there, browned with age, is presented and he answers, his face lighting up with genuine joy, "Now there is really a rare specimen. Handle of a bow-drill; made long before the white man came, I'd say. Tells stories, that does. Each crudely scratched representation of reindeer, whale, wolf or bear has its meaning." That was the type of man Cole was. Frank and friendly to all, he gave evidence in an unassuming way, of a tremendous fund of knowledge. Now, as Florence unwrapped the blue candlestick, he watched the movement of her hands with much the same look that a terrier wears when watching his master dig out a rat. Once the candlestick was in his hand, he held it as a merchant might a bit of costly and fragile china-ware. Florence smiled as she watched him. She had hoped he would say at first glance: "Why, where did you chance to find that? It was lost from one of our cases while we were moving! We believed it stolen." Florence had had quite enough of adventure and mystery. She was convinced that holding this trophy she was sure to experience more trouble. Mr. Cole did not do the expected thing. What he did was to turn the candlestick over and over. A look of amazement spread over his usually smiling face. "No," he murmured, "it can't be." Two more turns. He held it to the light. "And, yet, it does seem to be." Stepping to a door which led to a balcony, with an absent-minded "Pardon me," he disappeared through the door, but Florence could still see him. As he held the thing to the light, turning, turning, and turning it again, the look of amazement grew on his face. As he re-entered the room, he exclaimed: "It is! It most certainly is! I am astounded." Motioning Florence to a seat he dropped into the swivel chair before his desk. For a moment he sat staring at the candlestick, then he asked: "Would you mind telling me where you found this?" "In the old museum." "The old museum!" "Yes, I thought you might have lost--" "No, no," he interrupted, "we never possessed one of these. There is one in the Metropolitan Museum. It's the only one I ever saw save one I chanced upon on the east coast of Russia. I tried to buy it from the natives. They would not name a price. Decamped that very night; utterly disappeared. Thought we might steal it, I suppose. Suspicious. Superstitious lot. "The question is," he said after a moment, "now you have it what are you going to do with it?" "Why," smiled Florence, "return it to the owner if--if he can be found." "The owner," Cole's eyes narrowed, "I fancy will not call for it. I have reason to believe that were you to advertise your find in the papers he would not venture to call for it. And yet," he said thoughtfully, "it might be worth trying." He sat for a long time in a brown study. "Miss Huyler," he said abruptly, "this is a strange affair. I am not at liberty, at the present moment, to tell you all I know. One thing is sure: it is not safe for you to be carrying this thing about, for in the first place it is valuable, and in--" "Valuable? That?" exclaimed the girl. "Quite valuable. Well worth stealing. I'd almost be tempted myself," he smiled. "But there is another reason why it is not safe. I am not at liberty to tell you. But if you will trust me with it, I will place it in one of the gem cases. Our gem room is guarded day and night. It will be safe there, and neither it nor you will be safe if you keep it. By the way," he broke off suddenly, "what is your address?" Florence gave the address of a friend where her mail was left. "You live there?" "No, but no mail is delivered where I do live." "Where can that be?" he asked in some surprise. "In a boat," she smiled. "In a pleasure yacht. Oh, it's not afloat," as he looked at her in astonishment. "Might I ask the name of the boat and the location?" he half apologized. "Someone might wish to visit you. It will be proper and very important that he should. Otherwise I would not ask." "The O Moo," answered Florence quietly. "Foot of 71st Street." She rose to go. He grasped her hand for a second, looking as if he would like to say more, then bowed her out of the door. As she entered the corridor, she was conscious of a strange dizziness. It was as if she had spent the better part of a night poring over an absorbing story. She had come to the museum to rid herself of the blue candlestick and the mystery attached to it. The candlestick was gone but the mystery lay before her deeper and darker than ever. CHAPTER VIII A STRANGE GAME OF HIDE-AND-GO-SEEK The next short chapter in the story of the mystery of the blue candlestick followed closely upon Florence's visit to the new museum. It was on the following morning, as she and Lucile were strapping up their books preparatory to leaving the O Moo, that they heard a sudden loud rapping on the hull of the yacht. "Who can that be?" exclaimed Lucile. "I'll see," said Florence racing for the door. Much to her astonishment, as she peered down over the rail she found herself looking into the blue eyes of a strapping police sergeant. "Florence Huyler?" he questioned. "Ye--yes," she stammered. "How do I git up?" he asked. "Or do you prefer to come down? Gotta speak with you. Nothin' serious, not for you," he added as he saw the startled look on her face. With trembling hand Florence threw the rope ladder over the rail. As the officer set the ladder groaning beneath his weight, questions flew through her mind. "What does he want? Will he forbid us living in the O Moo? What have we done to deserve a visit from the police?" Then, like a flash Mr. Cole's words came back to her: "Someone else may wish to talk with you." That someone must be this policeman. "Will you come in?" she asked, as the officer's foot touched the deck. "If you please." "You see," he began at once, while his keen eyes roamed from corner to corner of the cabin, "my visit has to do with a bit of a curio you found lately." "The blue candlestick?" suggested Florence. "Exactly, I--" "We really don't know much--" "You may know more than you think. Now sit down nice and easy and tell me all you do know and about all the queer things that have happened to you since you came to live in this here boat." Florence seated herself on the edge of her chair, then told in dramatic fashion of her adventures in the old museum. "Exactly!" said the officer emphatically when she had finished. "Queer! Mighty queer, now, wasn't it? And now, is that all?" "Lucile, my friend here, had a rather strange experience in the Spanish Mission. Perhaps she'll tell you of it." Lucile's face went first white, then red. "Oh, that! That was nothing. I--I went to sleep and dreamed, I guess. You see," she explained to the officer, "I had been out in the storm so long, I was sort of benumbed with the cold, and when I got inside I fell asleep." "And then--" the officer prompted with an encouraging smile. "It won't do any harm to tell," encouraged Florence. Stammering and blushing at first, Lucile launched into her story. Gaining in confidence as she went on, she succeeded in telling it very well. When she came to the part about the blue face, in his eagerness to drink in every detail the officer leaned forward, half rising from his chair. "Hold on," he exclaimed excitedly. "You say it was a blue face?" "Yes, blue. I am sure of that." "Blue like the candlestick?" "Why, yes--yes, I think it was." "Can't be any mistake," he mumbled to himself, as he settled back in his chair. "It's it, that's all. Wouldn't I like to have been there! All right," he urged, "go on." Lucile finished her story. "And is that all?" he repeated. "All except something that happened the night Florence was caught in the old museum and didn't get home," said Lucile, "but what happened wasn't much. You see, we went out to search for her, and a boy named Mark Pence, who lives in a boat here too, joined us. We couldn't rouse anyone at the old scow where the Chinamen live, so he went in. He didn't find anyone, but when he came out he said it was such a queer sort of place. He said there was a winding stairway in it twenty feet high. But I guess he doesn't know much about winding stairways, because the scow is only ten feet high altogether. So the stairs couldn't be twenty feet deep, could they?" The officer, who had again half risen from his chair, settled back. "No," he said, "no, of course they couldn't." But Florence, who had been studying his face, thought he attached far greater importance to this last incident than his words would seem to indicate. "Well, if that's all," he said rising, "I'll be going. You've shed a lot of light upon a very mysterious subject; one which has been bothering the whole police force. I'm from the 63d street station. If anything further happens, let me know at once, will you? Call for Sergeant Malloney. And if ever you need any protection by day or night, the station's at your service. Good day and thank you." "Now what do you think of that?" said Florence as the officer's broad back disappeared beyond the black bulk of a tug in dry dock. "I--I don't know what to think," said Lucile. "One thing I'm awfully sure of, though, and that is that living on a boat is more exciting than one would imagine before trying it. "I wish," said Lucile that night as she lay curled up in her favorite chair, "that I could create something. I wish I could write a story--a real story." Then, for a long time she was silent. "Professor Storris," she began again, "told us just how a short story ought to be done. First you find an unusual setting for your story; something that hasn't been described before; then you imagine some very unusual events occurring in that setting. That makes a story, only you need a little technique. There must be three parts to the story. You look about in the story and find the very most dramatic point in the narrative--fearfully exciting and dramatic. You begin the story right there; don't tell how things come to be happening so, nor why the hero was there or anything; just plunge right into it like: 'Cold perspiration stood out upon his brow; a chill ran down his spine. His eyes were glued upon the two burning orbs of fire. He was paralyzed with fear'." Florence looked up and laughed. "That ought to get them interested." "Trouble is," said Lucile thoughtfully, "it's hard to find an unusual setting and the unusual incidents. "After you've done two or three hundred words of thrill," she went on, "then you keep the hero in a most horrible plight while his mind runs like lightning back over the events which brought him to this dramatic moment in his career. Then you suddenly take up the thrill again and bring the story up to the climax with a bang. Simple, isn't it? All you have to do is do it; only you must concentrate, concentrate tremendously, all the while you're doing it." For a long while after that she lay back in her chair quite silent, so silent indeed that her companions thought her asleep. But after nearly an hour she sprang to her feet with sudden enthusiasm. "I have it. Three girls living in a yacht in dry dock. That's an unusual setting. And the unusual incident, I have that too but I shan't tell it. That's to be the surprise." The other girls were preparing to retire. Lucile took down her hair, slipped on a loose dressing-gown, arranged a dark shade over her lamp, then, having taken a quantity of paper from a drawer and sharpened six pencils, she sat down to write. When she commenced it was ten by the clock built into the running board at the end of the cabin. When she came to an end and threw the last dulled pencil from her it was one o'clock. For a moment she shuffled the papers into an oblong heap, then, throwing aside her dressing-gown and snapping off the light, she climbed to her berth and was soon fast asleep. But even in her dreams, she appeared to be experiencing the incidents of her story, for now she moved restlessly murmuring, "How the boat pitches!" or "Listen to the wind howl!" A moment later she sat bolt upright, exclaiming in a shrill whisper, "It's ice! I tell you it's ice!" Marian was the first one up in the morning. It was her turn for making toast and coffee. As she passed Lucile's desk she glanced at the stock of paper and unconsciously read the title, "The Cruise of the O Moo." Gladly would she have read the pages which followed but loyalty to her cousin forbade. "To-day," said Lucile at breakfast, "I am going to have my story typed, and next day I shall take it to the office of the Literary Monthly." "I hope the editor treats you kindly," smiled Marian. "You must remember, though, that we are only freshmen." But Lucile's faith in her product, her first real "creation," was not to be daunted. "I did it just as Professor Storris said it should be done, so I know it must be good," she affirmed stoutly. That night Lucile spent an hour working over the typewritten copy of her story. Tracing in a word here, marking one out there, punctuating, comparing, rearranging, she made it as perfect as her limited knowledge of the story writing art would permit her. "There now," she sighed, tossing back the loose-flung hair which tumbled down over her shapely shoulders, "I will take you to ye editor in ye morning. And here's hoping he treats you well." She patted the manuscript affectionately, then stowed it away in a pigeon-hole. If the truth were to be told, she was due for something of a surprise regarding that manuscript. But all that lay in the future. Florence and Marian were away. They had gone for a spin on the lagoon before retiring. She was alone on the O Moo. Tossing her dressing-gown lightly from her she proceeded to put herself through a series of exercises such as are calculated to bring color to the cheek and sparkle to the eye of a modern American girl. Coming out of this with glowing face and heaving chest, she threw on her dressing-gown and leaped out of the cabin and into the moonlight which flooded a narrow open spot on deck. Away at the left she saw the ice on the lake shore stand out in irregular piles. Here was a huge pile twenty feet high and there a single cake on end. There was a whole forest of jagged, bayonet-like edges and here again pile after pile lay scattered like shocks of grain in the field. "For all the world like the Arctic!" she breathed. "What sport it would be to play hide-and-go-seek with oneself out there in the moonlight." She paused a moment in thought. Then, clapping her hands she exclaimed, "I'll do it. It will be like going back to good old Cape Prince of Wales, in Alaska." Hastening inside, she twisted her hair in a knot on the top of her head, drew on some warm garments, crowned herself with a stocking-cap, and was away toward the beach. Since the O Moo was on the track nearest to the shore, she was but a moment reaching the edge of the ice which, packed thick between two breakwaters, lay glistening away in the moonlight. Here she hesitated. She was not sure it was quite safe. The wind had been blowing on shore for days. It had brought the ice-packs in. Under similar conditions in the Arctic, the ice would have been solidly frozen together by this time, but she was not acquainted with lake ice; it might be treacherous. "Pooh!" she exclaimed at last. "Wind's still onshore; I'll try it." Stepping out upon the first flat cake, she hurried across it to dodge into the shadow of a towering pile of broken fragments. "Catch me!" she exclaimed joyously aloud. "Catch me if you can!" She had reverted to the days of her childhood and was playing hide-and-go-seek with herself. First behind this pile, then that, she flitted in the moonlight like a ghost. On and on, in a zigzag course, she went until a glance back brought from her lips an exclamation of surprise: "How far I am from the shore!" For a moment she stood quite still. Then the startled exclamation came again. "That cake of ice tips. It moves! I must go back." Springing from the cake, she leaped upon another and another. She had just succeeded in reaching a spot where the rise and fall of the ice in response to the swells which swept in from the lake, was lessening, when something caused her heart to flutter wildly. Had she seen a dark form disappear behind that ice-pile off to her right? In an instant she was hugging the shadow of a great, up-ended cake. No, she had not been mistaken. Out of the silence there came the pat-pat of footsteps. "What can it mean?" she whispered. Locating as best she could the position of the intruder, she sprang away in the opposite direction. She was engaged in a game of hide-and-go-seek, not with herself, but with some other person, a stranger probably. What the outcome of that game would be she could not tell. CHAPTER IX SOMEONE DROPS IN FROM NOWHERE Pausing to listen whenever she gained the protecting shadow of an ice-pile, Lucile caught each time the pit-pat of footsteps. This so terrified her that she lost all knowledge of direction, her only thought to put a greater distance between herself and that haunting black shadow. Suddenly she awoke to her old peril. The ice beneath her was heaving. Before her lay a dark patch of water. In her excitement she had been making her way toward open water. With a shudder she wheeled about, and forcing her mind to calmer counsel, chose a circling route which would eventually bring her to the shore. Again she dodged from ice-pile to ice-pile, again paused to hear the wild beating of her own heart and the pit-pat of the shadow's footfalls. But what was this? As she listened she seemed to catch the fall of two pairs of feet. In desperation she shot forward a great distance without pausing. When at last she did pause it was with the utmost consternation that she realized that not one or two, but many pairs of feet were dropping pit-pat on the ice floor of the lake. As she dodged out for another flight, she saw them--three of them--as they suddenly disappeared from sight. One to the right, one to the left, one behind her, they were closing in upon her. There was still a space between the two to right and left. Through this she sprang, only to see a fourth directly before her. As she again dodged into a sheltering shadow she nerved herself for a scream. The girls were away, but someone, Mark Pence, the fishermen, old Timmie, might hear and come to her aid. But what was this? She no longer caught the shuffle of moving feet. All was silent as the tomb. For a moment she hovered there undecided. Then she caught the distant, even tramp-tramp of two pairs of heavy, marching feet. Glancing shoreward, she saw two burly policemen, their brass buttons gleaming in the moonlight, marching down the beach. It had been the presence of these officers which had held her pursuers to their shadowy hiding-places. If she but screamed once these officers would come to her rescue! But she had, from early childhood, experienced a great fear of policemen. When she endeavored to scream, her tongue clung to the roof of her mouth. And so there she stood, motionless, voiceless, until the officers had passed from her sight. * * * * * * * * While Lucile was experiencing the strange thrills of this terrible game out on the lake ice, Florence and Marian were witnessing mysterious actions of strange persons out on the lagoon. In spite of the lateness of the hour, there were a number of persons skating on the north end of the lagoon, so the two girls experienced no fear as they went for a quarter-mile dash down the southern channel which lay between an island and the shore. At the south end of the lagoon the channel, which became very narrow, was spanned by a wooden bridge. This bridge, even in the daytime, always gave Marian a shock of something very like fear, for it was here that a great tragedy ending in the death of a prominent society woman had occurred. Now, as she found herself nearing it, preparing for a long skimming glide beneath it, she felt a chill shoot up her spine. Involuntarily she glanced up at the bridge railing. Then she gripped Florence's arm tightly. "Who can that be on the bridge at this hour of the night?" she whispered. "Probably someone who has climbed up there to take off his skates," said Florence with her characteristic coolness. "But look! He's waving his arms. He's signaling. Do you suppose he means it for us?" "No," said Florence. "He's looking north, toward the edge of the island. Come on; pay no attention to him. Under we go." With a great, broad swinging stroke she fairly threw her lighter partner across the shadow that the bridge made and out into the moonlight on the other side. Marian was breathing quite easily again. They had made half the length of the island on the return lap, when she again gripped Florence's arm. "A sled!" she whispered. "What of it?" Florence's tone was impatient. "You are seeing things to-night." The sled, drawn by two men without skates, was passing diagonally across the lagoon. It was seven or eight feet long and stood a full three feet above the ice. The runners, of solid boards, were exceedingly broad. "What a strange sled," said Marian as they cut across the path of the two men. "Sled seems heavy," remarked Florence. "At least one would think it was by the way they slip and slide as they pull it." They had passed a hundred yards beyond that spot when Florence turned to glance back. "Why! Look!" she exclaimed. "There's a man sitting on the ice, back there a hundred yards or so." "One of the men with the sled?" "No, there they go." "Some skater tightening his strap." "Wasn't one in sight a moment ago. Tell you what," Florence exclaimed; "let's circle back!" Marian was not keen for this adventure, but accompanied her companion without comment. Nothing really came of it, not at that time. The man sat all humped over on the ice, as if mending a broken skate. He did not move nor look up. Florence thought she saw beside him a somewhat bulky package but could not quite tell. His coat almost concealed it, if, indeed, there was a package. "Two men drawing a strange sled," she mused. "One man on the ice alone. Possibly a package." Turning to Marian she asked: "What do you make of it?" "Why, nothing," said Marian in surprise. "Why should I?" "Well, perhaps you shouldn't," said Florence thoughtfully. There was something to it after all and what this something was they were destined to learn in the days that were to follow. * * * * * * * * Out among the ice-piles between the breakwaters, cowering in the shadows too frightened to scream, Lucile was seeing things. Hardly had the policemen disappeared behind the boats on the dry dock than the dark figures began to reappear. "And so many of them!" she breathed. She was tempted to believe she was in a trance. To the right of her, to the left, before, behind, she saw them. Ten, twenty, thirty, perhaps forty darkly enshrouded heads peered out from the shadows. "As if in a fairy book!" she thrilled. "What can it mean? What are all these people doing out here at this ghostly hour?" Suddenly she was seized with a fit of calm, desperate courage. Gliding from her shadow, she walked boldly out into the moonlight. Her heart was racing madly; her knees trembled. She could scarcely walk, yet walk she did, with a steady determined tread. Past this ice-pile, round this row of up-ended cakes, across this broad, open spot she moved. No one sprang out to intercept her progress. Here and there a dark head appeared for an instant, only immediately to disappear. "Cowards!" she told herself. "All cowards. Afraid." Now she was approaching the sandy beach. Unable longer to restrain her impulses, she broke into a wild run. She arrived at the side of the O Moo entirely out of breath. Leaning against its side for a moment, she turned to look back. There was not a person in sight. The beach, the ice, the black lines of breakwaters seemed as silent and forsaken as the heart of a desert. "And yet it is swarming with men," she breathed. "I wonder what they wanted?" Suddenly she started. A figure had come into sight round the nearest prow. For an instant her hand gripped a round of the ladder, a preparatory move for upward flight. Then her hand relaxed. "Oh!" she breathed, "It's you!" "Yes, it is I, Mark Pence," said a friendly boyish voice. "I--I suppose I should be afraid of you," said Lucile, "but I'm not." "Why? Why should you?" he asked with a smile. "Well, you see everyone about this old dry dock is so terribly mysterious. I've just had an awful fright." "Tell me about it." Mark Pence smiled as he spoke. Seating herself upon the flukes of an up-ended anchor she did tell him; told him not alone of her experience that night, but of the one of that other night in the Spanish Mission. "Do you know," he said soberly when she had finished, "there _are_ a lot of mysterious things happening about this dock. I don't think it will last much longer, though. Things are sort of coming to a head. Know what those two policemen were here for?" Lucile shook her head. "Made a call on the Chinks, down there in the old scow. Came to look for something. But they didn't find it. Heard them say as much when they came out. They were mighty excited about something, though. Bet they thought it was mighty strange that there was a stairway in that old scow twenty feet deep." "Are--are you sure about that stairway?" The boy's reply was confident: "Sure's I am that I'm standing here." Lucile protested: "But most folks don't use circling stairways much. They don't know--" "I do though. I work in a library. There are scores of circling stairways among the stacks and I know just how high each one is." "It _is_ queer about that stairway," Lucile breathed. "I must be going up. I'm getting chill sitting here." "Well, good-bye." Mark Pence put out his hand and seized hers in a friendly grip. "Just remember I'm with you. If you ever need me, just whistle and I'll come running." "Thanks--thanks--aw--awfully," said Lucile, a strange catch in her throat. Her eyes followed him until the boat's prow had hidden him; then she hurried up the rope-ladder and into the cabin. She was shivering all over, whether from a chill or from nervous excitement she could not tell. The other girls came in a few moments later. For an hour they sat in a corner, drinking hot chocolate and telling of their night's adventures. Then they prepared themselves for the night's rest. For a long time after the others had retired, Florence sat in a huge upholstered chair, lights out, staring into the dark. She was thinking over the experiences of the past few weeks, trying to put them together in a geometric whole, just as an artist arranges the parts of a stained glass window. "There's Lucile's experience in the old Spanish Mission," she mused, "and my own in the museum. Then there's Mark Pence's visit to the old scow and the circular stairway. Then there's the blue candlestick. It's rare, mysterious and valuable. Why? The police are interested in it. Why? Then there's the police-sergeant's visit, and Lucile's experience on the ice, and the two policemen visiting the old scow, and there's that man on the bridge to-night, the two with the sled and the one sitting on the ice. It's all mysterious, so it ought all to fit together somehow." For a long time she sat wrapped in deep thought. Then she started suddenly. "Blue!" she whispered. "The face Lucile saw in the Mission was blue, illuminated and blue. In the story the old seaman told me the face of the god of the Negontisks was illuminated and blue. The candlestick I found was blue. What should be more natural than that a blue jade candlestick should be made in which to set a candle with which to illumine the blue god? Blue jade is valuable. A ring or stickpin set with a small piece of it is costly. That makes the candlestick both costly and valuable. All that," she sighed, "seems to hang together." Again she sat for a time in deep thought. "Only," she breathed at last, "who ever heard of a tribe of Negontisks in America, let alone here in Chicago? Try to imagine a hundred or more near-savages, with no money and no means of transportation but their native skin-boats, traveling eight thousand miles over land and sea and ending up in Chicago. It can't be imagined. It simply isn't done. So there goes my carefully arranged puzzle all to smash." Throwing off her dressing-gown, she climbed into her berth, listening to the flag-rope lashing the mast for an instant, then fell fast asleep. CHAPTER X THE REAL CRUISE BEGINS Next morning Florence was skating down the lagoon, deep in thoughts of the mysterious events of the past few days. So deeply engrossing were these thoughts that she did not see what lay before her. Suddenly her skate struck some solid obstacle. She tripped, then went sprawling. Her loosened skate shot off in another direction. "That's queer," she murmured as she sat up rubbing her knees. Glancing back over the way she had come, she saw nothing more than a circular raised spot which had formed when water had sprung up through a hole in the ice. "That's strange," she mused, and rising, she hopped and glided back to the spot. "Someone must have cut a hole in the ice," she reflected, "though what they'd do it for is more than I can see. We youngsters used to do that to get a drink when we were skating on a little prairie pond, a long way from nowhere. But here the ice is fourteen inches thick and there's a drink of water to be had for the asking up at the skate house." As she glanced down at the spot, another strange circumstance surprised her. "What makes that spot look so much bluer than the other ice?" she asked herself. As she examined it more closely she saw that this patch of blue had a very definite outline, but rough and jagged, like the edges of a piece of cloth haggled by a child who is just learning to use a pair of scissors. Having recaptured her fugitive skate, she clamped it to her foot and was about to go on her way when another startling fact arrested her. "Why, that," she thought, "is just about where that man was sitting last night; the one Marian and I saw who had apparently dropped in from nowhere." So struck with the discovery was she that she skated over to the edge of the ice where the sled drawn by the two strangers had left the snow. There she took good notice of the direction in which the sled had been going when it came upon the ice. Turning about, she skated backward with her eyes on the track made by the sled runners. She was endeavoring to retrace the sled over the ice where no tracks were visible, in an effort to prove that the sled had arrived at the point on the ice where the hole had been cut when it turned and struck off at another angle. So successful was she in this that she all but fell over the rise in the ice a second time. "That's that," she murmured. "Now for something else." Skating rapidly to the end of the lagoon nearest the dry dock she circulated about until she discovered the spot at which the sled had left the ice. Again guiding herself by the course taken by the sled, she skated backward and in a short time found herself once more beside the spot in the ice where the hole had been cut. "That proves something," she told herself, "but just how much I can't tell. But I'll leave that to study out to-night. Must hurry on or I'll be late to my lecture." "That sled track went toward the dry dock," she told herself a few moments later. "To-night when I go home I'll try to trace it out and see where it went." Lucile was home early that day. Marian had not gone to school at all. She had stayed on the beach making sketches of the ice-jam on the lake front. "I'll be going out again to-night," she told Lucile. "Wind's shifted. It's offshore now and rising. There are certain effects of lights and shadows which you get on the rim of a body of fresh water which you don't in the sea ice. Sea ice is white, dull white, like snow. Fresh water ice is blue; blue as the sky sometimes. I want to catch it before it blows out again. But what brings you home so early, Lucile?" "Cut my lecture. Headache," she explained, pressing her temples. "Nothing much though. And, Marian," she exclaimed suddenly, "what do you think? That story!" "Did he take it?" "The editor of the Literary Monthly? No, better than that." "Could anything be better than that?" "Lots of things." "What _is_ better?" "Listen," declaimed Lucile, striking a mock dramatic attitude. "He said, the literary editor did, that it was too good for his _poor little publication_! Fancy! 'His poor little publication!' My story too good! My story! A freshman's story!" She burst into sudden laughter, but stopped abruptly and sat down pressing her temples and groaning: "My poor head!" "You never can tell about it--about stories," said Marian. "Heads either. You'll have to go to bed early to-night and get a good night's sleep. There's been entirely too much excitement on board these last few nights." "He said," Lucile went on, "that the Literary Monthly didn't pay for stories. Of course I knew that. And he said that he thought I could sell my story; that he thought it was good enough for that. The technique was not quite perfect. There was too much explanation at the beginning and the climax was short, but the theme and plot were unusual. He thought that would put it over. He knew exactly the place to send it--'Seaside Tales,' a new magazine just started by a very successful editor. He knows him personally. He gave me a letter of introduction to him and I mailed the story to him right away. So you see," she smiled folding her arms, "I am to be an authoress, a--a second George Eliot, if you please!" "But Seaside Tales is published right down town. Why did you mail it?" "Do you think," said Lucile in real consternation, "that I would dare beard that lion of an editor in his den? The editor of a real magazine that pays genuine money for stories? Why I--I'd die of fright. Besides, one does not do it. Really one doesn't." "What was your story about?" asked Marian suddenly. "Why, I--I wasn't going to tell, but I guess I will. It was about three girls living on a yacht in a dry dock. And, one night in a storm the yacht broke loose on the dry dock and went out into the water. Then it drifted out to sea. Then, of course, they had to get back to land. Wasn't that dramatic?" "Yes, very!" smiled Marian. "Goodness! I hope it never happens to the O Moo! Just think! Not one of us even knows how to start the engine." "I mean to have Dr. Holmes show me the very next time he and Mrs. Holmes come down." "He'll think you're crazy." "Maybe he will. But you never can tell." That was one time when Lucile was right; in this queer old world you never can tell. When Florence returned from the university the shades of night were already falling. There was, however, sufficient light to enable her to follow the track of the sled she had seen the night before. This track led straight across the park to the beach, then along the beach in the direction of the dry dock. A few hundred yards from the dry dock it turned suddenly to the left and was at once lost among the tumbled masses of ice, where no trace of it could be found. "Sled might be hidden out there," she mused. For a time she contemplated going out in search of it. When, however, she realized that it was growing quite dark, and recalled Lucile's unpleasant experience of the night before, she decided not to venture. "If they come back to the beach again," she told herself, "I can pick up their tracks in the snow farther down." Walking briskly, she covered the remaining distance to the spot on the beach opposite the O Moo. "Not yet," she whispered, and climbing over the trestle she made her way on down the beach. Her eyes were always on the ground. Now she climbed a trestle, now walked round an anchor frozen into the sand, but always her eyes returned to the tracks in the snow. Tracks enough there were, footprints of men, but never a trace of a sled leaving the ice. She had gone a considerable distance when she became conscious of some person not far away. On looking up she was startled to note that she had reached a point opposite the great black scow where the Orientals lived. At the end of the scow stood a man. His face disfigured by a scowl, he stood watching her. He was dressed in the black gownlike garb of the Chinese. He wore a queue. There was, however, something strange about his face. She fancied she had seen him somewhere before, but where she could not tell. Then the man moved out of the light that shone on him from a window and was swallowed up by the shadows. "No use going farther," she told herself. "If the sled belongs on the dry dock somewhere it would be the easiest thing in the world for two persons to lift it on their shoulders and carry it in from the ice. That would throw one completely off the trail." Turning, she retraced her steps along the beach to the trestle work on which the O Moo rested, then swinging about to the right she made her way to the yacht's side. Once on deck, she made certain that the other girls were aboard, then retraced her steps to the deck's side, where she pulled down the canvas and tied it securely. For a moment she stood listening to the lash of ropes on the mast. The canvas covering bulged and sagged. Cool air fanned her cheeks. "Going to be a bad storm," she told herself. "Offshore wind, too. All the ice will go out to-night, and everything with it that isn't tied down." When all was tight on deck she slipped into the cabin. Lucile, who ate very little dinner that night, retired early. Marian studied until nine-thirty. The clock pointed at eleven when Florence, with a sigh of regret, put down her psychology to prepare for sleep. "Whew!" she breathed, "what a storm! Listen to the canvas boom! Like a schooner at sea! Hope it doesn't tear the canvas away. Hope it doesn't--" She did not finish the sentence. The thought which had come to her was too absurd. Once snugly tucked in her bed, she found her mind returning to the morning's discovery. What did that new ice on the lagoon mean? Why had the hole been cut? Why was the ice blue? Did the sled and the man sitting on the ice the night before have anything to do with it? Did the man cut that hole? If so, why? He might, she told herself, have had something to conceal, some valuables, stolen diamonds or gold. But how could he hope to recover it if he dropped it through a hole in the ice. The water beneath the ice was always murky and there was a strong current there. Anything dropped beneath that ice would be lost forever. She remembered the two policemen whom Lucile had seen on the beach that same night. Perhaps those two men had been running from the officers, trying to conceal something. But how had the man come there on the ice? Perhaps--she started at the thought--perhaps this man rode there beneath the sled. The runners had been extraordinarily broad. A man could easily ride between them. The thought gave her a start. She thought of Lucile's experience in the old Mission, and of her own with the blue candlestick. Perhaps, she told herself, they dropped the blue god through the ice. Then she smiled at herself. How could the blue god be in Chicago? If it were they would never drop it in the water beneath the ice where it could never be recovered. Yet why had the ice been blue? Why-- She fell asleep, to listen in her dreams to the lash of ropes, the boom of canvas and to dream of riding a frail craft on a storm-tossed sea. It would be difficult to determine just why it is that one knows how long he has slept, yet we very often do know. One wakens in the middle of the night and before the clock strikes the hour he says to himself, "I have slept three hours." And he is right. When Florence awoke that night she knew she had been asleep for about five hours. It was dark, pitch dark, in the cabin. The storm was still raging. "Just listen," she murmured dreamily, "One could easily imagine that we were out to sea." There was a tremendous booming of canvas and a lashing sound which resembled the wash of the waves, but this last, she told herself, was the ropes beating the mast. She had dozed off again when some strange element of the storm brought her once more half awake. "One would almost say the yacht was pitching," she thought as in a dream, "but she's firmly fastened. It is impossible. She--" Suddenly she sat up fully awake. She had moved a trifle closer to the porthole. Her head had been banged against it. "It _is_ pitching!" she exclaimed in an awed whisper. Her mind whirled. What had happened? Was the storm so violent that the O Moo was being rocked from side to side on her trestle. Would she soon topple over, to go crashing on the frozen sand? Or had they in some way been blown out to sea? This last seemed impossible. She thought of the block beneath the wheels of the car on which the O Moo stood, then of the strong cable fastened to her prow. "It _is_ impossible!" she muttered. There was one way to prove this. She proceeded to apply the test. Turning a screw which held her porthole closed, she swung the metal framed glass wide open. Instantly she slammed it shut. She had been soaked with a perfect deluge of water. Her heart stopped beating. She tried to shout to the other girls, but her tongue clung to the roof of her mouth. There could no longer be any doubt concerning the nature of the catastrophe which had come over them. How it had happened, she could not even guess. This much she knew: _They were afloat._ "Girls! Girls!" Her own voice shouted to her like that of a ghost, "Marian! Lucile! Wake up! We're afloat! The O Moo's adrift!" Marian groaned; sat up quickly, then as quickly fell back again. Her head had collided with a beam. "What--what's the matter?" she stammered. There came a low moan from Lucile: "I'm so sick." "Seasick. Poor child," said Florence. "No--no, not that." Lucile's voice was faint. "It's my head--it's splitting. I can't raise it. I--I'm afraid it's going to be--be--bad." Florence leaped to the floor. Her feet splashed into a thin sheet of water which washed about on the carpet. The cold chill of it brought her to her senses. They were afloat. Someone had cast them adrift. Was that someone on deck at this moment or had he merely cut the cable, removed the blocks and allowed the wind to do the rest? This must be determined at once. Hastily dragging some rubbers on her benumbed feet, she splashed her way to the door. Having made sure that this was securely locked, she went to each window and porthole, fastening each as securely as possible. This done, she fought her way to Lucile's berth and, steadying herself with one hand, placed the other on Lucile's brow. An exclamation escaped her lips. The forehead was burning hot. Lucile had a raging fever. "If I had the coward who cut us loose," she cried through clenched teeth, "I--I'd kill him!" CHAPTER XI A MYSTERIOUS ADVENTURE There are people who cannot sleep during a storm. It sets their nerves a-tingle, sets wild racing thoughts crowding through their minds and leaves them sleeplessly alert. It is as if a thousand wild witches rode on every mad rush of the wind, their shrill voices screaming in each blast, their fingers rattling at every windowpane and their breath puffing at the flickering light. Mark Pence could not sleep during that storm. Rocking every schooner, yacht and yawl on its cradle of trestlework, it went racing out over the lake, carrying every movable object with it. After many vain attempts to close his eyes, he at last rose and drawing on his clothes, said to himself: "I'll go out and fight with it for a time. After that I may be able to sleep." "Whew! What a whooper!" he exclaimed as the wind, slamming the door after him, blew him half-way to the beach. Grappling with the wind, as one grapples a wrestling mate, he stooped low, then shot forward. "Like springing against a volley-ball net." He shrieked the words in wild defiance of the wind. Then, steadily, step by step, he fought his way toward the nearest schooner. Having gained the lee of it he paused a moment for breath. The storm came in gusts. Now in a blinding fury of snow, it blotted out everything about him. Now there was a lull. The wind appeared to pause to regain its breath. At such times as this his eyes penetrated the space before him. "Don't look quite right over there," he grumbled. "Something the matter with the sky line. Not enough boats, one would say!" He had regained his breath. For a moment he debated the advisability of venturing further into the storm. Finally he buttoned his coat collar tighter as he muttered: "Go over and see." As he moved from his position of safety there came another gust. More furious than any that had gone before, it threatened to lift him from the earth and hurl him into the lake. But, stooping low, all but crawling, he made headway and, just as the lull came, gripped the top rail of the trestle on which the O Moo had rested. Hardly had he seized it than his hand slipped and he went sprawling. "That's strange!" he muttered, "Awful slippery!" Removing one glove, he felt of the other. "Grease!" he muttered in blank astonishment. "Somebody's greased that track." Then, with the suspicion of treachery dawning upon him, he glanced up at the spot where the O Moo should have been. "Gone!" he exclaimed. "The O Moo's gone! And six hours ago, she was here. I'd swear it. Saw it with my own eyes. Light in the window. Girls there. Now she's gone and the girls with her. Gone in such a storm! What madness!" Again he thought of the greased track. "No! No! What treachery!" From his pocket he drew a flashlight. He meant to examine that track. It had been heavily greased all the way down to the water. That the iron wheels of the car on which the O Moo had rested had passed down the track, there could be no doubt. Mingled with the grease there was much iron rust. Drawing from his pocket a used envelope, he scraped a quantity of the grease into it, then replaced the envelope. "Evidence," he said grimly. "Might not be worth much; might mean a lot." The wind was roaring again. Clinging to the trestle, he waited its passing. "Gone!" he exclaimed. "Gone out to sea! It's those Chinks. What beasts! I'll get them! Go after them in just another minute. Then I'll make them help me launch my schooner to go in search of that O Moo. Three girls! Not one of them knows how to start the engine. Girl called Marian told me so. And in such a storm! Got to make sure though! Got to get all the evidence I can!" Again he fought his way against the wind until he came to the point where the heavy blocks had held in place the wheels of the truck beneath the O Moo. These had been fastened by strong cleats. Hard, silent work had been required to loosen them. Throwing the light upon the blocks, he examined them carefully. On the side of one he discovered a peculiar mark. The wood, flattened out under pressure for a space of some four square inches, was raised in the very center in two narrow lines, each an inch long. These lines crossed one another. "Take it home. More evidence, perhaps." Having fought his way up to the place where the cable had been fastened he examined the loosened end without discovering anything peculiar about it. "That's all I can do here," he decided. "Now for the rescue. Got to have help. Old Timmie's not much good--too old. Fishermen all gone up the coast to fish through the ice. Chinks all there are left. Make 'em help undo what they've done. If they won't come, I'll fetch 'em!" During a lull in the storm he returned to his schooner. There he deposited the "evidence," then throwing a small, cloth-strapped case over his shoulder and thrusting a bottle into his pocket he again ventured out into the storm. This time he turned his face toward the scow inhabited by the Orientals. * * * * * * * * Hardly had Florence, standing by the side of Lucile's berth, hurled out her fiery denunciation of the wretch who had cast their yacht afloat than the O Moo gave a sudden lurch which threw her to the floor. Pandemonium broke loose. There came a crash of glass from the laboratory. Out of the darkness a bulk loomed at her. As she attempted to rise the thing appearing to spring at her, knocked her down. Then some other thing buried her deep. The thing that had struck her was a heavy chair. She was buried beneath the blanket and mattress from her own berth. As she attempted to extricate herself it seemed that the entire contents of the cabin played leapfrog over her head. Careening like a deserted airship the O Moo appeared to plunge prow first down an endless abyss, only to climb laboriously up on the other side. This did not last for long. There was no engine going, no driving power. Suddenly she slipped into the trough of a huge wave and wallowed there helplessly, while tons of rushing water swept across her deck. "The engine!" gasped Florence. "It should be started." Struggling to free herself, she thought of Lucile. "May have been thrown from her berth," she groaned. Groping about she found Lucile's berth, clung there while the yacht gave a wild, circling lurch, then felt for her sick companion. Clinging to the rail of her berth, Lucile lay there silently sobbing. Securing two blankets, Florence twisted them into ropes, then bound them across Lucile, one at her knees, the other at her chest. "That'll hold you," she whispered hoarsely. Starting across the cabin to the electric switch, she was caught again and thrown off her feet. She collided with something. That something put out two arms which encircled her. The two of them fell to the floor, then rolled half the length of it. Having regained her breath, Florence put out a hand. She touched a garment. She knew by the feel of it that it was Marian. "Thank goodness!" she said, "you're still here--and alive." In the midst of all this catastrophe, Marian began to giggle. "It's too absurd!" she exploded. "I've traveled on the Arctic and Pacific, real oceans, and come here and have a mere lake kick up such a rumpus!" "But, Marian," Florence expostulated, "it's serious. These winter lake storms are terrible. The ship may go to the bottom any moment. It wasn't built for this. And there may be ice, too. One crack from ice and she'd burst like an eggshell. C'mon, we've got to get lights. Gotta start the engine." Dragging Marian to her feet, she made her way along the wall to the light switch. There came a sudden flood of light which brought out in bold relief the havoc wrought by the storm. Tables, chairs, lounge, writing paper, notebooks, shoes, garments of all sorts, were piled in a heap forward. The heavy carpet was soggy with water. One glance revealed that. The next instant the lights flickered and went out. "Have to find a candle," said Florence soberly. "Water on the battery wires. Caused a short circuit. We can't hope to use electricity. Ought to get engine started some way. Got to get a candle. You just--" "Watch out!" screamed Marian, as she leaped toward a berth. The O Moo had suddenly shot her prow high in air. The entire contents of the cabin came avalanching down upon them. * * * * * * * * Having made his way, in the midst of the storm, to the door of the scow on the dry dock occupied by the Orientals, Mark Pence paused to arrange the cloth strap carefully over his shoulder and to feel in his pocket. Then he beat loudly upon the door. As he had expected, he received no answer. Without further formalities he put his knees to the door and gave it a shove. The flimsy lock broke so suddenly that he was thrown forward. Losing his balance, he plunged headforemost down a short flight of stairs. With a low, whispered exclamation he sprang to his feet. Putting his ear to the wall, he listened. There were sounds, low grunts, slight shuffling of feet. It was uncanny. A cold perspiration stood out on his brow. "Danger here," he whispered as he once more adjusted the cloth strap. The corridor in which he was standing was dark, but a stream of blue light poured out from beneath a door to his right. "Hey! You! Come out of there!" he shouted. Instantly bedlam followed. Doors were flung open. A glaring blue light flooded all. "O we-ee-ee! O wee-ee-ee," came from every side. A knife flashed before him. Springing back, he tripped over something, then suddenly plunged downward. He had fallen down the circular stairway. After a wild dizzy whirl, he reached bottom with a bump. Immediately he was on his feet. His hand gripped the bottle. It was dark down here; dark as a dungeon. "Got to get out of here," he whispered. "Whew! What a lot of them! Twenty or thirty! No use hoping for help from them. Fool for thinking I could. Got to get out and find help somewhere else--and get out quick. Be coming down." Drawing something from the case slung across his shoulder, he pulled it down over his face. It was a gas mask, his old war mask, recharged. Gripping the bottle in his pocket, a bottle of Lucile's quick action gas, he began to climb the stairs. He had made two-thirds of the distance when, sensing someone close to him, he threw his flashlight open. Right before him, grinning fiendishly, a knife between his teeth, was a giant Oriental. Mark did not wait for the attack he knew was coming. He drew back his arm. When it swung forward his hand held the bottle of gas--he sent it crashing against the iron post. The Oriental sprang back up the stairs. Following him closely, Mark made a dash for the door. All about him sounded wild exclamations. "Gas getting in its work," he muttered, darting among the writhing bodies. He reached the foot of the short stairs which led to the outer door. Now his hand was on the knob. And now the door flew open. He was free. But what was this? Just as he made a dash for it, the gruff voice of someone very near him shouted: "Here they come. Nail 'em. There's the first one. Got a mask on. Get him!" That was all he heard, for a stunning blow crashed on his head; he staggered, fell, then all was dark. CHAPTER XII THE O MOO RIDES THE STORM Florence and Marian lay clinging to the bare springs of a berth. They had made that point of safety before the avalanche of furniture, books and bric-a-brac had reached their end of the cabin. They were enduring discomforts beyond description. The yacht was now pitching from side to side in an alarming fashion. The wires of the spring on which they rested cut their tender flesh. Their scant clothing was saturated with cold water. The cabin had grown cold. Since the burning of the electric fuses, there was no heat. They were chilled to the bone, yet they dared not move. The heavy furniture, pitching about as it did, was a deadly menace. Here, above it all, they were safe. As Florence lay there, benumbed with cold, suffering agonies of suspense, listening to the thud and smash of furniture, the rush and crush of waves that washed the deck, awaiting the crash which was to be the final one, only one question occupied her mind: How and when would the final moment come? She dared not hope that the O Moo would ride such a storm safely. "Would the O Moo," she asked herself, "turn turtle in the trough of a wave and, floating, mast down, would she hold them there to drown like rats in a cage? Or would some giant wave stave her in to sink to the bottom like a water-soaked log?" An answer was postponed. The O Moo rode bravely on. They were in the worst of it; she was sure of that. "Ought to get the engine started," she told herself. "Then we could cut the waves; ride them, not wallow along in a trough." She half rose to attempt to reach the engine room. "No use," she groaned; "no light. If we fool around with gasoline and a candle we'll blow the whole thing up." But even as she thought this, she became conscious of a dim light. What could it be? She sat up quickly, then she uttered a hoarse laugh. "First gray streak of dawn," she muttered. Then she thought of Lucile. "Stay where you are," she said to Marian. "I'm going to try to get to Lucile." By the aid of the feeble light she saw her opportunity to vault over a careening chair and to make a dash for it. A second later she was at Lucile's side. "Lucile!" she said softly. "Lucile!" The girl's eyes were closed. A sudden fear seized Florence and her heart stood still a beat. Was Lucile asleep, unconscious, or--or was she dead? * * * * * * * * Over in the darkness and storm by the old scow, Mark Pence was slowly regaining consciousness. At first he imagined that a tiny train of cars was running about on the top of his head. This illusion vanished. He felt something hard in his mouth--tried to think what it was. He had been gagged! That was his first thought. No, that wasn't it. He was breathing through the thing. The mouthpiece to his mask! That was it. He had kept it in his mouth. He was fully conscious now but did not attempt to sit up. Footsteps were approaching. He heard a voice. "They got away," a man's voice grumbled. "All but one. Drunk, that's what they was. You can't hardly shoot drunk men." The first voice retorted: "No, you can't." "Well, anyway, we got one; the one with the mask. Didn't hit him hard. He ought to be coming round." Mark tried to discover the meaning of all this. The place had been raided. The Orientals had escaped. They had swarmed out yelling like mad men probably. The quick action gas would make them act as if under the influence of liquor. Probably they had tumbled the raiders over. But who were these raiders? He did not have long to wait for the answer. A rough hand dragged the mask from his face. He looked up into the frank blue eyes of a burly policeman. "You're comin' round. Sit up. Why, you're no Oriental! You're a white kid. What you doin' here?" Mark sat up and told them what he had been doing. "That quick action gas now," laughed one of the men, "wouldn't be bad stuff for the police force now and again." Suddenly Mark made an effort to rise. He had thought of the plight of his friends on the O Moo. "You--you'll help me launch my schooner!" he exclaimed. "What's the idea?" "Why you see those girls in the O Moo don't know how to start their engine. Somebody's got to bring them in." "What's your schooner?" "The Elsie C." "That turtle shell? You'd be committin' suicide to go in her. You come along with us. We're holdin' you as a material witness and--and to prevent you from committing suicide by trying the lake in that shell." Reluctantly Mark obeyed. "Can't something be done?" he demanded desperately. "Not before morning. Not much then, probably. How'd you find a yacht blowin' round loose in this whirlin' bag of snow?" * * * * * * * * There is a bottom to every depth, a state of darkness which cannot be exceeded, a limit even to despair. As Florence looked upon Lucile's closed eyes she reached the bottom; experienced the utter darkness; found the limit of despair. And then a strangely joyous thing happened. Lucile's eyes opened. She smiled faintly. Strange to say, in the midst of this tumult, she had merely fallen asleep. Florence took a new and firmer grip on hope. "How--how do you feel?" she stammered. "I think I am better," Lucile whispered. "Where are we?" "We're all right," said Florence quickly. "Day is breaking. The storm will go down as the sun rises. They'll be after us in a tug. In a few hours we'll be back on the dock?" She said all this very quickly, not knowing how much of it she believed herself, but feeling quite sure that Lucile ought to believe it. Just then a chair, pitching across the floor, caught her behind the knees and sent her sprawling. The very shock of this set her blood tingling. "Believe we could do something about the furniture now it's getting light," she told herself. "Marian," she called, "come on down and let's see what we can do to save things. We're ruined as it is. No more university for us. It will take all the money we have to put this cabin back into condition. But we might as well save what we can." A table came lurching at her. She caught it as if it were a piece of gymnasium equipment. Then rescuing a water-soaked sheet from the floor she tied the table to a hand-rail. Marian joined her in pursuit of the cabin furnishings. It really grew into quite a game. If a chair came at them too viciously they were obliged to vault over it and bring up an attack from the rear. If a whole platoon of tables and chairs leaped at them in the same second, they took to the cots. Little by little order was restored. When a survey had been made it was found that one table was broken to splinters, two chairs had broken legs and numerous books and pictures had been utterly ruined. "It might have been worse," said Florence cheerfully. "Yes," agreed Marian, "We might have gone to the bottom. I do believe the storm is letting up." She attempted to look out of a porthole. Daylight had come. Snow had ceased falling but a heavy fog was driving over the turbulent waters. "Fine chance of anyone finding us," Marian whispered. "Sh!" Florence warned as she shook a finger at Lucile's berth, then aloud: "Boo! but I'm cold. Where are our clothes?" Marian pointed mournfully at a mass of soggy rags in the corner. "No!" she exclaimed suddenly, "no, not all. We put our evening skirts and middies and slippers in the hammock of our berths. And," she shouted joyously, "they are there still." After some desperate struggles at keeping their balance and dressing at the same time, they found themselves warmly clad and immediately matters took on a different aspect. "I believe," ventured Florence, "that we might get the generator going. There's just one place where water would cause a short circuit and that can be dried out by a candle. Then we can put in a new fuse and that little old friend of ours will be chug-chugging as well as ever. Not that I feel any need of heat," she mocked with a shrug and shiver, "but you know the supplying of warmth to our homes has become a social custom." Having taken a candle from a drawer she lighted it, lifted a trap door and descended to the generator. She was relieved to note that the O Moo had shipped very little water. "She's a dandy staunch little craft," she sighed. "It's a pity to have abused her so. I'd like to have a hand on the person who turned her loose." For a quarter of an hour she worked patiently on the generator; then there came a sudden pop-pop-pop and the hardy little machine was doing its work once more. At once a drowsy warmth began to creep over the cabin. The storm was really beginning to abate. Waves no longer washed the deck. The O Moo rose high, to fall low again as great, sweeping swells raced across the surface of the lake, but she did not pitch and toss. Marian brought the electric range up from its hiding. After wiping it dry, she made toast and tea. The first she gave to Lucile. Then, after seeing her eyes close once more in sleep, she shared a scant breakfast with Florence. "Things are looking better, don't you think?" she sighed. "I am really beginning to think we'll get out of this alive. Won't that be wonderful?" "Those questions," smiled Florence, "must be answered one at a time, but I have faith that they will both be answered and that we'll be back in the dear old city for Christmas." "Christmas?" "Two weeks off. Next week is final exams. We've just got to be back for them." "In that case let's have a look at the engine." A half hour later the two girls, dressed in greasy overalls, their hair done in knots over their heads, their hands black with oil, might have been seen engaged in the futile attempt to unravel the mysteries of the small gasoline engine, which, in other days, had been used to propel the O Moo when the wind failed to fill her sails. "We might be able to sail her home," suggested Marian. "Might," said Florence. Risking a look out on deck, she opened a door. Her eyes swept the space before her. Her lips uttered a low exclamation: "Gone! Mast, canvas, everything. We can't sail home, that's settled." * * * * * * * * Mark Pence, after his strange adventures at the old scow, was marched off to the police station, where he was allowed to doze beside the radiator until morning. Soon after daybreak he was motioned to a desk, where a sergeant questioned him closely regarding his knowledge of the events of the night and of the Orientals who lived in the old scow. He was able to tell little enough and to explain next to nothing. When he had told of the disappearance of the O Moo, of the grease on the tracks, of the sample he had saved and of the block of wood with the cross embossed upon it, the officer proposed that they should together make a trip to the beach and go over the grounds. "But these friends of mine? These girls in the O Moo?" he protested. "Oh! That!" exclaimed the sergeant. "What could you do? That was reported to the life-saving station hours ago. Best thing you can do is to help us track down the rascals who played such an inhuman trick on your friends." "What could have been their motive?" demanded Mark suddenly. "That," said the officer, "is a mystery which must be cleared up. We think we know. But you never can tell. Are you ready? We'll have a cup of coffee before we go." A half hour later Mark found himself standing once more before the old scow. In the broad light of day it had lost much of its air of mystery. The door had been left open and had been blown half full of snow. Having climbed over this pile of snow, they entered the hallway and descended the narrow, circular stairs. A hasty search told them that the place was deserted. A careful examination revealed the fact that the bottom of the scow had been cut away; that a cellar had been dug beneath it, then walled up with cement. "Regular underground den," the officer exclaimed. "Must have been a swarm of them." "Twenty or thirty, I guess," said Mark absent-mindedly. He had picked up a clumsily hand-forged ax. "Guess I'll take that along," he said presently. In another room he found a large iron pot one-third full of a peculiar grease. "That settles it," he murmured. "Come on over to my schooner." They went to his schooner. A comparison of his sample of grease with that in the iron pot left no doubt as to who had greased the track over which the O Moo had glided to the water. The ax he had brought from the scow had a cross on one side of it, cut no doubt with a chisel when the steel was still hot. The cross embossed on the wood exactly fitted in the cross on the side of the ax. "They drove the ax in to pull the nails," Mark explained. "Then when the cleats didn't give way, they used something to pry the ax loose. That's how the ax came to leave its mark." "You'd have thought the noise would have wakened your friends," said the officer. "There was a wild storm. Couldn't hear anything." "Well," said the sergeant, yawning as he rose, "that fixes something definitely on them. That's what we've been trying to do for some time. Next thing is to catch them." "But why did they do it?" insisted Mark. "Well," replied the sergeant, "since you've helped us and I know you won't go blabbing, I'll tell you what we think." It was a long story, a story so absorbingly mysterious that Mark started when he looked at the clock and saw that a whole hour had been consumed in the telling of it. "So that's that," smiled the officer as he rose to go. "Tell your lady friends on this O Moo if you like but not anybody else. They've got a right to know, I guess, and they'll keep quiet about it until the thing's settled for good and all." CHAPTER XIII LAND AT LAST Florence stood upon the deck. The storm had swept it clean. She was clinging to a hand rail at the side of the cabin. The water was still rolling about in great sweeping swells. Fog hung low over all. Strain her eyes as she might, she could see but a hundred yards. The boat, she discovered, had no horn or siren attached to it. "If only we had one," she told Marian, "we could keep it going. Then, if anyone is searching for us, he would be able to locate us by the sound." She stood there trying to imagine where they were, and what was to be the next scene in their little drama. All efforts to start the engine had been futile. There are a thousand types of gasoline engines. Marian had at one time managed a small motor on Lucile's boat but that one had been of quite a different type. "'Tisn't any use," Marian had sighed at last. "We can't get it going." So there Florence stood thinking. Marian was in the cabin preparing some hot soup for Lucile. Lucile's condition was much improved. She was sitting up in her berth. That much was good. But where were they and whither were they bound? They had gone over their supplies and had found in all about eight pounds of flour and part of a tin of baking powder, three pounds of sugar, a half pound of coffee and a quarter pound of tea, two tins of sardines, a few dried prunes and peaches, two glasses of preserves and a few other odds and ends. Beside these there were still twelve cans of the "unlabeled and unknown" vegetables and fruit. "I hope," Marian had smiled, "that they are all corn. One can live much longer on corn than on pineapple." "But we can't live long on that supply," Florence had said soberly. "Something has just got to happen. And," she had added, "perhaps it won't. If it were summer, things would be different, for at that time of the year the lake is dotted with vessels. But now they are all holed up or in dry dock. Only now and then one ventures out. We may have been blown out a long way from shore too; probably were." She was thinking of all this now. At the same time her eyes were squinting, half closed. She was trying to pierce the fog. Suddenly she started. Had she seen something off to the left? A whitish bulk rising out of the fog? She could not be sure. Well aware that one's eyes play tricks on him when out at sea, she looked away, then turned her gaze once more to the left. "Gone!" she muttered. "Never was there at all." Again she struck that listless, drooping pose which gave her whole body rest. "But no," she murmured, "there it is again. They have come for us. They have found us!" She wanted to scream, to tell the other girls that help was near, but "No, no!" she decided, "not too soon. It might not be. If it is, they'll see us. The O Moo stands well out of the water." To still her wildly beating heart, she allowed her gaze to wander off to the right. Instantly she blinked her eyes. "It can't be," she exclaimed, then, "Yes it is--it is! Another." Turning once more to the left, she found still another surprise. Two of them off there. Fear began to assail her. Her forehead grew cold. Her hands trembled. Was it, after all, a false hope? She had but a moment to wait. Then she knew. The fog had lifted slightly. She could see farther, could tell what was closing down upon them. The shock was too much for her. She sank limply to the deck. It was as if she had been wandering in a fog on a rocky hillside searching for sheep, had thought she saw them coming out of the fog, only to discover that the creatures she saw were prowling wolves. The white bulks on the surface of the water were not boats searching for them but cakes of ice. And these, there could be no doubt about it, were fast closing in upon the O Moo. With the water still heaving, this meant danger--might indeed mean the destruction of their craft. "I ought," she struggled to her feet, "I ought to tell the girls." Yet she did not tell them. What was the use? she reasoned. There was nothing to do but wait, and that she could do very well alone. There is something awe-inspiring about the gathering of great bodies of ice which have been scattered by a storm. They come together as if each had a motor, an engineer and a pilot on board. And yet their coming is in absolute silence. If one cake chances to touch another, the contact is so slight that there is no sound. And so they assemble. Coming from all points of the compass, they reunite as a great fleet might after a mighty and victorious battle. The O Moo chanced to be in the very midst of this particular gathering. As Florence watched she was thrilled and fascinated. Now the surface was a field of blue cloth with a white patch here and there. Now the white covered half, now two-thirds, now three-fourths of the field. And now a cake brushed the hull of the yacht ever so gently. Suddenly she realized that a strange thing had happened. The water which had been rolling had ceased to roll. "The ice did that," she whispered. "Perhaps it's not dangerous after all." She watched until the cloth of blue had been almost completely changed to one of white, then burst into the cabin. To her unbounded surprise, she found her companions sitting on Lucile's berth with wrapt attention staring out of the window. "Isn't it wonderful!" whispered Lucile. "I--I thought it would be terribly dangerous," said Florence. "Not now," said Marian. "It may be if we come to shore and the wind crowds the ice, but even then we'll be safe enough. We can escape over the ice to shore. Only," she added thoughtfully, "in that case the O Moo will be crushed. And that would be too sad after she has carried us through the storm so bravely." Florence still looked puzzled. "You see," smiled Marian, "Lucile and I have been in the ice-packs on the Arctic, so we know. Don't we, old dear?" She patted Lucile on the shoulder. "Uh--huh," smiled Lucile as she settled back on her pillow. Ice, as Marian had said, is quite a safe convoy of the sea until some shore is reached. For twenty-four hours they drifted in the midst of the floe. Now a sea gull came soaring and screaming about the yacht. And now he went skimming away, leaving them to the vast silence of the conquered waters. Fog hung low over the water and the ice. No long-drawn hoot of a fog horn, no shrill siren's scream greeted their anxious ears. A great silence hung over all. Then Florence, who was standing on deck, noticed that, almost inperceptibly, the fog was lifting. She had been thinking of the last twenty-four hours. Lucile, who was much better, had left her berth and was sitting on one of the upholstered chairs. Marian was trying for the hundredth time to start the engine. As Florence thought this through, she found herself at the same time wondering what the lifting of the fog would mean to them. Had they, after all, drifted only a short distance from the city? Would they be able, once the fog had cleared, to distinguish the jagged shore which the city's sky line cut out of the blue? Would there be some boat nearer than they had dreamed? Or had they really drifted a long way? Would they look upon a shoreless expanse of water or would the irregular tree-line of some unknown shore greet them? The fog was slow in passing. She was eager for the unveiling of this mystery. Impatiently she paced the deck. Then, suddenly, she paused, shaded her eyes, and looked directly before her. Was there some, low, dark bulk appearing off there before the very course the ice was taking? For a long time she could not be sure. Then with a startled exclamation she leaped to the door of the cabin crying: "Girls! Marian! Lucile! Look! Land! Land ahead of the ice-floe." Marian came racing out on deck, followed more slowly by Lucile. For a moment they all stood there looking. "It's land all right," said Marian at last, "but not much land. A little sandy island with a great many small evergreen trees growing on it, I should say." "Or perhaps a point," suggested Lucile hopefully. "You see, if it's a point we can go back just a little way and find people, people with plenty of food and--and everything." Lucile had had quite enough of this adventure. "It's better not to hope for too much," smiled Marian, "'Hope for the best, be prepared for the worst,' is my motto. And the worst!" she exclaimed suddenly, "is that the ice will begin to buckle and pile when it touches that shore." "And it will crush the O Moo," said Florence with a gasp. "Yes, unless," Marian was studying the situation carefully, "unless we can escape it." For a moment she said no more. Then suddenly: "Yes, I believe we could. There are pike-poles in the cabin. Florence, bring them, will you?" Florence came back presently with two stout poles some twelve feet long. These were armed with stout iron hooks and points at one end. "You see," explained Marian rapidly, "we are much nearer the fore edge of the floe than to either side or to the back, and up there some forty feet there is a narrow channel reaching almost through to the edge. All that is necessary is that we crowd the ice to right and left a bit until we reach that channel, then draw the O Moo through it. If we reach the sandy shore before the floe does, the worst that can happen is that the O Moo will be driven aground but not crushed at all, and the best that can happen is that we will find some sort of little harbor where the yacht will be safe until the wind shifts and the ice goes back out to sea." "But can we move that ice?" Florence's face showed her incredulity. "It's easier than it looks. Come on," ordered Marian briskly. Throwing the rope ladder over the side, she sprang down it to leap out upon a broad ice pan. Florence shuddered as she followed. This was all new to her. Marian had said that it was easy, but they did not find it so. True, they did move the O Moo forward. Inch by inch, foot by foot, fathom by fathom she glided forward. But this was accomplished only at the cost of blistered hands, aching muscles and breaking backs. All this time the ice-floe was moving slowly but surely forward. Now it was a hundred fathoms from the shore, now fifty, now thirty. And now-- But just at this moment the yacht moved out into the open water before the floe. At the same time Marian caught sight of a narrow stream which cut down through the sandy beach some fifty yards from the point where they had broken through. "If only we can make that channel," she panted. "If the water's deep enough all the way to it, we can. Or if the floe doesn't come too fast." Florence, who thought she had expended every ounce of energy in her body, took three long breaths, then, having hooked her pole to the prow of the O Moo, began to pull. Soon Marian joined her on the pole and together the girls struggled. By uniting their energies they were able to drag the reluctant O Moo length by length toward the goal. Once Florence, having entrusted her weight to a rotten bit of ice, plunged into the chilling waters. But by Marian's aid she climbed upon a safer cake and, shaking the water from her, resumed her titanic labors. Twice the hull of the O Moo touched bottom. Each time they were able to drag her free. At last with a long-drawn sigh they threw their united strength into a shove which sent her, prow first, up the still waters at the mouth of the stream. There remained for them but one means of reaching shore--to swim. With a little "Oo-oo!" Marian plunged in. She was followed closely by Florence. Twenty minutes later they were in the cabin of the O Moo and rough linen towels were bringing the warm, ruddy glow of life back to their half-frozen limbs. The O Moo was lying close to the bank where an overhanging tree gave them a safe mooring. As Florence at last, after having drawn on a garment of soft clingy material and having thrown a warm dressing gown over this, sank into a chair, she murmured: "Thanks be! We are here. But, after all, where is 'here'?" CHAPTER XIV "A PHANTOM WIRELESS" It was night, dark, cloudy, moonless night. Florence could scarcely see enough of the sandy beach to tell where she was going. She had, however, been over that same ground in the daytime, so she knew it pretty well. Besides, she wasn't going any place; just walking back and forth, up and down a long, narrow stretch of hard-packed and frozen sand. She was thinking. Walking in the darkness helped her to think. When there is nothing to hear, nothing to see and nothing to feel, and when the movement of one's feet keeps the blood moving, then one can do the best thinking. Anyway that was the way this big, healthy, hopeful college girl thought about it. So she had wrapped herself in a heavy cape and had come out to think. They had been ice-locked on the island for thirty-six hours. The ice had crowded on shore for a time. It had piled high in places. Now the wind had gone down and it was growing colder. It seemed probable that the ice would freeze into one solid mass, in which case they would be locked in for who knows how long. The water in their little natural harbor had taken on something of a crust. It was possible that the boat would be frozen into the stream. "Not that it matters," she told herself rather gloomily. "We can't start the engine and as long as we can't it is impossible for us to leave the island; only thing we can do is wait until someone discovers our plight or we are able to hail a boat." They were on an island; they had made sure of that first thing. She and Marian had gone completely around it. It wasn't much of an island either. Just a wreath of sand thrown up from the bottom of the lake, it could scarcely be more than three miles long by a half mile wide. The stream they had entered, running almost from end to end of it, drained the whole of it. The highest point was at the north. This point was a sand dune some forty feet high. Their boat was moored at the south end. The entire island, except along the beach, was covered with a scrub growth of pine and fir trees. As far as they could tell, not a single person had ever lived on the island. "It's very strange," Marian had said when they had made the rounds of it. "It doesn't seem possible that there could be such an island on the lake without summer cottages on it." "No, it doesn't," Florence had answered. "What an ideal spot! Wonderful beaches on every side. Fishing too, I guess. And far enough from land to enjoy a cool breeze on the hottest day of summer." Though they had constantly strained their eyes in an endeavor to discover other land in the distance, they had not succeeded. "Probably belongs to someone who will not lease it," said Florence at last. So here she was trying to think things through. There was danger of a real catastrophe. The food in their pantry could not possibly last over ten days. Then what? As far as she knew, there was not a thing to be eaten on the island. It was possible that fish could be caught beneath the lake ice or in their stream. She meant to try that in the morning. "What a plight to put one in!" she exclaimed. "Who could have done it and why did they do it?" This question set her mind running over the mysterious incidents which, she could not but believe, had led up to this present moment. There had been Lucile's seeing of the blue face in the old Mission, her own affair with the stranger in the museum; the blue candlestick; the visit to Mr. Cole in the new museum; Lucile's frightful adventure on the lake ice; the incident of the two men with the sled on the ice of the lagoon and the single man sitting on the ice; then the spot of blue ice discovered next day. "Blue ice!" she exclaimed suddenly, stopping still in her tracks. "Blue! Blue ice!" Florence frowned, as she considered it. A new theory had come to her regarding that spot of blue ice on the lagoon, a theory which made her wish more than ever to get away from this island. "Ho, well," she whispered at last, "there'll probably be a thaw before we get back or those men will come back and tear it up. But if there isn't, if they don't then--well, we'll see what we'll see." She was still puzzling over these problems when a strange noise, leaping seemingly out of nowhere, smote her ear. It was such a rumble and roar as she had heard but once before in all her life. That sound had come to her over a telephone wire as she pressed her ear to the receiver during a thunderstorm. But here there was neither wire nor receiver and the very thought of a thunderstorm on such a night was ridiculous. At first she was inclined to believe it to be the sound of some disturbance on the lake, a sudden rush of wind or a tidal wave. "But there is little wind and the sea is calm," she told herself. She was in the midst of these perplexities when the sound broke into a series of sput-sput-sputs. Her heart stood still for a second, then raced on as her lips framed the word: "Wireless." So ridiculous was the thought that the word died on her lips. There was no wireless outfit on the yacht; could be none on the island, for had they not made the entire round? Had they not found it entirely uninhabited? Whence, then, came this strange clash of man-made lightning? The girl could find no answer to her own unspoken questions. After a moment's thought she was inclined to believe that she was hearing the sounds created by some unknown electrical phenomena. Men were constantly discovering new things about electricity. Perhaps, all unknown to them, such isolated points as this automatically served as relay stations to pass along wireless messages. Not entirely satisfied with this theory, she left the beach and, feeling her way carefully among the small evergreens, came at last to the base of a fir tree which capped the ridge. This tree, apparently of an earlier growth, towered half its height above its fellows. Reaching up to the first branch she began to ascend. She climbed two-thirds of the way to the top with great ease. There she paused. The sound had ceased. Only the faint wash-wash of wavelets on ice and shore, mingled with the mournful sighing of the pines, disturbed the silence of the night. For some time she stood there clinging to the branches. Here she caught the full sweep of the lake breeze. She grew cold; began to shiver; called herself a fool; decided to climb down again, and was preparing to do so, when there came again that rumbling roar, followed as before by the clack-clack-clack, sput-sput. "That's queer," she murmured as she braced herself once more and attempted to pierce the darkness. Then, abruptly, the sound ceased. Strain her ears as she might she caught no further sound. She peered into the gloom, trying to descry the wires of an aerial against the sky-line, but her search was vain. "It's fairly spooky!" she told herself. "A phantom wireless station on a deserted island!" Ten minutes longer she clung there motionless. Then, feeling that she must turn into a lump of ice if she lingered longer, she began to climb down. "I'll come back here in the morning and have a look," she promised herself. "Won't tell the girls; they've troubles enough." She made her way back to the yacht and was soon in her berth fast asleep. It was with considerable amusement that she retraced her steps next morning. There could not, she told herself, be a wireless station of any kind on that island. A wireless station called for a home for the operators and there was no such home. She and Marian had made sure of that. "But then what was it?" she asked herself, "What could it have been?" She climbed the tree, this time up to its very top, then, turning, shaded her eyes to gaze away the length of the island. "Just as I thought," she murmured. "Nothing. Just nothing at all." It was true. There could be no wireless tower. If there had been she could have seen it. What was more, there certainly was no house on the island. Had there been, she could not have failed to detect its roof from her point of vantage. There was no house and no wireless station, yet, as she looked her lips parted in an exclamation of surprise. She was witnessing strange things. Toward the other end of the island something was moving in and out among the drifting ice-cakes. This, she made out presently, by the flash of a paddle, was some sort of a boat. "And it is," she breathed. "No--no it can't be! Yes, it is, it's an Eskimo kiak!" At once she thought of the Negontisks. Could it be possible that they had stumbled upon a secret home of some of these people? As if in answer to her question, the strange manipulator of this queer craft drew the kiak on shore, then, skipping hurriedly along the beach and up a sandy ridge, suddenly put two hands on something and the next instant dropped straight down and out of sight. Florence caught her breath sharply. She clutched the fir boughs in the fear that she would fall. Then, realizing that she might be plainly seen if anyone chanced to look her way, she began hastily to descend. "He might come out of his igloo and see me," she told herself. That the thing the person had entered was an igloo she had no reason to doubt. Igloos go with kiaks and are built beneath the earth. "But," she said suddenly, "the other girls will know a great deal more about those things than I do. I must tell them at once. We will hold a council of war." CHAPTER XV THE ISLAND'S SECRET Twenty-four hours after Florence's mysterious discovery, the cabin of the O Moo was pervaded by a quiet and studious atmosphere. Lucile, who was quite herself again, was mastering the contents of a book devoted to the study of the technique of short story writing. Florence was delving into the mysteries of the working of the human mind. Marian was doing a still life study in charcoal. One might conclude that by some hosts of good fairies the yacht had been spirited back to its place on the dry dock. This was not, however, the case. The O Moo was still standing in the little stream on the sandy island. Its position had been altered a trifle. It had been poled out into midstream and there anchored. This precaution the girls had felt was necessary. In case the Negontisks attempted to board the yacht it would give those on board a slight advantage. It is difficult to board a yacht from kiaks. That the strange persons who lived in holes beneath the sand dunes were these wild natives they did not doubt. "For," Marian had reasoned, "who else in all the wide world would live in such a manner?" "Yes, but," Florence had argued, "how did they ever get to the shores of Lake Michigan anyway?" The question could not be answered. The fact remained that there were people living beneath the ground on this island and that the girls were afraid of them, so much afraid that they were not willing, voluntarily, to expose themselves to view. This was why they were remaining aboard the O Moo and studying rather than attempting to catch fish. "Might as well make the best of our time," Florence had reasoned. To this the others had agreed but when she went on to say that she somehow felt that they would be back at the university for final exams, they shook their heads. The food supply was growing lower with every meal. Six cans of the unknown fruits and vegetables had been opened and with all the perversity of unknown quantities had turned out to be fruit, pleasing but not nourishing. "There's some comfort in knowing that there are other people on the island, at that," Lucile had argued. "They've probably got a supply of food and, rather than starve, we can cast ourselves upon their mercy." "How many of them do you suppose there are?" Marian suddenly looked up from her book to ask. "Only saw one," answered Florence, "but then of course there are others." "Strange we didn't see any tracks when we went the rounds of the island." "Snowed the night before." "But people usually have things outside their igloos; sleds, boats and hunting gear." "Not when they're in hiding. There might be fifty or a hundred of them. Nothing about an igloo shows unless you chance to walk right up to the entrance or the skylight. And we didn't. We--" She broke off abruptly as Lucile whispered. "What was that?" She had hardly asked the question when the sound came again--a loud trill. It was followed this time by a musical: "Who-hoo!" "I never heard a native make a sound like that," exclaimed Lucile, springing to her feet. "Nor I," said Marian. "Sounds like a girl." Throwing caution to the wind the three of them rushed for the door. On reaching the deck, they saw, standing on shore, a very short, plump person with a smiling face. Though the face was unmistakably that of a white girl, she was dressed from head to toe in the fur garments of an Eskimo. "Hello there," she shouted, "Let down the gang plank. I want to come aboard." "Haven't any," laughed Florence. "Wait a minute. You climb out on that old tree. We'll pole the yacht around beneath it, then you can drop down on deck." "What a spiffy little cabin," exclaimed the stranger as she entered the door and prepared to draw her fur parka off over her head. "I wasn't expecting company. When did you arrive?" "Came in with the ice-floe," smiled Marian. "Are--are you a captive?" asked Lucile suddenly. "And--and do they make you live with them?" "Captive? Live with whom?" the girl's eyes were big with wonder. "The Negontisks." "The what?" "The Negontisks." "Why, no, child. Of what are you dreaming? I never saw a Negontisk, let alone living with them. Heard of them though. Please explain." She bounced down into one of the overstuffed chairs with a little sigh of "Oh! What delicious comfort! You don't know how strange it is to live like an Eskimo. It's trying at times, too." It took a great deal of explaining for Lucile to make the reasons for her questions clear to the stranger. In the meantime, Florence had an opportunity to study their visitor. "Very small, not weighing over ninety pounds, very vivacious, decidedly American and considerably older than we are," was her final analysis. "Why! My dear!" the little lady cried when Lucile had explained. "You may put your mind quite at ease. Besides yourselves I am positively the only person on the island. What's more," she smiled, "I have in my igloo oodles and oodles of food, enough for all of us for six months to come." The three girls fairly gasped in their relief and delight. It was with the greatest difficulty that they refrained from embracing the visitor. "I suppose," said the stranger, "that you would like to know how it comes about that I am living here on this island all by myself; and, above all things, in an igloo. Well, you see, my uncle owns this island. He is a retired Arctic trader. For twenty years he lived on the coast of the Arctic--made a huge fortune in furs and whale bone. Then he came back to the city to live. "Well, you see," she sighed after a pause for breath, "he had lived in igloos on the Arctic coast for so long that he wasn't satisfied with the cave he lived in on the shores, in the noisy city. So what does he do but buy this little island and have a wonderful little igloo built beneath one of its sand dunes? "Of course he doesn't live in his igloo all the time; just comes over when he wishes to. This winter he is spending in Florida so he lent his igloo to me. "I graduated from the university last year. And I wanted to write a book, a book about the vanishing race--the Eskimo. Sort of an Eskimo Ramona, don't you know. "I had never been in Alaska but my uncle had told me about it. Nights and nights he talked about nothing else, so I knew enough to make a book. All I needed was the atmosphere. I thought I could get that best by coming out here and living in his igloo all by myself, paddling about in a kiak, fishing through the ice and all that. So that," she laughed, "is how I came to be here." The three girls stared at her with looks of wonderment in which was mingled not a little joy. Had she been a fairy come down from some magic kingdom to render them a great service she could hardly have been more welcome. "Oh!" she cried, bouncing up from her chair, "You shall all go to my igloo. We will have dinner together there and--and why don't you bring along a few of your things, prepared to stay all night? You'll hardly be leaving to-night. No, of course you won't. Ice won't let you." "It's not alone the ice," said Florence soberly. "We don't know how to start our motor." "Oh! Those motors! There now!" she exclaimed "I've never told you my name. It's Marie Neighbor. What are yours?" The girls told her. "Motors are a real bother," she said, returning to her original subject. "Uncle has had six or eight of them in all, on cars, yachts and all that. Not one of them was like any other one. I puzzled my poor old head nearly off over them but I always succeeded in making them go. They're worse when there's no gas. Once I tried a pint of ether and some moth balls instead of gas. That came near being my last experiment. The cylinder exploded. Perhaps I can help you with your engine. Let's have a look." Florence led the way to the engine room and there switched on a light. Marie studied the motor for a moment. "But my dear," she exclaimed at last, "this wire should be fastened there and that one here. You have them crossed. That will never do. Hope you haven't ruined your batteries. But never you mind, I have a set down at the igloo." "Now about the timer. That screw's loose there. Off time of course. Why, there's nothing the matter with the motor; not really. We'll have it going in a moment." She gave the balance wheel a turn. There followed a sucking sound. A second turn brought a similar result; the third elicited a loud explosion and the fourth threw the engine into such a spasm of coughing as set the whole yacht a-tremble. "There you are," she exclaimed triumphantly. "I told you there wasn't anything the matter." She touched a lever. The engine stopped. Then she reached for a handful of waste with which to clean her dainty fingers. "Now," she said, "shall we go over to the igloo? I think the wind is changing. The ice may be going out to-night. In that case you may be wishing to leave in the morning. The yacht will be all right here. No one about and no chance for her to go out of the river. Throw a line out and tie her to the shore. That'll make her doubly safe." Delighted with this strange and efficient hostess, the girls went about the task of making the ship snug, then, having each gathered up a small bundle of clothing, went ashore. "By the way," said Marie, "if you don't mind I think I'd like to go back to the city with you. I'll work my passage as chief engineer." "That would be splendid!" said Florence enthusiastically. "I've been worrying about the engine. We might get it going and not be able to stop it." "And might stop it and not get it going again," laughed Marie. "Well, I'm glad that's arranged. A friend had promised to come after me, but I was talking to him night before last and he told me his boat had sprung a leak. Didn't think he could come." "You were talking with him?" cried Marian. "Yes, radio, don't you know. Oh! I didn't tell you. I have a radiophone for short-distance work. Uncle insisted on my having it; thought I wouldn't be safe without it. When I wish to talk to shore all I have to do is to hoist up my two portable towers, key up my instrument and start right in jabbering away. I have the wireless too, and can talk to my uncle way down in Florida." Florence took a long breath. "So this," she told herself, "is the explanation of the phantom wireless." "By the way," said Marie, "your friends must be anxious about you. Of course they must be. I'll get my little talking machine going as soon as we are at the igloo and you may tell them all your troubles; also assure them you'll be home to-morrow or the next day." "Oh! How can we thank you?" cried Lucile. "Don't have to," laughed their hostess. "It doesn't cost me anything and I'm to get a free passage home for it." "Talking about things being free," she said pointing to the splendid little evergreens all about them. "See all those trees! They really should be thinned out. They're free for the asking. Yet there are ten thousand homes in the city where there will be no Christmas tree this year. What do you say we cut down two or three hundred of them and take them along? We can play Santa to that many families anyway." "I think it's a fine idea," said Lucile. "So do I! So do I," said the others in unison. "Well then that's all settled. And now for a lark. Watch out; here's the entrance to the igloo. Just take a look down, then we'll get up the towers and start talking across empty space to the poor tired old city," laughed Marie. CHAPTER XVI AN UNEXPECTED WELCOME "It's an exact reproduction of an igloo!" exclaimed Lucile. The three girls, following the example of their hostess, had dropped through a hole some three feet square, had poised for an instant upon a board landing, to drop a second three feet and find themselves in a small square room. Leaving this room, they had gone scooting along a narrow passageway, to drop on their knees and crawl through a circular opening into a room some twenty feet square. "Why!" exclaimed their hostess, "have you seen an igloo somewhere?" Lucile smiled. "Marian and I spent a year on the Arctic coast of Alaska and Marian has lived most of her life in Nome on Behring Sea." "Why then," Marie Neighbor's face was a study, "then I'm just a--a--what do you call it? a chechecko, I guess--beside you." "Oh, no, nothing like that," smiled Marian. "Anyway you'll help me with my book, won't you? I have it only a third finished. After dinner I'll read that to you and you may tell me frankly whether it's any good or not." "I tried a story once myself," said Lucile with a laugh. "How did you come out with it?" "Haven't come out yet, but I'm really crazy to get back to the city and find out about it. I mailed it to the editor of 'Seaside Tales'." The igloo was heated by genuine seal-oil lamps and over these Marie cooked her food. The pots and kettles were of the antique copper type traded to Eskimos by Russians long before the white man reached the Arctic shore of Alaska. The food cooked in this manner over a slow fire was declared to be delicious. "And now," said their hostess, when the dishes had been washed and put away, "I'll introduce you to my alcove bedroom." Drawing aside a pair of heavy deerskin curtains she revealed a platform some six by eight feet. This was piled high with skin rugs of all descriptions. White bearskin, Russian squirrel, red fox and beaver rivaled one another in softness and richness of coloring. "You see," she explained, "it's sort of a compromise between the narrow shelf of the Eskimo igloo and the broader sleeping room of the Chukches of Siberia." Lucile and Marian were fascinated. It took them back to the old days of Cape Prince of Wales, of East Cape and Siberia. "Tell you what," exclaimed Lucile. "We'll all get fixed nice and comfy for going to sleep, then we'll spread ourselves out in the midst of all those wonderful rugs and you may read your book to us." "Yes, and you'll be asleep in ten minutes," laughed Marie. "No, no! No we won't," they all exclaimed. "Then it's a bargain." A few moments later filmy pink and white garments vied in color and softness with the rugs of Arctic furs while Marie in a well modulated tone read the beginning of the story of Nowadluk, the belle of Alaska. The three companions were quite content to listen. The ways of life seemed once more very good to them. Their friends had been notified by radiophone of their safety. They were to return to-morrow or the day after. The wind had changed. The ice was already beginning to scatter. Now and then Lucile or Marian would interrupt the reader to make a suggestion. When the end had been reached they were unanimous in their assurance that it promised to be a wonderful story. Their only regrets were that more of it was not completed. A half hour later Lucile and Marian were asleep. Florence and Marie were talking in whispers. Florence had been relating their strange and weird experiences while living aboard the O Moo. "So that's why you thought I was held captive by the Negontisks?" Marie chuckled. "But really," she said presently, "there _were_ some of those people in Chicago. May be yet, but no one knows." "Tell me about it," Florence breathed excitedly. "I don't know a great deal about it, only they were brought over from Siberia for exhibition purposes during a fair in Seattle. From there they were brought to Chicago by a show company. The company ran out of money and disbanded. The Negontisks were thrown upon their own resources. "They were getting along one way or another when it was discovered that they were worshipping some kind of idol." "A blue face," whispered Florence breathlessly. "Something like that. It was believed that in their religious rites they resorted to inhuman practices. The government looked into the matter and decided to deport them. But just when the officials were preparing to round them up, they found that the last one of them had vanished--vanished as completely as they might had the earth opened up and swallowed them. "That was two or three years ago. The papers were full of it. I think there was a reward offered for their capture. But I believe they never found a trace of them or their blue god." "Oh!" whispered Florence, suddenly sitting up among the robes. "Oh, I do hope the ice is gone by morning!" "Why? Aren't you happy here?" "Yes, but I want to get back to the city--want to awfully. You see, I think I know where the blue god is and I want to go and find it." It was the afternoon of the second day following the night spent in the igloo before they were able to leave the island. Ice still blocked their path, that first day, so they had spent the whole day piling the deck of the O Moo high with Christmas trees. Since fate had been kind to them in landing them on the hospitable shores of this island they had been glad to do this much toward the happiness of others. The lake could never have appeared more lovely. Its surface, smooth as a mirror, reflected the white clouds which drifted lazily overhead. The sun, sending its rosy reflections over all, made each tiny wavelet seem a saddle on the back of a fairy horse of dreamland. Across this dreamland the O Moo cut her way. Now they were nearing the city. For some time they had been seeing the jagged line of sky scrapers. Now they could catch the outline of the beach by the dry dock. Toward this they pointed the prow of the O Moo. A wireless telephone message had made known to Dr. Holmes the probable hour of their arrival. Old Timmie would doubtless be prepared to get the O Moo back upon her trestle. "But what makes the shore all around the dock look so black?" puzzled Lucile. Just then there came a succession of faint and distant pop-pop-pops. "Someone coming to meet us," Lucile decided, pleased at the thought. Then there came another set of poppings, another and another, all in slightly different keys. Now they could see the gasoline launches coming toward them. Seeming but sea gulls for size at first, they grew rapidly larger. "Six of them," murmured Marian. "I didn't know we had that many friends." Their amazement grew as three other boats put out from shore. Then Lucile, who had been studying the beach exclaimed: "I do believe that black spot about the dry dock moves. It seems to contract and expand, to waver backward and forward. You don't think it could be--be people?" "Why no, of course--yes! I do believe it is!" cried Marian. "It's the newspapers," exclaimed Florence. "They've published a lot of nonsense about our silly adventure and all those people have come down to see us come in." "And the people in those motorboats are reporters," groaned Marian. "It's the last of our life on the O Moo." "That's over anyway," said Lucile. Her face was very sober. "By the time we've paid for having this yacht put back in order, I figure we'll have about enough money left to buy soup and crackers for examination week and a ticket home. Good-bye old university!" "Ho! Well," laughed Florence, "no use being gloomy about it. No use being gloomy about anything. Life's too long for that. Let's make up what we'll tell the reporters. They won't print the truth anyway, so we might as well tell them plenty." "Tell them what you like," said Marie Neighbor, "only please don't give them the location of my island. I don't want them to come out there bothering me." "We'll guard your secret, never worry," smiled Lucile. When the reporters' boats swarmed about them, the girls told as little as they could, but when later Dr. Holmes came on board with three official reporters, they gave them the true story of their adventures. They were shown their own pictures on the front pages of all the papers and were assured that nothing but their adventure had been talked of since their disappearance. A woman had come on board with the reporters, a trim, matronly woman in a tailored suit. At her first opportunity she drew Florence to one side to talk with her long and earnestly. "The cabin of the O Moo is a wreck," Marian said to Dr. Holmes. "But really, Mr. Holmes, you may trust us to put it back into perfect shape if it takes our last penny. You may send upholsterers and decorators over as soon as the O Moo is in dry dock." "Tut--tut!" exclaimed the good doctor. "Don't let that trouble you. That's all provided for." "Oh, no! Really you must let us pay for all that." "Did it ever occur to you," his eyes were twinkling, "that the O Moo might be insured?" "In--insured!" Marian's knees gave way. The news was too good to seem true. "Then, then we can stay?" "In school, yes, but on the O Moo, probably not. Too much publicity, you see. University people would object and all that, don't you know. But then, cheer up. I fancy the lady dean is telling Florence of something which will interest you all." "In the meantime," he exclaimed, "we are not getting ashore. Yo-ho, Timmie," he cupped his hands and shouted, "bring on the rowboats and tackle. Let's get her brought in." CHAPTER XVII HOT WATER AND A GHOST It was night. The crowd that had screamed its welcome to the returning O Moo and her crew was gone. A great truck loaded high with Christmas trees had departed with Marie Neighbor bouncing about on top of it. The three girls were in the cabin of the O Moo. This, they were sure, was to be their last night on board. The lady dean had told Florence that a flat belonging to the university, three rooms, kitchenette and bath, was at their disposal. The rent seemed terribly high to them, but someway they must meet it, since the dean had looked very sternly adown her nose and said, "Of course this sort of thing cannot be gone on with. The university would be scandalized. Besides, there is no telling what may happen to you if you remain here." "Of course," Lucile said with a long face as the three of them discussed the matter, "she says it's a very nice apartment but it can't be half as nice as--" "As the O Moo," Florence put in. "Of course not. Nothing ever can be." "Oh, well," Marian sighed, "I guess we'll have to do it. But I do think the old O Moo is a dear. I shouldn't like anything better than rambling through a whole summer with her almost anywhere on the Great Lakes." Since this was to be their last night they determined to make the most of it. They had Mark Pence in for hot chocolate and vanilla wafers. They told him of their adventures and he spoke modestly of his own. "So you see," he said, going back to the very beginning of the story as he now knew it, "when these Negontisks found out they were going to be deported they hunted out an unscrupulous Chinaman who transformed them into people of his own race. That wasn't hard. They were Orientals anyway. All he had to do was to provide them with black sateen suits and artificial pigtails and the transformation was complete. "Then the Chinaman saw a chance to make a lot of easy money. He put them to work in his laundry--virtually made slaves of them. Fixed up that old scow for them secretly and made them sneak back and forth to work during the night. "That lasted for a time, then the greedy old Chinaman suddenly disappeared. Negontisks sacrificed him to the blue god, like as not. Served him right too. "But that was where the police took up the trail. The savages knew there was trouble coming. They thought you were a plant--that you were set here to spy on them. They'd been betrayed by some woman before, it seems. When they couldn't get rid of you by frightening you, they decided to cut you loose in a storm." "And now--" began Florence. "Now they've vanished. Not a trace of them has been seen since that night." "Not a trace?" "Not one." "Why then," exclaimed Florence leaping to her feet, "I invite you all to a ghost hunt. A ghost hunt for a blue god." "Anything for a last nighter," agreed Lucile. "For this type of ghost hunt," said Florence, "one needs an ax and two kettles of boiling water." "I'll provide the ax," volunteered Mark. "And we the boiling water," chimed in Marian and Lucile in unison. It was a strange little procession that stole from the shadow of the O Moo a short time later. Florence led the way. She was profoundly silent. Lucile and Marian followed, each with a tea kettle of boiling water carefully poised at her side. Mark, as a sort of vanguard, brought up the rear with his ax. Now and then Mark let forth a low chuckle. "Sh!" Marian warned. "You might disturb her serious poise." Straight away toward the end of the lagoon Florence led them. Once on the surface of the lagoon her course was scarcely less certain until she had reached a point in the center of the broad, glistening surface. "Should be right about here," she murmured. Snapping on a flashlight she moved slowly backward and forward, studying the ice beneath the circle of intense light. "Cold place for a ghost," whispered Mark. "Ten thousand people have skated over it and cut it down. Can't tell. Maybe it's gone," Florence said under her breath, but still she kept up the search. "Water's getting cooled off in the kettles. Ghost won't mind it at all," whispered Mark. Pausing on tiptoe for a moment, Florence fixed her eyes on a certain spot. Then, bending over, she brushed the ice clear of frost. "There!" she announced. "There! That's it." "Right here," she pointed, motioning to Mark. "Cut here. No--let me have the ax. You might go too deep." With measured and cautious swings she began hacking a circle in the ice some two and a half feet in circumference. Mark's amusement had vanished. Curious as the others, he bent over and watched in awed silence. Eight inches of solid ice had been chipped up and thrown out when they began noticing its peculiar blueness. "Like a frozen tub of blueing," whispered Marian. "Sh!" warned Lucile. "Now, let's have the water." Florence took one of the teakettles and poured the hot water into the hole she had cut. As they stood there staring with all their eyes, they thought they made out the outline of something. "Like a dream picture on the movie screen," whispered Marian. Lucile pinched her arm. "A face," came from Mark. Suddenly Lucile gasped, wavered, and all but sank down upon the ice. "The face!" she cried in a muffled scream. "The horrible blue face." "I thought it might be." Florence's voice was tense with emotion. She poured the second kettle of water into the hole. The pool of water was blue, but through it there appeared the dim outlines of an unspeakably ugly face. With trembling fingers Florence tested the water. Twice she found it too hot. The third time she plunged in her hand. There followed a sound of water being sucked up by some object. The next instant she placed on the ice, within the circle of light, a strange affair of blue stone. Covering her eyes Lucile sprang back shuddering. "The blue face! The terrible blue face." Marian and Mark stared curiously. Florence straightened up. "That," she said with an air of great satisfaction, "is the marvelous and much-sought blue god." "Oh! Ah!" came from Marian and Mark. Lucile uncovered her eyes to look. "Perfectly harmless; merely a blue jade carving. Nevertheless a thing of some importance, unless I miss my guess," said Florence. "I suggest that we take it to the police station." "To-night?" exclaimed Marian. "Oh, yes! Right now!" demanded Lucile through chattering teeth. "I could never sleep with that thing on board the O Moo." Arrived at police headquarters, they asked for their friend, the sergeant. When he came out, his eyes appeared heavy with sleep, but once they fell upon the thing of blue jade it seemed that they would pop out of his head. "It ain't!" he exclaimed. "It is! No, it can't be." Taking it in his hands he turned it over and over, muttering to himself. Then, "Wait a minute," he said. Handing the blue face to Florence, he dashed to the telephone. There for a moment he quarreled with an operator, then talked to someone for an instant. "That," he said as he returned, "was your friend, Mr. Cole, from down in the new museum. He lives near here. He's coming over. He'll tell us for sure. He knows everything. Sit down." For ten minutes nothing was heard in the room save the tick-tock of a prodigious clock hung against the wall. From Florence's lap the blue god leered defiance to the world. Suddenly a man without hat or collar dashed into the room. It was Cole. "Where is it?" he demanded breathlessly. "Here." Florence held out the blue face. For a full five minutes the great curator studied the face in silence. Turning it over and over, he now and again uttered a little cry of delight. Florence, as she watched him, thought he could not have been more pleased had a long-lost son been returned to him. "It is!" he murmured at last. "It is the blue god of the Negontisks." "See that!" exclaimed the sergeant, springing to his feet. "I told you he'd know. And that's the end of that business. The whole gang of 'em was caught in Sioux City, Iowa, last night, but they didn't have the blue god. They'll be deported." "Will--will you give it back to them now?" faltered Lucile. "Give it back?" he roared. "I'd say not! You don't know what crimes have been committed in the name of the blue god. No! No! We'll not give it back. If they must have one when they get to where they're going they'll have to find a new one." "Sergeant," said Cole, "I'd like to speak with you, privately." "Oh! All right." The two adjourned to a corner, where for some time they conversed earnestly. The sergeant might be seen to shake his head emphatically from time to time. At last they returned to the group. "I have been trying," said Cole thoughtfully, "to persuade the sergeant to allow you to sell the blue god to our museum. It is worth considerable money merely as a specimen, but he won't hear to it; says it's sort of contraband and must be held by the police. I'm sorry. I'm sure you could have used the money to good advantage." "Oh, that's all right--" The words stuck in Florence's throat. "Hold on now! Hold on!" exclaimed the sergeant, growing very red in the face. "I'm not so hard-hearted as I might seem. There's a reward of five hundred dollars offered for the arrest and conviction--or words to that effect--of this here blue god. Now you girls have arrested him and before Mr. Cole he's been convicted. All's left is to make out the claims and I'll do that free gratis and for nothing." "Five hun--five hundred dollars!" the girls exclaimed. The sergeant stepped back a pace. It was evident that he was in fear of the embarrassment which might come to him by being embraced by three young ladies in a police station. "I--I'll lock him up for the night," he muttered huskily and promptly disappeared into a vault. "Well, I guess that's all of that," breathed Florence. "Quite a thrilling night for our last on the O Moo." "Not quite all," said Cole. "There's still the blue candlestick. The state makes no claims upon that. In the name of the museum I offer you two hundred dollars for it. How about it?" "Splendid! Wonderful!" came from the girls. "All right. Come round in the morning for the check. Good-night." He disappeared into the darkness. "We--we're rich," sighed Lucile as they walked toward the O Moo, "but you know I have a private fortune." She drew a letter from her pocket and waved it in air. "One hundred dollars for my story. Hooray!" "Hooray!" came from the rest. "Of course," sighed Lucile, "the editor said the check would spoil me for life, but since the story was worth it he was bound to buy it. Regular fatherly letter, but he's a dear and the check is real money." "To eat has a more pleasant sound than to sleep," said Florence when they were once more in the cabin of the O Moo. "What do you say to lamb chops, french fried potatoes, hot coffee and doughnuts?" "At two in the morning?" grinned Mark. "What's a better time? All in favor, say 'aye.' The ayes have it." "There are a few things I don't yet understand," said Lucile as they sat enjoying their repast. "And a lot that I don't," added Mark. "Miss Florence Huyler, the pleasure's all yours." "Well," said Florence, "it was about like this: The Negontisks were living in that old scow. Instead of three or four sleepy old Chinamen, there were twenty or thirty near-savages skulking about this dry dock. Being afraid of us, they tacked a note of warning to our yacht. When we didn't leave they decided to frighten us or kill us, I don't know which. They chased me into the old museum and tried to surround Lucile among the ice-piles. Lucile's seeing the blue face in the old Mission was of course an accident; so too was my finding the blue candlestick. That man who chased me lost it. When other plans failed they decided to set us adrift, which they did." "But the blue god frozen in the ice?" questioned Marian. "You remember the two men with the sled and the one man who appeared to come from nowhere? Well, I guess he was dropped off the sled with the blue god, a jug of blue water, and an ax. He cut a hole in the ice and, after covering the blue god with blue water left it to be frozen in. I stumbled upon the spot next morning. Little by little I guessed what was hidden there and how it was hidden." "Seems strange they never came back for it," said Lucile. "Police were too hot on their tracks," declared Mark. "They didn't dare to." "And that," said Florence, "is the story of the blue god. Quite an exciting episode. To-morrow we enter upon the monotonous life of modern city cave dwellers. Good-bye to romance." "Well," said Mark, "you never can tell." He rose. "I must bid you good-night and good-bye. I work in the 'stacks' of your great university library. Come to see me there sometime. Perhaps I might dish up a bit of excitement for you, you never can tell." He bowed himself out of the cabin. Fifteen minutes later the cabin was dark. The cruise of the O Moo was at an end. The Roy J. Snell Books Mr. Snell is a versatile writer who knows how to write stories that will please boys and girls. He has traveled widely, visited many out-of-the-way corners of the earth, and being a keen observer has found material for many thrilling stories. His stories are full of adventure and mystery, yet in the weaving of the story there are little threads upon which are hung lessons in loyalty, honesty, patriotism and right living. Mr. Snell has created a wide audience among the younger readers of America. Boy or girl, you are sure to find a Snell book to your liking. His works cover a wide and interesting scope. Here are the titles of the Snell Books: _Mystery Stories for Boys_ 1. Triple Spies 2. Lost in the Air 3. Panther Eye 4. The Crimson Flash 5. White Fire 6. The Black Schooner 7. The Hidden Trail 8. The Firebug 9. The Red Lure 10. Forbidden Cargoes 11. Johnny Longbow 12. The Rope of Gold 13. The Arrow of Fire 14. The Gray Shadow 15. Riddle of the Storm 16. The Galloping Ghost 17. Whispers at Dawn; or, The Eye 18. Mystery Wings 19. Red Dynamite 20. The Seal of Secrecy 21. The Shadow Passes 22. Sign of the Green Arrow _The Radio-Phone Boys' Series_ 1. Curlie Carson Listens In 2. On the Yukon Trail 3. The Desert Patrol 4. The Seagoing Tank 5. The Flying Sub 6. Dark Treasure 7. Whispering Isles 8. Invisable Wall _Adventure Stories for Girls_ 1. The Blue Envelope 2. The Cruise of the O Moo 3. The Secret Mark 4. The Purple Flame 5. The Crimson Thread 6. The Silent Alarm 7. The Thirteenth Ring 8. Witches Cove 9. The Gypsy Shawl 10. Green Eyes 11. The Golden Circle 12. The Magic Curtain 13. Hour of Enchantment 14. The Phantom Violin 15. Gypsy Flight 16. The Crystal Ball 17. A Ticket to Adventure 18. The Third Warning * * * * * * * * Transcriber's note: --Obvious typographical errors were corrected. Non-standard spellings and dialect were left unchanged. --Promotional material was relocated to the end of the book, and the list of books in the three series was completed using other sources. --Standardized the ship name "O Moo", variously spelled "O'Moo" and "O-Moo" in promotional material. --Added an ellipsis on page 14 indicating where a line or two was apparently omitted in the printed edition. 
46540	----	[Illustration: ELSIE'S CABIN.] ELSIE'S WINTER TRIP. BY MARTHA FINLEY, AUTHOR OF "ELSIE DINSMORE," "ELSIE'S GIRLHOOD," "MILDRED KEITH," etc., etc. NEW YORK: DODD, MEAD & COMPANY, 1902. COPYRIGHT, 1902, BY DODD, MEAD & COMPANY. _First edition published October, 1902._ ELSIE'S WINTER TRIP. CHAPTER I. "Lu, dear, can you give me an early breakfast to-morrow morning?" asked Chester, as they made their preparations for retiring that first night in their new home. "I think so," she returned, giving him an affectionate look and smile. "How early would you like to have it?" "About seven, I think. I have told our coachman, Jack, that I want the carriage at eight. He will drive me into town and then return, so that carriage and horses will be ready at a reasonably early hour for the other three owners--our brother and sister and yourself." "It was certainly very kind and thoughtful in you to give such an order," she said with a smile, "but we would much prefer to have your company in all our drives and visits." "And I should very much like to give it to you; but there is business that should have been attended to some time ago, and must not be longer delayed." "If it is, it shall not be your wife's fault," she replied. "The cook is still in the kitchen, and I will go and give my order for a seven-o'clock breakfast." "Lu, dear," Chester said, on her return, "it will not be at all necessary for you to rise in time for so early a breakfast, I can pour my own coffee and eat alone." "No, you can't have that privilege while I'm your wife;" she responded, with a saucy look and smile. "I intend to pour your coffee, and see that you have an appetizing breakfast and do justice to it." "Your presence will make it doubly enjoyable, dearest," he returned, putting an arm about her, and giving her a look of loving admiration, "but you must not be robbed of needed rest and sleep." "Thank you, my dear husband," she replied; "but I am accustomed to early rising and it agrees with me. Oh, I think I shall greatly enjoy taking early breakfast with you. Isn't it delightful to begin our married life in so lovely a home of our very own?" "It is, indeed! and we owe it to your good, kind, and most generous father." "He is that, most emphatically," responded Lucilla. "The dearest, best, and kindest father in the world." Seven o'clock the next morning found them cosily seated at a little round table in their pretty dining-room, enjoying a delicious breakfast of fresh fruits, broiled fowl, hot muffins and coffee. These, added to good health, cheerful spirits, and a fondness for each other's society, made them a happy couple. The meal was enlivened with cheerful chat. "I am sorry you have to hurry so," Lucilla said, as she filled her husband's cup for the second time. "I really think you ought to have at least a little longer holiday." "I expect to take it piecemeal, nights and mornings, in the society of my wife," returned Chester, with affectionate look and smile. "I was very glad to get this case," he added, "for if I succeed with it it will bring me in some thousands." "I shall be glad of that for your sake," said Lucilla; "but don't work too hard. You know you are not very strong; therefore you need to take good care of yourself." "Ah, my dear, be careful how you encourage me in self-indulgence," laughed Chester. "I am too much inclined that way as it is." "Are you?" she exclaimed with mirthful look and tone. "I really had not found it out, but thought you one of the foolishly industrious people who will even throw away health in order to get on rapidly with their work." "And I," laughed Chester, "took you for a woman of such discernment that you must have found out before this what a lazy, incompetent fellow you have thrown yourself away upon." "No; with all my discernment I have yet to make that discovery. I did not marry the fellow yon describe--but a bright, talented, industrious young man. And I wont have him slandered." At that moment a servant came in with the announcement that the carriage was at the door. "Ah! Jack is quite punctual, and I am just ready," said Chester, pushing back his chair, getting up and going round to his wife's side of the table. "I will now take away the slanderer of your bright, talented, industrious young man," he remarked in sportive tone; "you shall be relieved of his presence until perhaps five o'clock this afternoon." Before he had finished, Lucilla was standing by his side, her hand in his. "Oh, dear! I wish you didn't have to go," she sighed. "We have been together all the time for weeks past and now I hardly know how I can do without you." "Suppose you come along then. There is plenty of room in the carriage, and in the office, and I could find you something to read, or some work on the typewriter, if you prefer that." "Any time that I am needed there I shall be ready to go," she returned with merry look and tone; "but to-day I have matters to attend to about the house, and perhaps father and Mamma Vi may want some little assistance from me in their preparations for to-night." "Yes, I daresay. What a round of parties we are likely to have to go through as part of the penalty for venturing into the state of matrimony." "Yes," laughed Lucilla, "but I hope you think it pays." "Most assuredly. But now good-bye, dearest, for some hours--when we shall have the pleasure of meeting to atone to us for the present pain of parting." Lucilla followed him to the veranda, where they exchanged a parting caress, then watched as he entered the carriage and it drove swiftly through the grounds and out into the highway. Her eyes were still following it when a pleasant, manly voice near at hand said "Good morning Mrs. Dinsmore." She turned quickly and sprang down the steps to meet the speaker. "Father, dear father!" she cried, springing into his outstretched arms, and putting hers about his neck, "Oh, how glad I am to see you! How good in you to come! Chester has just done eating his breakfast and gone off to his business, and I haven't quite finished my meal. Wont you come in and eat with me?" "Ah, that would hardly do, daughter," was the smiling reply. "You know I am expected to take that meal with wife and children at Woodburn. But I will go in with you and we will have a chat while you finish your breakfast." "And you can take a cup of coffee and a little fruit, can't you, father?" "Yes, thank you, daughter. That would hardly interfere with the Woodburn breakfast. And shall we not take a little stroll about your grounds when we leave the breakfast-room?" "I should greatly enjoy doing so along with my dear father," she answered with a smiling look up into his face, as they took their places at the inviting-looking table. She poured his coffee, then they ate and chatted pleasantly the while about family matters and the entertainment to be given at Woodburn that evening. "How are Max and Eva this morning?" the Captain asked at length. "I don't know whether they are up yet or not," replied Lucilla. "You know, papa, they had not the same occasion for early rising that Chester and I had." "True enough and Max is fully entitled to take his ease for the present. Don't you think so?" "Yes, indeed, papa. I am very glad the dear fellow is having a good holiday after all he has gone through. Oh, I wish he had chosen some business that would allow him to stay at home with us!" "That would be pleasanter for us, but our country must have a navy and officers to command it." "Yes, sir; and so it is well that some men fancy that kind of life and employment." "And no doubt Max inherits the taste for a seafaring life from me and my forebears." "Father," said Lulu, "you will let me be your amanuensis again, will you not?" "Thank you for your willingness to serve me in that, daughter," the Captain returned pleasantly, "but you will find quite enough to do here in your own house, and both your Mamma Vi and your Sister Grace have taken up your work in that line--sometimes one and sometimes the other following my dictation upon the typewriter." "Oh, I am glad that they can and will, for your sake, father, but I hope I shall be permitted to do a little of my old work for you once in a while." "That is altogether likely," he said. "But now as we have finished eating and drinking shall we not take our stroll about the grounds?" They did so, chatting pleasantly as was their wont; then returning to the veranda they found Max and Evelyn there. Morning greetings were exchanged, then Evelyn, saying that their breakfast was just ready, invited the Captain to come in and share it. But he declined, giving the same reason as before to Lucilla's invitation. "I am going home now to breakfast with wife and children," he said, "and I hope you older ones of my flock will join us a little later." "We will all be glad to do that, father," said Max. "At least I can speak for myself and think I can for these two daughters of yours. Woodburn is to me a dear old home where some of the happiest hours of my life have been spent." "And you can't love it much better than Lu and I do," added Evelyn. "No, he can't," assented Lucilla. "Lovely as is this Sunnyside of ours, its chief attraction to me is its near neighborhood to Woodburn--the home where I have passed such happy years under my father's loving care." The bright, dark eyes she lifted to his face as she spoke were full of daughterly love and reverence. "I am very glad you can look back upon them as happy years, daughter," he said, his eyes shining with pleasure and parental affection; "and that Max is with you in that. I am glad, too, that you all appreciate this new home that I have taken so much pleasure in preparing for you." "We'd be the basest of ingrates, if we didn't, father dear!" exclaimed Lucilla. "I for one, feel that you have done, and are doing far more for me than I deserve." "Which is nothing new for our father," remarked Max with a smile and look into his father's face that spoke volumes of filial regard, respect and devotion. "And I am fortunate indeed in having children so dutiful, affectionate and appreciative," returned the Captain feelingly. He then took leave and went back to Woodburn, Lucilla accompanying him part of the way, then returning to Sunnyside to give her orders for the day. That attended to, she joined Max and Eva upon the veranda. "The carriage is coming, Lu," said Eva; "are you ready for a drive? and have you decided where you wish to go?" "Yes," was the reply, "I want to go over to Woodburn for a bit of a chat with Mamma Vi about the preparations for this evening, in which I suppose you and Max will join me; and then wouldn't you like to drive over to Fairview for a call upon Aunt Elsie?" "Yes, indeed! I think she and uncle are entitled to the first call from me, much as I want to see all the near and dear ones." "I perfectly agree with you in that, Eva," said Max. "They have filled the place of parents to you, and I for one," he added with a very loverlike smile, "am grateful to them for it." "As I am with still more reason," added Evelyn. A few moments later found them on their way to Woodburn. There was a glad welcome there followed by a few minutes' lively chat, principally in regard to the coming event of the evening--the expected gathering of invited guests, relatives, neighbours and friends to welcome the return of the newly-married couples from their bridal trip. "Is there anything I can do to help with your preparations, Mamma Vi?" asked Lucilla. "Thank you, Lu, but they are almost all made now, except what the servants will do," returned Violet, adding laughingly. "And if they were not, it would surely hardly be the correct thing to let one of our brides be at the trouble of assisting with them." "Both of them would be very glad to give their help, if it were desired or needed," said Evelyn. "We feel privileged to offer assistance, because it is our father's house," she concluded with a smiling, affectionate look at the Captain. "That is right, daughter," he said, both his tone and the expression of his countenance showing that he was pleased with her remark. "Oh, Lu, I have been making some changes in the rooms that were yours, but are mine now," said Grace. "Papa has provided some new pieces of furniture both there and in our little sitting-room and I want to show them to you, Eva and Max." She rose as she spoke, the others following her example. "Are the rest of us invited, Gracie?" asked Violet, in an amused tone. "Oh, yes, indeed!" was the gay rejoinder, "father and you, Elsie and Ned. Company that is always acceptable to me wherever I go." "And to all of us," added Lucilla. "Most especially so to one who has often sighed in vain for it," said Max. "Have you wanted us sometimes when you were far away on the sea, Brother Max?" asked Ned with a look of loving sympathy up into his brother's face. "Yes, indeed, Ned; and expect to do so again before very long." They were passing through the hall and up the stairway as they talked. "Oh, the dear old rooms look lovely, lovely!" exclaimed Lucilla, as they passed into the little sitting-room she had formerly shared with her sister Grace, glanced around it and through the open doors into the two bedrooms. "It almost makes me homesick to be living in them again." "Well, daughter, you may come back whenever you choose," her father said, with a look of mingled amusement and affection. "Why, Lu, I thought you loved that pretty new home papa has taken such pains to make ready for you and Eva and Max and Chester," exclaimed Elsie. "Yes, so I do; but this old home has the added charm of being papa's also." "Yes; but the other is so near that you can see him every day, and oftener, if you choose." "And talk to him at any moment through the telephone, if she prefers that to coming over here," said the Captain. "Oh, yes! how nice it is that our houses are all connected by telephone," exclaimed Evelyn. "Father, if I may, I think I'll go to yours and speak to Aunt Elsie now." "Certainly, daughter," he returned, promptly leading the way. "I do so like that name from you, father dear," she said softly and smiling up into his face as they reached the instrument. "And I am glad my boy Max has given me the right," he returned, bending down to kiss the ruby lips and smooth the shining hair. "Shall I ring and call for you?" he asked. "If you please." It was Mrs. Leland who answered it. "Hello, what is it?" "It is I, Aunt Elsie," returned Evelyn. "I just called to know if you were in; because if you are, we are coming over directly to make you a call." "I think I shall be by the time you can get here," was the reply in a tone of amusement. "But please don't delay, as we were about to start for Sunnyside in a few minutes." "Oh, were you! Then we will drive over at once and accompany you on the trip." "Thank you; that will be most pleasant." Eva stepped aside and Lucilla took her place. "Yes, Aunt Elsie, you will be a most welcome visitor in both divisions of Sunnyside. Please don't neglect mine." "I certainly do not intend to," was the cheerily-spoken response, "for your half of the dwelling is doubtless quite as well worth seeing as the other, and its occupants seem very near and dear." "Thank you. Good-bye now till we arrive at Fairview." "We would better start for that place presently," said Max. "We can view the beauties of this any day. Wont you go with us, Grace? There is a vacant seat in the carriage." "Yes, do; we'd be glad to have you," urged both Eva and Lucilla, the latter adding, "You have hardly yet taken a look at our new homes with us in them." "Yes, go, daughter; I think you will enjoy it," her father said in reply to a questioning glance from her beautiful blue eyes, directed to him. "Thank you all three," she said. "I will go if I may have ten minutes in which to get ready." "Fifteen, if necessary," replied Max, in sportive tone. "Even that great loss of time will be well paid for by the pleasure of your good company." "A well-turned compliment, brother mine," returned Grace, as she tripped away in search of hat and wrap; for the air was cool in driving. "Why shouldn't Elsie go too? There is plenty of room for her; and Ned can ride alongside on his pony, which I see is down yonder ready saddled and bridled," said Max, putting an arm round his little sister, as she stood by his side, and looking smilingly at her, then at Ned. "Can't they go, father and Mamma Vi?" Both parents gave a ready consent, the children were delighted with the invitation, and presently the party set out on their way to Fairview. It was a short and pleasant drive, and they were greeted with a joyous welcome on their arrival at Evelyn's old home, Mr. and Mrs. Leland and their four children meeting them on the veranda with smiles, pleasant words and caresses for Grace, Eva, Lucilla and Elsie. Then they were taken within and to the dining-room, where a delicate and appetizing lunch was awaiting them. "It is a little early for lunch," said Mrs. Leland, "but we knew you would be wanting to get back to Sunnyside soon, in order not to miss the numerous calls about to be made you by friends and connections who are all anxious to see the pretty new home and its loved occupants." "We will be glad to see them, Aunt Elsie," said Evelyn, "and to show our lovely homes; and I can assure you that no one can be more welcome there than you and uncle and these dear cousins of mine." "And please understand that Eva has expressed my sentiments as fully as her own," added Lucilla in a sprightly tone. "Mine also," said Max. "But don't any one of you feel that this meal is to be taken in haste," said Mr. Leland, hospitably, "that is very bad for digestion and we may take plenty of time, even at the risk of having some of your callers get to Sunnyside ahead of us." His advice was taken and much pleasant chat indulged in while they ate. "You and uncle, of course, expect to be at Woodburn to-night, Aunt Elsie?" said Evelyn. "Oh, yes; and expect to have you all here to-morrow night. There is to be quite a round of parties--as doubtless you know--to celebrate the great event of your and Lu's entrance into the bonds of matrimony. There will be none Saturday night, but the round will begin again Monday evening by a party at Ion given by mamma, Edward and Zoe. Tuesday evening we are all to go to the Oaks; then after that will be the Laurel's, Roselands, Beechwood, Pinegrove, Ashlands and others." "Don't forget Aunt Rosie's at Riverside, mamma," prompted Allie, her nine-year-old daughter. "No," returned her mother, "that would be quite too bad, for there is no one more ready to do honor to these dear friends of ours; especially now when they have just begun married life." "Ah, Aunt Elsie, that sounds as though you considered it something to one's credit to have left a life of single blessedness for one in the married state," laughed Lucilla. "A state which I have found so pleasant that I think no one deserves any credit for entering it," was Mrs. Leland's smiling rejoinder. "And I have noticed," said Max, "that as a rule those who have tried it once are very ready to try it again--widows and widowers seem in more haste to marry than bachelors and maids." "'Marry in haste and repent at leisure,'" quoted Grace, laughingly. "Father takes care that his children don't do the first, perhaps to secure them from the second." "And we all have great confidence in our father's wisdom; as well as his strong affection for us, his children," remarked Max. A sentiment which the others--his wife and sisters--promptly and cordially endorsed. CHAPTER II. Immediately on leaving the table, they all--entertainers and entertained--set out on the short drive to Sunnyside, where, on arriving, they found their relatives and friends from Beechwood and the Oaks waiting to offer their congratulations and wish them happiness and prosperity in their married life. Being all acquaintances and friends of so long standing, they were shown over the whole house by the happy owners, and cordial congratulations were freely bestowed. "In view of the comforts, conveniences and beauties of the establishment, I should like to see Chester and offer my congratulations on his success in winning a lovely wife, and having so delightful a home to share with her," remarked Mrs. Horace Dinsmore, as she was about leaving. "But I can't stay longer if I am to make due preparation for attending the party at Woodburn to-night," she added. "And you wouldn't miss that for something, would you?" laughed Mrs. Hugh Lilburn. "I am sure I wouldn't." "No; for I daresay we will have a delightful time. I know no better entertainers than the Captain and Vi." "Nor do I," said Mrs. Leland; "and this being so extra an occasion they will doubtless do their best." "I think they will, and I hope no invited guest will stay away or be disappointed," said Grace, with a merry look and smile. "No danger of either calamity, Gracie," said Mrs. Dinsmore. "Ah, there's our carriage at the door," and with a hasty good-bye and a cordial invitation to all present to make frequent visits at the Oaks, she and her husband and daughter departed. The Beechwood friends lingered a little longer, as did those from Fairview and Woodburn. But at length Grace said she thought it time to go home for, of course, there were some matters she ought to attend to in preparation for the evening. "Shall I send you in the carriage?" asked Lucilla. "Oh, no, thank you, sister dear; the short walk will be good for me," returned Grace gaily, "for Elsie, too, I think, and for Ned; though he, I suppose, will prefer to ride his pony." "Yes, of course I will," said Ned. "He needs to be taken home, anyway." They made their adieus and passed out on the veranda. A servant brought the pony up, and Ned was about to mount when the little steed remarked, "I think a young gentleman might feel ashamed to ride while his lady sisters must go afoot." "You do!" exclaimed Ned, drawing back with a look of mingled surprise and chagrin. "Well, they said they wanted to walk--preferred it to riding; and--and besides they couldn't both ride on your back at once." "Two do ride the same horse at once sometimes," seemed to come very distinctly from the pony's lips. "Who is making you talk, I wonder?" cried Ned, turning to look about him. "Oh, Brother Max, it was you, wasn't it?" as he caught sight of his brother and sisters standing near. "What was?" asked Max quietly. "The person making the pony talk. I almost thought for a minute it really was the pony; though, of course, ponies can't talk. And I didn't mean to be selfish. Gracie won't you ride him home? Elsie and I can walk just as well as not." "Yes, of course we can; it's a very short and very pleasant walk," returned Elsie, with prompt cheerfulness. "So Gracie dear, you ride the pony." "Thank you both," said Grace, "but I really prefer to walk, as I have had very little exercise to-day." "There, you silly little pony, see what a mistake you made!" cried Ned gleefully, as he mounted his steed. "Well, little master, didn't you make a mistake, too?" the pony seemed to ask. "Oh, Brother Max, I know it's you, so only good fun," laughed Ned. "Good-bye all. I'll get home first and tell papa and mamma you are coming, Gracie and Elsie." With the last words, he galloped down the avenue, leaving Max and his sisters standing on the veranda looking after him. "Doesn't he ride well?" exclaimed Grace, in a tone that spoke much sisterly pride and affection. The others gave a hearty assent, Max adding, "He is a dear little, bright little chap. I am decidedly proud of my only brother." "As I am of my little one; but still more so of my older one," said Lucilla. "But I must go back to my remaining guests. Good-bye, my two dear sisters. I shall expect and hope to see you both over here every day." "It is very likely you will see us here at least that often," laughed Grace, "and we will expect an honest return of each and every visit." "We'll get it, too," cried Elsie; "Lu could never stay away a whole day from papa." "It would certainly take very strong compulsion to make me do so," said Lucilla. "Good-bye again. I hope to see you both in my old home a few hours hence, and here some time to-morrow." With that she passed into the house while her sisters hastened away in the direction of Woodburn. "It will soon be time to send the carriage for Chester," said Max, accompanying her, "Suppose I give the order now." "Yes, do," she replied, "I'd like to have him here as soon as possible; and if he should not be quite ready, Jack and the carriage can be kept waiting." "Certainly. I'll go and give the order, then rejoin you and our guests in the drawing-room." As Max stepped out upon the veranda again two carriages came driving up the avenue--one bringing Mr. and Mrs. Lacey from the Laurels, the other Mr. and Mrs. Croly from Riverside. "Oh, Max, how glad I am to see you again!" exclaimed Rosie, as he assisted her to alight. "It seems an age since you went away, and you have been exposed to such perils I hope I shall have a chance to hear the story of your experiences in that fight at Manila. Such a chance as I couldn't get at any of the late parties." "Thank you, I hope we will have time and opportunity for a number of talks," he replied, releasing the hand she had put into his and turning to greet Mrs. Lacey, whom he addressed as Aunt Rose, and whose greeting was quite as cordial as her niece's had been. "You have the Fairview and Beechwood folks here now I see," remarked Mrs. Croly, glancing toward their waiting vehicles. "Yes; walk in and let us have you all together," returned Max. "We will make a small party in anticipation of the large one to be held at Woodburn some hours hence." "Yes," assented Rosie, "we are all relatives and friends, and I for one can never see too much of Sister Elsie or Cousin Ronald, to speak of only one of each family." Hearty greetings were exchanged, a short time spent in cheerful chat, then one set of visitors after another took their departure till at length Max, Evelyn and Lucilla were left alone, though looking almost momentarily for Chester's homecoming. "It has probably been a hard day with him. I fear he will be too weary for much enjoyment to-night," sighed Lucilla. "I hope not," said Max. "The meeting with so many relatives and friends will probably be restful. Ah, there's the carriage now, just coming up the driveway." It brought Chester, and he showed himself to be in excellent spirits, though somewhat weary with the labors of the day. He reported that all seemed to be going right with the business in hand, and he had little doubt that he should gain his hoped-for reward. His audience of three listened with keen interest to all he had to say. When he had finished Eva rose saying, "I must go now and attend to housekeeping matters so that Max and I may be ready in good season for our Woodburn festivities." "Stay, Eva," said Lucilla, "I have ordered an early light tea for the four of us. We wont want a very hearty meal to spoil our appetites for the refreshments to be served at Woodburn." "No, certainly not; it is very kind in you to provide for us as well as for yourselves," returned Evelyn; Max adding, "It is, indeed, sister mine." "Well, really," laughed Lucilla, "it was for my own pleasure quite as much as for yours." And tears came into the eyes gazing with sisterly affection into those of Max. "I want to entertain you while I can," she added, "for there is no knowing when Uncle Sam may be ordering you quite out of reach." "Oh, don't let us talk of that!" exclaimed Eva. "Let us banish it from our thoughts for the present." "That is good advice," said Max, his voice a trifle husky; "it's what I'm trying to do for the present; for however much a man may love the service--a little wife such as mine must be far nearer and dearer." "Yes," said Chester; "if you had only chosen the law, we might now be partners in my office, as well as in this house." "And I perhaps might ruin the business by my stupidity," returned Max, with playful look and tone. "Hark! there's the tea-bell," said Lucilla. "I invite you all out to the dining-room." After a pleasant social half hour spent at the tea-table, each couple retired to their own apartments to dress for the evening entertainment at Woodburn. "This is one of the occasions for the wearing of the wedding-gown, is it not?" Max said inquiringly to Evelyn, as they passed into her dressing-room. "Yes," she said lightly. "You will not mind seeing me in it for the second time, will you?" "I shall be very glad to. It is both beautiful and becoming," he returned, with a fond look and smile. "Ah, my Eva, I think no one ever had a sweeter bride than mine," he added, passing his arm about her and drawing her into a close embrace. "They say love is blind and it must be that which makes me look so lovely in your eyes; for my features are by no means so good and regular as those of some others--your sisters Lu and Grace, for instance," returned Evelyn, with a pleased little laugh. "Those sisters of mine are both beautiful in my eyes, but there is something--to me--still sweeter in this dear face," he answered to that, giving her a fond caress as he spoke. "And your love is so sweet to me, I am so glad to belong to you," she returned low and feelingly, laying her head on his breast while glad tears shone in her eyes. "I have only one cause for grief left," she went on presently--"that we cannot live together all the time, as Lu and Chester may; yet spite of that I would not change with her or anybody else." "I hope not, darling," he said, laughingly. "Nor would I any more than you. I think we were made for each other." "So do I; and when compelled to part for a season we will console ourselves by looking forward to the joy of the reunion." "So we will, dear one; and in the meantime we will have the pleasure of correspondence." "Yes, indeed! a letter from my husband will be a great treasure and delight to me." "Not more than will be one from my wife to me," he returned, giving her a gleeful caress. Meantime, Chester and his Lucilla were similarly engaged. Chester was very proud and fond of his bride and anxious to show her to neighbours and friends in her wedding dress; so expressed his satisfaction when he saw it laid out in readiness for the occasion. "I am glad it pleases you," said Lucilla, "and I own to liking it right well myself. Eva is going to wear hers, too. So it will seem something like a repetition of our wedding day." "Which makes it very suitable for your father's house. It was a disappointment to him, I know, not to have his daughter and son married in his own house." "Yes, I suppose so; but dear father is so unselfish that he preferred to let us have our own way, especially on Eva's account." "I know it, and mean to try to copy his example in that--seeking to please others rather than myself." "As I do; I should like to resemble him in character and conduct as much as some persons tell me I do in features and expression." "Yes; you are very like him in both," Chester said, with an affectionate and admiring look and smile; "in character and conduct also, if your admiring husband be any judge." The Sunnyside couples were the first of the guests to reach Woodburn--though, in fact, they hardly considered themselves guests, or were deemed such by the family there; it was but going home to their father's house, where they had an hour of keen enjoyment before other relatives and guests began to arrive. Everything went smoothly; the company was made up of congenial spirits, the entertainment was fine and evidently enjoyed, and when they bade good-night and scattered to their homes it was with the expectation of meeting again the next evening at Fairview. The Dinsmores of the Oaks had planned to give the second entertainment, but Mr. and Mrs. Leland claimed it as their right, because of their near relationship to Evelyn, and the fact that Fairview had been her home for so many years. They were now nearing the end of the week; this was Thursday, the Fairview party would be held on Friday evening and Saturday all preferred to spend quietly in their own homes or with the nearest and dearest. And that was the plan carried out. The Fairview party passed off as successfully as had the Woodburn one, and Saturday and Sunday brought a rest from festivities which was welcome to all. CHAPTER III. Lucilla could never stay long away from her old home in her father's house; she was there every day and often two or three times a day. "Father," she said, on that first Saturday after taking possession of the new home, "mayn't we Sunnyside folks come over here and join your Bible class to-morrow evening?" "My dear child, it is just what I would have you do," he returned, with a gratified and loving smile. "Don't forget that Woodburn is still your home--one of your homes at least--and that you are always welcome and more than welcome to join us when you will. You are my own daughter as truly as ever you were." "And just as glad to be as ever I was," she exclaimed, with a bright, loving look and smile. "And to do your bidding at all times, father dear," she added. "Provided it does not interfere with Chester's," Max, who happened to be present, suggested a little mischievously. "Hardly any danger of that, I think," remarked his father, with a slightly amused look; "Chester is a reasonable fellow, and I have no intention of interfering with his rights." "And he thinks almost as highly of my father's wisdom as I do," said Lucilla. "But not more than Max and I do," said Evelyn, giving the Captain a very filial and admiring look; "and you will take us in as members of your class, too, wont you father?" "It is just what I desire to do," was the pleased reply. "Max has always been a member when at home; and you, you know, are now his better half." Eva shook her head and with a merry, laughing look at Max, said, "Not just that, father; I should say the smaller partner in the firm." "That will do, too," smiled the Captain, "since the most costly goods are apt to be done up in the smallest packages." "Ah, Eva, my dear, you are answered," laughed Max. "What is to be the subject of to-morrow's lesson, Captain?" asked Mrs. Elsie Travilla, sitting near. "I have not decided that question yet, mother, and should be glad of a suggestion from you," he replied in a kindly, respectful tone. "I have been thinking a good deal lately of the signs of the times," she said, "and whether they do not show that we are nearing the end of this dispensation. That might perhaps be a profitable and interesting question to take up and endeavor to solve." "No doubt it would be," he replied, "and I hope you will come prepared to give us some information as to what the Scriptures say on the subject, and what are the views of Biblical scholars who have been giving it particular attention." "I will do what I can in that line, and hope you, Captain, and others will come prepared to take part in considering the subject." "Certainly a most interesting one," said Violet. "And one which must lead to great searching of the Scriptures as the only infallible source of information," added the Captain. "Yes," said Grandma Elsie, "they are the only authority on that subject. And how thankful we should be that we have them." Sabbath afternoon proved bright and clear, and brought to Woodburn quite a gathering of the relatives and friends; for all loved the Bible studies they had for years taken together. Mr. Lilburn, as the eldest, was persuaded to take the lead. "I understand," he said, "that to-day we are to take up the question whether the second coming of our Lord Jesus Christ may, or may not, be near. The Scriptures are our sole authority, and you are all invited to bring forward anything from them which may seem to you to have a bearing on the subject." Then turning to Mrs. Travilla, "Cousin Elsie," he said, "you are, probably, the one among us the most thoroughly prepared to do so; please let us hear from you." "I doubt if I am better prepared than some of the rest of you," she replied, "but I have been very much interested in the subject; particularly of late, and have searched the Bible for texts bearing upon it, some of which I will read. Here in the first chapter of Acts we read that the disciples asked, 'Lord, wilt thou at this time restore again the kingdom to Israel? And he said unto them, It is not for you to know the times or the seasons, which the Father hath put in his own power. But ye shall receive power, after that the Holy Ghost is come upon you: and ye shall be witnesses unto me both in Jerusalem and in all Judea, and in Samaria, and unto the uttermost part of the earth. And when he had spoken these things, while they beheld, He was taken up and the clouds received him out of their sight. And while they looked steadfastly toward Heaven as he went up, behold, two men stood by them in white apparel; which also said, Ye men of Gallilee, why stand ye gazing up into Heaven? This same Jesus which is taken up from you into Heaven, shall so come in like manner as ye have seen him go into Heaven.' And," continued Grandma Elsie, "the Apostle John gives us the same promise here in the first chapter of the Revelation," turning to the passage as she spoke, then reading it aloud, "'Behold, he cometh with clouds; and every eye shall see him.'" "I have heard the idea advanced that death is the coming of Christ to the dying one," remarked Chester, in a tone of inquiry. "But we are told," said Mrs. Travilla, "that 'as the lightning cometh out of the east, and shineth even unto the west; so shall also the coming of the Son of Man be.' That description certainly could not apply to the death hour of any Christian, nor to the conversion of any sinner." "And his second coming is spoken of in the same way in a number of places in the different gospels," said Evelyn. "Here, in Luke, we have Christ's own words, 'Whosoever shall be ashamed of Me and of My words, of him shall the Son of Man be ashamed, when He shall come in His glory, and in His Father's, and of the holy angels.' And again in Matthew 16:27, 'For the Son of Man shall come in the glory of His Father with His angels; and then He shall reward every man according to his works.'" "The disciples wanted to know when that second coming would be," remarked Violet; "here in Matthew 24:3, we are told, 'And as He sat upon the Mount of Olives, the disciples came unto Him privately, saying, "Tell us when shall these things be and what shall be the sign of Thy coming and of the end of the world?" And Jesus answered and said unto them, "Take heed that no man deceive you."' "I shall not read the whole chapter, for I know it is familiar to you all; but in the 27th verse he says, 'For as the lightning cometh out of the east, and shineth even unto the west; so shall also the coming of the Son of Man be. For wheresoever the carcass is, there will the eagles be gathered together. Immediately after the tribulation of those days shall the sun be darkened, and the moon shall not give her light, and the stars shall fall from Heaven, and the powers of the Heavens shall be shaken: And then shall appear the sign of the Son of Man in Heaven: And then shall all the tribes of the earth mourn, and they shall see the Son of Man coming in the clouds of Heaven with power and great glory. And He shall send His angels with a great sound of a trumpet, and they shall gather his elect from the four winds, from one end of Heaven to the other.'" "Many persons," remarked Grandma Elsie, "tell us it is not worth while to consider at all the question of the time when Christ will come again; quoting the text, 'But of that day and hour knoweth no man, no, not the angels in Heaven, but my Father only.' But again and again our Saviour repeated his warning, 'Watch, therefore; for ye know not what hour your Lord doth come.... Therefore be ye also ready; for in such an hour as ye think not the Son of Man cometh.'" "I do not quite understand this," said Grace. "Luke says, here in the 21st chapter, 20th verse--quoting the words of the Master--'And when ye shall see Jerusalem compassed with armies, then know that the desolation thereof is nigh. Then let them which are in Judea flee to the mountains; and let them which are in the midst of it depart out.' How could they depart out of the city while it was compassed with armies?" "There is a satisfactory explanation," replied her father, "in the twelfth year of Nero, Cestius Gallus, the president of Syria, came against Jerusalem with a powerful army. Josephus says of him: 'He might have assaulted and taken the city, and thereby put an end to the war; but without any just reason, and contrary to the expectation of all, he raised the siege and departed.' The historians, Epiphanius and Eusebius, tell us that immediately after the departure of the armies of Cestius Gallus, and while Vespasian was approaching with his army, all who believed in Christ left Jerusalem and fled to Pella and other places beyond the river Jordan." "Every one of them, papa?" asked Ned. "Yes; Dr. Adam Clarke says 'It is very remarkable that not a single Christian perished in the destruction of Jerusalem, though there were many there when Cestius Gallus invested the city.'" "Papa," asked Elsie, "don't you think God put it in the heart of that Cestius Gallus to go away with his troops before Vespasian got there; so that the Christians had an opportunity to escape?" "I certainly do, daughter," was the Captain's emphatic reply. "Had not the earlier prophets foretold the destruction of Jerusalem?" asked Lucilla. "Yes," said Mr. Lilburn; "even as early a one as Moses. Here in the 28th chapter of Deuteronomy he says 'The Lord shall bring a nation against thee from far, from the east of the earth, as swift as the eagle flieth; a nation whose tongue thou shalt not understand.'" "The Romans?" Elsie said, inquiringly. "Yes; their ensign was an eagle and their language the Latin, which the Jews did not understand. The prophesy of Moses continues. In the 52d verse he says, 'And he shall besiege thee in all thy gates, until thy high and fenced walls come down; wherein thou trustedst, throughout all thy land: and he shall besiege thee in all thy gates throughout thy land, which the Lord thy God hath given thee. And thou shalt eat the fruit of thine own body, the flesh of thy sons and of thy daughters, which the Lord thy God hath given thee, in the siege and in the straitness, wherewith thine enemies shall distress thee.'" "Oh, how dreadful!" exclaimed Elsie. "And did all that happen at the siege of Jerusalem?" "Yes; it lasted so long that famine was added to all the other sufferings of the besieged. So dreadful was it that mothers would snatch the food from their children in their distress, and many houses were found full of women and children who had died of starvation. Josephus tells of human flesh being eaten; particularly of a lady of rank who killed, roasted and ate her own son. And so the prophecy of Moses was fulfilled." "Oh, how dreadful, how dreadful!" sighed Elsie. "Yes," said Mr. Lilburn, "it was the fulfillment of our Saviour's prophecy as he beheld Jerusalem and wept over it, saying, 'If thou hadst known, even thou at least in this thy day, the things which belong unto thy peace! but now they are hid from thine eyes. For the days shall come upon thee, that thine enemies shall cast a trench about thee, and compass thee round, and keep thee in on every side, and shall lay thee even with the ground, and thy children within thee; and they shall not leave in thee one stone upon another; because thou knewest not the time of thy visitation.' That is told us in the 19th chapter of Luke. In the 21st we read, 'And they shall fall by the edge of the sword, and shall be led away captive into all nations: and Jerusalem shall be trodden down of the Gentiles, until the times of the Gentiles be fulfilled.'" "Have those times been fulfilled yet?" asked Ned. "No, not yet," replied Mr. Lilburn; "the Turks still have possession of Jerusalem, though the Jews have begun to return to Palestine and the Turkish power grows weaker. But the time of the Gentiles will not be fulfilled until the work of the Gospel is finished." "And when will that be, Cousin Ronald?" asked Ned. "I cannot say exactly," answered the old gentleman, "but the trend of events does seem to show that we are nearing that time--such a feeling of unrest all over the world, some men--comparatively a few--accumulating enormous quantities of wealth by paying their laborers a mere pittance for their work, while the cost of living goes higher and higher. This is a land of plenty, and but for the grasping selfishness of some, none need lack for abundance of the necessaries of life." "I wish nobody did lack for plenty to eat and drink, and wear," said Elsie, "and I want to do all I can to help those who haven't enough." "I hope you will, daughter," the Captain said, in a tone of pleased approval. "And now the important thing for us to consider is what is our duty, in view of the very possible nearness of Christ's second coming." "He has told us again and again to watch and be ready," said Grandma Elsie; "yet we are not to be idle, but to work while it is called to-day; to occupy till he comes; to be not slothful in business, fervent in spirit, serving the Lord." CHAPTER IV. For the next week or two, family parties for the honor and entertainment of the newly-married ones were frequent. Life seemed to them bright and joyous, except when they remembered that Max would probably soon be ordered away, perhaps to some distant quarter of the globe. An unwelcome anticipation not to them only, but to his father and the others at Woodburn, and in a slighter degree to all the connection. But orders had not come yet, and they still hoped they might be delayed for weeks, giving opportunity for many quiet home pleasures. Yet there were drawbacks to even those, in the fact that several of the near connection were ailing from colds caught during their round of festivities--Grandma Elsie and Chester Dinsmore being of those most seriously affected. Chester was confined to the house for several days, under the doctor's care, and it was against medical advice that he then returned to his labors at his office. Lucilla was troubled and anxious, and, as usual, went to her father for sympathy and advice. They had a chat together in the library at Woodburn. "I feel for you, daughter," Captain Raymond said, "but keep up your courage; 'all is not lost that is in danger.' I have been thinking that a southerly trip in the yacht might prove of benefit to both Grandma Elsie and Chester, and quite agreeable to the members of my family and other friends for whom we could find room." "Oh, father, that would be delightful!" she exclaimed, her eyes sparkling with pleasure. "And I hope you will persuade Harold to make one of the company, for Grace's sake, and so that we will not be without a physician." "Yes, that is a part of my plan, and I have little doubt of its acceptance, Grace's companionship being a great attraction to my young brother-in-law." "'Speak of angels and you will hear the flutter of their wings,'" laughed Lucilla, as at that moment Harold appeared in the doorway. "Am I the angel, and may I fly in?" he asked, joining in the laugh. "Certainly, you are just in the nick of time to advise us in a matter of importance which we were discussing," replied the Captain, inviting him by a gesture to an easy chair near at hand, then repeating to him the substance of what he had been saying to Lucilla, finishing with a request for his opinion in regard to the plan. "I like it extremely," Harold said. "I think nothing could be better for either mother or Chester, and the sooner we make ready and start the better for both, if they will be persuaded to go; of which I have little doubt." "I am somewhat afraid Chester may refuse for business reasons," sighed Lucilla. "I think we can persuade him of the folly of that," said her father. "It would be far wiser and better to give up business for a time for the gaining of health, than to so wreck that by overtaxing strength of body and mind as to shorten his days or make himself an invalid for life." "It certainly would," said Harold, "and I hope that among us we can convince him that duty, as well as pleasure, calls him to make one of our party." "Duty to his wife as well as to himself," said Lucilla, in a lively tone; "for I should neither willingly go without him or stay behind with him." "Where are Vi, Grace and the children?" asked Harold. "I have not seen or heard anything of them since I came in." "Max and Eva have taken them driving in our fine new carriage--father's wedding gift," replied Lucilla, with a smiling glance into her father's eyes. "That is, all but Ned who rides his pony alongside." "Ah, and here they come now!" exclaimed Harold, glancing from the window, "the carriage has just turned in at the gates." And with that the three arose and hastened out to the veranda, to greet and assist them to alight. But the moment the carriage drew up before the entrance the door was thrown open and Max, then Chester, sprang out and turned to hand out the ladies--Grandma Elsie, Eva, Violet, Grace and her sister Elsie, while at the same time Ned was dismounting from his pony. Warm greetings were exchanged, and as the weather was now too cool for comfortable sitting upon the veranda the Captain led the way to the library--a favorite resort with them all. "Your call is an agreeable surprise, mother," he said to Grandma Elsie, as he drew forward an easy chair for her; "Harold had just been telling us that you were almost ill with a cold." "I have a rather bad one, but thought a drive through the bracing air, and in such pleasant company, might prove beneficial rather than otherwise," she answered in cheery tones, adding "And I knew Harold was here and could take me home in his conveyance." "Certainly, mother, and will be very glad of your good company," said Harold, while at the same time Violet exclaimed, "But why go at all to-night, mother? Why not stay here with us?" "Thank you, daughter," was the smiling reply; "that would be pleasant, but there are some things to be attended to at home." "And not being well, she would better have her doctor close at hand," remarked Harold, in playful tone. "Mother, we have been contriving a plan to help you and Chester to get the better of your colds." "Ah, what is that?" she asked, and Harold, turning to the Captain, said, "Let mother hear it from you, Brother Levis, if you please." "We are thinking of taking a southward trip in the 'Dolphin,' mother--visiting the Bermudas, Bahamas and other of the West Indies and the coast of Brazil." "Why, that would be a lovely trip!" she exclaimed. "Many thanks to you, Captain, for including me among your invited guests." "Many thanks to you, mother, if you consent to make one of our party," he returned, looking greatly pleased to find her so ready to approve of and share their plans. Eager, excited remarks and queries now followed in rapid succession from the others present--"When was the start to be made? Who besides Grandma Elsie and the Captain were to compose the party?" "All who are here now are invited and expected to go; some others of our friends also," replied the Captain, "and I hope no one will refuse." "Thanks, warm thanks," said Chester. "I should be delighted to go, but fear business will prevent." "As your physician, Ches, I strongly advise you not to let it," said Harold. "A good rest now in a warm climate may restore you to vigorous health, while if you stay at home and stick to business you are likely to either cut your life short or make yourself a confirmed invalid for the rest of it." "Do you really think so, cousin doctor?" was Chester's rejoinder in a troubled voice. "I do most emphatically," returned Harold. "You may be very thankful, cousin, that this good opportunity offers." "I am," said Chester. Then turning to the Captain. "Thank you very much, sir, for the invitation, which I accept, if my wife will go with me." "You needn't doubt that," laughed Lucilla. "There is nothing I like better than a trip on my father's yacht, with him and all my dear ones about me." "And it's just the same with all the rest of us," said Grace. "And how is it with Max and Eva?" asked the Captain. "I know of nothing more enjoyable than that--a trip on the 'Dolphin' taken in the company of one's dear ones," replied Evelyn with a loving look into the eyes of her young husband. "Just my opinion," he said, with a smile; "the only question with me is, Will Uncle Sam allow me a sufficiently long leave of absence." "Your leave of absence has nearly expired?" his father said, inquiringly. "Yes, sir; so nearly that I should hardly feel surprised to receive orders any day." "Well, I hope, instead, you may get another leave, allowing you time to make one of our party." "It would be a very great pleasure to me, sir," said Max. "But I have had so long a one already that I can hardly hope for another very soon." "Oh, Max!" exclaimed Grace, "do write at once asking to have it extended; it would double our pleasure to have you along." "Yes, Max, do," said Lucilla. "I can hardly bear the thought of going without you." Evelyn, sitting close at his side, looked her entreaties, while Violet said, "Yes, Max, do; it will double our enjoyment to have you and Eva along." Then Chester, Grandma Elsie, Harold and the children added their entreaties, expressing their desire for his company on the trip and Ned exclaimed, "Yes, Brother Max, do get leave to go along; we'll want you to make fun for us with your ventriloquism." "Is that all you want me for, Neddie boy?" laughed Max. "If so, Cousin Ronald will answer your purpose quite as well, if not better." "But two can make more fun than one; and I want you besides, because I am really fond of you--the only brother I've got." "Ah, that sounds better," said Max; "but I really can't go without Uncle Sam's permission." "Then please do ask him to give it." "Yes, do, Max," said Grace; "I really think he might give it, considering what good service you did at Manila." "It was not very much that I accomplished personally," returned Max modestly, "and the two months' rest I have had is probably quite as much as I may be supposed to have earned. Especially as it gave me the opportunity to secure my wife," he added, with a very affectionate look at Evelyn. "I wish you might be able to go with us, Max, my son," said the Captain, "for leaving ventriloquism entirely out of the account, I should be very glad to have your company. But the service, of course, has the first claim on you." "So I think, sir; and as for the ventriloquism, my little brother is so hungry for, Cousin Ronald can supply it should you take him as one of your passengers." "And that we will, if he and his wife can be persuaded to go," returned the Captain, heartily. "Oh, good, papa!" cried Ned, clapping his hands in glee, "then we'll have at least one ventriloquist, if we can't have two." "And, after all, the ventriloquism was really all you wanted me for, eh?" said Max, assuming a tone and look of chagrin. "Oh, no! no! Brother Max," cried Ned, with a look of distress. "I didn't mean that! you know you're the only brother I have and I'm really fond of you." "As I am of you, little brother, and have been ever since you were born," said Max, regarding the little fellow with an affectionate smile. "Oh, Max, I wish you hadn't gone into the navy," sighed Lucilla. "I don't," he returned, cheerfully, "though I acknowledge that it is hard parting with home and dear ones." "That is bad, as I know by experience," said their father, "but then we have the compensating joy of the many reunions." "Yes, sir; and a great joy it is," responded Max. "How soon, father, do you think of starting on your southward trip?" "Just as soon as all necessary arrangements can be made, which, I suppose, will not be more than a week from this, at farthest. I can have the yacht made ready in less time than that, and for the sake of our invalids it would be well to go as promptly as possible." "Couldn't you make use of the telephone now, to give your invitations, my dear?" queried Violet. "Why, yes; that is a wise suggestion. I will do so at once," he replied, and hastily left the room, promising to return presently with the reply from Beechwood to which he would call first. The invitation was accepted promptly and with evident pleasure, as the Captain presently reported in the library. "Now, mother, shall I give my invitation in the same way to our own friends?" he asked, turning to Grandma Elsie. "Perhaps it would be as well to send it by Harold and me," she said, "as that will delay it very little, and I can perhaps help them to perceive what a delightful trip it is likely to prove." "And then, mamma, you can give us their view by the 'phone," said Violet. "I, or some one of the family will," she said. "And now, Harold, we will go and attend to the matter at once." CHAPTER V. Captain Raymond's invitation proved scarcely less agreeable to Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore than to their younger friends and relatives, and their acceptance was telephoned to Woodburn before the Sunnyside party had left for their homes. All heard it with satisfaction, for Grandpa and Grandma Dinsmore were pleasant traveling companions. Some lively chat followed, in regard to needed preparations for the trip, and in the midst of it a servant came in with the afternoon mail. The Captain distributed it and among Max's portion was a document of official appearance. Evelyn noted it with a look of apprehension, and drew nearer to her young husband's side. "Orders, my son?" asked the Captain, when Max had opened it and glanced over the contents. "Yes, sir; I am to go immediately to Washington, upon the expiration of my leave which will be about the time the rest of you set sail in the 'Dolphin.'" The announcement seemed quite a damper upon the previous high spirits of the little company, and there were many expressions of disappointment and regret. "Well," said Chester, getting on his feet as he spoke, "I must go home now; there is a little matter in regard to one of my cases that must be attended to at once, since I am likely to leave the neighborhood so soon." "And if my husband goes, I must go, too," said Lucilla, in a lively tone, rising and taking up the wrap she had thrown off on coming into the warm room. "It is near the dinner hour; you would better stay, all of you, and dine with us," said the Captain. All thanked him, but declined, each having some special reason for wishing to go home at that particular time. "Well, come in and share a meal with us whenever you will," said the Captain. "I think you know, one and all, that you are heartily welcome." "Yes, father, we do," said Max, "and we are always glad when you care to breakfast, dine, or sup with us." "Any of us but papa?" asked Ned. "Yes, indeed; all of you from Mamma Vi down," laughed Max, giving the little fellow an affectionate clap on the shoulder as he passed him on his way out to the hall. "Yes, Ned, each one of you will always be a most welcome visitor," said Chester. "Indeed you will, you may be very sure of that," added Lucilla and Eva. "So sure are we of that, that you need not be surprised to see any of us at any time," laughed Violet. "Nor will we be surprised or grieved to see any or all of you at any time." "No, indeed! I want my daughters--and sons also--all to feel entirely at home always in their father's house," the Captain said, with his genial smile. "Thank you, father dear, and don't forget that Sunnyside is one of your homes, and we are always ever so glad to open its doors to you," said Lucilla, going to him and holding up her face for a kiss, which he gave with warmth of affection. "And not Lu's side only, but ours as well," added Evelyn, holding out her hand and looking up lovingly into his face. He took the hand, drew her closer to him and gave her a caress as affectionate as that he had just bestowed upon Lucilla. The rest of the good-byes were quickly said, and both young couples were wending their homeward way. They were all in thoughtful mood, and the short walk was taken in almost unbroken silence. Eva's heart was full at thought of the approaching separation from her young husband. How could she bear it? He seemed almost all the world to her, now that they had been for weeks such close companions, and life without his presence would be lonely and desolate indeed. She passed up the stairway to their bedroom, while he paused in the hall below to remove his overcoat and hat. Her eyes were full of tears, as she disposed of her wraps, then crossed the room to her mirror to see that dress and hair were in perfect order. "No improvement needed, my own love, my darling," Max said, coming up behind her and passing an arm about her waist. At that she turned and hid her face upon his breast. "Oh, Max, my husband, my dear, dear husband," she sobbed, "how can I live away from you? You are now more than all the world to me." "As you are to me, dear love. It is hard to part, but we will hope to meet again soon; and in the meantime let us write to each other every day. And as there is no war now you need not feel that your husband is in any special danger." "Yes, thank God for that," she said, "and that we may know that we are both in his kind care and keeping wherever we are." "And surely you will be less lonely than you were before our marriage--father claims you as his daughter, Chester and little Ned are your brothers, Lu and Grace your sisters." "Yes, oh yes; I have a great deal to be thankful for, but you are to me a greater blessing than all the world." "As you are to me, dearest," was his response, as he held her close to his heart, pressing warm kisses on cheek and brow and lip. Meanwhile, on the other side of the hall, Chester and Lucilla were chatting about the Captain's plan for a winter trip. "I think it will be just delightful, Chester," she said, "since I am to have you along. I am so glad you are going, sorry as I am that ill-health makes it necessary." "Yes, my dear," he returned with a smile, "I am fortunate, indeed, in having so loving a wife and so kind and able a father-in-law. I am truly sorry that I must leave some important business matters to which I should like to give attention promptly and in person, but I intend to put that care aside and enjoy our holiday as fully as possible. I heartily wish Max could go with us. I think it would almost double the pleasure of the trip." "As I do," responded Lucilla, with a sigh; "but it seems one can never have all one wants in this world. I doubt if it would be good for us if we could." "No, it assuredly would not. Now, my dear, I am going down to the library to look at some papers connected with one of my cases, and shall probably be busy over them until the call to dinner." The next few days were busy ones with those who were to have a part in the southern trip of the "Dolphin." Woodburn and Sunnyside were to be left in the care of Christine and Alma, with a sufficient number of servants under them to keep everything in order. Max went with the others to the yacht, spent a half hour there, then bade good-bye, went ashore and took a train for Washington. It was Eva's first parting from her husband, and she shut herself into her stateroom for a cry to relieve her pent-up feelings of grief and loneliness. But presently there was a gentle little tap at the door and Elsie Raymond's sweet voice asked, "Sister Eva, dear, don't you want to come on deck with me and see them lift the anchor and start the 'Dolphin' on her way?" "Yes, dear little sister; thank you for coming for me," replied Evelyn, opening the door. "All the rest of us were there and I thought you would like to be there, too," continued the little girl, as they passed through the saloon and on up the stairway. "Yes, little sister, it was very kind in you to think of me." "But I wasn't the only one; everybody seemed to be thinking of you and looking round for you. So I asked papa if I should come for you, and he said yes." "It was very kind in both him and you, little sister Elsie," Eva said, with a smile. "Our dear father is always kind, and I am very glad to be his daughter." "So am I," returned Elsie, with a happy little laugh. "I think he's the dearest, kindest father that ever was made." They had just reached the deck at that moment, and as they stepped upon it they caught sight of Harold and Grace standing near, looking smilingly at them, pleased with Elsie's tribute to her father, which they had accidentally overheard. "Oh, Uncle Harold, you'll take Sister Eva to a good place to see everything from, wont you?" exclaimed Elsie. "Yes, little niece, the everything you mean," he returned, laughingly. "There is room for us all. Come this way," he added, and led them to that part of the deck where the other passengers were grouped. There they were greeted with kindness and given a good place for seeing all the preparations for starting the vessel on her way to the Bermudas. She was soon moving swiftly in that direction, and, a cool breeze having sprung up, her passengers left the deck for the warmer and more comfortable saloon. "Elsie and Ned wouldn't you like your grandma to tell you something about the islands we are going to?" asked Mrs. Travilla; the two little ones being, as usual, quite near her. "Yes, indeed! grandma," both answered, in eager tones, seating themselves one on each side of her. "I heard papa say it wouldn't be a very long voyage we would take at the start, because the Bermudas were only about six hundred miles away from our coast," said Elsie. "They belong to England, don't they, grandma?" "Yes; but they were named for a Spaniard, Bermudez, who first sighted them in 1527; they are also called Somers's Isles from Sir George Somers, an Englishman, who was shipwrecked there in 1609. That was what led to their colonization from Virginia--two years later when it was itself only four years old. "Are they big islands, grandma? and are there many of them?" asked Ned. "No, there are perhaps five hundred of them, but the whole group measures only about twelve thousand acres in all. They occupy a space only about twenty miles long by six broad." "Then the group isn't worth very much, I suppose." "Yes, because its situation makes it a natural fortress which can hardly be overrated. They form a bond of union between two great divisions of British America; on each side of them is a highway between the Gulf of Mexico and the North Atlantic. There are many picturesque creeks and bays, large and deep, the water so clear as to reveal, even to its lowest depths, the many varieties of fish sporting among the coral rocks, and the beautifully variegated shells." "And it has a warm climate, hasn't it, grandma?" asked Elsie. "I think that is why we are going there." "Yes, the climate is said to be like that of Persia, with the addition of a constant sea-breeze." "I shall like that," responded the little girl with satisfaction. "But what kind of people live there, grandma?" "A good many whites and still more colored people." "Slaves, grandma?" asked Ned. "No; the islands belong to England, and years ago she abolished slavery in all her dominions." "What are the names of some of them, grandma? the islands, I mean." "The largest, which is fifteen miles long, is called Bermuda; St. George is three and a half miles long and is the military station of the colony; it commands the entrance of the only passage for large vessels. Its land-locked haven and the narrow and intricate channel leading into it are defended by strong batteries." "You have been there, haven't you, grandma?" "Yes; years ago," she said, with a sigh, thinking of the loved partner of her life who had been with her then and there. "And your Grandpa Dinsmore and I were there at the same time," remarked Grandma Dinsmore, sitting near; and she went on to give a graphic account of scenes they had witnessed there, Mr. Dinsmore presently joining in a way to make it very interesting to the children. CHAPTER VI. Grandpa Dinsmore had hardly finished relating his reminiscences of his former visits to the Bermudas when a sailor-lad came down the companionway with a message from the Captain--an invitation to any or all his passengers to come up on deck, as there was something he wished to show them. It was promptly and eagerly accepted by the young folks,--somewhat more slowly and sedately by the older ones. "What is it, papa? Have you something to show us?" queried Ned, as he gained his father's side. "Something lying yonder in the sea, my son, the like of which you have never seen before," replied the Captain, pointing to a large object in the water at some little distance. "Ah, a whale!" exclaimed Dr. Travilla, who had come up on Ned's other side. "To what genus does he belong, Captain?" "He is a bottlenose; a migratory species, confined to the North Atlantic. It ranges far northward in the summer, southward in the winter. In the early spring they may be found around Iceland and Greenland, Western Spitzbergen, in Davis Strait and probably about Novaia Zemlia." "Oh, do they like to live right in among the icebergs, papa?" asked Elsie. "No, they do not venture in among the ice itself, but frequent open bays along its margin, as in that way they are sheltered from the open sea." "The group gathered about the Captain on the deck now comprised all his cabin passengers, not one of whom failed to be interested in the whale, or to have some remark to make or question to ask. "This one seems to be alone," remarked Lucilla. "Do they usually go alone, papa?" "No; they are generally found in herds of from four to ten; and many different herds may be found in sight at the same time. The old males, however, are frequently solitary; though sometimes one of them may be seen leading a herd. These whales don't seem to be afraid of ships, swimming around them and underneath the boats till their curiosity is satisfied." "I suppose they take them--the ships--for a kind of big fish," laughed Ned. "Why is this kind of whale called bottlenosed, papa?" asked Elsie. "That name is given it because of the elevation of the upper surface of the head above the rather short beak and in front of the blow hole into a rounded abrupt prominence." "Blow hole," repeated Ned, wonderingly; "what's that, papa?" "The blow holes are their nostrils through which they blow out the water collected in them while they are down below the waves. They cannot breath under the water, but must come up frequently to take in a fresh supply of air. But first they must expel the air remaining in their lungs, before taking in a fresh supply. They send that air out with great force, so that it rises to a considerable height above the water, and as it is saturated with water-vapor at a high temperature, the contact with the cold outside air condenses the vapor which forms a column of steam or spray. Often, however, a whale begins to blow before its nostrils are quite above the surface, and then some sea-water is forced up with the column of air." They were watching the whale while they talked; for it followed the yacht with seeming curiosity. At this moment it rolled over nearly on its side, then threw its ponderous tail high into the air, so that for an instant it was perpendicular to the water, then vanished from sight beneath the waves. "Oh, dear," cried Ned, "he's gone! I wish he'd stayed longer." "Perhaps he will come back and give us the pleasure of seeing him spout," said the Captain. "Do you mean throw the water up out of its nostrils, papa?" asked Ned. "Oh, I'd like that!" "Ah, there's the call to supper," said his father, as the summons came at that moment. "You wouldn't like to miss that?" "No, sir," returned Ned, in a dubious tone. "But couldn't we let the supper wait till the whale comes up and gets done spouting?" "Perhaps some of the older people may be too hungry to wait comfortably," returned his father; "and the supper might be spoiled by waiting. But cheer up, my son; the whale is not likely to come up to the surface again before we can finish our meal and come back to witness his performance." That assurance was quite a relief to Ned's mind, so that he went very cheerfully to the table with the others, and there did full justice to the viands. No one hurried with the meal, but when they left the table it was to go upon deck again and watch for the reappearance of the whale. They had been there for but a moment when, to the delight of all, it came up, not too far away to be distinctly seen, and at once began spouting--or blowing; discharging the air from its lungs in preparation for taking in a fresh supply; the air was sent out with great force, making a sound that could be heard at quite a distance, while the water-vapor accompanying the air was so condensed as to form a column of spray. It made five or six respirations, then swam away and was soon lost to sight. Then the company returned to the cabin as the more comfortable place, the evening air being decidedly cool. Ned seated himself close to his father, and, in coaxing tones, asked for something more about whales. "Are there many kinds, papa?" he queried. "Yes, my son, a good many; more than you could remember. Would you like me to tell you about some of the more interesting ones?" "Oh, yes, indeed, papa!" was the emphatic and pleased response, and the Captain began at once. "There are the whalebone or true whales, which constitute a single family. They have no teeth, but, instead, horny plates of baleen or whalebone, which strain from the water the small animals upon which the whale feeds." "Oh, yes, I know about whalebones," said Ned. "Mamma and sisters have it in their dresses. And it comes out of the whale's mouth, does it, papa?" "Yes; it is composed of many flattened, horny plates placed crosswise on either side of the palate, and separated from one another by an open space in the middle line. They are smooth on the outer side, but the inner edge of each plate is frayed out into a kind of fringe, giving a hairy appearance to the whole of the inside of the mouth when viewed from below." "Whalebone or baleen is black, isn't it, papa?" asked Ned. "Not always; the color may vary from black to creamy white; and sometimes it is striped dark and light." "Is there much of it in one whale, papa?" "Yes, a great deal on each side of the jaw; there are more than three hundred of the plates, which, in a fine specimen, are about ten or twelve feet long and eleven inches wide at their base; and so much as a ton's weight has been taken from a large whale." "And is the baleen all they kill the whales for, papa?" "Oh, no, my son! the oil is very valuable, and there is a great deal of it in a large whale. One has been told of which yielded eighty-five barrels of oil." "Oh, my! that's a great deal," cried Ned. "What a big fellow he must have been to hold so much as that." "The whale is very valuable to the people of the polar regions," continued the Captain. "They eat the flesh, and drink the oil." "Oh, papa! drink oil!" cried little Elsie, with a shudder of disgust. "It seems very disgusting to us," he said, with a smile, "but in that very cold climate it is an absolute necessity--needful, in order to keep up the heat of the body by a bountiful supply of carbon." "Whales are so big and strong it must be very dangerous to go near them, I suppose," said Elsie, with an inquiring look at her father. "That is the case with some of the species," he said, "but not with all. The Greenland whale, for instance, is inoffensive and timorous, and will always flee from the presence of man, unless roused by the pain of a wound or the sight of its offspring in danger. In that case, it will sometimes turn fiercely upon the boat in which the harpooners are who launched the weapon, and, with its enormous tail, strike it a blow that will shatter it and drive men, ropes and oars high into the air. That Greenland whale shows great affection for both its mate and its young. When this whale is undisturbed, it usually remains at the surface of the water for ten minutes and spouts eight or nine times; then it goes down for from five to twenty minutes, then comes back to the surface to breathe again. But when harpooned, it dives to a great depth and does not come up again for half an hour. By noticing the direction of the line attached to the harpoon, the whalers judge of the spot in which it will rise and generally contrive to be so near it when it shows itself again, that they can insert another harpoon, or strike it with a lance before it can go down again." "Poor thing!" sighed little Elsie, "I don't know how men can have the heart to be so cruel to animals that are not dangerous." "It is because the oil, whalebone and so forth, are so valuable," said her father. "It sometimes happens that a stray whale blunders into the shallow waters of the Bermudas, and not being able to find the passage through which it entered, cannot get out again; so is caught like a mouse in a trap. It is soon discovered by the people, and there is a great excitement; full of delight, they quickly launch their boats filled with men armed with guns, lances and other weapons which would be of little use in the open sea, but answer their purpose in these shoal waters. "As soon as the whale feels the sharp lance in its body it dives as it would in the open sea; but the water is so shallow that it strikes its head against the rocky bed of the sea with such force that it rises to the surface again half stunned. "The hunters then take advantage of its bewildered condition to come close and use their deadly weapons till they have killed it. The fat and ivory are divided among the hunters who took part in the killing, but the flesh is given to any one who asks for it." "Is it really good to eat, papa?" asked Ned. "Those who are judges of whale flesh say there are three qualities of meat in every whale, the best resembling mutton, the second similar to pork, and the third resembling beef." "The whales are so big and strong; don't they ever fight back when men try to kill them, papa?" asked Elsie. "Yes," he replied, "sometimes a large whale will become belligerent, and is then a fearful antagonist, using its immense tail and huge jaws with fearful effect. I have heard of one driving its lower jaw entirely through the plankings of a stout whaling boat, and of another that destroyed nine boats in succession. Not only boats, but even ships have been sunk by the attack of an infuriated old bull cachalot. And an American ship, the 'Essex' was destroyed by the vengeful fury of a cachalot, which accidentally struck itself against the keel. Probably it thought the ship was a rival whale; it retired to a short distance, then charged full at the vessel, striking it one side of the bows, and crushing beams and planks like straws. There were only a few men on board at the time, most of the crew being in the boats engaged in chasing whales; and when they returned to their ship they found her fast sinking, so that they had barely time to secure a scanty stock of provisions and water. Using these provisions as economically as they could, they made for the coast of Peru, but only three lived to reach there, and they were found lying senseless in their boat, which was drifting at large in the ocean." "I wonder any one is willing to go whaling when they may meet with such dreadful accidents," said Evelyn. "I suppose it must be very profitable to tempt them to take such risks," remarked Chester. "It is quite profitable," said the Captain; "a single whale often yields whalebone and blubber to the value of thirty-five hundred or four thousand dollars." "I should think that might pay very well, particularly if they took a number." "Our whale fishing is done mostly by the New Englanders, isn't it, papa?" asked Grace. "Yes," he said, "they went into it largely at a very early date; at first on their own coasts, but they were deserted by the whales before the middle of the eighteenth century; then ships were fitted out for the northern seas. But for a number of years the American whale-fishery has been declining, because of the scarcity of whales and the substitutes for whale oil and whalebone that have been found. However, New Bedford, Massachusetts, is the greatest whaling port in the world. "Now it is nearing your bedtime, my boy, and I think you have had enough about the whale and his habits for one lesson." "Yes, papa; and I thank you very much for telling it all to me," replied Ned, with a loving, grateful look up into his father's face. CHAPTER VII. Some two hours later the Captain was taking his usual evening walk upon the deck, when Lucilla and Evelyn joined him. "We feel like taking a little stroll, father, and hope you will not object to our company," remarked Evelyn, as they reached his side. "I could not, with truth, say it was unpleasant to me, daughter," he returned, with a smile, and passing a hand caressingly over her hair, as she stood close at his side. "The fact is, I am very glad of the companionship of you both." "And we are both thankful to hear you say it, I am sure," returned Lucilla, in a sprightly tone, and with a bright, loving look up into his eyes. "I'd be heart-broken if I thought my father didn't love me enough to care to have me near him." "And I should be much distressed if I had reason to believe my daughter didn't care to be near me. If Grace were as strong and healthy as you are, it would double the pleasure to have her with us. She has gone to her stateroom, I suppose." "Yes, papa, and most of the others have retired to their rooms, too. Dr. Harold and Chester are playing a game of chess, and so will hardly miss Eva and me." "Perhaps not; so we will take our promenade undisturbed by anxiety about them," laughed the Captain, offering an arm to each. It was a beautiful evening; the moon was shining in a clear sky and making a silvery pathway upon the waters. "Where do you suppose Max is now, father?" asked Evelyn, with a slight sigh. "Probably in Washington; though it is possible he may have received his orders and gone aboard his vessel." "And doubtless he is thinking of you, Eva, as you are of him," said Lucilla, speaking in low, tender tones. "No doubt of it," said their father, "for he is very fond of his sweet, young wife. As we all are, daughter dear," he added, softly patting the small, white hand resting upon his arm. "Dear father," she said, with emotion, "it is so kind in you to give me the fatherly affection I have so missed and longed for in years past." "And daughterly affection from you is an adequate return," he said pleasantly. "I expect to enjoy that in all this winter's wanderings by sea and land." "Wanderings which I am very glad to be allowed to share," she said; and then they talked of the various places they expected to visit while on this winter trip. At length Evelyn, saying it was high time for her to join Grace in the stateroom they shared together, said good-night and returned to the cabin, but Lucilla delayed her departure a little longer--it was so pleasant to have her father all to herself for a bit of private chat before retiring for the night. They paced the deck silently for a few moments, then she said: "Father, I have thought a good deal of that talk we had in our Bible lesson some time ago, about the second coming of Christ. Do you think it--his coming--is very near?" "It may be, daughter. The signs of the times seem to indicate its approach. Jesus said, 'Of that day and hour knoweth no man, no, not the angels of heaven, but My Father only.' He has given us signs, however, by which we may know that it is near; and judging by them we may, I think, know that it is not very far off now." "Then, papa, doesn't it seem as if we ought to be busied with religious duties all the time?" "I think whatever duties the Lord gives us in His Providence may, in some sense, be called religious duties--for me, for instance, the care of wife, children and dependents. We are to go on with household and family duties, those to the poor and needy in our neighborhood; also to take such part as we can in the work of the church at home and for foreign missions, and so forth; all this, remembering his command, 'Occupy till I come,' and endeavoring to be ready to meet him with joy when he comes." "And isn't it a very important part trying to win souls to Christ?" "It is, indeed, and 'he that winneth souls is wise.' Leading a truly Christlike life may often win them to join us in being his disciples, even though we refrain from any word of exhortation; though there are times when we should not refrain from giving that also." "As you did to me, father," she said, with a loving look up into his face. "Oh, I shall try to be a winner of souls. The Bible makes the way clear, again and again, in a very few words. You know it tells us Jesus said to Nicodemus, 'God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.'" "Yes; and Peter said to Cornelius and his kinsmen and friends, after telling them of Jesus, 'To Him give all the prophets witness, that through His name whosoever believeth in Him shall receive remission of sins.' And Paul and Silas, when asked by the jailor, 'Sirs, what must I do to be saved?' replied, 'Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved.' Salvation is God's free gift, without money and without price. One must believe in His divinity, His ability and willingness to save, taking salvation at His hands as a free, unmerited gift. But now, dear child," he added, taking her in his arms, with a fond caress, "it is time for you and that not very strong husband of yours to be seeking your nest for the night. 'The Lord bless thee, and keep thee; the Lord make His face shine upon thee, and be gracious unto thee; the Lord lift up His countenance upon thee, and give thee peace.'" he added in solemn tones, laying a hand tenderly upon her head as he spoke. "Thank you, dear father," she said, in tones half tremulous with emotion, "I do so love that blessing from your lips. And Chester and I both think I have the best father in the world." "It is pleasant to have you think that," he returned, with a smile and another caress, "but no doubt there are many fathers in the world quite as good, kind and affectionate as yours; perhaps if my daughters were less affectionate and obedient than they are, they might find their father more stern and severe. Now, good-night--and may you have peaceful sleep undisturbed by troubled dreams." CHAPTER VIII. The next morning was bright and clear, the air so much warmer than that which had been left behind on their own shores, that one and all repaired to the deck after breakfast, and preferred to remain there during the greater part of the day. Mr. Horace Dinsmore, his wife and daughter were sitting near together, the ladies occupied with some crocheting, and Mr. Dinsmore with a book in hand, which he did not seem to be reading, when Elsie and Ned Raymond, who had been gamboling about the deck, came dancing up to them with a request for "more about Bermuda." "You don't want to be surprised by the pretty things you will see there, eh?" queried their grandpa. "No, sir; we want to hear about them first and see them afterward; if it isn't troubling you too much," said Elsie, with a coaxing look up into his face. "Well, considering that you are my great-grandchildren, I think I must search my memory for something interesting on the subject. There are many picturesque creeks and bays. There are four pretty large islands--Bermuda, the largest, being fifteen miles long. The strange shapes of the islands and the number of spacious lagoons make it necessary to travel about them almost entirely in boats; which is very pleasant, as you glide along under a beautiful blue sky and through waters so clear that you can see even to their lowest depths, where the fish sport among the coral rocks, and exquisitely variegated shells abound." "Oh, I shall like that!" exclaimed Elsie. "Are the fish handsome, too, grandpa?" "Some of them are strikingly so," he replied. "One called the parrot-fish is of a green color as brilliant as that of his bird namesake. His scales are as green as the fresh grass of spring-time, and each one is bordered by a pale brown line. His tail is banded with nearly every color of the rainbow, and his fins are pink." "Is he good to eat, grandpa?" asked Ned. "No, his flesh is bitter and poisonous to man and probably to other fishes. So they let him well alone." "Well, I suppose he's glad of that," laughed Ned. "The more I hear about Bermuda, grandpa, the gladder I am that we are going there." "Yes; and you may well be thankful that you have so good and kind a father, and that he owns this fine yacht." "Yes, sir, I am that; but I'd rather be his son than anybody else's if he didn't own anything but me." "And I'm just as pleased to be his daughter," said Elsie. "And I to be his grandfather-in-law," added Mr. Dinsmore, with comically grave look and tone. "Yes, sir; Grandpa Travilla would have been his--papa's--father-in-law if he had lived, wouldn't he?" "Yes; and almost as old as I am. He was my dear, good friend, and I gave him my daughter to be his wife." "That was you, grandma, wasn't it?" asked Ned, turning to Mrs. Travilla. "Yes, dear," she said, with a smile and a sigh, "and if he had stayed with us until now you would have loved him as you do Grandpa Dinsmore." "Yes, indeed, grandma," came softly and sweetly from the lips of both children. There was a moment of subdued silence, then Grandpa Dinsmore went on. "There are many pretty creatures to be seen in the waters about Bermuda. There is a kind of fish called angels, that look very bright and pretty. They have a beautiful blue stripe along the back, and long streamers of golden yellow, and they swim very gracefully about. But they are not so good as they are pretty. They pester the other fishes by nibbling at them, and so, often, get into a quarrel, fighting with a long, sharp spine which they have on each gill-cover, making ugly wounds with it on those they are fighting. "Among the outer reefs we will, perhaps, see a speckled moray. He looks like a common eel, except that his body is dark-green flecked with bright yellow spots, which makes him quite a handsome fellow. There is a fish the Bermuda fishermen call the 'Spanish hogfish,' and when asked why they give it that name they say, 'Why, sir, you see it lazes around just like a hog, and carries the Spanish colors.'" "Spanish colors? What are they, grandpa?" queried Ned. "The fish," said Mr. Dinsmore, "is brownish red from his head to the middle of his body, and from there to the end of his tail a bright yellow; and those are the colors of the Spanish flag." "I'm glad we are going to Bermuda," remarked Elsie, with a happy little sigh, "for I'm sure there must be a great deal there worth seeing." "And your father is just the kind of man to help you to a sight of all such things," responded Mr. Dinsmore. "Yes, sir," said Elsie, "papa never seems to think it too much trouble to do anything to give us pleasure." "Ah, what father would, if he had such a dear little girl and boy as mine?" queried a manly voice just behind them, while a gentle hand was laid caressingly on Elsie's head. "Oh, papa, I didn't know you were so near," she exclaimed, with a laugh and a blush. "Wont you sit down with us? Grandpa Dinsmore has been telling us very interesting things about Bermuda." "And papa can probably tell some that will be more interesting," remarked Mr. Dinsmore, as the Captain took possession of Elsie's seat and drew her to one upon his knee. That suited the little maid exactly; in her opinion no seat was more desirable than "papa's knee." "Now, papa, we're ready to hear all you know about Bermuda," said Ned, with a look of eager interest. "Perhaps you are more ready to hear than I to tell," the Captain answered, with an amused smile. "At any rate, I want, first, to hear what you have been told, lest I should waste my time and strength in repeating it." The children eagerly repeated what had been told them, the Captain added a few more facts about the beautiful things to be seen in the clear Bermuda waters--the coral reefs and the plants and animals that cover them; then the call to dinner came, and all left the deck for the dining-saloon. Almost the whole party were on deck again immediately upon leaving the table. The older ones were scattered here and there in couples or groups, but Elsie and Ned sauntered along together chatting in low tones, as if not wanting to be overheard by the older people. "Yes, I am sorry," sighed Elsie, in reply to something her brother had said; "Christmas is such a delightful time at home, and, of course, we can't expect to have one here on the yacht." "No," said Ned, brightening, "but, of course, we can give Christmas gifts to each other, if--if we get to Bermuda in time to buy things. I s'pose there must be stores there." "Surely, I should think. I'll ask mamma or papa about it." "Have you any money?" "Yes; I have two dollars I've been saving up to buy Christmas gifts. How much have you?" "Fifty cents. It isn't much, but it will buy some little things, I guess." "Yes, of course it will. But, oh, Ned, Christmas comes Monday. To-morrow is Sunday; so we couldn't do any shopping, even if we were on the land; and we may as well give it up." "Yes, but we are having a very good time here on the 'Dolphin,' aren't we, Elsie?" "Yes, indeed! and it would be really shameful for us to fret and worry over missing the usual Christmas gifts and pleasures." The two had been so absorbed in the subject they were discussing that they had not noticed an approaching step, but now a hand was laid on a shoulder of each, and their father's loved voice asked, in tender tones: "What is troubling my little son and daughter? Tell papa, and perhaps he may find a way out of the woods." "Yes, papa; they are not very thick woods," laughed Elsie. "It is only that we are sorry we can't have any Christmas times this winter, or remember anybody with gifts, because we can't go to any stores to buy anything." "Are you quite sure of all that, daughter?" he asked, with a smile, smoothing her hair caressingly as he spoke. "I thought I was, but perhaps my father knows better," she answered, with a pleased little laugh. "Well, I think a man of my age ought to know more than a little girl of yours. Don't you?" "Oh, yes, indeed! and I know my father knows many, many times more than I do. Is there any way for us to get gifts for all these dear folks on the yacht with us, or for any of them, papa?" "Yes, I remembered Christmas when we were getting ready to leave home, and provided such gifts as seemed desirable for each one of my family to give to others. I will give you each your share to-night before you go to your berths, and you can decide how you will distribute them--to whom you will give each one." "But, papa, I----" Elsie paused, blushing and confused. "Well, dear child, what is it?" asked her father, in gentle, affectionate tones. "I was thinking, papa, that they could hardly be our gifts when you bought them and with your own money, not ours." "But I give them to you, daughter, and you may keep or give them away, just as you like. That makes them your gift quite as truly as if they had been bought with your own pocket money. Does it not?" "Oh, yes, papa, so it seems to me, and I know it does since you say so," exclaimed Elsie joyously; Ned joining in with, "Oh, that's just splendid, papa! You are the best father in the world! Elsie and I both think so." "Well, it is very pleasant to have my children think so, however mistaken they may be," his father said, with a smile and an affectionate pat on the little boy's shoulder. "Well, my dears, suppose we go down at once and attend to these matters. It will be better now than later, I think, and not so likely to keep you from getting to sleep in good season to-night." The children gave an eager, joyful assent, and their father led them down to the stateroom occupied by Violet and himself, and opening a trunk there, brought to light a quantity of pretty things--ribbons, laces, jewelry, books and pictures; also cards with the names of the intended recipients to be attached to the gifts, as the young givers might see fit. That work was undertaken at once, their father helping them in their selection and attaching the cards for them. It did not take very long, and they returned to the deck in gay spirits. "For what purpose did you two children take papa down below? or was it he who took you?" asked Lucilla, laughingly. "I think it was papa who took us," said Elsie, smiling up into his face as she spoke. "Wasn't it, papa?" "Yes," he said, "and whoever asks about it may be told it was father's secret conference." "Oh," cried Lucilla, "it is a secret then, is it? I don't want to pry into other people's affairs; so I withdraw my question." "Perhaps papa intends to take his other children--you and me, Lu--down in their turn," remarked Grace, laughingly, for she was sitting near her father, and had overheard the bit of chat. "I really had not thought of doing so," said the Captain, "but it is a good idea. Come, now, both of you," he added, leading the way. "I suppose you two have not forgotten that to-morrow will be Sunday and the next day Christmas?" he said, inquiringly, as they reached the saloon. "Oh, no, papa; you know you helped us, before we left home, in selecting gifts for Mamma Vi and the children and others," said Grace. "But how are we going to keep Christmas here on the yacht?" "Pretty much as if we were at home on the land," he answered, with a smile. "There is a Christmas tree lying down in the hold. I intend having it set up here early Monday morning, and some of the early risers will perhaps trim it before the late ones are out of bed. Then it can be viewed, and the gifts distributed when all are ready to take part in the work and fun. Now, if you wish I will show you the gifts I have prepared for my family--not including yourselves," he interpolated, with a smile. "Our guests and servants here and the crew of the vessel." The offer was gladly accepted, the gifts viewed with great interest and pleasure, the girls chatting meanwhile with affectionate and respectful familiarity with their loved father. "I like your plan, father, very much indeed," said Lucilla; "and as it is easy and natural for me to wake and rise early, I should like to help with the trimming of the tree, if you are willing." "Certainly, daughter, I shall be glad to have you help--and to put the gifts intended for you on afterward," he added, with a smile. "Yes, sir; and perhaps your daughters may treat you in the same way," she returned demurely. "I suppose you would hardly blame them for following your example?" "I ought not to, since example is said to be better than precept. We will put these things away now, go back to our friends on deck, and try to forget gifts until Christmas morning." CHAPTER IX. As on former voyages on the "Dolphin," Sabbath day was kept religiously by all on board the vessel. Religious services--prayer, praise and the reading of a sermon--were held on deck, for the benefit of all, after which there was a Bible lesson led by Mr. Milburn, the subject being the birth of Jesus and the visits of the wise men from the east; also the story of Bethlehem's shepherds and their angel visitants followed by their visit to the infant Saviour. The children went to bed early that night that--as they said--Christmas might come the sooner. Then the Captain, his older daughters, Chester, and Harold, had a little chat about what should be done in the morning. The young men were urgent that their assistance should be accepted in the matter of setting up and trimming the tree; the girls also put in a petition for the privilege of helping with the work. To Lucilla their father answered, "You may, as I have said, for you are naturally an early bird, so that I think it cannot hurt you." Then turning to Grace, "I hardly think it would do for you, daughter dear; but we will let your doctor decide it," turning inquiringly to Harold. "If her doctor is to decide it, he says emphatically No," said Harold, with a very loverlike look down into the sweet face of his betrothed; "she will enjoy the rest of the day much better for taking her usual morning nap." "You and papa are very kind; almost too kind," returned Grace, between a smile and a sigh. "But I think you are a good doctor, so I will follow your advice and papa's wishes." "That is right, my darling," responded her father, "and I hope you will have your reward in feeling well through the day." "If she doesn't, she can discharge her doctor," said Lucilla in a mirthful tone. "You seem inclined to be hard upon doctors, Lu," remarked Harold, gravely; "but one of these days you may be glad of the services of even such an one as I." "Yes, that is quite possible; and even now I am right glad to have my husband under your care; and I'm free to say that if your patients don't improve, I don't think it will be fair to blame it--their failure--on the doctor." "Thank you," he said; "should you need doctoring on this trip of ours, just call upon me and I'll do the best for you that I can." "I have no doubt you would," laughed Lucilla, "but I'll do my best to keep out of your hands." "That being your intention, let me advise you to go at once to your bed," returned Harold, glancing at his watch. Then all said good-night and dispersed to their rooms. At early dawn the three gentlemen were again in the saloon overseeing the setting up of the Christmas tree, then arranging upon it a multitude of gifts from one to another of the "Dolphin's" passengers, and some token of remembrance for each one of the crew; for it was not in the kind heart of the Captain ever to forget or neglect any one in his employ. The other passengers, older and younger, except Lucilla, who was with them in time to help with the trimming of the tree, did not emerge from their staterooms until the sun was up, shining gloriously upon the sea, in which the waves were gently rising and falling. All were fond of gazing upon the sea, but this morning their first attention was given to the tree, which seemed to have grown up in a night in the saloon, where they were used to congregate mornings, evenings and stormy days. All gathered round it and viewed its treasures with appreciative remarks; then the Captain, with Chester's and Harold's assistance, distributed the gifts. Every one had several and seemed well pleased with them. The one that gave Eva the greatest pleasure had been left for her by her young husband; it was an excellent miniature likeness of himself set in gold and diamonds. She appreciated the beautiful setting, but the correct and speaking likeness was far more to her. Near the tree stood a table loaded with fruits and confections of various kinds, very tempting in appearance. Ned hailed it with an expression of pleasure, but his father bade him let the sweets alone until after he had eaten his breakfast. The words had scarcely left the Captain's lips when a voice was heard, apparently coming from the skylight overhead: "Say, Pete, d'ye see them goodies piled up on that thar table down thar? My, but they looks temptin'." "Yes," seemed to come from another voice, "wouldn't I like to git in thar and help myself? It's odd and real mean how some folks has all the good things and other folks none." "Course it is. But, oh, I'll tell you. They'll be goin' out to breakfast presently, then let's go down thar where the goodies is, and help, ourselves." "Yes, let's." Everybody in the saloon had stopped talking and seemed to be listening in surprise to the colloquy of the two stowaways--for such they apparently were--but now Ned broke the silence: "Why, how did they get on board? Must be stowaways and have been in the hold all this time. Oh, I guess they are hungry enough by this time; so no wonder they want the candies and things." "Perhaps Cousin Ronald can tell us something about them," laughed Lucilla. "Acquaintances of mine, you think, lassie?" sniffed the old gentleman. "Truly, you are most complimentary. But I have no more fancy for such trash than have you." "Ah, well, now, cousin, I really don't imagine those remarks were made by any very bad or objectionable fellows," remarked Captain Raymond, in a tone of amusement. "No," said Mr. Dinsmore, "we certainly should not be hard on them if they are poor and hungry." "Which they must be if they have been living in the hold ever since we left our native shores," laughed Violet. "Oh, now, I know, it was just Cousin Ronald, and not any real person," cried Ned, dancing about in delight. "And so I'm not a real person?" said Mr. Lilburn, in a deeply hurt tone. "Oh, Cousin Ronald, I didn't mean that," said Ned, penitently, "only that you weren't two boys, but just pretending to be." At that everybody laughed, and Mr. Lilburn said: "Very true; I never was two boys and am no longer even one. Well, I think you and all of us may feel safe in leaving the good things on the table there when we are called to breakfast, for I am sure those fellows will not meddle with them." The summons to the table had just sounded, and now was obeyed by all with cheerful alacrity. Everybody was in fine spirits, the meal an excellent one, and all partook of it with appetite, while the flow of conversation was steady, bright and mirthful. They had their morning service directly after the meal, then went upon deck and to their surprise found they were in sight of Bermuda. They were glad to see it, though the voyage had been a pleasant one to all and really beneficial to the ailing ones, for whose benefit it was undertaken more particularly than for the enjoyment of the others. Also it was hoped and expected that their sojourn in and about the islands would be still more helpful and delightful; and so indeed it proved. They tarried in that neighborhood several weeks, spending most of their time on the vessel, or in her small boats--many of the water-ways being too narrow and shallow to be traversed by the yacht, but going from place to place on the land in a way to see all that was interesting there. CHAPTER X. It was a lovely moonlight evening; the "Dolphin's" Captain and all his family and passengers were gathered together upon the deck. It had been a day of sight-seeing and wandering from place to place about the islands, and they were weary enough to fully enjoy the rest and quiet now vouchsafed them. Captain Raymond broke a momentary silence by saying: "I hope, my friends, that you can all feel that you have had a pleasant sojourn in and about these islands?" "Indeed we have," replied several voices. "I am glad to hear it," returned the Captain, heartily; "and now the question is, Shall we tarry here longer or go on our southward way to visit other places, where we will escape the rigors of winter in our more northern homes?" No one spoke for a moment; then Mr. Dinsmore said: "Let the majority decide. I am perfectly satisfied to go on or to stay here, as you, Captain, and they may wish." "And I echo my husband's sentiments and feelings," remarked Mrs. Rose Dinsmore, pleasantly. "And you, mother?" asked the Captain, turning to Mrs. Travilla. "I, too, am entirely willing to go or stay, as others may wish," she replied, in her own sweet voice. "And you, Evelyn?" asked the Captain, turning to her. "I feel that it would be delightful either to go or stay, father," she answered, with a smile and a blush. The others were quite as non-committal, but after some further chat on the subject it was decided that they would leave Bermuda the next morning, and, taking a southerly course, probably make Porto Rico their next halting place. As usual, Lucilla woke at an early hour. Evidently the vessel was still stationary, and anxious to see it start she rose and made her toilet very quietly, lest she should disturb her still sleeping husband, then left the room and stole noiselessly through the saloon up to the deck, where she found her father overseeing the lifting of the anchor. "Ah, good-morning, daughter," he said, with a smile, as she reached his side. "You are an early bird as usual," ending his sentence with a clasp of his arm about her waist and a kiss upon her lips. "Yes, papa," she laughed, "who wouldn't be an early bird to get such a token of love from such a father as mine?" "And what father wouldn't be ready and glad to bestow it upon such a daughter as mine?" he responded, repeating his loving caress. "You have enjoyed your trip thus far, daughter, have you not?" "Yes, indeed, papa. We are bound for Porto Rico now, are we not?" "Yes, I think that will be our first stopping place; though perhaps we may not land at all, but merely sail round it, viewing it from the sea." "And perhaps you may treat Cuba in the same way?" "Very possibly. I shall act in regard to both as the majority of my passengers may wish." The anchor was now up, and the vessel gliding through the water. The Captain and Lucilla paced the deck to and fro, taking a farewell look at the receding islands and talking of the pleasure they had found in visiting them, particularly in exploring the many creeks and bays, with their clear waters so full of beautiful shells and fish, so different from those to be found in their land. "I shall always look back with pleasure upon this visit to Bermuda, father," Lucilla said, with a grateful smile up into his eyes. "I am very glad you have enjoyed it, daughter," he replied; "as I think every one of our party has. And I am hoping that our wanderings further to the south may prove not less interesting and enjoyable." "Yes, sir, I hope so. I shall feel great interest in looking upon Cuba and Porto Rico--particularly the first--because of what our men did and endured there in the late war with Spain. How pleasant it was that the Porto Ricans were so ready and glad to be freed from the domination of Spain and taken into our Union." Just then Harold joined them, and with him came little Ned. Pleasant good-mornings were exchanged. Then others of their party followed, two or three at a time, till all were on deck enjoying the sweet morning air and the view of the fast-receding islands. Then came the call to breakfast, followed by the morning service of prayer and praise, and after that they returned to the deck. As usual, the children were soon beside their loved grandmother, Mrs. Elsie Travilla. "Well, dears, we have had a very good time at Bermuda, haven't we?" she said, smiling lovingly upon them. "Yes, ma'am," said Elsie. "Do you think we will have as good a time where we are going now?" "I hope so, my dear. I believe Porto Rico is to be the first land we touch at. Would you like me to tell you something of its beauties and its history?" "Yes, indeed, grandma," both children answered, in a tone of eager assent, and she began at once. "The name--Porto Rico--was given it by the Spaniards, and means 'The Gateway of Wealth.' It was discovered by Columbus in 1493. It is about half as large as New Jersey. Through its center is a range of mountains called the Luquillo. The highest peak, Yunque, can be seen from a distance of sixty-eight miles. Porto Rico is a beautiful island. The higher parts of the hills are covered by forests; immense herds of cattle are pastured on the plains. The land is fertile and they raise cotton, corn, rice and almost every kind of tropical fruit." "Are there any rivers, grandma?" asked Ned. "Nine small ones," she answered. "Are there any towns?" "Oh yes, quite a good many; large ones. Ponce, the capital, has a good many thousands of inhabitants, and some fine buildings. San Juan, too, is quite a large place; it stands on Morro Island, which forms the north side of the harbor and is separated from the mainland by a narrow creek called the Channel of San Antonio. At the entrance to San Juan's harbors is a lighthouse on Morro Point. It is one hundred and seventy-one feet above the sea, and its fixed light is visible for eighteen miles over the waters." "Oh," cried Ned, "let's watch out for it when we are coming that near." "It will be very well for you to do so," his grandma said, with a smile; then went on with her account of Porto Rico. "The island has much to recommend it; the climate is salubrious, and there are no snakes or reptiles. It has valuable minerals, too--gold, copper, lead; also coal. San Juan is lighted by both gas and electricity. "The Spaniards were very cruel to the poor Indians who inhabited Porto Rico when Columbus discovered it. It is said that in a hundred years they had killed five hundred thousand of men, women and children." "Oh, how dreadful!" exclaimed Elsie. "And they killed so, _so_ many of the poor natives in Peru and in Mexico. I don't wonder that God has let their nation grow so poor and weak." "The Porto Ricans were tired of being governed by them when we began our war with Spain to help the poor Cubans to get free," continued Grandma Elsie. "Our government and people did not know that, but thought Porto Rico should be taken from Spain, as well as Cuba. So as soon as Santiago was taken, a strong force was sent against Ponce. "The 'Wasp' was the first vessel to arrive. It had been expected that they would have to shell the city, but as the 'Wasp' steamed close to the shore a great crowd of citizens could be seen gathered there. They were not behaving like enemies, and the troops on the 'Wasp' were at a loss to understand what it meant; therefore, the gunners stood ready to fire at an instant's warning, when Ensign Rowland Curtin was sent ashore bearing a flag of truce, four men with him. "The citizens were cheering as if frantic with joy over their coming, and as soon as they landed overwhelmed them with gifts of tobacco, cigars, cigarettes, bananas, and other good things." "Oh, wasn't that nice!" exclaimed Elsie. "I think they showed their good sense in preferring to be ruled by our people rather than by the Spaniards." "As soon as the people could be calm enough to listen," continued Grandma Elsie, "Ensign Curtin announced that he had come to demand the surrender of the city and port, and asked to see the civil or military authorities. "Some of the civil officials were there, but they could not surrender the city, as that must be the act of the military powers. There was a telephone at hand, and the ensign ordered a message sent to Colonel San Martin, the commandant, telling him that if he did not come forward and surrender the city in the course of half an hour, it would be bombarded. "The garrison had been, and still were, debating among themselves what they should do, but as soon as they heard of this message they began looting the stores and shops, cramming underwear and clothing upon their backs and in their trousers, to check and hold the bullets which they were certain the Americans would send after them, as they scampered off. "Ensign Curtin went back to his vessel, and, soon after, Commander C. H. Davis, of the 'Dixie,' was rowed ashore. There a note was handed him from Colonel San Martin, asking on what terms he demanded the surrender of the city. He answered that it must be unconditional. At the request of the commandant, however, he made the terms a little different. Then the padded men of the garrison waddled out of town, leaving one hundred and fifty rifles and fourteen thousand rounds of ammunition behind. "Lieutenant Haines, commanding the marines of the 'Dixie,' landed and hoisted the Stars and Stripes over the custom-house at the port of Ponce, the onlookers cheering most heartily. After that, Lieutenant Murdoch and Surgeon Heiskell rode to the city, three miles distant, where the people fairly went wild with joy, dancing and shouting, '_Viva los Americanos. Viva Puerto Rico libre._'" "Sensible folks I think they were to be so glad to get away from Spain and into the United States," remarked Ned, with a pleased smile. "Yes, I think they were," said Grandma Elsie, "for it was gaining liberty--freedom from most oppressive tyranny." She had begun her talk to the two children alone, but now quite a group had gathered about them--Dr. Harold Travilla and Grace Raymond, Chester and Lucilla Dinsmore and Mrs. Evelyn Raymond. "I am very desirous to see Porto Rico," said Harold. "It must be a garden spot--fertile and beautiful. As we draw near it I mean to be on the lookout for El Yunque." "What's that, uncle?" asked Ned. "The highest point of land on the island, nearly four thousand feet high. The meaning of the name is the anvil." "Porto Rico being in the torrid zone, it must have a very hot climate. The weather must have been very oppressive for our troops--taking it in the height of summer," remarked Grace. "Yes," said Grandma Elsie; "but the climate is more agreeable than that of Cuba or of many places farther north, because of the land breezes that prevail, coming from both north and south." "It is a beautiful and delightful island," remarked Harold. "I have often thought I should, some day, pay it a visit." "Are we likely to land there?" asked his mother. "I do not know, mother," he answered; "but I presume the Captain will say that shall be just as his passengers wish." "Yes, I am sure father will say we may all do exactly as we please," said Lucilla; "go ashore, or stay quietly on the yacht while others go and return." "It cannot be now the delightful place to visit that it was before the hurricane of last August," remarked Chester. "No," said Grandma Elsie, "and I think I, for one, do not care to land on the island until they have had more time to recover from the fearful effects of that terrible storm." "What mischief did it do, grandma?" asked Ned; "were there houses destroyed and people killed?" "Yes; a great many," she answered, with a sigh. "I have read that in one district it was estimated that the damage done to houses and crops would reach nine hundred thousand in gold, and that in the valley of the Rio de Grande over a thousand persons disappeared, and were supposed to have been drowned by the sudden rise and overflow of the river." "And you, mother, I know gave liberally to help repair the damages," said Harold. "I was better able than many others who may have been quite as willing," she responded, "and I think I can do still more, if I find the need is still urgent." "Yes, mother dear, you seem always ready and glad to help any one who needs it," said Harold, giving her a look full of proud, loving admiration. Captain Raymond had drawn near the group just in time to hear Harold's last remark. "Quite true, Harold," he said, "but who is to be the happy recipient of mother's bounty this time?" "We were talking of the losses of the unfortunate Porto Ricans in last August's fearful storm," replied Harold. "Mother, as you know, has already given help, and expresses herself as ready to do more if it is needed." "And will do it, I know," said the Captain. "I hope, though, that my dear grandma wont give everything away and have nothing left for herself," said Elsie Raymond, with a loving look up into Grandma Elsie's face. "I should not like to have her do that either," the Captain said, with a smile. "But the Bible tells us, 'He that hath pity upon the poor, lendeth unto the Lord, and that which he hath given will he pay him again.'" "A promise that none of us need be afraid to trust," said Grandma Elsie, with a happy look and smile. "Do you think of visiting any part of the island, Captain?" "That shall be as my passengers wish," he replied; "we can consider the matter and talk it over while on our way there. My present plan is to go directly to San Juan. We may stay some hours or days there, those going ashore who wish, the others remaining on the vessel. We may make the circuit of the island, entirely or in part, keeping near enough to the land to get a pretty good view of its beauties." "Will this be your first visit to Porto Rico, Captain?" queried Chester. "No, I paid it a flying visit some years ago; and then went up the mountains to Caguas and visited the dark cave of Aguas Buenas." "Did it pay?" asked Chester. "Hardly. The outside journey, though difficult, did pay, but the darkness of the cave, the multitudes of bats flying in your face, and the danger of the guides' torches going out, leaving you unable to find your way to the opening, make the expedition anything but safe or pleasant. I shall never venture in there again or advise any friend to do so." "Are you going to take us to Cuba, too, papa?" asked Elsie. "If my passengers wish to go there." "Oh, I think they will; this one does, anyhow," laughed the little girl. "Don't you think it would be pleasanter to visit it after it has had time to recover from the war?" asked Lucilla. "Perhaps papa will bring us a second time after that?" Elsie said, with a smile up into his face. "That is quite possible," he answered, returning the smile. "Please, papa, tell us something about Cuba now, won't you?" pleaded Ned. "Very willingly, if you all care to hear it," returned the Captain, and a general assent being given, he went on: "I think much of it you will all understand better, if told you while looking upon the scenes where it occurred. However, since you wish it, I shall tell at least a part of the story now. "Doubtless, you all know that Cuba was discovered by Columbus on October 28, 1492. He said of it at one time: 'It is the most beautiful land that eyes ever beheld'; at another: 'Its waters are filled with excellent ports, its rivers are magnificent and profound'; and yet again, 'As far as the day surpasses night in brightness and splendor, it surpasses all other countries.' "He found it beautiful not only along the shore where he first landed, but in the interior also; flowers, fruits, maize and cotton in their abundance showed the fertility of the soil. And it was inhabited by a peaceful people who gave him and his men a glad welcome, imagining them to be superior beings, and little dreaming how they were to suffer at their hands. Columbus describes them as tall and straight, like the natives of North America, of tawny complexion, and gentle disposition, being easy to influence by their masters. They were a naturally indolent race, which was not strange, considering how easy it was for them to have a comfortable living with very little exertion; there were abundance of wild fruits, and corn and cotton could be raised with little exertion; abundance of fish could be easily obtained from the waters, and if they wanted meat, a little animal resembling a rat in appearance, but tasting like a rabbit, could be had for the hunting. So it would seem they lived easy, contented and peaceful lives; and why should the Spaniards think they had a right to rob and enslave them." "Why indeed," exclaimed Lucilla. "The Indians--if able to do so--would have had just as good a right to go over to Spain and enslave them." "But with the Spaniards might made right," said Chester. "But there were only a few Spaniards with Columbus and a very great many natives on these islands," remarked little Elsie, in a puzzled tone. "I wonder they didn't kill the Spaniards as soon as they began trying to make slaves of them." "At first," said her father, "they took the Spaniards to be a race of superior beings, and gladly welcomed them to their shores. It would, doubtless, have been easy for them to crush that handful of worn-out men, and no doubt they would if they could have foreseen what their conduct toward them would be; but they mistook them for friends, and treated them as such. One cazique gave them a grand reception and feasted them amid songs and their rude music. Games, dancing and singing followed, then they were conducted to separate lodges and each provided with a cotton hammock, that proved a delightful couch to pass the night upon." "And the Spaniards took all that kindness at the hands of those poor things and repaid them with the basest robbery and cruelty," exclaimed Elsie. "Yes," said her father; "they even repaid that most generous hospitality by seizing some of the youngest, strongest and most beautiful of their entertainers and carrying them to Spain, where they were paraded before the vulgar gaze of the jeering crowd, then sold into slavery. "One of their venerable caziques gave to Columbus, when he came the second time to the island, a basket of luscious fruit, saying to him, as he did so: 'Whether you are divinities or mortal men, we know not. You have come into these countries with a force, against which, were we inclined to resist, it would be folly. We are all, therefore, at your mercy; but if you are men, subject to morality, like ourselves, you cannot be unapprised that after this life there is another, wherein a very different portion is allotted to good and bad men. If, then, you expect to die, and believe, with us, that every one is to be rewarded in a future state according to his conduct in the present, you will do no hurt to those who do none to you.'" "That old chief was certainly a very wise man for a heathen," remarked Chester. "And how strange that the Spaniards could treat so shamefully such innocent and friendly people," said Evelyn. "Yes," exclaimed Lucilla, "I think we may all be thankful that there is no Spanish blood in us." "Which fact makes us the more to be blamed if we indulge in oppression and cruelty," said her father. "Papa, did that old king live long enough to see how very cruel the Spaniards were to his people?" asked Elsie. "That I cannot tell," replied the Captain, "but by the time another ten years had passed by, the natives of Cuba had learned that the love of the Spaniards for gold was too great ever to be satisfied, and that they themselves could not be safe with the Spaniards there; they were so alarmed that when Diego Columbus sent an armed force of three hundred men to begin to colonize Cuba, they resisted their landing. But they, the Indians, were only naked savages with frail spears and wooden swords, while the invading foes were old-world warriors who had been trained on many a hard-fought battlefield, armed with deadly weapons, protected by plate armor, and having bloodhounds to help in their cruel attempt to rob and subjugate the rightful owners of the soil. So they succeeded in their wicked designs; hundreds of those poor Indians were killed in cold blood, others spared to slavery worse than death. From being free men they became slaves to one of the most cruel and tyrannical races of the world. And they were not only abused there on their own island, but hundreds of them were taken to Europe and sold for slaves in the markets of Seville. That was to raise money to pay the expenses of their captors." "Why," exclaimed Ned, "the Spaniards treated them as if they were just animals, instead of people." "Papa, were they--the Indians--heathen?" asked Elsie. "They had no images or altars, no temples, but they believed in a future existence and in a god living above the blue-domed sky," replied the Captain. "But they knew nothing of Jesus and the way of salvation, and it seems the Spaniards did not tell them of Him or give them the Bible." "No," said Grandma Elsie, "Rome did not allow them the Bible for themselves." "Are there a good many wild flowers in Cuba, papa?" asked Elsie. "Yes; a great many, and of every color and tint imaginable--flowers growing wild in the woods. The foliage of the trees is scarcely less beautiful, and their tops are alive with birds of gayly-colored plumage. I have been speaking of wild, uncultivated land. The scene is even more inviting where man has been at work transforming the wildwood into cultivated fields; he has fenced them off with stone walls, which have warm russet-brown tints and are covered here and there with vines and creepers bearing bright flowers. The walks and avenues are bordered with orange-trees in blossom and fruit at the same time, both looking lovely in their setting of deep green leaves. But you have seen such in Louisiana." "Yes, papa, and they are beautiful," said Elsie. "There must be a great deal worth seeing in Cuba, but I'll not care to land on it if you older people don't want to." "Well, we will leave that question to be decided in the future," the Captain said, smiling down into the bright little face. "I think I have read," said Evelyn, "that Columbus at first thought Cuba not an island but a part of the mainland?" "Yes," replied the Captain, "but the natives assured him that it was an island; on his second trip, however, in 1494, he reiterated his previous belief and called the land Juana, after Juan, the son of Ferdinand and Isabella. Afterward he changed it to Fernandina, in honor of Ferdinand; still later to Santiago, the name of the patron saint of Spain, after that to Ave Maria. But the name Cuba clung to the island and was never lost. "The Indians there were a peaceable race. They called themselves Ciboneyes. They had nine independent caciques, and, as I believe I have already told you, they believed in a supreme being and the immortality of the soul." "Really, they seem to me to have been more Christian than the Spaniards who came and robbed them of their lands and their liberty," said Evelyn. CHAPTER XI. The "Dolphin" and her passengers and crew reached Porto Rico in safety, having made the voyage without detention or mishap. The yacht lay in the harbor of San Juan for nearly a week, while its passengers made various little excursions here and there to points of interest upon the island. Then the yacht made its circuit, keeping near enough to the shore for a good view of the land, in which all were greatly interested--especially in those parts where there had been some fighting with the Spaniards in the late war. "Now, father, you are going to take us to Santiago next, are you not?" asked Lucilla, as they steamed away from the Porto Rican coast. "Yes," he replied, "I am satisfied that you all take a particular interest in that place, feeling that you would like to see the scene of the naval battle and perhaps to look from a distance upon some of the places where there was fighting on land." "It will be interesting," said little Elsie, "but, oh, how glad I am that the fighting is all over!" "As I am," said her father; "but if it wasn't, I should not think of taking my family and friends to the scene." "That was a big battle," said Ned. "I'm glad I'm going to see the place of the fight; though I'd rather see Manila and its bay, because Brother Max had a share in that fight. Uncle Harold, you came pretty near having a share in the Santiago one, didn't you?" "I was near enough to be in sight of some of it," said Harold; "though not so near as to some of the fighting on the land." "That must have been a very exciting time for you and your fellows," remarked Mr. Lilburn. "It was, indeed; there was slaughter enough on land," said Harold; "and though we were pretty confident that victory would perch upon our banners in the sea fight, we could not hope it would prove so nearly bloodless for our side." "The sea fight?" "Yes; that on the land was harder on our fellows, particularly because our unreasonable Congressmen had failed to furnish for them the smokeless powder and Mauser bullets that gave so great an advantage to the Spaniards." "Yes, indeed," said the Captain, "that absolute freedom from smoke made it impossible to tell exactly whence came those stinging darts that struck men down, and the great penetrating power of the Mauser bullet made them doubly deadly. They would cut through a palm-tree without losing anything of their force, and, in several instances, two or more men were struck down by one and the same missile." "It was very sad that that gallant young soldier, Captain Capron, was killed by that first volley," remarked Violet. "Yes," said her mother, "I remember reading the account of his death, and that he came of a family of soldiers; that his father, engaged with his battery before the Spanish lines, left it for a brief time and came over to where the body of his son lay on the rank grass, and, looking for a moment on the still features, stooped and kissed the dead face, saying, 'Well done, boy, well done.' That was all, and he went back to the battle." "Yes, mother," said Harold, in moved tones, "my heart aches yet when I think of that poor, bereaved but brave father. Ah, war is a dreadful thing, even when undertaken from the good motive which influenced our people, who felt so much sympathy for the poor, abused Cubans." "The Americans are, as a rule, kind-hearted folk," remarked Mr. Lilburn, "and I doubt if there are any troops in the world superior to them in action; not even those of my own land." "No," said the Captain, "they were brave fellows and good fighters, having seen service in our Northwest and Southwest, on the prairies, among the mountains and on the Mexican frontier, so that war was no new thing to them, and they went about it calmly even in so unaccustomed a place as a tropical forest." "Papa, that Captain Capron wasn't instantly killed by that Mauser bullet, was he?" asked Grace. "No; he was struck down early in the action and knew that his wound was mortal, but he called to a man near him to give him the rifle that lay by the side of a dead soldier; then, propped up against a tree, he fired at the enemy with it until his strength failed, when he fell forward to die." "What a brave fellow! It is dreadful to have such men killed," said Grace, her voice trembling with emotion. "Another man, Private Heffener, also fought leaning against a tree until he bled to death," said Harold. "Then there was Trooper Rowland, a cowboy from New Mexico, who was shot through the lungs early in that fight. He said nothing about it, but kept his place on the firing-line till Roosevelt noticed the blood on his shirt and sent him to the hospital. He was soon back again and seeing him Colonel Roosevelt said, 'I thought I sent you to the hospital.' 'Yes, sir; you did,' replied Rowland, 'but I didn't see that they could do much for me there, so I came back.' He stayed there until the fight ended. Then he went again to the hospital. Upon examining him the doctors decided that he must be sent back to the States, with which decision he was greatly disgusted. That night he got possession of his rifle and pack, slipped out of the hospital, made his way back to his command and stayed there." "Perhaps," said Grandma Elsie, "you have not all read Marshall's experiences then and there. It happens that I have just been re-reading an extract which has interested me greatly. Let me read it aloud that you may all have the benefit of it. It is a description of the scene in the field hospital where badly wounded men lay crowded together awaiting their turns under the surgeon's knife. Shall I read it?" There was a universal note of assent from her hearers, and she began. "There is one incident of the day which shines out in my memory above all others now, as I lie in a New York hospital, writing. It occurred at the field hospital. About a dozen of us were lying there. A continual chorus of moans rose through the tree-branches overhead. The surgeons, with hands and bared arms dripping, and clothes literally saturated, with blood, were straining every nerve to prepare the wounded for the journey down to Siboney. Behind me lay Captain McClintock, with his lower leg-bones literally ground to powder. He bore his pain as gallantly as he had led his men, and that is saying much. I think Major Brodie was also there. It was a doleful group. Amputation and death stared its members in their gloomy faces. "Suddenly, a voice started softly: 'My country, 'tis of thee, Sweet land of liberty, Of thee I sing.' "Other voices took it up: 'Land where my fathers died, Land of the Pilgrims' pride----' "The quivering, quavering chorus, punctuated by groans and made spasmodic by pain, trembled up from that little group of wounded Americans in the midst of the Cuban solitude--the pluckiest, most heartfelt song that human beings ever sang. There was one voice that did not quite keep up with the others. It was so weak that I did not hear it until all the rest had finished with the line: 'Let Freedom ring.' "Then, halting, struggling, faint, it repeated slowly: 'Land--of--the--Pilgrims'--pride, Let Freedom----' "The last word was a woeful cry. One more son had died as died the fathers." There was a moment's pause when Grandma Elsie had finished reading, and there were tears in the eyes of many of her hearers. It was Harold who broke the silence. "That battle of Guasimas was a complete victory for our forces, but dearly paid for," he said; "of the nine hundred and sixty-four men engaged, sixteen were killed and fifty-two wounded; thirty-four of the wounded and eight of the killed were Rough Riders." "And a scarcity of doctors seems to have caused great suffering to our wounded men," Grandma Elsie said, with a sigh. "Yes; there were too few of us," said Harold, "and, through somebody's blundering, needed supplies were also scarce. I think our men were wonderfully patient, and it is hard to forgive those whose carelessness and inefficiency caused them so much unnecessary suffering." "Yes, it is," said his mother; "war is a dreadful thing. How the people of beleaguered Santiago suffered during the siege, and especially when they were sent out of it that they might escape the bombardment. Think of eighteen to twenty thousand having to take refuge in that little town, El Caney, foul with the effluvium from unburied mules and horses, and even human victims of the battle; houses so crowded that they could not even lie down on the floors, but had to pass their nights sitting on them; and food so scarce that one small biscuit sold for two dollars, and seven dollars was refused for a chicken." "It was dreadful, dreadful indeed!" said Mrs. Lilburn. "Yet not so bad as it would have been to let Spain continue her outrageous cruelty to the poor Cubans," said Evelyn. "No," said Lucilla, "I should be sorry, indeed, to have to render up the account that Weyler and the rest of them will in the Judgment Day." "I think he is worse than a savage," sighed Mrs. Lilburn. "I should think if he had any heart or conscience he would never be able to enjoy a morsel of food for thinking of the multitude of poor creatures--men, women and children--he has starved to death." CHAPTER XII. Our friends were favored with pleasant weather on their voyage from Porto Rico to Cuba. All were gathered upon deck when they came in sight of "The Pearl (or Queen) of the Antillies," "The Ever-faithful Isle," as the Spaniards were wont to call it, and they gazed upon it with keen interest; an interest that deepened as they drew near the scene of Schley's victory over the Spanish fleet. Captain Raymond and Dr. Harold Travilla, being the only ones of their number who had visited the locality before, explained the whereabouts of each American vessel, when, on that Sunday morning of July third, that cloud of smoke told the watchers on the American ships that the enemy was coming out. Every one in the little company had heard the battle described; therefore, a very brief account, accompanying the pointing out of the progress of different vessels during the fight, and where each of the Spanish ones came to her end, was all that was needed. While they looked and talked, the "Dolphin" moved slowly along that they might get a view of every part of the scene of action on that day of naval victory in the cause of the down-trodden and oppressed Cubans. That accomplished, they returned to the neighborhood of Santiago, and entering the narrow channel which gives entrance to its bay, passed on into and around that, gazing on the steep hills that come down to the water's edge, on Morro and the remains of earthworks and batteries. They did not care to go into the city, but steamed out into the sea again and made the circuit of the island, keeping near enough to the shore to get a pretty good view of most of the places they cared to see--traveling by day and anchoring at night. "Having completed the circuit of Cuba, where do we go next, Captain?" asked Mr. Dinsmore, as the party sat on deck in the evening of the day on which they had completed their trip around the island. "If it suits the wishes of all my passengers, we will go down to Jamaica, pay a little visit there, pass on in a southeasterly direction to Trinidad, then perhaps to Brazil," Captain Raymond said, in reply, then asked to hear what each one present thought of the plan. Every one seemed well pleased, and it was decided that they should start the next morning for Jamaica. The vessel was moving the next morning before many of her passengers were out of their berths. Elsie Raymond noticed it as soon as she woke, and hastened with her toilet that she might join her father on deck. She was always glad to be with him, and she wanted to see whatever they might pass on their way across the sea to Jamaica. The sun was shining, but it was still early when she reached the deck, where she found both her father and eldest sister. Both greeted her with smiles and caresses. "Almost as early a bird as your sister Lu," the Captain said, patting the rosy cheek and smiling down into the bright eyes looking up so lovingly into his. "Yes, papa, I want to see all I can on the way to Jamaica. Will we get there to-day?" "I think we will if the 'Dolphin' does her work according to her usual fashion. But what do you know about Jamaica, the island we are bound for?" "Not so very much, papa--only--she belongs to England, doesn't she, papa?" "Yes. Her name means 'land of wood and water,' and she lies about ninety miles to the south of Cuba." "Is she a very big island, papa?" "Nearly as large as our State of Tennessee. Crossing it from east to west is a heavily-timbered ridge called the Blue Mountains, and there are many streams of water which flow from them down to the shores. None of them is navigable, however, except the Black River, which affords a passage for small craft for thirty miles into the interior." "Shall we find a good harbor for our 'Dolphin,' father?" asked Lucilla. "Yes, indeed! Excellent harbors are everywhere to be found. The best is a deep, capacious basin in the southeast quarter of the island. It washes the most spacious and fertile of the plains between the hill country and the coast. Around this inlet and within a few miles of each other are all the towns of any considerable size--Spanish Town, Port Royal, and Kingston." "Is it a very hot place, papa?" asked the little girl. "On the coast; but much cooler up on those mountains I spoke of. The climate is said to be very healthful, and many invalids go there from our United States." "They have earthquakes there sometimes, have they not, father?" asked Lucilla. "They are not quite unheard of," he replied; "in 1692 there was one which almost overwhelmed Port Royal; but that being more than two hundred years ago, need not, I think, add much to our anxieties in visiting the island." "That's a long, long time," said Elsie, thoughtfully, "so I hope they won't have one while we are there. Is it a fertile island, papa? I hope they have plenty of good fruits." "They have fruits of both tropical and temperate climates; they have spices, vanilla and many kinds of food plants; they have sugar and coffee; they export sugar, rum, pineapples and other fruits; also cocoa, ginger, pimento and logwood and cochineal." "It does seem to be very fruitful," said Elsie. "Have they railroads and telegraphs, papa?" "Two hundred miles of railroad and seven hundred of telegraph. There are coast batteries, a volunteer force and a British garrison; and there are churches and schools." "Oh, all that seems very nice! I hope we will have as good a time there as we had at Bermuda." "I hope so, daughter," he said. "Ah, here come the rest of our little family and your Uncle Harold." Affectionate good-mornings were exchanged; then the talk ran on the subject uppermost in all their minds--Jamaica, and what its attractions were likely to be for them. "I have been thinking," said Harold, "that some spot on the central heights may prove a pleasant and beneficial place for some weeks' sojourn for all of us, the ailing ones in particular." At that moment his mother joined them and he broached the same idea to her. "If we find a pleasant and comfortable lodging place I am willing to try it," she replied, in her usual cheery tones. At that moment came the call to breakfast; speedily responded to by all the passengers. Appetites and viands were alike good and the chat was cheerful and lively. The weather was clear and warm enough to make the deck, where a gentle breeze could be felt, the most agreeable lounging-place, as well as the best, for enjoying the view of the sea and any passing vessel. As usual, the children presently found their way to their Grandma Elsie's side and asked for a story or some information concerning the island toward which they were journeying. "You know something about it, I suppose?" she said, inquiringly. "Yes, ma'am; papa was telling me this morning about the mountains and towns, and harbors, and fruits and other things that they raise," said Elsie; "but there wasn't time for him to tell everything; so won't you please tell us something of its history?" "Yes, dear; grandma is always glad to give you both pleasure and information. Jamaica was discovered by Columbus during his second voyage, in 1494. The Spaniards took possession of it in 1509." "Had they any right to, grandma?" asked Ned. "No, no more than the Indians would have had to cross the ocean to Europe and take possession of their country. And the Spaniards not only robbed the Indians of their lands but abused them so cruelly that it is said that in fifty years the native population had entirely disappeared. In 1655 the British took the island from Spain, and some years later it was ceded to England by the treaty of Madrid in 1670." "And does England own it yet, grandma?" asked Elsie. "Yes; there has been some fighting on the island--trouble between the whites and the negroes--but things are going smoothly now." "So that we may hope to have a good time there, I suppose," said Ned. "Yes, I think we may," replied his grandma. "But haven't we had a good time in all our journeying about old ocean and her islands?" To that question both children answered with a hearty, "Yes indeed, grandma." CHAPTER XIII. The next morning found the "Dolphin" lying quietly at anchor in the harbor in the inlet around which are the principal towns of the island--Spanish Town, Port Royal and Kingston. All were well enough to enjoy little excursions about the island, in carriages or cars, and some weeks were spent by them in the mountains, all finding the air there very pleasant and the invalids evidently gaining in health and strength. The change had been a rest to them all, but early in March they were glad to return to the yacht and set sail for Trinidad, which they had decided should be their next halting place. It was a pleasant morning and, as usual, old and young were gathered upon the deck, the two children near their grandmother. "Grandma," said Elsie, "I suppose you know all about Trinidad, where papa is taking us now, and if it won't trouble you to do so, I'd like very much to have you tell Ned and me about it." "I shall not feel it any trouble to do so, little granddaughter," was the smiling rejoinder, "and if you and Ned grow weary of the subject before I am through, you have only to say so and I will stop. "Trinidad is the most southerly of the West India Islands and belongs to Great Britain. It was first discovered by Columbus in 1498 and given the name of Trinidad by him, because three mountain summits were first seen from the masthead. But it was not until 1532 that a permanent settlement was made there. In 1595 its chief town, San Josede Oruha, was burned by Sir Walter Raleigh; but the island continued in Spain's possession till 1797, when it fell into the hands of the British and it was made theirs by treaty in 1802." "How large is it, grandma?" asked Ned. "About fifty miles long and from thirty to thirty-five wide. It is very near to Venezuela, separated from it by the Gulf of Paria, and the extreme points on the west coast are only the one thirteen and the other nine miles from it. The channel to the north is called the Dragon's Mouth; it is the deepest; the southern channel is shallow, owing to the deposits brought down by the Orinoco, and the gulf, too, is growing more shallow from the same cause." "Are there mountains, grandma?" asked Ned. "Yes; mountains not so high as those on some of the other Caribbean islands; they extend along the northern coast from east to west; they have forests of stately trees and along their lower edges overhanging mangroves, dipping into the sea. There is a double-peaked mountain called Tamana, and from it one can look down upon the lovely and fertile valleys and plains of the other part of the island. There are some tolerably large rivers and several good harbors." "Are there towns on it, grandma?" asked Ned. "Yes; the chief one, called Port of Spain, is one of the finest towns in the West Indies. It was first built of wood, and was burned down in 1808, but has since been rebuilt of stone found in the neighborhood. The streets are long, wide, clean, well paved and shaded with trees. "San Fernando is the name of another town, and there are, besides, two or three pretty villages. Near one of them, called La Brea, is a pitch lake composed of bituminous matter floating on fresh water." "I don't think I'd want to take a sail on it," said Elsie. "Trinidad is a warm place, isn't it, grandma?" "Yes; the climate is hot and moist; it is said to be the hottest of the West India islands." "Then I'm glad it is winter now when we are going there." "Yes; I think winter is the best season for paying a visit there," said her grandma. "I suppose we are going to one of the towns," said Ned. "Aren't we, papa?" as his father drew near. "Yes, to the capital, called Port of Spain. I was there some years ago. Shall I tell you about it?" "Oh, yes sir! please do," answered both children, and a number of the grown people drew near to listen. "It is a rather large place, having some thirty or forty thousand inhabitants. Outside of the town is a large park, where there are villas belonging to people in good circumstances. They are pleasant, comfortable-looking dwellings with porches and porticoes, gardens in front or lawns with many varieties of trees--bread-fruit, oranges, mangoes, pawpaws--making a pleasant shade and bearing delightful fruits; and there is a great abundance of flowers." "All that sounds very pleasant, Captain," said Mr. Lilburn, "but I fear there must be some unpleasant things to encounter." "Mosquitoes, for instance?" queried the Captain. "Yes, I remember Froude's description of one that he says he killed and examined through a glass. Bewick, with the inspiration of genius, had drawn his exact likeness as the devil--a long black stroke for a body, a nick for a neck, horns on the head, and a beak for a mouth, spindle arms, and longer spindle legs, two pointed wings and a tail. He goes on to say that he had been warned to be on the lookout for scorpions, centipedes, jiggers, and land crabs, which would bite him if he walked slipperless over the floor in the dark. Of those he met none; but the mosquito of Trinidad was enough by himself, being, for malice, mockery, and venom of tooth and trumpet, without a match in the world." "Dear me, papa, how can anybody live there?" exclaimed Grace. "Froude speaks of seeking safety in tobacco-smoke," replied her father, with a quizzical smile. "You might do that; or try the only other means of safety mentioned by him--hiding behind the lace curtains with which every bed is provided." "But we can't stay in bed all the time, papa," exclaimed Elsie. "No, but most of the time when you are out of bed you keep off the mosquitoes with a fan." "And if we find them quite unendurable we can sail away from Trinidad," said Violet. "Perhaps we are coming to the island at a better time of the year than Froude did, as regards the mosquito plague," remarked Grandma Elsie. "Ah, mother, I am afraid they are bad and troublesome all the year round in these warm regions," said Harold. "But we can take refuge behind nets a great deal of the time while we are in the mosquito country, and hurry home when we tire of that," remarked Violet. "Ah, that is a comfortable thought," said Mr. Lilburn. "And we are fortunate people in having such homes as ours to return to." "Yes, we can all say amen to that," said Chester, and Lucilla started the singing of "Home, Sweet Home," all the others joining in with feeling. The next morning found the "Dolphin" lying quietly in the harbor of the Port of Spain in the great shallow lake known as the Gulf of Paria, and soon after breakfast all went ashore to visit the city. They enjoyed walking about the wide, shaded streets, and park, gazing with great interest upon the strange and beautiful trees, shrubs and flowers; there were bread-fruit trees, pawpaws, mangoes and oranges, and large and beautiful flowers of many colors. Some of our friends had read Froude's account of the place and wanted to visit it. From there they went to the Botanical Gardens and were delighted with the variety of trees and plants entirely new to them. Before entering the place, the young people were warned not to taste any of the strange fruits, and Grandma Elsie and the Captain kept watch over them lest the warning should be forgotten or unheeded; though Elsie was never known to disobey father or mother, and it was a rare thing, indeed, for Ned to do so. They were much interested in all they saw, the glen full of nutmeg trees among the rest; they were from thirty to forty feet high, with leaves of brilliant green, something like the leaves of an orange, folded one over the other, and their lowest branches swept the ground. There were so many strange and beautiful trees, plants and flowers to be seen and admired that our friends spent more than an hour in those gardens. Then they hired conveyances and drove about wherever they thought the most attractive scenes were to be found. They were interested in the cabins of the negroes spread along the road on either side and overhung with trees--tamarinds, bread-fruit, orange, limes, citrons, plantains and calabash trees; out of the last named they make their cups and water-jugs. There were cocoa-bushes, too, loaded with purple or yellow pods; there were yams in the garden, cows in the paddocks also; so that it was evident that abundance of good, nourishing, appetizing food was provided them with very little exertion on their part. Captain Raymond and his party spent some weeks in Trinidad and its harbor--usually passing the night aboard the "Dolphin"--traveling about the island in cars or carriages, visiting all the interesting spots, going up into the mountains and enjoying the view from thence of the lovely, fertile valleys and plains. Then they sailed around the island and anchored again in the harbor of Port of Spain for the night and to consider and decide upon their next movement. "Shall we go up the Orinoco?" asked the Captain, addressing the company, as all sat together on the deck. There was a moment of silence, each waiting for the others to speak, then Mr. Dinsmore said: "Give us your views on the subject, Captain. Is there much to attract us there? To interest and instruct? I am really afraid that is a part of my geography in which I am rather rusty." "It is one of the great rivers of South America," said the Captain. "It rises in one of the chief mountain chains of Guiana. It is a crooked stream--flowing west-south-west, then south-west, then north-west, then north-north-east and after that in an eastward direction to its mouth. The head of uninterrupted navigation is seven hundred and seventy-seven miles from its mouth. Above that point there are cataracts. "It has a great many branches, being joined, it is said, by four hundred and thirty-six rivers and upward of two thousand streams; so it drains an area of from two hundred and fifty thousand to six hundred and fifty thousand square miles, as variously estimated. It begins to form its delta one hundred and thirty miles from its mouth, by throwing off a branch which flows northward into the Atlantic. It has several navigable mouths, and the main stream is divided by a line of islands, into two channels, each two miles wide. The river is four miles wide at Bolivar, a town more than two hundred and fifty miles from the mouth of the river, which is there three hundred and ninety feet deep." "Why, it's a grand, big river," said Chester. "Much obliged for the information, Captain. I had forgotten, if I ever knew, that it was so large, and with its many tributaries drained so large a territory." "And do you wish to visit it--or a part of it?" queried the Captain. "How is it with you, Cousins Annis and Ronald?" "I am willing--indeed, should prefer--to leave the decision to other members of our party," replied Mrs. Lilburn, and her husband expressed the same wish to let others decide the question. "What do you say, Grandma Dinsmore?" asked Violet. "I think you look as if you would rather not go." "And that is how I feel--thinking of the mosquitoes," returned the old lady, with a slight laugh. "They certainly are very objectionable," said the Captain. "I can't say that I am at all desirous to try them myself. And I doubt if they are more scarce on the Amazon than on the Orinoco. One traveler there tells us, 'At night it was quite impossible to sleep for mosquitoes; they fell upon us by myriads, and without much piping came straight to our faces as thick as raindrops in a shower. The men crowded into the cabins and tried to expel them by smoke from burnt rags, but it was of little avail, though we were half suffocated by the operation.'" "That certainly does not sound very encouraging, my dear," said Violet. "The Amazon is a grand river, I know," said Harold, "but it would not pay to visit it under so great a drawback to one's comfort; and I am very sure encountering such pests would be by no means beneficial to any one of my patients." "And this one of your patients would not be willing to encounter them, even if such were the prescription of her physician," remarked Grace, in a lively tone. "Nor would this older one," added Grandma Elsie, in playful tones. "Then we will consider the Orinoco as tabooed," said the Captain; "and I suppose we shall have to treat the Amazon in the same way, as it was at a place upon its banks that one of the writers I just quoted had his most unpleasant experience with the mosquitoes." "Well, my dear, if there is a difference of opinion and choice among us--some preferring scenery even with mosquitoes, others no scenery unless it could be had without mosquitoes--suppose we divide our forces--one set land and the other remain on board and journey on up the river." "Ah! and which set will you join, little wife?" he asked, with playful look and tone. "Whichever one my husband belongs to," she answered. "Man and wife are not to be separated." "Suppose we take a vote on the question and settle it at once," said Lucilla. "A good plan, I think," said Harold. "Yes," assented the Captain. "Cousins Annis and Ronald, please give us your wishes in regard to rivers and mosquitoes." "I admire the rivers, but not the mosquitoes, and would rather do without both than have both," laughed Annis, and her husband added, "And my sentiments on the subject coincide exactly with those of my wife." Then the question went round the circle, and it appeared that every one thought a sight of the great rivers and the scenery on their banks would be too dearly purchased by venturing in among the clouds of blood-thirsty mosquitoes. "I'm glad," exclaimed Ned; "for I'm not a bit fond of mosquitoes; especially not of having them take their meals off me. But I'd like to see those big rivers. Papa, won't you tell us something about the Amazon?" "Yes," said the Captain; "it has two other names--Maranon and Orellana. It is a very large river and has a big mouth--one hundred and fifty miles wide, and the tide enters there and goes up the stream five hundred miles. "From the wide mouth of the Amazon, where it empties into the ocean, its water can be distinguished from the other--that of the ocean--for fifty leagues. The Amazon is so large and has so many tributaries that it drains two million, five hundred square miles of country. The Amazon is the king of rivers. It rises in the western range of the Andes, and is little better than a mountain torrent till it has burst through the gorges of the eastern range of the chain, where it is overhung by peaks that tower thousands of feet above its bed. But within three hundred miles from the Pacific is a branch, Huallagais, large enough and deep enough for steamers, and a few miles farther down the Amazon is navigable for vessels drawing five feet; and it grows deeper and deeper and more and more available for large vessels as it rolls on toward the ocean. The outlet of this mighty river is a feeder of the Gulf Stream. It is only since 1867 that the navigation of the Amazon has been open, but now regular lines of steamers ply between its mouth and Yurimaguas on the Huallaga." "Are there not many and important exports sent down the Amazon?" asked Mr. Dinsmore. "There are, indeed," replied the Captain, "and the fauna of the waters have proved wonderful. Agassiz found there, in five months, thirteen hundred species of fish, nearly a thousand of them new, and about twenty new genera. The Vacca marina, the largest fish inhabiting fresh waters, and the Acara, which carries its young in its mouth, when there is danger, are the denizens of the Amazon." "Oh," exclaimed Elsie, "I'd like to see that fish with its babies in its mouth." "And I should be very sorry to have to carry my children in that way--even if the relative sizes of my mouth and children made it possible," said her mother. "Brazil's a big country, isn't it, papa?" asked Ned. "Yes," said his father; "about as large as the United States would be without Alaska." "Did Columbus discover it, and the Spaniards settle it, papa?" he asked. "In the year 1500 a companion of Columbus landed at Cape Augustine, near Pernambuco, and from there sailed along the coast as far as the Orinoco," replied the Captain. "In the same year another Portuguese commander, driven to the Brazilian coast by adverse winds, landed, and taking possession in the name of his monarch named the country Terra da Vera Crux. The first permanent settlement was made by the Portuguese in 1531 on the island of St. Vincent. Many settlements were made and abandoned, because of the hostility of the natives and the lack of means, and a Huguenot colony, established on the bay of Rio de Janeiro, in 1555, was broken up by the Portuguese in 1567 when they founded the present capital, Rio de Janeiro. "But it is hardly worth while to rehearse all the history of the various attempts to take possession of Brazil--attempts made by Dutch, Portuguese and Spanish. French invasion of Portugal, in 1807, caused the royal family to flee to Brazil, and it became the royal seat of government until 1821, when Dom John VI. went back to Portugal, leaving his eldest son, Dom Pedro, as Prince Regent. "The independence of Brazil was proclaimed September 7, 1822; and on October 12th, he was crowned emperor as Dom Pedro I. He was arbitrary, and that made him so unpopular that he found it best to abdicate, which he did in 1831 in favor of his son, then only a child. That boy was crowned in 1841, at the age of fifteen, as Dom Pedro II." "Gold is to be found in Brazil, is it not, papa?" asked Grace. "Yes," he said, "that country is rich in minerals and precious stones. Gold, always accompanied with silver, is found in many of the provinces, and in Minas-Geraes is especially abundant, and in that and two other of the provinces, diamonds are found; and the opal, amethyst, emerald, ruby, sapphire, tourmaline, topaz and other precious stones are more or less common." "Petroleum also is obtained in one or two of the provinces, and there are valuable phosphate deposits on some of the islands," remarked Mr. Dinsmore, as the Captain paused, as if he had finished what he had to say in reply to Grace's question. "Papa," asked Ned, "are there lions and tigers and monkeys in the woods?" "There are dangerous wild beasts--the jaguar being the most common and formidable. And there are other wild, some of them dangerous, beasts--the tiger cat, red wolf, tapir, wild hog, Brazilian dog, or wild fox, capybara or water hog, paca, three species of deer, armadillos, sloths, ant-eaters, oppossums, coatis, water-rats, otters and porcupines. Squirrels, hares and rabbits are plentiful. There are many species of monkeys, too, and several kinds of bats--vampires among them. On the southern plains, large herds of wild horses are to be found. Indeed, Brazil can boast a long list of animals. One writer says that he found five hundred species of birds in the Amazon valley alone, about thirty distinct species of parrots and twenty varieties of humming-birds. The largest birds are the ouira, a large eagle; the rhea, or American ostrich; and the cariama. Along the coasts or in the forest are to be found frigate birds, snowy herons, toucans, ducks, wild peacocks, turkeys, geese and pigeons. Among the smaller birds are the oriole, whippoorwill and the uraponga, or bell bird." "Those would be pleasant enough to meet," said Violet, "but there are plenty of most unpleasant creatures--snakes, for instance." "Yes," assented the Captain; "there are many serpents; the most venomous are the jararaca and the rattlesnake. The boa-constrictor and anaconda grow very large, and there are at least three species of cobra noted as dangerous. There are many alligators, turtles and lizards. The rivers, lakes and coast-waters literally swarm with fish. Agassiz found nearly two thousand species, many of them such as are highly esteemed for food." "And they have big mosquitoes, too, you have told us, papa," said Elsie. "Many other bugs, too, I suppose?" "Yes; big beetles, scorpions and spiders, many kinds of bees, sand-flies and musical crickets, destructive ants, the cochineal insect and the pium, a tiny insect whose bite is poisonous and sometimes dangerous." "Please tell us about the woods, papa," said Ned. "Yes; the forests of the Amazon valley are said to be the largest in the world, having fully four hundred species of trees. In marshy places and along streams reeds, grasses and water plants grow in tangled masses, and in the forests the trees crowd each other and are draped with parasitic vines. Along the coasts mangroves, mangoes, cocoas, dwarf palms, and the Brazil-wood are noticeable. In one of the southern provinces more than forty different kinds of trees are valuable for timber. On the Amazon and its branches there are an almost innumerable variety of valuable trees; among them the itauba or stonewood, so named for its durability; the cassia, the cinnamon-tree, the banana, the lime, the myrtle, the guava, the jacaranda or rosewood, the Brazilian bread-fruit, whose large seeds are used for food, and many others too numerous to mention; among them the large and lofty cotton-tree, the tall white-trunked seringa or rubber-tree, which furnishes the gum of commerce, and the three or four hundred species of palms. One of those is called the carnaubu palm; it is probably the most valuable, for every part of it is useful, from the wax of its leaves to its edible pith. Another is the piassaba palm, whose bark is clothed with a loose fiber used for coarse textile fabrics and for brooms." "Why, papa, that's a very useful tree," was little Elsie's comment upon that bit of information. "Are there fruits and flowers in those forests, papa?" she asked. "Yes; those I have already mentioned, with figs, custard-apples and oranges. Some European fruits--olives, grapes and water-melons of fine flavor are cultivated in Brazil." "If it wasn't for the fierce wild animals and snakes, it would be a nice country to live in, I think," she said; "but taking everything into consideration I very much prefer our own country." "Ah, is that so? Who shall say that you won't change your mind after a few weeks spent in Brazil?" returned her father, with an amused look. "You wouldn't want me to, I know, papa," she returned, with a pleasant little laugh, "for I am very sure you want your children to love their own country better than any other in the world." "Yes, my child, I do," he said. Then turning to his older passengers and addressing them in general, "I think," he said, "if it is agreeable to you all, we will make a little stop at Pará, the maritime emporium of the Amazon. I presume you would all like to see that city?" All seemed pleased with the idea, and it was presently settled that that should be their next stopping-place. They all enjoyed their life upon the yacht, but an occasional halt and visit to the shore made an agreeable variety. CHAPTER XIV. Their sail about the mouth of the Amazon was very interesting to them all, and that up the Pará River to the city of the same name, not less so. They found the city evidently a busy and thriving place; its harbor, formed by a curve of the River Pará, here twenty miles wide, had at anchor in it a number of large vessels of various nationalities. The "Dolphin" anchored among them, and after a little her passengers went ashore for a drive about the city. They found the streets paved and macadamized, the houses with white walls and red-tiled roofs. There were some large and imposing buildings--a cathedral, churches and the President's palace were the principal ones. They visited the public square and beautiful botanic garden. It was not very late in the day when they returned to their yacht, but they--especially Dr. Harold's patients--were weary enough to enjoy the quiet rest to be found in their ocean home. "What a busy place it is," remarked Grandma Elsie, as they sat together upon the deck, gazing out upon the city and its harbor. "Yes," said the Captain, "Pará is the mart through which passes the whole commerce of the Amazon and its affluents." "And that must, of course, make it a place of importance," said Violet. "It was the seat of revolution in 1833," remarked her grandfather; "houses were destroyed, lives lost--a great many of them--and grass grew in streets which before that had been the center of business." "Papa," exclaimed Ned, "there's a little boat coming, and a man in it with some little animals." "Ah, yes; small monkeys, I think they are," Captain Raymond said, taking a view over the side of the vessel. Then he called to a sailor that he wanted the man allowed to come aboard with whatever he had for sale. In a few moments he was at hand carrying two little monkeys in his arms. He approached the Captain and bowing low, hat in hand, addressed him in Portuguese, first saying, "Good-evening," then going on to tell that these were fine little monkeys--tee-tees--which he had brought for sale, and he went on to talk fluently in praise of the little creatures, which were about the size of a squirrel, of a greyish-olive as to the hair of body and limbs, a rich golden hue on the latter; on the under surface of the body a whitish grey, and the tip of the tail black. "Oh, how pretty, how very pretty!" exclaimed little Elsie. "Papa, won't you buy me one?" "Yes, daughter, if you want it," returned the Captain, "for I know you will be kind to it and that it will be a safe and pretty pet for you." "And Oh, papa, I'd like to have the other one, if I may!" cried Ned, fairly dancing with delight at the thought of owning the pretty little creature. The Captain smiled and said something to the man, speaking in Portuguese, a language spoken and understood by themselves only of all on board the vessel. The man answered, saying, as the Captain afterward told the others, that he was very glad to sell both to one person, because the little fellows were brothers and would be company for each other. Then a tee-tee was handed to each of the children, the Captain gave the man some money, which seemed to please him, and he went away, while Elsie and Ned rejoiced over and exhibited their pets, fed them and gave them a comfortable sleeping-place for the night. "What lovely, engaging little things they are!" said Grandma Elsie, as the children carried them away, "the very prettiest monkeys I ever saw." "Yes," said the Captain, "they are of a very pretty and engaging genus of monkeys; we all noticed the beauty of their fur, from which they are called callithrix or 'beautiful hair.' Sometimes they are called squirrel monkeys, partly on account of their shape and size, and partly from their squirrel-like activity. They are light, graceful little creatures. I am hoping my children will have great pleasure with theirs. They are said to attach themselves very strongly to their possessors, and behave with a gentle intelligence that lifts them far above the greater part of the monkey race." "I think I have read that they are good-tempered," said Grandma Elsie. "Yes; they are said to be very amiable, anger seeming to be almost unknown to them. Did you not notice the almost infantile innocence in the expression of their countenances?" "Yes, I did," she replied; "it was very touching, and made me feel an affection for them at once." "I have read," said Evelyn, "that that is very strong when the little creatures are alarmed. That sudden tears will come into their clear hazel eyes, and that they will make a little imploring, shrinking gesture quite irresistible to kind-hearted, sympathetic people." "I was reading about the tee-tees not long ago," said Mrs. Lilburn; "and one thing I learned was that they had a curious habit of watching the lips of those who speak to them, just as if they could understand the words spoken, and that when they become quite familiar, they are fond of sitting on their friend's shoulder, and laying their tiny fingers on his lips; as if they thought in that way they might discover the mysteries of speech." "Poor little darlings! I wish they could talk," exclaimed Grace. "I daresay they would make quite as good use of the power of speech as parrots do." "Possibly even better," said her father. "They seem to be more affectionate." "Do they live in flocks in their own forests, papa?" Grace asked. "Yes," he replied, "so the traveler, Mr. Bates, tells us, and that when on the move they take flying leaps from tree to tree." "I am very glad you bought those, papa," she said. "I think they will be a pleasure and amusement to us all." "So do I," said Lucilla, "they are so pretty and graceful that I think we will all be inclined to pet them." "So I think," said her father, "they seem to me decidedly the prettiest and most interesting species of monkey I have ever met with." "And it is really pleasant to see how delighted the children are with their new pets," said Grandma Elsie. "Yes," the Captain responded, with a pleased smile, "and I have no fear that they will ill-use them." "I am sure they will be kind to them," said Violet. "They were much interested in the monkeys we saw in going about the city. I saw quite a number of various species--some pretty large, but most of them small; some at the doors or windows of houses, some in canoes on the river." "Yes, I think we all noticed them," said her mother. "Yes," said the Captain, "I saw several of the _midas ursulus_, a small monkey which I have read is often to be found here in Pará. It is, when full grown, only about nine inches long, exclusive of the tail, which is fifteen inches. It has thick black fur with a reddish brown streak down the middle of the back. It is said to be a timid little thing, but when treated kindly becomes very tame and familiar." "What do monkeys eat, papa?" asked Grace. "I have been told the little fellows are generally fed on sweet fruits, such as the banana, and that they are also fond of grasshoppers and soft-bodied spiders." "They have some very large and busy ants in this country, haven't they, father?" asked Evelyn. "Yes," replied the Captain. "Bates tells of some an inch and a quarter long and stout in proportion, marching in single file through the thickets. They, however, have nothing peculiar or attractive in their habits, though they are giants among ants. But he speaks of another and far more interesting species. It is a great scourge to the Brazilians, from its habit of despoiling the most valuable of their cultivated trees of their foliage. In some districts it is such a pest that agriculture is almost impossible. He goes on to say that in their first walks they were puzzled to account for mounds of earth of a different color from the surrounding soil; mounds, some of them very extensive, some forty yards in circumference, but not more than two feet high. But on making inquiries they learned that those mounds were the work of the saubas--the outworks and domes which overlie and protect the entrances to their vast subterranean galleries. On close examination, Bates found the earth of which they were made to consist of very minute granules heaped together with cement so as to form many rows of little ridges and turrets. And he learned that the difference in color from the earth around was because of the undersoil having been brought up from a considerable depth to form these mounds." "I should like to see the ants at work upon them," said Grace. "It is very rarely that one has the opportunity to do so," said her father. "Mr. Bates tells us that the entrances are generally closed galleries, opened only now and then when some particular work is going on. He says he succeeded in removing portions of the dome in smaller hillocks, and found that the minor entrances converged, at the depth of about two feet, to one broad, elaborately-worked gallery or mine, which was four or five inches in diameter." "Isn't it the ant that clips and carries away leaves?" asked Evelyn. "Yes, Bates speaks of that; says it has long been recorded in books on natural history, and that when employed on that work their procession looks like a multitude of animated leaves on the march. In some places he found an accumulation of such leaves, all circular pieces about the size of sixpence, lying on the pathway, no ants near it, and at some distance from the colony. 'Such heaps,' he says, 'are always found to have been removed when the place is revisited the next day. The ants mount the trees in multitudes. Each one is a working miner, places itself on the surface of a leaf, and cuts with its sharp, scissors-like jaws, and by a sharp jerk detaches the leaf piece. Sometimes they let the leaf drop to the ground, where a little heap accumulates until carried away by another relay of workers; but generally each marches off with the piece he has detached. All take the same road to their colony and the path they follow becomes, in a short time, smooth and bare, looking like the impression of a cart-wheel through the herbage.'" "I am sorry the children have missed all this interesting information," said Violet. "Never mind, my dear," said her husband, "it can be repeated to them to-morrow. I think there is a storm gathering, and that we are likely to have to stay at home here for a day or two." "Should it prove a storm of any violence we may be thankful that we are in this good, safe harbor," remarked Mr. Dinsmore. "And that we have abundance of good company and good reading matter," added Grandma Elsie. "Yes," responded her father, "those are truly additional causes for thankfulness." "The little monkeys are another," laughed Lucilla. "I think we will have some fun with them; and certainly the children are delighted with their new pets." "They certainly are engaging little creatures--very different from those we are accustomed to see going about our streets with organ-grinders," said Grandma Dinsmore. The children were on deck unusually early the next morning, their pets with them. They found their father, mother, Eva and Lucilla there. The usual affectionate morning greetings were exchanged; then, smiling down upon Elsie and her pet, the Captain said, "I think you have not yet tired of your new pet, daughter?" "No, indeed, papa," was the quick, earnest rejoinder, "I'm growing fonder of him every hour. Oh, he's just the dearest little fellow!" "And so is mine," added Ned. "I think I'll name him Tee-tee; and as Elsie's is a little smaller than this, she is going to call him Tiny." "If papa approves," added Elsie. "I am well satisfied," returned their father. "You have begun your day rather earlier than usual," Captain Raymond went on, addressing the two children, "and I am well pleased that it is so, because now you can take some exercise about the deck, which may be prevented later by a storm," and he glanced up at the sky, where black clouds were gathering. "Yes, papa, we will," they answered, and set off at once upon a race round the deck, carrying their pets with them. The storm had begun when the summons to breakfast came, but the faces that gathered about the table were cheerful and bright, the talk also. All agreed that it would be no hardship to have to remain on board for some days with plenty of books and periodicals to read, the pleasant company which they were to each other, and the abundance of fruits and other dainties which the Captain always provided. When they were done eating, they repaired to the saloon, held their usual morning service, then sat about singly or in groups, talking, reading, writing, or, if a lady, busied with some fancy work. The children were much taken up with their new pets, fondling them and letting them climb about their shoulders. Cousin Ronald watched them with interest and pleasure. Elsie was standing near, her Tiny on her shoulder, gazing into her eyes with a look that seemed to say, "You are so kind to me that I love you already." Elsie stroked and patted him, saying, "You dear little pet! I love you already, and mean to take the very best care of you." "Thanks, dear little mistress. I am glad to belong to you and mean to be always the best little tee-tee that ever was seen." The words seemed to come from the tee-tee's lips, and its pretty eyes were looking right into Elsie's own. "Why, you little dear!" she said, with a pleased little laugh, stroking and patting him, then glancing round at Cousin Ronald, "How well you talk. In English, too, though I don't believe you ever heard the language before you came aboard the 'Dolphin.'" "No, we didn't, though we can speak it now as well as any other," Ned's pet seemed to say, lifting its head from his shoulder and glancing around at its brother. That brought a merry laugh from its little master. "Speak it as much as you please, Tee-tee," he said, fondling his pet, "or talk Portuguese or any other language you're acquainted with." "I'm afraid they will never be able to talk unless Cousin Ronald is in the company," said Elsie; "or Brother Max," she added, as an after-thought. "Yes, Brother Max could make them talk just as well," said Ned. "Oh, here come the letters and papers!" as a sailor came in carrying the mailbag. Its contents gave employment to every one for a time, but, after a little, Violet, having finished the perusal of her share, called the children to her and gave them an interesting account of the talk of the night before about the strange doings of South American ants. They were much interested, and asked a good many questions. When that subject was exhausted, Elsie asked to be told something about Rio de Janeiro. "There is a maritime province of that name in the south-east part of Brazil," her mother said. "I have read that in the southern part of it the scenery is very beautiful. The middle of the province is mountainous. About the city I will read you from the "New International Encyclopedia," which your father keeps on board whenever we are using the yacht." She took down the book, opened and read: "'Rio de Janeiro, generally called Rio, the capital of the Brazilian empire, and the largest and most important commercial emporium of South America, stands on a magnificent harbor, seventy-five miles west of Cape Frio. The harbor or bay of Rio de Janeiro, said, and apparently with justice, to be the most beautiful, secure, and spacious bay in the world, is land-locked, being entered from the south by a passage about a mile in width. It extends inland seventeen miles, and has an extreme breadth of about twelve miles. Of its numerous islands, the largest, Governor's Island, is six miles long. The entrance of the bay, guarded on either side by granite mountains, is deep, and is so safe that the harbor is made without the aid of pilots. On the left of the entrance rises the peak called, from its peculiar shape, Sugarloaf Mountain; and all round the bay the blue waters are girdled with mountains and lofty hills of every variety of picturesque and fantastic outline. The harbor is protected by a number of fortresses. The city stands on the west shore of the bay, about four miles from its mouth. Seven green and mound-like hills diversify its site; and the white-walled and vermillion-roofed houses cluster in the intervening valleys, and climb the eminences in long lines. From the central portion of the city, lines of houses extend four miles in three principal directions. The old town, nearest the bay, is laid out in squares; the streets cross at right angles, are narrow, and are paved and flagged; and the houses, often built of granite, are commonly two stories high. West of it is the elegantly-built new town; and the two districts are separated by the Campo de Santa Anna, an immense square or park, on different parts of which stand an extensive garrison, the town-hall, the national museum, the palace of the senate, the foreign office, a large opera house, etc. From a number of springs which rise on and around Mount Corcovado (three thousand feet high, and situated three and a half miles southwest of the city) water is conveyed to Rio de Janeiro by a splendid aqueduct, and supplies the fountains with which the numerous squares are furnished. Great municipal improvements have, within recent years, been introduced; most of the streets are now as well paved as those of the finest European capitals; the city is abundantly lighted with gas; and commodious wharfs and quays are built along the water edge. Rio de Janeiro contains several excellent hospitals and infirmaries, asylums for foundlings and female orphans, and other charitable institutions, some richly endowed; about fifty chapels and churches, generally costly and imposing structures, with rich internal decorations, and several convents and nunneries. In the College of Pedro II., founded in 1837, the various branches of a liberal education are efficiently taught by a staff of eight or nine professors; the Imperial Academy of Medicine, with a full corps of professors, is attended by upward of three hundred students; there is also a theological seminary. The national library contains one hundred thousand volumes.' "There, my dears, I think that is all that will interest you," concluded Violet, closing the book. CHAPTER XV. The storm continued for some days, during which the "Dolphin" lay quietly at anchor in the bay of Pará. It was a quiet, uneventful time for her passengers, but they enjoyed themselves well in each other's society and waited patiently for a change of weather. Finally it came; the sun shone, the waves had quieted down and a gentle breeze taken the place of the boisterous wind of the last few days. Just as the sun rose, the anchor was lifted and, to the joy of all on board, the yacht went on her way, steaming out of the harbor and then down the coast of Brazil; a long voyage, but, under the circumstances, by no means unpleasant to the "Dolphin's" passengers, so fond as they were of each other's society. At length they arrived at Rio de Janeiro. They stayed there long enough to acquaint themselves with its beauties and all that might interest a stranger. All that accomplished, they left for the north, as it was getting near the time when even the invalids might safely return to the cooler climate of that region. It was evening; the children had retired for the night, and all the older ones were together on the deck. A silence that had lasted for some moments was broken by Lucilla. "You are taking us home now, I suppose, father?" "I don't remember to have said so," replied the Captain, pleasantly, "though very likely I may do so if you all wish it." Then Violet spoke up in her quick, lively way, "Mamma, if you would give us all an invitation to visit Viamede, I think it would be just delightful to go there for a week or two; and then Chester could see his sisters and their children." "I should be glad to help him to do so; and very glad to have you all my guests at Viamede," was the reply, in Grandma Elsie's own sweet tones. Then came a chorus of thanks for her invitation; all seeming much pleased with the idea. "It will be quite a journey," remarked Lucilla, in a tone of satisfaction. "You are not weary of life on shipboard, daughter?" her father queried, with a pleased little laugh. "No, indeed, father; I am very fond of life on the 'Dolphin.' I suppose that's because of the sailor-blood in me inherited from you." "Some of which I have also," said Grace; "for I dearly love a voyage in the 'Dolphin.'" "Which some of the rest of us do without having the excuse of inherited sailor-blood," said Harold. "No; that inheritance isn't at all necessary to the enjoyment of life on the 'Dolphin,'" remarked Chester. "Indeed, it is not," said Evelyn. "I am a landsman's daughter, but life on this vessel with the dear friends always to be found on it is delightful to me." "And the rest of us can give a like testimony," said Mrs. Lilburn, and those who had not already spoken gave a hearty assent. "Up this South American coast, through the Caribbean Sea and the Gulf of Mexico--it will be quite a voyage," remarked Lucilla, reflectively. "It is well, indeed, that we are all fond of life on the 'Dolphin.'" "Yes; you will have had a good deal of it by the time we get home," said her father. "To-morrow is Sunday," remarked Grandma Elsie. "I am very glad we can have services on board. I often find them quite as helpful as those I attend on shore." "Yes; I don't know why we shouldn't have services, though there is no licensed preacher among us," said the Captain. "Certainly, we may all read God's Word, talk of it to others, and address to him both prayers and praises." The next morning after breakfast all assembled upon deck, united in prayer and praise, the Captain read a sermon, and then Mr. Lilburn, by request of the others, led them in their Bible lesson. "Let us take parts of the 13th and 14th chapters of Numbers for our lesson to-day," he said, reading the passages aloud, then asked, "Can you tell me, Cousin Elsie, where the children of Israel were encamped just at that time?" "At Kadesh, in what was called the wilderness of Paran. It was at a little distance to the southwest of the southern end of the Dead Sea." "They went and searched the land, as Moses directed, and cut down and brought back with them a cluster of grapes, a very large one, it must have been, for they bare it between two upon a staff; also they brought pomegranates and figs. Do you know, Neddie, what Eshcol means?" asked Cousin Ronald. "No, sir; papa hasn't taught me that yet," replied the little boy. "It means a bunch of grapes," said Cousin Ronald, smiling kindly on the little fellow. "Grace, do you think the spies were truthful?" "They seem to have been, so far as the facts about the country they had just visited were concerned," Grace answered, then read, "And they told him, and said, 'We came unto the land whither thou sentest us, and surely it floweth with milk and honey; and this is the fruit of it. Nevertheless, the people be strong that dwell in the land, and the cities are walled, and very great; and, moreover, we saw the children of Anak there. The Amalekites dwell in the land of the south: and the Hittites, and the Jebusites, and the Amorites, dwell in the mountains: and the Canaanites dwell by the sea, and by the coast of Jordan.'" "Truly, a very discouraging report," said Mr. Lilburn; "for though they described the land as very good and desirable, they evidently considered its inhabitants too strong to be overcome." He then read, "And they brought up an evil report of the land which they had searched unto the children of Israel, saying, 'The land, through which we have gone to search it, is a land that eateth up the inhabitants thereof; and all the people that we saw in it are men of a great stature. And there we saw the giants, the sons of Anak, which come of the giants: and we were in our own sight as grasshoppers, and so we were in their sight.' And what effect had their report upon the people, Cousin Violet?" he asked. In reply, Violet read, "And all the congregation lifted up their voice, and cried; and the people wept that night. And all the children of Israel murmured against Moses and against Aaron: and the whole congregation said unto them, 'Would God that we had died in the land of Egypt! Or would God we had died in this wilderness! And wherefore hath the Lord brought us unto this land, to fall by the sword, that our wives and our children should be a prey? Were it not better for us to return into Egypt?' And they said, one to another, 'Let us make a captain, and let us return into Egypt.'" It seemed to be Mr. Dinsmore's turn, and he read, "And Joshua, the son of Nun; and Caleb, the son of Jephunneh, which were of them that searched the land, rent their clothes: And they spake unto all the company of the children of Israel, saying, 'The land, which we passed through to search it, is exceeding good land. If the Lord delight in us, then He will bring us into this land, and give it us; a land which floweth with milk and honey. Only rebel not ye against the Lord, neither fear ye the people of the land; for they are bread for us: their defense is departed from them, and the Lord is with us: fear them not.'" Then Mrs. Dinsmore read, "But all the congregation bade stone them with stones. And the glory of the Lord appeared in the tabernacle of the congregation before all the children of Israel. And the Lord said unto Moses, 'How long will this people provoke me? And how long will it be ere they believe me, for all the signs which I have showed among them? I will smite them with the pestilence, and disinherit them, and will make of thee a greater nation and mightier than they.'" "How very childish they were," remarked Violet. "Why should they wish they had died in the land of Egypt, or in the wilderness? That would have been no better than dying where they were. And it does seem strange they could not trust in God when he had given them such wonderful deliverances." "And they said, one to another, 'Let us make a captain, and let us return into Egypt,'" read Harold, adding, "It does seem as though they felt that Moses would not do anything so wicked and foolish as going back into Egypt." "And they might well feel so," said the Captain. "Moses was not the man to be discouraged by such difficulties after all the wonders God had shown him and them in Egypt and the wilderness." "That is true," said Mr. Lilburn. "But let us go on to the end of the story. We have read that the Lord threatened to smite them with the pestilence, and disinherit them, and make of Moses a greater nation and mightier than they. Chester, what did Moses say in reply?" "And Moses said unto the Lord, 'Then the Egyptians shall hear it (for Thou broughtest up this people in Thy might from among them); and they will tell it to the inhabitants of this land; for they have heard that Thou, Lord, art among this people, that Thou, Lord, art seen face to face, and that Thy cloud standeth over them, and that Thou goest before them, by daytime in the pillar of cloud, and in a pillar of fire by night. Now if Thou shalt kill all this people as one man, then the nations which have heard the fame of Thee will speak, saying, Because the Lord was not able to bring this people into the land which He sware unto them, therefore He hath slain them in the wilderness. And now, I beseech Thee, let the power of my Lord be great, according as Thou hast spoken, saying, The Lord is long-suffering, and of great mercy, forgiving iniquity and transgression, and by no means clearing the guilty, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation. Pardon, I beseech Thee, the iniquity of this people according unto the greatness of Thy mercy, and as Thou hast forgiven this people, from Egypt even until now.'" Chester paused, and Mrs. Dinsmore took up the story where he dropped it, reading from her Bible, "And the Lord said, 'I have pardoned according to thy word: but as truly as I live, all the earth shall be filled with the glory of the Lord. Because all those men which have seen My glory and My miracles, which I did in Egypt and in the wilderness, and have tempted me now these ten times, and have not hearkened to My voice. Surely they shall not see the land which I sware unto their fathers, neither shall any of them that provoked Me see it: But My servant Caleb, because he had another spirit with him, and hath followed Me fully, him will I bring into the land whereinto he went; and his seed shall possess it. (Now the Amalekites and the Canaanites dwelt in the valley). To-morrow, turn you, and get you into the wilderness by the Red Sea.'" "Papa, did all those people lose their souls?" asked Elsie. "I hope not," he replied. "If they repented and turned to the Lord, they were forgiven and reached Heaven at last. Jesus says, 'Come unto Me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take My yoke upon you and learn of Me, for I am meek and lowly in heart, and ye shall find rest unto your souls.'" CHAPTER XVI. "Are we going to stop at any of these South American countries, papa?" asked Elsie the next day, standing by her father's side on the deck. "I hardly think so," he replied. "It is rather too nearly time to go home." "Oh, papa, I'd like ever so much to see our other home, Viamede--grandma lets me call it one of my homes--if there is time, and it isn't too far away." "Well, daughter," her father said, with a smile, "I think there is time, and the place not too far away--the 'Dolphin' being a good-natured yacht that never complains of her long journeys." "Oh, papa, are we really going there?" cried the little girl, fairly dancing with delight. "I'll be so glad to see the Keith cousins at the cottage, and those at Magnolia Hall, and the others at Torriswood. And I'll show Tiny to them, and they'll be sure to be pleased to see him," she added, hugging her pet, which, as usual, she had in her arms. "Probably they will," said her father. "Do you think of giving him to any one of them?" "Give my little pet Tiny away? Why, papa! no indeed! I couldn't think of such a thing!" she cried, hugging her pet still closer. "I'm fond of him, papa, and I'm pretty sure he's fond of me; he seems to want to snuggle up close to me all the time." "Yes; I think he is fond of you and won't want to leave you, except for a little while now and then to run up and down the trees and round the grounds. That will be his play; and when he gets hungry he will go back to you for something to eat." Ned, with his pet in his arms, had joined them just in time to hear his father's last sentence. "Are you talking about Elsie's Tiny, papa?" he asked. "Yes, my son, and what I said will apply to your Tee-tee just as well. I think if my children are good and kind to the little fellows they will not want to run away." "I have been good to him so far," said Ned, patting and stroking his pet as he spoke, "and I mean to keep on. Papa, where are we going now? Elsie and I were talking about it a while ago, and we wondered if we were now on the way home." "Would you like to be?" asked his father. "Yes, papa; or to go somewhere else first; just as pleases you." "What would you say as to visiting Viamede?" "Oh, papa, that I'd like it ever so much!" "Well, your grandma has given us all an invitation to go there, and we are very likely to accept it. It will make us a little later in getting home than I had intended, but it will be so great a pleasure that I think we will all feel paid." "Yes, indeed!" cried Ned, dancing up and down in delight, "I think it's just splendid that we can go there. I don't know any lovelier or more delightful place to go to; do you, papa?" "And I'm as glad as you are, Ned," said Elsie. "Let's go and thank grandma. Yonder she is in her usual seat under the awning." "Yes," said their father, "you owe her thanks, and it would be well to give them at once," and they hastened to do his bidding. Grandma Elsie was seated with the other ladies of their party in that pleasant spot under the awning, where there were plenty of comfortable seats, and they were protected from sun and shower. The gentlemen were there, too. Some were reading and some--the younger ones--chatting and laughing merrily among themselves. Into this group the children came rushing, full of excitement and glee. "Oh grandma," they cried, talking both at once, "we're so glad we're going to Viamede, so much obliged to you for inviting us, because it's such a dear, beautiful place and seems to be one of our homes." "Yes, you must consider it so, my dears; because it is mine, and I consider my dear grandchildren as mine, too," was grandma's smiling, affectionate rejoinder. "As I do, mamma," said Violet, "and I am sure no children ever had a better, kinder grandmother." "No, indeed," said Elsie. "And I think Tiny and Tee-tee will enjoy being at Viamede, too, and climbing up the beautiful trees. Papa says they will, but will be glad to come back to us when they get hungry; because we feed them with such things as they like to eat." "It will be a long journey before we get to Viamede, won't it, mamma?" asked Ned. "Yes; a good many miles up this coast of South America, then through the Caribbean Sea and the Gulf of Mexico to New Orleans, then through Teche Bayou to Viamede. I think it will be a long, pleasant journey. Don't you?" "Yes, mamma, it is very pleasant to be on our yacht with you and papa and grandma and so many other kind friends." Just then the Captain joined them. "How long will it take us to get to Viamede, papa?" asked Ned. "About as long as it would to cross the ocean from our country to Europe. And should storms compel us to seek refuge for a time in some harbor, it will, of course, take longer." "Will we go back to Trinidad?" "Hardly, I think; though we will probably pass in sight of the island." "And we are on the coast of Brazil now?" "Yes; and will be for a week or more." "We are trying life in the 'Dolphin' for a good while this winter," said Violet. "You are not wearying of it, I hope, my dear?" asked the Captain, giving her a rather anxious and troubled look. "Oh, no, not at all!" she replied, giving him an affectionate smile, "this winter trip has been a real enjoyment to me thus far." "As it has to all of us, I think," said her mother; and all within hearing joined in with their expressions of pleasure in all they had experienced on the sea or on the land since sailing away from their homes in the "Dolphin." "I am half afraid that you gentlemen will find your homes but dull places when you get back to them," remarked Lucilla, in a tone of feigned melancholy, sighing deeply as she spoke. "Well, for business reasons I shall be glad to get back to my office," said Chester. "So it will not be altogether a trying thing to return, even if my home is to be but dull and wearisome." "I don't believe it will be," laughed Grace. "Lu is never half so hard and disagreeable as she pretends. She has always been the nicest of sisters to me, and I have an idea that she is quite as good a wife." "So have I," said Chester. "I know I wouldn't swap wives with any man." "Nor I husbands with any woman," laughed Lucilla. "I took this man for better or for worse, but there's no worse about it." A merry laugh from little Elsie turned all eyes upon her. Tiny was curled up on her shoulder, his hazel eyes fixed inquiringly upon her face and one of his fingers gently laid upon her lips. "I think your Tiny is wanting to learn to talk," her father said. "He seems to be trying to see how you do it." "Oh, do you think he can learn, papa?" she asked, in eager tones. "I don't see why monkeys shouldn't talk as well as parrots." "I do not, either, my child; I only know that they do not." At that instant Tiny lifted his head and turned his eyes upon the Captain, and some words seemed to come rapidly and in rather an indignant tone from his lips. "I can talk and I will when I want to. My little mistress is very kind and good to me, and I'm growing very fond of her." Everybody laughed and Elsie said, "I wish it were really his talk. But I know it was Cousin Ronald who spoke." "Ah, little cousin, how much fun you miss by knowing too much," laughed Mr. Lilburn. Then Ned's Tee-tee seemed to speak. "You needn't make a fuss over my brother. I can talk quite as well as he can." "Why, so you can!" exclaimed Ned, stroking and patting him. "And I'm glad to have you talk just as much as you will." "Thank you, little master; you're very good to me," was the reply. "Now, Tiny, it is your turn," said Elsie to her pet. "I hope you think you are having a good time here on this yacht?" "Yes, indeed I do," was the reply. "But where are we going?" "To Viamede; a beautiful place in Louisiana. And you shall run about over the velvety, flower-spangled lawn, and climb the trees, if you want to, and pick some oranges and bananas for yourself, and have ever such a good time." "That's nice! Shall my brother Tee-tee have a good time with me, too?" "Yes, if you both promise not to run away and leave us." "We'd be very foolish tee-tees if we did." "So I think," laughed Elsie, affectionately stroking and patting Tiny. "Come, Tee-tee; it's your turn to talk a little," said Ned, patting and stroking his pet. "Am I going to that good place Tiny's mistress tells about, where they have fine trees to climb and oranges and bananas and other good things to eat?" Tee-tee seemed to ask. "Yes," replied Ned, "if you keep on being a good little fellow you shall go there and have a good time playing about and feasting on the fruits, nuts and other nice things." "Then I mean to be good--as good as I know how." "Cousin Ronald, you do make them talk very nicely," remarked Elsie, with satisfaction, adding, "But I do wish they could do it themselves." "I presume they would be glad if they could," said Lucilla. "Yours watches the movements of your lips, as if he wanted very much to imitate them with his." "And I believe he does," said Elsie. "It makes me feel more thankful for the gift of speech than I ever did before." "Then it has a good effect," said her father. "So they are useful little creatures, after all," said Grace, "though I had thought them only playthings." "I think Tiny is the very best plaything that ever I had," said Elsie, again stroking and patting the little fellow. "Cousin Ronald, won't you please make him talk a little more?" "Why do you want me to talk so much, little mistress?" Tiny seemed to ask. "Oh, because I like to hear you and you really mean what you seem to say. Do you like to be with us on this nice big yacht?" "Pretty well, though I'd rather be among the big trees in the woods where I was born." "I think that must be because you are not quite civilized," laughed Elsie. "I'd rather be in those woods, too," Tee-tee seemed to say. "Let's run away to the woods, Tiny, when we get a chance." "Ho, ho!" cried Ned, "if that's the way you talk you shan't have a chance." "Now, Ned, you surely wouldn't be so cruel as to keep him if he wants to go back to his native woods," said Lucilla. "How would you like to be carried off to a strange place, away from papa and mamma?" "But I ain't a monkey," said Ned. "And I don't believe he cares about his father and mother as I do about mine. Do you care very much about them, Tee-tee?" "Not so very much; and I think they've been caught or killed." The words seemed to come from Tee-tee's lips and Ned exclaimed, triumphantly: "There; he doesn't care a bit." "But it wasn't he that answered; it was Cousin Ronald." "Well, maybe Cousin Ronald knows how he feels. Don't you, Cousin Ronald?" "Ah, I must acknowledge that it is all guess-work, sonny boy," laughed the old gentleman. "Well," said Ned, reflectively, "I've heard there are some folks who are good at guessing, and I believe you are one of them, Cousin Ronald." "But I'm not a Yankee, you know, and I've heard that they are the folks who are good at guessing," laughed Cousin Ronald. "But I don't believe they do all the guessing; I think other folks must do some of it," said Ned. "Quite likely," said Cousin Ronald; "most folks like to engage in that business once in awhile." "Tee-tee," said Ned, "I wish you and Tiny would talk a little more." "What about little master?" seemed to come in quick response from Tiny's lips. "Oh, anything you please. All I want is the fun of hearing you talk," said Ned. "It wouldn't be polite for us to do all the talking," he seemed to respond; and Ned returned, "You needn't mind about the politeness of it. We folks all want to hear you talk, whatever you may say." "But I don't want to talk unless I have something to say," was Tiny's answer. "That's right, Tiny; you seem to be a sensible fellow," laughed Lucilla. "Papa, are monkeys mischievous?" asked Elsie. "They have that reputation, and certainly some have shown themselves so; therefore, you would better not put temptation in the way of Tiny or Tee-tee." "And better not trust them too far," said Violet. "I'd be sorry to have any of your clothes torn up while we are so far from home." "Oh mamma, do you think they would do that?" cried Elsie. "I don't know; but I have heard of monkeys meddling with their mistress's clothes, and perhaps Tiny doesn't know how much too large even yours would be for her--no for him." "Well, mamma, I'll try to keep things out of his way, and I hope he'll realize that a girl's garments are not suitable for a boy monkey," laughed Elsie. "Do you hear that? and will you remember?" she asked, giving him a little shake and tap which he seemed to take very unconcernedly. "And I'll try to keep my clothes out of Tee-tee's way; for I shouldn't like to make trouble for you, mamma, or to wear either holey or patched clothes," said Ned. "No," said his father; "so we will hope the little fellows will be honest enough to refrain from meddling with your clothes; at least till we get home." "And I think you will find these pretty little fellows honest, and not meddlesome," said Mr. Dinsmore. "I have read that they are most engaging little creatures, and from what I have seen of these, I think that is true; they seem to behave with gentle intelligence quite superior to that of any other monkey I ever saw; to have amiable tempers, too, and there is an innocent expression in their countenances, which is very pleasing. I do not think they have as yet had anything to frighten them here, but I have read that when alarmed, sudden tears fill their clear hazel eyes, and they make little imploring, shrinking gestures that excite the sympathy of those to whom they are appealing for protection." "Yes, grandpa, I think they do look good, enough better and pleasanter than any other monkey that ever I saw," said Ned. "Yes," said his father, "it is certainly the most engaging specimen of the monkey family that ever I came across." "Children," said Violet, "the call to dinner will come in about five minutes. So put away your pets for the present and make yourselves neat for the table." CHAPTER XVII. The "Dolphin" sped on her way, and her passengers enjoyed their voyage whether the sun shone or the decks were swept by wind and rain; for the saloon was always a comfortable place of refuge in stormy weather, and by no means an unpleasant one at any time. They were all gathered on the deck one bright, breezy morning, chatting cheerily, the children amusing themselves with their tee-tee pets. "Father," said Lucilla, "are we not nearing the Caribbean Sea?" "Yes; if all goes well we will be in it by this time to-morrow," was Captain Raymond's reply. "It is a body of water worth seeing; separated from the Gulf of Mexico by Yucatan, and from the Atlantic Ocean by the great arch of the Antilles, between Cuba and Trinidad. It forms the turning point in the vast cycle of waters known as the Gulf Stream that wheels round regularly from Southern Africa to Northern Europe. The Caribbean Sea pours its waters into the Gulf of Mexico on the west, which shoots forth on the east the Florida stream with the computed volume of three thousand Mississippis." "But, papa, where does it get so much water to pour out?" asked Elsie. "I wonder it didn't get empty long ago." "Ah, that is prevented by its taking in as well as pouring out. It gathers water from the Atlantic Ocean and the Amazon and Orinoco rivers." "Papa, why do they call it by that name--Caribbean Sea?" asked Ned. "It takes its name from the Caribs, the people who were living there when Columbus discovered the islands," said the Captain. "The Gulf Stream is very important, isn't it, papa?" asked Elsie. "The most important and best known of the great ocean currents," he replied. "It flows out of the Gulf of Mexico, between the coast of Florida on one side and the Cuba and Bahama islands and shoals on the other." "The Stream is very broad, isn't it, papa?" asked Grace. "About fifty miles in the narrowest portion, and it has a velocity of five miles an hour; pouring along like an immense torrent." "But where does it run to, papa?" asked Ned. "First in a northeasterly direction, along the American coast, the current gradually growing wider and less swift, until it reaches the island and banks of Newfoundland; then it sweeps across the Atlantic, and divides into two portions, one turning eastward toward the Azores and coast of Morocco, while the other laves the shores of the British islands and Norway, also the southern borders of Iceland and Spitsbergen, nearly as far east as Nova Zembla." "But how can they tell where it goes when it mixes in with other waters, papa?" asked Elsie. "Its waters are of a deep indigo blue, while those of the sea are light green," replied her father. "And as it pours out of the Gulf of Mexico its waters are very warm and full of fish and seaweed in great masses. Its waters are so warm that in mid-winter, off the cold coasts of America between Cape Hatteras and Newfoundland, ships beaten back from their harbors by fierce northwesters until loaded down with ice and in danger of foundering, turn their prows to the east and seek relief and comfort in the Gulf Stream." "Don't they have some difficulty in finding it, father?" asked Lucilla. "A bank of fog rising like a wall, caused by the condensation of warm vapors meeting a colder atmosphere, marks the edge of the Stream," replied the Captain. "Also the water suddenly changes from green to blue, the climate from winter to summer, and this change is so sudden that when a ship is crossing the line, a difference of thirty degrees of temperature has been marked between the bow and the stern." "Papa, I know there used to be pirates in the West Indies; was it there that Kidd committed his crimes?" "I think not," replied her father. "In his day, piracy on the high seas prevailed to an alarming extent, especially in the Indian Ocean. It was said that many of the freebooters came from America, and that they found a ready market here for their stolen goods. The King of England--then King of this country, also--wished to put an end to piracy, and instructed the governors of New York and Massachusetts to put down these abuses. "It was soon known in New York that the new governor was bent on suppressing piracy. Then some men of influence, who knew of Kidd as a successful, bold and skilful captain, who had fought against the French and performed some daring exploits, recommended him as commander of the expedition against the pirates. They said he had all the requisite qualifications--skill, courage, large and widely-extended naval experience, and thorough knowledge of the haunts of the pirates 'who prowled between the Cape of Good Hope and the Straits of Malacca.' "A private company was organized, a vessel bought, called the 'Adventure,' equipped with thirty guns, and Kidd given command. He sailed to New York, and on his way captured a French ship off the coast of Newfoundland. He sailed from the Hudson River in January, 1697, crossed the ocean and reached the coast of Madagascar, then the great rendezvous of the buccaneers." "And how soon did he begin his piracy, papa?" "I can't tell you exactly, but it soon began to be reported that he was doing so, and in November, 1698, orders were sent to all the governors of English colonies to apprehend him if he came within their jurisdiction. "In April, 1699, he arrived in the West Indies in a vessel called 'Quidah Merchant,' secured her in a lagoon on the Island of Samoa, southeast of Hayti, and then, in a sloop called 'San Antonio,' sailed for the north, up the coast into Delaware Bay, afterward to Long Island Sound, and into Oyster Bay. He was soon arrested, charged with piracy, sent to England, tried, found guilty and hung." "There were other charges, were there not, Captain?" asked Mr. Dinsmore. "Yes, sir; burning houses, massacring peasantry, brutally treating prisoners, and particularly with murdering one of his men, William Moore. He had called Moore a dog, to which Moore replied, 'Yes, I am a dog, but it is you that have made me so.' At that, Kidd, in a fury of rage, struck him down with a bucket, killing him instantly. It was found impossible to prove piracy against Kidd, but he was found guilty of the murder of Moore, and on the twenty-fourth of May, 1701, he was hanged with nine of his accomplices." "Did he own that he was guilty, papa?" asked Grace. "No," replied the Captain, "he protested his innocence to the last; said he had been coerced by his men, and that Moore was mutinous when he struck him; and there are many who think his trial was high-handed and unfair." "Then I hope he didn't deserve quite all that has been said against him," said Grace. "I hope not," said her father. CHAPTER XVIII. Elsie and Ned were on deck with their pet tee-tees, which seemed to be in even more than usually playful mood, running round and round the deck and up and down the masts. Ned chased after them, trying to catch them, but failing again and again. He grew more and more excited and less careful to avoid mishap in the struggle to capture the little runaways. Elsie called after him to "let them have their fun for awhile, and then they would come back to be petted and fed," but he paid no attention to her. He called and whistled to Tee-tee, who was high up on a mast. The little fellow stood still for a time, regarding his young master as if he would say, "I'll come when I please, but you can't make me come sooner." So Ned read the look, and called up to him, "Come down this minute, you little rascal, or I'll be apt to make you sorry you didn't." That did not seem to have any effect, and Ned looked about for some one to send up after the little runaway. "Have patience, master Ned, he'll come down after a bit," said a sailor standing near. "Ah, do you see? There he comes now," and turning quickly, Ned saw his tee-tee running swiftly down the mast, then along the top of the gunwale, then down on the outside. He rushed to catch him, leaned too far over, and, with a cry of terror, felt himself falling down, down into the sea. A scream from Elsie echoed his cry. The sailor who had spoken to Ned a moment before, instantly tore off his coat and plunged in after the child, caught him as he rose to the surface, held him with his head out of water, and called for a boat which was already being launched by the other sailors. Neither the Captain nor any of his older passengers were on deck at the moment; but the cries of the children, the sailor's plunge into the water, and the hurrying of the others to launch the boat were heard in the saloon. "Something is wrong!" exclaimed the Captain, hurrying to the deck, closely followed by Violet, whose cry was, "Oh, my children! What has happened to them?" The other members of the party came hurrying after all in great excitement. "Don't be alarmed, my dear," said the Captain, soothingly, "whatever is wrong can doubtless be set right in a few moments." Then, catching sight of his little girl as he gained the deck, and seeing that she was crying bitterly, "Elsie daughter, what is it?" he asked. "Oh, papa," sobbed the child, "Neddie has fallen into the sea, and I'm afraid he's drowned!" Before her father could answer, a sailor approached and, bowing respectfully, said: "I think it will be all right, sir, in a few minutes. Master Ned fell into the water, but Tom Jones happened to be close at hand, and sprang in right after him and caught him as he came up the first time. Then he called to us to lower the boat, and you see it's in the water already, and they're starting after Master Ned and Tom--left considerable behind now by the forward movement of the yacht." "Ah, yes; I see them," returned the Captain; "the boat, too. Violet, my dear, Neddie seems to be quite safe, and we will have him on board again in a few minutes." All on the deck watched, in almost breathless suspense, the progress of the small boat through the water, saw it reach and pick up the half-drowning man and boy, and then return to the yacht. In a few moments more Ned was in his mother's arms, her tears falling on his face, as she clasped him to her bosom, kissing him over and over again with passionate fondness. "There, Vi, dear, you would better give him into my care for a little," said Harold. "He wants a good rubbing, dry garments, a dose of something hot and then a good nap." "There, go with Uncle Harold, dear," said his mother, releasing him. "And papa," said Ned, looking up at his father, entreatingly. "Yes, little son, papa will go with you," returned the Captain, in moved tones. "Oh, is my tee-tee drowned?" exclaimed the little fellow, with sudden recollection, and glancing around as he spoke. "No," said Harold; "I see him now running around the deck. He's all right." And with that the two gentlemen hurried down into the cabin, taking Ned with them. "Well, it is a very good plan to always take a doctor along when we go sailing about the world," remarked Lucilla, looking after them as they passed down the stairway. "Yes; especially when you can find one as skilful, kind and agreeable as our Doctor Harold," said Evelyn. "Thank you, my dear," said Mrs. Travilla, regarding Evelyn with a pleased smile, "he seems to me both an excellent physician and a polished gentleman; but mothers are apt to be partial judges; so I am glad to find that your opinion is much the same as mine." Grace looked gratified, and Violet said: "It seems to be the opinion of all on board." "Mine as well as the rest," added Lucilla. "Chester has improved wonderfully since we set sail on the 'Dolphin.'" "Quite true," said Chester's voice close at hand, he having just returned from a talk with the sailors who had picked up the half-drowning man and boy, "quite true; and I give credit to my doctor, Cousin Harold; for his advice at least, which I have endeavored to follow carefully. He's a fine, competent physician, if it is a relative who says it. Violet, you need have no fear that he won't bring your boy through this thing all right." "I am not at all afraid to trust him--my dear, skilful brother and physician--and I believe he will be able to bring my little son through this trouble," said Violet. "No doubt of it," returned Chester; "by to-morrow morning little Ned will be in usual health and spirits; none the worse for his sudden sea bath." "I can never be thankful enough to Tom Jones," said Violet, with emotion. "He saved the life of my darling boy; for he surely would have drowned before any one else could have got to him." "Yes," said Chester; "I think he deserves all the praise you can give him." "And something more than praise," said Violet and her mother, both speaking at once. "He is not, by any means, a rich man," added Violet, "and my husband will certainly find a way to help him into better circumstances." "Something in which I shall be glad to assist," added her mother. "Neddie is your son, but he is my dear little grandson." "And my great-grandson," added Mr. Dinsmore, joining the group. "I am truly thankful that Tom Jones was so near when he fell, and so ready to go to the rescue." "And the engineer to slacken the speed of the vessel, the other sailors to lower and man the boat and go to the rescue," said Violet. "Yes; they must all be rewarded," said her mother. "It will be a pleasure to me to give them a substantial evidence of the gratitude I feel." "That is just like you, mamma," said Violet, with emotion; "but I am sure his father is able, and will be more than willing to do all that is necessary." "Yes, indeed!" exclaimed Lucilla, "there is no more just or generous person than my father! And he is abundantly able to do all that can be desired to reward any or all who took any part in the saving of my dear little brother." "My dear girl," said Grandma Elsie, "no one who knows your father can have the least doubt of his generosity and kindness of heart; I am very sure that all the men we were speaking of will have abundant proof of it." "As we all are," said Mr. Dinsmore. "I'm sure papa will do just what is right; he always does," said little Elsie. "And oh, mamma, don't you think that he and Uncle Harold will soon get dear Neddie well of his dreadful dip in the sea?" "I do, daughter," answered Violet; "and oh, here come your papa and uncle now!" For at that moment the two gentlemen stepped upon the deck and came swiftly toward them. "Oh? how is he--my darling little son?" cried Violet, almost breathless with excitement and anxiety. "Doing as well as possible," answered her brother, in cheery tone. "He has had a good rubbing down, a hot, soothing potion, been covered up in his berth, and fallen into a sound sleep." "Yes," said the Captain, "I think he is doing as well as possible, and to-morrow will show himself no worse for his involuntary dip in the sea." "Oh, I am so glad, so thankful!" exclaimed Violet, tears of joy filling her eyes. "As I am," said his father, his voice trembling with emotion; "we have great cause for thankfulness to the Giver of All Good. I am very glad your mind is relieved, dearest. But I must go now and thank the men, whose prompt action saved us from a heavy loss and bitter sorrow." He had seated himself by Violet's side and put his arm about her, but he rose with those last words, and went forward to where a group of sailors were talking over the episode and rejoicing that it had ended so satisfactorily. They lifted their hats and saluted the Captain respectfully as he neared them. "How is the little lad, sir?" asked Jones, as he neared them. "No worse for his ducking, I hope." "Thank you, Jones. I think he will not be any the worse by to-morrow morning," replied the Captain. "He is sleeping now, which, I think, is the best thing he could do. Jones, he owes his life to you, and I can never cease to be grateful to you for your prompt action in springing instantly to his rescue when he fell into the water." "Oh, sir," stammered Jones, looking both pleased and embarrassed, "it--it wasn't a bit more than almost any other fellow would have done in my place. And I'm mighty glad I did it, for he's one o' the likeliest little chaps ever I saw!" "He is a very dear one to his father and mother, brother and sisters, and I should like to give to each of you fellows who helped in this thing, some little token of my appreciation of your kindly efforts. I will think it over and have a talk with you again, and you may consider what return I could make that would be the most agreeable and helpful to you." "About how much do you suppose that means?" asked one man of his mates, when the Captain had walked away. "Perhaps five dollars apiece," chuckled one of the others, "for the Captain is pretty generous; and likely Jones's share will be twice as much." "Nonsense! who wants to be paid for saving that cute little chap from drowning?" growled Jones. "I'd have been a coward if I'd indulged in a minute's hesitation." "I s'pose so," returned one of the others, "but you risked your life to save his, so deserve a big reward, and I hope and believe you'll get it." On leaving the group of sailors, the Captain went to the pilot-house and gave warm thanks there for the prompt slowing of the "Dolphin's" speed the instant the alarm of Ned's fall was given. "It was no more than any other man would have done in my place, Captain," replied the pilot, with a smile of gratification. "No," returned Captain Raymond, "some men would have been less prompt and the probable consequence, the loss of my little son's life, which would have been a great loss to his mother and me," he added, with emotion. "I think you are worthy of an increase of pay, Mr. Clark, and you won't object to it, I suppose?" "No, sir; seeing I have a family to support, I won't refuse your kindness, and I thank you very much for the kind offer." At that moment Violet drew near and stood at her husband's side. She spoke in tones trembling with emotion. "I have come to thank you, Clark, for the saving of my darling boy's life; for I know that but for the slowing of the engine both Jones and he might have lost their lives--sinking before help could reach them." "You are very kind to look at it in that way, Mrs. Raymond," returned Clark, in tones that spoke his appreciation of her grateful feeling, "but it was very little that I did--cost hardly any exertion and no risk. Jones is, I think, the only one deserving much, if any, credit for the rescue of the little lad." He paused a moment, then added, "But the Captain here has most generously offered me an increase of pay; for which I thank him most heartily." "Oh, my dear, I am very glad to hear that!" exclaimed Violet, addressing her husband. With the last word, her hand was slipped into his arm, and, with a parting nod to Clark, they turned and went back to the family group still gathered upon the deck under the awning. They found Elsie with Tiny on her shoulder and Tee-tee on her lap. "I must take care of them both now for awhile till Ned gets over that dreadful sea bath," she said, looking up smilingly at her parents as they drew near. "Yes, daughter, that is right," replied her father, "it was no fault of little Tee-tee that his young master fell into the sea." That evening Violet and the Captain had a quiet promenade on the deck together, in which they talked of those who had any share in the rescue of their little Ned, and what reward might be appropriate for each one. "I have heard there is a mortgage on the farm which is the home of Tom Jones and his mother," said the Captain. "I will pay that off as my gift to Tom, in recognition of his bravery and kindness in risking his own life in the effort to save that of our little son." "Do," said Violet, joyfully; "he certainly deserves it, and probably there is nothing he would like better." "He is certainly entitled to the largest reward I give," said the Captain, "though I daresay almost any of the others would have acted just as he did, if they had had the same opportunity." Ned slept well under his uncle's care that night, and the next morning appeared at the breakfast table looking much as usual, and saying, in answer to loving inquiries, that he felt as if nothing had happened to him; not a bit the worse for his bath in the sea. Nor was he disposed to blame Tee-tee for his involuntary plunge into the water; the two were evidently as fast friends as ever. After breakfast the Captain had a talk, first with Jones, then with the other men, in which each learned what his reward was to be. Jones was almost too much moved for speech when told of his, but expressed his gratitude more fully afterward, saying, "It is a blessed thing to have a home of one's own; especially when it can be shared with one's mother. Dear me, but won't she be glad!" And the others were highly pleased with the ten dollars apiece which fell to their shares. CHAPTER XIX. The yacht had now passed from the Caribbean Sea into the Gulf of Mexico and was headed for New Orleans, where they arrived safely and in due season. They did not care to visit the city--most of them having been there several times, and all wanting to spend at Viamede the few days they could spare for rest and pleasure before returning to their more northern homes. So they tarried but a few hours at the Crescent City, then pursued their way along the gulf, up the bay into Teche Bayou and beyond through lake and lakelet, past plantation and swamp, plain and forest; enjoying the scenery as of old--the beautiful velvety green lawns, shaded by their magnificent oaks and magnolias, cool shady dells carpeted with a rich growth of flowers; tall white sugar-houses and long rows of cabins for the laborers; and lordly villas peering through groves of orange trees. A pleasant surprise awaited them as they rounded at the wharf--at Viamede; a great gathering of friends and relatives--not only from the immediate neighborhood, but from that of their more northern homes--Edward Travilla and his family, Elsie Leland and hers, Rose Croly with her little one. It was a glad surprise to Violet, for her mother had not told her they had all been invited to spend the winter at Viamede, and had accepted the invitation. The cousins from Magnolia Hall, Torriswood and the cottage were all there. It seemed a joyful meeting to all; to none more so than to Chester and his sisters. It was their first meeting since his marriage, and they seemed glad to call Lucilla sister. "You must be our guest at Torriswood, Lu; you and Brother Chester," said Maud, when greetings were over, and the new arrivals were removing their hats in one of the dressing-rooms. "Thank you, Maud, of course we will spend a part--probably most of our time with you," replied Lucilla. "I expect to have a delightful time both there and here." "You shall there, if I can bring it about," laughed Maud. "I want you also, young Mrs. Raymond," she added, in playful tones, turning to Evelyn. "You will come, won't you?" "Thank you, I think I shall," was Eva's pleased reply. "You are wanted, too, Gracie," continued Maud. "And Dr. Harold is to be invited, and I hope will accept, for he is a great favorite with us ever since he saved Dick's life." "I think it entirely right that he should be," returned Grace, demurely, "and his presence will be no serious objection to me; in fact, as he is my physician, it might be very well to have him close at hand, in case I should be taken suddenly ill." "Very true," said Maud, bridling playfully, "though if he were not there, Dr. Percival might possibly prove an efficient substitute." There was a general laugh at that, and all hastened to join the rest of the company who were gathered upon the front veranda. Elsie and Ned were there with their new pets, which seemed to be attracting a good deal of attention. Elsie was sitting by her mother's side, with Tiny on her shoulder, and Ned stood near them with Tee-tee in his arms, stroking and patting him while he told how the little fellow had frightened him in his gambols about the yacht till, in trying to save him from falling into the sea, he had tumbled in himself. "Very foolish in you to risk your life for me, little master," Tee-tee seemed to say, as Ned reached that part of his story. Ned laughed, saying, "So you think, do you?" "Oh, it can talk! It can talk!" cried several of the children in astonishment and delight, while their elders turned with amused, inquiring looks to Cousin Ronald, the known ventriloquist of the family. "Yes, little master, so don't you do it ever again," seemed to come from Tee-tee's lips. "No, indeed, I think I won't," laughed Ned. "I can talk, too; quite as well as my brother can," seemed to come from Tiny's lips. "Yes, so you can, my pretty pet," laughed Elsie, giving him an approving pat. "Oh, oh! They can both talk!" exclaimed several of the children. "And speak good English, too, though they come from a land where it is not commonly spoken," laughed Chester. "But we heard English on the yacht, and we can learn fast," was Tee-tee's answering remark. "Especially when you can get Cousin Ronald to help you," laughed Ned. "There, Ned, I'm afraid you've let the cat out of the bag," laughed Lucilla. "I don't see either cat or bag," sniffed Ned, after an inquiring look around. "Your sister means that you are letting out a secret," said his father. "Oh, was I? I hope not," exclaimed the little fellow, looking rather crestfallen. "How does Cousin Ronald help him?" asked one of the little cousins. "I don't know," said Ned; "I couldn't do it." The call to the supper-table just at that moment saved Cousin Ronald the trouble of answering the inquiring looks directed at him. After the meal, all resorted again to the veranda, and the little tee-tees, having had their supper in the kitchen, were again a source of amusement, especially to the children. "Did the folks give you plenty to eat, Tee-tee?" asked Ned. "All we wanted, and very nice, too," the little fellow seemed to say in reply. "And he ate like--like a hungry bear; a great deal more than I did," Tiny seemed to say. "Well, I'm bigger than you," was Tee-tee's answering remark. "And both of you are very, very little; too little to eat much, I should think," laughed one of the children. "I've heard that they put the best goods in the smallest packages," Tee-tee seemed to say; then suddenly he sprang out of Ned's arms, jumped over the veranda railing, ran swiftly across the lawn and up an orange tree, Tiny leaving Elsie and racing after him. "Oh, dear, dear! What shall we do? Will they ever come back?" cried Elsie, tears filling her eyes as she spoke. "I think they will, daughter," said the Captain, soothingly. "Do you forget that I told you they would run up the trees? You and Ned have been so kind to them, petted them and fed them so well that they'll be glad, I think, to continue in your care, but now, like children, they want a little fun, such as they have been accustomed to in their forest life." That assurance comforted the young owners somewhat, and they chatted pleasantly with the other children until it was time for them to leave, but kept watching the tee-tees frisking about in that tree and others on the lawn, hoping they would weary of their fun and come back to them. But they had not done so when the guests took leave, nor when bedtime came, but the Captain comforted the children again with the hope that the tee-tees would finish their frolic and return the next day; which they did, to the great joy of their young master and mistress. Maud's invitation was accepted by all to whom she or Dick had given it. Magnolia Hall and the Parsonage claimed several of the others, and the rest were easily and well accommodated at Viamede. All felt themselves heartily welcome, and greatly enjoyed their sojourn of some weeks in that hospitable neighborhood and among near and dear relatives. Fortunately for Ned, his remark about Cousin Ronald helping the tee-tees with their talk, did not have the bad effect that he feared, and the older friends did not explain; so there was more fun of the same kind when the children were together and the kind old gentleman with them. As the stay of Grandma Elsie and her party was to be short, there was a constant interchange of visits between them and the relatives resident in the neighborhood, and much to the delight of the children, the little tee-tees were on constant exhibition. Sometimes they were to be seen darting here and there over the lawn, running up and down the trees or springing from one to another; but often, to the greater pleasure of the young folks, they were on the veranda, chasing each other round and round, or sitting on the shoulder of Elsie or Ned. Then if Cousin Ronald happened to be present, they seemed to be in the mood for conversation. "I like this place, Tiny, don't you?" Tee-tee seemed to ask one day, when they had just returned from a scamper over the lawn and up and down the trees. "Yes, indeed!" was the reply. "It's nicer than that vessel we came in. Let's stay here." "Oh, we can't. I heard the Captain talking about going back, and they'll certainly want to take us along." "But don't let us go. We can hide in the woods where they can't find us." "I think not," laughed Elsie; "we value you too much not to hunt you up before we go." "Dear me! I'd take good care they didn't get a chance to play that game," exclaimed one of the little cousins. "I think the best plan will be to pet them so much that they won't be willing to be left behind," said Elsie. "And that's what we'll do," said Ned. Just then there was an arrival from Torriswood and that put a stop, for the time, to the chatter of the Tee-tees. Dr. Percival and his Maud, with their guests from the north, were of the party, and all remained until near bedtime that night, when they went away with the pleasant assurance that the whole connection at that time in that neighborhood would spend the following day with them in their lovely Torriswood home, should nothing occur to prevent. Nothing did; the day was bright and beautiful, and not one of the relatives was missing from the pleasant gathering. To the joy of Elsie and Ned Raymond, not even the tee-tees were neglected in the invitation, and with some assistance from Cousin Ronald they made a good deal of fun, for at least the younger part of the company. The next day was spent by the same company at Magnolia Hall, and a few days later most of them gathered at the pretty Parsonage, where dwelt Cyril and Isadore Keith. Cyril was a much-loved and successful pastor, an excellent preacher, whose sermons were greatly enjoyed by those of the "Dolphin" party who were old enough to appreciate them. The Parsonage and its grounds made a lovely home for the pastor, his wife and the children with which Providence had blessed them, and the family party held there, the last of the series, was found by all quite as enjoyable as any that had preceded it. After that the old pastimes--rides, drives, boating and fishing excursions--were resumed, also the quiet home pleasures and rambles through the woods and fields; for they found they could not tear themselves away as quickly as they had intended when they planned to end their winter trip--leaving the return journey out of the calculation--with a short visit to Viamede. That neighborhood, with its pleasant companionship, was too delightful to be left until the increasing heat of the advancing spring should make it less comfortable and healthful for them than their more northern homes. So there let us leave them for the present. THE END. TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE: Obvious printer errors have been corrected. Otherwise, the author's original spelling, punctuation and hyphenation have been left intact. 
35042	----	WINTER FUN BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD AUTHOR OF "DAB KINZER," "THE QUARTET," "SALTILLO BOYS," ETC. NEW YORK CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 1885 COPYRIGHT, 1885, BY CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS. ELECTROTYPED AND PRINTED BY RAND, AVERY, AND COMPANY, BOSTON. CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. ALL AROUND A FIREPLACE CHAPTER II. RIGHT OUT INTO THE WOODS CHAPTER III. THE RABBIT-HUNT CHAPTER IV. WINTER COMFORT CHAPTER V. A WINTER PICNIC-PARTY CHAPTER VI. THE DONATION-PARTY CHAPTER VII. THE WORD-BATTLE AT COBBLEVILLE CHAPTER VIII. AN OLD-FASHIONED SNOW CHAPTER IX. GRAND COASTING CHAPTER X. THE DEER-HUNT ON THE CRUST CHAPTER XI. ON THE ICE CHAPTER XII. A VERY EXCITING WINTER EVENING CHAPTER XIII. A FIRESIDE STORY CHAPTER XIV. THE BEAR-TRAP CHAPTER XV. THE NEW CHESSMEN CHAPTER XVI. WINTER FLOWERS AND THE PARTY CHAPTER XVII. THE SNOW-FORT CHAPTER XVIII. THE SUGAR-BUSH AND THE BEAR CHAPTER XIX. THE FLOOD AND THE END WINTER FUN. CHAPTER I. ALL AROUND A FIREPLACE. The gate that opened from the yard into the lane leading back to the barn was directly opposite the side-door of the house. The door was shut, but the gate was open; and in it stood a gray-haired dame with a sharp nose and silver-rimmed spectacles. The house behind her was a small one, white-painted, without blinds to its windows, but with an air of snug comfort all over it. Just beyond the gate and the woman stood a tall, vigorous-looking young fellow of not more than eighteen; and his left hand was on the nose of a nice-looking horse; and behind the horse was a neat, bright, very red cutter. The boy's face was also somewhat rosy; and so, for that frosty moment, was the tip of his mother's nose. "Now, Lavawjer, that there cutter's all you've got to show for about as hard a month's work as ever you put in; but I won't say that the deacon drew a hard bargain with ye." "Well, mother, just look at it." "I'm a-lookin' at it, and it isn't the cutter it was. You've had it painted red, and varnished, and you've put on a new goose-neck in place of the broken one, and there's room in it for two if neither one on 'em was too heavy." "That's so, mother; and all you've got to do is just to try it. I'll take you to meeting in it next Sunday. You ought to see how the colt gets over the snow with only that cutter behind him." "I ain't a bit sorry you've got somethin' for him to do. You've been a-raisin' on him since before he was a yearlin', and he hasn't earned his keep." Mrs. Stebbins had made her first look at her son's new cutter a severe and searching one, and she told him very fully all her thoughts about it and about the sorrel colt. She was a faithful mother; but there was pride in her eye, and more red on the tip of her nose, when she turned to go into the house. He did not hear her say to herself,-- "He's the smartest boy in all Benton Valley, and now he's got the nicest horse and cutter,--that is, for his age, considerin',--and I ain't one bit afraid it'll spile him." He was now leading his sorrel pet, with the jaunty cutter following, out through the lane to the barn. It was a grand thing, and out of the common range of human events, for a country-boy of his age to have such an outfit all his own. Such things can always be accounted for, when you find them happening. If he were not just a little "spiled," it was no fault of his mother. She was a widow, and he was her only son; and she had talked to him and about him pretty steadily from the day he was born. He looked older than he really was now, and she often said so; but she sometimes added that he knew enough for a man of forty. She had named him "Le Voyageur," after a great French traveller whose name she had seen in a book when she was a girl; but the Valley boys had massacred all the beauty of it, and shortened it into "Vosh." No other fellow in all that country had so very remarkable a nickname. "Now, Jeff," he said, as he cast the sorrel loose from the cutter, "maybe there's a chance a-coming that you'll have a better-looking load to haul next time you're hitched in. I'll want ye to show your oats if you do." That remark could hardly have referred to Mrs. Stebbins and her next Sunday's ride to the meeting-house; but Jeff whinnied gently in reply, as if to express his willingness for any improvement, and Vosh led him into the stable. "City folks know some things," he remarked to Jeff, while he poured some oats in the manger; "but they don't know what good sleighing is. We'll show 'em, soon as we get some bells; and the deacon's got more buffaloes than he knows what to do with." That was a good half-hour before supper, and he seemed in no hurry to get into the house; but it was odd that his mother, at the very same time, should have been talking to herself, in default of any other hearer, about "city folks" and their ways and by-ways and shortcomings. She seemed to know a great deal about them, and particularly about their general ignorance concerning snow, ice, cold weather, and all the really good things of genuine winter. Both she and her son evidently had kindly and liberal feelings towards the hardest kind of frost, and were free to say as much, but were in doubt as to whether city people could live and be comfortable in such weather as had already come. Beyond a doubt, they were waiting for somebody. There is nothing else in the wide world that will keep people talking as that will; and Mrs. Stebbins said some things that sounded as if she were asking questions of the teakettle. Down the road a little distance, and on the other side of it, a very different pair of people were even more interested in city folk, and not in their shortcomings so much as in the fact that certain of them seemed to be too long a-coming. They were away back in the great old-fashioned kitchen of a farmhouse, as large as three of the one in which Mrs. Stebbins was getting supper for Vosh. "Aunt Judith, I hear 'em!" "Now, Pen, my child!" The response came from the milk-room, and was followed by the clatter of an empty tin milk-pan falling on the floor. "It sounded like bells." "It's the wind, Pen. Sakes alive! but they ought to be here by this time." "There, aunt Judith!" Pen suddenly darted out of the kitchen, leaving the long hind-legs of a big pair of waffle-irons sticking helplessly out from the open door of the stove. "Pen! Penelope!--I declare, she's gone. There, I've dropped another pan. What's got into me to-night? I just do want to see those children. Poor things, how froze they will be!" Penelope was pressing her eager, excited little face close to the frost-flowers on the sitting-room window. It was of no use, cold as it made the tip of her nose, to strain her blue eyes across the snowy fields, or up the white, glistening reaches of the road. There was nothing like a sleigh in sight, nor did her sharpest listening bring her any sound of coming sleigh-bells. "Pen! Penelope Farnham! What's that a-burnin'? Sakes alive! if she hasn't gone and stuck them waffle-irons in the fire! She's put a waffle in 'em too." Yes, and the smoke of the lost waffle was carrying tales into the milk-room. "O aunt Judith! I forgot. I just wanted to try one." "Jest like you, Penelope Farnham. You're always a-tryin' somethin'. If you ain't a trial to me, I wouldn't say so. Now, don't you tetch them waffles once again, on no account." "It's all burned as black"-- "Course it is,--black as a coal. I'd ha' thought you'd ha' known better'n that. Why, when I was ten years old I could ha' cooked for a fam'ly." "Guess I could do that," said Pen resolutely; but aunt Judith was shaking out the smoking remains of the spoiled waffle into the "pig-pail," and curtly responded,-- "That looks like it. You'll burn up the irons yet." Half a minute of silence followed, and then she again spoke from the milk-room:-- "Penelope, look at the sittin'-room fire, and see if it wants any more wood on it. They'll be chilled clean through when they git here." Pen obeyed; but it only needed one glance into the great roaring fireplace to make sure that no kind of chill could keep its hold on anybody in the vicinity of that blaze. A stove was handier to cook by, and therefore Mr. Farnham had put aside his old-fashioned notions, to the extent of having one set up in the kitchen. The parlor too, he said, belonged to his wife more than it did to him, and therefore he had yielded again, and there was a stove there also. It was hard at work now. He had insisted, however, that the wide, low-ceilinged, comfortable sitting-room should remain a good deal as his father had left it to him; and there the fireplace held its wood-devouring own. That was one reason why it was the pleasantest room in the house, especially on a winter evening. Penelope had known that fireplace a long while. She had even played "hide-and-coop" in it in warm weather, when it was bright and clean. But she thought she had never before seen it so full. "Such a big back-log!" she exclaimed aloud. But aunt Judith had followed her in to make sure of the condition of things, and it was her voice that added,-- "Yes, and the fore-stick's a foot through. Your father heaped it up just before he set out for the village. He might a'most as well have piled the whole tree in." "Father likes fire: so do I." "He's an awful wasteful man with his wood, though. Pen, just you put down that poker. Do you want to have them there top logs a-rollin' across the floor?" "That one lies crooked." "My child! let it be. I daresn't leave you alone one minute. You'll burn the house down over our heads, one of these days." Pen obeyed. She slowly lowered the long, heavy iron rod, and laid it down on the hearth; but such a fire as that was a terrible temptation. Almost any man in the world might have been glad to have a good poke at it, if only to see the showers of sparks go up from the glowing hickory logs. "There they come!" Pen turned away from the fire very suddenly; and aunt Judith put her hand to her ear, and took off her spectacles, so she could listen better. "I shouldn't wonder." "That's the sleigh-bells! It's our sleigh, I know it is. Shall I begin to make the waffles?" "Don't you tetch 'em. Pen, get out that chiny thing your mother got to put the maple-sirup in." "Oh, I forgot that." She brought it out like a flash now; and it must have been the only thing she had forgotten when she set the table, for she had walked anxiously around it twenty times, at least, since she put the last plate in its place. Faint and far, from away down the road, beyond the turn, the winter wind brought up the merry jingle of bells. By the time Pen had brought the china pitcher for the sirup from its shelf in the closet, and once more darted to the window, she could see her father's black team--blacker than ever against the snow--trotting towards the house magnificently. "Don't I wish I'd gone with 'em! But it was Corry's turn. I guess Susie isn't used to waffles, but she can't help liking 'em." That was quite possible, but it might also be of some importance whether Penelope or aunt Judith should have the care of the waffle-irons. Jingle-jangle-jingle, louder and louder, came the merry bells, till they stopped at the great gate, and a tall boy sprang out of the sleigh to open it. The front-door of the house swung open quicker than did the gate, and Pen was on the stoop, shouting anxiously,-- "Did they come, Corry? Did you get 'em?" A deep voice from the sleigh responded with a chuckle,-- "Yes, Pen, we caught 'em both. They're right here, and they can't get away now." "I see 'em! There's cousin Susie!" At that moment she remembered to turn and shout back into the house,-- "Aunt Judith, here they are! They've got 'em both!" But there was her aunt already in the doorway, with the steaming waffle-irons in one hand. "Sakes alive, child! You'll freeze the whole house. Poor things! and they ain't used to cold weather." Aunt Judith must have had an idea that it was generally summer in the city. The sleigh jangled right up to the bottom step of the stoop now. Mr. Farnham got out first, and was followed by his wife. They were followed by a very much wrapped-up young lady, into whose arms Pen fairly jumped, exclaiming,-- "Susie! Susie Hudson!" There were no signs of frost-bite on Susie's rosy cheeks, and she hugged Penelope vigorously. Just behind her, a little more dignifiedly, there descended from the sleigh a boy who may have been two years younger, say fourteen or fifteen, who evidently felt that the occasion called upon him for his self-possession. "Pen," said her mother, "don't you mean to kiss cousin Porter?" Pen was ready. Her little hands went out, and her bright, welcoming face was lifted for the kiss; but, if Porter Hudson had been a waffle, he would not have been burned by it at all. It was not altogether because he was a boy, and a big one, but that he was more a stranger. Susie had paid her country-cousins a long summer visit only the year before, while Porter had not been seen by any of them since he was four years old. Both he and they had forgotten that he had ever been so small as that. Mr. Farnham started for the barn, to put away his team, bidding Corry go on into the house with his cousins. Aunt Judith was at last able to close the door behind them, and keep any more of the winter from coming in. It took but half a minute to help Susie and Porter Hudson get their things off, and then aunt Judith all but forced them into the chairs she had set for them in front of the great fireplace. "What a splendid fire!" It was Susie said that, with the glow of it making her very pretty face look brighter and prettier, and very happy. She had already won aunt Judith's heart over again by being so glad to see her, and she kept right on winning it, needlessly; for every thing about that room had to be looked at twice, and admired, and told how nice it was. "It is indeed a remarkably fine fire," said Porter with emphasis, at the end of a full minute. "And we're going to have waffles and maple-sugar for supper," said Pen. "Don't you like waffles?" "Yes," said Porter: "they're very nice, no doubt." "And after such a sleigh-ride," chimed in Susie. "The sleighing is splendid, beautiful!" "More snow here than you have in the city?" suggested Corry to Porter. "Yes, a little; but then, we have to have ours removed as fast as it comes down,--get it out of the way, you know." "It isn't in the way here. We'd have a high time of it if we tried to get rid of our snow." "I should say you would. And then it does very well where the people make use of sleighs." "Don't you have 'em in the city?" Pen was looking at her cousins with eyes that were full of pity, but at that moment aunt Judith called to her from the kitchen,-- "Penelope, come and watch the waffle-irons while I make the tea." "Waffles!" exclaimed Susie. "I never saw any made." "Come with me, then. I'll show you; that is, if you're warm enough." "Warm! Why, I wasn't cold one bit. I'm warm as toast." Out they went; and there were so many errands on the hands of aunt Judith and Mrs. Farnham just then, that the girls had the kitchen stove to themselves for a few moments. Pen may have been six years younger, but she was conscious of a feeling of immense superiority in her capacity of cook. She kept it until, as she was going over, for Susie's benefit, a list of her neighbors, and telling what had become of them since the summer visit, Mr. Farnham came in at the kitchen-door, and almost instantly exclaimed,-- "Mind your waffles, Pen. You're burning 'em." "Why, so I did,--that one, just a little. I was telling Susie"-- "A little, my child!" interrupted aunt Judith. "I'd as lief eat burnt leather. Oh, dear! give me those irons." "Now, aunt Judith, please fill 'em up for Susie to try. I want to show her how." The look on Susie's face was quite enough to keep aunt Judith from making a breath of objection, and the rich creamy batter was poured into the smoking moulds. "Don't you let it burn, Susie," said Pen. "They want to come out when they're just a good brown. I'll show you." Susie set out to watch the fate of that waffle most diligently; but she had not at all counted on what might come in the mean time,--a visitor, for instance. Susie had already asked about the Stebbinses, and Pen had answered,-- "They know you're coming. Vosh was here this very morning, and I told him; and he said he'd be glad to have you call and see him." "Call and see him? Well." No more remarks had room to be made in just then; for, only a few minutes before aunt Judith poured out that waffle, Mrs. Stebbins had said to her son,-- "I heered the deacon's sleigh come up the road, Lavawjer. Jest you take a teacup, and go over and borry a drawin' of tea of Miss Farnham. Don't you miss nothin'. City ways'll spile most anybody; and that there Hudson gal--Susie, her name was--is likely gettin' stuck up enough by this time." She told him a great deal more than that before he got out of the door with his teacup, and it looked as if he were likely to have questions to answer when he should come back. He escaped a little unceremoniously, right in the middle of a long sentence. And so, just when Susie was most deeply absorbed in her experiment, there came a loud rap at the kitchen-door; then, without waiting for any one to come and open it, the door swung back, and in walked Vosh, as large as life, with the teacup in his hand. He did look large; but no amount of frost or fire could have made him color so red as he did when Susie Hudson let go of the irons, and stepped right forward to shake hands with him. "How d'ye do, Vosh? How is your mother?" "Pretty well, thank you. How do you do? Mother's first-rate, but she's wrong this time. I don't see as you're stuck up a bit. You're just like you was last summer, only prettier." The one great weakness in the character of Vosh Stebbins was that he could not help telling the truth, to save his life. It was very bad for him sometimes; and now, before Susie could smother her laugh, and make up her mind what to answer him, he held out his teacup to aunt Judith. "Miss Farnham, mother told me to borrow a drawing of tea. We ain't out of tea, by a long ways; but she heard the deacon's sleigh a-coming, and she wanted to know if the folks from the city'd got here." "They've come," said aunt Judith shortly, "Susie and her brother. You tell your mother I wish she'd send me over a dozen of eggs. The skunks have stolen ours as fast as the hens have laid 'em." "We've got some," said Vosh. "I'll fetch 'em over.--Susie, where's your brother?" "He's in the sitting-room." "Yes, Vosh," said Pen, "he's there. Walk right in. Corry's there too, and mother, and--O Susie! Dear me! our waffle's burned again." "Why! so it is." "Never mind, Susie," said aunt Judith with the most hospitable recklessness, as she shook out the proceeds of that careless cookery upon a plate. "It's only spiled on one side. There's always some of 'em get burned. Some folks like 'em better when they're kind o' crisp. I'll fill ye up another." Vosh looked as if he would willingly stay and see how the next trial succeeded; but politeness required him to walk on into the sitting-room, and be introduced to Porter Hudson. "Vosh," said Corry, "he's never been in the country in winter before in all his life, and he's come to stay ever so long. So's Susie." "That's good," began Vosh; but he was interrupted by an invitation from Mrs. Farnham to stay to supper, and eat some waffles, and he very promptly replied,-- "Thank you, I don't care if I do. I threw our waffle-irons at Bill Hinks's dog one day last fall. It most killed him, but it busted the irons, and we've been 'tending to have 'em mended ever sence. We haven't done it yet, though, and so we haven't had any waffles." Aunt Judith had now taken hold of the business at the kitchen stove; for Susie had made one triumphant success, and she might not do as well next time. All the rest were summoned to the supper-table. The room was all one glow of light and warmth. The maple-sugar had been melted to the exact degree of richness required. The waffles were coming in rapidly and in perfect condition. Everybody had been hungry, and felt more so now; and even Porter Hudson was compelled to confess that the first supper of his winter visit in the country was at least equal to any he could remember eating anywhere. "City folks," remarked Penelope, "don't know how to cook waffles, but I'll teach Susie. Then she can make 'em for you when you go back, only you can't do it without milk and eggs." "We can buy 'em." "Of course you can; but we lay our own eggs, only they get stole. You'll have to send up here for your maple-sugar." "We can buy that too, I guess." "But we get it right out of the woods. You just ought to be here in sugar-time." "Pen," said her father, "we're going to keep 'em both till then, and make them ever so sweet before we let 'em go home." He was at that moment glancing rapidly from one to another of those four fresh young faces. He did not tell them so, but he was tracing that very curious and shadowy thing which we call "a family resemblance." It was there, widely as the faces varied otherwise; and all their years had not taken it out of the older faces. Perhaps the city cousins, with especial help from Susie rather than Porter, had somewhat the advantage in good looks. They had it in dress also; but when it came to names--well, aunt Judith herself had had the naming of her brother's children, and she had done her best by them. Penelope and Coriolanus were every way larger names than Porter and Susan; and Vosh could have told them that there is a great deal in a name, if you can get it well boiled down for every-day use. CHAPTER II. RIGHT OUT INTO THE WOODS. Vosh Stebbins hurried away from Deacon Farnham's pretty soon after supper, but he had made no sort of mistake in staying that long. He had understood his duty to his mother precisely, and he had done it to her entire satisfaction. Almost her first words, after his return home, were,-- "Made ye stay to tea, did they? Well, I wouldn't have had ye not to stay, for any thing. Susie's fetched along her brother with her, has she? Now, jest you sit right down, and tell me; and I won't say one word till you git through, and I want to know." "Miss Farnham wants a dozen of eggs." "You don't say! Well, you jest take 'em right over, but don't you wait a minute. They won't want ye 'round the first evening. Tell her our poultry's doin' first-rate, and I don't see why she doesn't ever have any kind of luck with winter layin'. She doesn't manage right, somehow. Tell her it's all in feedin' of 'em. No kind of hens'll do well onless they git somethin' to eat." Vosh was counting his eggs into a basket, thirteen to the dozen; and he was out of the door with them before his mother had said half she wished to say about the best method for making hens prosper in cold weather. He obeyed his orders excellently, however, and came back at once to make his report to his mother as to the results of his first visit; that is, he returned to sit still, and put in a few words here and there, while she told him all he had done and said, and a good deal more than he had said or done, at Deacon Farnham's tea-table. It looked at last as if Mrs. Stebbins could almost have gone right on with an account of what was yet doing and saying around the great fire in the sitting-room. Vosh loved his mother dearly; but he was all the while thinking of that other fireplace, and wishing he were there--not in it, of course, but sitting in front of it. There was indeed a great deal of merry talk going on there, but Mrs. Farnham was a considerate woman. She insisted upon it that her niece and nephew must be tired with their long journey, and that they should go to bed in good season. It was of little use for them to assert the contrary, and Susie knew more about country hours than her brother did. The sitting-room had to be given up, fire and all, in favor of sleep. The last words Porter Hudson heard anybody say that night came from the lips of Penelope:-- "You needn't wait for me to ring the second bell in the morning. You'd a good deal better come right down into the sitting-room, where it's warm." It had taken three generations of hard-working and well-to-do Farnhams to build all there was of that great, queer, rambling, comfortable old farmhouse. Each owner had added something on one side or the other, or in the rear; so that there was now room enough in it for the largest kind of a family. Porter Hudson now had a good-sized chamber all to himself; but he remarked of it, shortly after he got in,-- "No furnace heaters in this house; of course not: they don't have such things in the country." No: nor was there any gas, nor hot and cold water; and the furniture was only just as much as was really needed. He had never before slept in a feather-bed; but he was not at all sorry to burrow into one that night, out of the pitilessly frosty air of that chamber. "How a fellow does go down!" he said to himself; "and it fits all around him. I'll be warm in a minute." And so he was, and with the warmth came the soundest kind of slumber. The Farnhams had kept any number of geese, year after year, in earlier days, and all their feather-beds were uncommonly deep and liberal. Susie had Pen for a chum, and that was a good reason why neither of them fell asleep right away. It is always a wonder how much talking there is to be done. It is a good thing, too, that so many enterprising people, old and young, are always ready to take up the task of talking it, even if they have to lie awake for a while. Silence came at last, creeping from room to room; and there is hardly anywhere else such perfect silence to be obtained as can be had in and about a farmhouse away up country, in the dead of winter and the dead of night. It is so still that you can almost hear the starlight crackle on the snow, if there is no wind blowing. Winter mornings do not anywhere get up as early as men and women are compelled to, but it is more completely so on a farm than in the city. The chamber Porter Hudson slept in was as dark as a pocket when he heard the clang of Penelope's first bell that next morning after his arrival. He sprang out of bed at once, and found his candle, and lighted it to dress by. One glance through the frosty windows told him how little was to be seen at that time of the year and of the day. In another instant all his thoughts went down stairs ahead of him, and centred themselves upon the great fireplace in the sitting-room. He dressed himself with remarkable quickness, and followed them. He thought that he had never in his life seen a finer-looking fire, the moment he was able to spread his hands in front of it. Mrs. Farnham was there too, setting the breakfast-table, and smiling on him; and Porter's next idea was, that his aunt was the rosiest, pleasantest, and most comfortable of women. "It would take a good deal of cold weather to freeze her," he said to himself; and he was right. He could hear aunt Judith out in the kitchen, complaining to Susie and Pen that every thing in the milk-room had frozen. When Corry and his father came in from feeding the stock, however, they both declared that it was a "splendid, frosty, nipping kind of a morning." They looked as if it might be, and Porter hitched his chair a little nearer the fire; but Corry added,-- "Now, Port, we're in for some fun." "All right. What is it?" "We're going to the woods after breakfast. You and I'll take our guns with us, and see if we can't knock over some rabbits." "Shoot some rabbits!" "I'll take father's gun, and you can take mine." Just then Pen's voice sounded from the kitchen excitedly,-- "Do you hear that, Susie? They're going to the woods. Let's go!" "Oh! if they'll let us." "Course they will." "Pen! Penelope Farnham! Look out for those cakes." "I'm turning 'em, aunt Judith. I'm doing 'em splendidly.--Susie, some of your sausages are a'most done. Let me take 'em out for you." "No, Pen: I want to cook them all myself. You 'tend to your cakes." Buckwheat-cakes and home-made sausages,--what a breakfast that was for a frosty morning! Susie Hudson was puzzled to say which she enjoyed most,--the cooking or the eating; and she certainly did her share of both very well for a young lady of sixteen from the great city. "Port, can you shoot?" asked Corry a little suddenly at table. "Shoot! I should say so. Do you ever get any thing bigger than rabbits out here?" "Didn't you know? Why, right back from where we're going this morning are the mountains. Not a farm till you get away out into the St. Lawrence-river country." "Yes, I know all that." "Sometimes the deer come right down, specially in winter. Last winter there was a bear came down and stole one of our hogs, but we got him." "Got the hog back? Wasn't he hurt?" "Hurt! Guess he was. The bear killed him. But we followed the bear, and we got him,--Vosh Stebbins and father and me." Porter tried hard to look as if he were quite accustomed to following and killing all the bears that meddled with his hogs; but Pen exclaimed,-- "Now, Susie, you needn't be scared a bit. There won't be a single bear--not where you're going." "Won't there?" said Susie almost regretfully. "How I'd like to see one!" There was a great deal more to be said about bears and other wild creatures; and, just as breakfast was over, there came a great noise of rattling and creaking and shouting in front of the sitting-room windows. "There he is!" said Corry. Susie and her brother hurried to look; and there was Vosh Stebbins with Deacon Farnham's great wood-sleigh, drawn by two pairs of strong, long-horned, placid-looking oxen. "Couldn't one pair draw it?" asked Porter of Corry. "Guess they could, but two's easier; and, besides, they've nothing else to do. We'll heap it up too. You just wait and see." There was not long to wait, for the excitement rose fast in the sitting-room, and Susie and Pen were in that sleigh a little in advance of everybody else. Its driver stood by the heads of his first yoke of oxen, and Susie at once exclaimed,-- "Good--morning, Vosh. What a tremendous whip!" "Why, Susie," said Pen, "that isn't a whip, it's an ox-gad." "That's it, Pen," said Vosh; but he seemed disposed to talk to his oxen rather than to anybody else. The yoke next the sleigh stood on either side of a long, heavy "tongue;" but the foremost pair were fastened to the end of that by a chain which passed between them to a hook in their yoke. These latter two animals, as Vosh explained to Susie, "were only about half educated, and they took more than their share of driving." He began to do it for them now, and it was half a wonder to see how accurately the huge beasts kept the right track down through the gate and out into the road. It seemed easier then, for all they had to do was to go straight ahead. "Let me take the whip, do, please," said Susie; and Vosh only remarked, as he handed it to her,-- "Guess you'll find it heavy." She lifted it with both hands; and he smiled all over his broad, ruddy face, as she made a desperate effort to swing the lash over the oxen. "Go 'long now! Git ap! Cluck-cluck." She chirruped to those oxen with all her might, while Vosh put his handkerchief over his mouth, and had a violent fit of coughing. "You'll do!" shouted her uncle from behind the sleigh. "That's first-rate. I'll hire you to team it for me all the rest of the winter.--Boys, you'd better put down your guns. Lay them flat, and don't step on 'em." Porter Hudson had stuck to his gun manfully from the moment it was handed him. He had carried it over his shoulder, slanting it a little across towards the other shoulder. He had seen whole regiments of city soldiers do that, and so he knew it was the correct way to carry a gun. He was now quite willing, however, to imitate Corry, and put his weapon down flat on the bottom of the sleigh. The gun would be safe there; and, besides, he had been watching Vosh Stebbins, and listening, and he had an idea it was time he should show what he knew about oxen. They were plodding along very well, and Susie was letting them alone at the moment. "Susie," he said, "give me that gad." Vosh looked somewhat doubtful as she surrendered the whip. They were going up a little ascent, and right beyond them the fences on either side of the road seemed to stop. Beyond that, all was forest, and the road had a crooked look as it went in among the trees. Porter had stronger arms than his sister, and he could do more with an ox-gad. The first swing he gave the long hickory stock, the heavy, far-reaching lash at the end of it came around with a "swish," and knocked the coon-skin cap from the head of Vosh. Then the whip came down--stock, lash, and all--along the broad backs of the oxen. "Gee! Haw! G'lang! Get up! G'lang now! Haw! Gee!" Porter felt that his reputation was at stake. He raised the gad again, and he shouted vigorously. The tongue-yoke of oxen right under his nose did not seem to mind it much, and plodded right along as if they had not heard any one say a word to them; but their younger and more skittish helpers in front shook their heads a little uneasily. "Gee! Haw! G'lang!" Porter was quite proud of the way the lash came down that time, and the cracker of it caught the near ox of the forward team smartly on the left ear. It was a complete success, undoubtedly; but, to Porter's astonishment, that bewildered yoke of steers forward whirled suddenly to the right. The next moment they were floundering in a snow-drift, as if they were trying to turn around and look at him. Perhaps they were; but Vosh at that moment snatched the gad from Porter, and sprang out of the sleigh, saying something, as he went, about "not wanting to have the gals upset." Corry was dancing a sort of double shuffle, and shouting,-- "That's it! First time I ever saw an ox-team gee and haw together. Hurrah for you, Port!" "Pen," said Susie, "what does he mean?" "Mean? Don't you know? Why, it's 'gee' to turn 'em this way, and it's 'haw' to turn 'em that way. They can't turn both ways at once." That double team had set out to do it quite obediently, but Vosh got matters straightened very quickly. Then he stuck to his whip and did his own driving, until the sleigh was pulled out of the road, half a mile farther, into a sort of open space in the forest. There was not much depth of snow on the ground, and there were stumps of trees sticking up through it in all directions. Vosh drove right on until he halted his team by a great pile of logs that were already cut for hauling. "Are they not too big for the fireplace?" asked Susie of Pen. "Of course they are," said Pen; but Corry added,-- "We can cut up all we want for the stoves after we get 'em to the house. The big ones'll cut in two for back-logs." He had been telling Porter, all the way, about the fun there was in felling big trees, and that young gentleman had frankly proposed to cut down a few before they set out after any rabbits or bears. "Just see father swing that axe!" said Pen proudly, as the stalwart old farmer walked up to a tall hickory, and began to make the chips fly. "It's splendid!" said Susie. Vosh Stebbins had his axe out of the sleigh now, and seemed determined to show what he could do. It looked like the easiest thing in the world. He and the deacon merely swung their axes up, and let them go down exactly in the right place; and the glittering edges went in, in, with a hollow thud, and at every other cut a great chip would spring away across the snow. "It doesn't take either of them a great while to bring a tree down," said Corry. "You fetch along that other axe, and we'll try one. They've all got to come down: so it doesn't make any difference what we cut into." The girls were contented to stay in the sleigh and look on, and the oxen stood as still as if they intended never to move again. "Susie!" exclaimed Pen, "here comes Ponto. Nobody knew where he was when we started." There he was now, however,--the great shaggy, long-legged house-dog,--coming up the road with a succession of short, sharp barks, as if he were protesting against being left out of such a picnic-party as that. "Pen! he's coming right into the sleigh." "No, he ain't. You'll see. He'll go after Corry. He's only smelling to see if the guns are here. He knows what they mean." "Will he hunt?" "I guess he will. When father or Corry or Vosh won't go, he goes off and hunts by himself, only he doesn't bring home any game." He seemed just now to be stirred to a sort of frenzy of delighted barking by what his nose told him, but at the end of it he sat down on the snow near the sleigh. No dog of good common sense would follow a boy with an axe away from the place where the guns were. Meantime, Corry had picked out a maple-tree of medium size, and had cut a few chips from it. It was easy to see that he knew how to handle an axe, if he could not bury one as deeply in the wood of a tree as could his father or Vosh. He also knew enough too, somehow, to get well out of the way when he handed the axe to Porter Hudson, remarking,-- "Now, Port, cut it right down. Maybe it's a bee-tree." "Bee-tree! Are there any in winter? Do you ever find any?" "Well, not all the while; but there are bee-trees, and the bees must be in 'em, just the same, in any kind of weather." That was so, no doubt; but if there had been a dozen hives of bees hidden away in the solid wood of that vigorous maple-tree, they would have been safe there until spring, for all the chopping of Porter Hudson. He managed to make the edge of the axe hit squarely the first time it struck, but it did not more than go through the bark. No scratch like that would get a chip ready. Porter colored with vexation; and he gave his next cut a little hastily, but he gave it with all his might. The edge of the axe hit several inches from the first scratch, and it seemed to take a quick twist on its own account just as it struck. It glanced from the tree, and away it went into the snow, jerking its handle rudely out of Porter's hands. "I declare!" "I say, Port, don't let's cut down any more trees. Let's get our guns, and go down into the swamp for some rabbits. There's Ponto. He'll stir 'em up for us." Porter was fishing for his axe with a pretty red face, and he replied,-- "I guess we'd better. I'm not much used to chopping." "Of course not." "We burn coal in the city." "No chopping to do. I know how it is. Got your axe? Come on." All that was very polite; but Corry had less trouble now, in keeping up a feeling of equality with his city cousin. They were nearly of an age; but a city boy of fourteen has seen a great many things that one of the same years, brought up among the northern lakes and mountains, knows nothing about, and Corry had been a little in awe of Porter. They had tucked their trousers into their boots when they left the house; and now they got their guns out of the sleigh, slung their powder-flasks and shot-pouches over their shoulders, and marched away through the woods. The two girls looked after them as if they also were hungry for a rabbit-hunt. As for Ponto, that very shaggy and snowy dog was plainly intending to run between every two trees, and through each and every clump of bushes, as if in a desperate state of dread lest he might miss the tracks of some game or other. Sniff, sniff, sniff, everywhere! and twice he actually began to paw the snow before he and his two sportsmen were out of sight from the sleigh. "Boys can have more fun in the woods than girls," began Susie half regretfully. "No, they can't, Susie. Just you watch that tree. It'll come down pretty quickly. It'll make the splendidest kind of a crash." It was good fun to watch that chopping, and see the chips fly. Susie found herself becoming more and more deeply interested, as the wide notches sank farther and farther into the massive trunks of the two trees her uncle and Vosh Stebbins were working on. Vosh chopped for dear life; but, in spite of all he could do, the deacon had his tree down first. It was a tall, noble-looking tree. There were no branches near the ground, but there was a fine broad crown of them away up there where the sun could get at them in summer. It seemed almost a pity to destroy a forest-king like that, but at last it began to totter and lean. "O Pen! it's coming." "Don't shut your eyes, Susie: keep 'em open, and see it come." Susie did try; but when that tall, majestic trunk seemed to throw out its great arms, and give the matter up, she could not look any longer, and she put her head down. Then she heard a tremendous dull, crashing sound, and her eyes came open to see a cloud of light snow rising from the spot on which the forest-king had fallen. "Isn't it splendid!" "Yes, Pen, it's wonderful." "Vosh's tree is almost ready. There! it's going to go." Vosh had not been as careful as Deacon Farnham in aiming the fall of his tree, for it went down into the arms of a smaller one, crashing and breaking through them; and the sharp, snapping sound of the crushed branches went far and wide through the silence of the snowy forest. Pen said nothing, and Susie was conscious of a sort of still feeling, as if she had no further remarks to make just then. CHAPTER III. THE RABBIT-HUNT. Deacon Farnham was fond of chopping down trees; but he had not brought a big sleigh into the woods that morning, with two yoke of oxen, merely to have them stand still in the snow while he did some chopping. Such fires as he kept up at the farmhouse called for liberal supplies; and so Susie was to have an opportunity to see a load of logs put on. She and Pen had to get out of the sleigh, and then she expressed her wonder if her uncle and Vosh would be strong enough to lift those huge "back-log" pieces into it:-- "They never can do it, Pen, not in all the world." "Lift 'em! Of course they won't. I'll show you how they do it: it's dreadful easy, soon as you know how." It would hardly have been as easy for Pen and Susie as it seemed to be for Vosh and the deacon. They took all the side-stakes out of the sleigh, on the side towards the wood-pile; and they put down, with one end of each on the sleigh, and the other end in the snow, a pair of long, strong pieces of wood that Vosh called "skids:" that made an inclined plane, and it was nothing but good hard work to roll the logs up, and into their places on the sleigh. They made a tier all over the sleigh-bottom, and then the lighter logs were piled on them in regular order, till the load was finished off on top with a heap of bark and brushwood. "That'll crackle good when it burns," said Vosh. "I like brush on a fire: don't you?" Susie said she did; and she probably told the truth, for she was beginning to think she liked every thing in the country, even in winter. "Now, Pen," said Vosh, "if you and Susie'll climb up, we'll set out for home with this load." "Isn't your father coming, Pen?" "No, Susie, I guess he won't." "Will he stay here and chop trees all alone?" "He says he likes it, and he isn't a bit afraid of being alone. There's a man at the house to help Vosh when we get there. Now, Susie, we must climb." There was fun in that, but Pen was up first. "Is your dress caught, Susie?--Vosh, help Susie: she's caught on a splinter." "I'll help her." "No, you needn't. There, it isn't torn much.--Now, Pen, do you think the oxen can pull such a load as this?" "Of course they can." In a minute or so more, Susie began to have new ideas about the management of oxen, and how strong they were, and how wonderfully willing. They seemed to know exactly what to do, with a little help from Vosh and his long whip. When all was ready, and they bowed their horns, and strained against their yokes with their powerful necks, it seemed as if they could have moved any thing in the world. One long strain, a creaking sound, and then a sudden giving-way and starting, and the snow began to crunch, crunch, beneath the wide, smooth runners of the sleigh. Vosh walked beside his team, and drove it away around in a semicircle, carefully avoiding trees and stumps, until he and his load were once more in the road, and on their way home. "Hark!" exclaimed Susie just then. "Was that the report of a gun, or was it the sound of another tree falling?" "Guess it was a gun," said Vosh. "It's one of the boys shooting at something. Plenty of game, if they can hit it." If they had been listening with any kind of attention, they might have heard a similar sound before, although the place where the boys were was at some distance from what Vosh called "the clearing." Corry and Porter had pushed on after Ponto as best they could; but he had not stirred up for them any game in the thick, gloomy forest. "No rabbits here," said Porter. "Sometimes there are a few," said Corry; "but this isn't the place. We're most there now: we'd better load up." "The guns,--aren't they loaded?" "No. We never leave a charge in. Father says a gun's always safe when it's empty." Corry put the butt of his gun on the ground while he spoke, and Porter watched him narrowly. "That's his powder-flask," he said to himself. "I might have known that much. The powder goes in first: of course it does." He had never loaded a gun in all his life, and his experience with the axe had made him feel a little cautious. Still he tried to make quick work of it; and, when Corry began to push down a wad of paper after the powder, his city cousin did the same thing, only he was a little behindhand, and he put in a much bigger wad of paper. "How he does ram it! So will I," Porter remarked. "Don't put too many shot into that gun. I'll measure 'em for you. You'll know next time. It scatters too much if you overcharge it." Porter was wondering at that very moment how many shot he had better put in, or whether he should try the big shot from one side of his shot-pouch, or the smaller shot from the other. "What are the big ones for?" he asked, when he saw Corry choose the smaller size. "Buckshot? Oh! you can kill almost any thing with buckshot,--deer, or even bear." "Can you? I never used 'em. Thought they were big for rabbits." He was glad to know his gun was correctly loaded, however; and he imitated Corry in putting on the caps for both barrels, as if he had served a long apprenticeship at that very business. "We haven't reached the swamp yet, have we?" "No, but we have a'most. It's a great place for rabbits, when you get there. Halloo! Ponto's started one! Come on, Port!" They did not really need to stir a foot, for the swift little animal the dog had disturbed from his seat among the bushes was running his best right toward them. "There he is!" shouted Porter. "Try him, Port." "No, you try him." Corry's gun was at his shoulder, and in another second the bright flash leaped from the muzzle. "Did you hit him? He didn't stop running: he kept right on." "Missed him, I guess. Too many trees, and it was a pretty long shot." "Why, it didn't seem far." "Didn't it? That's 'cause it was over the snow: it was more'n ten rods. Hark! hear Ponto!" The old dog was barking as if for dear life, and the boys ran as fast as the snow would let them. They had not far to go before they could see Ponto dancing around the foot of a huge beech-tree. "If he hasn't treed him!" "Treed a rabbit! Why, do you mean they can climb?" "Climb! Rabbits climb! I guess not. But that tree's hollow. See that hole at the bottom? The rabbit's in there, sure." "Can we get him?" "We'll try, but it won't pay if it takes too long,--just one rabbit." Porter Hudson had a feeling that it would be worth almost any thing in the world to catch that rabbit. He hardly knew how to go to work for it; but he felt very warm indeed while his cousin stooped down and poked his arm deeper and deeper into the hole in the tree. It did not go down, but up; and it was a pretty big one at its outer opening. "Is it a hollow tree, Corry?" "Guess not, only a little way up." "Can you feel him?" "Arm isn't long enough." Ponto whimpered, very much as if he understood what his master was saying. That was probably not the first runaway game which had disappointed him by getting into a den of safety of one kind or another. "Hey, Port! Here he comes!" "Got him, have you?" "There he is." Corry withdrew his arm as he spoke, and held up in triumph a very large, fat, white rabbit. "You did reach him." "No, I didn't. Some of my shot had hit him, and he came down the hole of his own weight. Don't you see? They didn't strike him in the right place to tumble him right over: he could run." "Poor fellow!" said Porter: "he won't run any more now." It was of small use to pity that rabbit, when the one thought uppermost in his mind was that he could not go home happy unless he could carry with him another of the same sort, and of his own shooting. Corry loaded his gun again, and on they went; but pretty soon he remarked,-- "We're in the swamp now, Port." "I don't see any swamp: it's all trees and bushes and snow." "That's so, but there's ice under the snow in some places. You can't get through here at all in the spring, and hardly in summer. It's a great place for rabbits." Ponto was doubtless aware of that fact, for he was dashing to and fro most industriously. There were plenty of little tracks on the snow, as the boys could now plainly see; but they crossed each other in all directions, after a manner that puzzled Porter Hudson exceedingly. "How will he find out which one of them he'd better follow up?" "Wait, Port: you'll see." Porter was taking his first lesson as a sportsman, and was peering anxiously behind trees and in among the nearest bushes. Suddenly he saw something, or thought he saw it, which made him hold his breath and tremblingly lift his gun. "Can that be a real rabbit," he thought, "sitting there so still?" He did not utter a loud word; and the first Corry heard about it was from both barrels of his cousin's gun, fired in quick succession. Bang, bang! they went. "What is it, Port?" "I've got him! I've got him!" He was bounding away across the snow, and disappeared among some thick hazel-bushes. A moment more, and he was out again, with a rabbit in his hand every ounce as big as the one Corry had killed. "First-rate, Port! Was he running?" "No, he was sitting still, and listening for something." Corry was too polite to say that no regular sportsman fired at a rabbit unless it was running. It would have been a pity to have dampened Porter Hudson's tremulous exultation over his first game. He held that rabbit up, and looked at it, until he grew red in the face. He had no time to talk then; for he had his gun to load, and he was in no small anxiety as to whether he should succeed in getting the charge in rightly. Besides, there was Ponto racing across the farther side of the swamp, with a big rabbit just ahead of him. He was a capital jumper, that rabbit, and he was gaining on his barking pursuer when he ran out within range of Corry Farnham's gun. Only one barrel was fired, but Ponto's master was ahead again. "Two to my one," said Porter. "You'll have chances enough. Don't you let off both barrels every time, though, or you may lose some of 'em. Fill your rabbits all full of shot, too, like that one." Port's idea had been that both barrels of his gun were there for the purpose of being fired off, but he was quite ready to take a hint. He had more and more serious doubts, however, about his ability to hit a rabbit on the run. The first time he actually tried to do it, he doubted more than ever. His chance and his disappointment came to him a little after Corry's gun was loaded, and while they were crossing the swamp. "I must have hit him," he said, as he lowered his gun, and looked after the rabbit he had fired at, and which was still clearing the snow with long, vigorous jumps. "Well, if you did," said Corry, "he hasn't found it out yet." "Your first one didn't find out he was hit till he got into the tree." "That's so. But I never knew it to happen just so before. Ponto's after that one again! He's turned him around those sumach-bushes. He's coming this way. Give him your other barrel. Shoot ahead of him." Porter was positive, in his own mind, that he could not hit that rabbit, and he felt himself blushing as he raised his gun; but he tried to see the rabbit somewhere beyond the end of it, and then he blazed away. "I declare! you've done it! A good long distance too." It was so very long, that the shot had scattered a great deal, and one of the little leaden pellets had strayed in the direction of that rabbit,--just one, but it was as good as a dozen, for it had struck in a vital spot; and Porter was as proud as if the skin of his game had been filled with shot-holes. "I'm even with you now." "That's so. If you only had practice, you'd shoot well enough." Almost two hours went by, after that, and they tramped all over the swamp. Porter killed another sitting rabbit; but Corry was again one ahead of him, and was feeling half sorry for it, when he suddenly stopped marching, and lifted his hand, exclaiming,-- "Hear Ponto! Hark! Away yonder!" "Started another rabbit." "No, he hasn't. It isn't any rabbit this time." "What is it? What is it?" "Hear that jumping? Hear Ponto's yelp? It's a deer." "Deer! Did you say it was a deer? Can you tell?" "Hark! Listen!" Ponto was no deer-hound. He was somewhat too heavily built for that kind of sport; but any deer of good common sense would get away from his neighborhood, all the same. The certainty that the dog could not catch him would not interfere with his running. Ponto's discovery was a really splendid buck, and he was in a terrible hurry when his long, easy bounds brought him out from among the forest-trees into the more open ground in the edge of the swamp. Porter thought he had never before seen any thing half so exciting, but the buck went by like a flash. Just half a minute later, Corry turned ruefully to his cousin, and asked him,-- "Port, what did you and I fire both barrels of our guns for?" "Why, to hit the deer." "At that distance? And with small shot too? If they'd reached him, they'd hardly have stung him. Let's go home." Porter was ready enough; and it was not long before even Ponto gave up following the buck, and came panting along at the heels of his master. He looked a little crestfallen, as if he were nearly prepared to remark,-- "No use to drive deer for boys. I did my duty. No dog of my size and weight can do more." They had a tramp before them. Not that they were so far from home, but then it was one long wade through the snow until they reached the road; and Porter Hudson knew much more about the weight of rabbits by the time he laid his game down at the kitchen-door of the farmhouse. They had been growing heavier and heavier all the way, until he almost wished he had not killed more than one. CHAPTER IV. WINTER COMFORT. Susie and Pen had a grand ride to the farmhouse on the wood-sleigh. Perched away up there on top of the brushwood, they could get the full effect of every swing and lurch of the load under them. Vosh Stebbins had to chuckle again and again, in spite of his resolute politeness; for the girls would scream a little, and laugh a great deal, when the sleigh sank suddenly on one side in a snowy hollow, or slid too rapidly after the oxen down a steeper slope than common. It was great fun; and, when they reached the house, Susie Hudson almost had to quarrel with aunt Judith to prevent being wrapped in a blanket, and shoved up in a big rocking-chair into the very face of the sitting-room fireplace. "Do let her alone, Judith," said aunt Farnham. "I don't believe she's been frost-bitten." "I'm not a bit cold." "I'm real glad o' that," said aunt Judith; "but ain't you hungry?--Pen, you jest fetch up some krullers." Susie admitted that she could eat a kruller, and Pen had no need to be told twice. When Vosh came back from the woods with his second load, it was dinner-time; and Deacon Farnham came with him. Only a few minutes later, there was a great shouting at the kitchen-door, and there were the two boys. The whole family rushed out to see what they had brought home, and Susie thought she had never seen her brother look quite so tall. "Corry beat ye, did he?" said Vosh as he turned the rabbits over. Something in the tone of that remark seemed to add, "Of course he did;" and Port replied to it,-- "Well, he's used to it. I never fired a gun before in all my life." That was a frank confession, and a very good one to make; for the deacon exclaimed,-- "You never did! I declare! then you've done tip-top. You'll make a marksman one of these days." "I hit two of my rabbits on the full run, anyhow." "How about the deer?" said Vosh with a sly look. "Did you hit him on the run?" "When you meet him," said Corry, "you can just ask him. He's the only fellow that knows: I don't." "Like as not he doesn't either." "Vosh," said Mrs. Farnham, "tell your mother to come over with you after tea, and spend the evening." "She'll come: I know she will. I'll finish my chores early." He swung his axe to his shoulder, and marched away, very straight, with a curious feeling that some city people were looking at him. The boys and the girls and the older people were all remarkably ready for that dinner as soon as it was on the table. "Pen," said Susie, "I didn't know chopping down trees would make me so hungry." "Yes," said Deacon Farnham, "it's as bad as killing deer. Port and Corry are suffering from that. You did your chopping, as they did their deer-killing, at a safe distance." After dinner it was a puzzle to everybody where the time went, it got away so fast. Pen took Susie all over the house, and showed her every thing in it, from the apples in the cellar to the spinning-wheel that had been carried up stairs the day before, and would have to come down again to-morrow. "Aunt Judith's got a pile of wool, Susie. You ought to see it. She's going to spin enough yarn to last her all next summer." "I'll get her to teach me to spin." "Can you knit? If you can't, I'll teach you how. It's awful easy, as soon as you know." Susie told Pen about her tidies and crochet-work and some other things, and was getting a little the best of it, until Pen asked very doubtfully,-- "Can you heel a stocking? It's worse, a good deal, than just to narrow 'em in at the toes. Aunt Judith says there ain't many women nowadays that can heel a stocking." "I'll make her show me how. Dear me, Pen! did you know how late it is? Where can all the time have gone to?" Corry and Porter knew where a part of theirs had gone, after they got back from the barns, and delivered to Mrs. Farnham and aunt Judith the eggs they had found. Corry got out his checker-board, and laid it on the table in the sitting-room. "It's a big one," said Porter. "Where are your men?" "Hanging up there in that bag. The wooden men got lost. We take horse-chestnuts for black men, and walnuts for white ones." "S'pose you make a king?" "That's a butternut, if it's black. If it's white, you put on one of those chunks of wood." There was no danger of their getting out of checker-men; but Corry Farnham had a lesson to learn. Porter Hudson knew a great deal more about checkers than he did about tree-chopping or rabbits. Game after game was played, and it seemed to Corry as if his cousin "hit some of them on a full run." He got up from the last one they played, feeling a very fair degree of respect for Port; and the latter was pretty well restored to his own good opinion of himself. That was something, for all his morning's experiences had been a little the other way; and he was not half sure he could again hit a running rabbit, if he should have a chance to try. Susie and Pen had watched them for a while, but both boys had been very obstinate in not making any of the good moves Pen pointed out to them. There were chores to do both before and after tea; and Porter went out with Corry, determined on undertaking his share of them. "Did you ever milk cows, Port?" "Well, no, I never did; but I guess I could if I tried." "Well, I guess you'd best not try to-night, but you can learn before you go home. Some of our cows are skittish in cold weather." Port was quite contented, after getting into the cowyard, to let the milking be done by some one who knew how; and he had the satisfaction of seeing Corry kicked over into the snow--pail, milk, and all--by a brindled heifer who had no need of any kind of weather to bring out her natural skittishness. There were pigs and cattle and horses to feed, and supper to be eaten; and when, at last, the boys had finished their duties, the rest of the family was already gathered in the sitting-room. Mrs. Farnham and aunt Judith had their knitting; and the deacon had a newspaper in his lap, with his spectacles lying in the middle of it. It seemed, however, the most natural thing in the world, that they should all be sitting in a great semicircle in front of the fireplace. The night promised to be a cold one, and the fire had been built for it in the most liberal manner. "Corry," said Porter, "what are all those flat-irons and hammers for?" "Why, to crack nuts. I'm going down cellar to bring 'em up,--butternuts and hickory-nuts. There was a big crop of 'em last fall." "I'll go with you." "So will I," said Pen. "Come, Susie, and we'll bring up the apples and pears and some cider." "Now, Pen," said aunt Judith, "look out you don't leave the cider runnin', like you did once. You may fetch up a cake of maple-sugar, if anybody wants any. And don't you tetch them hard russets. They won't be fit to eat till spring." Aunt Judith's instructions continued almost without cessation, till the young folk were all at the bottom of the cellar-stairs. Corry and Pen carried candles; but the light of these only served to make that cellar look ten times larger and darker and more mysterious. It seemed as if it had neither sides nor ends; but the heavy black beams overhead were not so wonderfully far away. Pen showed Susie bin after bin of carefully selected winter apples and pears, and there were half a dozen barrels of cider ranged against the wall. "It's all pretty sweet now, but it'll be hard enough some time. Then some of it'll make vinegar." "What's in the little barrel?" "Aunt Judith's currant-wine. She says it'll be the best wine in the world when it's old enough. Whenever anybody in the Valley gets sick, she takes a bottle of it, and goes there." "She's real good." "Susie, look at all the mince-pies on the swing-shelf." "Ever so many!" Scores of them, for the swing-shelf ran the whole length of the cellar right down the middle, and it held double rows of pies all ready to be carried up and warmed for use. Susie would have been willing to stay a few minutes, and look at the treasures in that cellar; but Corry suddenly exclaimed,-- "Port, let's hurry. They've come. Don't you hear Mrs. Stebbins?" Just a little before that, aunt Judith up stairs had turned to the deacon with the remark,-- "Joshaway, I knew she'd come with Vosh. You can always hear her before she gets to the gate; leastwise, on a quiet night like this. I remember one night it was a-stormin', and the wind blew so hard she got right up to the door, and I hadn't heard a sound till she had her hand on the latch." They could hear her now. "And, Lavawjer, you must just mind one thing: you mustn't talk too much. Let them do their own talkin', specially Susie. I can't begin to tell what kind of a gal she's growin' up to be, onless I can hear her talk." "Then Vosh'll have to keep a-givin' his mother somethin' to eat," snapped aunt Judith: "she never stops talkin' any other time." Mrs. Farnham herself, while the young people were down stairs, had thoughtfully walked out into the storeroom adjoining the kitchen, and returned with a long-handled wire corn-popper, and a bag of what she called "'tucket corn." It was corn with small, round, blue-black kernels, that can pop out larger and whiter, for its size, than any other kind that grows. There is a legend that the seed of it came originally from the island of Nantucket; but it has short "nubbin" ears, and even the island Indians must have found it a poor crop for any thing but popping. Mrs. Stebbins was at the door now; and she never dreamed of knocking, and waiting out there in the cold until somebody should come to let her in. She was hardly over the threshold, before she said, as she loosened her shawl,-- "Judith, where is Susie and her brother, and Corry and Pen? They haven't gone away somewhere the very first night, have they? Vosh he told me they'd be at home, and I just thought I'd come over." "They're down cellar. They'll be right up in a minute. Now, Angeline, you jest take off your hood and sit down.--Vosh, there's a chair. Hadn't you better take that popper and set to work?" "Vosh tells me," continued his mother, "the boys got half a dozen of rabbits to-day. I don't care much for rabbits, but their hind-legs'll do to brile. And they seen a deer too. I'd ha' thought they might ha' shot it, if it was nigh enough. But then, deer isn't anyways like as easy to kill as they was when I was a gal. And they was only a couple of boys. I do say, now, here they come, and they're makin' racket enough for twenty." They were coming indeed, streaming up out of the cellar, with every pair of hands full and a little more; and Mrs. Stebbins did not stop for an instant. "Susie, is that you? Well, now, I must kiss you right away. Vosh said you was lookin' real pretty, and so you be; but he ain't always a good jedge. I knowed your mother when she wasn't no older'n you be now. She was Joshaway Farnham's sister. And so she's gone South for her health, and your father's gone with her, and you've come to put in the rest of your winter up here?--I do declare, Lavawjer, ef you ain't kerful, you'll burn up every kernel of that corn. Don't you stop to talk, and gawk around. Jest you tend to your corn-poppin'." She had managed to get up from her chair and kiss Susie without interrupting the steady clack of her tongue; but she was a little out of breath for a moment, and sat still and watched them while they deposited upon the table the tall brown pitcher of cider, the pans of fruit, and the maple-sugar. The young folks had a chance to say a word to Vosh, and Corry and Porter each picked up a flat-iron and a hammer. There were plenty of nuts ready for them; and the sound of the cracking, and of the rattling, bursting corn in the popper, mingled oddly with Susie's efforts to answer the rapid inquiries poured upon her by Mrs. Stebbins. "Now, Susie, I'm glad you've come. You're right from the city, and you're a well-grown gal now, and you know all about the fashions. We don't hear a word about 'em up here away till they've all come and gone, and somethin' else is in fashion. Got to wearin' short dresses, hev they? Think of me, or Judith, or your aunt Sarah Farnham, in short dresses! Wearin' panners too. I do say! What won't they put on next! Last thing they got up was them little skimp skirts for hard times, that came so nigh bein' the ruin of the dry-goods men. Didn't take no cloth at all.--Lavawjer, you're a-talkin' again. You just tend to your pop-corn." "Now, Angeline," said Mrs. Farnham, "do take an apple, or a pear." "Yes, Angeline," said aunt Judith, "and here's a plate of popped corn, and some nuts.--Joshaway, pour her out a mug of cider.--Pen, go to the cupboard and fetch a plate of krullers. It's the coldest kind of a night." "So it is," began Mrs. Stebbins, "but the winters ain't what they used to be. No more the butternuts aren't, somehow; but I must say, you make out to have good fruit, though how you do it in these times beats me. Our trees die out." Likely as not they did; but the attack had fairly begun, and poor Mrs. Stebbins found herself out-numbered. The deacon pressed her with the cider, and Mrs. Farnham with the krullers. There was the heaped-up plate of snowy white popped corn, and beside it was the tempting little hill of cracked hickory-nuts and butternuts. Susie broke off for her a noble piece of maple-sugar; and aunt Judith herself took a candle, and went down cellar for a couple of the best mince-pies. It was all too much for conversation of the kind Mrs. Stebbins delighted in. "O Vosh!" suddenly exclaimed Susie. "Corry told us this morning about the bear you killed last winter." It was cruel to mention such a thing just as Mrs. Stebbins had lifted a kruller, and she began to say,-- "Yes, about that bear. Lavawjer's father"--But she had to pause a moment, and Vosh took it up with,-- "No, Susie, I didn't kill him: I guess it was all three of us. He was chockfull of lead when he rolled over. We weren't twenty feet from him. Deacon Farnham he fired first, and then I did, and Corry; and we all had double-barrelled guns, and we didn't one of us miss. But it was a big bear"-- "Biggest kind," said Corry, "or he never could ha' lifted a fat hog clean out of the pen the way he did." "I knowed a bear," began Mrs. Stebbins; but aunt Judith interrupted her with,-- "Now, Angeline, do take a slice of mince-pie. It's cold, but sometimes it's better cold than it is when it's warm." The pie was too much for the memory of that other bear. The sound of popping corn and cracking nuts had been almost incessant, and the young people had now succeeded in breaking all the ice the fire had left in that sitting-room. They were old acquaintances all around, and were chatting away merrily among themselves, with less and less reference to what might be going forward among the old folk by the table. Mrs. Farnham and aunt Judith seemed to keep right along with their knitting, whatever else they might be doing. It seemed to do itself, a great deal like their breathing. Even the deacon managed to look into the corners of his newspaper while he pared an apple, or talked to Mrs. Stebbins. The light of the great astral-lamp on the table mingled with that from the fireplace in a sort of reddish-golden glow, that flickered over the walls and faces in a way to make every thing and every body wear a warm, contented, cosey look, that was just the right thing for a frosty winter evening. By and by there came almost a full half-minute of silence, and at the end of it Vosh burst out as if an idea had taken him by surprise. "I do declare! I never saw any thing jollier'n this is, in all my born days." "Vosh," said Corry, "Port can beat you at checkers. You ought to have seen the way he beat me to-day. You just try him a game." "Now, Lavawjer," said his mother from beyond the table, "you kin play well enough for way up here, but you can't think of comin' up to sech a young feller as Porter Hudson. He'll beat ye, sure." At all events, he needed no more than that to make him try to do it; and Penelope brought out the great square board, and the bag of home-made checkers. It must be confessed, that, after his triumphant experience with Corry, Porter Hudson imagined himself to have quite taken the measure of up-country skill and science at that game. He sat down to his new trial, therefore, with a proud assurance of a victory to come. It would have been kind of Corry to have given his cousin the least bit of a warning, but that young gentleman had been himself too roughly handled to feel very merciful. Besides, he had some very small and lingering doubt as to the result, and was willing to wait for it. He need not have had any doubt, since there was really no room for any. Vosh was a born checker-player, and it is never easy to beat a fellow of that sort. Nobody ever knows exactly how they do it, and they themselves cannot tell. Their spare men get to the king-row, and their calculations come out right; and if you are Porter Hudson, and are playing against them, you get beaten very badly, and there's no help for you. Corry watched that game with a suppressed chuckle, but it was a dreadful puzzle to Port. Even Pen did not venture to suggest a single good move, and the older people talked very quietly. Mrs. Stebbins was a proud woman when Susie exclaimed,-- "Vosh has won it!" It was of no use for aunt Judith to say,-- "Won't you have another slice of pie, Angeline, and some more cider?" Mrs. Stebbins responded,-- "I don't keer if I do. Only I'm afeard it'll make me dream and talk in my sleep. Lavawjer always did play checkers mighty spry, but he ain't the player his father was when he was a young man. He didn't have no time to play checkers after he got to runnin' a farm of his own. Pie? Yes, Judith, you've got jest the right knack of makin' mince-pies." And while she went on to tell of the various good and bad pies she had seen or tasted, all the rest agreed with her about those they were eating. In fact, the good things of all sorts went far to reconcile even Porter Hudson to his defeat, and Vosh was truly polite about that. In less than two minutes he managed to get the other boys, and even the girls, talking about hunting, skating, coasting, sleigh-riding, and catching fish through the ice. The evening seemed to melt away, it went so fast; and no one was willing to believe how late it was when Mrs. Stebbins began to put on her hood. They all saw her and Vosh to the door, and did not close that until the gate shut behind the last words the good woman succeeded in sending back to them. It was something about boiled cider in mince-pies, but they failed to get it. CHAPTER V. A WINTER PICNIC-PARTY. The Stebbins farm was not a large one, and neither its house nor barns compared well with Deacon Farnham's; but there was a great deal to be done in and around them, even in winter. Vosh was a busy boy, therefore, the next morning, and his mother was a busy woman; and it was not until an hour after breakfast that she said to him,-- "Now, Lavawjer, you jest hitch up that there new red cutter of yourn, and fetch it around. I want you to drive me to Benton Village, and, if I can't find what I want there, I'm goin' right on to Cobbleville." Vosh had been thinking up a series of excuses for going over to the deacon's, but he made no mention of them; and it was a credit to him that his new turnout was so soon standing, all ready, by the front gate. It was not a bad idea, that his first long drive in it should be with his mother; but he had a string of surprises before him that day. The first came in the fact that his mother was unaccountably silent, and that, whenever she did open her lips, she had something to say about economy. Then she talked a little of the wickedness and vanity of buying or wearing any thing "just for show." City people, she freely declared, were doing that very thing all the while, and she was glad enough no one alive could accuse her of it. Vosh was quite sure she was right; but he could not help, when they drove by Deacon Farnham's, and he saw the girls at the window, being a little glad that his cutter was of so bright a red, and so remarkably well varnished. Benton Village was right down there in the valley, and the sorrel colt pulled them there in so short a time that it was no sleigh-ride at all. Mrs. Stebbins said as much, after she had bought some tea and sugar at one store, and some raisins and some coffee at another. "They haven't got what I want, Lavawjer. You kin drive right along to Cobbleville. There never was better sleighin', not even when I was a gal." That was a great deal for her to admit, and Vosh put the colt to his very best speed along the well-travelled road to Cobbleville. That was several long miles, but they were strangely silent ones. "Where shall I pull up, mother?" asked Vosh as they drove into the one long street of the village. "You kin make your first stop right there, at old Gillis's harness-shop. I want to look at some o' them things in his front winder." Something or other must have winked at Vosh; for he was out of that cutter, and had his colt hitched in front of Gillis's, in about half his usual time. "Lavawjer," she said to him as she paused on the sidewalk, "don't you ever buy a thing just for show. You mustn't ever let your vanity get the best of you." Two minutes later she was holding in her right hand a very useful string of sleigh-bells, and saying to him,-- "Now, Lavawjer, if you're ever drivin' along after dark, you won't be run into. Anybody'll know you're there, by the jingle. I'll kinder feel safer about ye." Vosh thought he had not often seen less vanity in any thing than there was in those bells, and he was thinking of going right out to put them on the sorrel, when his mother exclaimed,-- "There! that's what I've been a-lookin' for,--that there red hoss-blanket, with the blue border and the fringe. Jest tell me what the price of it is." It was only a very little, the best blanket in the shop; and she said to her son,-- "I don't know but it's kinder showy. You can't exactly help that. But it won't do for you to let that colt of yourn git warm, drivin' him sharp, and then let him catch cold when you hitch him. You must take keer of him, and see't he has his blanket on. You'll find it mighty useful." "Guess I will!" said Vosh, with a queer feeling that he ought to say something grateful, and didn't know how. He was thinking about it, when his mother said to him,-- "That there headstall of yourn is gettin' cracked, and the check-rein might break some day. The rest of your harness'll do for a while. It's always safe to have your leather in good condition." No doubt; and the sorrel colt was a different-looking animal when Vosh exchanged the head-gear he had worn coming, for the new rig the careful Mrs. Stebbins bought for him. "Now, Vosh, there isn't any thing else I want in Cobbleville, but you may drive through the main street, and we'll take a look at the town." He unhitched the colt, and sprang in after her. The new headstall, check-rein, and the bells were already in their places. The brilliant blanket was spread across their laps as they sat in the cutter. Vosh touched up the sorrel, and all the Cobbleville people who saw that turnout dash up the street for half a mile and back again were compelled to admit that it was decidedly a neat one. "Now, Lavawjer," said his mother, "don't you never do nothin' jest for show. If you want to take Judith Farnham or her sister, or Penelope, or Susie Hudson, out a-sleighin', they won't need to turn up their noses at the rig you come after 'em in." They had all been talking of Vosh and his mother that morning at Deacon Farnham's, and it was plain that the good qualities of the Stebbins family were fully understood by their next-door neighbors. The boys hoped Vosh would come over in the course of the day, but he did not. The next day was Saturday, and still he did not come. He was at work in his own barn, shelling corn for dear life, to let his mother know how fully he appreciated her generosity. He felt that it would take an immense deal of hard work to express all he felt about the bells and the blanket, not to speak of the bright bits of new harness. The next day was Sunday, and Deacon Farnham's entire household went to meeting down at Benton Village. Almost all they saw of Vosh was when they turned around to look at the choir. Susie only did that once, for she somehow connected her catching his eye with the fact that he just then started on the wrong stanza of the hymn they were singing, and so got himself looked at by the choir-leader. The next day, just after tea, Vosh came over "to have a word with Deacon Farnham," and he had an errand of some importance this time. Corry and Porter stood by, with their mouths wide open, while he delivered it. He was just inside the kitchen-door; and Susie and Pen were sitting on the other side of the stove, paring apples. "There was a man came by to-day from one of the lumber camps way up among the mountains. He was on his way to town for supplies and things. He says the road to Mink Lake's good enough for a sleigh." "All the way?" asked the deacon somewhat doubtfully. "Every inch of it: I asked him. Now, why couldn't we go in for a mess of pickerel?" "And a grand sleigh-ride!" exclaimed Corry. "And an old-fashioned winter picnic!" added aunt Sarah Farnham. "How would you like that, Susie?" "A winter picnic! I never heard of such a thing. How do you do it? Seems to me it would be splendid, if you could." "A picnic, a picnic!" shouted Pen. "Fishing through the ice, Susie, and--and--there's ever so many other things.--Mother, can we go?" Vosh Stebbins had spoken only about the pickerel, but the larger enterprise was what had really been upon his mind. Before he went home it had been thoroughly discussed, and pretty well arranged for. "Corry," said Port after Vosh went away, "what sort of a place is Mink Lake?" "It's the prettiest kind of a lake. It's a great place to go to in summer,--just crowded with fish." "Is it far?" "About eight or nine miles, right through the woods and around among the mountains. Crookedest road you ever saw. It's apt to be snowed up in winter; but we haven't had any deep snow yet, and it hasn't drifted much, somehow." "What kind of fish,--trout?" "Yes, there's trout, but there's more bass and pickerel and perch. You're apt to be awfully bothered with pumpkin-seeds in summer." Port was silent. He wanted to ask about the pumpkins, and how the seeds could bother a fellow when he was fishing for trout. After a minute or so, he uttered one word,-- "Pumpkin-seeds?" "Crowds of 'em. They're the meanest kind of fish. Bite, bite, bite, and you keep pulling 'em in, all the while you want something bigger." "Can't you eat 'em?" "Yes, they're good to fry, but they're full of bones. Not enough of 'em." "They won't bite in winter, will they?" "Hope not. Tell you what, Port, we're in for the biggest kind of a time." That was an exciting evening. Nobody seemed to want to go to bed, and the semicircle around the fireplace talked of hardly any thing else but fishing and hunting. Deacon Farnham himself came out with some stories aunt Judith said she hadn't heard him tell for more than a year. Porter and Susie had no stories to tell, but they could listen. The former went to bed at last, with a vague feeling that he would rather go to Mink Lake. It was a good while before he got to sleep, and even then he had a wonderful dream. He dreamed he was trying to pull a fish as large as a small whale through a sort of auger-hole in some ice. He pulled so hard, he woke himself up; but he could roll over and go to sleep soundly, now the fish was gone. The house was early astir in the morning; and Deacon Farnham's long, low box-sleigh, drawn by his two big black horses, was at the door by the time they were through breakfast. Mrs. Farnham had decided not to go, because, as she said,-- "It's Judith's turn. Somebody's got to stay and keep house." It had required some argument to persuade aunt Judith that it was her duty to go, but she had taken hold of the preparations with a will. It was wonderful what an amount of wrapping-up she deemed necessary for herself and all the rest. "Why, Judith," said the deacon, "it's a good deal warmer in the woods than it is out here." "I've heerd tell so, and mebbe it's true, but I don't put any trust in it. I've no notion of bein' frost-bit before I get back." There was little to be feared from the frost, with all the buffalo-robes and blankets and shawls and cloaks that were piled into that sleigh. When its passengers were in, they made quite a party. There was the deacon (who insisted on driving), and aunt Judith, and Mrs. Stebbins and Vosh, and Corry, and Susie Hudson and Porter, and Penelope, in the sleigh, with Ponto all around outside of it; besides all the baskets of luncheon, the fishing-tackle, axes, and guns. "You can't shoot fish," said Susie. "May shoot something else," said Vosh. "There's no such thing as telling. It's a wild place." "Susie!" exclaimed Pen, "didn't you know there were deer up at Mink Lake,--real deer?" "Corry," whispered Port, "let's get one before we come home." "Father's got his gun by him, all ready, but he won't let us get ours out till we reach the lake. He may get a shot at something as he drives along." There was a sharp lookout for all kinds of wild animals, after the way began to wind among the piny woods, and through the desolate-looking "clearings" left by the choppers. The road was found even better than Vosh's news had reported it, and the black team pulled their merry load along quite easily. The young folk soon got over the solemn feeling which came upon them when they found themselves actually in the great forest. It was delightful to shout, and listen for echoes; and to sing, and know there was not a living pair of ears to hear, except those in the sleigh, and Ponto's. It was about two hours after they left the farmhouse, and Port had just remarked,-- "Seems to me we've been going up hill all the time," when Corry suddenly exclaimed,-- "There it is! That's Mink Lake. It'll be down hill all the way going home. See it!" "Lake!" said Port. "I don't see any lake. Oh, yes, I do! It's all ice and snow,--frozen clean over." "And we haven't seen a single deer yet," said Susie sorrowfully. "You can see some now, then," replied Vosh as he eagerly pointed forward. "See 'em, Susie? See 'em? Way down yonder on the ice." "I see them!" shouted Pen. "One, two, three, _four_ of 'em." "Those black specks?" said Susie. There they were indeed, and they were beginning to move rapidly across the ice; but they were too far away for any thing more than just to make out what they were. Even Ponto continued to plod along soberly behind the sleigh. He was too old a dog to excite himself over any such distant and impossible game as that. Deacon Farnham seemed to know exactly what he was about; for he drove right on where nobody else could see any road, until he stopped in front of a very small and very rudely made kind of house. "Aunt Judith," asked Susie, "did anybody ever live here?" "Live here, child? Why, that there's a choppers' shanty. It's for anybody that wants it, now they've done with it." That was so, but it was not for the mere human beings of that picnic-party. The deacon took his horses from the sleigh, and led them in through the rickety door. "They're a little warm," he said, "but they won't catch cold in there. I'll give 'em a good feed, Vosh, while you're starting a fire.--Get the guns and tackle out, Corry." Vosh had had a hard struggle with himself that morning to leave his own horse and cutter at home; but his mother had settled it for him. She remarked,-- "I'd ruther be in the big sleigh with the folks, so I can hear what's goin' on. So would Susie Hudson, or aunt Judith Farnham. You'd be kind o' lonely. Besides, that little thing of yourn 'd be upsettin' twenty times, over them mountain roads." He was ready with his axe now; and Porter Hudson opened his eyes at the rapidity with which a great fire was blazing on the snow, a little distance from the shanty. "What are we to get into?" asked Port. "We won't need any shelter," said aunt Judith. "When it's time for dinner, we can eat it in the sleigh." They were not yet thinking of eating. The first business on hand was a trip to the lake. Vosh Stebbins took his axe with him, and he and the deacon each carried a long, wide board. Port managed not to ask what these were for, and he had not a great while to wait before he knew. "Vosh," said the deacon, "the ice must be pretty thick. Hope we sha'n't have to chop a hole." "There's one air-hole, away yonder. It doesn't look too wide." "Shouldn't wonder if it'd do." "Susie," said Pen, "don't you know? That's where all the fish come up to the top to get a breath of fresh air." There was some truth in Pen's explanation, in spite of the laugh she got from Mrs. Stebbins. Susie said nothing, for she was all eyes at that moment. She thought she had never seen any thing stranger or more beautiful than that little lake, all frozen, with the hills around it, and the mountains beyond them. The broken slopes of the hills and mountains were covered with white snow, green pines, spruces, hemlocks, and with the brownish gray of the other trees whose leaves had fallen from them. It was very wonderful and new to a young lady from the city. "Most half the lake," said Vosh, "is smooth enough to skate on. If I'd ha' thought of that, I'd ha' brought along my skates." It would have been worth while. Mink Lake was what some people call a "pond," and was hardly a mile wide by an irregular mile and a half long. There was an immense skating-rink there now, in spite of the snow which covered a large part of it. Susie was just about to ask some more questions, when her uncle shouted,-- "This'll do, Vosh! Bring along your slide." That was the board he was carrying, and its use was plain now. The air-hole was an opening in the ice, not more than two feet across, but the ice was thin at the edges of it. A heavy man, or a busy one, might break through, and let himself into a cold bath; but when those two "slides" were slipped along on either side of the hole, any one could walk right out, and drop in a hook and line safely enough. "There, Susie," said Pen, "now we can keep our feet dry while we catch our fish." "Now, folks!" exclaimed the deacon. "Two at a time. We'll take turns." "Your turn's good till you've hooked a fish," said Vosh to Porter, as he handed him a line. "You and the deacon try it first." It seemed very easy,--nothing to do but to stand on a dry board, and drop a line with a baited hook at the end of it through a two-foot hole in the ice. There was no long waiting to be done either. "Father, father!" shouted Pen in a few moments. "You've got him!" There was a sort of electric shock went through the entire picnic; but the deacon jerked out a very good-looking fish with an unthankful look on his face. "Nothing but a perch. He's a pound and a quarter, though.--Here, Mrs. Stebbins, take that other line, and see what you can do." Mrs. Stebbins had talked quite industriously all the way, and even after they got upon the ice; but she stopped short the moment she took hold of that line. She had hardly dropped it in, before Porter Hudson exclaimed,-- "Corry, Corry!" "Pull, Port! Pull! You've got a big one." "So have I," screamed Mrs. Stebbins. "Deacon!--Vosh! It's awful! Come help me!" "Pen," said Susie, "could it pull her through the hole?" "Why, Susie!" Pen's eyes and mouth were wide open; for both her cousin and Mrs. Stebbins were leaning back, and it seemed as if something down below were jerking at them. "Wind it round your wrist, Port," said Corry. "Hang on!" "Now, mother," said Vosh as he took hold of her line, "I declare, you _have_ hooked a good one. I guess I'll pull him in for you." It hardly seemed to cost him an effort to bring a great three-pound pickerel through the hole, and sling him out upon the ice. "That's better than perch, deacon." "Shall I help you, Port?" asked Corry. "No, sir-e-e-e! I'll bring in my own fish." "Hand over hand! Don't let him get away from you." Port's blood was up, now he had seen that other pickerel landed, and he pulled with all his might. "Now lift," said Vosh. "Don't let him rub his nose against the ice, or he'll break loose. Don't lean over too far. That's it." It was splendidly exciting; and Port followed the directions given him, although his heart was beating quickly, and he thought he had never lifted any thing else quite so heavy as that fish. "Out he comes!" he shouted. "Hurrah for Port!" said aunt Judith. "It's the biggest one yet." So it was; and a proud boy was Porter Hudson when Deacon Farnham declared that the great fish he had fought so hard with was a seven-pound pickerel. "Now, aunt Judith, it's your turn next." "Me, Corry? Me? What could I do with a cretur like that?" "I'll help you if you get a big one. Here's your line: you must try." She had to be coaxed a little more, but she consented, and Susie herself took the other line. The fish were biting hungrily; for in less than a minute aunt Judith gave a little scream and a jerk, and began to pull in her line; then another little scream and another jerk, and then,-- "Perch!" she exclaimed. "Ain't I glad it wasn't a pickerel!--Penelope, you can ketch the rest of my fish for me. I'll just look on." Susie's face grew almost pale, as she stood there with her line in her hand, waiting for something to pull on it. "Do they nibble first, Vosh?" Hardly were the words out of her mouth, before her line was suddenly jerked away from her. Vosh had just time to catch hold of the piece of wood the rest of it was wound upon. "I've lost him, I've lost him!" "No, you haven't, but he's running pretty well. Guess I'd better snub him. He'd have cut your fingers with the line if you'd ha' tried." Susie's soft white hands were hardly suited to work of that sort, and they were already getting a little cold. She was quite willing to pick up her muff, and slip them into it while Vosh pulled in her pickerel for her. It was a right good one too, only a little less weighty than Porter's. Pen had now taken the line from aunt Judith, and she dropped her hook in very confidently. "There isn't a scrap of bait on it," said Corry. "Isn't there? I forgot that. Just wait a minute, and then I'll let you put some on." Corry and the rest began to laugh, but Pen shouted again,-- "He's nibbling! Now he's biting! Oh, he's bit!" So he had, bait or no bait; and she was quite strong enough to pull up a very handsome perch without help from anybody. After that, Deacon Farnham and the boys had the fishing all to themselves. It was well there was enough of it to make it exciting; for it was wet, cold, chilly work. The fish were of several sorts and all sizes; and some of them rubbed themselves free against the icy edges of the hole, in spite of all that could be done. Before noon there was a considerable pile of them lying on the ice, and the fun of catching them had lost a little of its power to keep the cold away. Long before the fishermen decided that they had caught enough, Mrs. Stebbins and aunt Judith and the girls got tired of looking on, and set out across the ice towards the sleigh and the very attractive-looking fire. The latter had been well heaped up at first, and was now blazing vigorously. "We must have a good dinner ready for 'em," said aunt Judith when she turned away,--"all the fish they can eat." "You carry one," said Mrs. Stebbins: "I'll take a couple more. The girls can help. We'll brile 'em, and we'll fry 'em, and we'll roast 'em in the ashes." She tried to think of some other way, but she could not. She and aunt Judith were excellent cooks, and knew just what to do with fresh fish and such a fire. It was by no means their first picnic either, and the right things to cook with had not been left at home. Susie and Pen entered into the spirit of it with a vast deal of enthusiasm, but they were quite contented to let the more experienced cooks clean the fish. "We're having the splendidest kind of a time, ain't we?" said Pen. "Splendid! It's the first winter picnic I ever heard of." "I never had one before, but I've heard mother tell of 'em." There was plenty to do; and when at last the fishermen gave up dropping lines through the air-hole, and came plodding slowly back across the ice, there was all the dinner they could reasonably ask for, hot and smoking, and ready for them. Such noble strings of fish they were dragging after them, and such hearty appetites they brought to that tempting "spread"! There was hot coffee to be drank out of tin cups, fish in several styles of cookery, crisp fried pork, roasted potatoes, bread and butter, and last of all was some cold meat that nobody seemed to care for. "Will there be any dessert?" asked Port. "Aunt Judith's got some mince-pies warming on the log by the fire." "What a dinner for the woods!" "Woods! Why, the choppers have fresh fish and potatoes and coffee all the while, and sometimes they have venison." "Game," said Port, "but no pie." "Vosh," said Susie, "what has become of all your deer?" Just at that moment they heard old Ponto barking away at a great rate in the woods near by; and Vosh sprang up, exclaiming,-- "He's treed something!" "Guess he has," said the deacon. "Get your guns, boys. Load with buckshot." "Mine's loaded," said Vosh. "Mine'll be ready in a minute," said Corry. "Quick now, Port!" "Hold on," said the deacon. "We must all have a share in the fun, if there is any." It seemed to Susie and Pen that they could hardly wait for those two guns to be loaded; and Mrs. Stebbins exclaimed,-- "Judith, I do hate a gun; but I'm a-goin' with 'em. Ain't you?" "Course I am. Just hark to that there dog!" He must have shared in the general impatience, to judge by the noise he was making; and now there came another and a very curious kind of sound from that direction. "It's a baby crying," said Pen. "Or a cat," began Port. "Sakes alive!" exclaimed Mrs. Stebbins. "I do believe the critter's gone and treed a wildcat." "I guess that's it," said the deacon. It was indeed that precisely. They all kept together, as they waded through the snow to a spot about twenty rods into the woods, from which they could see old Ponto bounding hither and thither around the trunk of a tall maple-tree that stood by itself in the middle of an open space in the forest. "No other tree handy for him to jump into," said Vosh. "There he is!" "Where?" asked aunt Judith. "See him? Up there on that big lower limb!" "It's a good forty feet from the ground," said the deacon. "Come on, boys.--All the rest stay here." "O Pen!" said Susie, "I do believe I'm afraid. Will he jump?" "They'll shoot him down, and then Ponto'll grab him." "He'd make short work of one dog, if he once got at him," said Corry. "Too much for Ponto." There was little doubt of that, for it was a wildcat of the very largest size; not so dangerous an animal as a panther, but a terribly hard scratcher, and apt to require a great deal of killing. He seemed even larger than he really was, as he drew himself up on the long, bare limb of the tree, and looked down so savagely upon his barking enemy. It may be that the smell of the cookery, particularly of the fish, had tempted him so near the picnic. Then Ponto had scented him in turn, and had chased him into that solitary tree. "Now, boys," said Deacon Farnham, "all around the tree! Fire as soon as you can after I do, but keep your second barrels. We may have to give him more lead, even if we knock him down." Porter Hudson knew he was not one bit scared, and wondered why he should shake so when he tried to lift his gun and take aim. He was sure he could not shoot straight, and hoped the shot would scatter well. "Now, boys!" Bang! went the deacon's gun; and the other three followed, aim or no aim. The wildcat replied with an angry scream, and began to tear the bark of the limb with his sharp, strong claws. How they would have gone through any kind of flesh! That was only for a second or so; and then he suddenly gathered himself for a spring at the spot nearly under him, where Ponto was furiously barking. Alas for the great cat of the woods! Too many buckshot had struck him, and he fell short of his mark in the snow. Vosh had been watching, and he was nearest. Hardly did the wounded animal reach the snow, before Susie saw Vosh spring forward, and fire the second barrel of his gun. "He's a real brave fellow." "So he is," said Pen and aunt Judith; but Mrs. Stebbins was too proud of her boy to say a word. That was very nearly enough. Corry ran forward, and Porter after him, and the deacon followed; but Ponto was ahead of them all, and it would not do to fire at any risk of shooting the brave old dog. There was no fight left in the wildcat when Ponto's teeth were buried in his neck; and he therefore had all the fun and glory of a great shaking and growling and worrying, without any danger of being scratched. "Drop him, Ponto, drop him!" said the deacon. "I don't want that skin spoiled: it's a fine one. We didn't put as many shot into him as I thought we would." He was killed now, surely enough, however, and Vosh could carry him to the sleigh; and they could all go back, and eat more pie, and talk about bears and wolves and panthers, till the two girls felt like looking around at the woods to see if any of that sort of people were coming. "We don't need any more fish," said aunt Judith: "we've more'n enough for the whole neighborhood." "No, we don't," said the deacon. "What's more, it looks some like a snow-storm. We'd best be packing up for home." Even that was grand fun; but it seemed almost a pity to leave so good a fire behind them to burn itself out all alone there in the snow, with nobody to sit around it, and cook, and tell stories. "It's a waste of wood," remarked aunt Judith regretfully. If the road had been "all up hill" coming to the lake, it was just as much all down hill going home again; and that sleigh-ride was about as good as any other part of the picnic. They all thought so until they reached the farmhouse, and found what a splendid supper Mrs. Farnham had prepared for them. It was very nearly a wonder to all of them, afterwards, how it was possible they should have been so very ravenously hungry twice in the selfsame day. "I guess it's the picnic," said Pen. "No," said Corry, "that wouldn't be enough: it's the wildcat." Deacon Farnham and the boys spent a great deal of time that evening over the skin of the wildcat. There was some talk of having it stuffed; but, on mature deliberation, that idea was given up. One reason was that nobody in that neighborhood knew how. Aunt Judith doubted if that fine specimen of wild fur would ever be of any mortal use, but Susie came to the rescue with an old new idea. "Why, aunt Judith," she said, "when it's all finished, there can be a fringe put on all around, and some strong canvas on the under side, and it would make a lamp-mat for a centre-table. I saw one once." "In the city too? What won't they do next! And I suppose they paid a high price for it.--Joshaway, you cure the skin, and Sarah and I'll make a table-rug of it." Fresh fish will keep a long time in cold weather, and a good part of the day's finny harvest was packed away for home consumption in both houses. Still, after supper, and tired as he was, poor Vosh had to pay one penalty of so much good luck. He had to hitch up the sorrel, and drive to the houses of half a dozen neighbors with presents of bass and pickerel and perch from Mink Lake. That was the very neighborly end of the grand winter picnic. CHAPTER VI. THE DONATION-PARTY. One of the first things learned by Susie and Porter Hudson, on their arrival at the farmhouse, had been that the reason why Corry and Pen were not attending school was that the teacher was sick. "Soon as she's well again," said Pen, "we'll have to go. It's too bad, but she always gets well right away." Hard as it was, the very next morning after the picnic, word came to the farmhouses all over the valley that school was open. "Vosh," said his mother, "I can't have ye miss a day, not till you know more'n that there teacher does; and you ort to ketch up with her before the winter's out." Some little plans of Vosh's, in which his horse and cutter had a part, were upset completely by the teacher's recovery; but the consequences were even more severe at Deacon Farnham's. Corry and Pen were compelled to leave their cousins to take care of themselves every day till after school-hours. It was not so bad for Susie, with her two aunts to care for her. There was the milk-room and the spinning-wheel and the kitchen, and a dozen kinds of knitting to learn, and there were many good books in the house. It looked a little blue to Porter at first, but he faced it manfully. He determined not to spend an hour in the house that he could find a use for out of doors. He went with the deacon to the cattle-yard and the stables, and he learned more about horses and cows and oxen than he had supposed there was to learn. The sheep, too, were very interesting; especially one old ram that took a dislike to him, and was strongly disposed to drive him out of the sheepfold every time he came in. Porter discovered, too, that hens, ducks, turkeys, had to live and be cared for in winter as well as in summer; and Susie took a share with him in that part of his work and learning. All that, and a great deal more, was close around the house; and it was a positive treat to make a trip, after a couple of days, to the forest with his uncle. There was likely to be more snow, the latter said, and he wanted to do all the chopping and hauling he could before the roads should be blocked. Port wondered if it would be possible to burn, before spring, as much wood as there was already in the woodshed; but it just suited him to go for more. The deacon could do the chopping on that and other days, and Port could be on hand to help him load the sleigh. The rest of the time, he could be helping Ponto look for game around among the trees and bushes. Between them they bagged some more rabbits, and once Port actually fired both barrels of his gun into a covey of partridges. "Three of 'em?" said his uncle when he brought them in. "You'll be a sportsman yet, if you keep on in this way." That was only three days after the Mink-lake picnic, and a proud boy was Port when Corry and Vosh came home. They were not even to have Saturday to themselves, for there was lost time to make up over their books. Aunt Judith said she had never heard of such a thing when she was young; and Vosh Stebbins went out to the barn, and sat in his cutter for two hours, while he worked at his back lessons. That Sunday they all went to meeting at Benton Village; and it seemed to Susie Hudson that all she heard about, except while the minister was preaching, was "the donation." She was not at all sure but what some of the ladies were thinking of it during the sermon, from the way they talked about it afterwards. "Pen," she said in the sleigh on their way home, "tell me just what it is. I've heard about a donation often enough, but I never saw one." "Why, don't you know?" exclaimed Pen in great surprise. "Why, a donation--it's a donation: that's all. It's a kind of a picnic at the minister's house. Everybody comes, and they all bring something. Only aunt Judith says some of 'em eat more'n they bring." "Shall we all go?" "Of course we will. You'll see. It's the nicest kind of a time." Susie learned a great deal more during the next two days. Mrs. Farnham and aunt Judith seemed to be cooking for that "donation" as if there were likely to be a famine there, especially in the matter of mince-pies. "Elder Evans is a real good man," remarked aunt Judith, "but he ain't any kind of a pervider. No, nor his wife ain't either. It won't do to let things go, and have 'em eaten out of house and home." They were not likely to be, if the rest of the good people in Benton Valley sent over such stores of "goodies" as went to the minister's house, before the day appointed, from Deacon Farnham's. "I've done my best," said Mrs. Stebbins to Vosh while she was putting her contribution into his cutter for transportation, "but Sarah Farnham and Judith can beat me. Their oven'll hold three times what mine will." She went over early in the afternoon, to help Mrs. Evans; and she said to Vosh, "You needn't mind about my gittin' home. I'll come with Judith Farnham." Perhaps that was why Vosh felt free to say to Susie Hudson, as she stood at the gate, telling him how nice his horse and cutter looked,-- "You'll have to go in the deacon's big sleigh with the rest, but you and I'll have this all to ourselves coming home." That was kind of Vosh; and, if there was any thing Susie was fast learning to like, it was sleighing. An old-fashioned, up-country donation-party cannot be altogether an evening affair. Some of the good people have far to come and go, and some of them have heavy loads to bring: so they generally begin to assemble before the middle of the afternoon. Susie had seen the minister's house several times. It stood in the edge of the village, with an immense barn behind it; and it looked, for all the world, like another large barn, painted very white, with ever so many windows. "Room," she thought, "for all the company that will come." And it was a good thing for them that she was so nearly right. That crowd would have been very uncomfortable in a small house. When the sleigh-load from Deacon Farnham's got there, there was already a long line of teams hitched at the roadside in front of the house, beside all that had found shed and stable accommodations here and there. As for Elder Evans's own barn, hay, straw, and all that sort of thing, formed a regular part of his annual donation. Load after load had come in and been stowed away, after a fashion that spoke well for either the elder's popularity or the goodness of the hay-crop. There was no intention of letting the good man freeze to death, either, in a country where wood was to be had almost for the chopping. His wood-pile was a sight to see, a good hour before supper, and everybody knew there was more to come. Corry explained it all to Porter. "Yes, but he can't eat hay and wood. You say he doesn't get much money." That was a little after they entered the house, and while Mrs. Farnham and Susie were talking with the elder's kind-faced little wife. "Eat!" said Corry. "You come right out here with me." The sitting-room, back of the parlor, was a large one; but it was nearly half full of tables of all sorts and sizes, and these were covered with a feast of such liberal abundance that Porter gave it up at once. "Even this crowd can't finish all that in one evening, Corry. Will Elder Evans's folks live on what's left, for the rest of the year?" "Come right along. Vosh is out here. He's one of the receiving committee." "What's that?" Corry led his cousin into the kitchen, and a funny-looking place it was. Something like a dozen busy ladies were trying to get at the cook-stove all at the same time; and half as many more were helping Vosh Stebbins "keep track of things," as they were handed in at the side-door, and stowed around in all directions. "That makes four bushels of onions," Port heard him say, as he and Corry entered the room. "They're a healthy feed--but then!" "One barrel of flour!" said a tall woman standing near him; "but then, there's ten bushels of wheat." "Three bags of meal, and twenty sacks of corn; fifteen bushels of turnips, twenty of potatoes; one dressed pig; a side of beef; two dozen chickens." "Sam Jones has just driven in with another load of wood." "And Mr. Beans, the miller at Cobbleville, has sent more buckwheat flour'n they can use if they settle down to livin' on flapjacks." "Five muskrat-skins." "Two kags of butter." "Hold on," said Vosh, "till I get down the groceries. Jemimy! What'll he do with so many tallow-dips? and there's more dried apples and doughnuts." It was indeed a remarkable collection, and Porter began to understand how a "way up country" minister gets his supplies. "Port," said Corry a little while after that, "let's go for our supper. We want to be ready for the fun." "What'll that be?" "Oh, you'll see." Susie had been making a dreadful mistake at that very moment; for she had asked old Mrs. Jordan, the minister's mother-in-law, if they ever had any dancing at donation-parties. She told Port afterwards that the old lady looked pretty nearly scared to death, and that all she said was,-- "Dancing, child! Sakes alive!" The house was swarming with young people as well as old, and it was of no manner of use for the leader of the Benton church choir to try and get them all to singing. A hymn or two went off well enough, and then they all listened pretty attentively while a quartet sang some glees. By that time, however, Vosh Stebbins had returned from the kitchen with his list all made up, and ready for the minister; and he said something to another young man, older than himself, but no taller, about "those charades." The music went to the wall, or somewhere else, in about a minute and a half. Susie Hudson had never heard of one-half the games that followed after the charades. Some of these had been pretty good; but they were hardly noisy enough for the country boys and girls, and in due time were set aside like the music. There were forfeits of several kinds, anagrams, "kiss in the ring," and, after several other things had been proposed and tried, the parlor was given up to a royal game of blind-man's-buff. It was grand fun for the young people; but, while it went on, there seemed to be every bit as hungry a crowd as ever around the tables in the sitting-room. As fast as any one came out, somebody else went in. "Deacon Farnham," said Vosh in an undertone, "I've seen that oldest Bean girl eat three suppers already." "It's a good thing there's plenty." "Biggest kind of a donation. Sile Hathaway's just got here with two whole deer. Killed 'em on the mountains yesterday." The deacon brightened up a little as he responded, "Deer, eh? Well, the elder won't starve, anyway." Susie enjoyed herself exceedingly, but Pen told her,-- "It's real good of you to laugh right out the way you do. They ain't half so much afraid of you now as they were when you got here." "Afraid of me, Pen?" "Why, yes: you're a city girl. They ain't a bit afraid of me." Vosh overheard that, and he added with a broad grin,-- "Fact, Susie. Half these fellows'd rather face a wildcat, any day, than a girl like you, right from the city." Susie blushed and laughed, but it was a sort of explanation to her of some things she had noticed during the evening. "Port," said Corry, "let's go out and take a look at Sile Hathaway's deer. One's a buck, and one's a doe, and they're prime." "Is he a hunter?" "Guess he is. He'd rather hunt than earn a living, any day. But he's about the best rifle-shot there is anywhere around here." Port felt that such a man had a great claim to public respect, but he walked on without a word more until they were outside of the kitchen-door. There on the snow lay the fat doe and the antlered buck, and it made Porter Hudson's very fingers tingle to look on them. "Where'd you get 'em, Sile?" asked Corry. "Not more'n a mile up this way from Mink Lake; jest whar the split comes in from towards the old loggin'-camp." "How'd you get 'em to the village?" "Well, of course I had my pony along. Allers do. Made a pole-drag right thar. I had two more deer to fetch in, and they wasn't more'n jest a good load for a drag." He was a long, lanky, grizzled sort of man, with keen gray eyes, and a stoop in his shoulders. "What's a pole-drag?" asked Port. "Why," replied Corry, "all he does is to cut down two saplings, and make a kind of sled of 'em. It won't last long, but it'll do to haul deer home. I'll show you one to-morrow." Port would have stood and looked at the deer longer if the weather out there had been warmer, but he half made up his mind to be a hunter while he was feeling of that buck's antlers. There was something magnetic about them that sent a hunting-fever all over him. At last the pleasant gathering at the minister's house began to break up. Some sleigh-loads of those who had far to go had already set out for their homes, and it was well understood that not even the village people and near neighbors would stay later than ten o'clock. Very likely Elder Evans and his family would be tired enough to be pleased at once more having their home to themselves. There came at the end a trifle of a surprise to Susie Hudson. The country-boys grew bolder as breaking-up time drew near; and she was compelled to inform no less than three of them in succession, when they offered her a ride home in their own cutters, that she was already supplied with company. She did not happen to see Vosh Stebbins's triumphant grin at one of these young men when he was turning away to hunt for another girl, but she better understood why her thoughtful young neighbor had spoken to her beforehand. She learned yet one thing more before she arrived at her uncle's house. That was, that there were two roads to it, and the one selected by Vosh for the return drive was several times longer than that by which Deacon Farnham had driven his big sleigh. The snowy track was everywhere in fine condition; the sorrel colt was in the best of spirits; the bells rang out clearly in a ceaseless jingle as the gay little turnout dashed along: it was altogether a capital winding-up for an evening of genuine "winter fun" in the country. There was a great deal of merry talk in the larger sleigh all the way home. The older people, Mrs. Stebbins included, were in a good state of mind over the success of the party, and Pen had something to say about everybody she had seen. "Corry," said Port as he nestled down among the buffalo-robes, "is there any thing up this way that pays better than a donation?" "I don't know. Tell you what, though: they say we're to have a big spelling-match in about two weeks." "What's that?" "Why, it's this way: the Benton school-district takes in all the young folks around here. The Cobbleville school-district joins ours, only it's bigger, and there's more of 'em. We're to spell against 'em. It's tip-top fun; but I'm awfully afraid they'll spell us down. They did last year, and the year before." "Can Susie and I go?" "Of course you can. We've a right to count in anybody that's living in our district." "I'm in, then. I live here." "Will Susie come? She ought to be a good speller. The day isn't set yet. They were talking it over to-night. We'll have to go to Cobbleville: they've got the biggest meeting-house." "Meeting-house? What for?" "Why, to hold the match in. It'll be jam full, too, galleries and all. Everybody comes out to a spelling-match. You'll see." Port had no end of questions to ask; but he felt that he was becoming a country-boy very fast, and that he already had a strong interest in upholding the honor of the Benton school-district. "Susie?" he said. "Why, of course she'll go. She can spell any thing." CHAPTER VII. THE WORD-BATTLE AT COBBLEVILLE. Penelope was in bed and asleep when Susie returned from the donation. So long a road home as Vosh Stebbins had selected, had required time to travel over it; and Mrs. Farnham had vetoed Pen's proposal to sit up. When they all reached the breakfast-table in the morning, there was a great deal to talk about, but it was not long before the spelling-match came up. "Oh, yes! Susie," said Pen, "I was going to tell you all about it. You know how to spell." "They say we can be counted in among the Benton spellers," began Port; but there was a very serious look on Susie's face as she said to him,-- "I promised to go; but then, to think of being spelled down!" "Why, Susie!" exclaimed Pen, "where did you hear of it?" "Wasn't she at the donation?" asked Corry. "Didn't she ride home with Vosh Stebbins? Guess she's heard as much as anybody." That was not a bad guess; but it soon appeared that Susie was as much in earnest over the results of the match as if she were a regular Benton-valley settler, instead of a mere visitor. There was plenty of enthusiasm warming up, but Deacon Farnham seemed inclined to throw cold water on their hope of victory. He reminded them of the disastrous manner in which their district champions had already been defeated twice in succession. "They've had a pretty good teacher, too, all winter," he said. "So've we," said Corry; "and some of us have been putting in on our spelling more'n any thing else." "That's good. Maybe they have too. I shouldn't wonder if Vosh was the best man you've got." "Perhaps he is, and perhaps he isn't. Anyhow, we're going to have fair play this time. Their teacher isn't going to put out the words. There'll be a committee." "That's better; but I'm afraid there won't be any prize brought back to this valley." "It's a splendid prize!" exclaimed Pen,--"a great big dixinary." "A dictionary, eh?" "Yes," said Port; "and all the words spelled are to be given out from it." "Any kind of words?" "Not exactly. They must be just such words as people use, but they can be as long as they can find in the book." "That won't hurt one side more'n it will the other," said Mrs. Farnham. "Besides," said Pen, "more of us had to sit down on short words than long ones last year." "Sit down?" asked Port. "When they missed. You'll see when you get there," replied Corry. "It's awful to sit down on a mistake, with a whole meeting-house full of people looking at you and laughing." "I should say it was." There were four pairs of eyes in that one house, right away after breakfast, busy over the long rows of words in some spelling-books, and wondering if there were any there they had forgotten. "I knew 'em all once," said Pen; "but they always look different when you're told 'em from the pulpit." Over at the Stebbins homestead it was very much the same. "Vosh," said his mother, "you was a dreadful long time at the barn." "Well, mother, I staid till I'd spelled over every thing I could see. There's a good many names to things around a stable, and I spelled every one of 'em." "Did you git 'em right, Vosh?" "Guess I did." "Would it do ye any good to have some other kind of spellin'-book, so you'd know more words?" "That isn't the trouble, mother. It kind o' seems to me I know so many now, I can't remember half of 'em." "Don't you git spelled down, now, Vosh. You won't, will ye, not with Susie Hudson and her brother a-lookin' on?" Vosh's face put on a pretty sober expression as he muttered,-- "Guess I wouldn't like that." The quiet winter days went by rapidly, and nothing came in them to interrupt in any way the steadily growing excitement over the great spelling-match. All the arrangements for it were discussed over and over, until at last there was nothing more to be settled, and the set day came. "Corry," said Port, when the sleigh drove to the door after supper, and they were hurrying on their overcoats, "seems to me I couldn't spell the shortest word I ever heard." "If you get scared, you'll miss, sure's you live. Now, Port, we've just got to beat 'em." Vosh and his cutter came up at that moment, and Mrs. Stebbins stepped out with the remark,-- "Deacon, you must make room for me. I'll swop with Susie. I want a talk with Judith and Sarah." "Come, Susie," said Vosh. "I've been teaching my colt to spell." There was no spare room in the big sleigh, for the farmhouse was left in charge of Ponto and the hired man. Mrs. Farnham and aunt Judith would not for any thing have missed hearing for themselves how Penelope and Coriolanus, and Susie and Porter, managed their long words at Cobbleville. The red cutter was jingling away down the road before the black span was in motion, but somehow the two sets of passengers reached Cobbleville at about the same time. Eight miles of excellent sleighing does not last long before fast horses, and there was to be no such thing as being late. "This is Cobbleville, Susie." "It's not so much bigger than Benton. I don't believe we shall be beaten." Something like that same suggestion cheered up Porter Hudson a little, as the deacon drove into the village; but the faces of Pen and Corry were very serious. There was a great trial before them, and they knew it,--a very great trial; for the tall-steepled, white-painted meeting-house in the middle of the village-green was hardly large enough to hold the crowd which was now pouring into it. The people had come from miles and miles all over the country; and those of the Cobbleville district were not only the more numerous, but seemed to be in a sort of exultation over a victory they were sure to win. Deacon Farnham and his party managed to secure seats, and then they could look around them. Up on the platform, behind the pulpit-desk, were several very dignified gentlemen; and it did the Benton people good to see Elder Evans among them. "He's come to see fair play," whispered Corry. "He won't let 'em put out any words they ought not to. Our chance is good." That was encouraging; and at that very moment Elder Evans arose, and came forward to say to his own parishioners,-- "Some of our friends of the Cobbleville district have visitors among their young people, and the committee have consented to their taking part in the exercises." "That fixes you and Susie all right," said Corry. "They can't object to you now." Of course not; and the other final arrangements were speedily completed. It was simple enough, or would have been if there had not been so many boys and girls who had not learned to stand still. The pews and the galleries, all but a few of the very forward pews, were given up to the general public. The young folk from the Benton district were made to stand in the right-hand aisle, in a line that reached from the platform to the door. The other aisle belonged to Cobbleville, and its line of spellers came near being a double one. "Two to our one, Port," said Corry; "but they'll thin out fast enough after we begin to spell." There was no such thing as selecting places at first. The spelling began at the head of each line, alternating from one to the other. If the speller missed, he or she sat down wherever a seat could be found; but, as fast as words were spelled rightly, their happy victors were entitled to march to the heads of their lines, and so these were kept continually in motion. It was a proud thing to walk up the whole length of that meeting-house again and again, but it was not so proud to walk down the aisle hunting for a seat. "I see how it is," said Port. "Yes, it's great fun; and the last one up gets the dictionary." It had been agreed that neither of the school-teachers should give out the words, and Elder Evans had modestly insisted that the pastor of the Cobbleville church should perform that duty. "Won't he kill 'em off, though!" exclaimed Corry dolefully. "Won't he play fair?" "Why, yes, he'll be honest enough, I s'pose. But then he pronounces so! Wait till you hear him." It was about time to begin, and the two boys and Pen found themselves quite a little distance down the line below Vosh and Susie. "That's Elder Keyser. Oh, but isn't that a big dictionary! Hush! he's giving out a word." Nobody needed to be told that, for it was given in a deep, very heavy voice, that was heard all over the house; but Port at once understood all about Elder Keyser's pronunciation. The poor word was in a manner tumbled neck and heels out of the good man's mouth, with a sort of vocal kick to hurry it; and there were chances of serious injury to any syllable that should happen to stumble. "Hypocrite!" shouted the elder to the curly-headed youngster at the head of the Cobbleville line. "H-i-p"-- "That'll do. Give an example, and take your seat." "Example," piped the boy, "puttin' a bad cent in the contribution-box." "Next. Hypocrite." The bright little girl at the head of the Benton aisle spelled it correctly, and Elder Evans raised his head high to smile on her. The words were now given out with something like rapidity; and there was a constant stream of boys and girls walking up the aisles, and of others coming in the opposite directions. Every one of the latter seemed to be muttering,-- "I knew that word just as well!" It was well that the front pews had been kept for unlucky spellers; but a seat in one of them was hardly looked upon as a prize. "Port," said Corry gleefully, "they're thinning out fast. Think of a girl and two boys going down on such a word as 'rotation'!" "Was that it? I thought he said 'rundition;' and I'd never seen it anywhere. He'll stumble me, sure's you live." It was nearly their turn; and they one after the other felt a ton or so lighter when they were able to march to the front, instead of going to find seats. Before that, however, Elder Keyser had thrown as hard a word as he could find at the head of Vosh Stebbins. "Glad he had to say it slow," thought Vosh. "Guess he never tried it before. I can do it." He was safe for the time, and the next Cobbleville boy went down on an easy word that then came across to Susie. She was conscious of a great deal of red in her face; but she spelled it clearly and correctly, and that sent her to the head, and next to Vosh again. Twice more around, and the lines of young people in the aisles were not nearly so long as at first. There had been, moreover, an almost continual roar of laughter over the examples of use given by the unfortunates. Hardly were Port and Corry safe on the second round, before Elder Keyser blurted out to the next boy a word that sounded like-- "Ber'l." "Bar'l, b-a-r-r"-- "That'll do. Example?" "A bar'l of flour." "Next. Ber'l." "Ber'l, b-e-r-y-l." "Down. Wrong. Example?" "Beryl, a precious stone;" and the blushing damsel sorrowfully slipped aside into one of the front pews. "Next. Ber'l." "Berril, b-u-r-r-i-a-l." "Wrong. Down. Example?" "Berril, the berril of Surgeon Moore. I've heerd 'em sing it." That boy sat down; but the young lady opposite spelled "burial" correctly, even if she pronounced it "burriel." Once more round; and now Cobbleville could show barely twenty, and the Benton district hardly a baker's dozen. "We're getting 'em," chuckled Corry. "They've lost some of their best spellers on old Keyser's pronunciation." Alas for Corry! His turn came to him next upon a word the sound of which he was sure he caught. "Stood, s-t-oo-d." "Wrong. Down. Example?" "Stewed, then!" roared Corry in undisguised vexation. "Example: 'The boy stewed on the burning deck.'" "Next." The word sounded a little shorter this time; and the Cobbleville champion, whose turn it was, began,-- "Stud, s-t-u-d." "Wrong. Down. Example?" "One of my shirt-studs;" and down he went in a great roar of laughter, while Porter Hudson took the hint Corry's "example" had given him, and went to the head again on "stewed." The rounds went by rapidly now; and each one sent down somebody in disgrace, while the excitement of the audience was visibly increasing. "Susie," whispered Vosh, "we've got as many left standing as they have. Keyser's killing 'em off fast, though." "That's what I'm afraid of." "Don't spell a word till you know what it is, even if you have to ask him." "I'd never dare do that." "I would, then." She was just above him, and in another moment her trial came. Vosh saw the puzzled, troubled expression on her face, and he came to the rescue. "Elder Keyser," he sang out, "was that word 'mystery,' or 'mastery,' or 'monastery,' or was it 'mercy'? There's a difference in the spelling of 'em." "Silence!" "Silence, s-i-l-e-n-c-e," gravely spelled Susie, while the whole meeting-house rang with the applause that greeted her. "Next. Spell 'misery,'" sharply exclaimed Elder Keyser; and a very pretty young lady of Cobbleville was so far disconcerted by the suddenness of it, that she actually began,-- "Misery, m-i-z"-- "Wrong. Down. Example?" "Misery--ah! nothing to eat." Susie was safe for that round; and in the next Elder Keyser was almost spitefully slow and correct in uttering the word he gave her. During all that time, the older people from the farmhouse had been watching the course of events with no small degree of exultation over the success of their young representatives. Corry had joined them, and about his first remark was,-- "Oh, but won't old Keyser be a popular man in Cobbleville after to-night! He'd better go in for a donation. Half the boys in the village'd like to snowball him on his way home." The game grew closer. Barely six on a side, when Corry exclaimed,-- "That cross-eyed girl's down! She was the best speller they had last year. Too bad, too. She spelled 'bunch,' when what old Keyser said was 'bench.' It's a good deal too much to have to guess at what's in his mouth, and then spell it." "Dear, dear!" exclaimed aunt Judith a moment later. "Here comes Pen." "Such luck she's had!" said Corry. "Nothing harder than 'melon' since she began. Now it's Port's turn. Here he comes." "Port," said Mrs. Farnham, "what was that word?" "'Baratry,' and I thought he said 'battery;' and that long-necked Cobbleville boy said 'bartery,' and gave 'swopping jackknives' for an example." It could not last much longer now. "There!" exclaimed Mrs. Stebbins, "if my Vosh ain't all alone on our side! O Lavawjer!" "O Susie!" groaned Port, "to think of her spelling 'elopement' without any middle 'e'!" She had done it by a slip of the tongue, and, when asked for an example, stammered out,-- "Elopement, a runaway," and left Vosh to fight what there was left of Cobbleville. There would have been three against him, if a bright boy had not forgotten how many "l's" there should be in "traveller," and then given himself for an example as he shot away down the aisle. Vosh knew how to spell "traveller;" and the next word went across the house to be spelled as "porringer," when all the elder wanted was "porridge." "Two left," said Mrs. Stebbins,--"that there dumpy gal and my Vosh." "She's one of the smartest girls in all Cobbleville," said Corry. "She ain't as smart as my Vosh." Opinions might vary on a point like that; and every time the healthy-looking young lady whom Mrs. Stebbins so unkindly described as "dumpy" spelled a word correctly, her conduct was approved by Cobbleville in a rousing round of applause. All that Vosh's friends could do for him was as nothing to it, but he had his revenge. On the fourth word, after they were left alone, the applause began too soon. The healthy young lady remembered too well the nature of Susie Hudson's blunder, and she rashly inserted an unnecessary "e" in "fusibility." "Wrong. Down. Example?" "Fusibility--example!"--a long, confused hesitation--"butter, sir." And the hasty multitude of Cobbleville had been loudly cheering the unlucky "e" which the triumphant Vosh the next moment very carefully omitted. Didn't Benton cheer then! "Vosh has got the dictionary!" all but shouted his happy mother. "I declare, I'll read it through." "If she does," whispered Corry to Port, "she'll never stop talking again as long as she lives." "She'd have all the words she'd need to keep her a-going." The ceremony of presenting the prize was gracefully turned over to Elder Evans by his reverend friend and the committee. The good man seemed to take a special pleasure in delivering so very large a book to "a young member of his own flock," as he expressed it. It must be confessed that Vosh looked more than a little "sheepish" when he walked forward, and held out his hands for the prize. The great spelling-match was over, and the crowd of old and young spectators began to disperse. Before the Cobbleville boys could make up their minds clearly whether it was their duty to snowball Elder Keyser or the Benton-district folk, the latter were mostly on their way home. "Susie," said Vosh, as he stowed the dictionary carefully away in the red cutter, "I wish you'd won it." "I'm real glad I didn't, then. Our side beat, and that's quite enough for me." CHAPTER VIII. AN OLD-FASHIONED SNOW. There had been several light and fleecy falls of snow since the arrival of the "city cousins" at the farmhouse, but they had been only about enough to keep the sleighing in good order. The weather was bracingly cold; but, for all that, aunt Judith more than once felt called upon to remark,-- "The winters nowadays ain't nothin' at all to what they used to be." "We'll have more snow yet," said the deacon. "Don't you be afraid." "Snow, Joshaway! Well, if you've forgotten, I haven't. I've seen this place of ourn jest snowed in for days and days, so't you couldn't git to the village at all till the roads was broke." Mrs. Stebbins had had a great deal more to say about it, all in the same strain; and the only consolation seemed to be, in the language of Deacon Farnham,-- "It's the best kind of a winter for the lumbermen. The choppers haven't had to lose a day of time, and the haulin's the best you ever heard tell of." Just snow enough, and no more. That sort of thing was not to be securely counted on, however, as they were all about to learn. The very Saturday after the spelling-match, the morning opened with a sort of haze creeping over the north-eastern sky. It seemed to drift down from somewhere among the mountains, and by noon the snow began to fall. "Boys," said the deacon, "it's going to be a big one this time, real old-fashioned sort. We must get out the shovels, and keep the paths open." It hardly seemed necessary to do any shovelling yet; but the white flakes fell faster and faster, hour after hour, and night came on earlier than usual. "Now, Port," said Corry, "if you and I know what's good for ourselves, we'll lay in all the wood we'll need for to-morrow and next day. Every thing'll be snowed clean under." "That's so, but I wouldn't ha' missed seeing it come." Neither would Susie; and she and Pen watched it from the sitting-room windows, while even aunt Judith came and stood beside them, and declared,-- "There, now, that's something like;" and Mrs. Farnham remarked in a tone of exultation,-- "You never saw any thing like that in the city, Susie." "Never, aunt Sarah. It's splendid. It's the grandest snow-storm I ever heard of." There was very little wind as yet, and the fluttering flakes lay still where they fell. "All the snow that couldn't get down before is coming now," said Pen. "There's ever so much of it. I like snow." More and more of it; and the men and boys came in from the barns after supper as white as so many polar bears, to stamp and laugh and be brushed till the color of their clothes could be seen. Then the wind began to rise, and the whole family felt like gathering closely around the fireplace; and the flames poured up the wide chimney as if they were ready to fight that storm. The boys cracked nuts, and popped corn, and played checkers. The deacon read his newspaper. Mrs. Farnham and aunt Judith plied their knitting. Susie showed Pen how to crochet a tidy. It was very cosey and comfortable; but all the while they could hear blast after blast, as they came howling around the house, and hurled the snow fiercely against the windows. "Isn't it grand?" said Port at last. "But we'll have some shovelling to do in the morning." "Guess we will!" "And you'll have a good time getting to school." "School! If this keeps on all night, there won't be any going to meeting to-morrow, let alone school on Monday." It did keep on all night; and the blinding drifts were whirling before the wind with a gustier sweep than ever, when the farmhouse people peered out at them next morning. Every shovel they could furnish a pair of hands for had to be at work good and early, and the task before them had a kind of impossible look about it. The cattle and sheep and horses had all been carefully sheltered. Even the poultry had received special attention from their human protectors. They were all sure to be found safe and warm, but the difficulty now was in finding them at all. There was a drift nearly ten feet high between the house and the pigpen, and a worse one was piled up over the gate leading into the barnyard. How those pigs did squeal, while they impatiently waited for the breakfast which was so very long in coming! "They're nearest, father," said Corry. "Hadn't we better stop that noise, first thing we do?" "You and Port go for them." They dug away manfully at that drift, or, rather, at the hole they meant to make through it, while the grown-up shovellers toiled in the direction of the barnyard-gate. "Corry," said Port, "don't you think this is pretty hard work for Sunday morning?" "Those pigs don't know any thing about Sunday. The cows don't either. They get hungry, just the same." "I s'pose it's all right." "Right! You trust father for that. He says the Lord made Sunday, and the Lord sent the snow, and we needn't worry about it. The Lord wants all his cattle fed regularly." "Did your father say that?" "Yes, I heard him saying it to aunt Judith." "It's all right, then. But don't you think it's pretty hard work for any kind of day?" "Yes, but it's fun. Hear those pigs! They know we're coming." It sounded a great deal as if the hungry quadrupeds in the pen were explaining their condition to all the outside world, or trying to, and cared very little how much work it might cost to bring them their breakfast. Their neighbors in the stables and barn made less fuss about the matter, but they had even longer to wait. Before the great drift at the gate could be conquered, it was breakfast-time for human beings, and there was never a morning when coffee and hot cakes seemed more perfectly appropriate. While the human workers were busy at the breakfast-table, the snow and wind did not take any resting spell, but kept right on, doing their best to restore the damaged drifts. "Susie," said Port, "doesn't this make you think of Lapland?" "Or Greenland, or Siberia?" "Tell you what," said Corry, "I don't believe the Russians get any thing much better than this." "If they do," said aunt Judith, "I don't want to live there. There won't be any going to meeting to-day." "Meeting!" exclaimed the deacon. "There'll be a dozen big drifts between this and the village. All hands'll have to turn out to breaking roads, soon as the storm lets up." No end of it was reached that day; but the barn was reached, and all the quadrupeds and bipeds were found, safe and hungry, and were carefully attended to. "We sha'n't get into the woods again right away," said Corry; and he was right about that, but there was a thoughtful look on Susie's face as she remarked,-- "I wonder how Mrs. Stebbins is getting along. There's nobody there but Vosh." "He's a worker," said the deacon. "He's very strong for his age,--likeliest youngster in the whole valley. We can't get over there to-day, but we will to-morrow." That had indeed been a busy time for Vosh, hard and late as he had worked the night before; and his mother came out to help him. "It ain't no time to talk, Lavawjer," she said to him; "but I do wish I knowed how the deacon's folks was a-gettin' on. They must be pretty nigh snowed under." "Guess they're all right, but it'll give Susie and Port some notion of what snow can do in the country." Away on into the night the great northern gusts worked steadily; but towards morning it seemed as if the storm decided that it had done enough, and it began to subside. Now and then it again took hold as if it had still a drift or so to finish; but by sunrise every thing was still and calm and wonderfully white. "This'll be a working-day, I guess," said the deacon; "but all the paths we make'll stay made." There was some comfort in that; for all they had made on Sunday had to be shovelled out again, and the pigs were as noisy as ever. The deacon insisted on digging out every gate so it would swing wide open; and all the paths were made wide and clear, walled high on either side with tremendous banks of snow. It was after dinner, and the workers were getting a little weary of it, before they could open the front-gate. Susie was watching them from the windows, and Pen was in the front-yard, vigorously punching a snow-bank with a small shovel, when aunt Judith suddenly exclaimed right over Susie's shoulder,-- "Sakes alive! There's somethin' a-stirrin' in the road. What can it be?--Sarah, call to Joshaway! There's a human critter out there in the snow." Susie almost held her breath, for there was surely a commotion in the great drift a few rods beyond the gate. The boys saw it too, and they and the deacon and the hired man began to shout, as if shouting would help a fellow in a deep snow. "Father," said Corry, "shall we go and see who it is?" "Not as long as he can thrash around like that. He'll get through." "He's gone away under," said Port. "There he comes--no, he's under again. It's awful deep." "He'll be smothered." Susie was watching that commotion in the snow as she had never watched any thing before, and just then a fleecy head came out on this side of the high drift. "Aunt Judith!--Aunt Sarah!--It's Vosh Stebbins!" "They're all snowed under, and he's come through to tell us. Oh, dear!" "Hurrah, boys!" There was nothing at all doleful in the ringing shout Vosh sent towards the house the moment he got the snow out of his mouth. "Have you got any snow at your house? There's more'n we want up our way. Let ye have loads of it, and not charge a cent." "Come on, Vosh," said the deacon. "How'd you find the roads?" "Sleighin' enough to last all summer, if you don't waste it. More like swimming than walking." "I'd say it was. Come on in and warm yourself." Both the boys were brushing the snow from him as soon as he got to the gate, and all the women-folk were out on the stoop to welcome him. Aunt Judith talked as fast as his own mother could have done, and insisted on his sitting down before the fireplace while she brought him a cup of coffee, and a glass of currant-wine, and a piece of pie, and then she said she would make him some pepper-tea. "Now, Miss Farnham," said Vosh, "I ain't hurt a bit." "And your mother?" "Never was better; but she was worried about you folks, and I said I'd come over and see.--Susie, did you know it'd been snowing a little out of doors?" "How did you ever get through?" "I just burrowed most of the way, like a wood-chuck." "You can't go back by the same hole," chuckled Corry. "I could if it was there. Guess I won't stay long, though: mother'll be afraid I'm lost in the drift." He was right about that; and, after a few minutes of merry talk, they all gathered at the front-gate to see him plunge in again. "He'll get through," said the deacon. "There's the makin' of a man in Vosh. He goes right straight ahead into any thing." The last thing he had said before starting was,-- "All Benton Valley'll be out a-breakin' roads to-morrow." "That's so," said the deacon; but, after Vosh had gone, he added, "and snow-ploughs won't be of any kind of use." "How'll we work it?" said Corry. "Teams and sleds. It'll be a tough job, and the roads'll be pretty rough for a while." "Corry," said Port, "how'll they do it,--cart the snow away?" "Where'd they cart it to? You just wait and see." They were all tired enough to go to bed early, but the first rays of daylight next morning saw them all rushing out again. Port felt a little stiff and sore, but he determined to do his part at road-breaking. The snow lay pretty level in the roads, for the greater part; and you could see the top rails of the fences here and there, enough to go by. A little after breakfast the wide gate was swung open, and then the deacon's hired man came down the lane, driving the black team at a sharp trot, with the wood-sleigh behind them. Faster, faster, through the gate, and out into the snow, with a chorus of shouts to urge them on. The spirited, powerful fellows reared and plunged and snorted; but before long they seemed almost disposed to call it fun, and enjoy it. "Up the road first!" shouted the deacon. "We'll break that way till we get beyond Stebbins's." There was work for men and boys, as well as horses; and the snow-shovels were plied rapidly behind the plunging team. Porter Hudson quickly understood that a great deal of road could be opened in such a way as that, if all the farmers turned out to do it. They were likely to; for none of them could afford to be blocked in, and public opinion would have gone pretty sharply against any man who dodged his share of such important work as that. It was hardest on the horses, willingly as they went at it; and at the end of an hour or so the deacon brought out his second team, a pair of strong brown plough-horses. When they were tired, out came the best yoke of oxen; and it was fun enough to see the great, clumsy creatures, all but buried in a deep drift, slowly but strongly shouldering their way forward, and every now and then trying to turn around and get out of the scrape. "A skittish yoke wouldn't do," said Corry. "They wouldn't move any way but backwards." Long before that, the road had been opened "beyond Stebbins's," and Vosh had joined them with his snow-shovel. His paths were all in a condition that spoke well for his industry, and the deacon told him so. Mrs. Stebbins was at the gate, and she remarked,-- "Tell ye what, deacon, if you think my Vosh can't do any thing but spell for dixinaries, you're mistaken. He's a worker, he is." "That's so." But there was no need of his saying much more, for there in the road behind him were Mrs. Farnham and aunt Judith, and Susie and Pen; and you could have heard every voice among them, till the front-door shut behind the last one. That was Pen, and her last word had been a shout to Vosh in the road:-- "We've got more snow in our front-yard than you have, anyhow." They were now pushing their work towards the village, and could already catch glimpses of other "gangs," as Vosh called them, here and there down the road. In some places, where the snow was not so deep, they made "turnouts" wide enough for loaded sleighs to pass each other. "If we didn't," said Vosh, "one team'd have to lie down and let the other drive over it." He could not tell Port that he had ever seen that done, but he added, "I've had to burrow through a drift, team and all, when there wasn't any turnout made." That was very much like what they had been doing all day, and they kept it up through all the next; but, when Tuesday night came, it was pretty clear that "the roads were open." A sleigh came up from Benton with a man in it who had business with the deacon, and who had some remarkable yarns to tell about the depth of the drifts on the other side of the valley. "Deacon Paulding's house was just drifted clean under, barns and all. He had to make a kind of a tunnel to his stable, before he could fodder his critters." "You don't say!" exclaimed aunt Judith. "Snowed under! I've known that to happen any number of times when I was a girl. Good big houses too; not little hencoops of things, like that there house of old Deacon Paulding's. He's a small specimen too. He'd need a tunnel to git through most any thin'. I must say, though, this 'ere's a right good old-fashioned snow, to come in these days." It was new-fashioned enough to Porter and Susie, and the former remarked,-- "Oh, but won't there be some water when all this begins to melt!" Others were thinking of that very thing, for the sun had been very bright all day. It was brighter still on the day that followed; and towards night a dull, leaden fog arose in the west, for the sun to go down in. "Father," said Mrs. Farnham, "do you think there's more snow coming?" "Guess not, Sarah. It looks more like a rain and a thaw." "There's most always a thaw in February, but it 'pears as if it was a little early in the month." So it was, and the weather made a sort of failure for once. To be sure, there were several hours next day when the winter seemed to have let go its hold, and while a dull, slow, cold rain came pouring down upon the snow-drifts. They settled under it a little sullenly, and then the wind shifted to the north-east, and it grew cold enough for anybody. "I've known it to do that very thing when I was a girl," said aunt Judith. "There'll be the awfullest kind of a crust." "Glad we had all our breaking done before this came," said her brother. "It'd be heavy work to do now." The hard frost of that night was followed by a crisp and bracing morning, and aunt Judith's prophecy was fulfilled. The crust over the great snow-fall was strong enough to bear the weight of a man almost anywhere. "Hurrah!" shouted Corry, as he climbed a drift, and walked away towards the open field beyond. "We'll have some fun now." "What kind of fun?" asked Port. "What kind? Well, all kinds,--sliding down hill, snow-shoeing in the woods, all sorts of things." "Hurrah for all that!" "Boys!" shouted Vosh from the front-gate, "the mill-pond was flooded yesterday, and it's frozen hard now. There's acres and acres of the best skating you ever heard of, glary as a pane of glass." There was a shout then that brought aunt Judith and Susie to the window, and Porter was saying to himself,-- "Well, I am glad we brought along our skates, after all. There'll be a chance to use 'em." CHAPTER IX. GRAND COASTING. Vosh Stebbins got home from school very early Friday afternoon, and his chores were attended to in a great hurry. After that, his mother's mind was stirred to the curiosity point by an unusual amount of hammering out in the barn. He was a good deal of a mechanical genius, or, as she expressed it, "he had a nateral turn for tools;" and he had more than once astonished her by the results of his hammering. When, however, she asked him what he was up to, all she could get from him was,-- "I tell you what, mother, I'm going to show 'em a new wrinkle. Wait till morning. 'Tisn't quite ready yet." "You'd ort to tell me, Vosh. Mebbe I could give you some idees." He was very close-mouthed for once, however, and it may be he had some doubts about his own "idees." The Benton boys and girls had not learned to say "coasting:" they all called it "sliding down hill." But the country they lived in had been planned expressly for it. The hills around the valley were steeper in some places than in others, but the roads generally had to wind more or less in climbing them. There was not enough of travelling on any of them to interfere seriously with the free use of sleds, and you could almost always see whether or not the track was clear. Just now, however, the very depth of the snow was in the way, for the heavy sleighs had cut down into it so as to leave great ridges in the middle. That was enough to spoil the running of any thing narrow. The great storm, therefore, would have been a bad thing in that connection, but for the thaw and freeze, and the splendid, thick, icy crust. Not more than a mile east of Deacon Farnham's, the land sloped down almost gently for more than a mile, to the very edge of the village; and there were roads from that on, to the borders of the little river and the mill-pond. Of course all that slope was not in one field; but all the low and broken fences were now snowed under, and it was easy to take the top rails from the two or three high ones, so as to leave wide gaps. With very little trouble, therefore, the boys prepared for their fun a clear, slippery descent, almost level in some places, that would have been hard to beat anywhere. The hollows were all drifted full, and there was a good road on one side to go up hill by. All that had been duly explained to Susie and Port by Corry, and their great affliction seemed to be that they only had one sled among them. "It'll hold you and me, Port, if we stick on hard; besides, we can take turns." "And I'll slide Susie," said Pen. Susie had very little to say about it during the evening; but the idea grew upon her all the time, and she went out to look at Corry's sled in the morning, after breakfast. Aunt Judith stood in the doorway, and heard her say,-- "Yes, it must be splendid!" "Why, Susie Hudson! That sort of rompin', tom-boy business ain't for grown-up young ladies." "I'm not grown-up, aunt Judith: I'm only sixteen." "Goin' on seventeen, and you're from the city too; and that there mite of a sled--well, it's good enough for boys." Just then Corry sang out,-- "Halloo, Vosh! Going to slide down hill in a cutter?" There he was at the gate, sorrel colt, red blanket, bells, and all. "Cutter! No; but you wouldn't have the girls walk up hill after every slide, would you?" "The girls!" exclaimed aunt Judith. "They ain't a-goin'. I won't hear to any sech thing." "Now, Miss Farnham, you come out here and look at my sled. They've got one like it over in Cobbleville, only mine's bigger. If you'll come along with us"-- "Me come! Sakes alive! But what have you been a-doin'?" "Why, Vosh," said Corry, "it's your little old pair of bobs, and you've rigged a box on the hind one. What's that in front?" "That's my rudder." "Rudder! You can't steer with it: a rudder ought to be behind." "Ought it, now? Don't you see? The front bob turns on a pin in the middle, that comes up through the centre plank. I've greased it, so it turns easy. See how I've rigged that yoke to the front bob? See the two arms a-standing up? You pull on one of those arms, and you pull around the head of the bob. That steers 'em. The hind bob follows the front one: can't help it, if it tries." Aunt Judith walked all around it: she even gave one arm of that yoke a hard push to see if it would really turn the "bob" sled it was geared to. "Sakes alive! It'll do it!" Susie had hardly waited to say good-morning to Vosh; and there she was now, with her hood on, exclaiming,-- "Pen, Pen! why don't you go and get your things on? We mustn't keep Vosh waiting." Pen was off like a flash, and Corry remarked to Vosh,-- "That'll be just great, if it'll work." "Work! It's sure to work. It's as good as the Cobbleville 'ripper.' That's what they call it. All it wants is somebody strong in the arms to steer." "I'd never trust myself," said aunt Judith with a deep sigh of anxiety. "Tell you what, Corry," said Port, "we'll make Vosh haul us up hill. Won't have to walk." "That's the checker. First time I ever had a horse and a man to help me slide down hill." They discovered afterwards how important a part of the sport that was; but just then they all had to join in begging permission for Susie and Pen to go. Even Mrs. Farnham had her objections, and the deacon himself was studying the matter; when down the road came Mrs. Stebbins, and the case was won for the young people. "Judith," she asked, "wasn't you and Sarah ever no younger'n you be now? It does seem to me as if some folks forgot they was ever gals and boys, and slid down hill, and had a good time, and wasn't a mite the worse for it. Vosh, he's been a-hammerin' away at that thing till he jest knows it'll work, and so do I.--Susie, you and Pen git right into the cutter, and I'll explain how them bobs'll steer. You see"-- "Get in, Pen," said the deacon. "Get in, Susie.--Don't you try too heavy a load, Vosh." "Joshaway, they'll break all their precious necks." "No, they won't. I'll risk it." "Judith," went on Mrs. Stebbins, "I'll tell ye all about it;" and that was what she was yet doing, after the cutter turned the corner of the road below the house, with the ripper behind it, and Port and Corry on their sled, dragging joyously astern of the new invention. The whole country was icy, and glittered beautifully white, in the clear, frosty sunshine. When they reached the coasting-ground, it looked absolutely perfect; and a score of sleds, with twice as many boys, were already at work upon it. The sliding-down that slope was something to wonder at; but the climbing back again was another thing altogether. It was easy enough for Vosh, however, to make a bargain with one of his boy-friends to do his extra driving for him, and have the cutter ready for use every time, with, of course, just a little waiting. "How often they do slip down!" exclaimed Susie, after a long look at the climbers in the road. "Some of 'em'll be good and lame to-morrow," said Corry. "I don't believe you girls'd ever get up the hill again, once you got down." It had been thoughtful of Vosh to look out for that; but he had had some experience on that slope in other winters, and knew what he was about. They were on the very upper level now. Vosh helped the girls out of the cutter, and at once started it off, telling the driver,-- "Go right on into Benton: that's where we're coming." The "pair of bobs" had been the running-gear of a small wood-sleigh built for one horse to pull around among the woods. It was light but strong, and the box on the rear half of it was well supplied with blankets. When the girls were in it, and the gay red spread from the cutter was thrown in front of them, the ripper put on quite a holiday appearance. "Susie," said Pen, "it's awful. We're going to go." Susie made no reply; but she was conscious of a great flutter of excitement, as she nestled back upon her seat, and looked out upon the great glittering expanse of white that spread out below and beyond, until it seemed to break in pieces among the streets and houses of Benton. There was one moment a little before starting when she almost felt like backing out. "Port," she said, "hadn't you better come in here with us?" "Yes, Port," said Vosh, "get in. There's plenty of room. We'll be all the better for more weight." Port was glad enough to accept, and he knew every other boy in sight was envying him. There had been no end of comments on "Vosh Stebbins's ripper." It was curious, but hardly any fellow who had a sled of his own had, at the same time, any faith that "them bobs'll steer." Away went Corry the next instant, on his swift little hand-sled, darting down over the slippery crust like a sort of--well, like a flash of boy. "Shall we go through the village?" asked Susie, with a half-shuddering idea that when they were once a-going they would never stop. "See about it," said Vosh. "We'll make the longest trip ever was run down this hill." "We're going, Susie!" exclaimed Pen. "Hold your breath. We're going." They were starting, sure enough, and Susie felt that she was turning a little pale; but they moved slowly at first, for the slope was very gentle there. "Vosh, does it steer?" said Pen. That was the very thing he was experimenting on; and the other boys did not guess why the new contrivance made so many curves and turns as it did, until he was able to shout,-- "She works! See? I can twist her in any direction." "I'm so glad!" exclaimed Susie. "Now, girls!" The ripper made a sudden dash forward, down a steeper incline, faster, faster. And there was no need to tell the young-lady passengers to hold their breaths: that seemed the most natural thing in all the world to do. There never was a more slippery crust, and the ripper almost seemed to know it. Faster, faster, shooting down the steep slopes, and spinning across the level reaches; and all the while there was Vosh Stebbins bracing himself firmly, as he clung to the long arms of his rudder. It was well he could guide so perfectly, for the gaps in the fences were none too wide, after all; and if he and his cargo should happen to miss one of these, and be dashed against a fence--It was altogether too dreadful to think of, and there was no time to think of it. The cargo had great confidence in their "engineer and pilot," as Port had called him before starting, and they had more after they shot through the first gap. The wind whistled by their ears. The country on either side was but a streak of white. Nobody could guess how fast they were going now. "There's the village!" gasped Port. "The river!" whispered Pen. "O Vosh!" began Susie, as they shot into what she saw was a road lined with streaks of houses and fences. Before she could think of another word, they were out on the ice of the little stream, and a skilful twist of the rudder sent them down it instead of across. In a moment more they were slipping smoothly along over the wind-swept surface of the frozen mill-pond; and the ripper had lost so much of its impetus, that there was no difficulty in bringing it to a standstill. "There!" said Vosh, as he held out his hand to help Susie alight, "that's the longest slide down hill anybody ever took in Benton Valley. Nobody'll beat that in a hurry." "I don't think they will," she said; and Pen added inquiringly,-- "We ain't scared a bit, Vosh. We'd just as lief have another." That was what the sorrel colt was coming down the road for; and they were speedily on their way up, more envied than ever. "Don't I wish aunt Judith was here now!" exclaimed Pen. "She'd never ride down hill in this thing," said Vosh. "I'm glad she didn't see us come." There was a great deal of work before the sorrel colt that morning, and knot after knot of curious spectators came out of the village "to see how Vosh Stebbins had gone to work and beaten that there Cobbleville ripper." "He's a cute one." "Regular built genius." "There ain't such another feller in Cobbleville. He beat 'em all at spellin', too." Vosh had won fame as well as fun, and all Benton was proud of him. For all that, he was tired enough by dinner-time, and was glad to drive his passengers back to the farmhouse. "Aunt Judith," said Susie, "it was splendid! You never saw any thing like it! Wonderful!" There was a great deal more to be told, and it was all true; but it was not easy for aunt Judith and Mrs. Farnham to believe it. "Do you mean to tell me that that thing didn't stop till you were out in the middle of the mill-pond?" asked aunt Judith; and four young people with one voice told her it was nearer the upper end than the middle. "Well," said she, "I s'pose it must have been so, but there was never any such sliding down hill before up this way. I'd like to see it done just once; that is, if it didn't just happen, and can't be done again, nohow." CHAPTER X. THE DEER-HUNT ON THE CRUST. That Saturday afternoon was a quiet one at the farmhouse. It really seemed as if there had been excitement enough for one day. Still, as aunt Judith was in the habit of remarking,-- "Sometimes you can't always tell for sure what's a-coming." Vosh Stebbins came over after supper, and he met Deacon Farnham at the gate. There was nothing unaccountable in that; but the boys heard him say, just as he was following the deacon in,-- "No, we won't need any snow-shoes. I'll take mine along." "I'll take mine too, but the crust's strong enough without 'em." "It'll be weak in spots in the woods: Sile Hathaway says it is." Those were great words for two boys to hear,--"woods" and "Sile Hathaway." "Port," said Corry, "something's coming." "Hark!" "Yes, deacon, Sile says the deer break right through, every here and there. There's droves of 'em, and the storm's kind o' driven 'em down this way." "I've known it happen so more'n once." "Port," whispered Corry, as if it were an awful secret, "I know now: it's a deer-hunt on the crust." "Oh-h!" was all the answer; and in half a minute more Vosh was on the stoop with them. Then he was in the house. Then the whole affair burst out like a sudden storm. Deacon Farnham did not say much; but there was a flush on his face, and a light in his eyes, that made him look ten years younger. Mrs. Farnham told him so. But Pen interrupted Vosh halfway in the explanation he was giving Susie, by exclaiming,-- "O mother! may I go?" "My child"-- "I never saw a live deer killed on the snow. If Susie goes, may I go?--Are you going?" Susie could hardly help saying,-- "I know I can't go, but I'd like to." "Port!" exclaimed Corry, "let's get out the guns, and clean 'em. It won't do to have 'em miss fire." "That's a good idea," said his father. "Vosh and I'll want to set out early Monday morning. You won't have time to clean 'em before you go to school." "School! Monday!" "Now, Joshaway," exclaimed aunt Judith, "don't tease the boy that way. He won't miss just one day's schoolin', and the crust ain't going to last forever. If Mrs. Stebbins can spare Vosh"-- "My mother? Why, she'd go herself if she could." "Well, Corry," said his father, "if you and Port'll agree not to kill too many deer, you may go." Port was still wrestling with the painful idea of a gun missing fire after it was actually pointed at large game. There was something dreadful and incredible about it; and, when the weapons were brought out, he cleaned away at them almost painfully. Deacon Farnham attended to his own rifle. Then he took a ladle, and melted some lead at the kitchen fire, and moulded a score or so of bullets. "Will that be enough?" asked Port. "With those in my pouch? I'd say they would. If I get a chance to use half a dozen, I'll be satisfied. You boys'd better take plenty of buckshot, though. You'll be sowing the woods with 'em." Susie did not exactly care to handle those "shooting-irons," as Vosh called them; but there was a strange fascination about them, after all. She could understand why, when they were all laid down on the table, aunt Judith put on her spectacles, and came and peered at them all over, and said,-- "They ain't much like the guns we had when I was a girl. They used to kill heaps o' game, too." "What is the difference, aunt Judith?" asked Susie. "Well, 'pears like these ain't much more'n half as big and heavy. Double bar'ls, too, and all our'n was single. We had flint locks, and didn't know what percussion-caps was. 'Pears to me, if I was goin' a-huntin', I'd ruther have one of the old kind." Pen counted her father's bullets over and over, till she could hardly tell whether he had two dozen or four; and Corry had to stop her nicking them with the scissors. "That's to show they're counted." "Yes; but they won't go straight with nicks in 'em. You'll make father miss his deer." Vosh went home early; but it was all arranged before he left the house, and it was safe to say that nobody he left behind him would go to sleep right away. It was very hard indeed, all day Sunday, for the youngsters to keep good, and not to say more than once an hour,-- "It's good and cold. The crust'll be all right to-morrow." The Monday morning breakfast was eaten before daylight, and it was hardly over before they heard Vosh and Mrs. Stebbins at the door. They came right in, of course; and the first words were from her,-- "Now, Judith, you and Sarah ain't goin', are ye? I'd go in a minute, if I had a gun, and was sure it wouldn't go off.--Susie, are you and Pen goin'? I do hope there'll be deer enough for all four on 'em, and they won't come back and have to say they left 'em in the woods." There was not much time to talk, so ready was every thing and every body; but it did seem to Port as if Vosh Stebbins's hand-sled, long as it was, was a small provision for bringing home all the deer they were to kill. "The lunch-basket and the snow-shoes half fill it now." "It'll do," said Vosh. "You'll see." "Why don't you put on your snow-shoes?" "The ice-pegs I've put in all your boot-heels'll be worth a good deal more, if the crust's what it's likely to be." It was not a great while before they all discovered what good things to prevent slipping were a few iron peg-heads sticking out of the heels of your boots. As for the snow-shoes, nobody ever wants to wear such clumsy affairs unless it is necessary. Old Ponto had been in a fever ever since the boys began to clean the guns Saturday evening; but Vosh had secured for that day's work the services of a very different kind of dog,--one, moreover, that seemed to know him, and to be disposed to obey his orders, but that paid small attention to the advances of any other person. "Is Jack a deer-hound?" asked Port. "Not quite," said Vosh. "He's only a half-breed; but he's run down a good many deer, knows all about it." He was a tall, strong, long-legged animal, with lop-ears and a sulky face; but there was much more "hunter" in his appearance than in that of old Ponto. His conduct was also more business-like; for it was not until Ponto had slid all the way to the bottom of several deep hollows, that he learned the wisdom of plodding along with the rest, instead of searching the woods for rabbits. "Rabbits!" The very mention of those little animals made the boys look at each other as if asking,-- "Did you ever hunt any thing as small as a rabbit?" The snow in the woods was deep, but it was not drifted much; and the crust was hard, except close to the trunks of the trees, and under the heavier pines and hemlocks. Walking was easy, and they pushed right on through the forest. "How'll we ever find our way back again?" asked Port. "Follow our own tracks," said Corry. "Besides, father and Vosh'd never dream of getting lost around here. Guess I wouldn't, either." Port looked back at the trail they had made. He thought he could follow that. Still he would have been more sure of himself in the streets of a city, with names and numbers on all the lamp-posts at the corners. "Keep your tempers, boys. It's hunter's luck, you know. We may not get a single shot." The words were hardly out of the deacon's mouth, before Jack sprang suddenly forward, anxiously followed by Ponto. "He's scented!" exclaimed Vosh. "There isn't much wind; but it's blowing this way, what there is." "Hark! Hear him?" That was music. It seemed as if a thrill went over every nerve among them, at the cry of the excited hound, as he fully caught the scent, and "opened on it." "There'll be a run now, Vosh." "Not up the mountain." "No, we won't follow yet. If they turn him, he'll come this way." "Or down the hollow." "No lake for him now." "He can run on this crust." "Yes, but he can't pick his own course with the dogs behind him." Comments followed thick and fast, as the eager sportsmen pushed onward. It seemed to the boys a good time to do some running, if they could but know in what direction to go; but Vosh and the deacon were carefully studying what they called "the lay of the land." Ahead of them, they knew, was a bold, steep mountain, such as no deer would climb. Half a mile to the right was the road to Mink Lake; and to the left and behind them the woods were open, with a fair amount of "running-room." "If they turn him," said Vosh, "he'll have to pass in sight. You may get a shot, deacon. It'll be a long one, but I'd be ready if I was you." It turned out that way in less than five minutes; for a fine doe came springing across the snow, well ahead of the dogs, and out of "shot-gun range." "Try her, deacon! There, she's broken through! Try her!" The deacon's rifle was already at his shoulder, and, just as the beautiful animal scrambled out upon the crust, the sharp "crack" rang through the forest. "Struck!" shouted Vosh as the doe gave a great spring; but she dashed right onward, followed by the dogs. "Now, boys, you run while I load." Port and Corry hardly needed orders; and the main wonder was, that they did not break their necks in the desperate burst they made after that wounded deer. Even Jack could not do his best running over that icy crust, except when travelling in a straight line. He could not turn quickly without slipping; and the doe must have known it, to judge by the manner in which she dodged among the trees. "Here she comes, right past us!" Bang! went one barrel of Vosh Stebbins's gun. "Missed, I declare! Must be I've got the buck-ague." Bang! from Corry, and he seemed to have done no better; but just then the deer broke through at the foot of a hemlock, and Porter Hudson had what was almost as sure as a "sitting shot." He made the best of it by letting drive with right and left. It was a long range, and the shot scattered, of course; but they afterwards found the marks of nine of them in the skin of that doe. In twenty seconds Jack had her by the throat; and Ponto tried to imitate him, but concluded that he had better lie down and pant a little. Vosh was on hand now, to take off Jack, and to finish the work with his long, sharp hunting-knife. He knew exactly what to do; and, when Deacon Farnham came up, they hung their game to the lower limb of a tree. "No wolves around," said Vosh; "but it'll be safe from any kind of varmint." "What does he mean, Corry?" "Why, the wolves are pretty well killed off; but there are wildcats, and some other things, I hardly know what. All the bears are treed. We'll stop for our game on our way home." They were now barely two miles from the farmhouse, and they went fully another before they saw any more game. Off, then, went the dogs; and the boys were taken a little by surprise when the deacon said,-- "Vosh, you and the boys sit right down here.--No, Corry, you and Port walk off to the right there, about thirty or forty rods. I'll strike to the left as far as the edge of the big ravine. If they've really started a deer, he may come along there." Away he went, and away went the boys. Porter Hudson had hardly been able to speak ever since he fired at the doe. It was true that his uncle had hit it first; but then, he had killed it, and he was thinking what a thing that would be to tell his city friends after he should get home. He did not know a boy among them who had ever fired a gun at a deer. Now he himself was to be that very boy, and it was almost too much. He was beginning to half dream about it, when he heard the warning cry of Jack, coming nearer and nearer, ahead of him. Almost at the same moment he heard the crack of his uncle's rifle. He saw Corry spring to his feet, and stand still, while Vosh Stebbins darted away to the left, as if he thought he might be needed there. "What can it be? I don't see a single thing. No--yes--there he goes, straight for Corry! Why doesn't Vosh stop?" The deer in sight was a fine buck, with antlers which afterward proved him to be three years old; and it was easier for Corry to hit him "on the run" than to hit a white rabbit. He fired both barrels too, and he shouted to Port; but there was no more glory for the city boy this time. Corry had aimed too well, and the buck had been too near; and it was hardly necessary for the dogs to pull down their game. "Corry, hear that? It's Vosh's gun. What's the matter?" "There goes his second barrel. Run: your gun's loaded." It was all in a minute; and Port darted away with a strong impression that something strange had happened. Corry must have thought so too, for he loaded his gun like lightning. Something strange had indeed happened. Deacon Farnham had walked on rapidly towards the deep ravine, after leaving the boys. He had known that forest ever since he was a boy, and had killed more than one deer in that vicinity. He did not go any great distance, keeping his eyes sharply about him, when he suddenly stopped short, and raised his rifle. It looked as if he were aiming at a clump of sumach-bushes; and Port, or even Corry, would probably have said they saw nothing there. Vosh, perhaps, or any hunter of more experience, would have said,-- "See his antlers, just above the thick bush? See 'em move? He's gazing now. He'll be off in a jiffy." If left alone, but not so fast after the deacon had fired; for, after he had seen those antlers, he could guess pretty well at the body below them. He could not correctly guess its exact position, however; and so, instead of hitting the deer in the chest or side, the bullet grazed his shoulder, and struck his right hip. There was no more "run" after that in that magnificent buck, but there was plenty of fight. There was danger, too, in his sharp and branching horns, as Deacon Farnham discovered when he so rashly plunged in among those bushes. Danger from a deer! Exactly. Danger of being gored by those natural weapons of his. Instead of being able to use his hunting-knife, the deacon found himself dodging actively behind trees, and fending off with his empty rifle the furious charges of his desperate assailant, until Vosh came to his assistance. It was a very good thing that Vosh came when he did, and that his gun was loaded. Two charges of buckshot were fired at very short range; and the deacon was safe, but he was pretty nearly out of breath. "You were just in time, Vosh." "Glad I was. Isn't he a whopper? Sile Hathaway was right. The deer haven't run as well, down this way, since I remember." Port came running up just then; and he was all eyes and ears, although his help was not needed. "He's a grand one! We've got another." "Have you?" panted his uncle. "Vosh, you go and 'tend to it. I'll 'tend to this one soon as I get my breath. Guess we've got all the game we want for one day." "Why, uncle, it isn't much after noon: we might kill some more." "Well, we might, but it'll be late enough when we get home. We've work before us, Port. Time we had some lunch, anyway." They were all ready enough for that; but the boys began to discover soon afterwards that deer-hunting was not all play. It was easy enough to cut down branches of trees, and lay them on the sled, and fasten them together. Then it was not a terrible lift for all four of them to raise a dead deer, and lay him on the branches. The tug of war came afterwards, as they hauled that sled homeward over the crust. Several times it broke through; and then there was no end of floundering in the snow, and tugging and lifting, before they again got it a-going. Then once it got away from them, and slid away down a deep, steep hollow, landing its cargo all in a heap at the bottom. There was no use for the snow-shoes, but they had to be fished for in the snow when the sled broke through. It was a long pull, but they all worked at it until at last they hauled the sled out into the half-made road to Mink Lake. After that, they got on better; but they were a weary lot of hunters when they reached the farmhouse, and the day was about gone. There were eager faces at the windows, that of Mrs. Stebbins among them. There were shrill shouts from Pen on the front stoop. Then there was an excited little gathering at the kitchen-door, when the sled was drawn in front of it, and the deacon exclaimed,-- "There! Look at 'em!" "Three of 'em!" exclaimed aunt Judith. "All real good ones, too. Now, when I was a girl, I've known the men folks go out and bring in six of a morning, and they didn't have to go more'n a mile from the house." Mrs. Farnham was equally well satisfied, and Pen clapped her little hands in a gale of excitement. "Poor things!" said Susie. She could hardly help feeling a little sorry for those three beautiful creatures on the sled; but Mrs. Stebbins curtly remarked,-- "Nonsense, my dear: they was made to be killed and eaten.--Deacon, did you and the boys kill any on 'em?" She had a vague idea that the glory of that hunt must somehow have been won by "my Vosh;" but Susie had just time to say,-- "They look so innocent, so helpless!" when her uncle exclaimed,-- "Innocent! Helpless! That big buck was within an inch of making an end of me when Vosh came up and shot him.--He's your game, Mrs. Stebbins." He forgot to mention that the fight with the buck was all his own fault, for he began it; but the story helped Susie out of her bit of soft-heartedness, and it made Mrs. Stebbins hold her head up amazingly. "O father!" said Pen. "Did he hurt you? He's a dreadful deer." "I think, Pen," said her father, "I'll let you eat some of him for supper." There was venison-steak in abundance at table, and Corry was nearly justified in declaring,-- "It's good fun to hunt deer, but I'd rather eat 'em than drag 'em home." CHAPTER XI. ON THE ICE. Both Vosh Stebbins and Corry Farnham had a great deal to do in their hours before and after school. The former, particularly, had chores upon his hands which would have been a great burden to a less thoroughly efficient and industrious young fellow. He had his sorrel colt, instead of the two teams and the oxen of the other farm, and he also had cows and pigs. As to these and the poultry, Mrs. Stebbins relieved him of much, for she said of herself,-- "I'm as spry as a gal, and I don't show no signs of failin'. I don't intend to hev that boy choked off from havin' his sheer of all the goin's-on he can reach out to." She was a notable housekeeper and manager, and was free to say so. As for Corry, not a little of the work put upon him was what his father wisely called "farm-schooling;" but he had it to do, just the same. One consequence was, that the splendid skating prepared by the thaw and rain and freeze on the mill-pond had not received the attention it so well deserved. Some of the village boys had done what they could for it; and it lay there waiting for the rest, just as good as ever. Porter Hudson had looked at it longingly more than once; and it was only the day after the grand deer-hunt on the crust that he said to Susie,-- "Now, don't you say a word about it to any one. Put your skates under your shawl, and walk on down to the village with me. I'll wrap up mine in a bundle." "What if anybody should see us? Who cares? I don't." "Why, Susie, don't you see? We'll be out with all the rest before long. We haven't been on our skates since we were at the rink last winter. I don't feel more'n half sure I could stand up on mine." "No, nor I: that's a fact. We must have some practice first, or they'll think we're just learning." They felt very wise about it, but they had no notion whatever that precisely such an idea had occurred to Vosh Stebbins. His mother had not minded his getting home pretty late on the two or three evenings when she knew he was educating his feet and ankles before showing Susie Hudson and her brother what a country boy could do on good ice. "Your father," she said to him, "was the best skater in the valley, and you ort to be. Get your skates filed, Lavawjer." And she told him a great deal about ice and skating before she felt satisfied that he knew what might some day be required of him as being her son and the smartest boy in Benton Valley. So it came to pass, the day after the hunt, while Penelope and her brother and Vosh and all the other boys and girls were safely shut up in the village school-house, the boy and girl from the city were out upon the ice. They even took pains to keep at the upper end of the pond and on the river above it, so that not one critical pair of eyes should discover what they were about. It was a complete success, as far as secrecy was concerned, and nearly so in other respects. The first trial could not be too long, but it compelled Port to remark when they set out for home,-- "How stiff and lame I am!" "Port," replied Susie, "I can't but just walk." "We must try it again right off," said Port, "or it won't do. If we can manage it to get down there two or three times more"-- "Without any one seeing us"-- "We can skate as well as we ever could: shouldn't wonder if it surprised 'em." Vosh had had a sort of surprise in his own mind, and he had worked it up among the other boys. It came out only a few evenings later, when aunt Judith was compelled to exclaim at the supper-table,-- "Skating-party on the ice! Who ever heard tell of such a thing! After dark too!" "Yes, ma'am," said Corry gravely: "the skating's to be done on the ice,--all over it. There'll be the biggest bonfires you ever saw, and there'll be good moonlight too." "Sakes alive!--Susie, would you like to go and look on for a while?" "Indeed I would! Now, aunt Judith, you and aunt Sarah both go, and take Pen and me." There was a little discussion of the matter, of course; but the deacon settled it. "I used to think there wasn't any thing much better'n a skate by moonlight. It won't pay to hitch up a team, but I'll walk over with you. Let's all go." The first whisper Port gave to Susie after supper was,-- "Hide your skates. I'll let 'em see mine: they don't know I can stand on 'em." Corry was right about the moon, and the evening was wonderfully clear and bright. "Plenty of light to skate by," said the deacon when they started; but even he had to admit that the village boys had done themselves credit, when he reached the pond, and saw the bonfires. There must have been nearly a dozen of them strung along from the dam to the mouth of the little river on both shores; and one big one flared up right in the middle of the pond. "It'll melt through," said Pen. "Guess not," replied her brother. "The ice is awful thick." There were a good many merry skaters already at work; and there were groups of spectators here and there, for the fires made the scene well worth coming to look at. "Susie," said Vosh, "how I do wish you knew how to skate!" "Let me see how you can do it. I'll look on a little while." She felt almost conscience-smitten about her intended fun; but she kept her secret until all the boys had strapped on their skates, and she heard Vosh say to Port,-- "Can you get up alone? Shall I help you?" "No, I guess not. Can you cut a figure 8, this way? Come on, Vosh, catch me if you can!" "Corry!" exclaimed Pen, "Port can skate. See him go!" "I declare!" remarked the deacon, "so he can." "So can Vosh," said Mrs. Stebbins. "There ain't any city boy going to beat him right away." Vosh's effort to find out if that were true had already carried him so far away, that, the moment Corry followed him, Susie felt safe to say,-- "Now, uncle Joshua, if you will help me buckle my skates"-- She was in such a fever to get them on, that she hardly heard the storm of remarks from Mrs. Stebbins and aunt Judith; but the deacon seemed to take an understanding interest in the matter, and he was right down on his knees on the ice, hurrying to fasten those skates for her. "Can you really skate, Susie?" "I'll show you in a minute. Please do hurry, before either of them suspect any thing." "O Susie!" said Pen mournfully, "I do wish I could." "You must learn some day." "Susie!" exclaimed aunt Judith, "wait for somebody to go with ye: you might tumble down." "Start, now, Susie," said her uncle. "Off with you!" She was really a very graceful skater; and her aunts looked on with admiration, as well as a vast deal of astonishment, while she made a few whirls near by, to make sure her skates were on rightly. Then away she glided over the ice; and the first thing Vosh Stebbins knew of it was when the form of a young lady fluttered swiftly past him, between him and the glare of the great central bonfire. Her face was turned the other way, and his first exclamation was,-- "What a splendid skater! Who can she be?" "I know," said Port Hudson, close at hand, and waiting for his share of the joke. "She's a girl from the city, and she's spending the winter with some relatives of mine. Come on: I'm going after her. Think you can keep up? Come on, Vosh." Away went Porter, just as his friend felt a great hot flush come into his face, and dashed after them, exclaiming,-- "If I ain't stupid! Why, it's Susie Hudson herself!" He felt as if his honor were at stake, and he had never skated so in all his life before. The fires on the bank seemed to flit by him as he followed that solitary girl-skater around the glittering icy reaches of the mill-pond. It looked so like a race, that almost everybody else paused to watch, and some even cheered. Deacon Farnham himself shouted,-- "Hurrah for Susie!" and Pen danced up and down. "It's jest wonderful," said aunt Judith, "to see her go off that way the very first time." "Guess it isn't quite the first skatin' she ever did," said Mrs. Stebbins; "but Vosh'll ketch her, now, you see'f he don't." Susie had somehow got it into her head that she did not mean to be caught, and her practice was all in her favor; but just as she reached the head of the pond, and made a quick turn into the winding channel of the river, Vosh came swinging along at her side, and for a little distance he did not speak a word to her. "Vosh," she said, after trying very hard to think of something else to say, "I wish you'd teach me to skate." A ringing laugh was all his answer for a moment, and then he remarked innocently,-- "The ice is smoother up this way, but I mustn't let you get too far from the folks. Tire you all out skating back again." On they went, while all the people they had left behind them, except their own, were inquiring of each other who the young lady could be that had so astonished them. Oddly enough, the Benton girls had omitted skating from their list of accomplishments, by a kind of common consent; and Susie's bit of fun had a surprise in it for others besides Vosh and her aunts. It was quite likely she would have imitators thereafter, but she had made an unexpected sensation that evening. Even Port had surprised Corry and the Benton boys, although some of them were every way his equals on the ice. "Now, Vosh," remarked Susie at the end of nearly a mile of that crooked ice-path, "we'd better go back. Are you tired?" "Tired! I could skate all night. We'd better go, though, or aunt Judith'll borrow a pair, and come skating along after us." Down the river they went again, and across the pond; and by that time a score of busy tongues were circulating the discovery. "It's that there city cousin of the Farnhams. She learned how to skate when she was travellin' in Russia." Part of that news may have had some help from Corry; but Susie's aunts were glad to get her back again, and Mrs. Stebbins said to her,-- "You never did look prettier nor nicer. I do jest like to see any gal nowadays that ain't afraid of her shadder." "Guess Susie isn't much afraid of any thing," said Pen; "but I'm awful glad there wasn't any holes in the ice." "No air-holes are needed on a mill-pond," said Mr. Farnham; "but, if I'm not mistaken, there'll be some lame young people to-morrow. Nobody feels very well the day after such a race as that." He was not altogether wrong. Susie felt pretty well the next day, but in spite of her practising beforehand, her race with Vosh Stebbins had been a severe one; and, to tell the full truth, he himself was willing to get over the effects of it before volunteering to try another. CHAPTER XII. A VERY EXCITING WINTER EVENING. The people of Benton valley and village had not been ignorant of the fact that Deacon Joshua Farnham's family had some city cousins spending the winter with them. Some had said at first that they were there for their health, and some that they were orphans and had come to stay; but the facts of the case got around after a while. Susie and Port had made some acquaintances at the donation, and some at the spelling-match, and some at the meeting-house; but people had not exactly made up their minds what to do about them. Now came the altogether sensational affair of the moonlight skating-race on the mill-pond, and something had got to be done. Away over on the other side of the valley, and just in the outer edge of the village, stood a great white, square box of a house, larger than any other house within ten miles of it. Squire King was by all odds the richest man in that circumference, and he had built his house large accordingly. Mrs. King was not exactly proud, although she knew she was rich, and that she had been to Europe once, and to a number of notable places in the United States. Neither she, nor any other woman in or about Benton, was in a position to look down upon the Farnhams. She liked them, as did everybody else, and was a little in awe of aunt Judith; but she had not felt any social duty in the matter of their visitors until she was told of the skating. It had really been pretty well done on the ice, but it was tenfold more wonderful when it was described in Mrs. King's dining-room. Even Squire King himself dropped his newspaper, and listened, and asked, "What's the world coming to?" And Mrs. King's three lady neighbors who were telling her about it were unable to answer him. They all said, however, that it was time some special attention should be paid, and that such a young lady must be worth getting acquainted with. So had said every girl in the valley who felt old enough to skate; and quite a number of well-grown boys decided to learn new "curly q's" on the ice. Every boy of them had a bump on the back of his head within three days, and the pond was less like a looking-glass than formerly; but Mrs. Squire King had made up her own mind in less time than that, without any headache. There should be a young people's party at her house; and her husband agreed with her, that the nearer they could fill it up, and leave standing-room, the better. "Do it right away, Addie," said he. "Do it right up to the handle. Kind of startle folks. Nobody's a-looking for any such thing to come." It was to be all sorts of a surprise; and the whole valley went about its affairs, just the same as if Mrs. Squire King were not manufacturing so much frosted cake, and boiling tongues and hams for sandwiches. Some other tongues would have been hot enough if they had known a word about it before the invitations were written and sent out. Up at Deacon Farnham's it was a little quieter than it was anywhere else the day after the skating, until he himself came in from the village at noon. He had come for his dinner, but there was a look in his face as if he had brought something. Pen had seen it there before; and she asked him what it was to be, precisely as if he had spoken about it. "What have I got? How do you know I've got any thing?" "Is it something for me?" "No, not this time, Pen; but I've something for Port and Susie." "Letters, uncle!" exclaimed Susie; and Mrs. Farnham added,-- "I do hope so. She's been fairly mourning for some, day after day." "It's all a mistake or neglect of somebody in your father's office in the city, Susie. There's three for you, and one is a fat one. Where's Port? There's as many for him." Port was out at the barn; but Pen found him, and brought him in, as if his life depended upon getting those letters at once. "Mother! Father!" said Susie, with a face that changed fast from red to pale, and back again, as she dropped into aunt Judith's big rocking-chair, and began to read those letters. "Is it all good news?" asked Mrs. Farnham in a minute or so. "All perfect, aunt Sarah. Mother seems to be doing very well." She read on and on; and Port had now come in, and was doing the same; and it was as if with one voice they suddenly exclaimed,-- "How strange it seems!" "What is so strange?" asked aunt Judith in almost a tone of alarm. "Did any thing happen to either of 'em?" "Happen! No, indeed, but it's warm weather there. Father complains of the heat. Green grass and trees, and flowers and birds, and no sign of winter! Seems as if it couldn't be in the same world." "I don't half believe I'd like that kind of winter weather, anyhow," said aunt Judith with emphasis. "When it's time for snow, I want snow, and plenty of it. 'Pears like to me, it would be kind of unnatural without sleighin'. Now, this here winter's been the most satisfactory we've had for four years past. It's been a real genuine, old-fashioned, right down cold and snowy winter." "And it's getting colder now," said Deacon Farnham. "There's no telling where the thermometer'll go to, if it keeps on trying." Nevertheless there was a curiously pleasant feeling to be had in listening to those accounts of the different condition of things in Florida; and Port was justified in remarking,-- "I'd like a little of that balmy air for a while in the morning, but I wouldn't care so much for it after I once got well a-going." "I would," said Pen. "I could go a-sleighing, and keep my feet warm all the while." "Shouldn't wonder if people down there would like a little of our ice at this very time," said her father; while Susie herself declared, that, except for seeing her mother and father, she did not wish to exchange winters with them. When Corry came home in the afternoon, the first thing he said was, that he was glad Pen had returned at the midday "letting-out." "The wind blows down the hill with an edge like a knife, and they say it's away below zero." "It's coldest at the foot of the hill," said Pen confidently; and then, while Corry was warming himself, Susie and Port read to him tantalizing things about orange-groves and magnolia-trees and sunshine, and boat-rides on the St. John's River, away down in the sunny South. "That's where De Soto hunted for the Fountain of Youth," said Corry; "and I guess Eden must have been around there somewhere. It wasn't down in Benton Valley, anyhow you can fix it." "Nonsense!" said aunt Judith. "You'd get sick of any kind of Eden that didn't need a fireplace for six months in the year." Corry's ears were beginning to feel better, and his opinion of the weather he was accustomed to improved as the tingling subsided. Still he was quite willing to discuss a little more fully the wonder of tropical and semi-tropical lands. Even after chores were attended to, and supper was eaten, and the whole family gathered in the sitting-room, they all seemed to feel more like talking than any thing else. Of course the knitting went on as usual, and Pen asserted that her next undertaking in yarn was to be a pair of stockings for Porter Hudson. It seemed as if they had just got fairly settled, before the front-gate opened with a great frosty creak, as if it pained the hinges to be swung upon in such cold weather, and the sound of a well-known voice came faintly to the door. "If it isn't Mrs. Stebbins!" exclaimed Pen; and her mother said,-- "Glad she's come. It isn't far, but it's neighborly for her to look in on such a night as this." "Hope Vosh is with her," said Corry as he stepped towards the door; and so he was. But they both had come upon something more than a mere neighborly call. Hardly was Mrs. Stebbins inside of the door, before she exclaimed sharply,-- "Joshaway Farnham, it's a wolf, I know it is! I heard it twice; and, if I don't know a wolf when he howls, it's because the whole country wasn't full on 'em when I was a gal. I've known a man that a'most made his livin' off the bounty they sot on wolf-skelps, till they found out that he was raisin' of 'em at a place he had away back under Sawbuck Mountain; and they paid as much for pups' ears as they did for growed-up wolves, and"-- "Angeline Stebbins!" almost shouted aunt Judith, "what do you mean? There hasn't been a wolf down so far as this, these three years and more; and then they never came nigh any house except Josiah Rogers's hog-pen." "Fact, though, now, I guess," said Vosh. "I listened hard, and I believe I heard one howl." "Shouldn't wonder at all," said Mr. Farnham; "what between the deep snow, and the hard, cold snap. It isn't so much because they can't run down the deer so well, I believe, as because they somehow get bolder, and sort of crazy, in bitter frost. Did you hear more than one, Vosh?" "Can't say, unless the same one howled several times. I heard it first when I was out at the barn, and it sounded just in the edge of the woods." "I don't believe one could get at your stock very easily, or at mine. You don't feel like a tramp out after wolves on such a night as this?" "My gun's leaning against the door outside," said Vosh, "if you care to come along. Mother said she'd rather stay here till I got back." "No more chance of killing one than there is of flying," remarked Mrs. Farnham; "but if Joshaway wants to go"-- The deacon's pleasant blue eyes had been kindling a little under their shaggy brows; and he was now slowly rising from his chair, and buttoning up his coat. "I'll go as far as the woods with you, Vosh, and see what's the matter.--We won't be gone a great while, Sarah. I'll only take my double-barrel: a rifle's of no use by moonlight. Where are Port and Corry?" Nobody had seen them slip away; but their chairs had been empty from the moment when they heard the word "wolf," and saw Vosh Stebbins's shot-pouch slung over his shoulder. The deacon had hardly picked up his overcoat, before they were in the room again, loaded with guns and shot-pouches. "Going for wolves, are you?" said the deacon. "You won't kill any. Not one has been killed this side of Sawbuck Mountain for years and years. Come along. Wrap your ears up, and put an extra slug into each barrel on top of the buckshot." Rifle-bullets answered capitally well for slugs, and even Pen and Susie felt a tingling all over when they saw those guns loaded. Ponto was called in from the kitchen; and he too seemed to be all tingle, as soon as he saw the hunt-like look of matters. "He couldn't whip a wolf," said Corry, "but he might be of some kind of use." "My father had a dog once," began Mrs. Stebbins; but she was interrupted by aunt Judith with,-- "Now, Angeline, you sit right down, and we'll have up some krullers and some cider; and they'll all be frosted back again in time to eat their share of 'em." Ponto was doomed to disappointment that time; for Mr. Farnham, on second thought, fastened him up in the kitchen again, remarking,-- "He'd only spoil any other chance we might have.--Come on, boys. Judith is pretty nearly correct about the weather, and I guess I'm right about the wolves." "I heard 'em," said Mrs. Stebbins; "but they didn't say they'd sit down under a tree and wait till you came along." They were hurrying out of the door as she said that, and there was no danger of their walking slowly. They had not reached the gate, before Mr. Farnham straightened up, exclaiming,-- "I declare! Hark!" It was neither so faint nor so far away that they could not hear it; and it might have been the howl of a lost dog, for all that Porter Hudson would have known. There was a hurrying up the road, after that; and the frost was all but forgotten in the excitement of getting to the woods as soon as possible. There was hardly any talking done; and the snow of the road broke with a brittle, cracking sound under their feet. "There it is again!" said Vosh at last, as they drew near the shadows of the forest; "and it sounds as if it were nearer." "Nearer it is," said the deacon, "and so is something else. I'd like to know, now, just how many miles they've been chasing that deer. Hear him jump?" His ears were better trained than those of his young companions, for he had all his life been a keen sportsman; but, on listening attentively, they all declared, one after another, that they could hear something. Again they heard the voices that were coming nearer, but they were more like yelps than howls this time; and Mr. Farnham at once asserted,-- "They are gaining on him. He has turned again, and is coming this way: shouldn't wonder if they'd been after him all day. Hold still, boys: better chance out in the open." Yelp, yelp, jump, jump! and the hunters were shivering with cold and excitement, for they knew not how many or how few minutes more; and then, out through the frosty trees, in his last desperate race for life, dashed an all but tired-out buck. He had run well and far, but he had reached the limit of his strength. He hardly noticed the four hunters, in his fear of the enemies behind him. Not one of them thought of lifting a gun at him; but, just as a staggering leap carried him down from a snow-drift into the road, he slipped and fell. A few seconds earlier, Vosh had hoarsely whispered,-- "There they come,--pair of 'em!" And two long, dark forms, that seemed to glide on in a series of silent undulations, were only a few rods behind the buck. "They'll get him," said Port, with a keen sense that his blood was warming suddenly. "Father!" exclaimed Corry, "you say when." Before the buck could regain his feet, his fierce pursuers were upon him with savage snarls, and his race for life was over. There was a vivid picture of forest-life for one tremendous moment, there in the middle of the road; but within thirty yards were the four sportsmen, and their guns were at their shoulders. "Keep your second barrels for a moment," said the deacon. "Be sure of your aim. Now!" The four reports followed one another in swift succession, and a storm of slugs and buckshot was hurled into the struggling group in the road. The buck was down already, but he rolled clean over now. One wolf lay kicking on the snow beside him, while the other gave a bound and a yelp that told of a shot reaching him. "Take that one, all of you! the other's done for. Quick!" The deacon fired as he spoke, and the rest followed so fast that nobody could even so much as guess who killed that wolf. Down he went, and the sudden hunt was all over. Two wolves had run down a deer, only to deliver their own peltry with it to the astonished sportsmen they had summoned by their ill-advised howling. Porter Hudson could hardly believe his ears and eyes. He had heard of wonderful hunting, and now he had actually done some on his own account. There were the forest savages dead in the road; and there was Deacon Farnham finishing up the deer, and saying,-- "We couldn't have done that if Ponto had been here: he'd have rushed forward, and been in the way of our shooting. We'd have lost both of them." "We've got 'em now," said Vosh. "One skin's yours, and half of the buck," said the deacon; "and now we'd better go for your colt and a sled, and haul 'em home." That was bitter cold work, but nobody seemed to care where zero was just then. The sled was brought and loaded, and then it was drawn to the very kitchen-door of the Farnham farmhouse. Ponto's nose had told him something, and he was barking furiously at the other side of that door. Lights were hurrying into the kitchen, and the door sprang nervously open. "Joshaway, what's this? Was anybody hurt? We heard the firing," gasped Mrs. Farnham in a tone of intense anxiety. "Oh, it's awful!" began Pen, but aunt Judith was calmer. "Got a buck, did ye? It wasn't that that did the howling." "Sakes alive!" shouted Mrs. Stebbins. "That's a wolf! I knew Vosh would kill something. Two on 'em? Two wolves and a deer? And you wasn't gone no time at all; but Sarah and Judith, they said it seemed as if you was going to stay all night.--Pen, don't you tetch 'em.--Susie, what do you think of that?--Joshaway Farnham, don't you ever tell me again that I don't know the kind of howl a wolf makes." There she paused for a moment, and the hunters had a chance to tell how that very remarkable affair had actually come to pass. "Just so," said aunt Judith. "It was the buck tolled 'em down for ye. They'd never have dreamed of coming, frost or no frost, if they hadn't been a-follerin' of that deer." She was entirely correct, but it was pretty late that night before all was quiet in either of those two farmhouses. The game was slung up to the rafters of the woodshed, to be more thoroughly attended to in the morning. The excitement could not be slung up anywhere, and Susie Hudson was aware of a grisly feeling that the country was hardly as safe a place as she had been in the habit of thinking. She was very glad, however, that there were guns in the house, and she all but wished that she knew how to load and fire one. CHAPTER XIII. A FIRESIDE STORY. Porter Hudson had a great deal upon his hands the forenoon following the coming of those wolves. He had to see his uncle take off their skins and that of the buck; and he had a great many questions to ask about wild animals in general, and wolves in particular. Pen had informed him, before she went to school, that the two wolf-skins were to be turned into buffalo-robes for Vosh's cutter and her father's big sleigh. She may also have been correct when she added, "They're the best kind of blankets you can get." Susie herself took an interest in that, for she was already crocheting the most fanciful red border she could think of for the rich fur of the wildcat they had brought home from Mink Lake. It promised to be an uncommonly brilliant lamp-mat. As for Vosh and Corry and Pen, they were even eager to get to school early. The people of Benton Valley would know nothing about the wolves until the story should be set a-going. All three of them told it well, not only after they reached the school-house, but to some acquaintances whom they met on the way. If Pen's version was hardly as correct as the other two, there was certainly more of it; but her improvements were as nothing to those it received afterwards. Every boy and girl that heard it carried it home in a different shape. As many as could do so at noon were especially happy on that account; and such as lived too far away, and had brought luncheons with them, got along as well as they could, holding in, and hoping that they would still be the first to tell it to their folks. Some were sure to be disappointed, for such news travels fast. One farmer who was in the village with a load of oats never waited to dicker about the price he sold them at, but got away at once, and stopped at six houses before he reached his own. By supper-time there were elderly ladies in the village who felt like bracing their front-gates with boards, and wondered if the wolves were really going to pester the village all winter. Perhaps the best and most vivid account of the fight was given by one small boy to Elder Keyser and his wife to carry home to Cobbleville. His description was very good, of how the buck led the wolves into Deacon Farnham's kitchen; and how Mrs. Farnham and aunt Judith and Mrs. Stebbins, and Susie Hudson and Pen, were there all alone, eating apples, till the men came in from hunting, and helped them. The elder had a meeting to go to that evening, or he would have driven over at once to inquire into the matter, and see if any of the family were really very badly bitten by those ferocious wild beasts. He took "Wolves in sheep's clothing" as a text for his next sermon, and it was most attentively listened to. Elder Evans and his wife got out their horse and cutter at once, and went in a hurry: so did Mrs. Squire King, only she took her big double sleigh, with the longest gilded goose-necks in that whole region. There were six ladies in it by the time she reached the foot of the hill below the Farnham homestead; for she was a good neighbor, and loved company. Somebody was out looking at the wolf-skins until nearly tea-time; but not one soul would stay to tea, after obtaining all the facts of that affair to go home with. All that Mrs. Squire King saw of Susie Hudson made her feel more in earnest about the party; but she resolutely sealed her lips over it, except in a small bit of confidential talk with aunt Judith and Mrs. Farnham, and the five ladies who went with her in her own sleigh to see about the wolves. It was a very busy tea-table, for ever so many people had to be talked about, and what they said had to be repeated; and Pen broke down entirely in trying to rehearse a wolf-story the teacher had told the scholars who staid in at noon. It turned out to have been a tiger-story with an elephant in it, and Pen had added the snow on her own responsibility. After tea a little while, Vosh came over with a sled to get his wolf-skin and his share of the buck; and it would have been a small miracle if his mother had not come with him. The weather was every bit as cold as it had been the night before, and she said so as she entered the house. "Never mind, Angeline," said aunt Judith. "Sit right down, and take off your things, and there won't be any howling done to-night." "I jest do hope not, Judith Farnham, for I waked up nine times afore mornin' last night, and each time I was kind o' dreaming that I heard something; and it kep' me every now and then, all day, a-remembering that story of old Mrs. Lucas and Alvin Lucas, and that was ever so long ago. And it always did seem to me one of the queerest things; and you can't account for it, nohow." "What was it, Mrs. Stebbins?" asked Susie. "Couldn't you tell us the story?" They were all sitting around the fireplace; and Susie was gazing at a flickering blaze on the top log, or she might have noticed that her uncle and aunts had not said a word. "Tell it? Well, I s'pose I can; but it isn't much of a story, after all. They do say that story-tellin's a good thing of a winter evening, when it's as cold as this; but I wasn't ever much of a hand at it, and it's got to be an old story now, what there is of it." Vosh had no doubt heard the story, and knew what was coming; but both Corry and Pen joined with Port and Susie to urge Mrs. Stebbins a little. The deacon was still silent, and aunt Judith and Mrs. Farnham seemed to be knitting more rapidly than usual. Mrs. Stebbins hemmed twice to clear her throat, and drank some cider, and said it was a good thing to know how to keep it sweet all winter by putting in a chunk of lime while it was a-fermenting; and then she told her story. "There's a wolf in it," said Pen to Porter Hudson; but it went right along, just the same. "The Lucases they owned the farm we live on now; and it's a right good one, as soon as Vosh is old enough to handle it himself. That was away back when your uncle Joshaway was a young man, and he and Alvin Lucas were the closest kind of friends; and there wasn't a likelier young man around here than Alvin was, unless it was Vosh's father or your uncle Joshaway. It was before either one of 'em was married; and the war broke out the spring before, and it seemed as if all the young men was half crazy before harvestin' was over. There was eighteen of the very best and pick went right out from Benton Valley, and twice as many more from over Cobbleville way, first thing, as soon as the grain was in, and some of the after-ploughin' was done. It was queer, but somehow, when they came together, they elected Alvin Lucas captain of that company; and a young fellow from Cobbleville was next; and Levi Stebbins was only a corporal at first; and your uncle Joshaway was a private, but he got to be a major before the war was over; and Vosh's father he came home a captain, with a big scar on his right arm, and he'd lost one of his front teeth in a scrimmage. But I must go right on to the wolf part." "O Mrs. Stebbins!" exclaimed Pen with a long breath, "I'd forgot all about the war." "So has most people," said Mrs. Stebbins; "and it's well they have, for it's only a root of bitterness now, and it ort not to be dug up for ever and ever. But that first winter after the war begun was an awful cold one, up hereaway. Leastwise, there kem a bitter snap, like the one we're having now; and somehow it seemed as if we never missed all those young men so much, not even in the fall work, as we did after winter sot in. There was a good many fire-places like this all over the country, where the folks missed the best face they had, for the one that isn't there always kind o' seems to be the best; and old Mrs. Lucas she counted on Alvin, most likely, a good deal as I do on Vosh. He was away down on the Potomac with his company, and there hadn't been a man of 'em hurt up to the time of that cold snap, and they sent letters home as reg'lar as clock-work; and people thought the war wasn't sech a dreadful thing, after all, so long as nobody got killed from Benton Valley and Cobbleville. Your folks lived right here, and mine away over on the other hill, nigh the dividing-line into the Sanders school-district; and your grandfather and grandmother Farnham were alive, and Susie Farnham she hadn't married Reuben Hudson and gone to the city, and Judith she was a young woman; and those two gals was at home with the old folks one evening"-- Just then Deacon Farnham got up from his chair, and sat down again; and aunt Judith rubbed her spectacles very hard indeed, and Mrs. Farnham looked at her, sidling, as if to see if she were interested in the story; and Pen looked around at every one, for she knew that Mrs. Stebbins must be getting pretty near the wolf now. "It was one bitter cold night, and all the Lucases were at home, except, of course, Alvin; and there were four younger than he was; but he was the likeliest, as well as the oldest, and his next brother didn't go into the war till the second year. Old Mrs. Lucas wasn't nervous generally, but that night there seemed to be something the matter with her; and it was as dark as a pocket, as well as being so cold you could hardly keep the hens from freezing. She kept a-going to the window; and her husband, I heard him tell my mother about it, how she seemed to be listening for something, and all of a sudden she broke out, 'John, it's a wolf! Hear him! He's out there in the road! Something's happened to Alvin!' Now, I ain't a mite superstitious, and she wasn't, and John Lucas wasn't; but there was a charge of buckshot in his gun, and he took it up, and went right out"-- "Was the wolf there?" asked Pen with widely open eyes; for Mrs. Stebbins paused a moment, as if for breath, and aunt Judith's knitting had dropped into her lap, and she was staring hard at the fire. "Yes, Pen," went on Mrs. Stebbins, "and he was nigher the house, and he howled again; and he sot still, and held his head up to howl, till John Lucas and his next son--Roger, his name was--got within shot of him; for he was crazed with the frost, jest as wolves will get in sech times." "Did they kill him?" asked Corry. "Dead as a mackerel," said Mrs. Stebbins. "And he was the biggest kind; but it didn't seem to comfort Mrs. Lucas a mite, and it was the strangest kind of a thing, after all. There isn't any superstition in me: but, when the next letters kem from the war, there'd been a scrimmage on the Potomac that very night; and Capt. Alvin Lucas, and four men from Benton Valley, and twice as many from Cobbleville, had been killed in it." "I don't believe the wolf knew a word about the skirmish," said Port. "He couldn't, you know." "Besides," said Pen, "they shot him; and he couldn't go all around the valley, and over to Cobbleville, and howl for the other folks." Susie was just going to say something to aunt Sarah about it; but she and aunt Judith had suddenly arisen, and were walking out into the kitchen. Mrs. Stebbins looked down at her knitting, just the same, and finished her story as she toed out the last half-inch of that stocking. "It kem awful hard on John Lucas, and he sold out his farm that next spring, and went West; and Levi Stebbins bought it as soon as his army time was ended, and he could come home again; and Joshaway he staid in till it was all over. Old Mrs. Lucas, it took her awful; but she was a good woman, for she said she couldn't get her mind right about losing Alvin till she could feel to sympathize with the mothers of men that was killed on the other side. I never had no trouble about that, for Levi he always spoke well of the Southern soldiers, and so did your uncle Joshaway; and mothers are mothers, no matter where you find 'em." Mrs. Stebbins was quiet for a moment, and then remarked,-- "Lavawjer, it's time we was a-going home." "I guess it is, mother." It was while she was getting on her things that Deacon Farnham beckoned Susie Hudson away into the parlor entry for a moment, and whispered to her,-- "You are old enough to know some things, Susie. Don't say any thing more about that story. Speak to Port, and I will to Corry. Your aunt Sarah's elder brother was the first man killed in that skirmish: that was what came to her." "And aunt Judith?" "Capt. Lucas. They were engaged." "O uncle Joshua!" "That is what the war meant to both sides, my dear." "I'm glad it was ever so long ago, and we don't know any thing about it," said Susie; and that was about what Port said when they spoke to him. It was not much of a wolf-story, after all, but it had helped away a winter evening, and perhaps it had done something more; for the boys and girls of one generation should not be ignorant, altogether, of the sufferings and sacrifices of those who have lived and died before they came to take their turn at it. CHAPTER XIV. THE BEAR-TRAP. When the family came down to breakfast the next morning, it looked as if every thing but the venison-steaks and johnnycake and hot coffee had been forgotten. The steaks were capital; and as for the johnnycake, nobody in all Benton Valley could beat aunt Judith at that sort of thing. She was proud of her skill, and liked to see its products eaten; but even as Porter Hudson was helping himself to his third slice, she said to him,-- "Once, when I was a girl, I remember being out of bread for a whole week." "O aunt Judith!" exclaimed Pen, "didn't you eat any thing?" "We had plenty of milk and pork and eggs and poultry, and we didn't starve. We pounded corn in a mortar and made samp, and we hulled some corn and made hominy, and ate it, and did capitally well." "I think I could live a while on such starvation as that," remarked Susie, "especially if I had maple-sugar to melt down, and pour on the samp." "We had some," said aunt Judith; "but we were just about out of flour and meal, when there came a thaw and a freshet; and the mill-dams all gave way, as if they'd agreed to go down together; and we had to wait till the mills got to running again. It wasn't easy to get a grist ground, even then; but we didn't suffer any. Folks sent ever so far for flour; but there wasn't any railroad then, and the roads were awful for a few weeks. There used to be great freshets in those days." "That's a thing that might come any time after the bears turn over," said Mr. Farnham; and Port instantly asked him,-- "After the bears turn over! What have they to do with it?" "Didn't you know that? Well, well! You're a city boy, and don't have any bears at home. Every bear hunts up a hollow tree as soon as it's too cold for him to get around in the woods comfortably, and sits down before it till there's a heavy snow. Then he creeps in, and gets the hole snowed up, and goes to sleep. He never dreams of waking up till spring; but, as soon as the sun is hot enough to warm the tree on one side, it makes him comfortable on that side of him, and he turns over in his sleep to warm the other. It's a sure sign of a thaw; and the snow melts pretty fast after that, till it's time for him to creep out and get something to eat." "How hungry he must be!" said Pen. "When is the best time to hunt for bears?" asked Port, with a dim idea that he would like to boast of having killed a few. "Along in the fall, when the nuts are coming down. They're fattest then. They trap 'em every year all through the mountain country north." "Trap 'em! Is there any trap big enough to catch a bear in?" asked Port. "Big enough! I'd say so. And sometimes it's a wolf, or a wildcat, or a panther, instead of a bear; and I know of a man getting caught in one once." "Did he get out?" asked Pen. "I won't tell you about it now; but when we get into the sitting-room this evening, I'll let you know just how one man made a bear of himself away up on Sawbuck Mountain." That was something to look forward to; but not long after Corry and Pen had gone to school, Porter Hudson took his gun, and marched away to the woods, all alone by himself. The crust was still as firm as ever, and there had been no snow worth mentioning since the great storm. "I don't know exactly what I'm going to kill," he said to himself; "but I'm ready for any thing that comes." His first call for Ponto had been obeyed somewhat fatly and sluggishly; but, the moment the old dog saw the gun, he was another and a more willing animal. He led the way, head and tail up, until he came to the spot in the road where the wolves had pulled down the buck. The new snow, thin as it was, covered all traces of that adventure. But Ponto's memory, or nose, made him precisely accurate. Port was quite willing to stop a moment, and recall how that spot had looked in the moonlight, and how uncommonly loud and sharp had seemed to be the reports of the guns. All the hills had echoed them; and it occurred to him, that, if he should now meet a pack of wolves, he would have but two loads of buckshot, instead of eight. "And no slugs," he added. "I should have brought some along. I don't care, though. I could climb a small tree, and fire away." He afterwards noted quite a number of small trees well adapted to such business. So were some lower limbs of several larger trees, and he stood for a few minutes under one of these. He imagined himself sitting on that great projecting branch, climbing out to where it was ten feet above the snow, with a large pack of very ferocious and hungry wolves raging around below him, while he loaded and fired until the last of them had keeled over. "Wolves can't climb," he remarked to himself; and he felt that such an affair would be grand to tell of when he should get back to the city. It would make a sort of hero of him, and the wolves could be skinned right there. He enjoyed it mentally; but that particular pack of wild beasts, killed off, in his imagination, under that tree, were all the game, of any kind, that he obtained that day. Ponto did better, for he discovered innumerable tracks in the snow, and they seemed to answer his purposes admirably. He could sniff and bark, and run and come back again, and look up into Port's face as if he were saying, "There, I've had another hunt." Port had one. In fact, he hunted until he was sick of it, and decided that it was altogether too cold to hunt any longer. It seemed to him that he had been gone from the house a very long time indeed; and he was all but astonished, on his return, to discover that he was quite in season for dinner. "Didn't you see any thing whatever?" asked Susie. She had felt a little anxiety about him, considering what dreadful things the forest was known to contain, and was even relieved to have him reply,-- "Not so much as one rabbit. You never heard any thing so still as the woods are." "Didn't know but what you might bring home a few deer," said Deacon Farnham, "or find a bear-tree." "I'm good and hungry, anyhow," said Port; "and it's the hardest kind of work, looking all around for nothing." He had not done that. No city boy can spend a morning in the winter forest, with a gun and a dog, without learning something. It is an experience he will not forget so long as he lives. Those had been great days for Vosh Stebbins. He felt that he had new duties on his hands ever since his new neighbors came, and was more and more inclined to hurry home from school in the afternoon, and get his chores done early. His mother remarked more than once that she had hardly one moment to say a word to him, and that he could split more wood in half an hour than any other boy in Benton Valley. Nevertheless it was at their own supper-table that evening that she said to him,-- "We'd best not go over to the other house to-night, Lavawjer. We've been there a good deal lately, and I like to be neighborly, and it's a good idee to help 'em with their city cousins, and I never seen any that I took to more'n I do to Port and Susie Hudson; but there's reason in all things, and we mustn't be runnin' in too often." Vosh buttered another hot biscuit, and did not make any reply, because he could not think of the right one to make. It was made for him just a little after tea, when he told his mother that every thing he had to do was done. She had cleared away the tea things, and had taken her knitting, and both of them were sitting by their own fireplace. "Our sittin'-room," she said, "isn't as big as Joshaway Farnham's, and it doesn't call for more'n half so much fire; but it's a nice one, and I wish we had more folks into it. We must ask 'em all to come over some evening, and I'll see if I can't make 'em feel comfortable. I'll make some cake, and we've got a'most every thing else on hand. And that makes me think: I want Judith Farnham's new recipe for makin' the kind of cake she had Christmas and New-Year's; and you can put on your overcoat and come right over with me, and we won't stay one minute, and you mustn't let them get ye to talkin' about any thing." And Vosh was beginning to get ready before she reached that point. She put away her knitting at once, and said there was plenty of wood on the fire, for they were coming right back; and so Vosh piled on two more large logs, and they started. He may have had ideas of his own as to how much wood might burn while he and his mother were walking to Deacon Farnham's and returning. Some short walks are long ones, if the people who walk them are not careful. "I'm real glad they've come," said Mrs. Farnham the moment she heard her neighbors at the gate. "They're good company, too, and it must sometimes be kind of lonely for 'em,--only two in the house, and no young people." Her fireside had no lonely look, and it was all the brighter for those who now came in. It was of no manner of use for Mrs. Stebbins to speak about cake, and say she had not come to stay. Vosh settled himself at once with a hammer and a flat-iron and some hickory-nuts; and aunt Judith pulled up a rocking-chair, remarking,-- "Now, Angeline, don't let us have any nonsense. Sit right down here and be comfortable. I'll make a copy of the receipt for you to-morrow, and I always put in more eggs than it calls for." "Vosh," said Pen, "you mustn't make too much noise. Father's going to tell a story. It's of a man that got lost in the woods, and made a bear of himself." "I've known fellows do that, and not go far into the woods either," said Vosh; and Susie thought a moment before she added,-- "So have I. But then, some men can be bears, and not half try." The deacon laughed, and put down the apple he was paring. "I don't know if it's much of a story," said he; "but it has one advantage over some other stories, for it's a true one.--Take an apple, Mrs. Stebbins.--Corry, pass them to Vosh.--Pen, well, keep the cat in your lap if you want her." "Now," said aunt Judith, "I guess everybody's ready." "I won't go home till after the story, nohow," said Mrs. Stebbins; "but speaking of bears"-- "Mother," interrupted Vosh, "you've dropped your yarn. Here it is." "Hem!" said the deacon. "There were more bears all around the country once than there are now, and they did more mischief. It was really worth while to take a hunt for 'em now and then; and there's always a good market for bear-skins, if you cure 'em well. The way my story came about was this:-- "There was one November when the woods were just full of deer, and some young fellows from Benton Valley made up their minds they'd have a good hunt before the real cold weather came. There hadn't been just such an Indian summer for years and years, and camping out in the mountains was no kind of hardship. The nights were cold, but the days were warm; and all four of them were strapping young men, used to taking care of themselves, and brimful of fun. "They went up beyond Mink Lake, and it looked as if the deer kept away from them all that first day. They'd have gone to bed hungry, if it hadn't been for some fish they caught; and the next morning they made up their minds they'd go out singly, in different directions, and see which of them would do best. What was curious, they didn't have but one dog along, and his owner counted on having the most game, as a matter of course." "He was the man that got beared," whispered Pen to the cat in her lap; but her father went right on,-- "The man that owned the dog started out from camp right along the slope of Sawbuck Mountain, northerly; and there are little lakes every mile or so, and they're just swarming with fish. He was following an old path that was pretty well marked. Maybe it was an old Indian trail; but white men had followed it in winter, for the trees were blazed, so you could follow it if there was snow on the ground to hide it." The deacon paused a moment, as if thinking how to go on; and Porter Hudson asked him eagerly,-- "Did he have the kind of luck I had yesterday?" "Well, not exactly," replied his uncle. "Before it was ten o'clock by his watch, he had killed and hung up three deer. Real fat ones they were, too, and one of them was a seven-year-old buck with horns that were worth having." "'Pears to me," remarked Mrs. Stebbins, "the deer nowadays don't have the horns they did when I was a gal;" but the deacon went right on,-- "He didn't know just how many miles he might be from camp; and he knew he'd need help in carrying in those deer, unless he should cut up the meat and set out to smoke it right there." "And good smoked deer-meat is something worth having," said his wife. "But he walked on for half a mile or so, just as if there was any use in going for another deer that day, till he came out into a sort of open. The land sloped down to the shore of a little lake as regularly and smoothly as if it had been cleared for a deer-pasture. There wasn't a deer on it just then; but right in the edge of the opening the hunter found something that set him a-thinking. It was the best bear-trap he had ever seen. There was a little ledge of rocks; and about the middle of it was a break that made a square place the size of a small bedroom, only it wasn't much more than six feet high by ten feet deep. The fellows that made the trap had built up the front with heavy upright logs to hang their gate on, and covered the top with logs." "Please, uncle Joshua," said Susie, "what is the gate for?" "To let the bears in. Did you ever see a figure 4 rat-trap? That's it. The gate lifts up, with a strong sapling for a hinge, and the ends of the sapling (that's the roller) are fitted into the logs at the sides. There's a long pole fitted into the gate to lift it by, and, when that's pulled down flat on top of the trap, the gate is up about level. There was a wooden catch geared through the roof of that trap so nicely, that, when the pole was in the notch of it, the trap was set to spring at any kind of pull on the bait. The lower end of that catch hung away back by the rock, and the whole machine was in prime order." "It was somebody else's trap," remarked Corry doubtfully. "Oh, he could see that nobody had been there that year. The timber was all seasoned, and there was grass growing against the gate. There was a good stiff latch, made with a deep notch in the logs to hold that gate after it came down; and, if a bear once shut himself in, there was no possibility of his getting out. The hunter looked it all over, and made up his mind he'd set the trap, and go back to the last deer he'd killed, and get some fresh meat for bait, and see if something could be done with it. It was some time before he could get at the pole so as to bring it down; but he worked it with a grape-vine for a rope, and it came into place perfectly. Then he went to his deer, and got his bait, and hurried back, as if he were afraid some beast or other would get caught before the bait was there to account for it. You use it just as you use toasted cheese in a rat-trap, only you tie it on, so it'll take a hard pull to get it off. A bear is sure to pull, and that springs the trap; a panther isn't so apt to be stupid about it; and a wolf won't, unless he's hungry. They're more cunning than a bear is, anyhow." "He didn't toast the whole deer, and put him on?" said Pen. "No, he didn't toast any thing; but he was hard at work, tying all he had taken from the inside of that deer to the catch of the trap, when something happened that he hadn't been looking for." "Was it a bear?" said Pen. "Worse than that. He had pulled too hard on the catch, and it had slipped the pole free, and down came the gate with a bang, and he had trapped himself completely. The gate just missed the dog when it fell, but it left him outside. The first thing the hunter did was to laugh. Then he said he would finish tying the meat on, and go up and set the trap over again. He tied it on carefully, and set out to get ready for bears; but, when he tried to lift that gate, it wouldn't lift. It was made heavy purposely; and it was caught in the notch below, just exactly right, for the man that made that trap knew how. There was nothing about it to laugh at, and the hunter sat down and thought it over: so did the dog, looking at him through the cracks of the logs, and whimpering. It doesn't take a good dog long to understand when things are going badly." "He could have chopped his way out," said Port. "Yes," said the deacon, "but he had no axe, and a jack-knife is a poor tool to work with on seasoned timber. He tried it for a while; but it seemed as if he might whittle away for a week, or till he starved to death, before he could make a hole to get out by. He couldn't dig under, for limestone rock is hard digging. He worked a little at the roof, but that had been weighted with heavy stones, so that a bear could not have stirred a log of it. On the whole, it was a pretty tight place to be in; and it was dinner-time, and he was tremendously hungry. He had not a mouthful to eat or drink, and he knew his friends would not be uneasy about him before night, and not much even then. He was uneasy already, and so was the dog. The poor fellow came and pawed at the logs, and whined and whined; then he went back, and stood and barked like mad at the whole concern." "What a pity he didn't have an axe to chop himself out!" said Pen. "Then he wouldn't have staid there and starved to death." "He didn't do that exactly," said the deacon. "He sat down and thought about it, and studied that gate, until by and by an idea came to him. It was the middle of the afternoon before it came, but it was a good one. There were splinters of wood around the floor of the trap, and he had whittled a heap of shavings from the log he had worked on. He gathered them all, and began to crowd them into the chinks of the logs, away up in both corners of the gate, just under the roller that it swung on. Soon as he'd got them well packed in, he took out his match-box, and set them on fire. There isn't any trouble about getting dry wood to burn; and it was plain enough, that, if the ends of that roller were burned away, the gate would have to go down." Everybody around that fireplace felt sure about the burning qualities of seasoned wood, for they all had to pull away a little, and the story went on. "The fire kindled well on both corners. The fact was, it kindled a little too well, and it spread, and the smoke began to come back into the trap. Just before the hunter took out his match-box, he had looked around for his dog, and the fellow wasn't anywhere to be seen. There was time now to wonder what had become of him, but no amount of whistling brought him. Then the smoke grew too thick to whistle in, and the hunter lay down to get some fresher air at the bottom of the gate. The fire spread to the logs of the roof, and began to climb down the gate, and the trap became the hottest kind of a place. It took a long time for all that; but there was plenty of excitement in watching it, and in wondering whether or not he was going to roast himself to death instead of getting out. It grew hotter and hotter, until it could hardly be endured, and the smoke was stifling. At last the hunter sprang up, and gave a shove at the gate with all his might. If he had done it before, it might have let him out sooner. The gate went over upon the ground with a crash, and one jump carried the man out of the trap. He had left his rifle outside, leaning against a tree; and there it was yet, but there was not a sign of the dog. "He had left a big piece of deer-meat out there too; and his next thought was that he had plenty of fire to cook by, and that he wanted some supper as soon as he had been to the lake for a long drink of water. That water tasted good, now, I tell you, and so did the broiled meat afterwards; for the sun was only an hour high, and he had had an early breakfast that morning. He sat and cooked and ate, and felt better; and all the while the fire was finishing up the bear-trap, roof and all. He did his cooking on the gate; and, if he had not been able to get out when he did, the gate and roof would have cooked him." "Oh!" exclaimed Pen. "And he wasn't hurt a mite?" "No," said her father; "and just as he finished eating, and rose to pick up his rifle and start for the camp, there came a yelp, yelp, yelp through the woods, and there was his dog got back again. He hadn't come alone either; for right along behind him, travelling good and fast, were the three other hunters. The dog had been to the camp for them, and made them understand that his master was in trouble." "Splendid!" exclaimed Susie. "And when they saw the smoke of that fire, they all shouted and ran, till the dog gave a howl and a jump, and began to dance around the man he belonged to. He told his friends the whole story, and there was the fire to prove the truth of it; and each of them had killed a deer that day." "And how did you ever come to know just exactly how it all happened," said Mrs. Stebbins, "so't you can tell it right along, 'most as if you'd been there?" "Well," said the deacon, "I suppose it's because I was the man that got caught in the trap; and the other three were Alvin Lucas, and Levi Stebbins, and Sarah's brother, Marvin Trowbridge, that's living now at Ticonderoga." "I'd heard the story before," said aunt Sarah, "and I remember seeing that dog when he was so old he was gray." "I guess he didn't get turned out of the house when he was old," said Port enthusiastically; "but why didn't you fix the trap, and set it again?" "That's the very thing we did; and we caught three bears in it, and one wildcat, before the snow came. Only we always took care to bait the hook before we set the trap; and nobody else had to set it on fire to get out of it." "Vosh," said his mother, "as soon as I've finished this apple, it'll be time for you and me to be getting ready to go home." "That's all," said the deacon. CHAPTER XV. THE NEW CHESSMEN. Porter Hudson did not feel like going to the woods the following morning. He had a pretty clear idea that they were empty, that the bears were asleep in their trees, that the wolves had mostly been killed, that the deer had run away, and that the cougars and wildcats had gone after them. He was quite willing to go to the village with Susie, when she told him she must go and see if she could find some tidy-yarn, and some more colored wool for the last few inches of the fringe for the fur of the Mink-lake trophy. "There's three stores," said aunt Judith, "and you'll be sure to find what you want at one of 'em. I can remember when old Mr. McGinniss kept the only store in Benton, and it did seem sometimes as if he never had nothing in it that you wanted to buy. It was always something else that he'd picked up at a bargain, and was asking two prices for, and it didn't make him rich neither." The walking in the road was good enough now, and from the very outskirts of the village the paths were all that could be asked for; but Port looked at them several times with remarks about Broadway. "If we were there now," he said, "we'd find all the flagging clear and clean of snow." "I almost wish I could be there for an hour or so," replied Susie. "There'd be a better chance of finding just what I want than there is here." The stores of Benton Village, however improved they were since aunt Judith was a girl, bore no resemblance whatever to those of the great city. There was a cheese on the counter over which Susie first asked for colored wool; and the young man she spoke to took down a large pasteboard box of crewel and other stuff, and politely carried it to the front window. He set it down on a pile of home-made sausages, and lifted a bag of flour out of her way, so that she could make a search. She found one skein that would do, and only one, and she bought it. "Now, Port, we will try the next. I've made a beginning." "That's more than I thought you would do," said he. "It's a mixed-up sort of place." So was store No. 2, but it had a long showcase for that description of goods, and for fishing-tackle and candies, and for a lot of stuff that looked as if it might have been intended for Christmas presents to the heathen. "It must have been some accident," said Susie almost as soon as she looked into that collection. "Here are the very things. We needn't go any farther." The merchant, who was smiling across the showcase at her, knew that she was "that young lady from the city that's visiting with Deacon Farnham's folks, and she can skate like a bird." He had never seen a bird skate, but he knew she was pretty, and he was sincerely proud of the fact that she found the right wool in his establishment. He was doing it up satisfactorily, when Port pointed at a box in the showcase, and asked,-- "What's that, Mr. Rosenstein?" "Dot is chessmen. I show you." The box was lifted out in a twinkling, and pulled open. "I thought as much," said Port. They had evidently been on hand a long time, and had a forlorn and forsaken look. The white king was in two pieces, and so was one of the black horse-men; but Mr. Rosenstein said encouragingly,-- "I zell dose chessmen for two shilling. Dey cost me four. You joost dake a leetle glue"-- "Guess I can," said Port. "I'll buy 'em.--That's what I've been thinking of, Susie. Vosh can beat me at checkers, but he never played a game of chess in all his life. I'll show him something." Mr. Rosenstein was again very much pleased, for that box had been a bad speculation; and Port and Susie were bowed out of the store a great deal. There was not much to see in the village after that, but they strolled around for a little while. There were many people in from the surrounding country; and the jingle of sleigh-bells, and the continual coming and going of teams, made things lively. One large double sleigh, with extravagant goose-necks, pulled up almost in front of them, and a lady's voice called to Susie,-- "Miss Hudson!" "Mrs. King! Good-morning. I've been doing some shopping." "Hope you succeeded better than I can do. Glad I've met you. There are your invitations, and your aunts' and uncle's; and if you'll be kind enough to send over Mrs. Stebbins's to her"-- "I'll attend to that with pleasure," said Port, reaching out his hand for the white envelopes her own was offering. "And you must all come," said Mrs. King. "I'm going to have my house full. You will not disappoint me? Most of 'em will be young folks, but I'll have a few grown-up people on my own account." Susie promised faithfully, and Mrs. King drove on. "I'd like it first-rate," said Port, as he read his own invitation to the party. "We must go, Susie. It'll be fun." "Of course I'll go. Don't you think she has a very pleasant face?" He spoke strongly of Mrs. King's face, and they turned to go home. The fact that a young-people's party was getting ready to be announced at Squire King's was a secret pretty well known and carefully kept by all Benton; but everybody was glad to get an invitation, just the same. Twenty-three people, or perhaps twenty-four, remarked that they were very glad Squire King's house was so large, or there wouldn't be room in it to walk around after the folks got there. That was not all; for some of the Benton people found out, for the first time, that they were no longer considered "young people," and some of them felt as if Mrs. King had made a mistake in her reckoning. Mrs. Bunce, the doctor's wife, asked her where she drew the line; and she said,-- "I don't exactly know, but if they've got gray hair, or their children go to school"-- "That'll do," said Mrs. Bunce. "It hits me in both places. My Sam and his sisters'll be there, and I'll come after them. I hope you'll have a good time." There was some stir at the Farnham and Stebbins homesteads over those invitations. Both houses had been swept by Mrs. King's list in order to make sure of Susie and her brother, and it came as both a triumph and a trial to Mrs. Stebbins and Vosh. "They wear white silk neckties to parties," said she to him, "and I'll see that you hev one. They say it'll be the largest young-folks' party there ever was in Benton Valley." Some of the young folk expecting to go were very large, truly, but not all of them; for Penelope had a special invitation. That was old Squire King's work; for he knew Pen, and he declared that he wouldn't miss hearing what she had to say about the company, and things in general. That had been a busy day for Mrs. Stebbins, but her cake had turned out splendidly. "They're all coming over after tea, Lavawjer," she said to him, "and we must see to it that they have a good time. If you and Porter Hudson play checkers, you needn't mind a-letting of him beat you for once. He hasn't won a game on you yet." That was a fact; but there was something in store for Vosh that evening. He had every thing around the house attended to in prime good season; and his fireplace wore as bright a glow, for its size, as did Deacon Farnham's own. The weather called for that sort of thing; but everybody was now so accustomed and hardened to it, that there was less difficulty in understanding how the Russians can make out to be happy after their frosts begin to come. The entire Farnham family, Ponto and all, turned out in a procession soon after supper, and they made a noisy walk of it to their neighbor's gate. "There they come!" exclaimed Mrs. Stebbins; "and they're all talking at once, and it sounds as if they were in good sperrets, and we must keep 'em a-going, and you mustn't talk too much yourself, and give 'em a fair chance, and"-- The door flew open at that moment, and Pen's voice shouted,-- "They're all a-coming, Mrs. Stebbins!--O Ponto! I never ought to have let you get in.--Vosh, turn him out before he has time to shake himself." It was too late for that, and Mrs. Stebbins would not have had a dog of the Farnham family turned out of her house at any time. Ponto was made at home by everybody but the cat; and even she showed very plainly that she knew who he was, even if she could not call him by name. "Here we are," said aunt Judith. "Did your cake come up? Hope it didn't fall." "Fall! No. It's just the lightest kind. Now, do get your things off, all of ye, and sit down. I'm to your house often enough, and I'm right glad to hev the whole of you in mine at once, and not scattering along." The room looked all the cosier for not being large; and, as soon as everybody had found a chair, Vosh was justified in saying to Port and Corry,-- "Now, if this isn't first-rate, I'd like to know what is." Port's reply was,-- "I got me a set of chessmen down in the village to-day, and I brought them over with me. It's worth all the checkers." Everybody seemed disposed to take an interest in that matter. The chessmen were turned out of their box, and showed signs of recent discipline. They had a bright and much-rubbed look. A little glue had remounted the knight, and set up the broken king; and when Corry remarked, "Didn't he get 'em cheap?" he expressed the general opinion. Vosh looked at them eagerly, and began to set them in their places. He had never played a game of chess; but he had watched the playing of several, and that was something to a good checker-player. It was not all new ground. From the moment he had heard about Port's purchase, by way of Corry, his mind had busied itself with his memories of the games he had watched; and he was at this hour crammed full of enthusiasm for the royal game. "Vosh," said Port, "suppose Susie and I play a game, and you look on and learn the moves." "No," said Susie: "you and Vosh play, and I'll be his adviser. I can play as well as you can." "Better too, if I make blunders in the opening." "Lavawjer," remarked his mother, "that's what you'd better do; and I don't suppose you can learn much in one evening, but you can make a start at it. They say it's an awful hard thing to get into, and there was a man over in Scoville's Corners that went crazy just a-studying over it." The chessmen were in place by that time, and so were the players; and Susie began to explain to Vosh the different powers of the pieces. He listened politely, but it seemed to him as if he already began to see into the matter. He was only too confident of what he saw, for a trifling neglect by him of Susie's advice enabled her brother to announce what players call "the scholar's mate" in a very few moves. "I told you so, Lavawjer," said his mother. "She knew jest what she was about, and you didn't." But there was no danger that her son would ever again be defeated by so simple a combination. The second game, with Susie's help, was more protracted; and then it was aunt Judith's keen eyes that detected the state of mind Vosh had arrived at. "Susie," she said, "let him alone this time. He's got a-going now. Don't say one word to him, and let's see how he'll work it out." "I won't speak, Vosh," said Susie. "Go right ahead now.--It won't be long, Port, before he'll catch up with you." Vosh was not a conceited young fellow, but he had a fair degree of self-confidence. He was not afraid of any reasonable undertaking at any time, but he had a queer experience coming to him just now. He found his imagination running away ahead, and placing those men on the board in new positions, and then understanding what would be the consequences of those arrangements. It was the power to do that very thing which had made him so good a checker-player; but he had never used it so vividly as now, and it almost startled him. All the brains in the world are not made upon the same pattern, and not many boys with good heads on their shoulders know what is in them. The older people were having a good time in their own way, but every now and then they turned to watch that third game of chess. Susie was in a fever several times, and came very near breaking in with advice, as her pupil seemed running into dangers. Each time she checked herself; and each time Vosh discovered the snags ahead of him, and avoided them. Port himself was getting more deeply interested than he had expected, and called up all he had ever learned. He was not a bad player for so young a one, and he had worked out problems, and studied printed games. He remembered one of the latter now, that seemed to fit his present case very well, and he tried to make it serve as a trap for Vosh Stebbins. It seemed a success at first, but it was just like Joshua Farnham's bear-trap exactly: the fellow that was caught in it destroyed it altogether. There was a way out of the proposed defeat which had not been seen by the newspaper problem-maker, and Vosh found it. That was the end of the game; and, in a few moves more, Port was himself in a tangle from which he could not escape. He was beaten. He was tremendously exercised by the laugh that went around the room, and by Susie's patting him on the head and advising him to wake up. He had not dreamed of any such result, and called for another trial. That game he managed to win, and one more; but beyond that neither he nor any other but a really good player was likely to go with Vosh Stebbins. "I declare, Sarah!" exclaimed the deacon at last: "we've staid too late. We must go home at once." Mrs. Stebbins protested that it was early; but the game of chess was over, and go they did. Every slice of all that remarkable cake had been eaten, and all declared that they had had an uncommonly pleasant evening. Pen improved it by remarking,-- "Port's had a pretty hard time, but he'll get over it." After the company were gone, and the house was quiet, and Vosh could go to bed, it seemed to him as if he should never get to sleep. It was not exactly the fact that chess-problems were troubling his brains: it was more the yet greater fact that he had discovered brains in his head that he had not known of. With that also came the idea that he must find some better use for them than any kind of game could give him. CHAPTER XVI. WINTER FLOWERS AND THE PARTY. Squire King was one of the most liberal of men, and he had something to be liberal with. He had gradually gone more and more into the spirit of the young folks' party matter, and had even astonished his wife by the things he did and proposed. To have had actual dancing would have offended some of the best people in the village; but every other kind of amusement that was to be tolerated he provided for, and he almost doubled the allowance of ice-cream and confectionery. He had no idea, nor had even his wife, what an amount of work and of contriving they had provided for their neighbors. Every store in Benton Village, and some over in Cobbleville, did a better business from the hour in which Mrs. King's invitations were delivered. The family at the Farnham homestead seemed to concentrate their interest upon the kind of appearance Susie Hudson was to make. Even Pen remarked to her,-- "They all know me, and they won't care so much how I look; but you're from the city, and every one of 'em'll look at you as soon as you come in." Susie had brought a good enough wardrobe with her; and aunt Judith herself declared it extravagant, but at the same time selected the best things in it for use at Mrs. King's party. "I shall have no trouble at all," said Susie. "There needn't be any thing added to that dress." "No," said Pen, "it's mine that's got to be added to." But there was one lady in the neighborhood who was of a different opinion. The very morning of the party, Mrs. Stebbins said to her son,-- "I don't keer if you do miss a day's schoolin'. You jest hitch up the colt after breakfast." "Going somewhere?" "I'll tell you after we're a-going. It won't be any short drive, now. I'm going to hev my own notions for once. She's the nicest gal I know of." "Do you mean Susie Hudson?" "I'll show you what I mean, and if I don't open somebody's eyes!" She evidently had some plot or other on her mind, and she grew almost red in the face over it at the breakfast-table. She finished putting away the dishes while Vosh was out getting ready the colt and cutter, but she did not seem disposed to tell even herself precisely what her plans were. It was not until she and her deeply interested driver were actually driving into Benton that she came out with it. "Vosh," she said, "take right down the main street, and out the Cobbleville road. We're going way to cousin Jasper's." "That's three miles beyond. Well, it isn't much of a drive in such sleighing as this is. The colt's feeling prime. But what's it for?" "We're going all the way to cousin Jasper Harding's; and, if the frost hasn't clean killed out his hot-house, I'm going to hev somethin' for Susie Hudson that the rest on 'em can't get a hold of. The last time I seen him he said his plants was doing first-rate, and he'd put in steam-pipe enough to save 'em if the frost was a-splitting the rocks. He hasn't any use for 'em on earth, except that he had lettuce and radishes for his Christmas dinner." There was steady work for the sorrel colt after that, and the bells jingled the merriest kind of tune right through Cobbleville without stopping. When "cousin Jasper's" was reached, it was nothing but a long-built, story-and-a-half white house, with no pretension whatever. There were young fruit-trees around it in all directions, and uncommonly extensive trellises for vines; and at one end the glass roof of a hot-house barely lifted itself above the snow-banks. One man, at least, in that region, had materially added to his other resources for winter enjoyment. "He says it doesn't cost him any thing to speak of," said Mrs. Stebbins to Vosh. "He's got some fixings rigged to the big stove in the parlor, to send the steam around the hot-house, and the fire doesn't go out in that stove all winter long. I'd kind o' like to try it some day myself. It's the getting started that costs money." "And then," said Vosh, "there's the knowing how to do it." He thought so again after he got into that bit of a winter garden, and looked around him. Cousin Jasper Harding was an under-sized man, and his wife was a short woman of twice his weight. They could stand erect where Vosh had to stoop a little; but he could stand up in the middle, and see what they pointed out to him. Both were glad to see him and his mother, and to have them stay to dinner; but, for some reason or other, Mrs. Stebbins was slow about opening her errand. Vosh wondered a little, but he waited and listened. It was at the dinner-table that she began to tell about the young folks' party to be at Mrs. King's that evening. From that she went over to Deacon Farnham's, and told about Susie Hudson, and how pretty she was, and about her skating, and all the nice evenings at the deacon's, and at last somewhat suddenly inquired,-- "Didn't you use to think a good deal of Joshaway Farnham and his wife, and Judith, and"-- "Best friends I ever had in my life." "I was thinking, Jasper. City girls are used to having a sprig of something to wear in their dresses to a party. Now, I know it would please Joshaway and Sarah and Judith if you'd send a bit of something green,--jest a leaf or so, not to rob any of your plants. There ain't many of 'em, and cutting 'em might hurt 'em; and where a man hasn't but a little"-- "Something green? Guess so. There's more in that hot-house than you think there is, Angeline." "Well, maybe there is. It looks too nice to take out any thing of what few plants you've got." "You just finish your pie, and come along. I'll show you something you think I can't do. I'd like to do a favor for any girl of that family. Tell her I knowed her mother 'fore she was born. I'll go right in now; be ready by the time you get there.--Betsey, you keep Angeline company, and I'll show her something." He certainly astonished both her and Vosh. As she afterwards explained to the latter, no money could have made him part with any of his hot-house treasures as a direct sale, nor would he have given them for the asking. She had to get them the way she did; but there they were. "That's for her throat-latch, Angeline; and she can put that on her waistband,--little fellows, you know. She can carry that in her hand; and, if she wants to send her photygraph to old Jasper Harding and his wife, she can. I'll hang it up in the hot-house." Mrs. Stebbins had a great deal to say about those flowers and green leaves, and the skill with which they had been cultivated and now were put together, and she added,-- "Now, Betsey, Vosh and I must go. Jasper's bokay and the buds'll be worn by the nicest and prettiest gal at Mrs. King's party, and I wish you two were going to be there to see." In a few minutes more the colt was brought from his dinner in the barn, Mrs. Stebbins was in the cutter guarding her prizes, the liberal florist was thanked again, and then the bells made lively music homeward. Very complete was the astonishment on all the faces in the Farnham sitting-room when Mrs. Stebbins walked in, and announced the results of her morning's undertaking. The sorrel colt had trotted twenty miles and more for the sake of Susie Hudson; but it was Vosh's mother who got kissed for it, and that was probably sound justice. She also received an invitation to go and come in Deacon Farnham's sleigh, and so the sorrel colt did save an evening job in cold weather. Vosh was particularly glad of that invitation. He was a young man of a good deal of courage, but it seemed to him that he could march into Mrs. King's front parlor more easily with a crowd than with only his mother or alone. Corry was not troubled in that way, nor Penelope; and Porter Hudson was only too well aware that he was from the city, and had been to parties before. He had no doubt whatever that he would know how to do the right things in the right place, but that was just where Vosh Stebbins found his courage called for. He made a mental chessboard of Mrs. King's premises, and the people who were to be in them, and found that he could not place the pieces to suit himself. He was the worst piece in the whole lot whenever he arranged one of those society problems. It was a game he had never played, and he was only half sure he could win at it. He was confident of being as well dressed as was necessary, except that he wondered whether or not any one would wear gloves. His mother settled that for him, and Mr. Rosenstein could have told him that only three young men in Benton had bought any. These had run the risk of it, meaning to put them on if it should be necessary. One had purchased white kids, and another a black pair, while the third had heard that bright yellow was the correct thing. The pair he selected were very bright and very yellow. Susie Hudson's dress did not trouble aunt Judith's mind after she saw it on, and she remarked of it,-- "Now, Sarah, I'm glad there isn't any thing showy about it. It's just the best thing. She isn't looking as if she was putting on. It'll be all the prettier when the flowers are there, and nobody else'll have any." It was simple, tasteful, of very good material, and there was no question as to the good effect of the flowers. Susie was all but sorry that she was to be alone in that particular; and so, as soon as she got there, was every other girl in the room. The deacon's hired man lived at some distance down the road, but he came up to look out for the team, and was sent first to the Stebbins house. Vosh and his mother were ready, and he was thinking of his new white silk necktie when he came to the door with her. The man in the sleigh could not hear him think, and did not know what a burden a necktie can be; but he did hear Mrs. Stebbins remark,-- "Now, Lavawjer, the one thing you're to remember is, that you mustn't talk too much. Let other folks do the talking, and, if you keep your eyes about ye, you may learn something." He had already begun not to talk too much, for hardly a word escaped him till they got to the Farnham gate. "I'll go in and see if they're ready," he said, and was preparing to get out. "I guess I'll go in too," added his mother. "I'd like to see how they're all a-looking." At that moment, however, the front-door swung open, and a procession marched out, headed by Pen, and closed, as was the door behind it, by her father. "We're all fixed, Vosh," said Pen. "My back hair's in two braids, and Susie's got a bracelet with a gold bug on it, and Port's got on his summer shoes, and aunt Judith"-- Just there her account of the condition of things was cut off by the general confusion of getting into the sleigh, but Pen made up for it afterwards. Vosh again showed a strong tendency to take his mother's advice, and the drive to the village was by no means a long one. They were not any too early, and had to wait for three other sleigh-loads to get out, before theirs could be drawn in front of the pathway cut through the drifts to the sidewalk. Only one of Mrs. King's guests was very late that evening, and he was a young man who was learning to play the flute, and had heard that fashionable people never went anywhere till after nine o'clock. Besides, it took him an hour or so to decide not to carry his flute with him. It helped Vosh a great deal, that they all had to go to the dressing-rooms first, and unwrap themselves. After that, it all came easier than he had expected, for Squire King and his wife had a hearty, kindly way of welcoming people. Perhaps it helped him somewhat, that they had no opportunity to say too much to him just then, and he could go right on following his mother's advice. There was a stir in the rooms, that Susie did not at all understand, when she and her brother passed on to mingle with the rest of the young people. Some of them had seen her before, and some had not, and all of them were taking a deeper interest in her dress and appearance than she had any idea of. It was as well for her comfort, that she was ignorant of it, and that she did not hear eleven different young ladies assure each other, "She must have sent away to the city for those flowers." Her uncle and aunts were exceedingly proud of her, and so was Pen. In fact, the latter informed several persons whom she knew, "She's my cousin Susie, and she's the prettiest girl there is here; but I don't believe I shall look much like her when I grow up." Squire King asked her why not, when she told him, and was at once informed,-- "Susie's never been freckled, and mine won't ever come off. They go away round to the back of my neck. Most all the girls here have got 'em, but they don't amount to any thing." "Freckles, or girls either," laughed the squire. "But, Pen, does your cousin play the piano?" "Of course she does, only we haven't any, and so she's learned how to spin. She can crochet, but I showed her how to heel a stocking, and so did aunt Judith." "I'm sure she can," remarked Mrs. King. "I'll go and ask her myself." That was not until the party had been in full operation for some time; and quite a number were wondering what it was best to do next, when Mrs. King led Susie to the piano. Several of the local musicians had already done their duty by it, and Susie had consented without a thought of hesitation. She heard a remark as she passed one young lady who had barely missed the outer line of Mrs. King's list of invitations:-- "The flowers are real, and she's pretty enough, but she's too young to play well. They're paying her too much attention, I think." If there was one thing that Susie loved better than another, it was music, and her teachers had done their duty by her. The moment her fingers touched the keys, they felt entirely at home, and sent back word to her that they would play any thing she could remember. Then they went right on, and convinced every pair of ears within hearing that they were skilfully correct about it. "I declare!" exclaimed Vosh Stebbins to the little knot around him, "she can play the piano better than she can skate, and that's saying a good deal." The young folks in two of the farther rooms were playing forfeits, and missed the music, but the promenaders all stood still for a few minutes and listened. It was just like the flowers. Nobody else had brought any thing quite so nice, and there was danger that Susie would be unpopular. As it was, she had no sooner risen from the piano than Squire King announced that supper was ready. Vosh had not known that it was so near, and was compelled to see Adonijah Bunce offer Susie his arm, and lead her into the refreshment-room. He felt that he had made the first real blunder of the evening, but he was wrong about it. Adonijah was so agitated over his success, that he spilled some scalding hot coffee down his left leg, and trod on Susie's toes in consequence. He made her exclaim, "Oh, mercy!" and he made as much blood go into his own face as it could possibly hold at the moment when he said "Golly!" and bit his tongue for it. There was promenading during all the supper-time, and some music, because the dining-room would not hold them all at once; but, as fast as the young people finished and came out, they set more vigorously at work to enjoy themselves. It was right there that the young people of Benton Valley began to forgive Susie Hudson for her skating and her flowers and her music, and for being a city girl. She went into every thing with such heartiness, that even Adonijah Bunce began to feel as happy as his left leg would let him. Still he was the only young fellow there who could say that he had poured hot coffee on himself, if that could be called distinction. Vosh Stebbins had seen him do it, and had been more at ease ever since. Squire King and his wife were in tremendous good spirits about their party, and they had a right to be. Aunt Judith herself told them it was the nicest gathering of young folks that there had ever been in Benton; and Pen enjoyed it so much, that at last she leaned up against Mrs. Keyser on the sitting-room lounge, and went fast asleep. It was all over at last, and the guests went home. Sleigh-load after sleigh-load was packed, and went jingling away. The nearby residents marched off as they had come, except that some young men had more to take care of, and some young ladies had other young gentlemen than their own brothers. Pen went to sleep again in the sleigh, and her father lifted her out and carried her into the house; and the moment she waked up she remarked,-- "He gave me a whole paper of candy, Susie, and it filled my muff so I couldn't get my hands in." That had been Squire King's work, and her mother responded,-- "You're going to bed now, and so is Susie. No candy till morning." At that very moment Mrs. Stebbins was saying to Vosh,-- "I'm glad we're home again, but we've had a good time. She did look well in them flowers, and she just can play the piano; and you got along first-rate, Lavawjer; and I'm glad you let Nijah Bunce see her in to supper, and wasn't round in the way at no time." She had more to say; but it was a very late bed-time, and she had to put off saying it. CHAPTER XVII. THE SNOW-FORT. There was a large amount of conversation performed in Benton Valley the day following the party at Squire King's. It began before breakfast. In some sleeping-rooms it began before people were out of bed. It went on all over the village; and the whole affair was discussed at the drug-store, and in the blacksmith-shop, and at the tavern. It is safe to say that every thing that could be said was said; and the unanimous verdict was, that the party had been a success. So had Susie Hudson been, and she was not omitted from a single description of the company. As for Adonijah Bunce, he obtained some liniment of his mother without telling her just where he had been standing when he spilt the coffee. Susie knew where he stepped next; but she was not very lame, and felt kindly towards Adonijah. Vosh came over pretty early in the forenoon to see Port and Corry upon a matter of some importance. "Snow-fort!" exclaimed Porter Hudson a little dignifiedly. "Don't you think we're a little too old for that?" "Not if it's finished up in the way they began it," replied Vosh. "They went at it after school, and I guess they must have finished it this morning. We'll have the biggest game of draw you ever got into, and we can keep it up all day." "I'm in for it," said Corry; but Port had really never seen any snow citadels, nor had he been in any game of draw. He remembered reading that Benedict Arnold mounted his cannon on a snow-fort, the better to pepper Quebec, but he had a dim and small opinion of such matters. Still it was a promise of fun, and he went right along. The weather had been growing milder for two days, and that Saturday morning the sun had actually risen with yellow in his face. Deacon Farnham had predicted a change in the weather yet to come, and said something very deep about sap in trees, and of how he must watch it. Port could not imagine any method of watching the movements of sap in trees, or any reason for caring how it moved. He was now thinking with increasing interest about snowballs and their uses, for Vosh explained to him the proposed game of "draw" as they went down the hill. "Three to one is fair odds," he said; "and, if a fellow gets hit, he changes sides. I've seen a fort drawn so full, they had half of 'em to sit down; and the last fellow out had no chance to pick up a snowball, for dodging what they gave him. It's just so if there's only one left in the fort. He can hardly show his head without having one of his ears filled. The snow'll pack first-rate just now. It'll stick together, but it won't make too hard a ball. Wet snow'll pack into a wad that stings, and it'll do damage too, sometimes." Port remembered something about that from even his small experience in the city. He had paid for a pane of glass once. The boys of Benton Village had snowballed a great deal that winter. They had grown to be pretty expert marksmen, and their dodging qualities had improved. They had even made snow breastworks two or three times; but their ambition in that direction had recently been stimulated by a picture in one of the illustrated papers. All hands had agreed that the right kind of a fort had never yet been built upon that green, and that it was time to have one. Snow was plentiful, and so were shovels; and, so long as it was play, there were boys enough to do the work, hard as it might be. They made it square, and the walls were nearly two feet thick. They were so high that the shorter boys complained that only their heads came above it. It made them all the safer in a game of draw, and they could throw nearly as well. The fort was not finished on Friday evening, because so many of the leading boys were to be at Mrs. King's party; but, by the time Vosh and his two neighbors got there Saturday forenoon, they were beginning to draw for sides. "There's just twenty-four of us, Vosh," said Adonijah Bunce. "That's six for the fort, and eighteen for the field, to begin on. Draw your cut now, and see where you belong." "There," said Vosh as he pulled a straw from the hand extended to him: "where does it send me?" "Into the fort. I'm outside.--Now, Corry, you and Port." They drew, and discovered that they also were outsiders, under Capt. Bunce; while Vosh was to command the fort as long as the sharp practice should let him stay there. "It begins to look as if it were going to amount to something," said Port to himself, when it was explained to him that none of his crowd could go in beyond a certain line about forty feet from the snowy wall, nor retreat beyond another line twice as distant. Vosh and his garrison of five privates were inside the fort in a twinkling, and there were piles of snowballs there ready for use. So there were along the lines of the attacking forces; and the shout of "All ready!" had hardly been uttered, before the missiles began to fly. Porter Hudson was determined to do himself credit, and at once dashed up to the line, throwing as he went. "Pick him," said Vosh to his men, and the next instant all their heads came in sight at once. Capt. Bunce's force was well enough disciplined, and their volley at those heads was prompt; but six balls came straight for Porter Hudson. He dodged two, and one missed him widely; but another lodged in his neck, another came spat against his waistband, and the sixth took off his hat. "Called in!" shouted Vosh, and Port belonged to the garrison. So, in a few moments more, did three other of Capt. Bunce's marksmen; but he had played draw before, and was beginning to wake up. He divided his men, scattering them all around the fort, and Port's next experience came to him in that way. A random ball came over the opposite wall, and landed in the middle of his back. He was again in the field, but his place was taken by the young man who was learning to play the flute. Standing still a moment to warm his hands, and whistle, a pellet thrown by Corry Farnham had broken on his nose, and spoiled the music. The fun grew fast and furious, and the fort was steadily gaining, until Vosh Stebbins made a blunder. He saw somebody walking along on the sidewalk beyond the green, but did not notice who they were till Corry remarked,-- "Halloo! Aunt Judith and Susie. Guess they're going to see Mrs. King. Morning call, eh?" The attention of Capt. Bunce was drawn in the same direction by a youth who said to him,-- "There's that young lady from New York. See her?" Adonijah turned to do so, and stood still long enough for Vosh Stebbins to make a perfect and undodging mark of him. The ball was a hard one, and it struck precisely upon the liniment, the spot where the coffee had been. Nijah jumped, but he was a drawn man; and so, alas for the fortunes of that fort! was Capt. Stebbins. He too stood still too long; and he was bare-headed now, looking around for his cap, and rubbing his red right ear, where a globe of well-packed snow had landed forcibly. Susie and her aunt stood still for some minutes, watching the game, without the least idea that they had any thing to do with the exchange of leaders. They were indeed on their way to Mrs. King's; but aunt Judith had other errands, or she would have let that ceremony wait. Vosh had been studying war all that morning, and he was hardly among the outsiders before he tried a new plan of attack. "Now, boys," he shouted, "you do as I tell you. Take the corners,--half of us against the corner this way, and half against the opposite corner; and they'll have to kind o' bunch up to throw back, and you're bound to hit somebody. Make a lot of balls, and get good and ready, and we'll empty that fort." It worked very much in that way. The defenders of the fort were drawn carelessly towards the corners, under a raking fire. The pellets flew over among them thick and fast; and in less than three minutes Coriolanus Farnham stood alone, the entire garrison of the frosty fortress. He stood in a bending posture, against the inner face of a wall, while all around him flew the snowballs that were searching for him. He was a forlorn hope, but he meant to stick it out. He even rose suddenly to return the volleys with a solitary shot. He threw, but so did twenty-three assailants from various directions; and Nijah Bunce had waited, with a knowledge of his where-abouts. "Called out!" shouted Vosh. "What are you rubbing for, Corry?" "Got hit all over." "Game's up," said Nijah. "Now, boys, we'll choose over again." "Not till I've had a rest," said Corry; and Port remarked,-- "I'll hold on. My arm's too lame to throw another ball." So was every other arm among them, by the time they had emptied that fort again; but it was voted the best snowballing of the season. CHAPTER XVIII. THE SUGAR-BUSH AND THE BEAR. The winter days went swiftly on, with constant repetitions of chess and fireside comfort in evenings, and snowballing, skating, sleigh-rides, and other fun whenever the circumstances permitted. There were frequent and long letters from the South, and other and shorter letters from the city. A pretty steady comparison of climates could be made from time to time, and there was no small interest in that. Susie and Port became as well known in Benton Village as if they had been residents, and at least a dozen of the young ladies they knew had learned to skate. Old Miss Turner, the dressmaker, tried it; but she told her friends that she tore her dress and spoiled her bonnet for nothing, and she wouldn't bump the back of her head in that way any more. "Aunt Sarah!" suddenly exclaimed Susie one afternoon, when she had just finished reading a letter from Florida, "mother says she is as well as ever, and that, now spring is coming"-- "Spring! Why, it's hardly beyond the end of February yet. The winter'll hold on till April, and maybe till nigh the end of it." "Well, away down there they've had real warm weather." "Now, Susie, you sit right down and write to her that the snow's three feet deep on a level, and she mustn't dream of running the risk of her health in coming North till May." "Spring'll come earlier in the city than it will up here, aunt Sarah. You can't think how I want to see her." Port was listening, and he drew a long breath; but he said nothing, and looked very hard out of the window at the endless reaches of snow. They were there, but the long cold "snap" was unmistakably over. It was after supper, that very evening, that Deacon Farnham remarked to his wife,-- "Sarah, the sun's been pretty warm on the trees, and the sap'll be running. I must be getting ready. I mean to have the biggest kind of a sugaring this year." "I'm glad of it, Joshua. It'll be something for the young folks too. I'm half afraid Susie's beginning to be homesick." "Nonsense," said aunt Judith; "but of course she wants to see her mother. She and Port are doin' something or other all the while. It's been just one jump with 'em, and they've had a good time. They read a good deal, too; and Port shot two more rabbits only yesterday, and carried 'em over to Mrs. Stebbins." The city cousins had indeed had a good time; but they did not tell anybody how glad they were to see the sun climbing higher, and to feel sure that spring was nearer. The increasing sun-power was settling and packing the drifts; and the bitter nights were all that witnessed, for about a week, to the remaining strength of the winter. The sap began to run, as the deacon said it would, and he was fully ready for it. His sugar harvest was to be gathered among the maple-trees on the south-lying slope, near the spot where he had done most of his chopping. There were trees there of the right sort, in great plenty,--great towering old fellows that could well afford to lose a little sap. "Judith," said Mrs. Farnham, while her husband was at the barn loading his wood-sleigh with the things he would need at the sugar-bush, "we must have the sewing society meet at our house right in sugaring-time." "It'll be the very thing to do, and I'm glad you thought of it. Only it'll take a good deal of sugar to sweeten some of 'em." There was more to be said; but Port and Susie had no share in the discussion, for they hurried out to the sleigh, and were quickly on their way to the woods. They had already learned that a hundred tall maples, more or less, with holes bored into their sides, and with wooden "spiles" driven into the holes, were thereby transformed into a "bush." The deacon made the boys leave their guns at home, as he had work for them to do; but Vosh joined them when they passed his house, and he carried his double-barrel on his shoulder. He was laughed at a little, but he said there was no telling when he might find a use for it. It was a bright and sunny day, but there had been no real thaw as yet. The crust had settled with the snow, and was still firm enough for the workers to walk from tree to tree. The first business was to tap as many as the deacon thought he could attend to; and the boys had enough to do in carrying from the sleigh the wooden troughs, and placing them where they would catch the steady drip, drip, from the sap-spiles. "They'll fill pretty fast," said the deacon. "We've got some evening collecting before us, or I'm mistaken. We must have some kettles up as soon as we can." He and Vosh and the hired man went right at it, and the deacon declared that he would have two more hands from the village the next day. Susie and Pen went with them, and stood watching the process. "It's easy enough," said Pen, as she saw them struggling with one of the great iron kettles. Two strong forked stakes were driven down in convenient places, at about eight feet apart. A stout pole was laid across each pair of stakes, resting in the forks. A kettle was swung upon each cross-pole in due season, but only three had been brought that morning. Then all was ready for building a fire under the kettle, and beginning to make sugar. "Won't the snow melt under it?" asked Susie. "Won't it put out the fire?" "You'll see," said Vosh. "Of course the snow melts on top, and sinks, and we keep pitching on bark and stuff, and the ashes are there. The water runs off through the snow, and all the stuff gets packed hard, and'll bear as much fire as you can build on it. It makes a cake, and freezes nights, and those cakes'll be the last things around here that melt in spring." He was aching to get a bucket of sap into that first kettle, and a fire under it, so he could show her how it worked; but the other kettles had to be set up first. It was well that there should be enough of them to take the sap as it came, so that nobody need be tempted to throw cold sap into boiling sirup at the wrong time. A barrel was brought up afterwards, to hold any surplus that a kettle was not ready for. While the workers at the sugar-bush were pushing forward their preparations, Susie and Port were learning a great deal about maple-sugar processes. They could not help remembering all they knew about other kinds of sugar. At the same time there was much activity at the farmhouse. Aunt Judith put on her things, as soon as she could spare the time for it, and went over to consult with Mrs. Stebbins. Then they both came back to see Mrs. Farnham; and all three wrapped up, and made the quickest kind of a walk to the village. They made several short calls separately, and, when they came together again, Mrs. Stebbins announced the result triumphantly,-- "We've set the ball a-rollin'. Elder Evans'll give it out in meeting this evening. All the rest of 'em'll send word, and he'll give it out again on Sunday. If we don't have your house full next Tuesday, I'm all out in my count." Sugar-making in a large "bush" is not a business to be finished up in a day or two. The weather grew better and better for it, and Deacon Farnham's extra "hands" were kept at it most industriously. Tuesday came, and Mrs. Stebbins was not at all out in her count. The house began to look lively even before noon. Squire King and his wife came just after dinner, and their sleigh could not have held one more passenger. It went right back for some more. It was curious, too, considering that everybody knew all about sugaring. Old or young, hardly any of them were contented until they had paid a visit to the "bush," and drunk some sap. Some of the younger people seemed very much inclined to stay there. "There won't be any great amount of sewing done for the poor heathen," remarked one good old lady, with a lump of maple-sugar in one hand, and a kruller in the other. "What's more, all their appetites'll be spiled, and they won't enjoy eatin' any thing." Some afterwards seemed really to have suffered that injury, but not the majority, by any means. The later arrivals, especially, came hungry. All the latter part of that afternoon seemed to be one pretty steady-going dinner or supper. The ladies of the society poured right out into the kitchen to help aunt Judith, till she begged that no more should come at once than could stand around the stove. It was well that there should be a sugar-bush, or some sort of excitement, to keep a part of that gathering out of doors. The house was full enough at all times; and before sunset the knots of merry people scattered around among the maple-trees and kettles discovered why Vosh Stebbins had persisted in carrying his gun out there every day since the work began. Vosh had dreamed of such a thing, and had been almost half afraid of it; but he had hoped in his heart that it might come, and the peaceful course of events had disappointed him. He was getting ready to start for the house that day, gun and all, when he heard somebody scream, away up near the farthest clump of sugar-trees,-- "Bear, bear, bear! There's a bear drinking sap!" Ever so many voices were raised at once to announce to everybody the arrival of that ferocious wild animal, recently waked from his winter's nap. They told of the dreadful thing he was doing, and suggested other dreadful things that he might do. He might eat up the society. "They generally come at night," said the deacon calmly, "but they are very apt to visit a sugar-bush. They're fond of sap." "Where's Susie? Where's Pen?" exclaimed Vosh. Then he remembered that they and a whole party of village girls were up there near those very trees, and he ran as if his life depended on it. "Steady, Vosh. Not so fast. I'm a-coming." There was the deacon panting behind him, axe in hand; and behind him was the hired man with his axe, and away behind him were three or four sturdy farmers following with no better weapons than sled-stakes. Port and Corry were with the girls, and it had been a wonder how quickly the last girl and boy to be seen had gotten behind a tree. They were all now peering out for a look at the bear, and Penelope declared of him,-- "He's the largest bear in the world. He's awful!" Not all of them were where they could see him, and he was making no effort at all to see them, but his offence was that he had come. No doubt but he had been a little scared at first, when the girls began to scream; but he was hungry and thirsty, and he was fond of sap, and he took courage. There were all those troughs ready for him, and he could not think of going away without a good drink. Besides, the bear could not see that any of those young ladies seemed disposed to come any nearer, and he had not been introduced to one of them. So he overcame any bashfulness, and put his nose into another sap-trough, and it was empty in a twinkling. He served another in the same way, and was going ahead quite contentedly, nearer and nearer the girls that were afraid to run. At least half a dozen were braver, and ran remarkably well towards the kettles. Port and Corry, behind their trees, were longing for all sorts of weapons, when they saw something well worth seeing. The bear stood still suddenly; for a dark-eyed, plucky-looking boy, with something in his hands, stood right in the way. "What are you loaded with, Vosh?" shouted the deacon. "Nothing but buckshot? It's risky." "Buckshot, and two slugs in each barrel." "That's better. He's turned a little. Take him in the shoulder." "Bang, bang!" was the reply made by the gun. It was close work, and not many of the leaden missiles wandered from their broad black target. The bear was mortally wounded, but he instantly gathered his remaining strength for a charge. The furiously angry growl he gave sent a thrill and chill through all the bones of the scattered spectators. Right past Vosh at that moment sprang the deacon; and he met the bear halfway, like the brave old borderer that he was. He was a master-hand with an axe, and its keen edge fell with a thud squarely between the eyes of the ferocious animal. It sank in as if the bear's head had been the side of a hickory, and there was no need of any second blow. The bear was dead; and all the sugar makers and eaters could cluster around and make remarks upon him, and praise Vosh Stebbins and the deacon. "Pen!" exclaimed Susie, "what will his mother say of him now?" "Why, they'll skin him, and it'll make the beautifullest kind of a buffalo-robe." Pen was thinking of the bear only; and Vosh had at once reloaded and shouldered his gun, and walked away. He was ready for another bear, but felt pretty sure that none would come. Port and Corry gave up going to the house for guns and coming back again, and all the young ladies seemed to think it must be near supper-time. They carried the news to Mrs. Stebbins, and it was all but provoking that she should take it very much as a matter of course. If any bear came to be killed, it was as natural as life that her boy should kill him. He was a young fellow from whom uncommon things were to be commonly expected. After the adventure with the bear, the sewing society was a greater success than before. It went right on until late into the evening, but the success of it was not in the sewing that was done. The only heathen for whom much was accomplished was probably the bear himself. Susie Hudson said to her brother at last, "I don't care, Port, it beats a city party all to pieces. There's ever so much more real enjoyment. I want to live in the country." "Oh, well, I like it in winter. It's well enough. You've been out here in summer too." "It's twice as good then." "No, Susie, it can't be. It must be all hard work in summer. But think of the fun we've had!" She did; and late in the evening Vosh Stebbins stepped up to her, and whispered,-- "May I see you home? The cutter's waiting at the door. All the rest are getting ready to start." "I've got to say good-by to them all, I suppose." "Go round and say it now. I don't want to sleigh-ride anybody else. They've all got company." That was the reason why, a little afterwards, Vosh Stebbins's mother could not find him. He and Susie were jingling over the snow behind the sorrel colt, and it was a long way home before they returned to the house. CHAPTER XIX. THE FLOOD AND THE END. It was well for all who were fond of sleighing, to make the best use of their time. A great many people had had enough, and were even eager to see the snow depart. There was a great deal of it to go, and the weather took an unexpected part in the matter. The sun came out with a power that had in it something peculiar, and made all human beings feel drowsy, heavy, listless, and disposed to take boneset-tea. The older they were, the more black and bitter was the boneset they called for; and aunt Judith manufactured some uncommonly good root-beer to go with it. So far as the young people were concerned, the root-beer went much more rapidly than the boneset. Then arrived two whole days of warm and heavy rain; and, when the sun came out again, he had an altered landscape to look down upon. All the hillsides were streaming with torrents of water, and every hollow was a pond. The roads were channels of temporary rivulets, and the river in the valley had swollen until its fetters were breaking. The ice in the mill-pond cracked and lifted until the water broke out over the dam. That relieved the pressure for a few hours, until the huge cakes of ice got in a hurry, and began to climb upon each others' shoulders. They rapidly built up a dam of their own, right on top of the old one, and the water sent back up stream for more ice. As fast as the new supplies came down, they were heaped up, right and left and centre; and no engineer could have done the work better, so far as increasing the size of the mill-pond was concerned. It grew tremendously, and the sun toiled at the snow-banks on the hillsides, all along the banks of that river away up into the mountains, to send down more snow-water for the big spread in Benton Valley. "Sarah," said Deacon Farnham at about the middle of the second forenoon, "if this thing keeps on, it'll drown out the village." "Has the water got there yet?" she asked. "Is it rising?" "Rising! Guess it is. I'll hitch up the team after dinner, and we'll go and take a look at it." When Pen and Corry came home at noon, they reported that school was dismissed for the day; and Pen explained it,-- "She said the Flood was coming again, but I don't believe it is." "Not Noah's Flood," said her father; "but enough might come to carry away the school-house. I can't say what they're going to do about it." The story Vosh told at home brought Mrs. Stebbins over after dinner, and there was a full sleigh-load driven down to see the sights. Susie and Port were to have one more experience of winter life in the country, and it was one they would not have missed for any thing. The mill-pond was away below the village, and there was another up towards Cobbleville that was said to be nearly as badly off. As the water had risen, it had set back and back, until now the low-lying lands were a great lake with houses and barns sticking up from it. Deacon Farnham drove on down towards the village, and all the tongues in the sleigh grew more and more silent. Aunt Judith had already told all there was to tell about the great flood when she was a girl, and when they had to live without flour or meal. The story sounded much more real now, for the first man they met said to them,-- "If the ice goes on packing up there at the dam, the mill and all will break away before midnight." "Are they trying to do any thing to loosen the pack?" asked Vosh. "They can't get at it to pick at it, and it's wuth any man's life to try. The water's in the main street now." "What if the upper dam should give way?" asked the deacon. "Well, if the ice there and the dam should give way all at once, and come down in a heap, there wouldn't be much left of Benton." They drove on down the road to the right, towards what had been the lower level of the coasting-hill, where the sleds darted out upon the pond. They could see the whole thing now, and the long ridge of ice with the flood surging and rising against it, and filling up every lower place with fresh material. The water was still pouring over the pack at the upper dam, the deacon said, or no more ice and snow would be coming down. "Mr. Farnham!" suddenly exclaimed Vosh Stebbins, "I wish I had money enough to pay for a keg of blasting-powder." "What for, Vosh?" "Don't you see? You can get to the second floor of the mill, right across those logs. If a keg of powder could be shoved out on the pack, and left there with a slow-match burning, I could get back before it went off." "I'll pay for the powder," said the deacon as he turned his team towards the village, and Mrs. Stebbins gasped,-- "O Vosh! Lavawjer!" She sat still, and looked a little white for a moment, and then the color came to her face, and there was a sort of flash in her eyes as she said slowly and steadily,-- "Just you try it on. Your father would have done it any day. Levi Stebbins was a soldier, and he never flinched any thing in all his life." "Joshaway," said aunt Judith with a bit of a tremor in her voice, "I want to pay for that powder myself. He can buy two kegs if he needs 'em." The water was nearly a foot deep in front of Rosenstein's store when the sleigh came splashing along. The whole village was boiling with excitement, in spite of the fact that the flood was all of ice-water. "Powder? Going to blow up dot ice?" said Mr. Rosenstein doubtfully; but he hurried to bring out a keg of it, and a long line of fuze. "Now, Vosh. No time to lose. You mustn't run any needless risk, but I believe you can do it. I'll go as far as into the mill with you." "Joshua," said Mrs. Farnham, "will he need help? His weight's a good deal lighter than yours." "We'll see about it when we get there. That pack has got to be broken: so has the one at the upper dam." They were once more on the hill-road, and nearing the point of danger. Great piles of saw-logs, ready for the saw-mill, had accumulated on the slope between the mill and what was now the shore; and already quite a number of adventurers had crossed upon them to the building itself, and back again. Not a soul had cared to remain more than a minute, and none had ventured beyond. "Go, Joshua," said Mrs. Farnham. "He'll need advice, if he doesn't need any thing else." Corry took the reins, and his father and Vosh stepped out. There were thirty or forty men and boys standing around and watching the flood, and all were eager to know what was coming; but the answers given them had a short, gruff sound, as if uttered by somebody too much in earnest to talk. "Right along, Vosh," said the deacon. "The logs are firm enough." So they were, and it was easy to climb through an open window into the second story of the mill. Through all the lower floor the water was rushing and gurgling, and the building shook all over as if it were chilly. An opposite window was reached, and there before them was the ice-pack. Only at one point, beyond the centre, was there any water going over it; and it seemed only too strong and solid. "As far out as you can, Vosh," said the deacon. "Put it into a hole of some kind, if you can." Without a word of comment or reply, the brave boy crept through the window, and let himself down upon the ice, and the keg was handed him. "Use the whole length of the fuze," said the deacon. "You'll have time enough." "Mr. Farnham," said Vosh, "you go back right away, now." "I don't know but what it's my duty. Do yours quick, Vosh." He was every way disposed to obey that suggestion. The roar of the waters, the strange sensation of the presence of great peril, and even the idea that so many people were looking at him, made the situation one from which he was in a hurry to get away. Nearly in the middle of the pack he came to a deep crevice between the heaps of glimmering ice, and into it he lowered his little barrel of explosive meal. He had made it all ready, fixing the end of the fuze in its proper place, and now he led the line back over comparatively dry ice. "Nothing to put it out," he muttered; "and they said it was water-proof, anyhow." A stream of people, on foot and in sleighs, had followed that undertaking from the moment when the news of it began to buzz around the village, and a full hundred had now gathered on the slope opposite the mill. They saw Vosh Stebbins scratch a match on his coat-sleeve, and stoop down; and then they saw him turn, and walk swiftly away towards the mill. "It's all right, deacon!" he shouted. "She's a-burning!" "Come on, Vosh. Hurry up. I just couldn't go ashore till you got back." Vosh replied with a ringing laugh that had a world of excitement in it. He followed the deacon back through the mill, and across the perilous bridge of floating logs; and there on the shore stood Susie Hudson, and her aunts, and his mother, but Penelope was the only one who said any thing. "Vosh," she asked, "did you lose all your powder and your string?" "Guess I have," replied he; and then it was Adonijah Bunce who remarked,-- "Didn't quite do it, did ye?" "Hold on a minute," said Mr. Farnham. "It was a long fuze." It seemed as if everybody held their breaths till it must hurt them; but, just when they could not do it any longer, a great sheet of smoke and flame shot up from the middle of the ice-pack. It was followed by a dull, heavy report, and by flying fragments of ice. Had it accomplished any thing?--that was the question in all minds; but it was only a moment before there was another crash, and another. The barrier had been blown away to such a thinness that the pressure from above was sufficient to break it through. The flood rushed forward into the widening channel with a surge and a plunge, and away went the river again, roaring down its half-deserted bed below. More of the cakes of ice to the right and left, now no longer wedged and self-supporting, were swiftly torn away, and the gap so opened could not be closed again. "I just knew he'd do it," said Mrs. Stebbins proudly, as the round of cheers died away after the explosion and crash. "His father would ha' done it." There were plenty to congratulate Vosh; but he and the rest got into the sleigh again, and drove back towards the village. Even before they reached it, the waters were manifestly receding a little, and, when they again stopped in front of Mr. Rosenstein's store, it was pretty well understood that the first peril was over. "Now for the pack at the upper dam!" shouted the deacon. "It's safe to make a hole in it, now our pack is broken.--I want to pay for that powder, Mr. Rosenstein. I was in such a hurry, I forgot it." "Dot's joost vot I did," replied the merchant. "You bays for no powder for dot boy. He safe de village. I deals not in pork." There was a cheer for Mr. Rosenstein; and a dozen men set off towards the upper dam with more powder, and a new idea. "We have done enough for one day," said Deacon Farnham after he had seen that squad set out. "We can afford to go home.--Mrs. Stebbins, you and Vosh can take dinner with us, and Susie and Port can read their letters." All were entirely willing, and the team headed for home as if they were conscious of having done something for the public good. The village post-office was kept in Mr. Rosenstein's store, and that was one reason why the letters had been received in such an hour of excitement. They were not read until after the arrival at the farmhouse, for every one in that sleigh was looking back into the valley to see whether or not the flood was visibly subsiding. Even after they reached the house, Vosh said he felt as if he were about to hear the explosion at the upper dam. He did not hear it; but the ice there was blown open, nevertheless, and the river had a fair chance to carry all its surplus down stream, and melt it up instead of making dams of it. Porter Hudson was the first to tear open an envelope. "Susie!" he shouted almost instantly, "mother's got home." Her fingers were busy with her own letter for a moment, and then she turned to Mrs. Farnham. "Aunt Sarah!" "O Susie! I know what you mean. They want you at home." "Yes," said aunt Judith, "I suppose we've got to say good-by to 'em pretty soon." "And there's no winter at all in the city," said Port. "No snow to be seen, and some of the buds are beginning to show." The letters had a powerful effect upon all the gathering around that dinner-table; and Pen thought she had settled the difficulty, or nearly so, when she broke a long silence with,-- "They might just as well all come up here and live. There's room for 'em all, and it's ever so much better than the city is." There was no immediate haste called for, but winter was over. Word came from the village in the morning, that the flood was going down fast, and the mill was entirely safe, and that everybody was talking about the feat performed by Vosh Stebbins. It looked as if Mr. Farnham's part of it was a little neglected, and Pen remarked with some jealousy,-- "Father got the powder, and all Vosh did was to touch it off." Everybody seemed to feel blue that evening, for some reason; and the thaw carried away almost all the snow there was left, with hardly a remark being made about it. The fire in the sitting-room burned low, and no fresh logs were heaped upon it. Susie sat in front of it, and remembered a summer day when she had seen nothing there but polished andirons, and branches of fennel. "Port," said Corry almost mournfully, "I do hope you've had a good time. We all want you to come again." "Good time! Tell you what, Corry, I won't come up here unless you'll come and visit us in the city. I've been thinking over lots of things I could show you and Pen. I've had the biggest kind of a time." "You must come up some time in summer," said aunt Judith. "The country is beautiful then. Better fishing, hunting--all sorts of fun." "I guess there isn't any thing better than winter fun," said Susie thoughtfully. "I do like the country at any time of the year." Vosh Stebbins and his mother also sat in front of their sitting-room fireplace, and were uncommonly still and sober. "Mother," said he at last, "I've had the greatest winter I ever did have. There's been any amount of fun in it, but seems to me there's been a good deal more." "Yes," said his mother, "they've been right good company, and I'm real sorry to hev 'em go; but it's time they went, and her mother's health's come back to her. She's one of the best of women, I haven't the least doubt in the world. I never seen a girl I took to more'n I hev to Susie Hudson, and I hope she and Port'll come up here again; and I've been a-findin' out how much it'll cost to hev you go to college, and you've got to jest study up and go." "Mother!" That was all he could say; for his mind had been playing chess with that problem since he did not know exactly when, and he had not dared to speak of it. One week later the Farnham and Stebbins farmhouses felt smaller and lonelier, and Penelope teased for a pen and ink, remarking,-- "If I write to Susie right away, it may get there almost as soon as she does, and she won't have to wait for it to come." The rest of the family and their neighbors had their hands full of spring work, and had no time to think much of their recent visitors; but their visitors were thinking of them. A lady and gentleman in a city home were listening to prolonged and full accounts of their children's winter in the country, and every now and then the gentleman exclaimed,-- "Vosh Stebbins again!" At the end of it all, he said to his wife,-- "My dear, did you know that youngsters of that kind were scarce? I must keep an eye on him. Susie says he's to have an education. Got a good beginning for one now, I should say. If he should go straight, there's no telling what he might do. He can graduate from college into my office, if he wishes to. I knew his father, and his mother's as good as gold." "Hurrah!" shouted Port. "Then Vosh can kill his bears in the city. How'd you like that, Susie? I'd like it." Susie only turned to her mother, and asked,-- "What do you think, mother?" "I? Oh, we will have plenty of time to think it over. We can go up there and visit, and we can have them down here." Nevertheless Vosh did go to college, and he did pass from it to Mr. Hudson's law-office; and it is true, to this day, that nobody can tell what he will do, he is doing so much and so well. SCRIBNER'S BOOKS FOR THE YOUNG. _Scribner's List of Juvenile Books._ _The great legend of the Nibelungen told to boys and girls._ THE STORY OF SIEGFRIED. BY JAMES BALDWIN With a series of superb illustrations by HOWARD PYLE. Mr. Baldwin has at last given "The Story of Siegfried" in the way in which it most appeals to the boy-reader,--simply and strongly told, with all its fire and action, yet without losing any of that strange charm of the myth, and that heroic pathos, which every previous attempt at a version, even for adult readers, has failed to catch. THE STORY OF ROLAND. BY JAMES BALDWIN With a series of illustrations by R. B. BIRCH. This volume is intended as a companion to "The Story of Siegfried." As Siegfried was an adaptation of Northern myths and romances to the wants and the understanding of young readers, so is this story a similar adaptation of the middle-age romances relating to Charlemagne and his paladins. As Siegfried was the greatest of the heroes of the North, so, too, was Roland the most famous among the knights of the Middle Ages. "We congratulate the boys of the land upon the appearance of this book. We commend it to parents who are selecting literature for their children, assured, as we are, that it will convince them that books may be found which will engage the attention, and stimulate the imagination, of the young, without dissipating the mind, or blunting the moral sensibilities."--_Philadelphia Messenger._ THE FIRST REALLY PRACTICAL BOY'S BOOK. THE AMERICAN BOY'S HANDY BOOK; Or, WHAT TO DO AND HOW TO DO IT. BY DANIEL C. BEARD. With three hundred illustrations by the author. _One volume_ _Mr. Beard's book is the first to tell the active, inventive, and practical American boy the things he really wants to know, the thousand things he wants to do, and the ten thousand ways in which he can do them, with the helps and ingenious contrivances which every boy can either procure or make._ The author divides the book among the sports of the four seasons; and he has made an almost exhaustive collection of the cleverest modern devices, besides himself inventing an immense number of capital and practical ideas. THE BOY'S _Library of Legend and Chivalry_. EDITED BY SIDNEY LANIER, _And richly illustrated by FREDERICKS, BENSELL, and KAPPES._ THE BOY'S KING ARTHUR THE BOY'S FROISSART KNIGHTLY LEGENDS OF WALES THE BOY'S PERCY "Amid all the strange and fanciful scenery of these stories, character and the ideals of character remain at the simplest and the purest. The romantic history transpires in the healthy atmosphere of the open air, on the green earth beneath the open sky.... The figures of Right, Truth, Justice, Honor, Purity, Courage, Reverence for Law, are always in the background; and the grand passion inspired by the book is for strength to do well and nobly in the world."--_The Independent._ THE BOY'S MABINOGION. Being the earliest Welsh tales of King Arthur in the famous Red Book of Hergest. Edited for boys, with an Introduction by SIDNEY LANIER. With twelve full-page illustrations by Alfred Fredericks. THE BOY'S KING ARTHUR. Being Sir Thomas Mallory's History of King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table. Edited for boys, with an Introduction by SIDNEY LANIER. With twelve full-page illustrations by Alfred Kappes. THE BOY'S FROISSART. Being Sir John Froissart's Chronicles of Adventure, Battle, and Custom in England, France, Spain, etc. Edited for boys, with an Introduction by SIDNEY LANIER. With twelve full-page illustrations by Alfred Kappes. THE BOY'S PERCY. With fifty text and full-page illustrations by E. B. BENSELL. Mr. Lanier's books, which made him the companion and friend of half the boys of the country, and showed his remarkable talent for guiding them into the best parts of this ideal world, fitly close by giving the best of the ballads in their purest and strongest form, from Bishop Percy's famous collection. With "The Boy's Froissart," "The Boy's King Arthur," "The Mabinogion," and "The Boy's Percy," Mr. Lanier's readers have the full circle of heroes. FRANK R. STOCKTON'S POPULAR STORIES. THE STORY OF VITEAU. With sixteen full-page illustrations by R. B. BIRCH. In "The Story of Viteau," Mr. Stockton has opened a new vein, and one that he has shown all his well-known skill and ability in working. While describing the life and surroundings of Raymond, Louis, and Agnes at Viteau at the Castle of De Barran, or in the woods among the _Cotereaux_, he gives a picture of France in the age of chivalry, and tells, at the same time, a romantic and absorbing story of adventure and knightly daring. Mr. Birch's spirited illustrations add much to the attraction of the book. A JOLLY FELLOWSHIP. _Illustrated._ "'A Jolly Fellowship,' by Mr. Frank Stockton, is a worthy successor to his 'Rudder Grange.' Although written for lads, it is full of delicious nonsense that will be enjoyed by men and women.... The less serious parts are described with a mock gravity that is the perfection of harmless burlesque, while all the nonsense has a vein of good sense running through it, so that really useful information is conveyed to the young and untravelled reader's mind."--_Philadelphia Evening Bulletin._ THE FLOATING PRINCE, AND OTHER FAIRY TALES. With illustrations by BENSELL and others. "Stockton has the knack, perhaps genius would be a better word, of writing in the easiest of colloquial English, without descending to the plane of the vulgar or common-place. The very perfection of his work hinders the reader from perceiving at once how good of its kind it is.... With the added charm of a most delicate humor,--a real humor, mellow, tender, and informed by a singularly quaint and racy fancy,--his stories become irresistibly attractive."--_Philadelphia Times._ NEW EDITIONS OF OLD FAVORITES. ROUNDABOUT RAMBLES IN LANDS OF FACT AND FICTION. TALES OUT OF SCHOOL. WILLIAM O. STODDARD'S CAPITAL STORIES FOR BOYS. DAB KINZER. A STORY OF A GROWING BOY. "The book is enlivened with a racy and genuine humor. It is, moreover, notably healthy in its tone, and in every way is just the thing for boys."--_Philadelphia North American._ "It is full of fun, liveliness, and entertainment. Dab Kinzer will be voted a good fellow, whether at home, at school, or out fishing."--_Portland Press._ THE QUARTET. A SEQUEL TO "DAB KINZER." "The boys who read 'Dab Kinzer' will be delighted with 'The Quartet.' It is the story of Dab's school and college life, and certainly equals the former story in interest. In a literary point of view, it ranks among the best of its kind. There are few writers of boys' books who present boy-life in the strong, sympathetic, manly way that Mr. Stoddard does. His good boys are genuine, fun-loving, careless, but royal-hearted. In the words of one of their admirers, 'They're a fine lot, take 'em all round.'"--_Boston Post._ SALTILLO BOYS. Mr. Stoddard's stories for boys grow better and better every year. Good as were "Dab Kinzer" and the "Quartet," SALTILLO BOYS surpasses them in its narrative of bright, manly, and yet thoroughly boy-like life in an inland town, whose actual name and locality may be shrewdly guessed by those familiar with its characteristics. The incidents are thoroughly boyish, and yet quite free from frivolity. The drift of the book is wholly on the side of frank, intelligent, and self-reliant manliness; and it is impossible for any boy to read it without absorbing a love for nobility of character, and forming higher aspirations. AMONG THE LAKES. Mr. Stoddard's bright, sympathetic story, "Among the Lakes," is a fitting companion to his other books. It has the same flavor of happy, boyish country life, brimful of humor, and abounding with incident and the various adventures of healthy, well-conditioned boys turned loose in the country, with all the resources of woods and water, and their own unspoiled natures. 
41603	----	TOTO'S MERRY WINTER. TOTO'S MERRY WINTER. BY LAURA E. RICHARDS, AUTHOR OF "THE JOYOUS STORY OF TOTO," "FIVE MICE IN A MOUSETRAP," "SKETCHES AND SCRAPS," ETC., ETC. [Illustration] BOSTON: ROBERTS BROTHERS. 1887. _Copyright, 1887_, BY ROBERTS BROTHERS. University Press: JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE. TO The Blind Children of the Perkins Institution, WHO HAVE LISTENED TO THE FIRST "STORY OF TOTO," _THIS SECOND AND LAST PART OF HIS ADVENTURES_ IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED. TOTO'S MERRY WINTER. CHAPTER I. IT was evening,--a good, old-fashioned winter evening, cold without, warm and merry within. The snow was falling lightly, softly, with no gusts of wind to trouble it and send it whirling and drifting hither and thither. It covered the roof with a smooth white counterpane, tucking it in neatly and carefully round the edges; it put a tall conical cap on top of the pump, and laid an ermine fold over his long and impressive nose. Myriads of curious little flakes pattered softly--oh! very softly--against the windows of the cottage, pressing against the glass to see what was going on inside, and saying, "Let us in! let us in! please do!" But nobody seemed inclined to let them in, so they were forced to content themselves with looking. Indeed, the aspect of the kitchen was very inviting, and it is no wonder that the little cold flakes wanted to get in. A great fire was crackling and leaping on the hearth. The whole room seemed to glow and glitter: brass saucepans, tin platters, glass window-panes, all cast their very brightest glances toward the fire, to show him that they appreciated his efforts. Over this famous fire, in the very midst of the dancing, flickering tongues of yellow flame, hung a great black soup-kettle, which was almost boiling over with a sense of its own importance, and a kindly consciousness of the good things cooking inside it. "Bubble! b-r-r-r-r! bubble! hubble!" said the black kettle, with a fat and spluttering enunciation. "Bubble, hubble! b-r-r-r-r-r-r! bubble! Lots of fun, and very little trouble!" On the hob beside the fire sat the tea-kettle, a brilliant contrast to its sooty neighbor. It was of copper, so brightly burnished that it shone like the good red gold. The tea-kettle did not bubble,--it considered bubbling rather vulgar; but it was singing very merrily, in a clear pleasant voice, and pouring out volumes of steam from its slender copper nose. "I am doing all I can to make myself agreeable!" the tea-kettle said to itself. "I am boiling just right,--hard enough to make a good cheerful noise, and not so hard as to boil all the water away. And _why_ that beast should sit and glower at me there as he is doing, is more than I can understand." "That beast" was a raccoon. I think some of you children may have seen him before. He was sitting in front of the fire, with his beautiful tail curled comfortably about his toes; and he certainly _was_ staring very hard at the tea-kettle. Presently the kettle, in pure playfulness and good-will, lifted its cover a little and let out an extra puff of snowy steam; and at that the raccoon gave a jump, and moved farther away from the fire, without ever taking his eyes off the kettle. The fact is, that for the first time in his life the raccoon knew what _fear_ was. He was afraid--mortally afraid--of that tea-kettle. "Don't tell me!" he had said to Toto, only the day before, "don't tell _me_ it isn't alive! It breathes, and it talks, and it moves, and if that isn't being alive I don't know what is." "Coon, how utterly absurd you are!" cried Toto, laughing. "It _doesn't_ move, except when some one takes it up, of course, or tilts it on the hob." "Toto," said the raccoon, speaking slowly and impressively, "as sure as you are a living boy, I saw that kettle take off the top of its head and look out of its own inside, only last night. And before that," he added, looking rather shamefaced, "I--I just put my paw in to see what there was inside, and the creature caught it and took all the skin off." But here Toto burst into a fit of laughter, and said, "Served you right!" which was so rude that the raccoon went off and sat under the table, in a huff. So this time, when the kettle took off the top of its head, Coon did not run out into the shed, as he had done before, because he was ashamed when he remembered Toto's laughter. He only moved away a little, and looked and felt thoroughly uncomfortable. But now steps were heard outside. The latch clicked, the door opened, and Toto and Bruin entered, each carrying a foaming pail of milk. They brushed the snow from their coats, and Toto took off his, which the good bear could not well do; then, when they had carried their milk-pails into the dairy, they came and sat down by the fire, with an air of being ready to enjoy themselves. The raccoon winked at them by way of greeting, but did not speak. "Well, Coon," said Bruin, in his deep bass voice, "what have you been doing all the afternoon? Putting your tail in curl-papers, eh?" "Not at all," replied the raccoon with dignity, "I have been sweeping the hearth; sweeping it," he added, with a majestic curl of his tail, "in a manner which _some_ people [here he glanced superciliously at the bear] could hardly manage." "I am sure," said the boy Toto, holding out his hands toward the ruddy fire-blaze, "it is a blessing that Bruin has no tail. Just fancy how he would go knocking things about! Why, it would be two yards long, if it were in the same proportion as yours, Coon!" "Hah!" said the raccoon, yawning, "very likely. And what have you two been doing, pray, since dinner?" "I have been splitting kindling-wood," said Toto, "and building a snow fort, and snowballing Bruin. And he has--" "I have been talking to the pig," said Bruin, very gravely. "The pig. Yes. He is a very singular animal, that pig. Is it true," he added, turning to Toto, "that he has never left that place, that sty, since he was born?" "Never, except to go into the yard by the cow-shed," said Toto. "His sty opens into the yard, you know. But I don't think he cares to go out often." "That is what he said," rejoined the bear. "That is what struck me as so very strange. He said he never went out, from one winter to another. And when I asked why, he snorted, and said, 'For fear the wind should blow my bristles off.' Said it in a very rude way, you know. I don't think his manners are good. I shall not go to see him again, except in the way of taking his food to him. But here we sit, talking," continued the bear, rising, "when we ought to be getting supper. Come! come! you lazy fellows, and help me set the table." With this, the good bear proceeded to tie a huge white apron round his great black, shaggy body, and began to poke the fire, and to stir the contents of the soup-kettle with a long wooden spoon,--all with a very knowing air, as if he had done nothing but cook all his life. Meanwhile, the raccoon and Toto spread a clean cloth on the table, and set out cups and plates, a huge brown bowl for the bear, a smaller one for the raccoon, etc. Bread and milk, and honey and baked apples came next; the soup-kettle yielded up a most savory stew, made of everything good, and onions besides; and finally, when all was ready, Toto ran and knocked at the door of his grandmother's room, crying, "Granny, dear! supper is ready, and we are only waiting for you." The door opened, and the blind grandmother came out, with the little squirrel perched on her shoulder. "Good evening to you all!" she said, with her sweet smile and her pretty little old-fashioned courtesy. "We have been taking a nap, Cracker and I, and we feel quite refreshed and ready for the evening." The grandmother looked ten years younger, Toto was constantly telling her, than she did the year before; and, indeed, it was many years since she had had such a pleasant, easy life. Helpful as Toto had always been to her, still, he was only a little boy, though a very good one; and by far the larger share of work had fallen to the old lady herself. But now there were willing hands--paws, I should say--to help her at every turn. The bear washed and cooked, churned and scrubbed, with never-tiring energy and good-will. The raccoon worked very hard indeed: he said so, and nobody took the trouble to contradict him. He swept the kitchen occasionally, and did a good deal of graceful and genteel dusting with his long bushy tail, and tasted all the food that Bruin cooked, to see if it had the proper flavor. Besides these heavy duties, he caught rats, teased the cow, pulled the parrot's tail whenever he got a chance, and, as he expressed it, "tried to make things pleasant generally." The little squirrel had constituted himself a special attendant on "Madam," as the forest-friends all called the grandmother. He picked up her ball of yarn when it rolled off her lap, as it was constantly doing. He cracked nuts for her, brought her the spices and things when she made her famous gingerbread, and went to sleep in her ample pocket when he had nothing else to do. As for the wood-pigeon and the parrot, they were happy and contented, each in her own way, each on her own comfortable perch, at her own window. Thus had all Toto's summer playmates become winter friends, fast and true; and it would be difficult to find a happier party than that which gathered round the bright fire, on this and every other evening, when the tea-things were put away, the hearth newly swept, and a great tin-pan full of nuts and apples placed on the clean hearth-stone. Only one of the animals whom you remember in Toto's summer story was missing from the circle; that was the woodchuck. But he was not very far off. If you had looked into a certain little cupboard near the fireplace,--a quaint little cupboard, in which lived three blue ginger-jars and a great pewter tankard,--you would have seen, lying in the warmest corner, next the fireplace, something which looked at first sight like a large knitted ball of red yarn. On looking closer, you would have seen that it was a ball of brown fur, enclosed in a knitted covering. If you had taken off the covering and unrolled the ball, you would have found that it was a woodchuck, sound asleep. Poor Chucky had found it quite impossible to accept the new arrangement. He had always been in the habit of sleeping all through the winter; and while the other animals had succeeded, after a long time, in conquering their sleepiness (though it was still a very common thing to find Bruin asleep over the churn, and Coon had a way of creeping into Toto's bed at odd times during the day), the woodchuck had succumbed entirely after the first week, and had now been asleep for a couple of months. At first, after he had dropped into his long slumber, the bear and the raccoon had played ball with him a good deal, tossing him about with great agility. But one day the living ball had fallen into the soup-kettle, where the water was so hot as to elicit a miserable sleepy squeak from the victim, and the grandmother had promptly forbidden the game. It was then that she knit the red-worsted cover for poor Chucky, for she said she could not bear to think of his sleeping all winter with nothing over him; and she put him away in the cupboard by the fireplace, and wished him pleasant dreams as she closed the door. So there the woodchuck lay, warm and comfortable, but too sound asleep to know anything about it. And the three blue ginger-jars and the pewter tankard kept watch over him, though they had their own ideas about this stranger having been popped in among them without so much as saying, "By your leave!" As I was saying, it was a happy party that sit around the blazing fire. The grandmother in her high-backed armchair, knitting in hand; Toto sitting Turk-fashion on the hearth-rug, his curly head resting on the shaggy coat of the bear, who sat solemnly on his haunches, blinking with sober pleasure at the fire; the raccoon on a low hassock, which was his favorite seat in the evening, as it showed off his tail to great advantage; the parrot and the wood-pigeon perched on the high chair-back, and standing on one leg or two, as they felt inclined. "Ah!" exclaimed the little squirrel, who had stationed himself on the top of Bruin's head, as a convenient and suitable place, "Ah! now this is what _I_ call comfort. Snowing fast outside, is isn't it, Bruin?" "Yes!" replied the bear. "That makes it all the more jolly inside!" said the squirrel. "What are we to do this evening? Is it a story evening, or dancing-school and games?" "We had dancing-school last night," said the bear. "I haven't got over it yet. I backed into the fire twice in 'forward and back, and cross over.' Let us have a story to-night." "Yes!" said the grandmother. "It is just the night for a story; and if you wish it, I will tell you one myself." "Oh! please, Madam!" "Thank you, Madam!" "Hurrah! Granny!" resounded on all sides, for the grandmother's stories were very popular; so, settling herself back in her chair, and beginning a new row in her knitting, the good woman said:-- "This story was told to me by my own grandmother. A story that has been told by two grandmothers in succession is supposed to be always true; you may therefore believe as much of this as you like." And without further preface, she began as follows:-- CHAPTER II. THE STORY OF CHOP-CHIN AND THE GOLDEN DRAGON. ONCE upon a time, long ago and long ago, there lived in Pekin, which, as you all know, is the chief city of the Chinese Empire, a boy whose name was Chop-Chin. He was the son of Ly-Chee, a sweeper of the Imperial court-yard, whose duty it was to keep the pavement of the court-yard always absolutely clean, in case His Celestial Majesty, the Emperor, should feel inclined to put his celestial and majestic nose out-of-doors. Chop-Chin hoped to become a sweeper also, when he was a little older; but at the time when my story begins he was only twelve years old, and the law required that all sweepers should have passed their fourteenth year. So Chop-Chin helped his mother about the house,--for he was a good boy,--carried his father's dinner to him, and made himself generally useful. One day Chop-Chin entered the court-yard at the usual time, carrying a jar of rice on his head, and a melon in one hand. These were for his father's dinner, and setting them down in a shaded corner, on the cool white marble pavement, he looked about for his father. But Ly-Chee was nowhere to be seen. A group of sweepers stood at the farther end of the court-yard, talking together in a state of wild excitement, with many gestures. One of them drew his hand across his throat rapidly, and they all shuddered. Some one was to be killed, then? Chop-Chin wondered what it all meant. Suddenly one of the group caught sight of him, and at once they fell silent. Two or three, who were friends of his father, began to wring their hands and tear their clothes, and the oldest sweeper of all advanced solemnly toward the boy, holding out both his hands, with the palms downward, in token of sympathy. "My son," he said, "what is man's life but a string of beads, which at one time or another must be broken? Shall the wise man disquiet himself whether more or fewer beads have passed over the hand?" "What words are these?" cried Chop-Chin, alarmed, though he knew not why. "Why do you look and speak so strangely, Yow-Lay; and where is my father?" The old sweeper led the boy to a stone bench, and bade him sit down beside him. "Thou knowest," he said, "that the first duty of us sweepers is to keep the court-yard always as clean as the sky after rain, and as white as the breath of the frost." "I know it well," replied the boy. "Does not my father wear out two pairs of scrubbing-shoes in a month--" "Scrubbing-shoes, Granny?" said Toto, softly. "I didn't mean to interrupt, but what _are_ scrubbing-shoes?" "I remember asking the same question at your age, Toto," said the old lady, "and my grandmother told me that the sweepers always wore shoes with very thick soles, in which stiff bristles were fastened as in a scrubbing-brush. It was their custom to dash the water in bucketfuls over the pavement, and then dance violently about, scrubbing with their feet as hard as they could." "Oh, what fun!" cried Toto. "Mayn't we try it some day, Granny? I'll fasten four brushes to your feet, Coon, and you can scrub the floor every day." "Thank you, kindly!" said the raccoon. "If you can get the brushes on my feet, I will pledge myself to dance in them. That is certainly fair." He winked slyly at Toto, while the grandmother continued:-- "Alas! my son," said the old man, "your father will wear out no more scrubbing-shoes. Listen! This morning, while we were all busily at work, it chanced through some evil fate that His Celestial Majesty felt a desire to taste the freshness of the morning air. Unannounced he came, with only the Princely Parasol-Holder, the Unique Umbrella-Opener, and seven boys to hold up his celestial train. You know that your father is slightly deaf? Yes. Well, he stood--my good friend Ly-Chee--he stood with his back to the palace. He heard not the noise of the opening door, and at the very moment when His Celestial Majesty stepped out into the court-yard, Ly-Chee cast a great bucketful of ice-cold water backward, with fatal force and precision." Chop-Chin shuddered, and hid his face in his hands. "Picture to yourself the dreadful scene!" continued the ancient sweeper. "The Celestial Petticoat, of yellow satin damask, was drenched. The Celestial Shoes, of chicken-skin embroidered in gold, were reduced to a pulp. A shriek burst from every mouth! Your unhappy father turned, and seeing what he had done, fell on his face, as did all the rest of us. In silence we waited for the awful voice, which presently said:-- "'Princely Parasol-Holder, our feet are wet.' "The Princely Parasol-Holder groaned, and chattered his teeth together to express his anguish. "'Unique Umbrella-Opener,' continued the Emperor, 'our petticoat is completely saturated.' "The Unique Umbrella-Opener tore his clothes, and shook his hair wildly about his face, with moans of agony. "'Let this man's head be removed at sunrise to-morrow!' concluded His Celestial Majesty. "Then we all, lying on our faces, wept and cried aloud, and besought the celestial mercy for our comrade. We told the Emperor of Ly-Chee's long and faithful service; of his upright and devout life; of his wife and children, who looked to him for their daily bread. But all was of no avail. He repeated, in dreadful tones, his former words:-- "'Our feet are wet. Our petticoat is saturated. Let this man's head be removed at sunrise to-morrow.' "Then the Unique Umbrella-Holder, who is a kindly man, made also intercession for Ly-Chee. But now the Emperor waxed wroth, and he said:-- "'Are our clothes to be changed, or do we stand here all day in wetness because of this dog? We swear that unless the Golden Dragon himself come down from his altar and beg for this man's life, he shall die! Enough!' And with these words he withdrew into the palace. "So thou seest, my son," said the old man, sadly, "that all is over with thy poor father. He is now in the prison of the condemned, and to-morrow at sunrise he must die. Go home, boy, and comfort thy poor mother, telling her this sad thing as gently as thou mayest." Chop-Chin arose, kissed the old man's hand in token of gratitude for his kindness, and left the court-yard without a word. His head was in a whirl, and strange thoughts darted through it. He went home, but did not tell his mother of the fate which awaited her husband on the morrow. He could not feel that it was true. It _could not be_ that the next day, all in a moment, his father would cease to live. There must be some way,--_some_ way to save him. And then he seemed to hear the dreadful words, "Unless the Golden Dragon himself come down from his altar and beg for this man's life, he shall die." He told his mother, in answer to her anxious questions, that his father meant to pass the night in the court-yard, as he would be wanted very early in the morning; and as it was a hot day, and promised a warm night, the good woman felt no uneasiness, but turned again to her pots and pans. But Chop-Chin sat on the bench in front of the house, with his head in his hands thinking deeply. * * * * * That evening, at sunset, a boy was seen walking slowly along the well-paved street which led to the great temple of the Golden Dragon. He was clad in a snow-white tunic falling to his knees; his arms and legs were bare; and his pig-tail, unbraided and hanging in a crinkly mass below his waist, showed that he was bent on some sacred mission. In his hands, raised high above his head, he carried a bronze bowl of curious workmanship. Many people turned to look at the boy, for his face and figure were of singular beauty. "He carries the prayers of some great prince," they said, "to offer at the shrine of the Golden Dragon." And, indeed, it was at the great bronze gate of the Temple that the boy stopped. Poising the bronze bowl gracefully on his head with one hand, with the other he knocked three times on the gate. It opened, and revealed four guards clad in black armor, who stood with glittering pikes crossed, their points towards the boy. "What seekest thou," asked the leader, "in the court of the Holy Dragon?" Chop-Chin (for I need not tell you the boy was he) lowered the bowl from his head, and offered it to the soldier with a graceful reverence. "Tong-Ki-Tcheng," he said, "sends you greeting, and a draught of cool wine. He begs your prayers to the Holy Dragon that he may recover from his grievous sickness, and prays that I may pass onward to the shrine." The guards bowed low at the name of Tong-Ki-Tcheng, a powerful Prince of the Empire, who lay sick of a fever in his palace, as all the city knew. Each one in turn took a draught from the deep bowl, and the leader said:-- "Our prayers shall go up without ceasing for Tong-Ki-Tcheng, the noble and great. Pass on, fair youth, and good success go with thee!" They lowered their pikes, and Chop-Chin passed slowly through the court-yard paved with black marble, and came to the second gate, which was of shining steel. Here he knocked again, and the gate was opened by four guards clad in steel from top to toe, and glittering in the evening light. "What seekest thou," they asked, "in the court of the Holy Dragon?" Chop-Chin answered as before:-- "Tong-Ki-Tcheng sends you greeting, and a draught of cool wine. He begs your prayers to the Holy Dragon that he may recover from his grievous sickness, and prays that I may pass onward to the shrine." The guards drank deeply from the bowl, and their leader replied: "Our prayers shall not cease to go up for Tong-Ki-Tcheng. Pass on, and good success go with thee!" Onward the boy went, holding the bronze bowl high above his head. He crossed the white marble court-yard, and his heart beat when he came to the third gate, which was of whitest ivory, for he knew that beyond the third court-yard was the Temple itself,--the House of Gold, in which dwelt the mighty Dragon, the most sacred idol in all China. He paused a moment, and then with a steady hand knocked at the gate. It opened without a sound, and there stood four guards in white armor inlaid with gold. The same questions and answers were repeated. They drank from the bowl, promised their prayers for Tong-Ki-Tcheng, and then bade the boy pass onward to the golden gate, which gleamed at the farther end of the court-yard. "But see that thou touch not the gate!" said the chief soldier. "It is the gate of the Temple itself, and no profane hand may rest upon it. Speak only, and the priests will hear and open to thee." Softly Chop-Chin paced across the last court, which was paved with blocks of ivory and silver, laid in cunning patterns. Halting before the gate of gold, he raised the bowl in his hands, and said softly:-- "Ka Ho Yai! Yai Nong Ti! Tong-Ki-Tcheng Lo Hum Ki Ni!" The gates opened, and showed four priests in robes of cloth-of-gold, with golden censers in hand. "Rash youth!" said the chief priest, "by what right or by whose order comest thou here, to the Sacred Shrine of the Holy Dragon?" Chop-Chin knelt upon the threshold of the golden gate, and, with bowed head and downcast eyes, held out the bronze bowl. "By the right of mortal sickness, most holy priest, come I hither!" he said, "and by order of the noble Tong-Ki-Tcheng. He prays thee and thy brethren to drink to his recovery from his grievous malady, and that your prayers may go up with mine at the Jewelled Shrine itself." The priest drank solemnly from the bowl, and handed it to his assistants, the last of whom drained the last drop of wine. "Our prayers shall truly go up for Tong-Ki-Tcheng," he said. "Give me thy hand, fair youth, and I will lead thee to the Jewelled Shrine. But first I will cover thine eyes, for none save ourselves, priests of the First Order of the Saki-Pan, may look upon the face of the Holy Dragon." So saying, he bound a silk handkerchief firmly over the boy's eyes, and taking his hand, led him slowly forward. Chop-Chin's heart was beating so violently that he was half suffocated. He felt the floor suddenly cold, cold, beneath his feet, and knew that he was walking on the golden floor of the Temple. A few steps farther, the hand of the priest drew him downward, and together with the four priests he lay prostrate on his face before the shrine of the Golden Dragon. A great silence followed. The warm, incense-laden air was stirred by no sound save the breathing of the five suppliants. No breeze rustled the heavy satin curtains which shrouded the windows; no hum of insect or song of bird came from the outer world, which was fast settling down into night. Silence! The boy Chop-Chin lay as still as if he were carved in marble. He held his breath from time to time, and his whole being seemed strained to one effort,--that of listening. Did he hear anything? Was the breathing of the four priests changing a little,--growing deeper, growing louder? There! and there again! was that a whisper of prayer, or was it--could it be--the faintest suspicion of a snore? He lay still; waited and listened, listened and waited. After a little while there could be no doubt about it,--the four men were breathing heavily, slowly, regularly; and one of them rolled out a sonorous, a majestic snore, which resounded through the heavy perfumed air of the Temple, yet caused no movement among the other three. There could be no doubt about it,--the priests were asleep! Slowly, softly, the boy lifted his head; then he rose to his knees, and looked fearfully at the sleepers. There they lay, flat on their faces, their hands clasped over their heads. He touched one of them,--there was no answering movement. He shook another by the shoulders; he shook them all. They snored in concert, but gave no other sign of life. The drugged wine had done its work. Then, and not till then, did Chop-Chin venture to lift his eyes and look upon the awful mystery which was hidden by these golden walls. He trembled, he turned white as the tunic which covered his dusky limbs; but standing erect, he gazed firmly at the Golden Dragon. From the floor rose a splendid altar of gold, studded thick with precious gems. Rubies, sapphires, and emeralds, set in mystic lines and figures, formed the characters which told the thirty-two names of the world-renowned dragon; and on the top of this glittering pedestal, fifteen feet in the air, stood the idol itself. It was, indeed, a marvellous thing to look upon. Ten feet long, composed entirely of thin scales of the purest gold, laid over and over each other, and each scale tipped with a diamond. Two magnificent rubies glowed in the eye-sockets, and the head was surmounted by a crown of emeralds worth any ordinary kingdom. But the tail! the tail was the wonder of wonders. Millions of delicate gold wires as fine as silk waved gracefully from the scaly tip a length of three feet, and each one was tipped with a diamond, a ruby, or an emerald of surpassing beauty and lustre. So wonderful was the shimmering light of the stones that the whole tail seemed to sway and curl to and fro, as if some living creature were moving it, and rays of rainbow-colored light darted from it on every side, dazzling the eyes of the beholder. Chop-Chin gazed and gazed, and hid his eyes and trembled, and gazed again. At last he shook himself together, and whispered, "My father! my father!" Then softly, surely, he began to climb up the golden altar. Stepping carefully from glittering point to point, holding on here by a projecting ornament of carven amethyst, there by a block of jasper or onyx, he reached the top; then steadying himself, he leaned forward and lifted the Holy Dragon from its stand. To his amazement, instead of being barely able to move it, he found he could easily carry it, for the golden plates which formed it were so delicate that the weight of the whole great creature was incredibly small. Lightly the boy lifted it in his arms, and slowly, surely, noiselessly bore it to the ground. Here he paused, and looked keenly at the sleeping priests. Did that one's eyelids quiver; did his mouth twitch, as if he were waking from his sleep? Was that a movement of yon other man's arm, as if he were stealthily preparing to rise, to spring upon the sacrilegious robber? No! it was but the play of the colored light on the faces and raiment of the sleepers. The voice of their snoring still went up, calmly, evenly, regularly. The wine had done its work well. Then Chop-Chin took off the sash which bound his tunic at the waist, and shook out its folds. It was a web of crimson silk, so fine and soft that it could be drawn through a finger-ring, and yet, when spread out, so ample that the boy found no difficulty in completely covering with it his formidable prize. Thus enwrapped, he bore the Golden Dragon swiftly from the Temple, closing the doors of gold softly behind him. He crossed the ivory and silver pavement of the inner court, and came to the ivory gate. It was closed, and beside it lay the four white-clad warriors, sunk in profound slumber. Stepping lightly over their prostrate forms, Chop-Chin opened the gate softly, and found himself in the second court. This, also, he traversed safely, finding the armed guardians of the steel gate also sleeping soundly, with their mouths wide open, and their shining spears pointing valiantly at nothing. A touch upon the glittering gate,--it opened, and Chop-Chin began to breathe more freely when he saw the bronze gates of the outer court-yard, and knew that in another minute, if all went well, he would be in the open street. But, alas! the four guards clad in black armor, who kept watch by the outer gate, had been the first to drink the drugged wine, and already the effect of the powerful narcotic which it contained had begun to wear off. As Chop-Chin, bearing in his arms the shrouded figure of the mighty idol, approached the gate, one of the four sleepers stirred, yawned, rubbed his eyes, and looked about him. It was quite dark, but his eye caught the faint glimmer of the boy's white robe, and seizing his pike, he exclaimed,-- "Who goes there?" Chop-Chin instantly stepped to his side, and said in a low whisper,-- "It is I, Nai-Ping, second priest of the Saki-Pan, bound on business of the Temple. Let me pass, and quickly, for the chief priest waits my return." The sentinel bowed low, and undid the fastenings of the huge bronze gates. They swung open silently, and the boy passed through with his awful burden. "Strange!" soliloquized the guard, as he drew the massive bolts again. "I never knew one of the priests to go out at this time of night. But I dared not say anything, lest he should find out that I was asleep at my post. And now that he is gone," he added, "I may as well just take forty winks, as he may be away some time." So saying, he curled himself up on the marble pavement, and fell this time into a natural slumber. Ten o'clock of a dark night. The outer gates of the royal palace were closed, though lights still shone in many of the windows. Outside the gate a sentinel was pacing up and down, armed with pike and broadsword. Every time he turned on his beat, he looked up and down the narrow street to see if anything or anybody were approaching. Suddenly, as he wheeled about, he saw before him a figure which seemed to have sprung all in a moment out of the blackness of the night. It was the figure of a boy, carrying a burden considerably larger than himself,--a dark and shapeless mass, which yet seemed not to be heavy in proportion to its size. "What is this?" cried the astonished sentinel. "Who art thou, and what monstrous burden is this thou carriest so lightly?" "Hist!" said the boy, speaking in an awestruck whisper, "speak not so loud, friend! This is the Celestial Footstool!" The sentinel recoiled, and stared in dismay at the dark bundle. "May the Holy Dragon preserve me!" he said. "What has happened?" "His Celestial Majesty," replied Chop-Chin, "threw it in anger at his Putter-on-of-Slippers yesterday, and broke one of its legs. All day my master, the Chief Cabinet-maker, has been at work on it, and now he has sent me with it by nightfall, that no profane eye may see clearly even the outer covering of the sacred object." "Pass in," said the sentinel, opening the gate. "But tell me, knowest thou how it will fare with the Putter-on-of-Slippers? He is cousin to my stepfather's aunt by marriage, and I would not that aught of ill should befall so near a relative." "Alas! I know not," said the boy, hastening forward. "I fear it may go hard with him." The sentinel shook his head sadly, and resumed his walk; while Chop-Chin crept softly through the court-yard, keeping close to the wall, and feeling as he went along for a certain little door he knew of, which led by a staircase cut in the thickness of the wall to a certain unused closet, near the Celestial Bed-chamber. While all this was going on, the Emperor of China, the great and mighty Wah-Song, was going to bed. He had sipped his night-draught of hot wine mingled with honey and spices, sitting on the edge of the Celestial Bed, with the Celestial Nightcap of cloth-of-silver tied comfortably under his chin, and the Celestial Dressing-gown wrapped around him. He had scolded the Chief Pillow-thumper because the pillows were not fat enough, and because there were only ten of them instead of twelve. He had boxed the ears of the Tyer-of-the-Strings-of-the-Nightcap, and had thrown his golden goblet at the Principal Pourer, who brought him the wine. And when all these things were done, his Celestial Majesty Wah-Song got into bed, and was tucked in by the Finishing Toucher, who got his nose well tweaked by way of thanks. Then the taper of perfumed wax was lighted, and the shade of alabaster put over it, and then the other lights were extinguished; and then the attendants all crawled out backwards on their hands and knees, and shut the door after them; and then His Celestial Majesty went to sleep. [Illustration: At last the Emperor began to dream. He heard an awful voice, the voice of the Golden Dragon. "Wah-Song! Wah-Song! Awake!"--PAGE 44.] Peacefully the Emperor slept,--one hour, two hours, three hours,--discoursing eloquently the while in the common language of mankind,--the language of the nose. At last he began to dream,--a dreadful dream. He was in the Golden Temple, praying before the Jewelled Shrine. He heard an awful voice,--the voice of the Golden Dragon. It called his name; it glared upon him with its ruby eyes; it lifted its crowned head, and stretched its long talons toward him. Ah! ah! The Emperor tried to scream, but he could make no sound. Once more the dreadful voice was heard:-- "Wah-Song! Wah-Song! Awake!" The Emperor sprang up in bed, and looked about him with eyes wild with terror. Ah! what was that?--that glittering form standing at the foot of his bed; that crowned head raised high as if in anger; those glaring red eyes fixed menacingly upon him! "Ah, horror! ah, destruction! the Golden Dragon is here!" With one long howl of terror and anguish, His Celestial Majesty Wah-Song rolled off the bed and under it, in one single motion, and lay there flat on his face, with his hands clasped over his head. Quaking in every limb, his teeth chattering, and a cold sweat pouring from him, he listened as the awful voice spoke again. "Wah-Song!" said the Golden Dragon, "thou hast summoned me, and I am here!" The wretched Emperor moaned. "I--I--I sum-summon thee, most Golden and Holy Dragon?" he stammered faintly. "May I be b-b-bastinadoed if I did!" "Listen!" said the Dragon, sternly, "and venture not to speak save when I ask thee a question. Yesterday morning, in consequence of thine own caprice in going out unannounced, thy silly shoes and thy pusillanimous petticoat became wet. For this nothing, thou has condemned to death my faithful servant Ly-Chee, who has brought me fresh melons every Tuesday afternoon for thirty years. When others, less inhuman than thou, interceded for his life, thou madest reply, 'We swear, that unless the Golden Dragon himself come down from his altar and beg for this man's life, he shall die!'" The Emperor groaned, and clawed the carpet in his anguish. "Therefore, Wah-Song," continued the Dragon, "I AM HERE! I come not to beg, but to command. Dost thou hear me?" "Ye-ye-yes!" murmured the wretched monarch. "I hear thee, Most Mighty. I--I--didn't know he brought thee melons. I brought thee two dozen pineapples myself, the other day," he added piteously. "Thou didst!" exclaimed the Golden Dragon, fiercely. "Thou didst, _slave!_ and they were half-rotten. HA!" and he gave a little jump on the floor, making his glittering tail wave, and his flaming eyes glared yet more fiercely at the unfortunate Wah-Song, who clung yet more closely to the carpet, and drummed on it with his heels in an extremity of fear. "Listen, now," said the Fiery Idol, "to my commands. Before day-break thou wilt send a free pardon to Ly-Chee, who now lies in the prison of the condemned, expecting to die at sunrise." "I will! I will!" cried the Emperor. "Moreover," continued the Dragon, "thou wilt send him, by a trusty messenger, twenty bags of goodly ducats, one for every hour that he has spent in prison." The Emperor moaned feebly, for he loved his goodly ducats. "Furthermore, thou wilt make Ly-Chee thy Chief Sweeper for life, with six brooms of gilded straw, with ivory handles, as his yearly perquisite, besides three dozen pairs of scrubbing-shoes; and his son, Chop-Chin, shalt thou appoint as Second Sweeper, to help his father." The Emperor moaned again, but very faintly, for he dared not make any objection. "These are my orders!" continued the Dragon. "Obey them strictly and speedily, and thine offence may be pardoned. Neglect them, even in the smallest particular, and--Ha! Hum! Wurra-_wurra_-G-R-R-R-R-R-R!" and here the Dragon opened his great red mouth, and uttered so fearful a growl that the miserable Emperor lost hold of such little wits as had remained to him, and fainted dead away. Ten minutes later, the sentinel at the gate was amazed at the sight of the Chief Cabinet-maker's apprentice, reappearing suddenly before him, with his monstrous burden still in his arms. The boy's hair was dishevelled, and his face was very pale. In truth, it had been very hard work to get in and out of the hollow golden monster, and Chop-Chin was well-nigh exhausted by his efforts, and the great excitement which had nerved him to carry out his bold venture. "How now!" cried the sentinel. "What means this, boy?" "Alas!" said Chop-Chin, "alas! unhappy that I am! Was it my fault that the mended leg was a hair-breadth shorter than the others? Good soldier, I have been most grievously belabored, even with the Sacred Footstool itself, which, although it be a great honor, is nevertheless a painful one. And now must I take it back to my master, for it broke again the last time His Celestial Majesty brought it down on my head. Wherefore let me pass, good sentinel, for I can hardly stand for weariness." "Pass on, poor lad!" said the good-natured soldier. "And yet--stay a moment! thinkest thou that aught would be amiss if I were to take just one peep at the Celestial Footstool? Often have I heard of its marvellous workmanship, and its tracery of pearl and ebony. Do but lift one corner of the mantle, good youth, and let me see at least a leg of the wonder." "At thy peril, touch it not!" cried the boy, in great alarm. "Knowest thou not that the penalty is four hundred lashes? Not a single glance have I ventured to cast at it, for they say its color changes if any profane eye rest upon its polished surface." "Pass on, then, in the name of the Dragon!" said the sentinel, opening the gate; and bidding him a hasty good-night, Chop-Chin hurried away into the darkness. * * * * * Now, while all this was going on, it chanced that the four priests of the First Order of the Saki-Pan awoke from their slumber. What their feelings were when they lifted their eyes and saw that the Golden Dragon was gone, is beyond my power to tell. Their terror was so extreme that they did not dare to move, but after the first horrified glance at the bare altar flung themselves flat on their faces again, and howled and moaned in their anguish. "We slept!" they cried, in a doleful chant of misery. "Yea, verily slept we. "Ai! ai! we know not why; Wow! wow! we know not how. "Thou removedst thyself. Thou raisedst the paw of strength and the hind-feet of swiftness. Because we slept, thou hast gone away, and we are desolate, awaiting the speedily-advancing death. "Hong! Kong! Punka-wunka-woggle! Hong! Kong! Punka-wunka-wogg!" While thus the wretched priests lay on the golden floor, bewailing their sin and its dreadful consequences, there fell suddenly on their ears a loud and heavy sound. It was at some distance,--a heavy clang, as of some one striking on metal. "Pong! pong!" what could it be? And now came other sounds,--the opening and shutting of gates, the tread of hasty feet, the sound of hurried voices, and finally a loud knocking at the door of the Temple itself. "Open, most holy Priests of the Saki-Pan!" cried a voice. "We have strange and fearful news! Open without delay!" The unhappy priests hurried to the door, and flung it open with trembling hands. Without stood all the guards of all the gates, the white and the steel-clad soldiers clustering about the four black-clad guardians of the outer gate. "Speak!" said the chief priest in great agitation, "what is your errand?" "O Priest!" said the black guards, trembling with excitement, "we heard a great knocking at the gate." "Yes, yes!" cried the priest, "I know it. What more?" "O Priest!" said the guards, "we were affrighted, so great was the noise; so we opened the gate but a little way, and peeped through; and we saw--we saw--" They paused, and gasped for breath. "Speak, sons of pigs!" shrieked the priest, "_what_ did you see?" "We saw the Golden Dragon!" said the soldiers, in a fearful whisper. "He is sitting up--on his hind-legs--with his mouth open! and he knocked--he knocked--" But the priests of the Saki-Pan waited to hear no more. Rushing through the court-yards, they flung wide open the great bronze gates. They caught up the Golden Dragon, they raised it high on their shoulders, and with shouts of rejoicing they bore it back to the Temple, while the guards prostrated themselves before it. "He went out!" sang the priests. "He walked abroad, for the glory and welfare of his subjects. He cast upon the city the eye of beneficence; he waved over it the plenipotentiary tail! "Ai! ai! we know not why! Wow! wow! we know not how! Glory to the Holy Dragon, and happiness and peace to the city and the people!" * * * * * But in the house of Ly-Chee all was sunshine and rejoicing. At daybreak a procession had come down the little street,--a troop of soldiers in the imperial uniform, with music sounding before them, and gay banners flaunting in the morning air. In the midst of the troop rode Ly-Chee, on a splendid black horse. He was dressed in a robe of crimson satin embroidered with gold, and round his neck hung strings of jewels most glorious to see. Behind him walked twenty slaves, each carrying a fat bag of golden ducats; and after the troop came more slaves, bearing gilded brooms with ivory handles and scrubbing-shoes of the finest quality. And all the soldiers and all the slaves cried aloud, continually:-- "Honor to Ly-Chee, the Chief-Sweeper of the court-yard! Honor and peace to him and all his house!" The procession stopped before the little house, and the good sweeper, stupefied still with astonishment at his wonderful good fortune, dismounted and clasped his wife and children in his arms. And they wept together for joy, and the soldiers and the slaves and all the people wept with them. But the Celestial Emperor, Wah-Song, lay in bed for two weeks, speaking to no man, and eating nothing but water-gruel. And when he arose, at the end of that time, behold! he was as meek as a six-years old child. CHAPTER III. THE grandmother's story was received with great approbation, and the different members of the family commented on it, each after his fashion. "I should like to have been Chop-Chin!" exclaimed Toto. "How exciting it must have been! Only think, Coon, of talking to the Emperor in that way, and scolding him as if he were a little boy." "Well, I never saw an Emperor," said the raccoon; "but I certainly should not wish to talk to one, if they are all such wretched creatures as Wah-Song. _I_ should like to have been the Finishing-Toucher; then if he had pulled _my_ nose--hum! ha! we should see!" "Dear Madam," said the bear, who had been staring meditatively into the fire, "there is one thing in the story that I do not understand; that is--well--you spoke of the boy's having a pig-tail." "Yes, Bruin!" said the grandmother. "A Chinese pig-tail, you know." "Yes, certainly," said Bruin. "A Chinese pig's tail it would naturally be. Now, I confess I do not see _how_ a pig's tail could be worn on the head, or how it could be unbraided; that is, if the Chinese pigs have tails like that of our friend in the sty yonder." Toto laughed aloud at this, and even the grandmother could not help smiling a very little; but she gently told Bruin what a Chinaman's pig-tail was, and how he wore it. Meantime, Miss Mary, the parrot, looked on with an air of dignified amusement. "My respected father," she said presently, "spent some years in China. It is a fine country, though too far from Africa for my taste." "Tell us about your father, Miss Mary!" exclaimed the squirrel. "Fine old bird he must have been, eh?" "He was, indeed!" replied the parrot, with some emotion. "He was a noble bird. His beak, which I am said to have inherited, was the envy of every parrot in Central Africa. He could whistle in nine languages, and his tail--but as the famous poet Gabblio has sweetly sung,-- "'All languages and tongues must fail, In speaking of Polacko's tail.' "Polacko was my father's name," she explained. "He was universally respected. Ah, me!" "But how came he to go to China?" asked Toto. "He was captured, my dear, and taken there when very young. He lived there for twenty years, with one of the chief mandarins of the empire. He led a happy life, with a perch and ring of ebony and silver, the freedom of the house, and chow-chow four times a day. At last, however, the young grandson of the mandarin insisted upon my father's learning to eat with chopsticks. The lofty spirit of Polacko could not brook this outrage, and the door being left open one day he flew away and made his way to Africa, the home of his infancy, where he passed the rest of his life. I drop a tear," added Miss Mary, raising her claw gracefully to her eyes, "to his respected memory." Nobody saw the tear, but all looked grave and sympathetic, and the good-natured bear said, "Quite right, I'm sure. Very proper, certainly!" But now the grandmother rose and folded up her knitting. "Dear friends, and Toto, boy," she said, "it is bed-time, now, for the clock has struck nine. Good-night, and pleasant dreams to you all. My good Bruin, you will cover the fire, and lock up the house?" "Trust me for that, dear Madam!" said the bear, heartily. "Come, then, Cracker," said the old lady. "Your basket is all ready for you, and it is high time you were in it." And with the squirrel perched on her shoulder she went into her own little room, closing the door behind her. After exchanging mutual "good-nights," the other members of the family sought their respective sleeping-places. The birds flew to their perches, and each, tucking her head and one leg away in some mysterious manner, became suddenly a very queer looking creature indeed. "Coon," said Toto, "come and sleep on my bed, won't you? My feet were cold, last night, and you do make such a delightful foot-warmer." "Humph!" said the raccoon, doubtfully. "I don't know, Toto. It won't be as warm for _me_ as my basket, though no doubt it would be nice for you." "I'll put the big blue dressing-gown over you," said Toto. "You know you like that, because you can put your nose in the pocket, and keep it warm." "All right," cried the raccoon. "Come along, then!" and off they went. Bruin now proceeded to rake the ashes over the fire, covering it neatly and carefully. He filled the kettle; he drew the bolts of door and windows; and finally, when all was snug and safe, the good bear laid himself down on the hearth-rug, and soon was fast asleep. Now all was quiet in the little cottage. Outside, the snow still fell, softly, steadily, silently. In the shed, Bridget, the cow, was sleeping soundly, with a cock and three hens roosting on her back, according to their invariable custom. In the warm, covered sty the pig also slept. He had no name, the pig; he would have scorned one. "I am a pig," he was wont to say, "and as such every one knows me. There is no danger of my being mistaken for anything else." Which was very true. But though slumber held fast, apparently, all the dwellers in cottage, shed, and sty, there were in reality two pairs of eyes which were particularly wide-awake at this moment. They were very black eyes, very bright eyes, and they were, if you wish to know, peeping into the kitchen through the crack under the cellar-door, to see what they could see. "Nobody there!" said little brown Squeak. "No, nobody there!" said little brown Scrabble. "Hark! what was that noise?" cried Squeak. "Only the wind!" said Scrabble. "Do you think we can get through the crack?" said Squeak. "Nothing like trying!" said Scrabble. "Scrabble!" went little brown Squeak. "Squeak!" went little brown Scrabble. And the next moment they were in the kitchen. It was nearly dark, but not quite, for the covered embers still sent out a dusky glow. It was warm; the floor was smooth and flat; there was a smell as if there might be something to eat, somewhere. Altogether, it was a very pleasant place for two little mice to play in; and as they had it all to themselves, why should they not play? Play they did, therefore, with right good-will; scampering hither and thither, rolling over and over each other, poking their little sharp noses into every crack and cranny they could find. Oh, what fun it was! How smooth the floor! how pleasant the dry, warm air, after their damp cellar-home! But about that smell, now! where did it come from? Playing and romping is hungry work, and the two little brown mouse-stomachs are empty. It seems to come from under that cupboard door. The crack is wide enough to let out the smell, but not quite wide enough to let in Messrs. Scrabble and Squeak. If they could enlarge it a bit, now, with the sharp little tools which they always carry in their mouths! So said, so done! "Nibble! nibble! nibble! Gnaw! gnaw! gnaw!" It is very fatiguing work; but, see! the crack widens. If one made oneself _very_ small, now? It is done, and the two mice find themselves in the immediate neighborhood of a large piece of squash pie. Oh, joy! oh, delight! too great for speech or squeak, but just right for attack. "Nibble! nibble! Gobble! gobble!" and soon the plate shines white and empty, with only the smell of the roses--I mean the pie--clinging round it still. There is nothing else to eat in the cupboard, is there? Yes! what is this paper package which smells so divinely, sending a warm, spicy, pungent fragrance through the air? Ah! pie was good, but this will be better! Nibble through the paper quickly, and then-- Alas! alas! the spicy fragrance means _ginger_, and it is not only warm, but _hot_. Oh, it burns! oh, it scorches! fire is in our mouths, in our noses, our throats, our little brown stomachs, now only too well filled. Water! water! or we die, and never see our cool, beloved cellar again. Hurry down from the shelf, creep through the crack, rush frantically round the kitchen. Surely there is a smell of water? Yes, yes! there it is, in that tin basin, yonder. Into it we go, splashing, dashing, drinking in the silver coolness, washing this fiery torment from our mouths and throats. Thoroughly sobered by this adventure, the two little mice sat on the floor beside the basin, dripping and shivering, the water trickling from their long tails, their short ears, their sharp-pointed noses. They blinked sadly at each other with their bright black eyes. "Shall we go home now, Scrabble?" said Squeak. "It is late, and Mother Mouse will be looking for us." "I'm so c-c-c-cold!" shivered Scrabble, who a moment before had been devoured by burning heat. "Don't you think we might dry ourselves before that fire before we go down?" "Yes!" replied Squeak, "we will. But--what is that great black thing in front of the fire?" "A hill, of course!" said the other. "A black hill, I should say. Shall we climb over it, or go round it?" "Oh, let us climb over it!" said Squeak. "The exercise will help to warm us; and it is such a queer-looking hill, I want to explore it." So they began to climb up the vast black mass, which occupied the whole space in front of the fireplace. "How soft the ground is! and it is warm, too!" "Because it is near the fire, stupid!" "And what is this tall black stuff that grows so thick all over it? It isn't a bit like grass, or trees either." "It _is_ grass, of course, stupid! what else could it be? Come on! come on! we are nearly at the top, now." "Scrabble," said little brown Squeak, stopping short, "you may call me stupid as much as you please, but _I_ don't like this place. I--I--I think it is moving." "_Moving?_" said little brown Scrabble, in a tone of horror. And then the two little mice clutched each other with their little paws, and wound their little tails round each other, and held on tight, tight, for the black mass _was_ moving! There was a long, stretching, undulating movement, slow but strong; and then came a quick, violent, awful shake, which sent the two brothers slipping, sliding, tumbling headlong to the floor. Picking themselves up as well as they could, and casting one glance back at the black hill, they rushed shrieking and squeaking to the cellar-door, and literally flung themselves through the crack. For in that glance they had seen a vast red cavern, a yawning gulf of fire, open suddenly in the black mass, which was now heaving and shuddering all over. And from this fiery cavern came smoke and flame (at least so the mice said when they got home to the maternal hole), and an awful roaring sound, which shook the whole house and made the windows rattle. "Home to our Mother Mouse! Home to our Mother Mouse! and never, never, will we leave our cellar again!" But Bruin sat up on his haunches, and scratched himself and stretched himself, and gave another mighty yawn. "Haw-wa-wow-you-_wonk_!" said the good bear. "Those must have been very lively fleas, to wake me out of a sound sleep. I wonder where they have crept to! I don't seem to feel them now. Ha! humph! Yaow! very sleepy! Not morning yet; take another nap." And stretching his huge length once more along the floor, Bruin slept again. CHAPTER IV. AT dinner the next day, it was noticed that Coon was very melancholy. He shook his head frequently, and sighed so deeply and sorrowfully that the kind heart of the wood-pigeon was moved to pity. "Are you not well, my dear Coon?" she asked. "Something has gone amiss with you, evidently. Tell us what it is." The raccoon shook his head again, and looked unutterably doleful. "I knew how it would be, Coon," said the bear. "You shouldn't have eaten that third pie for supper. Two pies are enough for anybody, after such a quantity of bread and honey and milk as you had." Coon sighed again, more deeply than before. "I _didn't_ eat it all," he said; "I only wish I had!" "Why, Coon," queried Toto, "what's the trouble?" "Well," said Coon, "there was a piece left. I couldn't eat any more, so I put it away in the cupboard, thinking I would have it for lunch to-day. It was a lovely piece. I never saw such a squash pie as that was, anyhow, and that piece--" He paused, and seemed lost in the thought of the pie. "_Well!_" exclaimed Toto. "So you _did_ eat it for your lunch, and now you are unhappy because you didn't keep it for dinner. Is that it?" "Not at all!" replied the other, "not at all! I trust I am not _greedy_, Toto, _whatever_ my faults may be. I went to get it for my luncheon, for I had been working all the morning like a--" "Dormouse!" "Tree-toad!" "Grasshopper!" murmured the squirrel, the bear, and Toto, simultaneously. "Like a RACCOON!" he continued severely. "I can say no more than that; and I was desperately hungry. I went to the cupboard to get my piece of pie, and it was--gone!" "Gone!" exclaimed the grandmother; "why, who can have taken it?" "That is the point, Madam!" said Coon. "It was some small creature, for it got in through the crack under the cupboard door, gnawing away the wood. I have examined the marks," he added, "and they are the marks of small, very sharp teeth." And he looked significantly at the squirrel. "What do you mean by looking at me in that way?" demanded little Cracker, whisking his tail fiercely, and bristling all over. "I've a good mind to bite your ears with my sharp teeth. I never touched your old pie. If you say I did, I'll throw this cheese--" "Cracker! Cracker!" said the grandmother, gently, "you forget yourself! Good manners at table, you know. I am sure," she added, as Cracker hung his head and looked much ashamed, "that none of us think seriously for a moment that you took the pie. Coon loves his joke; but he has a good heart, and he would not really give you pain, I know. Of course he did not mean anything. Am I not right, Coon?" It is only justice to the raccoon to say that he was rather abashed at this. He rubbed his nose, and gave a deprecatory wink at Bruin, who was looking very serious; then, recovering himself, he beamed expansively on the squirrel, who still looked fierce, though respect for "Madam" kept him silent. "Mean anything?" he cried. "Dear Madam, do I _ever_ mean anything,--anything unkind, at least?" he added hastily, as Toto looked up with a suppressed chuckle. "I beg your pardon, Cracker, my boy, and I hope you won't bear malice. As for those marks--" "Those marks," interrupted the bear, who had risen from his seat and was examining the cupboard door, "were made by mice. I am quite sure of it." "So am I," said Miss Mary, quietly. "I saw them do it." "What!" "You!" "When?" "How?" "Tell us!" exclaimed every one, in a breath. "Two brown mice," said Miss Mary, "came out from under the cellar-door about midnight. They gnawed at the cupboard till they had made the crack wide enough to pass through. Then I heard them say, 'Squash pie!' and heard them nibbling, or rather gobbling. After a while they came rushing out as if the cat were after them, and jumped into the water-basin. Then they tried to climb up Bruin's back, but he yawned like an alligator, and shook them off, and they ran hurry-scurry under the cellar-door again." A great laugh broke out at this recital of Messrs. Squeak and Scrabble's nocturnal adventure, and under cover of the laughter the raccoon approached the parrot. "Why didn't you give the alarm," he asked, "or drive off the mice yourself? You knew it was my pie, for you saw me put it there." Miss Mary cocked her bright yellow eye at him expressively. "I lost two feathers from my tail, yesterday," she said. "Somebody bit them off while I was asleep. They were fine feathers, and I cannot replace them." The two exchanged a long, deep look. At length-- "Miss Mary," said the raccoon aloud, "what was the color of your lamented husband? You told us once, but I am ashamed to say I'm not positive that I remember." "Green!" replied Miss Mary, in some surprise,--"a remarkably fine emerald green. But why do you ask?" "Ah, I thought so!" said the raccoon, ingenuously. "That explains his choice of a wife.--Walk, Toto, did you say? I am with you, my boy!" and in three bounds he was out of the door, and leaping and frolicking about in the new-fallen snow. Toto caught up his cap and followed him, and the two together made their way out of the yard, and walked, ran, leaped, jumped, tumbled, scrambled, toward the forest. The sky had cleared, and the sun shone brilliantly on the fresh white world. On every hand lay the snow,--here heaped and piled in fantastic drifts and strange half-human shapes; there spread smooth, like a vast counterpane. The tall trees of the forest bent under white feathery masses, which came tumbling down on Toto and his companion, as they lightly pushed the branches aside and entered the woods. A winter walk in the woods! It is always a good thing for any one who has eyes in his head, but it is especially good when you see all that Coon and Toto saw; when you know, from every tiny track or footmark, what little creatures have been running or hopping about; when many of these little creatures are your friends, and all of them at least acquaintances. How fresh and crisp the air was! how soft and powdery and generally delightful the snow! What a pleasant world it was, on the whole! "Let me see!" said the raccoon, stopping and looking about him. "It is just about here that Chucky's aunt lives. Yes, I remember, now. You see that oak-stump yonder, with the moss on it? Well, her burrow is just under that. Suppose we give her a call, and tell her how her hopeful nephew is." "Nonsense!" said Toto, "she is as fast asleep as he is, of course. We couldn't wake her if we tried, and why should we try?" "Might have a game of ball with her," suggested the raccoon. "But I don't know that it's worth while, after all." "Who lives in that hollow tree, now?" asked Toto. "The wild-cat used to live there, you know. It is a very comfortable tree, if I remember right." "You found it so once, didn't you, Toto?" said Coon. "Do you remember that day, when a thunder-shower came up, and you crept into that hollow tree for shelter? Ha! ha! ha! _do_ you remember that day, my boy?" "I should think I did remember it!" cried Toto. "I am not likely to forget it. It was raining guns and pitchforks, and the lightning was cracking and zigzagging all through the forest, it seemed, and the thunder crashing and bellowing and roaring--" "Like Bruin, when the bumble-bee stung his nose!" put in the raccoon. "Exactly!" said Toto. "There I was, curled up well in the hollow, thinking how lucky I was, when suddenly came two green eyes glowering at me, and a great spitting and spluttering and meowling. "'Get out of my house!' said the creature. 'F-s-s-s-s-yeh-yow-s-s-s-s-s-s! get out of my house, I say!' "'My dear Madam,' I said, 'it is really more than you can expect. You are already thoroughly wet, and if you come here you will only drip all over the nice dry hole and spoil it. Now, _I_ am quite dry; and to tell you the truth, I mean to remain so.' "Oh, how angry that cat was! "'My name is Klawtobitz!' she cried. 'I have lived in this tree for seven years, and I am not going to be turned out of it by a thing with two legs and no tail. Who are you, I say?' "'I am a boy!' cried I, getting angry in my turn. 'I wouldn't have a tail if I was paid for it; and I will _not_ leave this hole!' "And then the old cat humped her back, and grinned till I saw every tooth in her head, and came flying at me,--claws spread, and tail as big round as my arm. There we fought, tooth and nail, fist and claw, till we were both out of breath. Finally I got her by the throat, and she made her teeth meet in my arm, and there we both were. I had heard no noise save the cat's screeching in my ear; but now, suddenly, a great growly voice, close beside us, cried,-- "'Fair play! fair play! no choking!' "We both dropped our hold, and looking up, saw--" "Bruin and me!" interrupted the raccoon, joyously. "We were taking a quiet prowl in the rain, and hearing the scuffle, stopped to see what was going on. Such a pretty fight I had not seen in a long time, and it was really too bad of Bruin to stop it. How old Ma'am Wildcat's tail went down, though, when she saw him!" "I am very glad he did stop it," said Toto. "I was quite a little chap then, you see,--only seven years old,--and it was going hard with me. I was frightened enough, though, I can tell you, when I saw Bruin standing there. He looked as big as an elephant, and I fully expected to be eaten up the next minute. But he said, in his great hearty voice,-- "'Give us your paw, my little fighting-cock! And you, Mrs. Wildcat, be off! I gave you warning a week ago, when you killed the wood-pigeon's nestlings. Off with you, now, quick, or--'" "And she went!" cried Coon. "Oh, yes, my dear, she went! And I went after her! I chased that cat for ten miles, to the very farthest end of the forest. She had the start of me, and kept it pretty well, but I was just overhauling her when we came to the open; she gave a flying leap from the last tree, and went crash through the window of a farmhouse which stood close at hand! I thought she would probably be attended to there; so I went back, and found Bruin and you as sociable and friendly as if you had been brought up in the same den,--you sitting in the hole, with your funny red legs hanging out (you were the queerest-looking animal I had ever seen, Toto!), and he sitting up on his haunches, talking to you." "And he invited us both to supper!" cried Toto. "Don't you remember, Coon? That was the first time I had ever seen any of you people, and I was dreadfully afraid that I should be the supper myself. But we went to his den, and had a jolly supper. Bruin ate three large watermelons, I remember. He _said_ a man gave them to him." "I think it very likely that he did," said Coon, "if Bruin asked him." "And I showed you how to play leap-frog," continued Toto; "and we played it over Bruin's back till it was time for me to go home. And then you both walked with me to the edge of the forest, and there we swore eternal friendship." "Ah!" said the raccoon, "that we did, my boy; and well have we kept the vow! And so long as Coon's tail has a single hair in it, will he ever cherish-- Hello! what's that?" he cried with a sudden start, as a tiny brown creature darted swiftly across the path. "Woodmouse! I say, Woodmouse! stop a minute; you are just the fellow I want to see." The woodmouse stopped and turned round, and greeted the two friends cordially. "I haven't seen you for an age!" he said. "Coon, I supposed you had been asleep for a couple of months, at least. How does it happen that you are prowling about at this season?" Coon briefly explained the state of the case, and then added:-- "I am specially glad to meet you, Woodmouse, for I want to consult you about something. There are some mice in the cellar of the cottage,--brown mice. Very troublesome, thieving creatures they are, and we want to get rid of them. Now, I suppose they are relatives of yours, eh?" "Ahem! well--yes," the woodmouse admitted reluctantly. "Distant, you know, quite distant; but--a--yes, they _are_ relatives. A wretched, disreputable set, I have heard, though I never met any of them." "You have heard quite correctly!" said the raccoon, warmly. "They are a great annoyance to the Madam, and to all of us. They almost take the food out of our mouths; they destroy things in the cellar, and--and in fact, we want to get rid of them." The woodmouse stared at him in amazement. "Really, Mr. Coon," he said, laughing, "I should not have supposed, from my past acquaintance with you, that you would have any difficulty in getting rid of them." Raccoons cannot blush, or our Coon certainly would have done so. He rubbed his nose helplessly, somewhat after the fashion of Bruin, and cast a half-comical, half-rueful glance at Toto. Finally he replied,-- "Well, you see, Woodmouse, things are rather different from usual this winter. The fact is, our Madam has a strong objection to--a--in point of fact, to slaughter; and she made it a condition of our coming to spend the winter with her, that we should not kill other creatures unless it were necessary. So I thought if we _could_ get rid of those mice in any other way, it would please her. I suppose there is plenty of room in the forest for another family of mice?" "Oh! as far as room goes," replied the woodmouse, "they have a range of ten miles in which to choose their home. I cannot promise to call on them, you know; that could not be expected. But if they behave themselves, they may in time overcome the prejudice against them." "Very well," said Coon, "I shall send them, then. How are you all at home?" he added, "and what is going on in your set?" Now it was the woodmouse's turn to look confused. "My son is to be married on the second evening after this," he said. "That is the only thing I know of." "What?" cried Coon. "Your son Prick-ear? Why, he is one of my best friends! How strange that I should have heard nothing of it!" "We didn't know--we really thought--we supposed you were asleep!" stammered the woodmouse. "And so you chose this time for the wedding?" said the raccoon. "Now, I call that unfriendly, Woodmouse, and I shouldn't have thought it of you." The woodmouse stroked his whiskers, and looked piteously at his formidable acquaintance. "Don't be offended, Coon!" he said. "Perhaps--perhaps you will come to the wedding, after all. Eh? of course we should be delighted." "Yes, to be sure I will come!" said the raccoon, cheerily. "_I_ don't bear malice. Oh, yes! I will come, and Toto shall come, too. Where is it to take place?" "We--we have engaged the cave for the evening," said the woodmouse, with some diffidence. "We have a large family connection, you know, and it is the only place big enough to hold them all." Coon stared in amazement, and Toto gave a long whistle. "The cave, eh?" he said. "I should say this was to be something very grand indeed. I should like very much to come, Woodmouse, if you think it would not trouble any of your family. I promise you that Coon shall be on his very best behavior, and--I'll tell you what!" he added, "I will provide the music, as I did last summer, at the Rabbit's Rinktum." "No, not really! will you, though?" cried the little woodmouse, his slender tail quivering with delight. "We shall be infinitely obliged, Mr. Toto, infinitely obliged, sir! We shall count upon you both. Bring Cracker, too, and any other friends who may be staying with you. Would your grandmother, possibly--eh? care to come?" "Thank you!" said Toto, gravely, "I think not. My grandmother never goes out in the evening." "We might bring Bruin!" suggested Coon, with a sly wink at Toto. But here the poor little woodmouse looked so unutterably distressed, that the two friends burst out laughing; and reassuring him by a word, bade him good-day, and proceeded on their walk. CHAPTER V. "AND now," said the squirrel, when the tea-things were cleared away that evening, "now for dancing-school. If we are going to a ball, we really must be more sure of our steps than we are now. Coon, oblige me with a whisk of your tail over the hearth. Some coals have fallen from the fire, and we shall be treading on them." "When the coals are cold," replied the raccoon, "I shall be happy to oblige you. At present they are red-hot. And meantime, as I have no idea of dancing immediately after my supper, I will, if you like, tell you the story of the Useful Coal, which your request brings to my mind. It is short, and will not take much time from the dancing-lesson." Right willingly the family all seated themselves around the blazing fire, and the raccoon began as follows:-- THE USEFUL COAL. There was once a king whose name was Sligo. He was noted both for his riches and his kind heart. One evening, as he sat by his fireside, a coal fell out on the hearth. The King took up the tongs, intending to put it back on the fire, but the coal said:-- "If you will spare my life, and do as I tell you, I will save your treasure three times, and tell you the name of the thief who steals it." These words gave the King great joy, for much treasure had been stolen from him of late, and none of his officers could discover the culprit. So he set the coal on the table, and said:-- "Pretty little black and red bird, tell me, what shall I do?" "Put me in your waistcoat pocket," said the coal, "and take no more thought for to-night." Accordingly the King put the coal in his pocket, and then, as he sat before the warm fire, he grew drowsy, and presently fell fast asleep. When he had been asleep some time, the door opened, very softly, and the High Cellarer peeped cautiously in. This was the one of the King's officers who had been most eager in searching for the thief. He now crept softly, softly, toward the King, and seeing that he was fast asleep, put his hand into his waistcoat-pocket; for in that waistcoat-pocket King Sligo kept the key of his treasure-chamber, and the High Cellarer was the thief. He put his hand into the waistcoat pocket. S-s-s-s-s! the coal burned it so frightfully that he gave a loud shriek, and fell on his knees on the hearth. "What is the matter?" cried the King, waking with a start. "Alas! your Majesty," said the High Cellarer, thrusting his burnt fingers into his bosom, that the King might not see them. "You were just on the point of falling forward into the fire, and I cried out, partly from fright and partly to waken you." The King thanked the High Cellarer, and gave him a ruby ring as a reward. But when he was in his chamber, and making ready for bed, the coal said to him:-- "Once already have I saved your treasure, and to-night I shall save it again. Only put me on the table beside your bed, and you may sleep with a quiet heart." So the King put the coal on the table, and himself into the bed, and was soon sound asleep. At midnight the door of the chamber opened very softly, and the High Cellarer peeped in again. He knew that at night King Sligo kept the key under his pillow, and he was coming to get it. He crept softly, softly, toward the bed, but as he drew near it, the coal cried out:-- "One eye sleeps, but the other eye wakes! one eye sleeps, but the other eye wakes! Who is this comes creeping, while honest men are sleeping?" The High Cellarer looked about him in affright, and saw the coal burning fiery red in the darkness, and looking for all the world like a great flaming eye. In an agony of fear he fled from the chamber, crying,-- "Black and red! black and red! The King has a devil to guard his bed." And he spent the rest of the night shivering in the farthest garret he could find. The next morning the coal said to the King:-- "Again this night have I saved your treasure, and mayhap your life as well. Yet a third time I shall do it, and this time you shall learn the name of the thief. But if I do this, you must promise me one thing, and that is that you will place me in your royal crown and wear me as a jewel. Will you do this?" "That will I, right gladly!" replied King Sligo, "for a jewel indeed you are." "That is well!" said the coal. "It is true that I am dying; but no matter. It is a fine thing to be a jewel in a king's crown, even if one is dead. Now listen, and follow my directions closely. As soon as I am quite black and dead,--which will be in about ten minutes from now,--you must take me in your hand and rub me all over and around the handle of the door of the treasure-chamber. A good part of me will be rubbed off, but there will be enough left to put in your crown. When you have thoroughly rubbed the door, lay the key of the treasure-chamber on your table, as if you had left it there by mistake. You may then go hunting or riding, but not for more than an hour; and when you return, you must instantly call all your court together, as if on business of the greatest importance. Invent some excuse for asking them to raise their hands, and then arrest the man whose hands are black. Do you understand?" "I do!" replied King Sligo, fervently, "I do, and my warmest thanks, good Coal, are due to you for this--" But here he stopped, for already the coal was quite black, and in less than ten minutes it was dead and cold. Then the King took it and rubbed it carefully over the door of the treasure-chamber, and laying the key of the door in plain sight on his dressing-table, he called his huntsmen together, and mounting his horse, rode away to the forest. As soon as he was gone, the High Cellarer, who had pleaded a headache when asked to join the hunt, crept softly to the King's room, and to his surprise found the key on the table. Full of joy, he sought the treasure-chamber at once, and began filling his pockets with gold and jewels, which he carried to his own apartment, returning greedily for more. In this way he opened and closed the door many times. Suddenly, as he was stooping over a silver barrel containing sapphires, he heard the sound of a trumpet, blown once, twice, thrice. The wicked thief started, for it was the signal for the entire court to appear instantly before the King, and the penalty of disobedience was death. Hastily cramming a handful of sapphires into his pocket, he stumbled to the door, which he closed and locked, putting the key also in his pocket, as there was no time to return it. He flew to the presence-chamber, where the lords of the kingdom were hastily assembling. The King was seated on his throne, still in his hunting-dress, though he had put on his crown over his hat, which presented a peculiar appearance. It was with a majestic air, however, that he rose and said:-- "Nobles, and gentlemen of my court! I have called you together to pray for the soul of my lamented grandmother, who died, as you may remember, several years ago. In token of respect, I desire you all to raise your hands to Heaven." The astonished courtiers, one and all, lifted their hands high in air. The King looked, and, behold! the hands of the High Cellarer were as black as soot! The King caused him to be arrested and searched, and the sapphires in his pocket, besides the key of the treasure-chamber, gave amble proof of his guilt. His head was removed at once, and the King had the useful coal, set in sapphires, placed in the very front of his crown, where it was much admired and praised as a BLACK DIAMOND. * * * * * "And _now_, Cracker, my boy," continued the raccoon, rising from his seat by the fire, "as you previously remarked, now for dancing-school!" With these words he proceeded to sweep the hearth carefully and gracefully with his tail, while Toto and Bruin moved the chairs and tables back against the wall. The grandmother's armchair was moved into the warm chimney-corner, where she would be comfortably out of the way of the dancers; and Pigeon Pretty perched on the old lady's shoulder, "that the two sober-minded members of the family might keep each other in countenance," she said. Toto ran into his room, and returned with a little old fiddle which had belonged to his grandfather, and stationed himself at one end of the kitchen, while the bear, the raccoon, and the squirrel formed in line at the other. "Now, then," said Master Toto, tapping smartly on the fiddle. "Stand up straight, all of you! That's the first thing, you know." Up they all went,--little Cracker sitting up jauntily, his tail cocked over his left ear, Coon pawing the air gracefully, but not quite sure of himself; while Bruin raised his huge form erect, and stood like a shaggy black giant, waiting further orders. "Bow to partners!" cried Toto. Coon and Cracker bowed to each other; and Bruin, having no partner, gravely saluted Miss Mary, who stood on one leg and surveyed the proceedings in silent but deep disdain. "Jump, and change your feet!" But this order, alas! was followed by dire confusion. Bruin dropped on all-fours, and frantically endeavored to stand on his fore-paws, with his hind-legs in the air, throwing up first one great shaggy leg and then another, and finally losing his balance and falling flat, with a thump that shook the whole house. "Dear me!" cried the grandmother, starting from her chair. "Dear, dear me! Who is hurt? What has happened? Are any bones broken?" "Oh, no! Madam," cried the bear, rising with surprising agility for one of his size; "it's nothing! nothing at all, I assure you. I--I was only jumping and changing my feet. But I cannot do it!" he added, in an aggrieved tone, to Toto. "It isn't possible, you know, for a fellow of my build to--a--do that sort of thing. You shouldn't, really--" "Oh, Bruin! Bruin!" cried Toto, wiping the tears from his eyes, as he leaned against the dresser in a paroxysm of merriment. "I didn't _mean_ you to do that! Look here! this is the way. You jump--_so!_ and change your feet--_so!_ as you come down. There, look at Coon; he has the idea, perfectly!" The astute Coon, in truth, seeing Bruin's error, had stood quietly in his place till he saw Toto perform the mystic manoeuvre of "jump and change feet," and had then begun to practise it with a quiet grace and ease, as if he had done it all his life. [Illustration: "Now, then, attention all! Forward and back!" And he played a lively air on his fiddle.--PAGE 97.] The squirrel, meanwhile, had obeyed the first part of the order by jumping to the top of the clock, where he sat inspecting his little black feet with an air of comical perplexity. "Change them, eh?" he said. "What's the matter with them? They'll do very well yet awhile." "Don't be absurd, Cracker!" said Toto, rather severely. "Come down and take your place at once! Now, then, attention all! Forward and back!" and he played a lively air on his fiddle. The bear brightened up at once. "Ah!" he said, "I am all right when we come to forward and back. Tum-tiddy tum-tum, tum-tum-tum!" and he pranced forward, put out one foot, and slid back again, with an air of enjoyment that was pleasant to behold. "That's right!" said the master, approvingly. "Stand a little straighter, Bruin! Cracker, you don't point your toe enough. Hold your head up, Coon, and don't be looking round at your tail every minute. _Tum_-tiddy tum-tum, _tum_-tum-tum! _tiddy_-iddy tum-tum, _tum_-tum-tum! Balance to partners! Here, Bruin! you can balance to me. Turn partners, and back to places! There, now you may rest a moment before you begin on the waltz step." "Ah! that is _my_ delight," said the squirrel. "What a sensation we shall make at the wedding! One of the woodmouse's daughters is very pretty, with such a nice little nose, and such bright eyes! I shall ask her to waltz with me." "There won't be any one of my size there, I suppose," said the raccoon. "You and I will have to be partners, Toto." "And I must stay at home and waltz alone!" said Bruin, goodnaturedly. "It is a misfortune, in some ways, to be so big." "But great good fortune in others, Bruin, dear!" said Pigeon Pretty, affectionately. "I, for one, would not have you smaller, for the world!" "Nor would I!" said the grandmother, heartily. "Bruin, my friend and protector, your size and strength are the greatest possible comfort to me, coupled as they are with a kind heart and a willing--" "Paw!" cried Toto. "Your sentiments are most correct, Granny, dear; but Bruin _must_ not stand bowing in the middle of the room, even if he is grateful. Go in the corner, Bruin, and practise your steps, while I take a turn with Coon. And you, Cracker, can--" But Master Cracker did not wait for instructions. He had been watching the parrot for some minutes, with his head on one side and his eyes twinkling with merriment; and now, springing suddenly upon her perch, he caught the astonished bird round the body, leaped with her to the floor, and began to whirl her round the room at a surprising rate, in tolerably good time to the lively waltz that Toto was whistling. Miss Mary gasped for breath, and fluttered her wings wildly, trying to escape from her tormentor, and presently, finding her voice, she shrieked aloud:-- "Ke-ke-kee! ki-ko! ki-ko-KAA! Let me go, you little wretch! Let me go this instant, or I'll peck your eyes out! I will--" "Oh, no, you won't, my dear!" said Cracker. "You wouldn't have the heart to do that; for then how could I look at you, the delight of my life? Tiddy-_tum_! tiddy-_tum_! tiddy-_tum_ tum-tum! just see what a pretty step it is! You will enjoy it immensely, as soon as you know it a little better." And he whirled her round faster and faster, trying to keep pace with Coon and Toto, who were circling in graceful curves. Suddenly the grandmother uttered an exclamation. "Toto!" she cried, "did you put that custard pie out in the snow to cool? Bruin doesn't like it hot, you know." Toto, his head still dizzy from waltzing, looked about him in bewilderment. "Did I?" he said. "I am sure I don't know! I don't remember what I did with it. Oh, yes, I do, though!" he added hastily. "It is there, on that chair. Bruin! Bruin, I say! mind what you are about. It is just behind you." Thus adjured, the good bear, who had been gravely revolving by himself in the corner until he was quite blind, tried to stop short; at the same instant the squirrel and the parrot, stumbling against his shaggy paw, fell over it in a confused heap of feathers and fur. He stepped hastily back to avoid treading on them, lost his balance, and sat down heavily--on the custard pie! At the crash of the platter, the squirrel released Miss Mary, who flew screaming to her perch; the grandmother wrung her hands and lamented, begging to be told what had happened, and who was hurt; and the unfortunate Bruin, staggering to his feet, stared aghast at the ruin he had wrought. It was a very complete ruin, certainly, for the platter was in small fragments, while most of its contents were clinging to his own shaggy black coat. "Well, old fellow," said Toto, "you have done it now, haven't you? I tried to stop you, but I was too late." "Yes," replied the bear, solemnly, "I have done it now! And I have also done _with_ it now. Dear Madam," he added, turning to the old lady, "please forgive me! I have spoiled your pie, and broken your platter; but I have also learned a lesson, which I ought to have learned before,--that is, that waltzing is not my forte, and that, as the old saying is, 'A bullfrog cannot dance in a grasshopper's nest.' This is my last dancing lesson!" CHAPTER VI. IT was a bright clear night, when Toto, accompanied by the raccoon and the squirrel, started from home to attend the wedding of the woodmouse's eldest son. The moon was shining gloriously, and her bright cold rays turned everything they touched to silver. The long icicles hanging from the eaves of the cottage glittered like crystal spears; the snow sparkled as if diamond-dust were strewn over its powdery surface. The raccoon shook himself as he walked along, and looked about him with his keen bright eyes. "What a fine night this would be for a hunt!" he said, sniffing the cold bracing air eagerly. "I smell something, surely! What is it?" "Rats, maybe!" suggested the squirrel. "There is the track of one yonder." "No, this is not a rat!" said the raccoon, sniffing again. "It's a--it's a cat! that's what it is, a cat! Do you see a track anywhere? I wonder how a cat came here, anyhow. I should like to chase her! It is a long time since I chased a cat." "Oh, never mind the cat now, Coon!" cried Toto. "We are late for the wedding as it is, with all your prinking. Besides," he added slyly, "I didn't lend you that red cravat to chase cats in." The raccoon instantly threw off his professional eagerness, and resumed the air of complacent dignity with which he had begun the walk. Never before had he been so fully impressed with the sense of his own charms. The red ribbon which he had begged from Toto set off his dark fur and bright eyes to perfection; and he certainly was a very handsome fellow, as he frisked daintily along, his tail curling gracefully over his back. "We shall make a sensation!" he said cheerfully; "we shall certainly make a sensation. Don't you think so, Toto?" "I do, indeed," replied Toto; "though it is a great pity that you and Cracker didn't let me put your tails in curl-papers last night, as I offered to do. You can't think what an improvement it would have been." "The cow offered to lend me her bell," said Cracker, "to wear round my neck, but it was too big, you know. She's the dearest old thing, that cow! I had a grand game, this morning, jumping over her back and balancing myself on her horns. Why doesn't she live in the house, with the rest of us?" "Oh!" said Toto, "one _couldn't_ have a cow in the house. She's too big, in the first place; and besides, Granny would not like it. One could not make a companion of a cow! I don't know exactly why, but that sort of animal is entirely different from you wood-creatures." "The difference is, my dear," said the raccoon, loftily, "that we have been accustomed to good society, and know something of its laws; while persons like Mrs. Cow are absolutely ignorant of such matters. Absolutely ignorant!" he repeated, impressively. "Why, only yesterday I went out to the barn, and being in need of a little exercise, thought I would amuse myself by swinging on her tail. And the creature, instead of saying, 'Mr. Coon, I am sensible of the honor you bestow upon me, but your well-proportioned figure is perhaps heavier than you are aware of,' or something of that sort, just kicked me off, without saying a word. _Kicked_, Toto! I give you my word for it. Kicked _me_!" "Humph!" said the squirrel, "I think I should have done the same in her place. But see, here we are at the cave. Just look at the tracks in the snow! Why, there must be a thousand persons here, at least." Indeed, the snow was covered in every direction with the prints of little feet,--feet that had hopped, had run, had crept from all sides of the forest, and had met in front of this low opening, from which the brambles and creeping vines had been carefully cleared away. Torches of light-wood were blazing on either side, lighting up the gloomy entrance for several feet, and from within came a confused murmur of many voices, as of hundreds of small creatures squeaking, piping, and chattering in every variety of tone. "We are late!" said Coon. "Everybody is here. So much the better; we shall make all the more sensation. Toto, is my neck-tie straight?" "Quite straight," replied Toto. "You look like--like--" "Like a popinjay!" muttered the squirrel, who had no neck-tie. "Come along, will you, Coon?" And the three companions entered the cave together. A brilliant scene it was that presented itself before their eyes. The cave was lighted not only by glow-worms, but by light-wood torches stuck in every available crack and cranny of the walls. The floor was sprinkled with fine white sand, clean and glittering, while branches of holly and alder placed in the corners added still more to the general air of festivity. As to the guests, they were evidently enjoying themselves greatly, to judge from the noise they were making. There were a great many of them,--hundreds, or perhaps even thousands, though it was impossible to count them, as they were constantly moving, hopping, leaping, jumping, creeping, trotting, running, even flying. Never were so many tiny creatures seen together. There were woodmice, of course, by the hundred,--old and young, big and little; cousins, uncles, aunts, grandmothers, of the bride and bridegroom. There were respectable field-mice, looking like well-to-do farmers, as indeed they were; frisky kangaroo-mice, leaping about on their long hind-legs, to the admiration of all those whose legs were short. There were all the moles, of both families,--those who wore plain black velvet without any ornament, and those who had lovely rose-colored stars at the end of their noses. These last gentlemen were very aristocratic indeed, and the woodmice felt highly honored by their presence. Besides all these, the squirrels had been invited, and had come in full force, the Grays and the Reds and the Chipmunks; and Mr. and Mrs. Titmouse were there, and old Mrs. Shrew and her daughters, and I don't know how many more. Hundreds and hundreds of guests, none of them bigger than a squirrel, and most of them much smaller. You can perhaps imagine the effect that was produced on this gay assembly by the sudden appearance among them of a RACCOON and a BOY! There was a confused murmur for a moment, a quick affrighted glance, and then dead silence. Not a creature dared to move; not a tail waved, not a whisker quivered; all the tiny creatures stood as if turned to stone, gazing in mute terror and supplication at their formidable visitors. The bride, who had just entered from a side-cave on her father's arm, prepared to faint; the bridegroom threw his arms about her and glared fiercely at the intruders, his tiny heart swelling as high as if he were a lion instead of a very small red mouse. Mr. Woodmouse, Senior, alone retained his presence of mind. He hastened to greet his formidable guests, and bade them welcome in a voice which, though tremulous, tried hard to be cordial. "Mr. Coon," he said, "you are welcome, most welcome. Mr. Toto, your most obedient, sir. Cracker, I am delighted to see you. Very good of you all, I'm sure, to honor this little occasion with your distinguished presence. Will you--ah!--hum--will you sit down?" The little host hesitated over this invitation; it would not be polite to ask his guests to be careful lest they should sit down _on_ the other guests, and yet they were so _very_ large, and took up so _much_ room,--two of them, at least! Coon, delighted at the sensation he had produced, was as gracious as possible, and sitting down with great care so as to avoid any catastrophe, looked about him with so benign an expression that the rest of the company began to take heart, and whiskers were pricked and tails were cocked again. "This is delightful, Mr. Woodmouse!" he said heartily,--"this is really delightful! A brilliant occasion, indeed! But I do not see your son, the happy-- Ah! there he is. Prick-ear, you rascal, come here! Are you too proud to speak to your old friends?" Thus adjured, the young woodmouse left his bride in her mother's care and came forward, looking half pleased and half angry. "Good evening, Coon!" he said. "I was not sure whether you _were_ a friend, after our last meeting. But I am very glad to see you, and I bear no malice." And with this he shook paws with an air of magnanimity. Coon rubbed his nose, as he was apt to do when a little confused. "Oh! ah! to be sure!" he said. "I had quite forgotten that little matter. But say no more about it, my boy; say no more about it! By-gones are by-gones, and we should think of nothing but pleasure on an occasion like the present." With a graceful and condescending wave of his paw he dismissed the past, and continued: "Pray, introduce me to your charming bride! I assure you I am positively longing to make her acquaintance. After you, my boy; after you!" and he crossed the room and joined the bridal party. "What trouble did your son have with Coon?" Toto inquired of Mr. Woodmouse. "Nothing serious, I trust?" "Why--ah!--well!" said his host, in some embarrassment, "it came _near_ being serious,--at least Prick-ear thought it did. It seems he met Mr. Coon one day last autumn, when he was bringing home a load of checkerberries for supper. Mr. Coon wanted the checkerberries, and--ah!--in point of fact, ate them; and when Prick-ear remonstrated, he chased him all round the forest, vowing that if he caught him he would--if you will excuse my mentioning such a thing--eat _him_ too. Now, that sort of thing is very painful, Mr. Toto; very painful indeed it is, I assure you, sir. And though Prick-ear escaped by running into a mole's burrow, I must confess that he has _not_ felt kindly toward Mr. Coon since then." "Very natural," said Toto, gravely. "I don't wonder at it." "It _has_ occurred to me," continued the woodmouse, "that possibly it may have been only a joke on Mr. Coon's part. Eh? what do you think? Seeing him so friendly and condescending here to-night, one can hardly suppose that he _really_--eh?--could have intended--" "He certainly would not do such a thing _now_," said Toto, decidedly, "certainly not. He has the kindest feeling for all your family." "A--exactly! exactly!" cried the woodmouse, highly delighted. "Most gratifying, I'm sure. But I see that the ceremony is about to begin. If you _would_ excuse me, Mr. Toto--" And the little host bowed himself away, leaving Toto to seat himself at leisure and watch the proceedings. These were certainly very interesting. The bride, an extremely pretty little mouse, was attired in a very becoming travelling-dress of brown fur, which fitted her to perfection. The ceremony was performed by a star-nosed mole of high distinction, who delivered a learned and impressive discourse to the young couple, and ended by presenting them with three leaves of wintergreen, of which one was eaten by each separately, while they nibbled the third together, in token of their united lives. When they met in the middle of the leaf, they rubbed noses together, and the ceremony was finished. Then everybody advanced to rub noses with the bride, and to shake paws with the happy bridegroom. One of the first to do so was the raccoon, who comported himself with a grace and dignity which attracted the admiration of all. The little bride was nearly frightened to death, it is true; but she bore up bravely, for her husband whispered in her ear that Mr. Coon was one of his dearest friends, _now_. Meanwhile, no one was enjoying the festivity more thoroughly than our little friend Cracker. He was whisking and frisking about from one group to another, greeting old friends, making new acquaintances, hearing all the wood-gossip of the winter, and telling in return of the wonderful life that he and Bruin and Coon were leading. His own relations were most deeply interested in all he had to tell; but while his cousins were loud in their expressions of delight and of envy, some of the elders shook their heads. Uncle Munkle, a sedate and portly chipmunk, looked very grave as he heard of all the doings at the cottage, and presently he beckoned Cracker to one side, and addressed him in a low tone. "Cracker, my boy," he said, "I don't quite like all this, do you know? Toto and his grandmother are all very well, though they seem to have a barbarous way of living; but who is this Mrs. Cow, about whom you have so much to say; not a domestic animal, I trust?" "Why--yes!" Cracker admitted, rather reluctantly, "she _is_ a domestic animal, Uncle; but she is a very good one, I assure you, and not objectionable in any way." The old chipmunk looked deeply offended. "I did not expect this of you, Cracker!" he said severely, "I did not, indeed. This is the first time, to my knowledge, that a member of my family has had anything to do with a domestic animal. I am disappointed in you, sir; distinctly disappointed!" There was a pause, in which the delinquent Cracker found nothing to say, and then his uncle added:-- "And in what condition are your teeth, pray? I suppose you are letting them grow, while you eat those wretched messes of soft food. Have you _any_ proper food, at all?" "Oh, yes!" exclaimed Cracker. "Indeed, Uncle Munkle, my teeth are in excellent condition. Just look at them!" and he exhibited two shining rows of teeth as sharp as those of a newly-set saw. "We have plenty of nuts; more than I ever had before, I assure you. Toto got quantities of them in the autumn, on purpose for me; and there are great heaps of hazels and beech-nuts and hickories piled up in the barn-chamber, where I can go and help myself when I please. And almonds, too!" he added. "Oh, they are _so_ jolly!" Uncle Munkle looked mollified; he even seemed interested. "Almonds?" he said. "They are foreign nuts, and don't grow in this part of the world. I tasted some once. Where did Toto get them, do you think?" "He bought them of a pedler," said Cracker. "I know he would give you some, Uncle, if you asked him. Why won't you come out and see us, some day?" At this moment a loud and lively whistle was heard,--first three notes of warning, and then Toto's merriest jig,--which put all serious thoughts to flight, and set the whole company dancing. Cracker flew across the room to a charming young red squirrel on whom he had had his eye for some time, made his bow, and was soon showing off to her admiring gaze the fine steps which he had learned in the kitchen at home. The woodmice skipped and hopped merrily about; the kangaroo-mice danced with long, graceful bounds,--three short hops after each one. It is easy to do when you know just how. As for the moles, they ran round and round in a circle, with their noses to the ground, and thought very well of themselves. Presently Toto changed his tune from a jig to a waltz; and then he and Coon danced together, to the admiration of all beholders. Round they went, and round and round, circling in graceful curves,--Toto never pausing in his whistle, Coon's scarlet neck-tie waving like a banner in the breeze. "Yes, that is a sight worth seeing!" said a woodmouse to a mole. "It is a pity, just for this once, that you have not eyes to see it." "Are their coats of black velvet?" inquired the mole. "And have they stars on their noses? Tell me that." "No," replied the woodmouse. "I thought as much!" said the mole, contemptuously. "Vulgar people, probably. I have no desire to _see_ them, as you call it. Are we to have anything to eat?" he added. "That is of more consequence, to my mind. One can show one's skill in dancing, but that does not fill the stomach, and mine warns me that it is empty." At this very moment the music stopped, and the voice of the host was heard announcing that supper was served in the side-cave. The mole waited to hear no more, but rushed as fast as his legs would carry him, following his unerring nose in the direction where the food lay. Bolting into the supper-room, he ran violently against a neatly arranged pyramid of hazel-nuts, and down it came, rattling and tumbling over the greedy mole, and finally burying him completely. The rest of the company coming soberly in, each gentleman with his partner, saw the heaving and quaking mountain of nuts beneath which the mole was struggling, and he was rescued amid much laughter and merriment. That was a supper indeed! There were nuts of all kinds,--butternuts, chestnuts, beech-nuts, hickories, and hazels. There were huge piles of acorns, of several kinds,--the long slender brown-satin ones, and the fat red-and-brown ones, with a woolly down on them. There were partridge-berries and checkerberries, and piles of fragrant, spicy leaves of wintergreen. And there was sassafras-bark and spruce-gum, and a great dish of golden corn,--a present from the field-cousins. Really, it gives one an appetite only to think of it! And I verily believe that there never was such a nibbling, such a gnawing, such a champing and cracking and throwing away of shells, since first the forest was a forest. When the guests were thirsty, there was root-beer, served in birch-bark goblets; and when one had drunk all the beer one ate the goblet; which was very pleasant, and moreover saved some washing of dishes. And so all were very merry, and the star-nosed moles ate so much that their stars turned purple, and they had to be led home by their fieldmouse neighbors. At the close of the feast, the bride and groom departed for their own home, which was charmingly fitted up under an elder-bush, from the berries of which they could make their own wine. "Such a convenience!" said all the family. And finally, after a last wild dance, the company separated, the lights were put out, and "the event of the season" was over. CHAPTER VII. TOTO and his companions walked homeward in high spirits. The air was crisp and tingling; the snow crackled merrily beneath their feet; and though the moon had set, the whole sky was ablaze with stars, sparkling with the keen, winter radiance which one sees only in cold weather. "Pretty wedding, eh, Toto?" said the raccoon. "Very pretty," said Toto; "very pretty indeed. I have enjoyed myself immensely. What good people they are, those little woodmice. See here! they made me fill all my pockets with checkerberries and nuts for the others at home, and they sent so many messages of regret and apology to Bruin that I shall not get any of them straight." "Hello!" said the squirrel, who had been gazing up into the sky, "what's that?" "What's _what_?" asked the raccoon. "_That!_" repeated Cracker. "That big thing with a tail, up among the stars." His companions both stared upward in their turn, and Toto exclaimed,-- "Why, it's a comet! I never saw one before, but I know what they look like, from the pictures. It certainly _is_ a comet!" "And _what_, if I may be so bold as to ask," said Coon, "_is_ a comet?" "Why, it's--it's--THAT, you know!" said Toto. "Exactly!" said Coon. "What a clear way you have of putting things, to be sure!" "Well," cried Toto, laughing, "I'm afraid I cannot put it _very_ clearly, because I don't know just _exactly_ what comets are, myself. But they are heavenly bodies, and they come and go in the sky, with tails; and sometimes you don't see one again for a thousand years; and though you don't see them move, they are really going like lightning all the time." Coon and Cracker looked at each other, as if they feared that their companion was losing his wits. "Have they four legs?" asked Cracker. "And what do they live on?" "They have no legs," replied Toto, "nothing but heads and tails; and I don't believe they live on anything, unless," he added, with a twinkle in his eye, "they get milk from the milky way." The raccoon looked hard at Toto, and then equally hard at the comet, which for its part spread its shining tail among the constellations, and took no notice whatever of him. "Can't you give us a little more of this precious information?" he said with a sneer. "It is so valuable, you know, and we are so likely to believe it, Cracker and I, being two greenhorns, as you seem to think." Toto flushed, and his brow clouded for an instant, for Coon could be so _very_ disagreeable when he tried; but the next moment he threw back his head and laughed merrily. "Yes, I will!" he cried. "I _will_ give you more information, old fellow. I will tell you a story I once heard about a comet. It isn't true, you know, but what of that? You will believe it just as much as you would the truth. Listen, now, both you cross fellows, to the story of THE NAUGHTY COMET. The door of the Comet House was open. In the great court-yard stood hundreds of comets, of all sizes and shapes. Some were puffing and blowing, and arranging their tails, all ready to start; others had just come in, and looked shabby and forlorn after their long journeyings, their tails drooping disconsolately; while others still were switched off on side-tracks, where the tinker and the tailor were attending to their wants, and setting them to rights. In the midst of all stood the Comet Master, with his hands behind him, holding a very long stick with a very sharp point. The comets knew just how the point of that stick felt, for they were prodded with it whenever they misbehaved themselves; accordingly, they all remained very quiet, while he gave his orders for the day. In a distant corner of the court-yard lay an old comet, with his tail comfortably curled up around him. He was too old to go out, so he enjoyed himself at home in a quiet way. Beside him stood a very young comet, with a very short tail. He was quivering with excitement, and occasionally cast sharp impatient glances at the Comet Master. "Will he _never_ call me?" he exclaimed, but in an undertone, so that only his companion could hear. "He knows I am dying to go out, and for that very reason he pays no attention to me. I dare not leave my place, for you know what he is." "Ah!" said the old comet, slowly, "if you had been out as often as I have, you would not be in such a hurry. Hot, tiresome work, _I_ call it. And what does it all amount to?" "Ay, that's the point!" exclaimed the young comet. "What _does_ it all amount to? That is what I am determined to find out. I cannot understand your going on, travelling and travelling, and never finding out why you do it. _I_ shall find out, you may be very sure, before I have finished my first journey." "Better not! better not!" answered the old comet. "You'll only get into trouble. Nobody knows except the Comet Master and the Sun. The Master would cut you up into inch pieces if you asked him, and the Sun--" "Well, what about the Sun?" asked the young comet, eagerly. "Short-tailed Comet No. 73!" rang suddenly, clear and sharp, through the court-yard. The young comet started as if he had been shot, and in three bounds he stood before the Comet Master, who looked fixedly at him. "You have never been out before," said the Master. "No, sir!" replied No. 73; and he knew better than to add another word. "You will go out now," said the Comet Master. "You will travel for thirteen weeks and three days, and will then return. You will avoid the neighborhood of the Sun, the Earth, and the planet Bungo. You will turn to the left on meeting other comets, and you are not allowed to speak to meteors. These are your orders. Go!" At the word, the comet shot out of the gate and off into space, his short tail bobbing as he went. Ah! here was something worth living for. No longer shut up in that tiresome court-yard, waiting for one's tail to grow, but out in the free, open, boundless realm of space, with leave to shoot about here and there and everywhere--well, _nearly_ everywhere--for thirteen whole weeks! Ah, what a glorious prospect! How swiftly he moved! How well his tail looked, even though it was still rather short! What a fine fellow he was, altogether! For two or three weeks our comet was the happiest creature in all space; too happy to think of anything except the joy of frisking about. But by-and-by he began to wonder about things, and that is always dangerous for a comet. "I wonder, now," he said, "why I may not go near the planet Bungo. I have always heard that he was the most interesting of all the planets. And the Sun! how I _should_ like to know a little more about the Sun! And, by the way, that reminds me that all this time I have never found out _why_ I am travelling. It shows how I have been enjoying myself, that I have forgotten it so long; but now I must certainly make a point of finding out. Hello! there comes Long-Tail No. 45. I mean to ask him." So he turned out to the left, and waited till No. 45 came along. The latter was a middle-aged comet, very large, and with an uncommonly long tail,--quite preposterously long, our little No. 73 thought, as he shook his own tail and tried to make as much of it as possible. "Good morning, Mr. Long-Tail!" he said as soon as the other was within speaking distance. "Would you be so very good as to tell me what you are travelling for?" "For six months," answered No. 45 with a puff and a snort. "Started a month ago; five months still to go." "Oh, I don't mean that!" exclaimed Short-Tail No. 73. "I mean _why_ are you travelling at all?" "Comet Master sent me!" replied No. 45, briefly. "But what for?" persisted the little comet. "What is it all about? What good does it do? _Why_ do we travel for weeks and months and years? That's what I want to find out." "Don't know, I'm sure!" said the elder, still more shortly. "What's more, don't care!" The little comet fairly shook with amazement and indignation. "You don't care!" he cried. "Is it possible? And how long, may I ask, have you been travelling hither and thither through space, without knowing or caring why?" "Long enough to learn not to ask stupid questions!" answered Long-Tail No. 45. "Good morning to you!" And without another word he was off, with his preposterously long tail spreading itself like a luminous fan behind him. The little comet looked after him for some time in silence. At last he said:-- "Well, _I_ call that simply _disgusting_! An ignorant, narrow-minded old--" "Hello, cousin!" called a clear merry voice just behind him. "How goes it with you? Shall we travel together? Our roads seem to go in the same direction." The comet turned and saw a bright and sparkling meteor. "I--I--must not speak to you!" said No. 73, confusedly. "Not speak to me!" exclaimed the meteor, laughing. "Why, what's the matter? What have I done? I never saw you before in my life." "N-nothing that I know of," answered No. 73, still more confused. "Then why mustn't you speak to me?" persisted the meteor, giving a little skip and jump. "Eh? tell me that, will you? _Why_ mustn't you?" "I--don't--know!" answered the little comet, slowly, for he was ashamed to say boldly, as he ought to have done, that it was against the orders of the Comet Master. "Oh, gammon!" cried the meteor, with another skip. "_I_ know! Comet Master, eh? But a fine high-spirited young fellow like you isn't going to be afraid of that old tyrant. Come along, I say! If there were any _real reason_ why you should not speak to me--" "That's just what I say," interrupted the comet, eagerly. "What IS the reason? Why don't they tell it to me?" "'Cause there isn't any!" rejoined the meteor. "Come along!" After a little more hesitation, the comet yielded, and the two frisked merrily along, side by side. As they went, No. 73 confided all his vexations to his new friend, who sympathized warmly with him, and spoke in most disrespectful terms of the Comet Master. "A pretty sort of person to dictate to you, when he hasn't the smallest sign of a tail himself! I wouldn't submit to it!" cried the meteor. "As to the other orders, some of them are not so bad. Of course, nobody would want to go near that stupid, poky Earth, if he could possibly help it; and the planet Bungo is--ah--is not a very nice planet, I believe. [The fact is, the planet Bungo contains a large reform school for unruly meteors, but our friend made no mention of that.] But as for the Sun,--the bright, jolly, delightful Sun,--why, I am going to take a nearer look at him myself. Come on! We will go together, in spite of the Comet Master." Again the little comet hesitated and demurred; but after all, he had already broken one rule, and why not another? He would be punished in any case, and he might as well get all the pleasure he could. Reasoning thus, he yielded once more to the persuasions of the meteor, and together they shot through the great space-world, taking their way straight toward the Sun. When the Sun saw them coming, he smiled and seemed much pleased. He stirred his fire, and shook his shining locks, and blazed brighter and brighter, hotter and hotter. The heat seemed to have a strange effect on the comet, for he began to go faster and faster. "Hold on!" said the meteor. "Why are you hurrying so? I cannot keep up with you." "I cannot stop myself!" cried No. 73. "Something is drawing me forward, faster and faster!" On he went at a terrible rate, the meteor following as best he might. Several planets which he passed shouted to him in warning tones, but he could not hear what they said. The Sun stirred his fire again, and blazed brighter and brighter, hotter and hotter; and forward rushed the wretched little comet, faster and faster, faster and faster! "Catch hold of my tail and stop me!" he shrieked to the meteor. "I am shrivelling, burning up, in this fearful heat! Stop me, for pity's sake!" But the meteor was already far behind, and had stopped short to watch his companion's headlong progress. And now,--ah, me!--now the Sun opened his huge fiery mouth. The comet made one desperate effort to stop himself, but it was in vain. An awful, headlong plunge through the intervening space; a hissing and crackling; a shriek,--and the fiery jaws had closed on Short-Tail No. 73, forever! "Dear me!" said the meteor. "How very shocking! I quite forgot that the Sun ate comets. I must be off, or I shall get an æon in the Reform School for this. I am really very sorry, for he was a nice little comet!" And away frisked the meteor, and soon forgot all about it. But in the great court-yard in front of the Comet House, the Master took a piece of chalk, and crossed out No. 73 from the list of short-tailed comets on the slate that hangs on the door. Then he called out, "No. 1 Express, come forward!" and the swiftest of all the comets stood before him, brilliant and beautiful, with a bewildering magnificence of tail. The Comet Master spoke sharply and decidedly, as usual, but not unkindly. "No. 73, Short-Tail," he said, "has disobeyed orders, and has in consequence been devoured by the Sun." Here there was a great sensation among the comets. "No. 1," continued the Master, "you will start immediately, and travel until you find a runaway meteor, with a red face and blue hair. You are permitted to make inquiries of respectable bodies, such as planets or satellites. When found, you will arrest him and take him to the planet Bungo. My compliments to the Meteor Keeper, and I shall be obliged if he will give this meteor two æons in the Reform School. I trust," he continued, turning to the assembled comets, "that this will be a lesson to all of you!" And I believe it was. CHAPTER VIII. "BRUIN, what do you think? Oh, Bruin! what _do_ you think?" Thus spoke the little squirrel as he sat perched on his big friend's shoulder, the day after the wedding party. "What do I think?" repeated the bear. "Why, I think that you are tickling my ear, Master Cracker, and that if you do not stop, I shall be under the painful necessity of knocking you off on the floor." "Oh, that isn't the kind of thinking I mean!" replied Cracker, impudently flirting the tip of his tail into the good bear's eye. "_That_ is of no consequence, you great big fellow! What are your ears for, if not for me to tickle? I mean, what do you think I heard at the party, last night?" "A great deal of nonsense!" replied the bear, promptly. "Bruin, I shall certainly be obliged to shake you!" cried the squirrel. "I shall shake you till your teeth rattle, if you give me any more of this impudence. So behave yourself now, and listen to me. I was talking with Chipper last night,--my cousin, you know, who lives at the other end of the wood,--and he told me something that really quite troubled me. You remember old Baldhead?" "Well, yes!" said Bruin, "I should say I did. He hasn't been in our part of the wood again, has he?" "Oh, no!" replied Cracker. "He is not likely to go anywhere for a long time, I should say. He has broken his leg, Chipper tells me, and has been shut up in his cavern for a week and more." "Dear me!" said the kind-hearted bear. "I am very sorry to hear it! How does the poor old man get his food?" "Chipper didn't seem to think he _could_ get any," replied the squirrel. "He peeped in at the door, yesterday, and saw him lying in his bunk, looking very pale and thin. He tried once or twice to get up, but fell back again; and Chipper is sure there was nothing to eat in the cave. I thought I wouldn't say anything to Coon or Toto last night, but would wait till I had told you." "It must be seen to at once!" cried Bruin, starting up. "I will go myself, and take care of the poor man till his leg is well. Where are the Madam and Toto? We must tell them at once." The blind grandmother was in the kitchen, rolling out pie-crust. She listened, with exclamations of pity and concern, to Cracker's account of the poor old hermit, and agreed with Bruin that aid must be sent to him without delay. "I will pack a basket at once," she said, "with nourishing food, bandages for the broken leg, and some simple medicines; and Toto, you will take it to the poor man, will you not, dear?" "Of course I will!" said Toto, heartily. But Bruin said: "No, dear Madam! I will go myself. Our Toto's heart is big, but he is not strong enough to take care of a sick person. It is surely best for me to go." The grandmother hesitated. "Dear Bruin," she said, "of course you _would_ be the best nurse on many accounts; but if the man is weak and nervous, I am afraid--you alarmed him once, you know, and possibly the sight of you, coming in suddenly, might--" "Speak out, Granny!" cried Toto, laughing. "You think Bruin would simply frighten the man to death, or at best into a fit; and you are quite right. I'll tell you what, old fellow!" he added, turning to Bruin, who looked sadly crestfallen at this throwing of cold water on the fire of his kindly intentions, "we will go together, and then the whole thing will be easily managed. I will go in first, and tell the hermit all about you; and then, when his mind is prepared, you can come in and make him comfortable." The good bear brightened up at this, and gladly assented to Toto's proposition; and the two set out shortly after, Bruin carrying a large basket of food, and Toto a small one containing medicines and bandages. Part of the food was for their own lunch, as they had a long walk before them, and would not be back till long past dinner-time. They trudged briskly along,--Toto whistling merrily as usual, but his companion very grave and silent. "What ails you, old fellow?" asked the boy, when a couple of miles had been traversed in this manner. "Has our account of the wedding made you pine with envy, and wish yourself a mouse?" "No!" replied the bear, slowly, "oh, no! I should not like to be a mouse, or anything of that sort. But I do wish, Toto, that I was not so frightfully ugly!" "Ugly!" cried Toto, indignantly, "who said you were ugly? What put such an idea into your head?" "Why, you yourself," said the bear, sadly. "You said I would frighten the man to death, or into a fit. Now, one must be horribly ugly to do that, you know." "My _dear_ Bruin," cried Toto, "it isn't because you are _ugly_; why, you are a perfect beauty--for a bear. But--well--you are _very_ large, you know, and somewhat shaggy, if you don't mind my saying so; and you must remember that most bears are very savage, disagreeable creatures. How is anybody who sees you for the first time to know that you are the best and dearest old fellow in the world? Besides," he added, "have you forgotten how you frightened this very hermit when he stole your honey, last year?" Bruin hung his head, and looked very sheepish. "I shouldn't roar, now, of course," he said. "I meant to be very gentle, and just put one paw in, and then the end of my nose, and so get into the cave by degrees, you know." Toto had his doubts as to the soothing effect which would have been produced by this singular measure, but he had not the heart to say so; and after a pause, Bruin continued:-- "Of course, however, you and Madam were quite right,--quite right you were, my boy. But I was wondering, just now, whether there were not some way of making myself less frightful. Now, you and Madam have no hair on your faces,--none anywhere, in fact, except a very little on the top of your head. That gives you a gentle expression, you see. Do you think--would it be possible--would you advise me to--to--in fact, to shave the hair off my face?" The excellent bear looked wistfully at Toto, to mark the effect of this proposition; but Toto, after struggling for some moments to preserve his gravity, burst into a peal of laughter, so loud and clear that it woke the echoes of the forest. "Ha! ha! ha!" laughed the boy. "Ho! oh, dear me! ho! ho! ha! Bruin, dear, you really _must_ excuse me, but I cannot help it. Ho! ho! ho!" Bruin looked hurt and vexed for a moment, but it was only a moment. Toto's laughter was too contagious to be resisted; the worthy bear's features relaxed, and the next instant he was laughing himself,--or coming as near to it as a black bear can. "I am a foolish old fellow, I suppose!" he said. "We will say no more about it, Toto. But, hark? who is that speaking. It sounded like a crow, only it was too feeble." They listened, and presently the sound was heard again; and this time it certainly was a faint but distinct "Caw!" and apparently at no great distance from them. The two companions looked about, and soon saw the owner of the voice perched on a stump, and croaking dismally. A more miserable-looking bird was never seen. His feathers drooped in limp disorder, and evidently had not been trimmed for days; his eyes were half-shut, and save when he opened his beak to utter a despairing "Caw!" he might have been mistaken for a stuffed bird,--and a badly stuffed bird at that. "Hello, friend!" shouted Toto, in his cheery voice. "What is the matter that you look so down in the beak?" The crow raised his head, and looked sadly at the two strangers. "I am sick," he said, "and I can't get anything to eat for myself or my master." "Who is your master?" asked the boy. "He is a hermit," replied the crow. "He lives in a cave near by; but last week he broke his leg, and has not been able to move since then. He has nothing to eat, for he will not touch raw snails, and I cannot find anything else for him. I fear he will die soon, and I shall probably die too." "Come! come!" said the bear, "don't let me hear any nonsense of that kind. Die, indeed! Here, take that, sir, and don't talk foolishness!" "That" was neither more nor less than the wing of a roast chicken which Bruin had pulled hastily from the basket. The famished crow fell upon it, beak and claw, without more ado; and a silence ensued, while the two friends, well pleased, watched the first effect of their charitable mission. "Poor creature!" said Toto. "Were you ever so hungry as that, Bruin?" "Oh, yes!" said the bear, carelessly, "often and often. When I came out in the spring, you know. But I never stayed hungry very long," he added, with a significant grimace. "This crow is sick, you see, and probably cannot help himself much. How does that go, old fellow?" he said, addressing the crow, who had polished the chicken-bone till it shone again, and now looked up with a twinkle in his eyes very different from the wretched, lacklustre expression they had at first worn. "You have given me life, sir!" he said warmly; "you have positively given me life. I am once more a crow. And now, tell me how I can serve you, for you are evidently bent on some errand." "We have come to see your master," said Toto. "We heard of his accident, and thought he must be in need of help. So, if you will show us the way--" The crow needed no more, but joyfully spread his wings, and half hopped, half fluttered along the ground as fast as he could go. "Noble strangers!" he cried, "our humble dwelling is close at hand. Follow me, I pray you, and blessings attend your footsteps." The two friends followed, and soon came upon the entrance to a cave, around which a sort of rustic porch had been built. Vines were trained over it, and a rude chair and table stood beneath the pleasant shade. "This is my master's study," said the crow. "Here we have spent many happy and profitable hours. May it please you to enter, worshipful sirs?" "What do you say, Bruin?" asked Toto, glancing at his companion. "Shall we go in, or send the crow first, to announce us?" "You had better go in alone," said the bear, decidedly. "I will stay here with Master Crow, and when--that is, _if_ you think it best for me to come in, later, you have but to call me." Accordingly Toto entered the cavern, which was dimly lighted by a hole in the roof. As soon as his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he perceived a rude pallet at one side, on which was stretched the form of a tall old man. His long white hair and beard were matted and tangled; his thin hands lay helpless by his side; it seemed as if he were scarcely alive. He opened his eyes, however, at the sound of footsteps, and looked half-fearfully at the boy, who bent softly over him. "Good morning, sir!" said Toto, not knowing what else to say. "Is your leg better, to-day?" "Water!" murmured the old man, feebly. "Water? Why, yes, of course! I'll get some in a minute." He started for the mouth of the cave, but before he reached it, a huge, shaggy, black paw was thrust in at the aperture, holding out a bark dish, while a sort of enormous whisper, which just _was_ not a growl, murmured, "Here it is!" "Thank you, Bru--I mean, thank you!" said Toto, in some confusion, glancing apprehensively toward the bed. But the old man noticed nothing, till the clear cool water was held to his lips. He drank eagerly, and seemed to gain a little strength at once, for he now gazed earnestly at Toto, and presently said, in a feeble voice:-- "Who are you, dear child, and what good angel has sent you to save my life?" "My name is Toto," replied the boy. "As to how I came here, I will tell you all that by-and-by; but now you are too weak either to talk or to listen, and I must see at once about getting you some--" "_Food!_" came the huge whisper again, rolling like a distant muttering of thunder through the cavern; and again the shaggy paw appeared, solemnly waving a bowl of jelly. Toto flew to take it, but paused for a moment, overcome with amusement at the aspect presented by his friend. The good bear had wedged his huge bulk tightly into a corner behind a jutting fragment of rock. Here he sat, with the basket of provisions between his knees, and an air of deep and solemn mystery in his look and bearing. Not seeing Toto, he still held the bowl of jelly in his outstretched paw, and opening his cavernous jaws, was about to send out another rolling thunder-whisper of "Food!" when Toto sprang quickly on the jelly, and taking a spoon from the basket, rapped the bear on the nose with it, and then returned to his charge. The poor hermit submitted meekly to being fed with a spoon, and at every mouthful seemed to gain strength. A faint color stole into his wan cheek, his eyes brightened, and before the bowl was two thirds empty, he actually smiled. "I little thought I should ever taste jelly again," he said. "Indeed, I had fully made up my mind that I must starve to death here; for I was unable to move, and never thought of human aid coming to me in this lonely spot. Even my poor crow, my faithful companion for many years, has left me. I trust he has found some other shelter, for he was feeble and lame, himself." "Oh, he is all right!" said Toto, cheerily. "It was he who showed us the way here; and he's outside now, talking to--that is--talking to himself, you know." "Showed _us_ the way?" repeated the hermit. "You have a companion, then? Why does he not come in, and let me thank him also for his kindness?" "He?" said Toto, stammering. "He--oh--he--he doesn't like to be thanked." "But at least he will come in!" urged the old man. "Do, pray, ask him! I am distressed to think of his staying outside. Is he a very shy boy?" "He isn't a boy," said Toto. "He's--oh! what a muddle I'm making of it! He's bigger than a boy, sir, a great deal bigger. And--I hope you won't mind, but--he's black!" "A negro! is it possible?" exclaimed the hermit. "My dear boy, I have no prejudice against the Ethiopian race. I must insist on his coming in. Stay! I will call him myself. I believe they are generally called either Cæsar or Pompey. Mr. Pomp--" "Oh, stop!" cried Toto, in distress. "His name _isn't_ Pompey, it's Bruin. And he wouldn't come in yet if I were to--" "Cut him into inch pieces!" came rolling like muffled thunder through the doorway. The old hermit started as if he had been shot. "Ah! what is that?" he cried. "Boy! boy! who--_what_ is that speaking?" "Oh, dear!" cried Toto, distractedly. "Oh, dear! what shall I do? Please don't be alarmed, Mr. Baldhead--I mean, Mr. Hermit. He is the best, dearest, kindest old fellow _in the world_, and it isn't his fault, because he was--" "Born so!" resounded from without; and the poor hermit, now speechless with terror, could only gasp, and gaze at Toto with eyes of agonized entreaty. "Yes, he was born so!" continued the boy. "And we might have been bears ourselves, you know, if we had happened to have them for fathers and mothers; so--" But here he paused in dismay, for the hermit, without more ado, quietly fainted away. "Oh, Bruin! Crow! come here!" cried Toto. "I am afraid he is dead, or dying. What shall we do?" At this summons the crow came hopping and fluttering in, followed by the unhappy bear, who skulked along, hugging the wall and making himself as small as possible, while he cast shamefaced and apologetic glances toward the bed. "Oh, you needn't mind now!" cried Toto. "He won't know you are here. Do you think he is dead, Crow? Have you ever seen him like this before?" But the crow never had; and the three were standing beside the bed in mute dismay, when suddenly a light flutter of wings was heard, and a soft voice cooed, "Toto! Bruin!" and the next moment Pigeon Pretty came flying into the cave, with a bunch of dried leaves in her bill. A glance showed her the situation, and alighting softly on the old man's breast she held the leaves to his nostrils, fanning him the while with her outspread wings. "Oh!" she said, "I have flown so fast I am quite out of breath. You see, dears, I was afraid that something of this sort might happen, as soon as I heard of your going. I was in the barn, you know, when you were talking about it, and getting ready. So I flew to my old nest and got these leaves, of which I always keep a store on hand. See, he is beginning to revive already." In truth, the pungent fragrance of the leaves, which now filled the air, seemed to have a magical effect on the sick man. His eyelids fluttered, his lips moved, and he muttered faintly, "The bear! oh, the bear!" The wood-pigeon motioned to Bruin and Toto to withdraw, which they speedily did, casting remorseful glances at one another. Silently and sadly they sat down in the porch, and here poor Bruin abandoned himself to despair, clutching his shaggy hair, and even pulling out several handfuls of it, while he inwardly called himself by every hard name he could think of. Toto sat looking gloomily at his boots for a long time, but finally he said, in a whisper:-- "Cheer up, old fellow! it was all my fault. I do suppose I am the stupidest boy that ever lived. If I had only managed a little better--hark! what is that?" Both listened, and heard the soft voice of the wood-pigeon calling, "Bruin! Bruin! Toto! come in, both of you. Mr. Hermit understands all about it now, and is ready to welcome _both_ his visitors." Much amazed, the two friends rose, and slowly and hesitatingly re-entered the cave, the bear making more desperate efforts even than before to conceal his colossal bulk. To his astonishment, however, the hermit, who was now lying propped up by an improvised pillow of dry moss, greeted him with an unflinching gaze, and even smiled and held out his hand. "Mr. Bruin," he said, "I am glad to meet you, sir! This sweet bird has told me all about you, and I am sincerely pleased to make your acquaintance. So you have walked ten miles and more to bring help and comfort to an old man who stole your honey!" But this was more than the good bear could stand. He sat down on the ground, and thrusting his great shaggy paws into his eyes, fairly began to blubber. At this, I am ashamed to say, all the others fell to laughing. First, Toto laughed--but Toto, bless him! was always laughing; and then Pigeon Pretty laughed; and then Jim Crow; and then the hermit; and finally, Bruin himself. And so they all laughed together, till the forest echoes rang, and the woodchucks almost stirred in their holes. CHAPTER IX. IT was late in the afternoon of the same day. In the cottage at home all was quiet and peaceful. The grandmother was taking a nap in her room, with the squirrel curled up comfortably on the pillow beside her. In the kitchen, the fire and the kettle were having it all their own way, for though two other members of the family were in the room, they were either asleep or absorbed in their own thoughts, for they gave no sign of their presence. The kettle was in its glory, for Bruin had polished it that very morning, and it shone like the good red gold. It sang its merriest song, and puffed out clouds of snow-white steam from its slender spout. "Look at me!" it said to the fire. "Am I not well worth looking at? I feel almost sure that I must have turned into gold, for I never used to look like this. A golden kettle is rather a rare thing, I flatter myself. It really seems a pity that there is no one here except the stupid parrot, who has gone to sleep, and that odious raccoon, who always looks at me as if I were a black pot, and a cracked pot at that." "To be sure!" crackled the fire, encouragingly. "To be sure! But never mind, my dear! I admire you immensely, as you know, and it is my greatest pleasure to see myself reflected in your bright face. Crick! crack! cr-r-r-r-rickety!" said the fire. "Hm! hm! tsing! tsing! tsing!" sang the kettle. And they performed really a very creditable duet together. Now it happened that the parrot was not asleep, though she had had the bad taste to turn her back on the fire and the kettle. She was looking out of the window, in fact, and wondering when the wood-pigeon would come back. Though not a bird of specially affectionate nature, Miss Mary was still very fond of Pigeon Pretty, and always missed her when she was away. This afternoon had seemed particularly long, for no one had been in the kitchen save Coon, with whom she was not on very good terms. Now, she thought, it was surely time for her friend to return; and she stretched her neck, and peered out of the window, hoping to catch the flutter of the soft brown wings. Instead of this, however, she caught sight of something else, which made her start and ruffle up her feathers, and look again with a very different expression. Outside the cottage stood a man,--an ill-looking fellow, with a heavy pack strapped on his back. He was looking all about him, examining the outside of the cottage carefully, and evidently listening for any sound that might come from within. All being silent, he stepped to the window (not Miss Mary's window, but the other), and took a long survey of the kitchen; and then, seeing no living creature in it (for the raccoon under the table and the parrot on her perch were both hidden from his view), he laid down his pack, opened the door, and quietly stepped in. An ill-looking fellow, Miss Mary had thought him at the first glance; but now, as she noiselessly turned on her perch and looked more closely at him, she thought his aspect positively villanous. He had a hooked nose and a straggling red beard, and his little green eyes twinkled with an evil light as he looked about the cosey kitchen, with all its neat and comfortable appointments. First he stepped to the cupboard, and after examining its contents he drew out a mutton-bone (which had been put away for Bruin), a hunch of bread, and a cranberry tart, on which he proceeded to make a hearty meal, without troubling himself about knife or fork. He ate hurriedly, looking about him the while,--though, curiously enough, he saw neither of the two pairs of bright eyes which were following his every movement. The parrot on her perch sat motionless, not a feather stirring; the raccoon under the table lay crouched against the wall, as still as if he were carved in stone. Even the kettle had stopped singing, and only sent out a low, perturbed murmur from time to time. His meal finished, the rascal--his confidence increasing as the moments went by without interruption--proceeded to warm himself well by the fire, and then on tiptoe to walk about the room, peering into cupboards and lockers, opening boxes and pulling out drawers. The parrot's blood boiled with indignation at the sight of this "unfeathered vulture," as she mentally termed him, ransacking all the Madam's tidy and well-kept stores; but when he opened the drawer in which lay the six silver teaspoons (the pride of the cottage), and the porringer that Toto had inherited from his great-grandfather,--when he opened this drawer, and with a low whistle of satisfaction drew the precious treasures from their resting-place, Miss Mary could contain herself no longer, but clapped her wings and cried in a clear distinct voice, "Stop thief!" The man started violently, and dropping the silver back into the drawer, looked about him in great alarm. At first he saw no one, but presently his eyes fell on the parrot, who sat boldly facing him, her yellow eyes gleaming with anger. His terror changed to fury, and with a muttered oath he stepped forward. "It was you, was it?" he said fiercely. "You'll never say 'Stop thief' again, my fine bird, for I'll wring your neck before I'm half a minute older." [Illustration: But at this last mishap the robber, now fairly beside himself, rushed headlong from the cottage.--PAGE 163.] He stretched his hand toward the parrot, who for her part prepared to fly at him and fight for her life; but at that moment something happened. There was a rushing in the air; there was a yell as if a dozen wild-cats had broken loose, and a heavy body fell on the robber's back,--a body which had teeth and claws (an endless number of claws, it seemed, and all as sharp as daggers); a body which yelled and scratched and bit and tore, till the ruffian, half mad with terror and pain, yelled louder than his assailant. Vainly trying to loosen the clutch of those iron claws, the wretch staggered backward against the hob. Was it accident, or did the kettle by design give a plunge, and come down with a crash, sending a stream of boiling water over his legs? Who can tell? It was a remarkable kettle. But at this last mishap the robber, now fairly beside himself, rushed headlong from the cottage, and still bearing his terrible burden, fled screaming down the road. At the same moment the door of the grandmother's room was opened hurriedly, and the old lady cried, in a trembling voice, "What has happened? What is it? Coon! Mary! are you here?" "I am here, Madam!" replied the parrot, quickly. "Coon has--has just stepped out, with--in fact, with an acquaintance. He will be back directly, no doubt." "But that fearful noise!" said the grandmother. "Was that--" "The acquaintance, dear Madam!" replied Miss Mary, calmly. "He was excited!--about something, and he raised his voice, I confess, higher than good breeding usually allows. Yes. Have you had a pleasant nap?" The good old lady, still much mystified, though her fears were set at rest by the parrot's quiet confidence, returned to her room to put on her cap, and to smooth the pretty white curls which her Toto loved. No sooner was the door closed than the squirrel, who had been fairly dancing up and down with curiosity and eagerness, opened a fire of questions:-- "Who was it? What happened? What did he want? Who knocked down the kettle? Why didn't you want Madam to know?" etc. Miss Mary entered into a full account of the thrilling adventure, and had but just finished it when in walked the raccoon, his eyes sparkling, his tail cocked in its airiest way. "Well?" cried the parrot, eagerly, "is he gone?" "Yes, my dear, he is gone!" replied Coon, gayly. "Oh, dear me! what a pleasant ride I have had! Why didn't you come too, Miss Mary? You might have held on by his hair. It would have been such fun! Yes, I went on quite a good bit with him, just to show him the way, you know. And then I bade him good-by, and begged him to come again; but he didn't say he would." Coon shook himself, and fairly chuckled with glee, as did also his two companions; but presently Miss Mary, quitting her perch, flew to the table, and holding out her claw to the raccoon, said gravely:-- "Coon, you have saved my life, and perhaps the Madam's and Cracker's too. Give me your paw, and receive my warmest thanks for your timely aid. We have not been the best of friends, lately," she added, "but I trust all will be different now. And the next time you are invited to a party, if you fancy a feather or so to complete your toilet, you have only to mention it, and I shall be happy to oblige you." "And for my part, Miss Mary," responded the raccoon warmly, "I beg you to consider me the humblest of your servants from this day forth. If you fancy any little relish, such as snails or fat spiders, as a change from your every-day diet, it will be a pleasure to me to procure them for you. Beauty," he continued, with his most gallant bow, "is enchanting, and valor is enrapturing; but beauty and valor _combined_, are--" "Oh, come!" said the squirrel, who felt rather crusty, perhaps, because he had not seen the fun, and so did not care for the fine speeches, "stop bowing and scraping to each other, you two, and let us put this distracted-looking room in order before Madam comes in again. Pick up the kettle, will you, Coon? Look! the water is running all over the floor." The raccoon did not answer, being apparently very busy setting the chairs straight; so Cracker repeated his request, in a sharper voice. "Do you hear me, Coon? Please pick up that kettle. I cannot do it myself, for it is twice as big as I am, but I should think you could lift it easily, now that it is empty." The raccoon threw a perturbed glance at the kettle, and then said in a tone which tried to be nonchalant, "Oh! the kettle is all right. It will get up, I suppose, when it feels like it. If it should ask me to help it, of course I would; but perhaps it may prefer the floor for a change. I--I often lie on the floor, myself," he added. The squirrel stared. "What do you mean?" he said. "It isn't alive! Toto said it wasn't." The raccoon beckoned him aside, and said in a low tone, "My good Cracker, Toto _says_ a great many things, and no doubt he thinks they are all true. But he is a young boy, and, let me tell you, he does _not_ know everything in the world. If that thing is not alive, why did it jump off its seat just at the critical moment, and pour hot water over the robber's legs?" "Did it?" exclaimed the squirrel, much impressed. "Yes, it did!" replied the raccoon, emphatically. "I saw it with these eyes. And I don't deny that it was a great help, Cracker, and that I was very glad the kettle did it. But see, now! when a creature has no more self-respect than to lie there for a quarter of an hour, with its head on the other side of the room, without making the smallest attempt to get up and put itself together again, why, I tell you frankly _I_ don't feel much like assisting it. You never knew one of _us_ to behave in that sort of way, did you, now?" "N-n-no!" said Cracker, doubtfully. "But then, if any of us were to lose our heads, we should be dead, shouldn't we?" "Exactly!" cried the raccoon, triumphantly. "And when that thing loses its head, it _isn't_ dead. That's just the difference. It can go without its head for an hour! I've seen it, when Toto took it off--the head, I mean--and forgot to put it on again. I tell you, it just _pretends_ to be dead, so that it can be taken care of, and carried about like a baby, and given water whenever it is thirsty. A secret, underhand, sly creature, I call it, and I sha'n't touch it to put its head on again!" And that was all the thanks the kettle got for its pains. CHAPTER X. WHEN Toto came home, as he did just when night was closing in around the little cottage, he was whistling merrily, as usual; and the first sound of his clear and tuneful whistle brought Coon, Cracker, and Miss Mary all running to the door, to greet, to tell, and to warn him. The boy listened wide-eyed to the story of the attempted robbery, and at the end of it he drew a long breath of relief. "I am _so_ glad you didn't let Granny know!" he cried. "That was clever of you. She never would have slept quietly again. And, I say! what a good fellow you are, Coon! Shake paws, old boy! And Miss Mary, you are a trump, and I would give you a golden nose-ring like your Princess's if you had a nose to wear it on. To think of you two defending the castle, and putting the enemy to flight, horse, foot, and dragoons!" "What is dragoons?" asked the parrot, gravely. "I don't think he had any about him, unless it was concealed. He had no horse, either; but he had two feet,--and very ugly ones they were. He danced on them when the kettle poured hot water over his legs,--danced higher than ever you did, Toto." "Did he?" laughed Toto, who was in high spirits. "Ha! ha! I am delighted to hear it. But," he added, "it is so dark that you do not see our guest, whom I have brought home for a little visit. Where are you, Jim Crow? Come here and be introduced to the family!" Thus adjured, the crow hopped solemnly forward, and made his best bow to the three inmates, who in turn saluted him, each after his or her fashion. The raccoon was gracious and condescending, the squirrel familiar and friendly, the parrot frigidly polite, though inwardly resenting that a crow should be presented to her,--to _her_, the favorite attendant of the late lamented Princess of Central Africa,--without her permission having been asked first. As for the crow, he stood on one leg and blinked at them all in a manner which meant a great deal or nothing at all, just as you chose to take it. "Distinguished persons!" he said, gravely, "it is with pleasure that I make your acquaintance. May this day be the least happy of your lives! Lady Parrot," he added, addressing himself particularly to Miss Mary, "grant me the honor of leading you within. The evening air is chill for one so delicate and fragile." Miss Mary, highly delighted at being addressed by such a stately title as "Lady Parrot," relaxed at once the severity of her mien, and gracefully sidled into the house in company with the sable-clad stranger, while Toto and the two others followed, much amused. After a hearty supper, in the course of which Toto related as much of his and Bruin's adventures in the hermit's cave as he thought proper, the whole family gathered around the blazing hearth. Toto brought the pan of apples and the dish of nuts; the grandmother took up her knitting, and said, with a smile: "And who will tell us a story, this evening? We have had none for two evenings now, and it is high time that we heard something new. Cracker, my dear, is it not your turn?" "I think it is," said the squirrel, hastily cramming a couple of very large nuts into his cheek-pouches, "and if you like, I will tell you a story that Mrs. Cow told me a day or two ago. It is about a cow that jumped over the moon." "What!" cried Toto. "Why, I've known that story ever since I was a baby! And it isn't a story, either, it's a rhyme,-- "Hey diddle diddle, The cat and the fiddle, The cow--" "Yes, yes! I know, Toto," interrupted the squirrel. "She told me that, too, and said it was a pack of lies, and that people like you didn't know anything about the real truth of the matter. So now, if you will just listen to me, I will tell you how it really happened." THE MOON-CALF. There once was a young cow, and she had a calf. "And that's half!" said Toto, in rather a provoking manner. "No, it isn't, it's only the beginning," said the little squirrel, indignantly; "and if you would rather tell the story yourself, Toto, you are welcome to do so." "Beg pardon! Crackey," said Toto, apologetically. "Won't do so again, Crackey; go on, that's a dear!" and the squirrel, who never bore malice for more than two minutes, put his little huff away, and continued:-- * * * * * This young cow, you see, she was very fond of her calf,--very fond indeed she was,--and when they took it away from her, she was very unhappy, and went about roaring all day long. "Cows don't roar!" said Toto the irrepressible. "They _low_. There's a piece of poetry about it that I learned once:-- "'The lowing herd--' do something or other, I don't remember what." "'The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,'" quoted the grandmother, softly. "What do they wind?" asked the raccoon. "Yarn, or a chain-pump like the one in the yard, or what?" "I don't know what you mean by _low_, Toto!" said the squirrel, without noticing Coon's remarks. "Your cow roared so loud the other day that I fell off her horn into the hay. I don't see anything _low_ in that." "Why, Cracker, can't you understand?" cried Toto. "They _low_ when they _moo_! I don't mean that they moo _low_, but 'moo' _is_ 'low,' don't you see?" "No, I do _not_ see!" replied the squirrel, stoutly. "And I don't believe there is anything _to_ see, I don't. So there, now!" At this point Madam interfered, and with a few gentle words made the matter clear, and smoothed the ruffled feathers--or rather fur. The raccoon, who had been listening with ears pricked up, and keen eyes glancing from one to the other of the disputants, now murmured, "Ah, yes! very explicit. Quite what I should have said myself!" and relapsed into his former attitude of graceful and dignified ease. The squirrel repeated to himself, "Moo! low! loo! mow! moo!" several times, shook his head, refreshed himself with a nut, and finally, at the general request, continued his story: * * * * * So, as I said, this young cow was very sad, and she looed--I mean mowed--all day to express her grief. And she thought, "If I could only know where my calf is, it would not be quite so dreadfully bad. But they would not tell me where they were taking him, though I asked them politely in seven different tones, which is more than any other cow here can use." Now, when she was thinking these thoughts it chanced that the maid came to milk the cows, and with the maid came a young man, who was talking very earnestly to her. "What is it, Molly?" says he. "Doesn't thee know me well enough?" "I knows a moon-calf when I sees him!" says the maid; and with that she boxed his ears, and sat down to milk the cow, and he went away in a huff. But the cow heard what the maid said, and began to wonder what moon-calves were, and whether they were anything like her calf. Presently, when the maid had gone away with the pail of milk, she said to the Oldest Ox, who happened to be standing near,-- "Old Ox, pray tell me, what is a moon-calf?" The Oldest Ox did not know anything about moon-calves, but he had no idea of betraying his ignorance to anybody, much less to a very young cow; so he answered promptly, "It's a calf that lives in the moon, of course." "Is it--are they--like other calves?" inquired the cow, timidly, "or a different sort of animal?" "When a creature is called a calf," replied the Ox, severely, "it _is_ a calf. If it were a cat, a hyena, or a toad with three tails, it would be called by its own name. Now do you understand?" Then he shut his eyes and pretended to be asleep, for he did not like to answer questions on matters of which he knew nothing; it fatigued his brain, and oxen should always avoid fatigue of the brain. But the young cow had one more question to ask, and could not rest till it was answered; so mustering all her courage, she said, desperately, "Oh, Old Ox! before you go to sleep, please--_please_, tell me if people ever take calves to the moon from here?" "Frequently!" said the Oldest Ox. "I wish you were there, now. I am asleep. Good-night to you!" and in a few minutes he really was asleep. But the young cow stood still, thinking. She thought so hard that when the farmer's boy came to drive the cattle into the barn, she hardly saw where she was going, but stumbled first against the door and then against the wall, and finally walked into Old Brindle's stall instead of her own, and got well prodded by the latter's horns in consequence. "This cow is sick!" said the farmer's boy. "I must give her a warm mash, and cut an inch or two off her tail to-morrow." Next day the cows were driven out into the pasture, for the weather was warm, and they found it a pleasant change from the barn-yard. They cropped the honey-clover, well seasoned with buttercups and with just enough dandelions scattered about to "give it character," as Mother Brindle said. They stood knee-deep in the cool, clear stream which flowed under the willows, and lay down in the shade of the great oak-tree, and altogether were as happy as cows can possibly be. All but the young red cow. She cared nothing for any of the pleasures which she had once enjoyed so keenly; she only walked up and down, up and down, thinking of her lost calf, and looking for the moon. For she had fully made up her mind by this time that her darling Bossy had been taken to the moon, and had become a moon-calf; and she was wondering whether she might not see or hear something of him when the moon rose. The day passed, and when the evening was still all rosy in the west, a great globe of shining silver rose up in the east. It was the full moon, coming to take the place of the sun, who had put on his nightcap and gone to bed. The young cow ran towards it, stretching out her neck, and calling,-- "Bossy! Moo! moo! Bossy, are you there?" Then she listened, and thought she heard a distant voice which said, "There!" "I knew it!" she cried, frantically, "I knew it! Bossy is now a moon-calf. Something must be done about it at once, if I only knew what!" And she ran to Mother Brindle, who was standing by the fence, talking to the neighbor's black cow,--her with the spotted nose. "Mother Brindle!" she cried. "Have you ever had a calf taken to the moon? My calf, my Bossy, is there, and is now a moon-calf. Tell me, oh! tell me, how to get at him, I beseech you!" "What nonsense is this?" said Mother Brindle, severely. "Compose yourself! You are excited, and will injure your milk, and that would reflect upon the whole herd. As for your calf, why should you be better off than other people? I have lost ten calves, the finest that ever were seen, and I never made half such a fuss about them as you make over this puny little red creature." "But he is _there_, in the moon!" cried the poor cow. "I must find him and get him down. I _must_, do you hear?" "Decidedly, your wits must be in the moon, my dear," said the neighbor's black cow, not unkindly. "They certainly have left you. Who ever heard of calves in the moon? Not I, for one; and I am not more ignorant than others, perhaps." The red cow was about to reply, when suddenly across the meadow came ringing the farm-boy's call, "Co, Boss! Co, Boss! Co, Boss!" "Ah!" said Mother Brindle, "can it really be milking-time? What a pleasant day this has been! Good-evening to you, neighbor. And you, child," she added, turning to the red cow, "come straight home with me. I heard James promise you a warm mash, and that will be the best thing for you." But at these words the young cow started, and with a wild bellow ran to the farthest end of the pasture. "Bossy!" she cried, staring wildly up at the silver globe, which was rising steadily higher and higher in the sky, "you are going away from me! Jump down from the moon, and come to your mother! Bossy! Bossy! _Come!_" And then a distant voice, floating softly down through the air, answered, "Come! come!" "He calls me!" cried the red cow. "My darling calls me, and I go. I will go to the moon; I will be a moon-cow! Bossy, Bossy, I come!" She ran forward like an antelope, gave a sudden leap into the air, and went up, up, up,--over the haystacks, over the trees, over the clouds,--up among the stars. But, alas! in her frantic desire to reach the moon she overshot the mark; jumped clear over it, and went down on the other side, nobody knows where, and she never was seen or heard of again. And Mother Brindle, when she saw what had happened, ran straight home and gobbled up the warm mash before any of the other cows could get there, and ate so fast that she made herself ill. * * * * * "That is the whole story," said the squirrel, seriously; "and it seemed to me a very curious one, I confess." "Very!" said Toto, dryly. "But there's nothing about the others in it,--the cat and fiddle, and the little dog, you know." "Well, they _weren't_ in it really, at all!" replied Cracker. "They were all lies, Mrs. Cow says, every one of them." "Humph!" said Toto "Well, Mrs. Cow ought to be a good judge of lies, I should say." "What can be expected," said the raccoon loftily, "from a creature who eats hay? Be good enough to hand me those nuts, Toto, will you? The story has positively made me hungry,--a thing that has not happened--" "Since dinner-time!" said Toto. "Wonderful indeed, Coon! But I shall hand the nuts to Cracker first, for he has told us a very good story, whether it is true or not." CHAPTER XI. THE apples and nuts went round again and again, and for a few minutes nothing was heard save the cracking of shells and the gnawing of sharp white teeth. At length the parrot said, meditatively:-- "That was a very stupid cow, though! Are all cows as stupid as that?" "Well, I don't think they are what you would call brilliant, as a rule," Toto admitted; "but they are generally good, and that is better." "Hem! possibly!" said Miss Mary, dryly. "That is probably why we have no cows in Central Africa. Our animals being all, without exception, clever _and_ good, there is really no place for creatures of the sort you describe." "How about the bogghun, Miss Mary?" asked the raccoon, slyly, with a wink at Toto. The parrot ruffled up her feathers, and was about to make a sharp reply; but suddenly remembering the raccoon's brave defence of her an hour before, she smoothed her plumage again, and replied gently,-- "I confess that I forgot the bogghun, Coon. It is indeed a treacherous and a wicked creature!--a dark blot on the golden roll of African animals." She paused and sighed, then added, as if to change the subject, "But, come! is it too late to have another story? If not, I have a short one in mind, which I will tell you, if you wish." All assented joyfully, and Miss Mary, without more delay, related the story of THE THREE REMARKS. There was once a princess, the most beautiful princess that ever was seen. Her hair was black and soft as the raven's wing [here the Crow blinked, stood on one leg and plumed himself, evidently highly flattered by the allusion]; her eyes were like stars dropped in a pool of clear water, and her speech like the first tinkling cascade of the baby Nile. She was also wise, graceful, and gentle, so that one would have thought she must be the happiest princess in the world. But, alas! there was one terrible drawback to her happiness. She could make only three remarks. No one knew whether it was the fault of her nurse, or a peculiarity born with her; but the sad fact remained, that no matter what was said to her, she could only reply in one of three phrases. The first was,-- "What is the price of butter?" The second, "Has your grandmother sold her mangle yet?" And the third, "With all my heart!" You may well imagine what a great misfortune this was to a young and lively princess. How could she join in the sports and dances of the noble youths and maidens of the court? She could not always be silent, neither could she always say, "With all my heart!" though this was her favorite phrase, and she used it whenever she possibly could; and it was not at all pleasant, when some gallant knight asked her whether she would rather play croquet or Aunt Sally, to be obliged to reply, "What is the price of butter?" On certain occasions, however, the princess actually found her infirmity of service to her. She could always put an end suddenly to any conversation that did not please her, by interposing with her first or second remark; and they were also a very great assistance to her when, as happened nearly every day, she received an offer of marriage. Emperors, kings, princes, dukes, earls, marquises, viscounts, baronets, and many other lofty personages knelt at her feet, and offered her their hands, hearts, and other possessions of greater or less value. But for all her suitors the princess had but one answer. Fixing her deep radiant eyes on them, she would reply with thrilling earnestness, "_Has_ your grandmother sold her mangle yet?" and this always impressed the suitors so deeply that they retired weeping to a neighboring monastery, where they hung up their armor in the chapel, and taking the vows, passed the remainder of their lives mostly in flogging themselves, wearing hair shirts, and putting dry toast-crumbs in their beds. Now, when the king found that all his best nobles were turning into monks, he was greatly displeased, and said to the princess:-- "My daughter, it is high time that all this nonsense came to an end. The next time a respectable person asks you to marry him, you will say, 'With all my heart!' or I will know the reason why." But this the princess could not endure, for she had never yet seen a man whom she was willing to marry. Nevertheless, she feared her father's anger, for she knew that he always kept his word; so that very night she slipped down the back stairs of the palace, opened the back door, and ran away out into the wide world. She wandered for many days, over mountain and moor, through fen and through forest, until she came to a fair city. Here all the bells were ringing, and the people shouting and flinging caps into the air; for their old king was dead, and they were just about to crown a new one. The new king was a stranger, who had come to the town only the day before; but as soon as he heard of the old monarch's death, he told the people that he was a king himself, and as he happened to be without a kingdom at that moment, he would be quite willing to rule over them. The people joyfully assented, for the late king had left no heir; and now all the preparations had been completed. The crown had been polished up, and a new tip put on the sceptre, as the old king had quite spoiled it by poking the fire with it for upwards of forty years. When the people saw the beautiful princess, they welcomed her with many bows, and insisted on leading her before the new king. "Who knows but that they may be related?" said everybody. "They both came from the same direction, and both are strangers." Accordingly the princess was led to the market-place, where the king was sitting in royal state. He had a fat, red, shining face, and did not look like the kings whom she had been in the habit of seeing; but nevertheless the princess made a graceful courtesy, and then waited to hear what he would say. The new king seemed rather embarrassed when he saw that it was a princess who appeared before him; but he smiled graciously, and said, in a smooth oily voice,-- "I trust your 'Ighness is quite well. And 'ow did yer 'Ighness leave yer pa and ma?" At these words the princess raised her head and looked fixedly at the red-faced king; then she replied, with scornful distinctness,-- "What is the price of butter?" At these words an alarming change came over the king's face. The red faded from it, and left it a livid green; his teeth chattered; his eyes stared, and rolled in their sockets; while the sceptre dropped from his trembling hand and fell at the princess's feet. For the truth was, this was no king at all, but a retired butterman, who had laid by a little money at his trade, and had thought of setting up a public house; but chancing to pass through this city at the very time when they were looking for a king, it struck him that he might just as well fill the vacant place as any one else. No one had thought of his being an impostor; but when the princess fixed her clear eyes on him and asked him that familiar question, which he had been in the habit of hearing many times a day for a great part of his life, the guilty butterman thought himself detected, and shook in his guilty shoes. Hastily descending from his throne, he beckoned he princess into a side-chamber, and closing the door, besought her in moving terms not to betray him. "Here," he said, "is a bag of rubies as big as pigeon's eggs. There are six thousand of them, and I 'umbly beg your 'Ighness to haccept them as a slight token hof my hesteem, if your 'Ighness will kindly consent to spare a respeckable tradesman the disgrace of being hexposed." The princess reflected, and came to the conclusion that, after all, a butterman might make as good a king as any one else; so she took the rubies with a gracious little nod, and departed, while all the people shouted, "Hooray!" and followed her, waving their hats and kerchiefs, to the gates of the city. With her bag of rubies over her shoulder, the fair princess now pursued her journey, and fared forward over heath and hill, through brake and through brier. After several days she came to a deep forest, which she entered without hesitation, for she knew no fear. She had not gone a hundred paces under the arching limes, when she was met by a band of robbers, who stopped her and asked what she did in their forest, and what she carried in her bag. They were fierce, black-bearded men, armed to the teeth with daggers, cutlasses, pistols, dirks, hangers, blunderbusses, and other defensive weapons; but the princess gazed calmly on them, and said haughtily,-- "Has your grandmother sold her mangle yet?" [Illustration: "It is true!" he gasped. "We are undone! Noble princess!" and here he and the whole band assumed attitudes of supplication.--PAGE 195.] The effect was magical. The robbers started back in dismay, crying, "The countersign!" Then they hastily lowered their weapons, and assuming attitudes of abject humility, besought the princess graciously to accompany them to their master's presence. With a lofty gesture she signified assent, and the cringing, trembling bandits led her on through the forest till they reached an open glade, into which the sunbeams glanced right merrily. Here, under a broad oak-tree which stood in the centre of the glade, reclined a man of gigantic stature and commanding mien, with a whole armory of weapons displayed upon his person. Hastening to their chief, the robbers conveyed to him, in agitated whispers, the circumstance of their meeting the princess, and of her unexpected reply to their questions. Hardly seeming to credit their statement, the gigantic chieftain sprang to his feet, and advancing toward the princess with a respectful reverence, begged her to repeat the remark which had so disturbed his men. With a royal air, and in clear and ringing tones, the princess repeated,-- "_Has_ your grandmother sold her mangle yet?" and gazed steadfastly at the robber chief. He turned deadly pale, and staggered against a tree, which alone prevented him from falling. "It is true!" he gasped. "We are undone! The enemy is without doubt close at hand, and all is over. Yet," he added with more firmness, and with an appealing glance at the princess, "yet there may be one chance left for us. If this gracious lady will consent to go forward, instead of returning through the wood, we may yet escape with our lives. Noble princess!" and here he and the whole band assumed attitudes of supplication, "consider, I pray you, whether it would really add to your happiness to betray to the advancing army a few poor foresters, who earn their bread by the sweat of their brow. Here," he continued, hastily drawing something from a hole in the oak-tree, "is a bag containing ten thousand sapphires, each as large as a pullet's egg. If you will graciously deign to accept them, and to pursue your journey in the direction I shall indicate, the Red Chief of the Rustywhanger will be your slave forever." The princess, who of course knew that there was no army in the neighborhood, and who moreover did not in the least care which way she went, assented to the Red Chief's proposition, and taking the bag of sapphires, bowed her farewell to the grateful robbers, and followed their leader down a ferny path which led to the farther end of the forest. When they came to the open country, the robber chieftain took his leave of the princess, with profound bows and many protestations of devotion, and returned to his band, who were already preparing to plunge into the impenetrable thickets of the midforest. The princess, meantime, with her two bags of gems on her shoulders, fared forward with a light heart, by dale and by down, through moss and through meadow. By-and-by she came to a fair high palace, built all of marble and shining jasper, with smooth lawns about it, and sunny gardens of roses and gillyflowers, from which the air blew so sweet that it was a pleasure to breathe it. The princess stood still for a moment, to taste the sweetness of this air, and to look her fill at so fair a spot; and as she stood there, it chanced that the palace-gates opened, and the young king rode out with his court, to go a-catching of nighthawks. Now when the king saw a right fair princess standing alone at his palace-gate, her rich garments dusty and travel-stained, and two heavy sacks hung upon her shoulders, he was filled with amazement; and leaping from his steed, like the gallant knight that he was, he besought her to tell him whence she came and whither she was going, and in what way he might be of service to her. But the princess looked down at her little dusty shoes, and answered never a word; for she had seen at the first glance how fair and goodly a king this was, and she would not ask him the price of butter, nor whether his grandmother had sold her mangle yet. But she thought in her heart, "Now, I have never, in all my life, seen a man to whom I would so willingly say, 'With all my heart!' if he should ask me to marry him." The king marvelled much at her silence, and presently repeated his questions, adding, "And what do you carry so carefully in those two sacks, which seem over-heavy for your delicate shoulders?" Still holding her eyes downcast, the princess took a ruby from one bag, and a sapphire from the other, and in silence handed them to the king, for she willed that he should know she was no beggar, even though her shoes were dusty. Thereat all the nobles were filled with amazement, for no such gems had ever been seen in that country. But the king looked steadfastly at the princess, and said, "Rubies are fine, and sapphires are fair; but, maiden, if I could but see those eyes of yours, I warrant that the gems would look pale and dull beside them." At that the princess raised her clear dark eyes, and looked at the king and smiled; and the glance of her eyes pierced straight to his heart, so that he fell on his knees and cried: "Ah! sweet princess, now do I know that thou art the love for whom I have waited so long, and whom I have sought through so many lands. Give me thy white hand, and tell me, either by word or by sign, that thou wilt be my queen and my bride!" And the princess, like a right royal maiden as she was, looked him straight in the eyes, and giving him her little white hand, answered bravely, "_With all my heart!_" CHAPTER XII. NOW, if we had looked into the hermit's cave a few days after this, we should have seen a very pleasant sight. The good old man was sitting up on his narrow couch, with his lame leg on a stool before him. On another stool sat our worthy friend Bruin, with a backgammon-board on his knees, and the two were deep in the mysteries of Russian backgammon. "Doublets!" said the hermit, throwing the dice. "Dear, dear, what luck you do have!" said the bear. "Double sixes again! That takes you out, doesn't it?" "Yes," said the hermit, "this finishes the game and the rubber. But just remember, my friend, how you beat me yesterday. I was gammoned over and over again, with never a doublet to save me from ruin." "To be sure!" said Bruin, with a chuckle. "To be sure! yesterday was one of my good days. And so to-day you have gammoned me back again. I suppose that is why the game is called back-gammon, hey?" "Possibly!" replied the hermit, smiling. "And how have you been in the habit of playing?" continued the bear. "You spoke of playing last winter, you know. Whom did you play with, for example?" "With myself," said the hermit,--"the right hand against the left. I taught my crow the game once, but it didn't work very well. He could not lift the dice-box, and could only throw the dice by running against the box, and upsetting it. This was apt to disarrange the pieces, you see; and as he would not trust me to throw for him, we gave it up." "I see!" said Bruin, thoughtfully. "And what else did you do in the way of amusement?" "I read, chiefly," replied the old man. "You see I have a good many books, and they are all good ones, which will bear reading many times." "Humph!" said the bear. "That is _one_ thing about you people that I cannot understand,--the reading of books. Seems so senseless, you know, when you can use your eyes for other things. But, tell me," he added, "have you never thought of trying our way of passing the winter? It is certainly much the best way, when one is alone. Choose a comfortable place, like this, for example, curl yourself up in the warmest corner, and there you are, with nothing to do but to sleep till spring comes again." "I am afraid I could not do that," said the hermit with a smile. "We are made differently, you see. I cannot sleep more than a few hours at a time, at any season of the year." "Not if you sucked your paw?" inquired the bear, eagerly. "That makes all the difference, you know. Have you ever _tried_ sucking your paw?" The hermit was forced to admit that he never had. "Ah! well, you really must try it some day," said Bruin. "There is nothing like it, after all. Nothing like it! I will confess to you," he added in a low tone, and looking cautiously about to make sure that they were alone, "that I have missed it sadly this winter. In most respects this has been the happiest season of my life, and I have enjoyed it more than I can tell you; but still there are times,--when I am tired, you know, or the weather is dull, or Coon is a little trying, as he is sometimes,--times when I feel as if I would give a great deal for a quiet corner where I could suck my paw and sleep for a week or two." "Couldn't you manage it, somehow?" asked the hermit, sympathetically. "Oh, no! no!" replied the good bear, decidedly. "Coon thinks the Madam would not like it. He is very genteel, you know,--very genteel indeed, Coon is; and he says it wouldn't be at all 'the thing' for me to suck my paw anywhere about the place. I never know just what 'thing' he means when he says that, but it's a favorite expression of his; and he certainly knows a great deal about good manners. Besides," he added, more cheerfully, "there is always plenty of work to do, and that is the best thing to keep one awake. But now, Mr. Baldhead, it is time for your dinner, sir; and here am I sitting and talking, when I ought to be warming your broth!" With these words the excellent bear arose, put away the backgammon board, and proceeded to build up the fire, hang the kettle, and put the broth on to warm, all as deftly as if he had been a cook all his life. He stirred and tasted, shook his head, tasted again, and then said,-- "You haven't the top of a young pine-tree anywhere about the house, I suppose? It would give this broth such a nice flavor." "I am afraid not!" said the hermit, laughing. "I don't generally keep a large stock of such things on hand. But I fancy the broth will be very good without it, to judge from the last I had." The bear still looked dissatisfied. "Do you ever put frogs in your broth?" he asked, presently. "Whole ones, you know, rolled in a batter, just like dumplings?" "_No!_" said the hermit, quickly and decidedly. "I am quite sure I should not like them, thank you,--though it was very kind of you to make the suggestion!" he added, seeing that Bruin looked disappointed. "You have no idea how nice they are," said the good bear, rather sadly. "But you are so strange, you people! I never could induce Toto or Madam to try them, either. I invented the soup myself,--at least the frog-dumpling part of it,--and made it one day as a little surprise for them. But when I told them what the dumplings were, Toto choked and rolled on the floor, and Madam was quite ill at the very thought, though she had not begun to eat her soup. So Coon and Cracker and I had it all to ourselves, and uncommonly good it was. It's a pity for people to be so prejudiced." The good hermit was choking a little himself, for some reason or other, but he looked very grave when Bruin turned toward him for assent, and said, "Quite so!" which is a safe remark under most circumstances. The broth being now ready, the bear proceeded to arrange a tray neatly, and set it before his patient, who took up his wooden spoon and fell to with right good-will. The good bear stood watching him with great satisfaction; and it was really a pity that there was no one there to watch the bear himself, for as he stood there with a clean cloth over his arm, his head on one side, and his honest face beaming with pride and pleasure, he was very well worth looking at. At this moment a sharp cry of terror was heard outside, then a quick whirr of wings, and the next moment the wood-pigeon darted into the cave, closely pursued by a large hawk. Poor Pigeon Pretty! She was quite exhausted, and with one more piteous cry she fell fainting at Bruin's feet. In another instant the hawk would have pounced upon her, but that instant never came for the winged marauder. Instead, something or somebody pounced on _him_. A thick white covering enveloped him, entangling his claws, binding down his wings, well-nigh stifling him. He felt himself seized in an iron grasp and lifted bodily into the air, while a deep, stern voice exclaimed,-- "Now, sir! have you anything to say for yourself, before I wring your neck?" Then the covering was drawn back from his head, and he found himself face to face with the great bear, whom he knew perfectly well by sight. But he was a bold fellow, too well used to danger to shrink from it, even in so terrible a form as this; and his fierce yellow eyes met the stern gaze of his captor without shrinking. "Have you anything to say?" repeated the bear, "before I wring your ugly neck?" "No!" replied the hawk, sullenly, "wring away." This answer rather disconcerted our friend Bruin, who, as he sometimes said sadly to himself, had "lost all taste for killing;" so he only shook Master Hawk a little, and said,-- "Do you know of any reason why your neck should _not_ be wrung?" "None in life!" answered the hawk. "Wring away, I tell you! Are you afraid, you great clumsy monster?" "I'll soon show you whether I am afraid or not!" said the bear, sternly. "Why did you chase my pigeon?" "'Cause I wanted to eat her!" was the defiant reply. "If _you_ had had nothing to eat for a week, you'd have eaten her long before this, I'll be bound!" "Nothing to eat for a week!" repeated the bear, incredulously. "Why was that?" "'Cause there wasn't anything, stupid!" said the other. Here Bruin began to rub his nose with his disengaged paw, and to look helplessly about him, as he always did when disturbed in mind. "Now--now--now!" he exclaimed, "you hawk, what do you mean by that? Couldn't you dig for roots?" The hawk stared. "Dig for roots?" he repeated, contemptuously. "Look at my beak! Do you think I can dig with that?" "It _is_ rather short," said Bruin; "but--yes! why, of course, _any one_ can dig, if he wants to." "Ask that old thing," said the hawk, nodding toward the hermit, "whether _he_ ever dug with his beak; and it's twice as long as mine." "Of course he has!" replied Bruin, promptly; but then he faltered, for it suddenly occurred to him that he had never seen either Toto or the Madam dig with their noses; and it was with some hesitation that he asked: "Mr. Baldhead--excuse me! but--a--have you ever tried digging for roots in the ground--with your beak--I mean, nose?" The hermit looked up gravely, as he sat with Pigeon Pretty on his knee. "No, my friend," he said with great seriousness, "I have never tried it, and doubt if I could do it. I can dig with my hands, though," he added, seeing the good bear look more and more puzzled. "Ah, yes!" said Bruin. "But you see this bird has no hands, though he has very ugly claws; so that doesn't help-- Well!" he cried, breaking off short, and once more addressing the hawk. "I don't see anything for it _but_ to wring your neck, do you? After all, it will keep you from being hungry again." But here the soft voice of the wood-pigeon interposed. "No, no! Bruin, dear," cried the gentle bird. "Give him something to eat, and let him go. If he had eaten nothing for a week, I am sure he was not to blame for pursuing the first eatable creature he saw. Remember," she added in a lower tone, which only the bear could hear, "that before this winter, any of us would have done the same." Bruin scratched his head helplessly; the hawk turned his yellow eyes on Pigeon Pretty with a strange look, but said nothing. But now the hermit saw that it was time for him to interfere. "Pigeon Pretty," he said, "you are right, as usual. Bruin, my friend, bring your prisoner here, and let him finish this excellent broth, into which I have crumbled some bread. I will answer for Master Hawk's good behavior, for the present at least," he added, "for I know that he comes of an old and honorable family." Wonder of wonders! In five minutes the hawk was sitting quietly on the hermit's knee, sipping broth, pursuing the floating bits of bread in the bowl, and submitting to have his soft black plumage stroked, with the best grace in the world. On the good man's other knee sat Pigeon Pretty, now quite recovered from her fright and fatigue, her soft eyes beaming with pleasure; while Bruin squatted opposite them, looking from one to the other, and assuring himself over and over again that Pigeon Pretty was "a most astonishing bird! 'pon my word, a _most_ astonishing bird!" His meal ended, the stranger wiped his beak politely on his feathers, plumed himself, and thanked his hosts for their hospitality, with a stately courtesy which contrasted strangely with his former sullen and ferocious bearing. The fierce glare was gone from his eyes, which were, however, still strangely bright; and with his glossy plumage smooth, and his head held proudly erect, he really was a noble-looking bird. "Long is it, indeed," he said, "since any one has spoken a kind word to Ger-Falcon. It will not be forgotten, I assure you. We are a wild and lawless family,--our beak against every one, and every one's claw against us,--and yet, as you observed, Sir Baldhead, we are an old and honorable race. Alas! for the brave, brave days of old, when my sires were the honored companions of kings and princes! My grandfather seventy times removed was served by an emperor, the obsequious monarch carrying him every day on his own wrist to the hunting. He ate from a golden dish, and wore a collar of gems about his neck. Ah, me! what would be the feelings of that noble ancestor if he could see his descendant a hunted outlaw, persecuted by the sons of those very men who once courted and caressed him, and supporting a precarious existence by the ignoble spoils of barn-yards and hen-roosts!" The hawk paused, overcome by these recollections of past glory, and the good bear said kindly,-- "Dear! dear! very sad, I'm sure. And how did this melancholy change come about, pray?" "Fashion, my dear sir!" replied the hawk, "ignoble fashion! The race of men degenerated, and occupied themselves with less lofty sports than hawking. My family, left to themselves, knew not what to do. They had been trained to pursue, to overtake, to slay, through long generations; they were unfitted for anything else. But when they began to lead this life on their own account, man, always ungrateful, turned upon them, and persecuted them for the very deeds which had once been the delight and pride of his fickle race. So we fell from our high estate, lower and lower, till the present representative of the Ger-Falcon is the poor creature you behold before you." The hawk bowed in proud humility, and his hearers all felt, perhaps, much more sorry for him than he deserved. The wood-pigeon was about to ask something more about his famous ancestors, when a shadow darkened the mouth of the cave, and Toto made his appearance, with the crow perched on his shoulder. "Well, Mr. Baldhead!" he cried in his fresh, cheery voice, "how are you to-day, sir? Better still? I have brought you some--hello! who is this?" And catching sight of the stranger, he stopped short, and looked at the bear for an explanation. "This is Mr. Ger-Falcon, Toto," said Bruin. "My friend Toto, Mr. Falcon." Toto nodded, and the hawk made him a stately bow; but the two looked distrustfully at each other, and neither seemed inclined to make any advances. Bruin continued,-- "Mr. Falcon came here in a--well, not in a friendly way at all, I must say. But he is in a very different frame of mind, now, and I trust there will be no further trouble." "Do you ever change your name, sir?" asked Toto, abruptly, addressing the hawk. "I do not understand you, sir!" replied the latter, haughtily. "I have no reason to be ashamed of my name." "Perhaps not!" said the boy. "And yet I am tolerably sure that Mr. Ger-Falcon is no other than Mr. Chicken Hawkon, and that it was he who tried to carry off my Black Spanish chickens yesterday morning." "You are right, sir!" said the hawk. "You are quite right! I was starving, and the chickens presented themselves to me wholly in the light of food. May I ask for what purpose you keep chickens, sir?" "Why, we eat them when they grow up," said Toto; "but--" "Ah, precisely!" murmured the hawk. "You eat them also. I thought so." "But we don't steal other people's chickens," said the boy, "we eat our own." "Precisely!" said the hawk, again. "You eat the tame, confiding creatures who feed from your hand, and stretch their necks trustfully to meet their doom. I, on the contrary, when the pangs of hunger force me to snatch a morsel of food to save me from starvation, snatch it from strangers, not from my friends." Toto was about to make a hasty reply, but the bear, with a motion of his paw, checked him, and said gravely to the hawk,-- "Come, come! Mr. Falcon, I cannot have any dispute of this kind. There is some truth in what you say, and I have no doubt that emperors and other disreputable people have had a large share in forming the bad habits into which you and all your family have fallen. But those habits must be changed, sir, if you intend to remain in this forest. You must not meddle with Toto's chickens; you must not chase quiet and harmless birds. You must, in short, become a respectable and law-abiding bird, instead of a robber and a murderer." "All very fine!" said the hawk, angrily. "But how am I to live, pray? I can be 'respectable,' as you call it, in summer; but in weather like this--" "That can be easily managed," said the kind hermit. "You can stay with me, Falcon. I shall soon be able to shift for myself, and I will gladly undertake to feed you until the snow and frost are gone. You will be a companion for my crow-- By the way, where is my crow? Surely he came in with you, Toto?" "He did," said Toto, "but he hopped off the moment we entered. Didn't like the looks of the visitor, I fancy," he added in a low tone. Search was made, and finally the crow was discovered huddled together, a disconsolate little bunch of black feathers, in the darkest corner of the cave. "Come, Jim!" cried Toto, who was the first to catch sight of him. "Come out, old fellow! Why are you rumpling and humping yourself up in that absurd fashion?" "Is he gone?" asked the crow, opening one eye a very little way, and lifting his head a fraction of an inch from the mass of feathers in which it was buried. "Good Toto, kind Toto, is he gone? I would not be eaten to-day, Toto, if it could be avoided. _Did_ you say he was gone?" "If you mean the hawk," said Toto, "he is _not_ gone; and what is more, he isn't going, for your master has asked him to stay the rest of the winter. But cheer up, old boy! he won't hurt you. Bruin has bound him over to keep the peace, and you must come out and make the best of it." The unhappy crow begged and protested, but all in vain. Toto caught him up, laughing, and carried him to his master, who set him on his knee, and smoothed his rumpled plumage kindly. The hawk, who was highly gratified by the hermit's invitation, put on his most gracious manner, and soon convinced the crow that he meant him no harm. "A member of the ancient family of Corvus!" he exclaimed. "Contemporaries, and probably friends, of the early Falcons. Let us also be friends, dear sir; and let the names of James Crow and Ger-Falcon go down together to posterity." But now Bruin and Pigeon Pretty were eager to hear all the home news from the cottage. They listened with breathless interest to Toto's account of the attempted robbery, and of Coon's noble "defence of the castle," as the boy called it. Miss Mary also received her full share of the credit, nor was the kettle excluded from honorable mention. When all was told, Toto proceeded to unpack the basket he had brought, which contained gingerbread, eggs, apples, and a large can of butter-milk marked "For Bruin." Many were the joyous exclamations called forth by this present of good cheer; and it seemed as if the old hermit could not sufficiently express his gratitude to Toto and his good grandmother. "Oh, don't!" cried the boy, half distressed by the oft-repeated thanks. "If you only knew how we _like_ it! It's so jolly, you know. Besides," he added, "I want you to do something for _me_ now, Mr. Baldhead, so that will turn the tables. A shower is coming up, and it is early yet, so I need not go home for an hour. So, will you not tell us a story? We are very fond of stories,--Bruin and Pigeon Pretty and I." "A story! a story!" cried every one, eagerly. "A story, hey?" said the good hermit, smiling. "With all my heart, dear lad! And what shall the story be about?" "About fairies!" replied Toto, promptly. "I have not heard a fairy story for a long time." "So be it!" said the hermit, after a moment's reflection. "When I was a boy like you, Toto, I lived in Ireland, the very home of the fairy-folk; so I know more about them than most people, perhaps, and this is an Irish fairy story that I am going to tell you." And settling himself comfortably on his moss-pillows, the hermit began the story of-- CHAPTER XIII. GREEN JACKET. "'It's Green Men, it's Green Men, All in the wood together; And, oh! we're feared o' the Green Men In all the sweet May weather,'-- "ON'Y I'm _not_ feared o' thim mesilf!" said Eileen, breaking off her song with a little merry laugh. "Wouldn't I be plazed to meet wan o' thim this day, in the wud! Sure, it 'ud be the lookiest day o' me loife." She parted the boughs, and entered the deep wood, where she was to gather faggots for her mother. Holding up her blue apron carefully, the little girl stepped lightly here and there, picking up the dry brown sticks, and talking to herself all the while,--to keep herself company, as she thought. "Thin I makes a low curchy," she was saying, "loike that wan Mother made to the lord's lady yistherday, and the Green Man he gi'es me a nod, and-- "'What's yer name, me dear?' says he. "'Eileen Macarthy, yer Honor's Riverence!' says I.--No! I mustn't say 'Riverence,' bekase he's not a priest, ava'. 'Yer Honor's Grace' wud do better. "'And what wud ye loike for a prisint, Eily?' says he. "And thin I'd say--lit me see! what wud I have first? Oh, I know! I'd ask him-- Och! what's that? A big green grasshopper, caught be his leg in a spider's wib. Wait a bit, poor crathur, oi'll lit ye free agin." Full of pity for the poor grasshopper, Eily stooped to lift it carefully out of the treacherous net into which it had fallen. But what was her amazement on perceiving that the creature was not a grasshopper, but a tiny man, clad from head to foot in light green, and with a scarlet cap on his head. The little fellow was hopelessly entangled in the net, from which he made desperate efforts to free himself, but the silken strands were quite strong enough to hold him prisoner. For a moment Eileen stood petrified with amazement, murmuring to herself, "Howly Saint Bridget! what will I do now at all? Sure, I niver thought I'd find wan really in loife!" but the next moment her kindness of heart triumphed over her fear, and stooping once more she very gently took the little man up between her thumb and finger, pulled away the clinging web, and set him respectfully on the top of a large toadstool which stood conveniently near. The little Green Man shook himself, dusted his jacket with his red cap, and then looked up at Eileen with twinkling eyes. "Thank ye, my maiden!" he said kindly. "Ye have saved my life, and ye shall not be the worse for it, if ye _did_ take me for a grasshopper." Eily was rather abashed at this, but the little man looked very kind; so she plucked up her courage, and when he asked, "What is yer name, my dear?" ("jist for all the wurrld the way I thought of," she said to herself) answered bravely, with a low courtesy, "Eileen Macarthy, yer Honor's Riverence--Grace, I mane!" and then she added, "They calls me Eily, most times, at home." "Well, Eily," said the Green Man, "I suppose ye know who I am?" "A fairy, plaze yer Honor's Grace!" said Eily, with another courtesy. "Sure, I've aften heerd av yer Honor's people, but I niver thought I'd see wan of yez. It's rale plazed I am, sure enough. Manny's the time Docthor O'Shaughnessy's tell't me there was no sich thing as yez; but I niver belaved him, yer Honor!" "That's right!" said the Green Man, heartily, "that's very right. Never believe a word he says! And now, Eily, alanna, I'm going to do ye a fairy's turn before I go. Ye shall have yer wish of whatever ye like in the world. Take a minute to think about it, and then make up yer mind." Eily fairly gasped for breath. Her dreams had then come true; she was to have a fairy wish! Could it possibly be true? And what should she wish for? The magic carpet? The goose that laid eggs of gold? The invisible cloak? Eily had all the old fairy-stories at her tongue's end, for her mother told her one every night as she sat at her spinning. Jack and the Beanstalk, the Sleeping Beauty, the Seven Swans, the Elves that stole Barney Maguire, the Brown Witch, and the Widdy Malone's Pig,--she knew them all, and scores of others besides. Her mother always began the stories with, "Wanst upon a time, and a very good time it was;" or, "Long, long ago, whin King O'Toole was young, and the praties grew all ready biled in the ground;" or, "Wan fine time, whin the fairies danced, and not a poor man lived in Ireland." In this way, the fairies seemed always to be thrown far back into a remote past, which had nothing in common with the real work-a-day world in which Eily lived. But now--oh, wonder of wonders!--now, here was a real fairy, alive and active, with as full power of blessing or banning as if the days of King O'Toole had come again,--and what was more, with good-will to grant to Eileen Macarthy whatever in the wide world she might wish for! The child stood quite still, with her hands clasped, thinking harder than she had ever thought in all her life before; and the Green Man sat on the toadstool and watched her, with eyes which twinkled with some amusement, but no malice. "Take yer time, my dear," he said, "take yer time! Ye'll not meet a Green Man every day, so make the best o' your chance!" Suddenly Eily's face lighted up with a sudden inspiration. "Och!" she cried, "sure I have it, yer Riverence's Grace--Honor, I shud say! I have it! it's the di'monds and pearrls I'll have, iv ye plaze!" "Diamonds and pearls?" repeated the fairy, "what diamonds and pearls? There are a great many in the world. You don't want them _all_, surely?" "Och, no, yer Honor!" said Eily. "Only wan of aich to dhrop out o' me mouth ivery time I shpake, loike the girrl in the sthory, ye know. Whiniver she opened her lips to shpake, a di'mond an' a pearrl o' the richest beauty dhropped from her mouth. That's what I mane, plaze yer Honor's Grace. Och! wudn't it be beautiful, entirely?" "Humph!" said the fairy, looking rather grave. "Are ye _quite_ sure that this is what you wish for most, Eileen? Don't decide hastily, or ye may be sorry for it." "Sorry!" cried Eileen, "what for wud I be sorry? Sure I'd be richer than the Countess o' Kilmoggen hersilf, let alone the Queen, be the time I'd talked for an hour. An' I _loove_ to talk!" she added softly, half to herself. The Green Man laughed outright at this. "Well, Eily," he said, "ye shall have yer own way. Stoop down to me here!" Eileen bent down, and he touched her lips three times with the scarlet tassel of his cap. "Slanegher Banegher!" he said. "The charm is worked. Now go home, Eileen Macarthy, and the good wishes of the Green Men go with ye. Ye will have yer own wish fulfilled as soon as ye cross the threshold of yer home. But hark ye now!" he added, impressively. "A day may come when ye will wish with all yer heart to have the charm taken away. If that ever happens, come to this same place with a sprig of holly in yer hand. Strike this toadstool three times, and say, 'Slanegher Banegher, Skeen na Lane!' And now good-by to ye!" and clapping his scarlet cap on his head, the little man leaped from the toadstool, and instantly disappeared from sight among the ferns and mosses. Eileen stood still for some time, lost in a dream of wonder and delight. Finally rousing herself, she gave a long, happy sigh, and hastily filling her apron with sticks, turned her steps homeward. The sun was sinking low when she came in sight of the little cabin, at the door of which her mother was standing, looking anxiously in every direction. "Is it yersilf, Eily?" cried the good woman in a tone of relief, as she saw the child approaching. "And where have ye been at all? It's a wild colleen y'are, to be sprankin' about o' this way, and it nearly sundown. Where have ye been, I'm askin' ye?" Eily held up her apronful of sticks with a beaming smile, but answered never a word till she stood on the threshold of the cottage. ("Sure I might lose some," she had been saying to herself, "and that 'ud niver do.") But as soon as she had entered the little room which was kitchen, hall, dining-room, and drawing-room for the Macarthy family, she dropped her bundle of faggots, and clasping her hands together, cried, "Och, mother! what do ye think? Sure ye'll niver belave me whin I till ye--" Here she suddenly stopped, for hop! pop! two round shining things dropped from her mouth, and rolled away over the floor of the cabin. "Howly Michael be me guide!" cried Mrs. Macarthy; "phwhat's that?" "It's marvels! [marbles]" shouted little Phelim, jumping up from his seat by the fire and running to pick up the shining objects. "Eily's got her mouf full o' marvels! Hurroo!" "They aren't marvels!" said Eily, indignantly. "Wait till I till ye, mother asthore! I wint to the forest as ye bade me, to gather shticks, an'--" hop! pop! out flew two more shining things from her mouth and rolled away after the others. Mrs. Macarthy uttered a piercing shriek, and clapped her hand over Eileen's mouth. "She's bewitched!" she cried. "Me choild's bewitched, an' shpakin' buttons! Och, wirra! wirra! what'll I do at all? Run, Phelim," she added, "an' call yer father. He's in the praty-patch, loikely. An' ye kape shtill!" she said to Eily, who was struggling vainly to free herself from her mother's powerful grasp. "Kape shtill, I'm tillin' ye, an' don't open yer lips! It's savin' yer body an' sowl I may be this minute. Saint Bridget, Saint Michael, an' blissid Saint Patrick!" she ejaculated piously, "save me choild, an' I'll serve ye on me knees the rist o' me days." Poor Eily! This was a sad beginning of all her glory. She tried desperately to open her mouth, sure that in a moment she could make her mother understand the whole matter. But Honor Macarthy was a stalwart woman, and Eily's slender fingers could not stir the massive hand which was pressed firmly upon her lips. At this moment her father entered hastily, with Phelim panting behind him. "Phwhat's the matther, woman?" he asked anxiously. "Here's Phelim clane out o' his head, an' shcramin' about Eily, an' marvels an' buttons, an' I dunno what all. Phwhat ails the choild?" he added in a tone of great alarm, as he saw Eileen in her mother's arms, flushed and disordered, the tears rolling down her cheeks. "Och, Dinnis!" cried Honor, "it's bewitched she is,--clane bewitched out o' her sinses, an shpakes buttons out av her mouth wid ivery worrd she siz. Och, me choild! me poor, misfortunate choild! Who wud do ye sich an ill turn as this, whin ye niver harmed annybody since the day ye were born?" "_Buttons!_" said Dennis Macarthy; "what do ye mane by buttons? How can she shpake buttons, I'm askin' ye? Sure, ye're foolish yersilf, Honor, woman! Lit the colleen go, an' she'll till me phwhat 'tis all about." "Och, av ye don't belave me!" cried Honor. "Show thim to yer father, Phelim! Look at two av thim there in the corner,--the dirrty things!" Phelim took up the two shining objects cautiously in the corner of his pinafore and carried them to his father, who examined them long and carefully. Finally he spoke, but in an altered voice. "Lit the choild go, Honor," he said. "I want to shpake till her. Do as I bid ye!" he added sternly; and very reluctantly his wife released poor Eily, who stood pale and trembling, eager to explain, and yet afraid to speak for fear of being again forcibly silenced. "Eileen," said her father, "'tis plain to be seen that these things are not buttons, but jew'ls." "Jew'ls!" exclaimed Honor, aghast. "Ay!" said Dennis; "jew'ls, or gims, whichiver ye plaze to call thim. Now, phwhat I want to know is, where did ye get thim?" "Oh, Father!" cried Eily; "don't look at me that a-way! Sure, I've done no harrum! I only--" hop! pop! another splendid diamond and another white, glistening pearl fell from her lips; but she hurried on, speaking as quickly as she could: "I wint to the forest to gather shticks, and there I saw a little Grane Man, all the same loike a hoppergrass, caught be his lig in a spidher's wib; and whin I lit him free he gi' me a wish, to have whativer I loiked bist in the wurrld; an' so I wished, an' I sid--" but by this time the pearls and diamonds were hopping like hail-stones all over the cabin-floor; and with a look of deep anger and sorrow Dennis Macarthy motioned to his wife to close Eileen's mouth again, which she eagerly did. "To think," he said, "as iver a child o' mine shud shtale the Countess's jew'ls, an' thin till me a pack o' lies about thim! Honor, thim is the beads o' the Countess's nickluss that I was tillin' ye about, that I saw on her nick at the ball, whin I carried the washin' oop to the Castle. An' this misfortunate colleen has shwallied 'em." "Shwallied 'em!" echoed Honor, incredulously. "How wud she shwally 'em, an' have 'em in her mouth all the toime? An' how wud she get thim to shwally, an' the Countess in Dublin these three weeks, an' her jew'ls wid her? Shame an ye, Dinnis Macarthy! to suspict yer poor, diminted choild of shtalin'! It's bewitched she is, I till ye! Look at the face av her this minute!" Just at that moment the sound of wheels was heard; and Phelim, who was standing at the open door, exclaimed,-- "Father! here's Docthor O'Shaughnessy dhrivin' past. Will I shtop him? Maybe he wud know." "Ay, shtop him! shtop him, lad!" cried both mother and father in a breath. Phelim darted out, and soon returned, followed by the doctor,--a tall, thin man with a great hooked nose, on which was perched a pair of green spectacles. Eileen had never liked Dr. O'Shaughnessy; and now a cold shiver passed over her as he fixed his spectacled eyes on her and listened in silence to the confused accounts which her father and mother poured into his ear. "Humph!" he said at last. "Bewitched? 'tis very loikely. I've known many so of late. Let me see the jew'ls, as ye call thim." The pearls and diamonds were brought,--a whole handful of them,--and poured into the doctor's hand, which closed suddenly over them, while his dull black eyes shot out a quick gleam under the shading spectacles. The next moment, however, he laughed good-humoredly and turned them carelessly over one by one. "Why, Dinnis," he said, "'tis aisy to see that ye've not had mich expeerunce o' jew'ls, me bye, or ye'd not mistake these bits o' glass an' sich fer thim. No! no! there's no jew'ls here, wheriver the Countess's are. An' these bits o' trash dhrop out o' the choild's mouth, ye till me, ivery toime she shpakes?" "Ivery toime, yer Anner!" said Honor. "Out they dhrops, an' goes hoppin' an' leppin' about the room, loike they were aloive." "I see!" said the doctor. "I understand. This is a very sirrious case, Misther Macarthy,--a very sirrious case _in_dade, sirr; an' I'll be free to till ye that I know but _wan_ way av curin' it." "Och, whirrasthru!" cried Mrs. Macarthy. "What is it at all, Docthor alanna? Is it a witch has overlooked her, or what is it? Och, me choild! me poor, diminted choild! will I lose ye this-a-way? Ochone! ochone!" and in her grief she loosed her hold of Eileen and clapped her hands to her own face, sobbing aloud. But before the child could open her lips to speak, she found herself seized in another and no less powerful grasp, while another hand covered her mouth,--not warm and firm like her mother's, but cold, bony, and frog-like. Holding her as in a vice, Dr. O'Shaughnessy spoke once more to her parents. "I'll save her loife," said he, "and mebbe her wits as well, av the thing's poassible. But it's not here I can do ut at all. I'll take the choild home wid me to me house, and Misthress O'Shaughnessy will tind her as if she wuz her own; and thin I will try th' ixpirimint which is the ownly thing on airth can save her." "Spirimint?" said Honor. "Sure, there's two, three kinds o' mint growin' here in oor own door-yard, but I dunno av there's anny o' that kind. Will ye make a tay av it, Docthor, or is it a poultuss ye'll be puttin' an her, to dhraw out the witchcraft, loike?" "Whisht, whisht, woman!" said Dennis, impatiently. "Howld yer prate, can't ye, an' the docthor waitin'? Is there no way ye cud cure her, an' lave her at home thin, Docthor? Faith, I'd be loth to lave her go away from uz loike this, let alone the throuble she'll be to yez!" "No throuble at all!" said the doctor, briskly. "At laste," he added more gravely, "naw moor thin I'd gladly take for ye an' yer good woman, Dinnis! Come, help me wid the colleen, now. Aisy does it! Now, thin, oop wid ye, Eily!" And the next moment Eileen found herself in the doctor's narrow gig, wedged tightly between him and the side of the vehicle. "Ye can sind her bits o' clothes over by Phelim," said Dr. O'Shaughnessy, as he gathered up the reins, apparently in great haste. "I'll not shtop now. Good-day t' ye, Dinnis! My respicts to ye, Misthress Macarthy. Ye'll hear av the choild in a day or two!" And whistling to his old pony, they started off at as brisk a trot as the latter could produce on such short notice. Poor Eileen! Was this the result of the fairy's gift? She sat still, half-paralyzed with grief and terror, for she made no doubt that the hated doctor was going to do something very, very dreadful to her. Seeing that she made no effort to free herself, or to speak, her captor removed his hand from her mouth; but not until they were well out of sight and hearing of her parents. "Now, Eileen," he said, not unkindly, "av ye'll be a good colleen, and not shpake a wurrd, I'll lave yer mouth free. But av ye shpake, so much as to say, 'Bliss ye!' I'll tie up yer jaw wid me pock'-handkercher, so as ye can't open ut at all. D' ye hear me, now?" Eileen nodded silently. She had not the slightest desire to say "Bliss ye!" to Dr. O'Shaughnessy; nor did she care to fill his rusty old gig, or to sprinkle the high road, with diamonds and pearls. "That's roight!" said the Doctor, "that's a sinsible gyurrl as ye are. See, now, what a foine bit o' sweet-cake Misthress O'Shaughnessy 'ull be givin' ye, whin we git home." The poor child burst into tears, for the word 'home' made her realize more fully that she was going every moment farther and farther away from her own home,--from her kind father, her anxious and loving mother, and dear little Phelim. What would Phelim do at night, without her shoulder to curl up on and go to sleep, in the trundle-bed which they had shared ever since he was a tiny baby? Who would light her father's pipe, and sing him the little song he always liked to hear while he smoked it after supper? These, and many other such thoughts, filled Eileen's mind as she sat weeping silently beside the green-spectacled doctor, who cared nothing about her crying, so long as she did not try to speak. After a drive of some miles, they reached a tall, dark, gloomy-looking house, which was not unlike the doctor himself, with its small greenish window-panes and its gaunt chimneys. Here the pony stopped, and the doctor, lifting Eileen out of the gig, carried her into the house. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron, and stared in amazement at the burden in her husband's arms. "Honor Macarthy's Eily!" she exclaimed. "The Saints protict uz! Is she kilt, or what's the matther?" "Open the door o' the best room!" said the doctor, briefly. "Open it, woman, I'm tillin' ye!" and entering a large bare room, he set Eileen down hastily on a stool, and then drew a long breath and wiped his brow. "I've got ye!" he said. "Safe and sound I've got ye now, glory for ut! And ye'll not lave this room until ye've made me _King av Ireland_!" Eileen stared at the man, thinking he had gone mad; for his face was red, and his eyes, from which he had snatched the green spectacles, glittered with a strange light. The same idea flashed into his wife's mind, and she crossed herself devoutly, exclaiming,-- "Howly St. Pathrick, he's clane diminted. 'King,' indade! will ye hear um?" The doctor turned on her sharply. "Diminted?" he said; "ye'll soon see av I'm diminted. I till ye I'll be King av Ireland before the month's oot. Shpake, now, Eileen! Open yer mouth, alanna, and make yer manners to Misthress O'Shaughnessy." Thus adjured, Eileen dropped a courtesy, and said, timidly, "Good day t' ye, Ma'm! I houp ye're well!" Hop! pop! down dropped a pearl and a diamond, and the doctor, pouncing on them, held them up in triumph before the eyes of his astonished wife. "Div ye see that?" he cried. "That's a dimind! There's no sich in Queen Victory's crownd this day. And look a' that! That's a pearrl, an' as big as a marrowfat pay. The loike of ut's not in Ireland, I till ye. Woman, there's a fortin' in ivery wurrd this colleen shpakes! And she's goin' to shpake," he added, grimly, "and to kape an shpakin', till Michael O'Shaughnessy is rich enough to buy all Ireland,--ay, and England too, av he'd a mind to!" "But--but," cried Mrs. O'Shaughnessy, utterly bewildered by her husband's wild talk, and by the sight of the jewels, "what does it all mane? Has the choild swallied 'em? And won't she die av 'em, av it's that manny in her stumick?" "Whisht wid yer foolery!" said her husband, contemptuously. "Swallied 'em, indade! The gyurrl has met a Grane Man, that's the truth of ut; and he's gi'n her a wish, and she's got ut,--and now I've got _her_." And he chuckled, and rubbed his bony hands together, while his eyes twinkled with greed. "A Grane Man! The saints be good to uz!" cried Mrs. O'Shaughnessy. "Sure, ye always till't me there was no sich thing ava'." "I lied, thin!" shouted the doctor. "I lied, an' that's all there is to say about ut. Do ye think I'm obleeged to shpake the thruth ivery day in the week to an ignor'nt crathur like yersilf? It's worn out I'd be, body and sowl, at that rate. Now, Eileen Macarthy," he continued, turning to his unhappy little prisoner, "ye are to do as I till ye, an' no harrum'll coom to ye, an' maybe good. Ye are to sit in this room and _talk_; and ye'll kape an talkin' till the room is _full-up_! d'ye hear me, now?" "Full-up?" exclaimed Eileen, faintly. "Full-up!" repeated the doctor. "No less'll satisfy me, and it's the laste ye can do for all the throuble I've taken forr ye. Misthress O'Shaughnessy an' mesilf 'ull take turns sittin' wid ye, so 'at ye'll have some wan to talk to. Ye'll have plinty to ate an' to dhrink, an' that's more than manny people have in Ireland this day. So lit me hear no complainin'." With this, the worthy man proceeded to give strict injunctions to his wife to keep the child talking, and not to leave her alone for an instant; and finally he departed, shutting the door behind him, and leaving the captive and her jailer alone together. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy immediately poured forth a flood of questions, to which Eileen replied by telling the whole pitiful story from beginning to end. It was a relief to be able to speak at last, and to rehearse the whole matter to understanding, if not sympathetic, ears. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy listened and looked, looked and listened, with open mouth and staring eyes. With her eyes shut, she would not have believed her ears; but the double evidence was too much for her. The diamonds and pearls kept on falling, falling, fast and faster. They filled Eileen's lap, they skipped away over the floor, while the doctor's wife pursued them with frantic eagerness. Each diamond was clear and radiant as a drop of dew, each pearl lustrous and perfect; but they gave no pleasure now to the fairy-gifted child. She could only think of the task that lay before her,--to FILL this great, empty room; of the millions and millions, and yet again millions of gems that must fall from her lips before the floor would be covered even a few inches deep; of the weeks and months,--perhaps the years,--that must elapse before she would see her parents and Phelim again. She remembered the words of the fairy: "A day may come when you will wish with all your heart to have the charm removed." And then, like a flash, came the recollection of those other words: "When that day comes, come here to this spot," and do so and so. In fancy, Eileen was transported again to the pleasant green forest; was looking at the Green Man as he sat on the toadstool, and begging him to take away this fatal gift, which had already, in one day, brought her so much misery. Harshly on her reverie broke in the voice of Mrs. O'Shaughnessy, asking,-- "And has yer father sold his pigs yit?" She started, and came back to the doleful world of reality. But even as she answered the woman's question, she made in her heart a firm resolve,--somehow or other, _somehow_, she would escape; she would get out of this hateful house, away from these greedy, grasping people; she would manage somehow to find her way to the wood, and then--then for freedom again! Cheered by her own resolution, she answered the woman composedly, and went into a detailed account of the birth, rearing, and selling of the pigs, which so fascinated her auditor that she was surprised, when the recital was over, to find that it was nearly supper-time. The doctor now entered, and taking his wife's place, began to ply Eily with questions, each one artfully calculated to bring forth the longest possible reply:-- "How is it yer mother is related to the Countess's auld housekeeper, avick; and why is it, that wid sich grand relations she niver got into the castle at all?" "Phwhat was that I h'ard the other day about the looky bargain yer father--honest man!--made wid the one-eyed peddler from beyant Inniskeen?" and-- "Is it thrue that yer mother makes all her butther out av skim-milk just by making the sign of the cross--God bless it!--over the churn?" Although she did not like the doctor, Eily did, as she had said to the Green Man, "_loove_ to talk;" so she chattered away, explaining and disclaiming, while the diamonds and pearls flew like hail-stones from her lips, and her host and jailer sat watching them with looks of greedy rapture. Eily paused, fairly out of breath, just as Mrs. O'Shaughnessy entered, bringing her rather scanty supper. There was quite a pile of jewels in her lap and about her feet, while a good many had rolled to a distance; but her heart sank within her as she compared the result of three hours' steady talking with the end to which the rapacious doctor aspired. She was allowed to eat her supper in peace, but no sooner was it finished than the questioning began again, and it was not until ten o'clock had struck that the exhausted child was allowed to lay her head down on the rude bed which Mrs. O'Shaughnessy had hastily made up for her. The next day was a weary one for poor Eily. From morning till night she was obliged to talk incessantly, with only a brief space allowed for her meals. The doctor and his wife mounted guard by turns, each asking questions, until to the child's fancy they seemed like nothing but living interrogation points. All day long, no matter what she was talking about,--the potato-crop, or the black hen that the fox stole, or Phelim's measles,--her mind was fixed on one idea, that of escaping from her prison. If only some fortunate chance would call them both out of the room at once! But, alas! that never happened. There was always a pair of greedy eyes fixed on her, and on the now hated jewels which dropped in an endless stream from her lips; always a harsh voice in her ears, rousing her, if she paused for an instant, by new questions as stupid as they were long. Once, indeed, the child stopped short, and declared that she could not and would not talk any more; but she was speedily shown the end of a birch rod, with the hint that the doctor "would be loth to use the likes av it on Dinnis Macarthy's choild; but her parints had given him charge to dhrive out the witchcraft be hook or be crook; and av a birch rod wasn't first cousin to a crook, what was it at all?" and Eily was forced to find her powers of speech again. By nightfall of this day the room was ankle-deep in pearls and diamonds. A wonderful sight it was, when the moon looked in at the window, and shone on the lustrous and glittering heaps which Mrs. O'Shaughnessy piled up with her broom. The woman was fairly frightened at the sight of so much treasure, and she crossed herself many times as she lay down on the mat beside Eileen's truckle-bed, muttering to herself, "Michael knows bist, I suppose; but sorrow o' me if I can feel as if there was a blissing an it, ava'!" The third day came, and was already half over, when an urgent summons came for Doctor O'Shaughnessy. One of his richest patrons had fallen from his horse and broken his leg, and the doctor must come on the instant. The doctor grumbled and swore, but there was no help for it; so he departed, after making his wife vow by all the saints in turn, that she would not leave Eileen's side for an instant until he returned. When Eily heard the rattle of the gig and the sound of the pony's feet, and knew that the most formidable of her jailers was actually _gone_, her heart beat so loud for joy that she feared its throbbing would be heard. Now, at last, a loop-hole seemed to open for her. She had a plan already in her head, and now there was a chance for her to carry it out. But an Irish girl of ten has shrewdness beyond her years, and no gleam of expression appeared in Eileen's face as she spoke to Mrs. O'Shaughnessy, who had been standing by the window to watch her husband's departure, and who now returned to her seat. "We'll be missin' the docthor this day, ma'm, won't we?" she said. "He's so agrayable, ain't he, now?" "He is that!" replied Mrs. O'Shaughnessy, with something of a sigh. "He's rale agrayable, Michael is--whin he wants to be," she added. "Yis, I'll miss um more nor common to-day, for 'tis worn out I am intirely wid shlapin so little these two nights past. Sure, I _can't_ shlape, wid thim things a-shparklin' an' a-glowerin' at me the way they do; and now I'll not get me nap at all this afthernoon, bein' I must shtay here and kape ye talkin' till the docthor cooms back. Me hid aches, too, mortial bad!" "Do it, now?" said Eily, soothingly. "Arrah, it's too bad, intirely! Will I till ye a little shtory that me grandmother hed for the hidache?" "A shtory for the hidache?" said Mrs. O'Shaughnessy. "What do ye mane by that, I'm askin' ye?" "I dunno roightly how ut is," replied Eily, innocently, "but Granny used to call this shtory a cure for the hidache, and mebbe ye'd find ut so. An' annyhow it 'ud kape me talkin'," she added meekly, "for 'tis mortial long." "Go an wid it, thin!" said Mrs. O'Shaughnessy, settling herself more comfortably in her chair. "I loove a long shtory, to be sure. Go an, avick!" And Eily began as follows, speaking in a clear, low monotone:-- "Wanst upon a toime there lived an owld, owld woman, an' her name was Moira Magoyle; an' she lived in an owld, owld house, in an owld, owld lane that lid through an owld, owld wood be the side of an owld, owld shthrame that flowed through an owld, owld shthrate av an owld, owld town in an owld, owld county. An' this owld, owld woman, sure enough, she had an owld, owld cat wid a white nose; an' she had an owld, owld dog wid a black tail, an' she had an owld, owld hin wid wan eye, an' she had an owld, owld cock wid wan leg, an' she had--" Mrs. O'Shaughnessy yawned, and stirred uneasily on her seat. "Seems to me there's moighty little goin' an in this shtory!" she said, taking up her knitting, which she had dropped in her lap. "I'd loike somethin' a bit more loively, I'm thinkin', av I had me ch'ice." "Jist wait, ma'm!" said Eily, with quiet confidence, "ownly wait till I coom to the parrt about the two robbers an' the keg o' gunpowdther, an' its loively enough ye'll foind ut. But I must till ut the same way 'at Granny did, else it 'ull do no good, ava. Well, thin, I was sayin' to ye, ma'm, this owld woman (Saint Bridget be good to her!) she had an owld, owld cow, an' she had an owld, owld shape, an' she had an owld, owld kitchen wid an owld, owld cheer an' an owld, owld table, an' an owld, owld panthry wid an owld, owld churn, an' an owld, owld sauce-pan, an' an owld, owld gridiron, an' an owld, owld--" Mrs. O'Shaughnessy's knitting dropped again, and her head fell forward on her breast. Eileen's voice grew lower and softer, but still she went on,--rising at the same time, and moving quietly, stealthily, towards the door,-- "An' she had an owld, owld kittle, an' she had an owld, owld pot wid an owld, owld kiver; an' she had an owld, owld jug, an' an owld, owld platther, an' an owld, owld tay-pot--" Eily's hand was on the door, her eyes were fixed on the motionless form of her jailer; her voice went on and on, its soft monotone now accompanied by another sound,--that of a heavy, regular breathing which was fast deepening into a snore. "An' she had an owld, owld shpoon, an' an owld, owld fork, an' an owld, owld knife, an' an owld, owld cup, an' an owld, owld bowl, an' an owld, owld, owld--" The door is open! The story is done! Two little feet go speeding down the long passage, across the empty kitchen, out at the back door, and away, away! Wake, Mrs. O'Shaughnessy! wake! the story is done and the bird is flown! Surely it was the next thing to flying, the way in which Eily sped across the meadows, far from the hated scene of her imprisonment. The bare brown feet seemed scarcely to touch the ground; the brown locks streamed out on the wind; the little blue apron fluttered wildly, like a banner of victory. On! on! on! with panting bosom, with parted lips, with many a backward glance to see if any one were following; on went the little maid, over field and fell, through moss and through mire, till at last--oh, happy, blessed sight!--the dark forest rose before her, and she knew that she was saved. Quite at the other end of the wood lay the spot she was seeking; but she knew the way well, and on she went, but more carefully now,--parting the branches so that she broke no living twig, and treading cautiously lest she should crush the lady fern, which the Green Men love. How beautiful the ferns were, uncurling their silver-green fronds and spreading their slender arms abroad! How sweetly the birds were singing! How pleasant, how kind, how friendly was everything in the sweet green wood! And here at last was the oak-tree, and at the foot of it there stood the yellow toadstool, looking as if it did not care about anything or anybody, which in truth it did not: Breathless with haste and eagerness, Eileen tapped the toadstool three times with a bit of holly, saying softly, "Slanegher Banegher! Skeen na lane!" And, lo! and, behold! there sat the Green Man, just as if he had been there all the time, fanning himself with his scarlet cap, and looking at her with a comical twinkle in his sharp little eyes. "Well, Eily," he said, "is it back so soon ye are? Well, well, I'm not surprised! And how do ye like yer gift?" "Oh, yer Honor's Riverence--Grace, I mane!" cried poor Eily, bursting into tears, "av ye'll plaze to take it away! Sure it's nearly kilt I am along av it, an' no plazure or coomfort in ut at all at all! Take it away, yer Honor, take it away, and I'll bliss ye all me days!" and, with many sobs, she related the experiences of the past three days. As she spoke, diamonds and pearls still fell in showers from her lips, and half-unconsciously she held up her apron to catch them as they fell, so that by the time she had finished her story she had more than a quart of splendid gems, each as big as the biggest kind of pea. The Green Man smiled, but not unkindly, at the recital of Eileen's woes. "Faith, it's a hard time ye've had, my maiden, and no mistake! But now 'tis all over. Hold fast the jewels ye have there, for they're the last ye'll get." He touched her lips with his cap, and said, "Cabbala ku! the charm is off." Eily drew a long breath of relief, and the fairy added,-- "The truth is, Eily, the times are past for fairy gifts of this kind. Few people believe in the Green Men now at all, and fewer still ever see them. Why, ye are the first mortal child I've spoken to for a matter of two hundred years, and I think ye'll be the last I ever speak to. Fairy gifts are very pretty things in a story, but they're not convenient at the present time, as ye see for yourself. There's one thing I'd like to say to ye, however," he added more seriously; "an' ye'll take it as a little lesson-like, me dear, before we part. Ye asked me for diamonds and pearls, and I gave them to ye; and now ye've seen the worth of that kind for yourself. But there's jewels and jewels in the world, and if ye choose, Eily, ye can still speak pearls and diamonds, and no harm to yourself or anybody." "How was yer Honor maning?" asked Eily, wondering. "Sure, I don't undershtand yer Honor at all." "Likely not," said the little man, "but it's now I'm telling ye. Every gentle and loving word ye speak, child, is a pearl; and every kind deed done to them as needs kindness, is a diamond brighter than all those shining stones in your apron. Ye'll grow up a rich woman, Eily, with the treasure ye have there; but it might all as well be frogs and toads, if with it ye have not the loving heart and the helping hand that will make a good woman of ye, and happy folk of yer neighbors. And now good-by, mavourneen, and the blessing of the Green Men go with ye and stay with ye, yer life long!" "Good-by, yer Honor," cried Eily, gratefully. "The saints reward yer Honor's Grace for all yer kindness to a poor silly colleen like me! But, oh, wan minute, yer Honor!" she cried, as she saw the little man about to put on his cap. "Will Docthor O'Shaughnessy be King av Ireland? Sure it's the wicked king he'd make, intirely. Don't let him, plaze, yer Honor!" Green Jacket laughed long and heartily. "Ho! ho! ho!" he cried. "_King_, is it? Nothing less would suit him, sure enough! Have no fears, Eily, alanna! Dr. O'Shaughnessy has come into his kingdom by this time, and I wish him joy of it." With these words he clapped his scarlet cap on his head, and vanished like the snuff of a candle. * * * * * Now, just about this time Dr. Michael O'Shaughnessy was dismounting from his gig at his own back door, after a long and weary drive. He thought little, however, about his bodily fatigue, for his heart was full of joy and triumph, his mind absorbed in dreams of glory. He could not even contain his thoughts, but broke out into words, as he unharnessed the rusty old pony. "An' whin I coom to the palace, I'll knock three times wid the knocker; or maybe there'll be a bell, loike the sheriff's house (bad luck to um!) at Kilmagore. And the gossoon'll open the dure, and-- "'Phwhat's yer arrind?' says he. "'It's Queen Victory I'm wantin',' says I. 'An' ye'll till her King Michael av Ireland is askin' for her,' I says. "Thin whin Victory hears that, she'll coom roonnin' down hersilf, to bid me welkim; an' she'll take me oop to the best room, an'-- "'Sit down an the throne, King Michael,' says she. 'The other cheers isn't good enough for the loikes of ye,' says she. "'Afther ye, ma'm,' says I, moinding me manners. "'An' is there annythin' I can du for ye, to-day, King Michael?' says she, whin we've sat down an the throne. "An' I says, loight and aisy loike, all as if I didn't care, 'Nothin' in loife, ma'm, I'm obleeged to ye, widout ye'd lind me the loan o' yer Sunday crownd,' says I, 'be way av a patthern,' says I. "An' says she--" But at this moment the royal meditations were rudely broken in upon by a wild shriek which resounded from the house. The door was flung violently open, and Mrs. O'Shaughnessy rushed out like a mad woman. "She's gone!" she cried wildly. "The colleen's gone, an' me niver shtirrin' from her side! Och, wirra, wirra! what'll I do? It must be the witches has taken her clane up chimley." Dr. O'Shaughnessy stood for a moment transfixed, glaring with speechless rage at the unhappy woman; then rushing suddenly at her, he seized and shook her till her teeth chattered together. "Ye've been ashlape!" he yelled, beside himself with rage and disappointment. "Ye've fell ashlape, an' laved her shlip out! Sorrow seize ye, ye're always the black bean in me porridge!" Then flinging her from him, he cried, "I don't care! I'll _be_ it! I'll be king wid what's in there now!" and dashed into the house. He paused before the door of the best room, lately poor Eily's prison, to draw breath and to collect his thoughts. The door was closed, and from within--hark! what was that sound? Something was stirring, surely. Oh, joy! was his wife mistaken? Waking suddenly from her nap, had she failed to see the girl, who had perhaps been sleeping, too? At all events the jewels were there, in shining heaps on the floor, as he had last seen them, with thousands more covering the floor in every direction,--a king's ransom in half a handful of them. He would be king yet, even if the girl were gone. Cautiously he opened the door and looked in, his eyes glistening, his mouth fairly watering at the thought of all the splendor which would meet his glance. What did Dr. O'Shaughnessy see? Oh, horror! Oh, dismay, terror, anguish! What did he see? Captive was there none, yet the room was not empty. Jewels were there none, yet the floor was covered; covered with living creatures,--toads, snakes, newts, all hideous and unclean reptiles that hop or creep or wriggle. And as the wretched man stared, with open mouth and glaring eye-balls, oh, horror! they were all hopping, creeping, wriggling towards the open door,--towards him! With a yell beside which his wife's had been a whisper, O'Shaughnessy turned and fled; but after him--through the door, down the passage and out of the house--came hopping, creeping, wriggling his myriad pursuers. Fly, King Michael! stretch your long legs, and run like a hunted hare over hill and dale, over moss and moor. They are close behind you; they are catching at your heels; they come from every side, surrounding you! Fly, King O'Shaughnessy! but you cannot escape. The Green Men are hunting you, if you could but know it, in sport and in revenge; and three times they will chase you round County Kerry, for thrice three days, till at last they suffer you to drop exhausted in a bog, and vanish from your sight. And Eily? Eily went home with her apron full of pearls and diamonds, to tell her story again, and this time to be believed. And she grew up a good woman and a rich woman; and she married the young Count of Kilmoggan, and spoke diamonds and pearls all her life long,--at least her husband said she did, and he ought to know. CHAPTER XIV. "EGGS! eggs!" cried Toto, springing lightly into the barn, and waving a basket round his head. "Mrs. Speckle, Mrs. Spanish, Dame Clucket, where are you all? I want all the fresh eggs you can spare, please! directly-now-this-very-moment!" and the boy tossed his basket up in the air and caught it again, and danced a little dance of pure enjoyment, while he waited for the hens to answer his summons. Mrs. Speckle and Dame Clucket, who had been having a quiet chat together in the mow, peeped cautiously over the billows of hay, and seeing that Toto was alone, bade him good-morning. "I don't know about eggs, to-day, Toto!" said Dame Clucket. "I want to set soon, and I cannot be giving you eggs every day." "Oh, but I haven't had any for two or three days!" cried Toto. "And I _must_ have some to-day. Good old Clucket, dear old Cluckety, give me some, please!" "Well, I never can refuse that boy, somehow!" said Dame Clucket, half to herself; and Mrs. Speckle agreed with her that it could not be done. Indeed, it would have been hard to say "No!" to Toto at that moment, for he certainly was very pleasant to look at. The dusty sunbeams came slanting through the high windows, and fell on his curly head, his ruddy-brown cheeks, and honest gray eyes; and as the eyes danced, and the curls danced, and the whole boy danced with the dancing sunbeams, why, what could two soft-hearted old hens do but meekly lead the way to where their cherished eggs lay, warm and white, in their fragrant nests of hay? "And what is to be done with them?" asked Mrs. Speckle, as the last egg disappeared into the basket. "Why, don't you know?" cried the boy. "We are going to have a party to-night,--a real party! Mr. Baldhead is coming, and Jim Crow, and Ger-Falcon. And Granny and Bruin are making all sorts of good things,--I'll bring you out some, if I can, dear old Speckly,--and these eggs are for a custard, don't you see?" "I see!" said Mrs. Speckle, rather ruefully. "And Coon and I are decorating the kitchen," continued he; "and Cracker is cracking the nuts and polishing the apples; and Pigeon Pretty and Miss Mary are dusting the ornaments,--so you see we are all very busy indeed. Ho! ho! what fun it will be! Good-by, Mrs. Speckle! good-by, Cluckety!" and off ran boy Toto, with his basket of eggs, leaving the two old hens to scratch about in the hay, clucking rather sadly over the memories of their own chickenhood, when they, too, went to parties, instead of laying eggs for other people's festivities. In the cottage, what a bustle was going on! The grandmother was at her pastry-board, rolling out paste, measuring and filling and covering, as quickly and deftly as if she had had two pairs of eyes instead of none at all. The bear, enveloped in a huge blue-checked apron, sat with a large mortar between his knees, pounding away at something as if his life depended on it. On the hearth sat the squirrel, cracking nuts and piling them up in pretty blue china dishes; and the two birds were carefully brushing and dusting, each with a pair of dusters which she always carried about with her,--one pair gray, and the other soft brown. As for Toto and the raccoon, they were here, there, and everywhere, all in a moment. "Now, then, where are those greens?" called the boy, when he had carefully deposited his basket of eggs in the pantry. "Here they are!" replied Coon, appearing at the same moment from the shed, dragging a mass of ground-pine, fragrant fir-boughs, and alder-twigs with their bright coral-red berries. "We will stand these big boughs in the corners, Toto. The creeping stuff will go over the looking-glass and round the windows. Eh, what do you think?" "Yes, that will do very well," said Toto. "We shall need steps, though, to reach so high, and the step-ladder is broken." "Never mind!" said Coon. "Bruin will be the step-ladder. Stand up here, Bruin, and make yourself useful." The good bear meekly obeyed, and the raccoon, mounting nimbly upon his shoulders, proceeded to arrange the trailing creepers with much grace and dexterity. "This reminds me of some of our honey-hunts, old fellow!" he said, talking as he worked. "Do you remember the famous one we had in the autumn, a little while before we came here?" "To be sure I do!" replied the bear. "That was, indeed, a famous hunt! It gave us our whole winter's supply of honey. And we might have got twice as much more, if it hadn't been for the accident." "Tell us about it," said Toto. "I wasn't with you, you know; and then came the moving, and I forgot to ask you." "Well, it was a funny time!" said the bear. "Ho! ho! it was a funny time! Coon, you see, had discovered this hive in a big oak-tree, hollow from crotch to ground. He couldn't get at it alone, for the clever bees had made it some way down inside the trunk, and he couldn't reach far enough down unless some one held him on the outside. So we went together, and I stood on my hind tip-toes, and then he climbed up and stood on my head, and I held his feet while he reached down into the hole." "Dear me!" said the grandmother, "that was very dangerous, Bruin. I wonder you allowed it." "Well, you see, dear Madam," replied the bear, apologetically, "it was really the only way. I couldn't stand on Coon's head and have him hold _my_ feet, you know; and we couldn't give up the honey, the finest crop of the season. So--" "Oh, it was all right!" broke in the raccoon. "At least, it was at first. There was such a quantity of honey,--pots and pots of it!--and all of the very best quality. I took out comb after comb, laying them in the crotch of the tree for safe-keeping till I was ready to go down." "But where were the bees all the time?" asked Toto. "Oh, they were there!" replied the raccoon, "buzzing about and making a fine fuss. They tried to sting me, of course, but my fur was too much for them. The only part I feared for was my nose, and that I had covered with two or three thicknesses of mullein-leaves, tied on with stout grass. But as ill-luck would have it, they found out Bruin, and began to buzz about him, too. One flew into his eye, and he let my feet go for an instant,--just just for the very instant when I was leaning down as far as I could possibly stretch to reach a particularly fine comb. Up went my heels, of course, and down went I." "Oh, oh!" cried the grandmother. "My _dear_ Coon! do you mean--" "I mean _down_, dear Madam!" repeated the raccoon, gravely,--"the very downest down there was, I assure you. I fell through that hollow tree as the falling star darts through the ambient heavens. Luckily there was a soft bed of moss and rotten wood at the bottom, or I might not have had the happiness of being here at this moment. As it was--" "As it was," interrupted the bear, "I dragged him out by the tail through the hole at the bottom. Ho! ho! I wish you could have seen him. He had brought the whole hive with him. Indeed, he looked like a hive himself, covered from head to foot with wax and honey, and a cloud of bees buzzing about him. But he had a huge piece of comb in each paw, and was gobbling away, eating honey, wax, bees and all, as if nothing had happened." "Naturally," said the raccoon, "I am of a saving disposition, as you know, and cannot bear to see anything wasted. It is not generally known that bees add a slight pungent flavor to the honey, which is very agreeable. Ve-ry agreeable!" he repeated, throwing his head back, and screwing up one eye, to contemplate the arrangement he had just completed. "How is that, Toto; pretty, eh?" "Very pretty!" said Toto. "But, see here, if you keep Bruin there all day, we shall never get through all we have to do. Jump down, that's a good fellow, and help me to polish these tankards." When all was ready, as in due time it was, surely it would have been hard to find a pleasanter looking place than that kitchen. The clean white walls were hung with wreaths and garlands, while the great fir-boughs in the corners filled the air with their warm, spicy fragrance. Every bit of metal--brass, copper, or steel--was polished so that it shone resplendent, giving back the joyous blaze of the crackling fire in a hundred tiny reflections. The kettle was especially glorious, and felt the importance of its position keenly. "I trust you have no unpleasant feeling about this," it said to the black soup-kettle. "Every one cannot be beautiful, you know. If you are useful, you should be content with that." "Hubble! bubble! Bubble! hubble! Some have the fun, and some have the trouble!" replied the soup-kettle. "My business is to make soup, and I make it. That is all I have to say." The table was covered with a snowy cloth, and set with glistening crockery--white and blue--and clean shining pewter. The great tankard had been brought out of its cupboard, and polished within an inch of its life; while the three blue ginger-jars, filled with scarlet alder-berries, looked down complacently from their station on the mantelpiece. As for the floor, I cannot give you an idea of the cleanness of it. When everything else was ready and in place, the bear had fastened a homemade scrubbing-brush to each of his four feet, and then executed a sort of furious scrubbing-dance, which fairly made the house shake; and the result was a shining purity which vied with that of the linen table-cloth, or the very kettle itself. And you should have seen the good bear, when his toilet was completed! The scrubbing-brushes had been applied to his own shaggy coat as well as to the floor, and it shone, in its own way, with as much lustre as anything else; and in his left ear was stuck a red rose, from the monthly rose-bush which stood in the sunniest window and blossomed all winter long. It is extremely uncomfortable to have a rose stuck in one's ear,--you may try it yourself, and see how you like it; but Toto had stuck it there, and nothing would have induced Bruin to remove it. And you should have seen our Toto himself, carrying his own roses on his cheeks, and enough sunshine in his eyes to make a thunder-cloud laugh! And you should have seen the great Coon, glorious in scarlet neck-ribbon, and behind his ear (_not_ in it! Coon was not Bruin) a scarlet feather, the gift of Miss Mary, and very precious. And you should have seen the little squirrel, attired in his own bushy tail, and rightly thinking that he needed no other adornment; and the parrot and the wood-pigeon, both trim and elegant, with their plumage arranged to the last point of perfection. Last of all, you should have seen the dear old grandmother, the beloved Madam, with her snowy curls and cap and kerchief; and the ebony stick which generally lived in a drawer and silver paper, and only came out on great occasions. How proud Toto was of his Granny! and how the others all stood around her, gazing with wondering admiration at her gold-bowed spectacles (for those she usually wore were of horn) and the large breastpin, with a weeping-willow displayed upon it, which fastened her kerchief. "Made out of your grandfather's tail, did you say, Toto?" said the bear, in an undertone. "Astonishing!" "No, no, Bruin!" cried the boy, half pettishly. "Made out of his _hair_! Surely you might know by this time that we have no tails." "True! true!" murmured the bear, apologetically. "I beg your pardon, Toto, boy. You are not really vexed with old Bruin?" Toto rubbed his curly head affectionately against the shaggy black one, in token of amity, and the bear continued:-- "When Madam was a young grandmother, was she as beautiful as she is now?" "Why, yes, I fancy so," replied Toto. "Only she wasn't a grandmother then, you know." "How so?" inquired Bruin. "What else could she be? You never were anything but a boy, were you?" "Oh, no, of course not!" said Toto. "But that is different. When Granny was young, she was a girl, you see." "I don't believe it!" said the bear, stoutly. "I--do--_not_--believe it! I saw a girl once--many years ago; it squinted, and its hair was frowzy, and it wore a hideous basket of flowers on its head,--a dreadful creature! Madam never can have looked like _that_!" At this moment a knock was heard at the door. Toto flew to open it, and with a beaming face ushered in the old hermit, who entered leaning on his stick, with his crow perched on one shoulder and the hawk on the other. Then, what greetings followed! What introductions! What bows and courtesies, and whisking of tails and flapping of wings! The hermit's bow in greeting to the old lady was so stately that Master Coon was consumed with a desire to imitate it; and in so doing, he stepped back against the nose of the tea-kettle and burned himself, which caused him to retire suddenly under the table with a smothered shriek. (But the kettle was glad.) And the hawk and the pigeon, the raccoon and the crow, the hermit and the bear, all shook paws and claws, and vowed that they were delighted to see each other; and what is more, they really _were_ delighted, which is not always the case when such vows are made. Now, when all had become well acquainted, and every heart was prepared to be merry, they sat down to supper; and the supper was not one which was likely to make them less cheerful. For there was chicken and ham, and, oh, such a mutton-pie! You never saw such a pie; the standing crust was six inches high, and solid as a castle wall; and on that lay the upper-crust, as lightly as a butterfly resting on a leaf; while inside was store of good mutton, and moreover golden eggballs and tender little onions, and gravy as rich as all the kings of the earth put together. Ay! and besides all that there was white bread like snow, and brown bread as sweet as clover-blossoms, and jam and gingerbread, and apples and nuts, and pitchers of cream and jugs of buttermilk. Truly, it does one's heart good to think of such a supper, and I only wish that you and I had been there to help eat it. However, there was no lack of hungry mouths, with right good-will to keep their jaws at work, and for a time there was little conversation around the table, but much joy and comfort in the good victuals. The good grandmother ate little herself, though she listened with pleasure to the stirring sound of knives and forks, which told her that her guests were well and pleasantly employed. Presently the hermit addressed her, and said:-- "Honored Madam, you will be glad to know that there has been a great change in the weather during the past week. Truly, I think the spring is at hand; for the snow is fast melting away, the sun shines with more than winter's heat, and the air to-day is mild and soft." At these words there was a subdued but evident excitement among the company. The raccoon and the squirrel exchanged swift and significant glances; the birds, as if by one unconscious impulse, ruffled their feathers and plumed themselves a little. But boy Toto's face fell, and he looked at the bear, who, for his part, scratched his nose and looked intently at the pattern on his plate. "It has been a long, an unusually long, season," continued the hermit, "though doubtless it has seemed much shorter to you in your cosey cottage than to me in my lonely cavern. But I have lived the forest-life long enough to know that some of you, my friends," and he turned with a smile to the forest-friends, "must be already longing to hear the first murmur of the greenwood spring, and to note in tree and shrub the first signs of awakening life." There was a moment of silence, during which the raccoon shifted uneasily on his seat, and looked about him with restless, gleaming eyes. Suddenly the silence was broken by a singular noise, which made every one start. It was a long-drawn sound, something between a snort, a squeal, and a snore; and it came from--where _did_ it come from? "Was it you?" said one. "No! was it you?" "It seemed to come," said the hawk, who sat facing the fire, "from the wall near the fireplace." At this moment the sound was heard again, louder and more distinct, and this time it certainly _did_ come from the wall,--or rather from the cupboard in the wall, near the fireplace. "Yaw-haw! yaw-ah-hee!" Then came a muffled, scuffling sound, and finally a shrill peevish voice cried, "Let me out! let me out, I say! Coon, I know your tricks; let me out, or I'll tell Bruin this minute!" The bear burst into a volcanic roar of laughter, which made the hermit start and turn pale in spite of himself, and going to the cupboard he drew out the unhappy woodchuck, hopelessly entangled in his worsted covering, from which he had been vainly struggling to free himself. Oh, how they all laughed! It seemed as they would never have done laughing; while every moment the woodchuck grew more furious,--squeaking and barking, and even trying to bite the mighty paw which held him. But the wood-pigeon had pity on him, and with a few sharp pulls broke the worsted net, and begged Bruin to set him down on the table. This being done, Master Chucky found his nose within precisely half an inch of a most excellent piece of dried beef, upon which he fell without more ado, and stayed not to draw breath till the plate was polished clean and dry. That made every one laugh again, and altogether they were very merry, and fell to playing games and telling stories, leaving the woodchuck to try the keen edge of his appetite upon every dish on the table. By-and-by, however, this gentleman could eat no more; so he wiped his paws and whiskers, brushed his coat a little, and then joined in the sport with right good-will. It was a pleasant sight to see the great bear blindfolded, chasing Toto and Coon from one corner to another, in a grand game of blindman's buff; it was pleasant to see them playing leap-frog, and spin-the-platter, and many a good old-fashioned game besides. Then, when these sat down to rest and recover their breath, what a treat it was to see the four birds dance a quadrille, to the music of Toto's fiddle! How they fluttered and sidled, and hopped and bridled! How gracefully Miss Mary courtesied to the stately hawk; and how jealous the crow was of this rival, who stood on one leg with such a perfect grace! Ah! altogether that was a party worth going to. And when late in the evening it broke up, and the visitors started on their homeward walk, all declared it was the merriest time they had yet had together, and all wished that they might have many more such times. And yet each one knew in his heart,--and grieved to know,--that it was the last, and that the end was come. CHAPTER XV. YES, the end was come! The woodchuck sounded, the next morning, the note which had for days been vibrating in the hearts of all the wild creatures, but which they had been loth to strike, for Toto's sake. "Come!" he said. "It is time we were off. I don't know what you are all thinking of, to stay on here after you are awake. I smelt the wet earth and the water, and the sap running in the trees, even in that dungeon where you had put me. The young reeds will soon be starting beside the pool, and it is my work to trim them and thin them out properly; besides, I am going to dig a new burrow, this year. I tell you I must be off." And the squirrel with a chuckle, and the wood-pigeon with a sigh, and the raccoon with a strange feeling which he hardly understood, but which was not all pleasure, echoed the words, "We must be off!" Only the bear said nothing, for he was in the wood-shed, splitting kindling-wood with a fury of energy which sent the chips flying as if he were a saw-mill. So it came to pass that on a soft, bright day in April, when the sun was shining sweetly, and the wind blew warm from the south, and the buds were swelling on willow and alder, the party of friends stood around the door of the little cottage, exchanging farewells, half merry, half sad, and wholly loving. "After all, it is hardly good-by!" said the squirrel, gayly. "We shall be here half the time, just as we were last summer; and the other half, Toto will be in the forest. Eh, Bruin?" But Bruin rubbed his nose with his right paw, and said nothing. "And you will come to the forest, too, dear Madam!" cried the raccoon, "will you not? You will bring the knitting and the gingerbread, and we will have picnics by the pool, and you will learn to love the forest as much as Toto does. Won't she, Bruin?" But Bruin rubbed his nose with his left paw, and still said nothing. "And when my nest is made, and my little ones are fledged," cooed the wood-pigeon in her tender voice, "their first flight shall be to you, dear Madam, and their first song shall tell you that they love you, and that we love you, every day and all day. For we do love you; don't we, Bruin?" But the bear only looked helplessly around him, and scratched his head, and again said nothing. "Well," said Toto, cheerily, though with a suspicion of a quiver in his voice, "you are all jolly good fellows, and we have had a merry winter together. Of course we shall miss you sadly, Granny and I; but as you say, Cracker, we shall all see each other every day; and I am longing for the forest, too, almost as much as you are." "Dear friends," said the blind grandmother, folding her hands upon her stick, and turning her kindly face from one to the other of the group,--"dear friends, merry and helpful companions, this has indeed been a happy season that we have spent together. You have, one and all, been a comfort and a help to me, and I think you have not been discontented yourselves; still, the confinement has of course been strange to you, and we cannot wonder that you pine for your free, wildwood life. Coon, give me your paw! it is a mischievous paw, but it has never played any tricks on me, and has helped me many and many a time. My little Cracker, I shall miss your merry chatter as I sit at my spinning-wheel. Mary, and Pigeon Pretty, let me stroke your soft feathers once more, by way of 'good-by.' Woodchuck, I have seen little of you, but I trust you have enjoyed your visit, in your own way. "And now, last of all, Bruin! my good, faithful Bruin! come here and let me shake your honest, shaggy paw, and thank you for all that you have done for me and for my boy." She paused, but no answer came. "Why, where _is_ Bruin?" cried Toto, starting and looking round; "surely he was here a minute ago. Bruin! Bruin! where are you?" But no deep voice was heard, roaring cheerfully, "Here, Toto boy!" No shaggy form came in sight. Bruin was gone. "He has gone on ahead, probably," said the raccoon; "he said something, this morning, about not liking to say good-by. Come, you others, we must follow our leader. Good-by, dear Madam! See you to-morrow, Toto!" "Good-by!" "Good-by!" "Good-by!" cried all the others. And with many a backward glance, and many a wave of paw, or tail, or fluttering wing, the party of friends took their way to the forest home. Boy Toto stood with his hands in his pockets, looking after them with bright, wide-open eyes. He did not cry,--it was a part of Toto's creed that boys did not cry after they had left off petticoats,--but he felt that if he had been a girl, the tears might have come in spite of him. So he stared very hard, and puckered his mouth in a silent whistle, and felt of the marbles in his pockets,--for that is always a soothing and comforting thing to do. "Toto, dear," said his grandmother, "do you think our Bruin is really _gone_, without saying a word of farewell to us?" "So it seems!" said the boy, briefly. "I am very much grieved!" cried the old lady, putting her handkerchief to her sightless eyes,--"very, very much grieved! If it had been Coon, now, I should not have been so much surprised; but for Bruin, our faithful friend and helper, to leave us so, seems--" "_Hello!_" cried Toto, starting suddenly, "what is that noise?" Both listened, and, lo! on the quiet air came the sharp crashing sound of an axe. "He's there!" cried the boy. "He _isn't_ gone! I'll go--" and with that he went, as if he had been shot out of a catapult. Rushing into the wood-shed, he caught sight of the well-beloved shaggy figure, just raising the axe to deliver a fearful blow at an unoffending log of wood. Flinging his arms round it (the figure, not the axe nor the log), he gave it such a violent hug that bear and boy sat down suddenly on the ground, while the axe flew to the other end of the shed. "Oh, Bruin, Bruin!" cried Toto, "we thought you were gone, without saying a word to us. How could you frighten us so?" The bear rubbed his nose confusedly, and muttered something about "a few more sticks in case of cold weather." But here Toto burst out laughing in spite of himself, for the shed was piled so high with kindling-wood that the bear sat as it were at the bottom of a pit whose sides of neatly split sticks rose high above his head. "You old goose!" cried the boy. "There's kindling-wood enough here to last us ten years, at the very least. Come away! Granny wants you. She thought--" "There will be more butter to make, now, Toto, since that new calf has come," said the bear, breaking in with apparent irrelevance. "I suppose there will!" said the boy, staring. "What of it?" "And that pig is getting too big for you to manage," continued Bruin, in a serious tone. "He was impudent to _me_ the other day, and I had to take him up by the tail and swing him, before he would apologize. Now, you _couldn't_ take him up by the tail, Toto, much less swing him, and there is no use in your deceiving yourself about it." "Of course I couldn't!" cried Toto. "No one could, except you, old monster. But what _are_ you thinking about that for, now? Come along, I tell you! Granny will think you are gone, after all." And catching the bear by the ear, he led him back in triumph to the cottage-door, crying, "Granny, Granny! here he is! Now give him a good scolding, please, for frightening us so." But the grandmother never scolded. She only stroked the shaggy black fur, and said, "Bruin, dear! my good, faithful, true-hearted Bruin! I could not bear to think that you had left me without saying good-by. That hurt me very much. But you would not have done it, would you, Bruin? We ought to have known you better." The bear looked about him distractedly, and bit his paw severely, as if to relieve his feelings. "Yes I would!" he cried. "At least, if I meant to say good-by. I wouldn't say it, because I couldn't. But I don't mean to say it,--I mean I don't mean to do it. If you don't want me in the house,--being large and clumsy, as I am well aware, and ugly too,--I can sleep out by the pump, and come in to do the work. But I cannot leave the boy, please, dear Madam, nor you. And the calf wants attention, and that pig _ought_ to be swung at least once a week, and--and--" But there was no need of further speech, for Toto's arms were clinging round his neck, and Toto's voice was shouting exclamations of delight; and the grandmother was shaking his great black paw, and calling him her best friend, her dearest old Bruin, and telling him that he should never leave them. And, in fact, he never did leave them. He settled down quietly in the little cottage, and washed and churned, baked and brewed, milked the cow and kept the pig in order. Happy was the good bear, and happy was Toto, in those pleasant days. For every afternoon, when the work was done, they welcomed one or all of their forest friends; or else they sought the green, beloved forest themselves, and sat beside the fairy pool, and wandered in the cool green mazes where all was sweetness and peace, with rustle of leaves and murmur of water, and chirp of bird and insect. But evening found them always at the cottage door again, bringing their woodland joyousness to the blind grandmother, making the kitchen ring with laughter as they related the last exploits of the raccoon or the squirrel, or described the courtship of the parrot and the crow. And if you had asked any of the three, as they sat together in the porch, who was the happiest person in the world, why, Toto and the Grandmother would each have answered, "I!" But Bruin, who had never studied grammar, and knew nothing whatever about his nominatives and his accusatives, would have roared with a thunder-burst of enthusiasm, "ME!!!" University Press: John Wilson & Son, Cambridge. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Obvious punctuation errors repaired. Page 44, illustration caption, "Wah-song! Wah-song!" changed to "Wah-Song! Wah-Song!" (Golden Dragon. "Wah-Song! Wah-Song! Awake!") Page 194, "gigantie" changed to "gigantic" (statement, the gigantic) 
8697	----	GUNS AND SNOWSHOES Or The Winter Outing of the Young Hunters by CAPTAIN RALPH BONEHILL AUTHOR of "FOUR BOY HUNTERS," "FOR THE LIBERTY OF TEXAS," "THE WINNING RUN," "FLAG OF FREEDOM SERIES," ETC. ILLUSTRATED BOY HUNTERS SERIES By Captain Ralph Bonehill FOUR BOY HUNTERS Or The Winter Outing of the Young Hunters. GUNS AND SNOWSHOES Or The Outing of the Gun Club GUNS AND SNOWSHOES CONTENTS I. INTRODUCING FOUR BOYS II. A QUARREL IN THE SNOW III. THE RESULTS OF SNOWBALLING IV. THE EXPLOSION V. OFF FOR CAMP VI. CHICKENS AND MINCE PIE VII. A DISMAYING DISCOVERY VIII. THE FIRST NIGHT IN CAMP IX. INTO A HOLE AND OUT X. OUT AFTER DEER XI. SNOWBOUND XII. A CRY FOR HELP XIII. IN CAMP ONCE MORE XIV. IN WHICH A TRAMP DISAPPEARS XV. SOMETHING OF A CHASE XVI. AN EVIL COMPACT XVII. FUN IN THE CAMP XVIII. AN UNEXPECTED PERIL XIX. THE FIGHT WITH THE BUCK XX. SHOOTING WILD DUCKS XXI. A TOUCH OF A BLIZZARD XXII. A REMARKABLE CHRISTMAS XXIII. IN TROUBLE ONCE MORE XXIV. A DISAGREEABLE MEETING XXV. AT THE CAMP ONCE AGAIN XXVI. THE TRAIL THROUGH THE SNOW XXVII. THE CAPTURE OF THE TRAMP XVIII. FOUR BOYS AND A BEAR XXIX. UNEXPECTED VISITORS XXX. A SURPRISE--GOOD-BYE PREFACE. My DEAR LADS: This story is complete in itself, but forms volume two of a set known under the general title of the "Boy Hunters Series," taking the heroes through various adventures while out hunting and fishing, in the woods and mountains, and on rivers and lakes. The boys are bright, lively lads of to-day, with a strong liking for a life in the open air and a keen taste for hunting both big and little game, and for fishing in various ways. In the former volume, entitled, "Four Boy Hunters," they organized their little dun Club and obtained permission to go a number of miles from home and establish a camp on the edge of a lake. From this spot they were driven by enemies, and then settled at another camp, where they had various adventures and not a little fun, and in the end cleared up a mystery which had bothered them not a little. In the present story we have the same boys and almost the same locality, but the time is now winter, and in the pages which follow are related the sport the boys had in the snow and on the ice, and something about a new mystery, which ended in rather a surprising fashion. As I have said before, hunting, especially in our eastern states, is not what it was years ago. Almost all of the big game has disappeared, and the fellow who can get a deer or a moose without going a good many weary miles for the game is lucky. Yet in some sections small game is still fairly plentiful, and a bag full of rabbits or wild ducks is much better than nothing. With best wishes to all who love the woods and waters, a gun, a dog, and a rousing campfire, I remain, Your sincere friend, CAPTAIN RALPH BONEHILL. GUNS AND SNOWSHOES. CHAPTER I INTRODUCING FOUR BOYS "Hurrah, boys, it's snowing at last! Aren't you glad?" "Glad? You bet I'm glad, Snap! Why I've been watching for this storm for about six months!" "There you go, Whopper!" answered Charley Dodge, with a grin. "Six months indeed! Why, we haven't been home six months." "Well, it seems that long anyway," said Frank Dawson, who was usually called Whopper by his chums, because of his exaggerations when speaking. "I've just been aching to see it snow." "So that we can take that trip we proposed," put in Sheppard Reed, quickly. "I guess we are all waiting for that." "I am anyway," came from Will Caslette, the smallest lad of the four, who had gathered at their usual meeting place in the town where they resided. "Our camping out last summer was immense. If only we have half as much fun this winter!" "We will have, Giant," broke in the boy called Whopper. "Didn't I tell you I was going to bring down sixteen deer, twenty bears, two hundred wild turkeys, a boatload of wolves, and--" "Phew, Whopper! Every time you name 'em over the list gets longer!" cried Charley Dodge. "If you bring down so much game there won't be anything left for other hunters." "Well, I'll leave you a bear or two," said Whopper cheerfully. "Thanks awfully." "Leave me one lone wild turkey, Whopper dear," came mournfully from Shep Reed. "Say, if you're going to talk like that I won't leave anything," burst out Frank. "Whopper may bring down all the game, but I'll wager he can't throw a snowball as straight as I can," said Charley, taking up some snow. "See that spot on the fence yonder? Here goes for it!" The snowball was launched forth with swiftness and with a thud struck the spot directly in the center. "Hurrah! A bull's-eye for Snap!" "Humph! I can do that too!" cried Whopper, and forthwith proceeded to make a good hard snowball. Then he took aim, let drive, and the ball landed directly on the top of the one Charley had thrown. "Good for you, Whopper!" said Charley enthusiastically. "Ah, I could do that a thousand times in succession," answered the youth given to exaggeration, coolly. "Why, don't you know that one day there were six Tom cats on a fence and I took a snowball and hit 'em all?" "What, with one snowball?" queried the little lad called Giant. "Sure thing, Giant." "But how?" "Why, I made the snowball bounce from the head of one Tom cat to the head of the next," answered Whopper, unabashed. "Well, if that isn't the worst yet!" roared Shep. "Say, we ought to roll Whopper in the snow for that!" "Right you are!" cried Snap. "Come on!" "Hi! hold on!" yelled Whopper in alarm, but before he could resist he was landed on his back in the snow, and the others proceeded to roll him over "good," as Shep expressed it. The rolling process at an end, a general snowball fight ensued between all of the boys, and also several others who chanced to be passing. The scene was the town of Fairview, a place containing a main street and also another thoroughfare running to the tidy little railroad depot, where eight trains stopped daily. The town was made up of fifteen stores and shops, three churches, a hotel, and a livery stable, while just outside were a saw mill and several other industries. The place was located on the Rocky River, which, ten miles below, flowed into a beautiful sheet of water called Lake Cameron. To those who have read a previous volume of mine entitled, "Four Boy Hunters," the lads skylarking in the snow need no special introduction. For the benefit of others let me state that Charley Dodge was the son of one of the most influential men of that district, a gentleman who was a school trustee and also part owner of a big summer hotel and one of the saw mills. Sheppard Reed was the son of the best-known local physician, and he and Charley,--always called Snap, why nobody could tell--were such chums they were often spoken of as the Twins. Frank Dawson had come to Fairview a little over two years before, and had speedily made himself a prime favorite. As we have seen, he loved to exaggerate when telling things, yet with it all Whopper, so called, was as truthful as anybody. As Snap said, "you could always tell Whopper's whoppers a mile off," which I think was something of a whopper in itself, don't you? The youngest lad of the four was Will Gaslette, always called Billy or Giant. He was the son of a French widow lady, who thought the world of her offspring. Although Will was small in size, he was sturdy and self-reliant, and promised to become all that his mother hoped for him. During the previous summer the four boys had organized the Fairview Gun Club and obtained permission to go camping for a few weeks in the vicinity of Lake Cameron. They had started in high spirits, and after a number of minor adventures located on the shore of the lake. From this spot, however, they were driven by a saw mill owner named Andrew Felps, who ran a company that was a rival to the concern in which Mr. Dodge had an interest. The boys were made to give up their comfortable camp, and then they went to Firefly Lake, a mile away. Here they hunted and fished to their heart's content, being joined in some of their sports by Jed Sanborn, an old hunter and trapper who lived in the mountains between the lakes. They had some trouble with Ham Spink, a dudish youth from Fairview, who, with some cronies, located a rival camp across the lake, but this was quickly quelled. Then, during a forest fire, they captured a long-wanted criminal, and came home at last loaded down with game, and with the firm determination to go out camping again during the winter. "We couldn't spend our time more pleasantly," was what Snap said. "Just think of a cozy camp in the snow, with a roaring camp-fire, and plenty of game on all sides of you! Um! um! It's enough to make a fellow's mouth water!" "Oh, we'll have to go!" had been Shep's answer. "Of course we'll have to go to school, but we are going to have a long vacation around the holidays--" "And we can ask for our Christmas presents in advance," Giant had interrupted. "If we go out, I know what I want?" "What, Giant?" "A pair of snowshoes." "Oh, we'll all want those," had come from Whopper. "And sleds, too--for our traps." "That's right." "And another shot-gun." "Yes, and plenty of blankets. It's no fun to camp out in winter if you can't keep warm." And so the talk had run on, until the winter outing of the Gun Club became almost a certainty to them. But there were certain restrictions, one of which, placed on all of the boys by their parents, was that they should end the term at school with good averages in all their lessons. "You must get at least eighty-five per cent. out of a possible hundred in all your lessons," said Doctor Reed to Shep, "otherwise you cannot go," and the other parents said practically the same thing to Snap, Whopper and Giant. And then the boys pitched in with a will, resolved to come out ahead, "or know the reason why," as Snap said. CHAPTER II A QUARREL IN THE SNOW The snow lay on the ground to the depth of four inches and was still coming down thickly. It was the first fall of the season, and was late,--so late, in fact, that the boys had been afraid there might come no fall at all. Fast and furiously flew the snowballs and each lad was hit many times. "How is that?" sang out Whopper, as he planted a snowball directly in Snap's ear. "And how's that?" returned Snap quickly, and sent a chunk of soft snow down Frank's collar. "Wuow!" spluttered Whopper. "Hi! that isn't fair! Oh, my poor backbone!" "Here you are, Giant!" called out Shep, and hit the little lad in the back. "Sorry, but it can't be helped. I--Oh, my!" and Shep bent double as a snowball thrown by Giant with much force took him directly in the stomach. "Just to remember me by!" sang out Giant. "Here's another," and the ball struck Shep in the elbow. "Small favors thankfully received and big ones granted in return. There you are!" And still another snowball landed on Shep's neck. Five other boys had come up, and now the contestants were lined up on both sides of the street not far from a corner, where there was a turn running down to the depot. As the snowballing went on a distant locomotive whistle sounded out and the afternoon train from the East rolled into the station. Several passengers alighted and among the number was Andrew Felps, of the Felps Lumber Company, the man who had caused the boy hunters so much trouble the summer previous. Mr. Andrew Felps was in a bad humor. He had gone to the city on business and matters had not turned out as he had expected. Now he had gotten back, dressed in his best, and wearing a new silk hat, and he had no umbrella with which to protect himself from the snow-storm. More than this, his coachman, who generally met him when he came in on the train, was not in sight. "Bah! I'll have to walk I suppose," muttered the saw mill owner, as he looked around for a carriage and found none. "Just the time you want a rig you can't find one. I'll discharge Johnson as soon as I reach home." With his coat buttoned up around his neck, and his head bent low to escape the scudding snow, Andrew Felps hurried away from the depot and up to the main street of Fairview. Then he made another turn, presently reaching the spot where our heroes and the other lads were having their sport. "Hi! here comes old Felps!" cried Giant. "We ought to give him something to remember us by!" "Don't you do it!" returned Snap quickly. "He doesn't know what fun is, and he'd be sure to make trouble." Some other boys were coming up, and the snowballs began to fly more furiously than ever. Snap, Shep, Whopper and Giant were on one side, and a boy named Carl Dudder and five other town lads on the other side. In the midst of the rallies came a yell of alarm, followed by several loud cries of rage. "Hullo! look there!" exclaimed Whopper. "Old Felps has been knocked into the middle of next month. There goes his hat in the snow too! Who threw at him?" "I didn't," answered Giant, promptly. "Neither did I," came from Snap. "Nor I," added Shep. The saw mill owner was flat on his back, his silk hat on one side of him and a package of books and papers on the other. "Maybe he slipped on some ice," suggested Snap. "Hi! hi! who threw that snowball!" roared Andrew Felps, savagely, as he arose to his feet. "You young villains! I'll have the law on you for this!" He scrambled to his feet and glared around him. All of the boys had stopped throwing at once and gazed at him curiously. "Ha! I know you!" went on Andrew Felps, striding up to Snap. "It was you who hit me in the ear and knocked me down!" "No, sir, I did not," answered Charley. "I know better! I saw you do it!" "You are mistaken, Mr. Felps! I was throwing across the street." "Don't tell me! I know better, Dodge. You hit me and you did it on purpose." At this Snap merely shrugged his shoulders. "I'll have the law on you," fumed Andrew Felps. "Snap didn't hit you," said Shep. "Ha! then perhaps you threw the snowball," said the saw mill owner suspiciously. "I did not." "I know you boys, and I have not forgotten your work against me last summer," growled Andrew Felps. "And we haven't forgotten you," answered Snap, coldly. "You have no right to accuse me of something I didn't do." "Bah! If I find out who hit me I'll make it warm for him!" And having thus delivered himself Andrew Felps picked up his silk hat and his bundle and went on his way, in a worse humor than ever. "Isn't he a darling?" observed Whopper sarcastically. "How I would love to own him for a brother!" "I wonder who did hit him?" mused Snap. "The snowball couldn't have come from over here." "I know who hit him," said a little boy named Benny Grime. "Who was it, Benny?" "Ham Spink." "Ham Spink!" cried Snap and Shep in concert. "Yes." "Why, he isn't here," said Whopper. "He just came up, threw one snowball, and ran away. I guess he meant to hit somebody else and the snowball hit Mr. Felps instead," went on the small boy. "Don't let him know I told you, or he'll wax me good for it." "I shan't tell Ham," said Snap. "But this is strange," he continued. "Thought Ham was too much of a dude to throw snowballs," was Whopper's comment. "Why, he wears a new necktie every day now, and new patent leather shoes, and new gloves, and--" "Don't pile it on too thick, Whopper," laughed Shep. "But I admit, he is a dude and no mistake." "And a sneak--to run away as soon as he hit old Felps," finished Giant. There was no time to say more, for the snowball battle was again raging, more furiously than ever. The balls flew on all sides, and grown folks, coming in that direction, kept out of the way as much as possible. "Here comes old Mammy Shrader!" cried Snap, presently. "We must be careful not to hit her." The woman he referred to was old and feeble and very short sighted. She had a faded shawl over her shoulders and carried a market basket on one arm. She went out nursing among the poor people and was well known throughout the entire neighborhood. As the old woman came on a snowball was thrown at her from the other side of the street. "Say, don't do that!" called out Snap, angrily. "Leave Mammy Shrader alone!" He has scarcely uttered the words when another snowball was thrown at the aged female. This hit her on the cheek and caused her to utter a cry of pain. She tried to save herself from falling, but could not, and went down in a heap. "For shame!" ejaculated Shep and ran to help the old woman to arise. In the meantime Snap, with flashing eyes, hurried across the street and confronted Carl Dudder. As my old readers know, Carl Dudder was a close crony to Ham Spink and had done his full share in making our young friends uncomfortable during the summer outing. "Dudder, aren't you ashamed of yourself?" said Snap. "What are you talking about?" demanded Carl Dudder, although he trembled a little as he spoke. "You threw those snowballs at Mammy Shrader." "I didn't." "You did--I saw you." "That's correct--I saw him too," put in Giant, who had followed Snap. In the meantime Whopper had followed Shep, and both were doing what they could for the old woman. "See here, Snap Dodge, I don't want you to talk to me," blustered Carl Dudder. "I know my own business." "You ought to be knocked down for throwing at Mammy Shrader." "You can't knock me down!" growled Carl, doubling up his fists. "A fight! a fight!" cried several boys, always ready for an affair of that sort. There was an awkward pause. Snap did not wish to fight, and yet he wanted Dudder to understand that he was not afraid. "I think I owe you something from last summer," said Dudder, coming closer and sticking his chin in Snap's face. "I haven't forgotten that." "Yes, but you seem to have forgotten that we about kept you from starving to death," answered Snap calmly. "And that's no joke," came softly from Giant. "You keep your oar out, little one," grunted Dudder, turning to glare at Will. "You and your crowd acted very meanly last summer and you know it, Dudder," said Giant, not in the least abashed. "Your treatment of Mammy Shrader is on a par with your other actions." "Shut up!" roared the other boy, and made a quick pass at Giant's head. But the small boy dodged and the fist struck Snap on the shoulder. The next instant Snap hauled off, struck out, and Carl Dudder measured his length in the snow. CHAPTER III THE RESULTS OF SNOWBALLING Carl Rudder had not expected this telling blow and he was so dazed it was several seconds before he turned over in the snow and arose to his feet. "Good for you, Snap!" cried Will. "That's the way to serve him." "Wha--what do you mean by hitting me like that?" demanded Dudder, glaring at Charley, but still keeping a safe distance. "What do you mean by hitting me?" demanded Snap. "I'll punch your head good for you! "Try it--if you dare," answered Snap, defiantly, and he took an aggressive step forward, at which Dudder retreated. "I'll fight you another time--when you haven't so many friends around," said Carl Dudder lamely, and then turning on his heel he started away, followed by one of his cronies. "If old Mammy Shrader is hurt, you'll be to blame," called Snap after him. "He's a coward," was Giant's comment. "I wish I had got a whack at him. He is much larger than I am, but I am not afraid of him." While this scene was transpiring Shep and Whopper had helped old Mammy Shrader to a seat on the porch of a house not far from where she had gone down. The old woman complained of a pain in her side and it was next to impossible for her to take another step. "I'll have to go home," she panted. "But how am I to get there?" "Here comes Mr. Sell in his grocery wagon," cried Whopper. "Perhaps he'll give you a ride." "Maybe he will--I buy my things from him," answered the old woman. The grocer was stopped and the situation explained, and he readily volunteered to take Mammy Shrader to her home, located at no great distance. He and the boys helped her into the wagon. "The boy who struck her ought to be horsewhipped," said the grocer. "Fun is one thing, but hitting an old woman is quite another." "Just what I say," answered Shep. "Well, I knocked him down anyway," said Snap, coming up, and Giant told the details of the brief encounter. Snap volunteered to go with the grocer, and between them they soon had Mammy Shrader at her home and lying on a couch. Shep hurried home and told his father the particulars of what had occurred. "I will drive over and see her," said the doctor, and as his horse was hitched up he went immediately. "She is suffering from a sprain and from the jar," said the physician, after an examination. "She must take it easy for a week or so." Then a neighbor, who had dropped in, said she would look after the patient during that time. "Carl Dudder ought to be made to pay for this," said Doctor Reed. "The Dudders won't pay anything--Mr. Dudder is as miserly as they make him, even if he is well off," said Whopper. "Perhaps he can be forced to pay," replied Snap. When Carl Dudder heard that a doctor had been called in to attend Mammy Shrader he was much frightened. He went to consult Ham Spink about it. The two were hand-in-glove in everything. "Are they sure you threw the snowball?" asked Ham Spink, pointedly. "They say they saw me." "Who says so?" "Oh, Snap Dodge and that crowd." "Always that crowd!" muttered Ham Spink. "They say they know you knocked Andrew Felps down," went on Dudder, finding some consolation in the fact that Ham was in difficulties too. "They didn't see a thing!" roared the dudish youth. "Well, that is what they say." "Humph! Carl, they are bound to get us into trouble." "Of course. They haven't got over last summer's trouble yet. I suppose they will make it as hot for us as they can." "Well, let us stick together and maybe we can face them down," was Ham Spink's comment, and then he lit a cigarette and offered one to his crony, and both fell to smoking. That very evening both youths had to "face the music," and in a manner which did not please them in the least. Coming home just before supper Mr. Spink, found a note awaiting him. It was from Andrew Felps and ran, in part, as follows: "I have a complaint to make against your son Hamilton. To-day while I was on my way through the streets of our town I was assailed in the fashion of a ruffian by your son, who threw snowballs at me, knocking me down and ruining my silk hat and a rare volume of history I was carrying. I demand that your son apologize to me for his actions or I shall make a complaint to the authorities." "Hamilton, what does this mean?" demanded Mr. Spink, after perusing the communication several times. "I don't know," answered the undutiful offspring brazenly. "Did you snowball Mr. Felps?" "No. I didn't snowball anybody." "He says you did." "He must be mistaken." "It is mighty queer," muttered Mr. Spink. "I will look into this to-morrow." "The old Harry take Felps anyway," muttered Ham to himself. "How did he learn I threw that snowball? That Dodge crowd must have told him." It was Mammy Shrader's neighbor, Samuel O'Brien, who called upon Mr. Dudder. "Sure, Mr. Dodder, yer son ought to be locked up, so he ought," said the Irishman. "It's him as is wantin' to kill old Mammy Shrader." "Why, what do you mean, sir?" demanded Mr. Dudder, in amazement. "Sure an' wasn't it Carl as knocked the old lady down to-day and laid her on a sick bed, wid a doctor, an' me wife to nurse her till she gits betther? Sure it's a bastly shame, so it is, an' Carl will go to the lock-up onless ye pay all the bills." "I do not understand you." "Thin I'll be after explainin'," answered Samuel O'Brien, and gave his story in full, to which Mr. Dudder listened in a nervous fashion. Then Carl was called into the room. "What do you mean by making trouble in this fashion?" demanded Mr. Dudder wrathfully. "I didn't make trouble," said Carl, sullenly. "Sure an' he did that," said the Irishman. "Mr. O'Brien says you knocked Mrs. Shrader down." "I didn't." "He was seen--several b'ys saw him," put in Samuel O'Brien. "I--er--it was an accident," stammered Carl, quailing before the stern gaze of his parent. "The--er--the snowball slipped. It didn't hit Mammy Shrader hard, and she fell down of her own account, not because of the snowball." "She says th' snowball knocked her down," said Samuel O'Brien. "If ye was my b'y I'd be afther givin' ye a good walloppin', so I would!" he added pointedly. "I will go and see Mrs. Shrader," said Mr. Dudder. "Carl, you remain at home until I get back." "Can't I go over and see Ham?" "No." "I promised him that I would be over." "Well, you can't go. You study your lessons, unless you prefer to go with me to Mrs. Shrader's." "I don't want to go to her house," said Carl. Mr. Dudder lost no time in paying Mammy Shrader a visit, and then he called on Doctor Reed. When he came home again he was very angry. "Carl, I have a good mind to punish you severely," he said. "I did not think you would treat a woman as Mrs. Shrader has been treated. I shall have to pay her doctor's bill and also something more--at least fifteen or twenty dollars." Mr. Dudder sighed at the thought of parting with so much cash. "I shall take the amount out of your spending money, and out of the money I was going to give you for Christmas." "Can't I have the five dollars you promised me for Christmas?" gasped Carl. "Not a cent of it." "Oh, you're a mean thing!" burst out Carl, and ran from the room before his father could stop him. CHAPTER IV THE EXPLOSION On the following afternoon Snap was walking down to the river front, on an errand for his father, when he caught sight of Ham Spink and Carl Dudder, under a lumber shed. The pair were conversing in an earnest fashion, but ceased their conversation as Snap came closer. Snap knew that Ham and Carl were in far from a friendly humor. Through one boy he had learned how Carl had been treated by his father, and through another how Andrew Felps had discovered that Ham had been his aggressor. There had been a lively interview when Mr. Felps and Mr. Spink had met, and in the end the latter had said he would stand for all damage done. Then he had gone home and laid down the law good and hard to Ham. "To punish you I will cut off your spending money," said Mr. Spink, and thus Ham and Carl found themselves in the same trouble so far as cash was concerned. It galled them exceedingly, and, as was their habit, they laid the blame entirely on others. As Snap passed the shed both Ham and Carl scowled at him. Then, after he had gone a dozen steps, Ham called out: "Come back here. I want to talk to you." "Did you address me?" demanded Snap, wheeling around. "I did. Come here, I want to talk to you." Snap did not budge. "If you want to talk to me you can come where I am," he said. "Oh, you needn't get so mighty high and loftly!" sneered Ham Spink. "I am not your servant." "Nice stories you and your crowd have been telling about me and Carl," went on Ham, coming closer. "Trying to get us into trouble," put in Carl. "It's a jolly shame and you ought to be thrashed for it." "See here, Dudder, and you too, Spink," answered Charley firmly, "I want no quarrel with you. Ever since our outing last summer you have been like bears with sore heads. If your camping out was a failure it wasn't our fault. When you hadn't any game we let you have some of ours, and we did a great deal more for you than you deserved. Now--" "Oh, don't preach!" cried Ham. "What do you want of me?" "I want to give you fair warning that neither I nor Carl will stand for the way you are acting. Either you keep your distance, or it will be the worse for you." "I am not afraid of you." "Well, you had better be." "What do you mean by that?" demanded Snap. He fancied there might be some hidden meaning to Ham Spink's words. "Oh, you'll find out one of these days," came from Carl, significantly. "If you try any of your underhanded tricks you'll get the worst of it--just as you did up to the camp," answered Snap, and went on his way. "Oh, I wish I could mash him!" muttered Ham Spink, between his set teeth. "Yes, and mash the whole crowd of 'em," added Dodder. "I hate the very sight of 'em!" "Do you know that they are talking about camping out again?" "What, this winter?" "Yes." "Where?" "That I don't know." "I'd like to spoil the trip for them." "So would I. Maybe we can do it too, if we watch our chances." The two talked the matter over for some time and when they separated it was with the fixed determination to play some underhanded trick and do "the Dodge crowd," as they called our friends much harm. All of the boys who attended the local school had been waiting impatiently to learn when the present session would come to an end. Now it was announced that school would close the following Friday afternoon and remain shut up for three weeks and a half. "Hurrah! that will give us just time enough for a dandy outing!" cried Whopper. "You'll have to kill a bear a day to make up the number you said you'd bring down," answered, Giant. "Pooh! I never kill bears singly," sniffed Whopper. "I always kill them in pairs or by the half dozen." "We've got to make sure that we can go first," said Shep. "Remember the school averages." They did remember, and all were very anxious concerning the examinations to come off before the term closed. They studied hard, and came out with an average of eight-eight to ninety-four per cent. "Good!" said Snap. "Our folks can't find fault with such records." And nobody did find fault. On the contrary, the boys received not a little praise, and permission to go on the winter outing was readily granted. "Let us start next Monday," said Giant, who was impatient to get away. "I doubt if we can get ready so quickly," answered Shep. "There is a good deal to do, you know." "Then make it Tuesday," pleaded Giant. "The ice on the river is perfect, so it will be the easiest thing in the world to skate to the lake and drag our sleds after us." It had already been decided that they should go into camp at Firefly Lake, where they had left their summer shelter only a few months before. Firefly Lake was a beautiful sheet of water, or ice, located a mile from Lake Cameron, and about eleven miles from Fairview. To get to this spot they had to go to Lake Cameron first and then along a narrow watercourse which united the two sheets of water. The news quickly spread through the town that the Gun Club was going away on another outing, and many envied our friends their coming pleasures. Ham Spink and Carl Rudder looked sour over the prospects. "Where are they going?" asked Carl. "To Firefly Lake, to their old camp." After this announcement both boys looked at each other suggestively. "It will be moonlight to-night, and we can easily skate twenty or twenty-five miles," suggested Ham. "So we can, Ham. Let us do it, and--_fix things_." "We will," said Ham firmly. As soon as it was settled that our friends were to go away before Christmas, and remain away over the holidays, they received from their parents several gifts in advance. All obtained snowshoes--picked out for them by their old hunter friend, Jed Sanborn--and they also procured an extra gun, an extra sled, and some warm camp blankets. They still possessed their old camp outfit and so it was an easy matter to gather the things together and get everything ready for the start. The outfit was packed upon two good-sized sleds and well fastened. "I suppose we ought to have skated up to the camp and inspected things," observed Snap. "But I have been too busy to do so." "Oh, I reckon everything is as we left it," answered Whopper. "The camp was all right two weeks ago," said Jed Sanborn, who chanced to be present. "Of course you'll have to fix up some kind of a chimney in the cabin, for you can't keep your fire outdoors in this weather." "It's as much fun to fix up the cabin as it is to camp out," said Shep, and the others agreed with him. On Monday afternoon the boys got their things together and stored them in an old boathouse on the river front. They had looked to their skates and each pair had been sharpened and put in first class condition. "We may use our skates as much as the snowshoes," said Whopper. With everything stored in the old boathouse the door was carefully locked by Shep, who put the key in his pocket. The old boathouse had two windows, but each of these was nailed shut. "I don't believe anybody will get in there," observed the doctor's son. "Oh, I don't think there are any thieves around," answered Whopper. The evening was devoted to final preparations, and it was after ten o'clock before any of the boys thought of retiring. Snap was over to Shep's house, and the doctor's son saw his friend to the front door. "Now remember, seven o'clock sharp," said Shep. "We want to get away as early as possible, so we'll have plenty of time to fix up the cabin when we get there." "Oh, I'll be up early enough," said Snap, with a smile. "Fact of it is, I am so worked up I don't expect to do much sleeping." After a few words more the boys separated, and Snap started to walk home. He had almost reached his gate when something prompted him to halt. He looked down the roadway in the direction of the old boathouse. "I have half a mind to go down and see if everything is O. K.," he murmured to himself. Then he thought it would be foolish, and started to enter the house. But he was undecided, and at last hurried down the roadway in the direction of the river. He was still some distance from the old boathouse when he discovered two persons running across an open field which lined the roadway. He could not make out anything excepting that they were either men or big boys. "That's queer," he reasoned, and then started forward again. Snap was still two hundred feet from the old boathouse when a most extraordinary thing happened. There was a rumble as of thunder, followed by a fierce flash of fire, and then the end of the boathouse arose in the air and came down with a crash, completely wrecking what was left of the building! CHAPTER V OFF FOR THE CAMP The sudden and unexpected shock nearly threw Snap from his feet, and it was several seconds before he could collect his senses. Then, in a dim and uncertain way, he realized two things--that there had been a terrific explosion and that the old boathouse containing their precious camping outfit was in ruins. "What in the world can it mean?" he asked himself, as he stared in a bewildered fashion at the ruin in front of him. "It sounded as if some dynamite went off." The noise and shock of the explosion was heard all over Fairview, and soon people came flocking to the scene from all directions. "What blew up?" "Hullo, the Cramer boathouse is down!" "Fire! fire!" Such were some of the cries which arose on all sides. Then the crowd came closer, staring at the fallen building, as Snap had done. In the meanwhile Snap ran forward until he was less than a rod away from the wrecked building. He saw a small fire start up among some splintered boards and, quick to act, picked up some chunks of snow and attempted to put it out. "That's a good idea," said John Sell, the grocer, who had arrived, and he, too, began to throw the snow, and so did others. "Our camping-out things are in that place," said Snap. "Is that so. What blew up, some of your powder?" "I--I don't think so," faltered Snap. He had up to that moment not thought of the cartridges they had stored on one of the sleds. "Must have been pretty powerful," said another man. "That noise was like a regular blast over to the stone quarries." In the crowd was Shep, who had just been on be point of going to bed, and soon Whopper and Giant arrived. In the meanwhile large quantities of snow were hurled on the ruins and soon the fire was completely under control. "Snap, do you think our cartridges went off? questioned Whopper. "No, I don't. How could they go off, unless they were fired, from a gun or otherwise?" "A rat might have gnawed them," suggested Giant. "Those cartridges wouldn't cause such a wreckage as this," said Snap firmly. His senses were now coming back to him. "Well, I never!" he exclaimed suddenly. "What's up now?" "I just thought of something." "What is it?" "When I left Shep's house I walked in this direction, because I was worried for fear somebody might steal our traps. As I walked along I saw two persons running across Hecker's cornfield. I couldn't make out who they were, but I fancy they came from this direction." "Then they must have caused the explosion," said Whopper quickly. "But why should they do it?" "Maybe it was an accident," said Giant. "I'd like to know how much our outfit is damaged," said Shep, anxiously. "I don't care about the old boathouse. It wasn't worth much anyway." From a nearby store several lanterns were brought, and men and boys proceeded to make an inspection of the ruins. Some boards and timbers were hauled aside, and soon the boys discovered the sleds with the outfit practically as they had left them. One load was a bit damaged at the end, but that was all. "I'm thankful it is no worse," was Snap's comment. "If the fire hadn't been put out when it was everything would have burnt up," said Shep seriously. While the boys were taking care of their sleds and the other things the men folks looked around for traces of what had caused the explosion. Among the men was Jerry Corwin, one of the blasters at the stone quarry. "Dynamite did this," said he. "Dynamite and nothing else." "It certainly sounded like dynamite," said another man. "How would dynamite get here?" asked Mr. Dodge, who had arrived on the scene. At this question Jerry Corwin shrugged his massive shoulders. "Once in a while some dynamite is missing from our store at the quarry," he answered. "The laborers steal it, for they can sell it to farmers for blasting out stumps, and to others. During the past six months we have lost at least a dozen sticks." "As the boathouse was not worth much, why was it blown up?" asked Doctor Reed, who had been summoned by somebody who thought a man had been hurt. "That's the question," said Mr. Dodge. "Evidently it contained nothing of value outside of the outfit belonging to our sons." "Hum!" murmured the physician, and said no more. It was a bitter cold night, so after the fire was put out and the ruins examined, the majority of the crowd went home. The members of the Gun Club put their outfits in a neighboring barn, where a friend promised they should be safe, and then, after a short talk, went to their respective abodes. It was a good hour before any of the lads got to sleep. Whopper was just dreaming of another terrific explosion when he awoke with a start, to hear a loud pounding on the side of the house, directly under his bedroom window. Opening the sash cautiously he caught sight of Giant below, hitting the clapboards with a snow shovel which happened to be handy. "Oh, what a racket!" murmured Whopper. "I must pay him for that!" And scooping up some snow from the window sill he gave a low whistle. Then as Giant looked up, he let the snow drop. "Wuow!" spluttered the little lad, as the loose snow filled his mouth and nose. "Say, do you want to smother me?" "Then stop that infernal racket," answered Whopper. "Do you want the neighborhood to think that there are more explosions taking place?" "Time to be moving," said Giant, and passed on, to arouse Shep. "Now, my son, be very careful and keep out of danger," said Mr. Dodge to Charley, when the latter was ready to leave. "I shall send old Jed Sanborn up to see you once or twice, and if you need anything from here you let him know and he can bring it to you." And then, after a warm handshake from his father and a kiss from his mother, Snap almost ran from the house, fearful that he would be late. At the barn where the things had been stored he found Giant and Shep, but nothing was to be seen of Whopper. "I woke him up," said Giant. "Something has gone wrong, or he would be here by this time." They waited five minutes longer, and Snap was on the point of going to Whopper's home when they saw the missing club member approaching on a run. "What in the world kept you so long?" cried Shep. "Oh, I had a little set-to with Barney Hedge," answered Whopper. "He said some things I didn't like and I rolled him over in the snow and put some down his back to help him cool off." "Barney Hedge," repeated Snap. He knew the fellow mentioned to be a crony of Ham Spink and Carl Dudder. "What was it about?" "Oh, about our outing last summer. It seems Hedge and the others are starting a report that we didn't shoot the game we brought in, but that Jed Sanborn brought down the most of it for us." "How mean!" cried Giant. "He said we couldn't shoot but that we were all blowers--and if left to ourselves in this cold weather we would starve to death and freeze in the bargain. I couldn't stand for that, so I pitched into him." "Good for you!" shouted Giant. "I hope you gave him something to remember." "I wonder if we will have trouble with that crowd during the present outing," mused Snap after a pause. "I don't think they are going camping," answered Whopper. "They haven't got enough real sporting blood in them." After that the topic of conversation quickly changed, as they looked over their things for the last time, to make certain that everything was there. The boys carried a good supply of clothing, including extra underwear and extra pairs of boots. Each had a pair of warm blankets and also a rubber sheet, to be used in case of sudden rain. The stores were made up of a variety of things, including flour, bacon, beans, some canned goods, and coffee, chocolate, sugar, salt, pepper and condensed milk. They had their old "nest" of pans and kettles, tin cups and plates, and likewise enough knives, forks and spoons to go around. In a waterproof case were several boxes of matches, and they also had along an acetylene bicycle lamp, which they thought they might use in bringing down game at night, and an axe and a hatchet. All of the young sportsmen were armed with shotguns and they also took along Mr. Dodge's rifle, as they had done before, and the trusty pistol belonging to Doctor Reed. Their snowshoes were placed on the tops of the loads, and they put on their well-sharpened skates as soon as the river front was reached. "Good-bye to Fairview!" cried Shep, when all was in readiness for the start. "Good-bye, boys, and the best of luck for you!" shouted Doctor Reed, who had driven down in his sleigh, to see them off. "Don't let the bears eat you up!" called out a riverman who stood on the dock. "No danger of that," answered Snap. And then with a shout and the waving of caps, the members of the Fairview Gun Club set off on their winter outing, never dreaming of the many surprises and perils which awaited them. CHAPTER VI CHICKENS AND MINCE PIE It was a perfect winter day, with a dull golden glow in the sky and only a faint breeze from the north blowing. On the ground the snow lay to the depth of ten inches or a foot, but the wind of the week past had almost cleared the ice on the river. Here and there were long ridges of snow across the glare, but that was all. The young hunters had tied long ropes to the sleds, and while Whopper and Shep pulled one turnout, Snap and Giant dragged the other. The sleds had polished runners, and slid over the river surface so easily that pulling was more sport than work. The course was down the river towards Lake Cameron, and in a very few minutes the town neighborhood was left behind. On either side of the frozen stream were trees and bushes, with here and there a cleared patch or an orchard. Some boys accompanied them a short distance, but then these dropped back, and our four young friends were left to themselves. "Do you remember how we stopped at Pop Lundy's orchard when we went to the camp in the rowboat?" observed Shep. "Yes, and how he caught us and then got us to go after the negro who stole the watch," put in Whopper. "I shouldn't mind having some of his apples now," said Giant. "We ought to have taken apples along." "There is the orchard now," cried Snap. "But there are no apples to be had this time of year." "As if we would dare to take them," said Whopper, with a wink of his eye. As they neared the spot where the orchard ran down to the river shore they heard the sound of an axe and saw Simon Lundy chopping down an old apple tree for firewood. The man was a very close-fisted farmer and was rarely known to do a charitable act. "How are you, Mr. Lundy!" called out Snap, as he brought one of the sleds to a halt. "How do ye do," grunted the farmer, and then gave a closer look. "Oh, so it's you fellers ag'in, hey? Goin' campin' once more? "We are." "How are your apples getting along?" asked Shep, also halting. "Didn't have sech a big crop as I expected." "Thought you might spare us a few," suggested Whopper. "Of course we'll pay for them, if you wish." "Well, there hain't much profit in givin' apples away," said Simon Lundy, pursing up his thin lips. "Got some putty good golden russets left. How many do ye want?" "Give us all you can spare for a quarter," said Shep, who had been chosen treasurer of the club for the outing. Simon Lundy led the way to his barn, and there the boys picked out some russets and some greenings. While this was going on Mrs. Lundy came from the house to see the visitors. "Why, if it ain't them same boys as helped to catch that nigger!" she cried. "Want some apples, hey? Give 'em all they want, Simon. They deserve 'em." "I was a--er--a--sellin' them the apples," answered the husband, lamely, and growing a bit red in the face. "What! Simon Lundy, ain't ye ashamed! You shan't take a cent from 'em, not a cent! Why, the idee!" "All right, all right, if you say so," said the farmer hastily. "I do say so." Mrs. Lundy turned to the young hunters. "Where be you a-goin?" "We are going camping," answered Snap. "At the same place we were last summer." "Ain't you afraid o' being frizz to death?" "Oh, I think we can stand it." "What have ye took along to eat?" Snap told her and she shrugged her shoulders. "Ye ought to have brung more, boys. Now, I've jest been a-makin' some mince pies. Wouldn't ye like one o' them?" "Yes, indeed!" shouted Whopper, who had a weakness for that dainty. "I can eat mince pie in the middle of my sleep." "Then you shall have the biggest pie o' the lot," said Mrs. Lundy. "And, Simon," she added, to her husband, "you jest kill a couple o' fat chickens fer 'em. Maybe they won't find no game the first day they be in camp, an' they ought to have some kind o' meat." "It's drefful expensive!" groaned Simon Lundy. "Shucks! These boys did us a real service, an' want 'em to know we appreciate it," answered Mrs. Lundy briskly. She told her husband what chickens to catch and kill, and helped pull the feathers. Then she brought forth the still steaming mince pie, leaving it in the stone dish in which it had been baked. "You can leave the dish when you come back--if you think o' it," she said, "and if ye don't, 'twon't matter much." A little later saw the four boy hunters on their way again, the precious mince pie resting on the top of one of the sled loads and the apples and chickens on the other. Mrs. Lundy waved them a cheery adieu and Simon smiled somewhat grimly. "It nearly broke old Pop Lundy's heart to give the things away," was Giant's comment. "It wasn't any more than fair, after what we did for him," answered Shep. "Say, boys, camping out with chicken and mince pie won't be bad, will it?" "Yum! yum!" was the only answer the others gave. By noon they found themselves on Lake Cameron. On one shore were the grim evidences of that terrible forest fire which had nearly cost the saw mill robber and the Felps' crowd their lives. A few spots on the lake were clear, but at other points the snow lay from a few inches to a foot and a half deep. They skated to the opposite shore and stopped near the shelter of some pines and hemlocks. All were willing to rest, and a small campfire was built, over which they made a pot of coffee. They had brought with them some sandwiches and some cake, and these made up the brief noonday meal. "Here goes for a first shot!" cried Snap, leaping to his feet with a part of a sandwich still in his mouth. He had discovered several rabbits near some bushes up the lake shore. Catching up his shotgun he took careful aim and blazed away. "Two of them!" exclaimed Shep. "Good for you, Snap!" Snap ran forward and picked up the game. They were plump and heavy and he held them up with pride. "We shan't starve just yet," remarked Giant. "We are sure to get rabbits, and partridge and wild turkeys, and there must be plenty of fish under this ice." All of the party were anxious to reach the former camp, to see what it looked like, so the noonday rest did not last long. Skirting one shore of Lake Cameron, they came to the narrow waterway that connected it with Firefly Lake. Here the water, which usually flowed swiftly between the rocks, was frozen up in a lumpy fashion that made skating impossible. "We'll have to walk the rest of the distance," announced Whopper. "We couldn't skate on this in a million years." "I wish we could try the snowshoes," said Giant. He knew very little about using the articles. "Can't do it," answered Snap. "But just you wait, we'll have more snow before long and then the snowshoes will come in mighty handy." They took off their skates, put them on the sleds, and started up the rocky and frozen watercourse. The walking was treacherous and soon Whopper went down, with Shep on top of him. The bag of apples came over both. "Hi! get off of me!" roared Whopper. "Do you want to crush me into a pancake? Who threw that bag of apples?" "You want to be careful of the loads," admonished Snap. "Don't throw off the mince pie as you did the apples." "Look!" yelled Giant, who had been gazing to the north of the watercourse. "Am I mistaken, or is that a deer?" "A deer! A deer!" cried Shep, and on the instant all of the boys forgot about the tumble and each caught up his shotgun. It was indeed a deer, standing among some young trees about two hundred yards distance. "Oh, if we can only bring it down!" said Whopper, in a whisper. "We must bring it down," answered Shep, in an equally low voice. "Get out of sight," warned Snap. "If he sees us he'll be of in a jiffy." They dropped behind some convenient bushes and then moved forward with great caution, each with his shotgun ready to blaze away instantly. The forward movement lasted for fully five minutes and then all raised up cautiously and looked for the deer. The game had disappeared! "Where is he?" whispered Giant, gazing around in bewilderment. "Bless me if I know," answered Snap. The young hunters gazed in all directions and then came out into the open. "He is surely gone," said Shep. "There he goes!" sang out Giant, and pointed up the lake to a clearing an eighth of a mile away. "And streaking it like greased lightning," added Whopper. "He'll reach the Canadian line before he stops." "Too bad!" growled Shep, in disgust. "I fancied we'd get him sure." "This puts me in mind of what Jed Sanborn says," said Snap, with a sickly grin. "'Be sure of only what is in your game bag.'" The young hunters looked around for more deer but none were in that vicinity and so they returned to where they had left the sleds. "If it hadn't been that we want to get to camp we might have followed up that deer," was Giant's comment. "Not much use of that," answered Snap. "By the way he was running he must have been pretty well woke up, and when that happens you know a deer will run for miles without stopping." All were glad when they came in sight of Fire-fly Lake. About one half of the surface was a smooth glare of ice, the other half being covered with ridges of snow. To reach their old camp they had to go up the shore and around a bend where the bushes and trees were thick. Once more they donned their skates and went forward rapidly. "Let us have a race!" cried Whopper, and he and Giant set off with one sled, while Snap and Shep set off with the other. "An extra piece of mince pie to the winning team!" cried the doctor's son merrily as he put on an extra spurt. Soon the turn of the shore was gained, with the sleds side by side. Then all of the young hunters gazed ahead. "Well, I never!" "If this isn't too bad for anything!" Such were the exclamations uttered. And there was good cause for their consternation and dismay. Instead of the tidy cabin they had expected to see, nothing but a heap of blackened logs confronted them. The log cabin had been burnt to the ground. CHAPTER VII A DISMAYING DISCOVERY The hearts of the four young hunters went "down in their boots" as they surveyed the desolate scene before them. They had spent much hard labor over the cabin which had been their home during a large part of the summer outing, and they had fully expected to find it in the same condition as when they had locked it up and come away. "Boys, what can this mean?" said Snap at last. "Who has played us this shabby trick?" "Can the cabin have burnt down right after we left it?" asked Giant. "Why, no, it has been burnt down since the last snowstorm," answered Shep, "otherwise the snow would cover the ruins." "This fire isn't over three or four days old," came from Whopper. "Do you think it could start up of itself?" asked the small member of the Gun Club. "No, I don't." "Then somebody must have set it on fire." "Yes." "Who?" "That remains to be found out," said Snap. "Oh, I wish I had the fellow here now," and he banged a fist into the palm of his hand, to show what he would do in such a case. The boys walked around the ruin several times and lifted up a few of the half-burnt logs. It was easy to see that the cabin was a total wreck. Snap heaved a mountainous sigh and so did the others. "We'll have to clear all this stuff away and build a brand new cabin," said Shep. "All these old logs are good for is firewood." "That is true, Shep," answered Snap. "What I am thinking of is, what are we to do to-night? We can't stay out in the open air. It is growing colder every minute." "Well, I am not going home," came quickly from Giant. "I'd rather freeze!" "Who said anything about going home?" demanded Whopper. "Why, I wouldn't go home in a thousand years, cabin or no cabin. We can rig up some sort of shelter of pine boughs and then build another cabin." "I know a dandy spot for another cabin," said Snap. "Don't you remember I mentioned it to you, Shep, last summer? The spot where the young trees stood so close together in a circle?" "Just the place," answered the doctor's son. Standing around was cold work and the young hunters lost no time in cutting some dry brushwood and building a fire, on which they placed several of the half-burnt logs. It was now the middle of the afternoon and they knew they must work vigorously if they wanted any sort of a suitable shelter against the cold before nightfall. The spot Snap had mentioned was less than two hundred feet up the lake front. Here, behind some bushes which would keep off considerable wind, was an almost perfect circle of trees, the diameter inside being about fifteen feet. The trees were mostly young and not very tall and the lower branches were not over ten feet from the ground on an average. "We can cut off the tops of the trees and then bind in some of the branches for a roof," said Snap. "Over those branches we can bind others, with strips of bark between. We can cut the trees higher on one side of the circle than on the other, so the snow and rain can run off. Then we can bind in brushwood and bark for the sides, between the trees, leaving one spot open for a rough sort of chimney, which we'll have to build up of flat rocks. It won't make as nice a cabin as the other was, but it is the best we can do in this wintry weather, and I think, with a good fire going, we can make it fairly comfortable inside." There were a great many things to take into consideration, but in the main Snap's idea was voted a good one, and the sleds were brought to the spot and the axe and hatchet gotten. "Giant, you bring up that camp-fire," said Snap. "We'll want it here later. Bring all those half-burnt logs, too, so that we'll have plenty of firewood." "Aye, aye, Captain!" answered the little lad, in true nautical style and touching his cap. While Giant re-built the camp-fire the others set to work on the new cabin. First Snap and Shep, went up in the trees and marked off the top of the new shelter. Then down came one tree top after another and then the limbs that could not be used above. In the meantime Whopper took a hunting knife and cut some strips of bark. "Now let us begin to bind in the branches," said Snap, and he and Shep set to work, with Whopper helping them. Giant passed up some branches which had fallen to the ground, and also some long, pliable withes to be used as rope. Fortunately some of the branches left on the trees were long and supple and could be twisted around one another with ease. "We are going to have a regular mat of a roof," observed Whopper. "Why can't we pile a lot of dead leaves on top, to make it air tight?" "Because they might possibly shake down and catch fire," answered Snap. "We can bind in some more brushwood and some more bark. Then the next snow will do the rest." At last the roof was finished and the workers dropped to the ground. It was now night and all were tremendously hungry. "We'll have to let the sides of the shelter go until morning," said Snap. "We can pile up some tree branches on the windy side and put the rubber blankets over them. Then, during the night, we can build a fire right in the middle of the hut. But we'll have to take turns at guarding, to prevent the place from catching fire and to prevent those sleeping from smothering, if the wind should change." While Snap and Shep continued to work on the shelter, Whopper and Giant started to cook the evening meal, which consisted of a broiled chicken, a loaf of bread they had brought along, and a slice of cake, washed down with hot chocolate. They spent an hour over the meal, and in the meantime discussed their future plans and the burnt cabin. "Do you know I have an idea that the same person who burnt down our cabin wrecked the old boathouse," said Snap. "I was figuring it that way, too," answered Whopper. "The question is, Who would be so mean!" "Perhaps it was Carl Dudder," answered Giant. "Or Ham Spink," came from Shep. "It was certainly done by an enemy," said Snap. "But I shouldn't dare to accuse anybody unless I was certain." "You are right there," answered the doctor's son. "Burning a building is a serious piece of business." "Yes, and blowing up a place with dynamite is serious, too," added Whopper. "Why, it's a wonder the whole town didn't sail skyward!" The floor of the shelter had been cleaned up and on one side were placed several piles of fresh pine boughs, which in camping out make the best kind of a couch. Then the fire was brought in and placed where the smoke could drift out between the trees. The blaze soon warmed the place up, and the ruddy glare made the boys feel quite at home. To keep out still more of the cold the two sleds were stood up between some of the trees and the canvas coverings and rubber blankets were stretched around as far as they would go. By that time all of the boys were worn out with their labors and their journey and glad enough to retire. "Each member of this club will have to remain on guard two hours," said Snap. "We'll draw lots for turns." This was done, and it fell to Whopper to take the first turn, from nine o'clock to eleven. Giant was to follow him, and then Snap and Sheep. "Just my luck!" grumbled Whopper. "And when I am so sleepy I can scarcely keep my eyes open." "Well, don't you go to sleep until your two hours is up," said Snap sharply. "Keep an eye on the fire, and don't wake Giant up until his turn comes." "I am going to fix up a pot of beans to cook," answered Whopper. "That will help to keep me awake." Leaving Whopper fussing with the bean pot, the others turned into their blankets and threw themselves on their pine bough couches. Inside of five minutes Shep was asleep and Snap and the small member of the Gun Club quickly followed. Whopper filled the pot half full of bean, soaked them a little in ice water, and then hung them over the fire to bake, putting some bacon with them, to give the proper flavor. Then he brought in some extra sticks and sat down. He was indeed sleepy and it was all he could do to keep his eyes open. "Guess I had better walk around," he told himself, and not to disturb the sleepers, passed through one of the openings between the trees to the outside of the shelter. It was a moonlight night, and he could see across the lake with ease. All was quiet saving for the distant hoot of an owl and the occasional bark of a fox. The wind had gone down and not a tree branch was stirring. "What a glorious night for skating," mused the boy. "There must be a good many out at Fairview, now that the ice is so solid." He walked around the shelter four times and then came to a halt once more in front of the lake. As he did this, he saw some object move across the ice of the lake. One object was followed by another, and then a third and a fourth. "Animals of some kind," he thought. "But what?" He watched the objects for several minutes. They kept coming closer slowly, stopping every now and then, as if to deliberate. Then of a sudden, a lonely, mournful howl rent the air. "Wolves!" he muttered. "They have discovered our camp and are coming towards it. I wonder what I had better do?" CHAPTER VIII THE FIRST NIGHT IN CAMP Whopper was not much frightened. He had met wolves before and he did not think that the pack on the ice would dare to attack him and his friends. Nevertheless, to be on the safe side, he watched the beasts closely, and when they came still nearer he rushed into the shelter and grabbed up his shotgun. "What's the row?" asked Shep sleepily, disturbed by the unusual bustle. "Four wolves are on the ice in front of the shelter," explained Whopper. "Reckon I'll give them a shot." "I'll go along," and the doctor's son sprang up and reached for his own firearm. When Whopper got outside again, followed by Shep, he saw the wolves had approached still closer. There were now seven of them, and they stood in a semi-circle, sniffing the air suspiciously. The man-smell was strong, and this they did not like, for to them it betokened only danger. Yet mingled with the man-smell was the smell of chicken and rabbit meat, and this pleased them, for they were hungry. "Let us both fire together," suggested Shep. "Each of us ought to bring down at least one. You can fire to the right and I'll fire to the left of the line." "All right." They took careful aim, and at the word from Whopper each pulled the trigger of his shotgun. Bang! Bang! The two guns spoke up in rapid succession, and as the smoke cleared away it was seen that two of the wolves lay on the ice, twisting and turning in their death agonies. The others were scuttling away, one limping painfully. "Hullo, what's up?" came from Snap, as he rushed from the shelter, followed by Giant. "What are you firing at?" "We just brought down a couple of wolves," answered Whopper, with considerable satisfaction in his tone. "Wolves!" ejaculated Giant. "I didn't think they'd find us as early as this." Taking a brand from the fire, Whopper led the party out on the ice to where the two wolves lay. One was already dead and the other quickly breathed its last. They were large and gaunt looking creatures, with cruel teeth, and Shep shivered as he looked them over. "I am glad they didn't get into the shelter," he observed. "If they had, we should have had the fight of our lives." "I doubt if they would have attacked us," answered Snap. "They were after those rabbits and that chicken. They must have followed the sled trail from Lake Cameron." As the young hunters did not want the wolves, they were left where they had fallen. The other beasts did not show themselves again. The remainder of the night passed without anything unusual happening. Once the wind veered around a little, threatening to suffocate them with smoke from the camp-fire, but by the time they prepared to vacate the shelter the wind veered back to where it had first come from and gave them no more trouble. "I saw a beautiful owl," said Giant, when they were preparing breakfast. "I'd like to get him and have him stuffed." "To eat, I presume," said Whopper, innocently. "Eat? What do you take me for!" cried the smaller member of the Gun Club, and picking up a chunk of snow he shied it at Whopper, taking the latter in the ear. Whopper could not stand that and threw some snow in return. Then ensued a regular snowball fight all around, which came to a sudden termination when Shep hit the coffee pot and spilled half of the hot beverage in the snow. "Hi! that's going too far!" cried Snap. "Don't waste good coffee like that!" "I move we fine Shep one cent for a bad throw," murmured Giant. "He can make another pot of coffee, that's what he can do," grumbled Whopper. "All right, I will, but no more snowballing for the present," answered Shep, and set to work without delay. For breakfast they had some chicken, some bread and butter and hot coffee. The bread was pretty dry, but nobody minded it, for hunger and a clear, cold atmosphere are wonderful appetite builders. "The first thing to do to-day is to finish building our shelter," said Snap. "Oh, gosh! can't we go hunting?" demanded Whopper, who was itching to get out after big game. "He wants to bring in a few of those bears he has been talking about," said Giant, with a wink of his eye. "No hunting until the shelter is good enough to use in all kinds of weather," answered Snap. The bracing air kept the boys moving lively, and directly after breakfast they set to work in earnest. A large quantity of tree branches were cut down, and with these they made the sides and top of the hut or cabin as tight as possible. Around the bottom of the shelter they heaped up all the snow that was close at hand. The building of the chimney bothered them a great deal. Fortunately they found some stones which were fairly flat, and these they managed to pile up into something of a square, with an opening in the center and another at the bottom, next to the shelter. On the outside they heaped up some dirt and above this plastered the cracks with mud. When tried, the chimney drew very well, and there seemed to be little danger of it setting fire to the shelter proper. "We ought to have a name for this camp," observed Snap. "Every really first-class camp has a name." "This is such a very high-toned camp let us call it Hotel Millionaire," suggested Giant. "The Lakehouse," came from Whopper. "I've got something better than that," said Shep. "Half of these trees are birch trees, and we used birch bark on the roof. What's the matter with calling the place Birch Tree Inn?" "That's all right!" cried Snap. "Hurrah for Birch Tree Inn!" "Good enough," assented Whopper. "Let's run up a napkin for a flag, for here is where we feed." "Not much!" came from Giant. "What's the matter with this?" And from an inner pocket he produced a small silken flag. "I brought this along for our camp." "Hurrah for the stars and stripes!" came from Snap. "We'll raise the flag by all means." This was an easy matter, for directly in front of the camp, on the lake front, grew a tall and slender sapling. From this they cut the extreme top and the branches, and then ran up a thin rope, to which they attached the flag. Floating in the breeze it looked very pretty, and taking off their caps, the members of the Gun Club saluted the national emblem. Then Whopper and Shep began to whistle the Star Spangled Banner and the others joined in. The making ready of the camp had taken longer than they had expected, and it was nightfall before they had everything as they wished it. In addition to making the shelter weather tight and warm, they had cut a good sized pile of wood for the fire. All were tired out, and Shep admitted that his back felt pretty stiff and lame. "I don't think we'd want to work so hard around home," said Giant frankly, and the others admitted that this was so. They were too tired to do more than prepare an ordinary supper, but this included the beans previously put in soak and then baked and these went very well. Then they brought in some wood, and closed up the doorway of the Inn. "No need to remain on guard," said Snap. "The fire and the sides of this shelter will keep away all wild animals." "That's true." During the afternoon it had begun to snow again, and this made it all the more cozy in the shelter. After supper the boys piled wood on the fire and lounged around, telling stories and talking over the prospects of getting game. All were enthusiastic, and determined not to return home until they had brought down "something worth while," as Snap expressed it. When the lads came out in the morning, they found that the snowstorm had cleared away completely. The air was clear and cold, with scarcely any wind. Whopper could hardly wait to get his breakfast, so anxious was he to go after game. Giant suggested that they go on their snowshoes, but Snap demurred. "Not the right kind of snow yet," he said. "Let us skirt the lake this morning and see what we can pick up near camp." Before they left the Inn they saw to it that every spark of the fire was extinguished, for the dreadful conflagration of the summer season had taught them a useful lesson. They also placed their matches in a tin can, so that they might remain dry and also to keep them from being lit by some prowling wild beast. "I once heard of a place being burnt down by a fox," said Giant. "The animal knocked the match box from a shelf on which some rabbits were hanging." "Well, I've often heard of rats setting fire to buildings by igniting matches," answered Snap. "Millions of times," came from Whopper. "Rats sometimes do that for a regular business. They make a deal with people who want to get a fat insurance; you know, and then--Oh!" And the remarkable story came to a sudden end as Shep shied a snowball at the youth who loved to exaggerate. They were soon on the way, Snap, Shep and Giant with their shotguns and Whopper with the rifle. They headed directly along the shore of Firefly Lake, intending to make the complete circuit of that sheet of ice. They had proceeded only a short distance when Snap held up his hand. "Rabbits," he whispered. "We are in luck!" "Humph! I wanted to see a bear," grunted Whopper. "Now, dolt you spoil this for us," remonstrated Snap. "Let us fire together," whispered Giant. "I see at least a dozen." The bunch of rabbits were close to the lake front, nibbling the bark from some young shoots growing in that vicinity. Without delay Snap, Shep and Giant brought their shotguns around in position to fire. "I'll give the signal," said Shep. "Shep, you fire to the left. I can fire to the right, and Giant can blaze away at the middle of the bunch." "There they go!" screamed Whopper just then, and he spoke the truth, the rabbits had discovered the hunters and were making mighty bounds to gain the thickets beyond lake shore. All the boys with shotguns blazed away, and four of the rabbits dropped in their tracks. Another went limping along painfully and Snap caught it with case. But there was no time for a second shot. "Well, that's not so bad, for a start," observed Giant, as they took up their game. "If I hadn't yelled you'd have lost the bunch," said Whopper. "Why, I was most tempted to bring one down with the rifle." CHAPTER IX INTO A HOLE AND OUT Inside of an hour the young hunters had passed to the extreme end of the lake and were coning down on the other side. "Here is where the Ham Spink crowd stole our boat," said Snap, indicating the spot. "Phew! and what a time we did have on the lake afterwards," was Whopper's comment. "Say, I can't understand yet why some of us weren't drowned." "Don't make so much noise," said Shep. "We'll never get any game if you keep on talking." After that they went on a distance of a hundred yards in perfect silence. Then Giant came to a halt, and pointed up two trees in front of him. On the branches were half a dozen fat, gray squirrels. Again those carrying shotguns discharged their fowling pieces, and down came three of the largest of the squirrels. Then Snap let Whopper have his gun and down came another squirrel just as he was about to enter his hole. "Squirrels and more!" shouted Giant, rushing forward. "More?" queried Shep. "We shot only the squirrels." "True, but you've forgotten what the squirrels hide away." "Nuts!" exclaimed Whopper. "Just what we want, to eat in front of the camp-fire at night." It was an easy matter to locate the storehouses of the squirrels, and from each they took a quantity of nuts. They did not take all, for they did not wish the squirrels that were still alive to starve. "I guess we have got all the game we'll find around here," observed Shep, as they went on once more. "The banging away will make the rest of the game keep under cover." "Well, let us go around the lake anyway," answered Snap. "There is no fun in crossing over on the ice without skates." Down at the lower end the lake made several turns, winding in and out among the rocks, and here the boys left the ice and walked under the trees and between the bushes. "This isn't so pleasant," said Whopper, as he stumbled on a rock and rolled over on his side. "Look out, that your gun doesn't go off!" cried Snap, warningly. "Keep the muzzle pointed at the ground.' "That's what I always do," answered Whopper. They had almost reached the end of the lake, at the point where it emptied through the rocky gorge into Lake Cameron, when Giant came to a sudden halt and uttered a low whistle. "What is it?" questioned Snap and Whopper in a breath. "Saw something through yonder trees--something big," was the answer of the small member of the Gun Club. "You did?" said Snap. "What did it look like?" "Looked like a cow--but of course it couldn't be that.' "Maybe it's was a moose!" cried Shep. "Let's go after him." The thought that a moose might be so close at hand thrilled all the boys, and without a moment's hesitation they started off in the direction in which the strange animal had been seen. "If it is a moose let me take a rifle shot at him," whispered Whopper. "A bullet is what he'll want to lay him low." "I'm willing you should have the first shot," said Snap. The others also agreed that Whopper should be the first to fire--if the game was really as large as expected--and the boy who loved to exaggerate went to the front. They had to climb a small hill, which came to an abrupt end beside another gully. Here the bushes had been bent low by the wind and were covered with drifted snow. "Be careful--walking isn't very good here," cautioned Whopper. "The ground seems to be spongy." All ranged up to the edge of the gully and prepared to leap across. As they did this, some of the bushes and the snow gave way, and down they went in a heap, a distance of ten or a dozen feet. As they fell Giant's shotgun went off with a bang that scared them greatly. "Oh, dear!" gasped Snap, when he could free himself from the snow. "What a tumble? Is anybody hurt?" He gazed around, to find Whopper head first in a snow drift. He pulled his chum out, and in the meantime Shep and Giant scrambled up. "Did--did my shot hit anybody?" questioned the smaller member of the club, anxiously. "I'm safe," announced Snap. "So am I," came from Whopper. "But say, I thought I was going to plow through the snow clear to China!" "The discharge went pretty close to my ear," announced Shep. And then, as he began to realize the escape he had had, he grew slightly pale. "I tried to keep the gun barrel pointed to a safe place," said Giant. "But the fall came so quickly I had hardly time to think. I am thankful nobody was struck. Had I hit anybody I should never have forgiven myself!" And he shuddered. "Be careful of the rest of the guns," said Whopper. "We don't want to be blown out of this hole--we prefer to climb out--at least I do." They looked to their firearms, and then gazed around the locality in perplexity. The gully was long and narrow and both sides were covered with ice and snow. The ground above, also covered with ice and snow, was well out of their reach. "Getting out is going to be no easy task," announced Snap. "Maybe we'll have to, walk to the end of the gulch." "Wait, perhaps I can climb out--if one of you will give me a boost," said the doctor's son. The others were willing to have Shep make the trial, and Snap and Whopper put down their guns and aided him by putting his feet in their hands. Shep caught hold of some bushes and began to haul himself up with all his strength. "Hurrah! he is going to make it!" cried Giant, when snap! went the bushes, and down rolled the doctor's son and plunged once more into the snow. "Whow!" he spluttered, as he arose and worked the snow from his collar and his coat sleeves. "No more of that for me! Snap, don't you want to try it?" "No, I prefer to walk to where the gully is not so deep." They struck out, to find the bottom of the gulch filled with bowlders, bushes and snow. More than once one or another went down into a hollow and had to be hauled out. "Phew! but it's cold down here!" murmured Whopper. "My feet feel like two cakes of ice." "One of the delights of hunting in the winter time," observed Snap. "Want to go home, Whopper?" "Not for a million dollars and a mince pie thrown in," was the prompt answer. "Say, a piece of mince pie wouldn't go bad just now." said Shep, smacking his lips. "Don't mention it, please." It took a quarter of an hour's hard journeying to reach a point where the gully was only four or five feet deep, and here they left the hollow with ease. They were now further away from the lake than ever and in a locality that looked new to them. "I don't remember this spot, although I thought we were all over this ground last summer," observed Snap. "A place looks different in winter from what it does in summer," said Shep. "Then that must be it." "I reckon that moose must be 'steen miles from here by this time," said Whopper. "He must have heard Giant's gun go off." As they could see nothing of the strange game, they agreed that Whopper must be right in his surmise and so determined to look around for other game. They circled the end of Firefly Lake, and then walked a short distance in the direction of Lake Cameron. "Wait!" called out Whopper, presently, "Snap, let me have your shotgun." And he reached for the weapon. "What do you see?" "A wild turkey, and a big one, too." Snap was willing that Whopper should have a try at the turkey, since he seemed so disappointed at losing track of the big game, and so passed over his shotgun. The wild turkey was roosting near the top of a silver maple tree. Taking careful aim, Whopper blazed away. To the astonishment of all, the wild turkey gave a flutter, sank back on the tree limb and then became quiet. "What in the world does that mean?" gasped Whopper, hardly believing that he saw aright. "Maybe you didn't hit him," suggested Giant. "Didn't hit him--at such a short distance?" said Whopper, in disgust. "Of course I hit him." "Then why didn't he tumble down or fly away?" came from Shep. "He'd fly quick enough--if he could," said Snap. "There is something wrong with him. Maybe he is caught fast in the crotch of the limb." Guns in hand the four boy hunters ran forward until they stood directly under the silver maple. Here they could see the head and the tail of the wild turkey, but that was all. The game did not offer to move, even when Whopper set up a shout. "He's dead and caught fast, I am sure of it," said Whopper. "If it were otherwise he would surely flutter down or fly away." "You'll have to do some climbing to get your game," said the doctor's son. "Well, I can do that, too--if you'll give me a boost," answered Whopper, passing over the shotgun and laying aside his rifle. The others assisted him to reach the lower limbs of the silver maple, and up he went from one branch to another until he stood directly beneath the wild turkey. He put forth his hand with caution. "Be careful," cried Shep. "If the turkey is still alive he may show fight and try to peck out your eyes." Shielding himself as best he could, Whopper presently caught the turkey by one foot. He pulled gently at first and then gave a strong yank. Down came the game from the crotch of the tree, and Whopper almost lost his balance. To save himself he let the game drop to the ground and clutched at the tree branches nearest to him. "Dead as a door nail!" he announced, as soon as he felt safe. "And I knew it from the start. He didn't fall because he got caught, that's all." "Now you are up in the tree you had better take a look around and see if any more game is it sight," called up Snap. "I will." While the others stamped around to keep warm, Whopper mounted to the topmost branches of the silver maple. From this position he could overlook a wide expanse of country. He gazed first to, the northward and then over to the west. "Hullo!" he yelled suddenly. "I see something worth going after." "What?" questioned the others in concert. "Two deer." CHAPTER X OUT AFTER DEER "You see two deer?" queried Snap. "Yes." "How far from here?" questioned the doctor's son. "A good quarter of a mile." "Oh, that's not so far!" exclaimed Giant. "Come on after them, fellows." "Wait till I get down," said Whopper, coming as quickly as he could. "Don't go ahead yet." "How are we going ahead, since you are the only one that knows where the game is?" answered the doctor's son. As soon as Whopper was on the ground, they set off, taking the wild turkey with them. The shot had entered the heart of the turkey, killing it instantly, and its single flutter had only served to wedge it fast in the tree crotch. "Boys, it is growing colder," announced Snap, as they proceeded. "As if we didn't know it," answered Giant, slapping his hands together. "And I think it is going to snow some more," went on Snap. "Pooh! who cares!" cried Whopper. "I am going to get one of those deer if I die for it." "So say I!" put in Shep. "Remember, we ought to get quite some game on hand, in case we get snowed in at the camp." The sky had become overcast, and this was what made it seem colder. The wind, too, was springing up, and they were glad to keep to the sheltered portions of the ground so far as the journey after the deer permitted. Inside of fifteen minutes they covered more than a quarter of a mile. Yet no deer were to be seen. "Whopper, didn't you make some mistake?" asked Snap, coming to a halt. "I am sure I saw the deer." "Whopper must have been deceived in the distance," said Giant. "Things look closer on the water, or when the ground is covered with snow." "Perhaps that's it," answered Whopper. "Anyway, the deer were somewhere out here, I'm sure." Again they went on, but soon came to a series of rocks, where walking was difficult. Giant slipped on one of the rocks and barked his left shin. "Oh dear!" he cried, in pain. "I don't like this much. It is a regular Rocky Road to Dublin!" "I don't feel like going much further," said Snap. "I think we ought to go, back. See, it is starting in to snow," he added, as the flakes began to fall. The four boy hunters held a consultation, which almost ended in a quarrel. Whopper was determined to go ahead after the deer and so was Shep, while Snap and Giant insisted upon returning to the camp. "I'll tell you what's let do," said Whopper. "Two of us can go on and two go back. That's fair." "And the two to go back can take the game to camp," added Shep. "There is no use of our carrying it with us. And, besides, if we get a deer, that will be a big load for us." "Aren't you afraid of a big snow coming on?" questioned Snap. "Oh, this snow won't amount to anything," declared the doctor's son. "Perhaps it will." Snap and Giant took possession of all the game, and turned over to Shep and Whopper the lunch that had been brought along. "We can get what we want when we reach camp," said Snap. "And you may need this before you get back." "If I were you I wouldn't stay out too late," cautioned Giant. "If you do, you may lose your way in the dark." "We'll be safe enough," answered Whopper confidantly. It was no light load for Snap and Giant to carry, for the turkey, rabbits and squirrels were all big. They saw Shep and Whopper depart and rested fully five minutes before taking to the back trail. "I wish they had come with us," said the leader of the Gun Club. "I doubt if they get a deer--the wind is blowing directly toward the game." "Well, they wanted to go so let them," answered Giant. The barked shin hurt considerably and he was anxious to get back to camp, that he might wash it and bathe it with witch hazel. "Let us go up the lake and across on the ice," suggested Snap. "It will be shorter, and we'll avoid that nasty gully and the rough rocks." They took to the course mentioned, and inside of half an hour reached the lake front once more. It was now snowing steadily and the wind was gradually rising. "I said it was going to snow hard," grumbled Snap. "They should have come with us. It won't be fit to be out in another hour." "Well, they wanted their own way, so let them have it," answered his companion. They wished they had their skates to skate across a cove which separated them from the camp. The bare spots on the ice were as slippery as wet glass and they had to walk "as if on eggs," as Snap expressed it. Once his right foot went from under him, and he measured his length on his back, while his gun slid a dozen feet away. "Come here and I'll pick you up," sang out Giant merrily, as soon as he saw his chum was not hurt. "That was a peachy fall," grumbled Snap, as he turned over and got up. "Glad the gun didn't go off." "Do you know what I am going to do--if it doesn't snow too hard?" said Giant, as they walked on again. "Try my luck at fishing through a hole in the ice. Fish will taste good for breakfast." They were directly in the middle of the lake when a distant gunshot reached their ears, followed by another. They halted and listened. "Whopper and Shep must have found something to shoot at," remarked the smaller member of the Gun Club. "Or else there are other hunters in this vicinity. I shouldn't be surprised if Jed Sanborn is out." "Yes, and a dozen others, for the matter of that." By the time they had crossed the lake the wind was blowing furiously, sending the snow whirling over the smooth ice in long white streaks. More than half out of breath, the two young hunters were glad enough to reach the shelter of the trees and bushes. "It's going to be a corker," was Snap's comment. "Just listen to the wind whistling through the trees!" "I don't think I'll try fishing just yet," said Giant. "I might get frozen fast to the ice." "Fishing will have to wait, Giant. Come on into the Inn." They were glad enough to enter the shelter and rest for a few minutes. Then, when they had regained their breath, both set about building a fire. Luckily they had saved some dry bark and brushwood, so starting the blaze was comparatively easy. They heaped on several medium-sized sticks and then a good back and a front log, and soon the fire was roaring merrily. The home-made chimney was wide open at the top, so a good deal of heat was lost, yet enough remained below to warm the shelter nicely. "I tell you, a fire makes all the difference in the world!" declared Snap, as he pulled off his outer coat and cap and sat down close to the chimney. "No matter how forlorn or lonely a fellow feels, a fire is bound to brighten him up and make him feel on better terms with himself." "Right you are, Snap. I pity the fellow who gets left in the woods without a match, or the wherewith to start a camp-fire," answered Giant, who was using the witch hazel on his ankle. As soon as they were warm, the two boys set to work to cook themselves a substantial meal. They prepared sufficient for all hands, thinking that Shep and Whopper would be back in an hour or two at the most. "They won't stay out very long--with this snowstorm on," remarked Snap. "They know what such a storm means as well as we do." Before leaving camp that morning Giant had made some bread dough and set it for raising. This was now in good shape and he kneaded it over and made some loaves and some muffins. The muffins they used for their meal, along with more beans and some stewed squirrel, and a pot of hot chocolate. They ate leisurely, at the same time keeping their ears on the alert for the coming of their companions. Three times during the meal Snap went to the doorway, to gaze out. "They are foolish not to come back before it gets night," he said. "If they don't look out they'll be snow-bound." "Oh, Snap, do you think so?" cried the smaller member of the club, in alarm. "It might happen, Giant. Just look how it is snowing! Why, I can't see a hundred feet from the Inn!" Giant came to the opening and peered forth. Snap was right, the snow was coming down thickly, and the fierce wind sent it swirling in all directions. The landscape on all sides was completely blotted out. "Oh, if only they had come back with us!" murmured Giant. Both of the boys sighed and returned to the fireside, finishing their meal in silence. They were much worried, more than they cared to admit to each other. The meal over, Giant warmed some water and washed the few tin dishes and other things which had been dirtied. Snap put another log on the fire, and then got out the acetylene bicycle lamp that had been brought along. "What are you going to do with that?" questioned Giant. "Light it and hang it out for a searchlight," answered Snap. "It may aid them in finding the Inn." The gas lamp was soon fizzing and then Snap applied a match. As it flashed up, he regulated the light and then the affair was taken outside and hung where its rays might flash forth through the storm and across the cove of the lake. "They can see that quite a distance, even through the flying snow," said the leader of the Gun Club. "And they'll want all the light they can get, to find their way back." He and Giant sat down again in front of the roaring fire. They watched the sparks fly upward and the ruddy glare showed a concerned look on the face of each. They did not care to read or play any game, and talked in low tones, each with his ears strained to catch any sound from without. Slowly one hour after another went by, until the darkness of night lay over the camp. The snow came down as thickly as ever and the wind shrieked dismally through the leafless trees. Time and again the two boys had gone to the doorway to look out, and Snap had even run down to the very edge of the lake. "It's no use," he said finally. "They are snowbound and can't get here. If only they are safe!" "Yes, if only they are safe!" echoed Giant. CHAPTER XI SNOWBOUND Left to themselves, Shep and Whopper started off briskly after the deer that had been seen from the top of the tree. "We must get at least one of 'em by all means," said Shep. "It won't do to go back to the camp skunked." "We shan't be skunked," answered Whopper, confidantly. "If there are a dozen, we'll bag the lot of them!" The trail was by no means as easy as they had anticipated, and they had to pick their way around the rocks and through the brushwood with care. Once Whopper slid down one of the rocks and landed on his back with a thump that took the wind out of him completely. "Cats and carrots!" he gasped. "Say, but that was a hard one, right enough!" "Trying to split the rock?" asked Shep, helping him up. "No, I was only testing it, to see how soft it was," growled Whopper. Soon the two boys found themselves going up a small hill. The climb was rather discouraging, until Whopper let out a soft cry, and then motioned for silence. "See 'em?" queried his chum, in a whisper. "No, but there are the tracks, as plain as day!" Whopper was right, the deer tracks were there, although partly covered by the falling snow. At the sight of them the spirits of the boy hunters arose wonderfully. They forgot how tired they were, and pushed forward at a faster gait than ever before. "Won't we surprise them when we come back with such game!" said Shep. "I think so, Shep. They didn't really think we'd get anything," answered Whopper. On and on went the boys, the trail of the deer becoming plainer at every step. They did not notice how much ground they were covering nor in what direction they were moving. They had "deer fever" and had it hard. Presently they came to the top of the rise of ground. Beyond was a patch of scrub timber, where, years before, a forest fire had wiped out the best of the trees. Looking ahead they saw four deer walking slowly along near some brushwood. "There they are!" cried Shep, and brought his gun around for use. At that moment the deer turned partly around and looked squarely at the boys. They were evidently taken completely by surprise and their heads went up high as they discovered the enemy. Then, without further hesitation they leaped forward, toward the dense timber ahead. Bang! went Shep's shotgun, and crack! came the sharp report of Whopper's rifle. Before the echoes had died away the last of the deer leaped high in the air, made a part turn and then came down heavily. Then it got up, ran several paces and fell again and began to kick. "I hit him!" "So did I!" "Let's try for another!" But to try for another was out of the question. With the fall of the hind one, the others reached the shelter of the dense timber and in a second more were completely out of sight, and running as only frightened deer can run when they know it is a case of life or death for them. When the two young hunters reached the side of the fallen deer it was just breathing its last. The bullet from the rifle had entered its side and the buckshot had struck in the neck and shoulder. "We both brought him down," said Shep. "Pity we didn't get the others," grumbled Whopper. "Well, one is better than nothing." "Oh, I know that, and I am thankful as far as that goes. Will it be worth while to go after the others, do you think?" "No. They'll run too far before they stop." The deer was of fair size, and looked as if it would make good eating. They inspected the game with much interest, turning it over and lifting it up. "Pretty heavy," announced Whopper. "We'll have all we want to do to carry it to camp." "Just what I was thinking. And say, just look how it is snowing!" The two young hunters gazed about them and were a good deal startled. It was growing dark and the leaden air seemed to be filled with snow. They had paid little attention to the wind, but now realized that it was rising steadily. "The best thing we can do is to make for camp," said Shep. "If we don't--" He did not finish. "You think we'll be snowbound?" "Doesn't it look like it?" "I must admit, it does." Alarmed more than they cared to mention, both boys prepared to return to the Inn without delay. They selected a slender sapling and cut it down with a hunting knife Shep carried. They trimmed off the limbs, thus making of it a pole. To this they slung the deer, tied fast by the front and the hind legs. Then Whopper took the front end of the load and Shep the rear end, and thus they set off in the direction they had come. For perhaps a quarter of a mile all went well, for, despite the falling snow, they managed to keep to the tracks they had made in following the deer. Then, of a sudden, Whopper came to a halt and Shep, of course, had to do likewise. "What's up?" asked the latter. "I can't see the trail anymore. The falling snow has covered it completely." Whopper was right, as Shep realized with much alarm. Both of the young hunters gazed around in perplexity. The whirling snow hid the landscape from view. In a moment more, turning this way and that, they were completely bewildered. "Well, I declare!" burst out Shep. "Hang me if I know where I am!" "I think the lake is in that direction," announced Whopper, after a painful pause. "Maybe you are right--I don't know." There seemed to be no sense in standing still, with the snow coming down thicker every minute and the wind whistling dismally all around them. On they went, for at least a quarter of a mile further. The rocks bothered them a great deal and twice both fell, dropping their load as they did so. "This is the finest pleasure stroll I ever took in my life," was Whopper's rather sarcastic comment. "Such level walking, and such nice bright sunshine, with birds singing and--Oh!" And his speech came to an end as he went down again, this time into a hollow of snow and dead leaves up to his knees. "Are you hurt?" asked Shep. "Not enough to weep over," was the answer. "But, no joking, this is fierce! I wish I was back to camp." "So do I, Whopper. But wishing won't take us there--we've got to walk." "Isn't it getting dark!" "Yes, and just listen to that wind!" By this time, both of the young hunters were scared, although neither mentioned it. Again they went on, but only for a dozen rods. Then both halted and stared in front of them in amazement. "What's this?" "We aren't going toward the lake at all!" Before them was a slight hollow and beyond a cliff of rocks all of twenty to thirty feet high. On the top of the cliff grew a number of large trees and several of these had, in times past, been blown over, their tops resting in the hollow below while the roots still clung fast near the top of the cliff. "Did you ever see this spot before?" asked Shep. "Not that I can remember," answered his chum. "But I am sure it is not near the lake." The young hunters were more alarmed than ever. They felt that they must be miles from camp. Night was now upon them, and the storm, instead of clearing away, was growing worse every minute. "I don't think we can reach camp to-night," said Shep, as bravely as he could, although his voice trembled slightly. "We'll have to try and make ourselves as comfortable as possible elsewhere." "What, right out here in the woods!" "No, we can hunt for some sort of shelter, Whopper." "Don't you think we can find the lake? If we once found that we could keep on along the shore until we struck our camp." "I don't believe we can locate the lake in this darkness and with the snow coming down so thickly. Why, look around! You can't see at all!" Whopper did gaze around, and had to admit that Shep was right. They were shut in by the storm, which seemed to grow wilder and wilder. With heavy hearts the boys drew closer to the cliff, as that seemed to afford some shelter from the wind, which cut like a knife. In the darkness they stumbled into the hollow and then between two of the fallen trees. "Well, if we have got to seek shelter, this place may prove as good as any," observed Whopper. "It's warmer under the rocks, and we can use some of these tree branches for a fire." "Yes, we must have a fire," answered the doctor's son, who did not relish the darkness. He wondered what they would be able to do should wolves attack them, but did not mention this to his companion. Dropping their load in the snow, they felt their way between the trees, and then broke off some of the small branches for firewood. They got the driest they could find. "Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" came suddenly from Whopper. "What's up?" "I haven't a single match! Have you any?" In haste Shep felt in his pocket. There were two matches there, but one felt as if it was no good. "I've got two, but one feels as if the top was off," he announced. "For gracious sake, don't let the good one go out, Shep! Here, I've got an old letter in my pocket. Light that first." The doctor's son felt in his other pockets and brought forth part of an old railroad timetable. The papers were bunched together and held low, while Shep tried to strike the match that had lost part of its head. It made a faint streak of light, but that was all. "Is that the good one?" asked Whopper, hoarsely. Never before had he been so anxious about a light. "No. I'll try the good one now," answered the doctor's son. "Don't let the wind blow it out," pleaded his chum. "Here, use my cap." The papers were placed beside the cap, and Shep struck the match several times. Both of the boys hardly dared to breathe. Then came a flash, and a tiny flame sprang up, and the papers were set to blazing. They put on the smallest and driest of the twigs and then the small branches, and both tended the fire with as much care as an infant receives from its nurse. Soon it became stronger and stronger, and they breathed a deep sigh of relief and put on some big pieces of wood. As Snap had said at camp, the fire brightened things up wonderfully and both boys felt lighter-hearted as the ruddy glare lit up the scene. They found something of a circular hollow under the cliff with a big fallen tree just beyond it. They brought the fire to one side of this hollow, and banked up the snow on the other side, and soon the shelter began to grow warm. Then they brought in the deer and hung the game in a fork of the fallen tree. "Lucky we brought that lunch along," said Shep. "I am as hungry as a bear." "So am I," returned Whopper, "and I don't think that little lunch is going to satisfy me. What's the matter with broiling a venison streak?" "Do you want to cut up the deer before we get back to camp?" "Most likely we'll have to. If this snow keeps on there is no telling how long we'll be snowbound." "That is true, too. Well, we needn't cut up the whole deer--only cut out what we want to use." CHAPTER XII A CRY FOR HELP Fortunately for the boys, they knew how to cut up a deer to advantage and it did not take them long to trim away a portion of the pelt and get out the steak they wanted. Then they fixed up a rude fork on which to cook the meat, and soon the appetizing odor of broiled venison filled the hollow. "This is much better than nothing but a cold lunch," said Whopper, as he divided the steak. "Fingers were made before knives and forks, and as nobody is looking on, we can eat as suits us." "Let us broil another steak, before the fire gets low," suggested the doctor's son. "If it goes out on us we won't want to be without something to eat?" "That fire isn't going out--not if I know it. Why, it would be awful to be left without a light, and without warmth. We might freeze to death--if it got much colder!" Another and larger steak was well cooked, and then the boys set to work to gather a generous supply of firewood, breaking and cutting it as best they could. This was hard work, but it kept them warm, and neither complained. "I suppose Snap and Giant are worrying about our not getting back," said Whopper. "I hope they don't come out to look for us." After they had cut all the wood they wanted, they sat down again by the fire. Both boys were very tired, yet the strangeness of their situation kept them awake for several hours. They watched the snow, as it came down as thickly as ever, and listened to the shrieking of the wind as it tore through the trees on the top of the cliff. "Do you think more of the trees will come down?" questioned Whopper. "I am sure I don't know," was Shep's reply. At last both boys began to blink and stretch themselves, and then Whopper said they had better go to sleep. "You turn in first," said Shep. "I'll watch the fire. When I can't keep awake any longer, I'll call you." Whopper laid down and was soon slumbering. Shep continued to guard the fire, and, to keep himself awake, walked up and down the narrow confines of the temporary shelter. He often paused to listen to the roaring of the wind, which, outside of the crackling of the blaze, was the only sound that broke the stillness. "Well, I am glad no wild animal has come to disturb us," he thought, as he continued to pace up and down. Presently he sat down and his eyes closed. For a moment he dozed, and then started up. A low moan had reached his ears. "What in the world is that?" he asked himself, and felt his hair standing on end. Then he heard the moan again, and turning half around, began to grin to himself. The moan had come from Whopper, who was having a nightmare. "Hi, Whopper! Wake up!" he called, and shook his companion. "Get out--don't chew me up!" groaned Whopper, and then sat up and rubbed his eyes. "Wha--what's the matter? Oh, I--er--I guess I was dreaming," he said sheepishly. "You were, and groaning fit to raise the dead," answered the doctor's son, who now felt that he could afford to laugh. "I dreampt about a million wolves were after me, and one was going to chew my foot off," said Whopper. He stretched himself. "Time for me to stand guard?" "I think you had better. I am so tired I feel like sleeping standing up," answered Shep. Whopper arose, and waiting to make certain that his companion was wide awake, Shep threw himself on the couch, which had been formed of some leaves found at the rear of the hollow. He soon fell into a troubled sleep, which lasted about three hours, when he awoke at the sound of Whopper's voice calling him. "Is it time to get up?" he questioned, sleepily. "Shep, I hear wolves!" "Wolves!" and now the doctor's son leaped to his feet and glanced toward his shotgun, which rested against the rocky wall. "Are you certain?" "Listen!" Both boys bent their ears and for a full minute neither made a sound. Then Shep shook his head. "I can't hear anything now," he said. "Well, I heard them before," answered Whopper, positively. "Must have been a million of 'em, too!" "Whopper, you've got a million wolves on the brain." "Have I? Well, I know--Listen!" The young hunter stopped short, and both listened a second time. From a great distance came the howl of a wolf, followed by an answering howl not so far off. "Now, what did I tell you!" Shep did not answer, but picked up his shotgun. Whopper had already gotten the rifle, and with the firearms fully loaded the young hunters stood on guard for at least a quarter of an hour. "I don't hear them any more," said the doctor's son, at length. "They may be sneaking up on the sly," answered Whopper, and it was hard for him to keep his voice from trembling. Neither of the boys cared to go beyond the light of the camp-fire, and again they waited. But a good half hour went by and nothing more was seen or heard of the wolves. "You may as well take another nap, Whopper," said the doctor's son. "I'll give you about two hours, and then I'll lie down for the same length of time. That will about finish out the night." Whopper agreed to this, but it was some time before he could get to sleep, and then he had another nightmare and groaned as before. But this time Shep "let him have it out," as he told Whopper afterward. Daylight found them still under the cliff. Their fitful naps of the night just passed had only about half rested them and they did a good deal of gaping as they stirred up the fire and prepared a morning meal. Fortunately Shep had a pocket cup with him, and in that they had to melt snow to get water to drink. "Well, I am glad the night is over," declared Whopper. "I declare, I don't want to pass another like it!" "Let us be thankful that it was no worse," answered the doctor's son. "Supposing we had not found this shelter, or supposing that match had gone out, or supposing we hadn't shot the deer--" "Stop, Shep! I am blue enough already. I'll tell you what it is: By hook or by crook, we must get back to camp before to-night. If we don't the others will be worried to death about us, I am sure." "That's easy enough to say. But look at the snow." Whopper looked beyond the shelter. The snow had stopped coming down but it lay to the depth of several inches in some spots and in drifts three and four feet high in others. He gave a sigh. "Tough traveling and no mistake. Maybe we can't get through at all!" "I know what I am going to do, first of all," said Shep. "I am going to climb a tree on the top of the cliff and locate myself." "That's a good idea." Breakfast over, both boys scrambled up one of the fallen trees to the top of the cliff. Not far away was a tree with low branches and up this went the doctor's son, Whopper boosting him all he could. All the boys could climb well, and soon Shep was far enough up to look around on all sides. "There is the lake, about three-quarters of a mile off," he said, pointing with his hand. "I can see our camp, too. The smoke is coming up out of the chimney." "Is it on the other side of the lake?" "It is across the big cove." "Do you think we can signal to the others?" questioned Whopper. "We might try it--with some wet wood," answered Shep. He came down again, and soon they placed several wet sticks on the fire. This created a dense smoke, which, as the wind had fallen, went straight up into the sky. "That will tell them somebody is over here with a fire," said Shep. "But I reckon we had better start for the camp without delay. Just past the cliff is a ridge of high ground running almost to the lake, and the wind has swept it clear of snow, so walking will not be so very difficult." It gave them something of a pang to put out the fire, yet they did not dare to leave it burning, for fear of setting fire to the forest. Placing the deer on the pole as before, they set off toward the ridge Shep had mentioned. With the going down of the wind, the air seemed warmer. The sky was still dull and heavy, and they were afraid it might snow again at any moment. Where the footing was good they almost ran, so eager were they to get back to Birch Tree Inn. They had almost gained the shore of Firefly Lake when Whopper came to a halt. At the same time a distant cry reached the ears of both young hunters. "What was that?" asked Whopper. "Somebody calling for help, Whopper. Listen!" "Help! help!" came faintly to their ears. "Don't leave me, please! Help!" "It's some person calling," said Shep. "But where is he?" Both boys gazed around in perplexity. Then the cry was repeated, and following the sound they made their way to some brushwood growing between several trees. Here they found a man crouched before a tiny fire. He was dressed in a tattered suit and an even more tattered overcoat, and his shoes were bound up in potato sacking. A slouch hat full of holes was drawn down over his forehead, and he looked to be exactly what he was, a tramp. "What's the matter?" asked Shep, not unkindly, for the fellow was evidently suffering. "Don't leave me," cried the man. "I'm sick and I'm hungry, and I nearly froze to death last night. Please don't leave me!" "Have you had anything to eat?" asked Whopper. "Not a mouthful since yesterday noon. I had some stuff wrapped in a newspaper, but I lost it in the snow." The man did not add that he had been intoxicated and had not known where he was going or what he was doing. "Well, here is a piece of venison steak and some crackers," said Shep. "That's all we can give you just now." "Ain't you got anything to drink?" asked the man, wistfully. "No, we don't carry liquor." "Oh!" "We can get you some water if you want that," put in Whopper. "What?" Whopper repeated his words. "No, I don't want any cold water--I'm cold enough now," said the tramp. CHAPTER XIII IN CAMP ONCE MORE The boys imagined the man was not well and they dropped their game and set to work to get breakfast for him. They took the venison steak and warmed it up, and also warmed the few crackers which still remained from the lunch. The man ate greedily, and then consented to drink a little water. "Where are you going?" he asked, while eating the last of the venison. They had found out that, in spite of being a tramp, he was fairly well spoken. Evidently drink had brought him down in the world. "We are bound for our camp," answered Whopper. "Oh, so you've got a camp around here?" "We have one on the other side of the cove--over yonder, where you can see the smoke drifting above the trees." "I wish you'd take me over to it, boys. I can't stay here--I feel too sick." "What's the matter with you?" "I don't know--only I get sharp, shooting pains now and then across my back." Whopper and Shep looked at each other. They had no desire for the companionship of such a disreputable looking person, yet they did not wish to see the tramp suffer. "What's your name?" questioned Whopper. "And where do you belong?" "My real name is Kidlaw Leech, but most of my friends call me Kiddy for short. I came from--er--New York, but I have been up to Fairview and other places looking for work. Yesterday I started to walk to the next town, but I reckon I got lost on the road, and I fetched up here." "You must have tramped a good distance," answered the doctor's son. He was far from being favorably impressed by the tramp. "I did," answered Kiddy Leech. "But, say, you'll help me to your camp, won't you?" "Yes. I have some medicines over there, and one of them may do you good. I'm a doctor's son." "Got any liquor? That's the best medicine for my back." "No, but I can give you some peppermint and some ginger." Again the tramp's face fell. He got up slowly and prepared to accompany the boys. There was nothing more to say, and kicking out the fire, the young hunters told Kiddy Leech to follow them. He came slowly, and caught hold off Shep's arm to steady himself. His breath still smelt of liquor, something that disgusted both lads. The ice reached, Shep and Whopper cut a long bush and on it placed the deer. "What's that for?" asked Kiddy beech, in curiosity. "It is easier to drag the deer than to carry it," answered Whopper. "The branch will act as a kind of sled." "Wish I had a sled to ride on, my back is pretty lame." Both boys looked at the tramp closely, wondering whether or not he was speaking the truth or shamming. For all they knew he might be as lazy as he was good for nothing. Then Shep whispered to Whopper. "All right, it won't be for far," whispered Whopper in return. "You can sit down on the branch beside the deer," said the doctor's son to Kiddy Leech. "We can easily pull you along." "Thanks, boys, that's kind of you," answered the tramp, and dropped down with a deep sigh of satisfaction. With their double load the two young hunters did not make very rapid progress across the lake cove. When they came in sight of the flag, which still flew from the sapling, they set up a loud and ringing shout. "Hullo!" came back from Snap, as he rushed from the shelter, followed by Giant. "Back at last, eh? Are you all right?" "Yes," answered Whopper. "But we've had quite an adventure, I can tell you. And we've got a deer!" he added, with pride. Snap and Giant came to the shore to help pull the load up to the camp and then noticed the tramp. "Hullo!" cried Giant. "How is it you are getting a free ride?" "Do you know him?" questioned Shep, quickly. "Not exactly. He came to our house begging--the day before we left home," answered the smaller member of the club, in a whisper. "We found him half frozen, in the snow," said Whopper. "He says there is something the matter with his back." The shelter gained, Shep and Giant were glad enough to go in and rest and so was Kiddy Leech. The tramp gazed around the cozy place with keen satisfaction. "This is a bang-up bunk," he observed. "A fellow could stay here a long time and enjoy himself." While the three newcomers rested, Giant and Snap bustled around and prepared them a substantial meal, with plenty of hot coffee, for the trip across the cove had been a cold one and they wanted something for "thawing out purposes," as Shep said. Kiddy Leech was not backward in eating a big meal, washing it down with all the coffee offered him. "Coffee is the next thing to liquor for warming a fellow," he observed. "We think it is far better," answered Snap. "We carry no liquor of any kind, only a little alcohol for special purposes." "Humph!" After the meal Shep got out some liniments for the tramp, but he said he would try a good sleep first. He sought out a comfortable corner of the shelter, and in a very few minutes was snoring away lustily. "He certainly takes things easy," said the doctor's son. "I believe he is thoroughly lazy, and a heavy drinker," answered Giant, and hit the nail squarely on the head. "What are we to do with him?" questioned Snap. "We certainly don't want him to stay at this camp." "Not much!" cried Whopper. "As soon as it clears off, we'll fix him up some provisions and start him on his way." And this was decided upon unanimously. During the afternoon it cleared off to such an extent that Snap and Giant determined to go out for a short walk. "Let us put on our snowshoes," said Giant. "It will give all of us a chance to get used to them." Snap was willing, and soon the boys had fastened on their snowshoes, which were long and narrow and first-class in every particular. Both had worn snowshoes before, but not sufficiently to feel thoroughly at home on them. "Come on!" shouted Giant, who was the first ready, and off he started in fine style, and soon Snap came after them. Shep and Whopper watched them depart and then returned to the shelter, feeling still too tired out to do, more than sit around and take it easy. Snap and Giant walked on through the woods until they came to a place that showed quite a cleared spot. "Come on--I'll race you!" cried the smaller lad, and away he went as fast as he could on his snowshoes, and Snap came after him. The two boys thought they were going over a level sheet of snow, but it was down grade and soon they struck a small hollow. Over went Giant on his face into the snow below, and an instant later Snap followed. "Whow!" spluttered the small youth, when he could make a sound. His nose and mouth were filled with snow, and some was also down his sleeve. "I say, this isn't so pleasant, Snap." "Pleasant! I should say not, Giant. Ugh! but this snow is cold!" "I can't get up!" "We'll have to do the best we can." With a great effort, Snap managed to rise to his feet again and then he went to Giant's assistance. After that the two boys were careful how they stepped out and so got along fairly well. "I don't think I'd care to travel more than a mile or two on snowshoes," remarked Giant, as they turned back towards the Inn. "It is too tiring on the ankles." When the two lads arrived at the shelter they were tired out and glad enough to take off the snowshoes and hang them up. Shep and Whopper wanted to know how it had felt to walk on snowshoes and they related their experience. "We'll all have to go out to-morrow," said Whopper. "Just wait till you see me walk! I'll wager I'll walk ten miles with ease." "Make it a hundred while you are at it," answered Shep. "I am not saying what I shall do." "If we go out what is to be done with that fellow?" whispered Snap, pointing to the sleeping form of Kiddy Leech. "I don't know," replied Whopper. "I don't like the idea of leaving him alone in camp." When night came on they put some fresh logs on the fire and cooked another meal of venison steak. Then, later on, they sat around the blaze, talking and eating nuts and apples. The tramp slept on soundly and they left him where he was, even when they retired. CHAPTER XIV IN WHICH A TRAMP DISAPPEARS "I know what I am going to do to-day," said Giant, on the following morning. "I am going fishing through a hole in the ice. I am just hungry for a bit of fresh fish for breakfast." "I want to fish myself," answered Whopper. "If you don't mind, I'll go with you." Snap beckoned his chums to the outside of the shelter. The tramp still lay on his couch but was awake. "Let us take turns at fishing," said the leader of the Gun Club, in a low tone. "Two can fish and two watch the tramp,--until he clears out." "Let us give him a hint that he is not wanted here," suggested Shep. "Will you give him the hint?" asked Giant. "Certainly--I am not afraid." They prepared breakfast, and when they were ready to sit down and eat the tramp arose and stretched himself lazily. "That smell good," he said. "Reckon you've got some for me, eh?" "Yes, you can have your share," answered Shep. "After breakfast we'll give you some lunch in a paper bag and then you can be on your way." "What, going to throw me out in such weather as this?" cried the man, reproachfully. "The weather is all right to-day," put in Snap. "My back hurts a good deal." "I guess you are able to walk. We'll give you plenty of lunch, so you won't starve." "It's hard lines on a fellow who hasn't a cent to his name," whined the tramp. His manhood had evidently deserted him completely. The young hunters looked at each other questioningly. They did not want to be hard on anybody who was in distress. Snap put his hand in his pocket. "I'll give you a quarter," he said, and passed over the silver coin. "So will I," added Shep. And then Giant and Whopper also handed over twenty-five cents each, making a dollar in all. "Much obliged," said Kiddy Leech, pocketing the silver with satisfaction. "But if you don't mind, I won't start out until about noon time. By then I reckon my back will I feel better." "Very well, make it noon then," said Snap. Giant and Whopper were soon down on the ice. They took with them their fishing outfits and an axe. "I've got an idea we'll find pretty good fishing around yonder bend of the shore," said Giant, pointing with his hand. Reaching a spot that looked favorable to them, they threw down their fishing outfits and began to cut two holes in the ice, about fifty feet apart. Cutting the ice was no light task, and they took turns until they had each hole about a foot in diameter. "Now then to bait up," said Giant. He had prepared himself for this by cutting out certain portions of the deer meat and small patches of the skin. He soon had his line in trim for use, and with the aid of a light sinker allowed it to sink close to the bottom of the lake. Whopper was using some bait brought from home, something Jed Sanborn had said might be effective in luring the finny tribe. The two boys stood by the holes patiently, waiting for a bite. Fully five minutes passed and Giant felt a small nibble. He pulled the bait around a bit and then felt a sudden tug. Up came his line with a rush, and out on the ice flopped a pickerel of fair size. "Hurrah! first haul!" sang out the small member of the Gun Club, proudly. "Who says we can't catch something?" After that came another spell of silence and then Whopper gave a yank on his line. Up came a good sized fish, but as it fell on the ice it broke loose from the hook and flopped back into the water with a splash that covered Whopper with the icy drops. "Oh, hang the luck!" gasped Whopper. "He got away and gave me a shower bath in the bargain." "Wish I could get a maskalonge," said Giant. "Do you remember the big one I caught last summer?" "Indeed I do," answered Whopper. "And I remember how the fish pulled you overboard and nearly drowned you." They continued to fish and presently Whopper got another bite and brought up a good-sized pickerel, of a variety that is known to many as a lake trout. Then both boys got a second and a third bite, and inside of an hour had a fair mess of fish to their credit. In the meantime Snap and Shep remained near the shelter, fixing up a number of things. Shep made a fresh batch of bread dough and also prepared a pot of beans and baked a plain cake. He likewise tried his hand at an apple pie, but the crust was not right, and later on, when the pie was tested, Whopper said the "lid" might do for a shingle but not for eating. The cake, however, turned out well, and all of the young hunters praised it. As Snap and Shep moved around, in and out of the shelter, Kiddy Leech watched them closely, although without letting them see it. The tramp had on his ragged overcoat and, when he got the chance, he put a number of things into the pockets on the sly. Suddenly from the lake there came a loud shouting, and Snap and Shep ran out to see what was the matter. "Maybe Giant and Whopper are in trouble," said the doctor's son. They ran out on the ice and then around the bend, to find those who had been fishing running toward them. "We just saw some big game," panted Giant. "Get the rifle and the shotguns!" "What game?" queried Snap. "At least a dozen deer, big ones," answered Whopper. "Oh, hurry. We'll never get such a chance again!" "Did you really see a dozen?" asked Shep. "I saw five or six," answered Giant. "I saw more than that--right across the lake," came from Whopper. "Hurry up!" With such game so close at hand the four boy hunters were in a fever of excitement. All rushed to the shelter and got their firearms, Whopper and Giant throwing their fish and lines in a heap on the floor. For the time being the tramp was practically forgotten. "Where are you going?" he shouted after them. "After some deer. We'll soon be back," answered Snap. At that moment Shep sighted one of the deer--directly on the opposite shore of the lake. But as soon as the game was seen it disappeared from view. "They are there, sure enough," exclaimed the doctor's son. "Shall we go back for our skates?" asked Snap. "No, there isn't time." Without further words the four boy hunters started to cross Firefly Lake, stepping as much as possible on the portions that did not look extra slippery. Yet more than one went down with a thump, and this delayed them not a little. "Where are the deer?" queried Snap, when the other side of the lake was gained. All looked around, and while one went up the shore, another went down, and then two hurried into the forest, which at this point was extra thick. "Here are the tracks!" cried Snap, and began to run forward, with the others close at his heels. But alas! the tracks soon came to an end, on a series of rocks which the wind had swept clear of snow. Beyond this point the ground was so uneven that progress was difficult. The boys gazed around in perplexity. They had expected some easy shooting. Now the game was gone and they did not know where to look for it. "May as well go back to camp," said Snap at last. "Remember, we left that tramp in full possession." "Oh, let us look around a little longer," pleaded Giant. To please the small member of the Gun Club, the others remained in that vicinity for quarter of an hour longer, looking in every possible direction for the deer. But the animals had made themselves scarce, and that was the end of it. "Too bad!" sighed Whopper. "I thought we'd get a full dozen this time!" They had stirred up absolutely nothing in the way of game, and so retraced their steps without firing a single shot. Nobody felt in particularly good humor, and the walk back to camp was a rather silent one. "Might better have kept at fishing," grumbled Whopper. "What did you get?" asked Shep, who had not taken time to look at the catch. "Oh, we've got enough for several meals." "That's good." "I hooked one big fish, but he got away." "The big fish always do," remarked Snap, significantly. "Oh, I'm not exaggerating," growled Whopper. When they came in sight of the camp it looked particularly lonely. "It's a wonder Mr. Kiddy Leech didn't come out to welcome us," remarked Giant. "He's too lazy," said Shep. "More than likely you'll find him snoring in front of the fire." "He certainly is a lazy one," said Whopper. "We must clear him out right away." They came up to the Inn and entered, to find the fire smouldering dimly. The tramp was nowhere to be seen. "Hullo!" called Snap, but there was no response. "Maybe he went out to find us," suggested Giant. "Not much!" exclaimed Snap. "I don't like this," he went on. "What, Snap?" "Look around you and see what is missing." "Missing!" "That is what I said." At these words all made a hasty examination of their belongings. Some underwear was gone, also a storm coat, and a number of other things. The tramp had taken a game bag full of provisions, and the pair of skates belonging to Snap. "He's a thief!" cried Giant. "I wish I had my hands on him," muttered Snap. "So do I," put in Whopper, to whom the storm coat belonged. "We must go after him, and at once," came from Shep. "He must not be allowed to get away with the things he has taken!" CHAPTER XV SOMETHING OF A CHASE "It is easy enough to say go after the tramp, but where are you going to find him?" said Whopper. "We went after those deer, but we didn't get any." "If he put on the skates, he must have taken to the lake," answered Snap. "Anyway, I don't think it will hurt to look around." "Somebody ought to stay at camp and watch things," said Shep. "Whopper, will you do that?" "Yes." "Then you can lend your skates to me, while I go after Mr. Kiddy Leech," said Snap. So it was arranged, and a few minutes later Snap, Shep and Giant set out to look for the tramp who had so unceremoniously disappeared. "If he took to skating he most likely went down to Lake Cameron," said Snap. "From there he could get to the river and go wherever he pleased." Once on the ice the three boys skated around on the lake until they saw other skate marks. These they began to follow and soon saw that they led down towards the neck that connected Firefly Lake with Lake Cameron. "I believe he did not imagine we'd get back so soon," said Giant. "He reckoned on getting over Lake Cameron to the river before we could spot him." Wherever there was a ridge of snow on the ice they could see the marks left by the tramp quite plainly. They skated with vigor, for they felt that Kiddy Leech would do all in his power to escape. "He may be lazy, but he'll hump himself now," declared Shep. "And to think he'd do such a thing as this, afar what we did for him," said Giant. "He can't have any sense of gratitude." On they went until they entered the rocky passage between the two lakes. Here they had to walk through several ridges of snow and saw that the tramp had done the same. Out on Lake Cameron the ice was tolerably free from snow, so it was not so easy to follow the trail. But they watched the ice closely, and kept their eyes open for the tiny scratches made by the skate runners. At one point, in a snow drift, they saw where the tramp had taken a tumble and rolled over. "Served him right," grumbled Snap. "I wish he had taken a dozen falls." They were nearing the end of the lake when they swept around a curve of the shore. At once, Snap, who was in the lead, set up a shout: "There he is!" "And skating for all he is worth!" added Shep. "Hi, you! stop!" yelled Giant. "Stop, you rascal!" At first Kiddy Leech did not hear, but presently, as they drew closer, he turned in a startled way. Then he tried to skate harder than ever. "Stop where you are, or I'll shoot you!" called out Snap, who had brought his shotgun along. "Don't shoot! Don't shoot!" yelled the tramp, in wild alarm. "Then stop," went on Snap. The tramp skated a few strokes more and then halted. Soon the three boys swept up to him. "Don't shoot!" cried Kiddy Leech again. "It's--er--all a mistake. I--er--I didn't mean any harm." "You didn't?" said Snap, indignantly. "No harm to steal our things? You're a rascal if ever there was one. We ought to hand you over to the authorities." "No! no. I--er--I wasn't stealing anything. It's all a joke. I was coming back. I thought I'd scare you a little, that's all." "Hand over that game-bag," said Shep. "And that storm-coat," said Giant. "And my skates," put in Snap. "And all the other things you took. And be quick about it, too." "You'll not go near our camp again," answered the leader of the Gun Club. Finding himself surrounded, Kiddy Leech gave up the things he had taken, including the skates. "Now hand over the money you got from us," continued Snap, sternly. "Why, can't I keep that?" "Not a cent of it." Kiddy Leech tried to, protest, but the young hunters would not listen to what he had to say. "We ought to give you a good thrashing," said the doctor's son. "If we were near town I'd have you arrested." "Don't you ever show your face near our camp again," said Giant, who, even though small, was bound to have his say. "If you do, we'll make it red-hot for you," added Snap. Stripped of all he had taken, the tramp stood glaring at the boys in a sullen manner. "I'll fix you for this," he began, when Snap cut him short. "Say another word and we'll thrash you good," he said. "Now get--just as fast as you can walk." And he pointed toward the river. Muttering under his breath, Kiddy Leech moved on, and the three young hunters watched him until a distant bend hid him from view. "Doesn't walk as if his back was lame," was Giant's comment. "Oh, I guess that was all put on--just to arouse our sympathy," answered Snap. The boys turned back in the direction of their camp, talking about the affair and glad that they had had no worse trouble in getting back their things. In the meantime Kiddy Leech walked on, fast at first and then more slowly, until Rocky River was reached. Here he came to a dilapidated building once used as an ice-house and sat down on a bench in the sun to rest. "I'm having bad luck right along lately," he muttered to himself. "Thought sure I'd get away to-day with those things. Gee, but I'm glad they didn't shoot me! That fellow they call Snap looked mad enough to do it. And to think they took that money back too--after giving it to me! Say, I'd like to fix 'em for that!" And he shook his head savagely. Kiddy Leech had been sitting on the bench less than quarter of an hour when he saw several boys coming along the frozen river on their skates. He looked at them indifferently at first, but soon became interested in two of the number. These boys were Ham Spink and Carl Dudder. The third youth was Barney Hedge, one of Spink's cronies. "The same boys!" muttered the tramp to himself. "Hullo, look at the scarecrow!" called out Ham Spink, as he swept up on an elegant pair of silver-plated hockey skates. "Wonder what cornfield he came from," put in Carl Dudder. "Got any old clo's' to sell!" cried Barney Hedge, imitating a street merchant. Kiddy Leech scowled at the trio and said nothing at first. Then, as Ham Spink threw a snowball at him, he arose and beckoned the boys nearer. "I want to talk to you two," he said, motioning to Carl and Ham. "We haven't any money for you," answered Ham. "You can't get a drink out of me," added Carl Dudder. "And by the way," he added suddenly. "You're the tramp my father fired out of our barn one night last week." "That's true," answered Kiddy Leech, calmly. "But he won't do it again." "I know he won't--you won't dare to come around," jeered Carl. "Humph! I We'll see about that, sonny. Maybe I'll call on your father to-morrow." "The scarecrow is crazy," said Barney Hedge. "No, I ain't crazy. But I know a thing or so, and I want to talk to you two in private," went on the tramp, and motioned again to Ham and Carl. "What do you want?" asked Ham, curiously. He could see that the tramp was not crazy. "Come here,--or send that other boy away." "Gosh, got a state secret, eh?" said Barney Hedge. "All right--I'll keep out of it. If you want help, call," he added, as he circled away to a distance. "What do you want anyway?" questioned Carl, half angrily. "We are not in the habit of associating with tramps." "We are gentlemen's sons," added Ham, drawing himself up proudly. "Say, do gentlemen's sons blow up boathouses?" asked Kiddy Leech, in a low but distinct tone. At this question consternation seemed to seize both Ham Spink and Carl Dudder, and their faces grew pale as they stared at the tramp. "Wha--what's that?" stammered Ham, faintly. "I asked you if gentlemen's sons blew up boathouses." "What do you know about blowing up a boathouse?" asked Carl. "I don't know much about doing the job. But I saw one blown up not long ago, and--" "And what?" came eagerly from Ham and Carl. "And I know you two boys did the job," finished Kiddy Leech, significantly. CHAPTER XVI AN EVIL COMPACT For the next moment Ham Spink and Carl Dudder stared at the tramp in amazement not unmixed with terror. "You--er--you saw us?" faltered Ham, at length. "I did." "You were mistaken," put in Carl. "You--" "No, I wasn't mistaken, for I saw you with the dynamite, and I saw you go into the boathouse and then come out. And then--" "Hush, not so loud," interrupted Ham, looking over to where Barney Hedge was skating up. "Then don't say I don't know anything about it," insisted Kiddy Leech. "I know all about it. You two boys did the job, and nobody else." "Where were you?" asked Ham. "Oh, I was just knocking around." "You can't prove we did it," said Carl, a little of his courage returning. "Can't I though? Just you try me and see. I don't know your names, but I can soon find them out. I know you belong in Fairview." "Oh!" Ham's face grew pale again, and if the truth were known he was trembling in his shoes. "Say, I--er--I don't want you to say anything about this to anybody," he added, hastily. "Oh, I am not the kind to tell all I know," answered the tramp. "Thank you." "But it will cost you a trifle." "Eh?" "How much money have you got with you?" went on Kiddy Leech, calmly. "Only some change--less than a dollar." "How much have you got?" "What is that to you?" demanded Carl. "I want what you've got, that's all." "I'll not give it to you." "All right then, I'll walk to Fairview and tell what I know about that explosion." "We'll say you did it!" cried Carl, struck by a sudden inspiration. "Won't do no good--I can prove you're guilty," answered Kiddy Leech. He spoke with such positiveness that both boys believed him, and after a few words more both agreed to give him all the money they carried if he would keep silent about the matter. "The boathouse wasn't worth anything," explained Ham. "We only knocked it down to play a trick on some other boys we don't like." "Some other boys?" "Yes, some fellows who came up this way to go camping. They had their traps stored in that boathouse." "Did those boys come to a camp up here?" asked the tramp, with interest. "Yes." "What were their names?" "Snap Dodge, Shep Reed, a fellow called Whopper Dawson and a little chap named Caslette." "Humph! the very same crowd," muttered Kiddy Leech. "So you played the trick on them, eh? I am glad of it." "Say, what are you chaps gassing about anyway?" demanded Barney Hedge, who was growing tired of waiting for his cronies. "Say, Barney, excuse us for awhile, will you," called out Ham, skating towards his friend. "We want to find out something from this tramp. He knows something about the Dodge crowd I am sure." "Oh! Well, I want to find out about them too," said Hedge and came closer. "Don't say anything about the boathouse," whispered Ham Spink to Kiddy Leech, to which the tramp replied with a knowing wink of his bleery eye. "Have you been up to the Dodge camp?" questioned Carl Dudder. "Yes, and those chaps treated me shamefully," answered Kiddy Leech. "I never touched a thing they had, yet they accused me of trying to steal some of their traps." "Just like 'em," said Ham. "They are a mean set, every one of 'em. What kind of a camp did they have, a regular log cabin?" "No, a sort of shelter patched up among some trees," and at this information Ham and Carl winked at each other. "Thought we were to go up there some day and play a trick on them," came from Barney Hedge, who, during the summer, had done his full share of trouble-making for all of our friends. "How would you like to go to that camp and make trouble for that crowd?" said Ham, to the tramp. "Me?" "Yes. We'd like to have their outing spoilt. We'd pay you for your trouble." "Say, Ham, can you trust this fellow?" whispered Barney, half in alarm. "I think so. He's only a tramp and he will do anything for a little money. If he does the job we won't have to dirty our hands, and if he gets into trouble we can deny that we had anything to do with it." This view of the matter suited Barney Hedge and also Carl Dudder, and all joined in getting Kiddy Leech to tell them what our friends were doing and how they were situated. Then it was suggested again to the tramp that he go back to the vicinity of the camp on Firefly Lake and make matters uncomfortable for the campers. "I'll do it, if you'll pay me what it is worth," said Kiddy Leech. "But I can't go back to-day. It's too cold and I ain't dressed warm enough. And I'll want some provisions." "I can get you some better clothing," said Carl Dudder. "I think one of my father's old suits will fit you. Maybe I can get you an overcoat, too." "I can get you some shoes, and a hat," said Barney Hedge. "I'll furnish the provisions, and we'll pay you some money," put in Ham Spink. "Come along to Fairview if you want to." So it was agreed, and Kiddy Leech accompanied the young conspirators back to the town. Here the tramp was given some more money, and he put up at Bamling's Tavern, a low resort near the river. The boys brought him the clothing and other things promised, and he had several talks with them on what was to be done when he went back to the vicinity of the camp on Firefly Lake. He promised to do all they wished; but on the following day he was missing. "What do you suppose had become of him?" said Ham to Carl, in considerable alarm. "I am sure I don't know, and Bamling says he doesn't know either," was the answer. Ham Spink made numerous inquiries and soon learned from some rivermen that Kiddy Leech had yielded to his weakness for strong liquor and gone off on a spree. "We are out our money," he said to Carl Rudder, in disgust. "He'll never do a thing for us, I am certain, and we dare not prosecute him." "Maybe he'll do what we want when he gets sober," answered Carl. "He will want more money, and then we can tell him that he can't have a cent until he goes up to the camp and does what we want him to." When at last they saw the tramp again he looked more battered and disreputable than ever,--so much so, in fact, that the rather fastidious youths were afraid of him. But he would not let them get away from him, and insisted on keeping to the bargain that had been made. "I am sorry I took to the liquor--but it's a weakness I get once a year or so," he said blandly. "But I'll keep as sober as a judge now, you see if I don't--no more drink for Kiddy Leech until this job is done. All I want is what you promised to me, and you can rely on me doing the rest." "We are not going to trust you," said Ham, putting on as bold a front as he could, although he was trembling. "You go and do the work as promised and we'll pay you afterwards." This did not suit Kiddy Leech, and a lively discussion followed, and the matter was compromised. The tramp was given something of another outfit and a third of the money promised to him, and he agreed to accept the rest of the money when he had done the "job" at Firefly Lake. "Mind you now," said Ham, "I want you to make it just as disagreeable for that crowd as you possibly can. You can soak their firewood with water, hide their guns and provisions, and fix it so the snow will break in their roof--and things like that." "Oh, don't you worry," declared Kiddy Leech. "I'll make it so uncomfortable for them that you'll see them back home in no time, mark my words." "And see that they don't bring any game with them either," said Carl Dudder. "I'll fix that too," answered the tramp. CHAPTER XVII FUN IN THE CAMP "Boys! wake up! Are you going to sleep all day?" It was Snap who called out. He had just crawled out of his cozy sleeping place near the fire and looked at his watch. It was eight o'clock. It was the morning after the day when they had had their trouble with Kiddy Leech, and as they brought in some wood, stirred up the smouldering camp-fire, they talked over what had occurred. "I don't think he'll bother us any more," said Shep. "He's too much of a coward at heart." The boys had planned for a day "at home," as Snap put it. They were going to try their hands at cake and candy making, and for dinner were going to have baked turkey, beans and apple sauce. For breakfast Giant and Whopper had prepared some of the fish caught through the ice, and the repast proved a delicious one--quite a relief from the monotony of game. All of the boys were in exceptionally good humor that day, whistling and singing and "cutting up" generally. Right after breakfast they opened up the Inn to let in some fresh air and during that period of time had a snowball match, using as a target a saucepan lid set up on a tree stump at a distance of a hundred feet. Each took ten trials and Snap knocked the lid down seven times, Shep six times and Giant and Whopper each five times. Then the boys got to snowballing each other, running round the shelter for protection, and at last Giant followed Shep inside, each carrying a chunk of snow. "Hi! that won't do!" sang out the leader of the club. "No snow allowed inside. Come out, or I'll fine you each five sticks of wood." Which meant that each culprit would have to go out into the woods and chop down five fair sized sticks for firewood. This was a system of fines Snap had instituted and it seemed to work very well. "No wood chopping in mine," called out Giant, and threw his snow outside. Whopper attempted to do the same, but the chunk fell and spread all over one of the couches. "Whopper you are fined five sticks, and you must at once clean the couch, before the snow melts," said Snap. "Just my luck," grumbled Whopper. "Every time I start out for fun I end up with a funeral!" Yet he set to work willingly, whistling as merrily as ever. The sport at an end, all of the boys set to work, cake and candy making. They cracked some of the nuts taken from the squirrels' hiding places and then while Snap and Giant made a big nut cake, Shep and Whopper made nut candy. The boys had learned the work at home (for camp purposes) and the results were decidedly appetizing. In the meantime the turkey was roasting, and then Snap and Shep peeled some apples for apple sauce. "Listen!" cried Whopper. "Am I mistaken, or did I hear a whistle?" All listened and from a distance heard a clear, sharp whistle, thrice repeated. They knew that signal well, and all rushed to the doorway of the shelter, getting in a jam in consequence. "I'm the one to get out ahead!" cried the Giant, and the small form slipped deftly between the others. "Hullo, Jed Sanborn! How are you?" "Hullo, yourself!" came from off the ice of the lake, as the well-known old hunter strode forward. "Thought I'd find you to hum--by the look of the smoke from your chimbley." "Where did you come from, Fairview?" "Yes,--got letters fer all of you." "Oh, letters!" was the cry, and then all the young hunters rushed forward to shake hands and escort the old hunter into the shelter. Jed Sanborn looked around in perplexity. "Why, say, this ain't the camp I expected," he stammered. "The other was burnt down when we got here," answered Snap. "Burnt down? 'T wasn't burnt down when I was here last, lad." "So you told us. It must have been burnt down after that. The work of some enemy," put in Shep. "You don't suspect Felps, do you?" "Either he or the Ham Spink crowd," answered Whopper. "Humph! Dog mean, wasn't it? Some fellers is too mean to live. Say, that turkey smells good. Ain't starvin' none, eh?" "Not a bit of it," declared Giant. "We've got more than enough." "Then kin I get dinner?" "A dozen of them!" cried Snap. They made Jed Sanborn make himself at home, and then read with pleasure the letters. All was going along well at Fairview, and the boys were cautioned to take good care of themselves. "We must send letters in return," said Shep, and this was agreed to instantly, and the communications were pencilled that afternoon. Jed Sanborn had quite some news to tell, and he listened with interest to the tale the young hunters had to relate about their various quests of game. His brow darkened when they related their experience with Kiddy Leech. "Sech rascals ought to be run out o' the deestrict," he observed. "An' I'd like the job of runnin' 'em out. I hope he doesn't bother you again." It was one o'clock when the Gun Club and their guest sat down to their turkey dinner. All took their time over the repast, and as a consequence the meal was not finished until some time after two. Then they took it easy, while Jed Sanborn told them a story about a bear hunt, and how he had once gone fishing on the St. Lawrence and got caught in the rapids. "It's snowing again!" called out Shep, who chanced to go out, to bring in some more firewood. "Coming down pretty thick, too, I can tell you!" "I allowed it was going to snow before nightfall," answered Jed Sanborn. "I'll take a look at the sky myself." As a man who spent nearly all of his life out of doors, he was keenly interested in the weather at all times. He studied the sky carefully for several minutes and then shook his head. "What do you think?" was Whopper's query. "Going to snow all night, I reckon--an' putty good too." On account of the snow, it grew dark rapidly, and they had to stir up the fire for light as well as for warmth. Jed had brought with him a small bag of corn for popping, and also a popper, something Shep had meant to bring but had forgotten. While some of the boys cleared away what was left of the meal, Giant and the old hunter popped a pan full of corn, and of this and the cake, candy, and apples they made, later on, what they termed supper. "My! but it is snowing to beat the cars!" exclaimed Whopper, as he looked out of the shelter before retiring. "Can't see the end of your nose. I'll bet the snow will be eight or ten feet high by morning." The evening was spent in playing various games and in singing some of the home songs. The boys could sing fairly well and Jed Sanborn listened with pleasure. "Wish I could sing myself," he said. "But I ain't got no more voice nor a black crow." At last it came time to turn in, and they provided the old hunter with a comfortable corner. The fire was fixed for the night, and presently all went to sleep, little thinking of the excitement so close at hand. CHAPTER XVIII AN UNEXPECTED PERIL The snow continued to come down thickly. The weather had moderated to a great extent and this made the snow heavy and clinging. It came down on the shelter steadily until the top of Birch Tree Inn resembled the top of some large sugar-coated cake. The roof of the shelter was not as strong as it should have been, for the young hunters were amateurs in the construction of such an affair. It held up bravely until the weight of snow became too heavy, and then it began to bend lower and lower and commenced to snap and crack, as one tree after another gave way. The boys and the old hunter slept on, unconscious of their danger, until an extra loud crack awoke Whopper. The lad sat up, looked around him and listened. Then came another snap. "Must be a log on the fire," said Whopper to himself. "But it didn't seem to come from there. Perhaps--Oh!" Whopper heard a crack directly over his head, then down came a heap of snow that all but buried him. "Hi! Wake up, everybody!" he yelled, in alarm. "The roof is coming down!" "What's that?" called Jed Sanborn, rolling out of his blanket and struggling to his feet, only to be hurled flat by the snow that came down on his head. By this time the boys were all awake and trying to get up. They heard several cracks, and then more snow came down and with it several sticks of good size. "We must get out! If we don't we'll be hurt!" cried Whopper. "Come on," and he leaped for the doorway, which had been well closed, to keep out the cold. Before Whopper could gain the outer air the entire roof of the shelter seemed to come down, and Snap and Shep were buried beneath the ruins. Giant was caught against the wall, not far from the rude chimney. Jed Sanborn reached the doorway, and he and Whopper managed to push down the barrier and leap outside. Some of the snow tumbled into the fire and this created a smoke which all but stifled poor Giant, who, for several minutes could hardly move. In the meantime Snap and Shep were flat on their breasts, trying to squirm from under the mass that was pressing them to the earth. "The others have been caught!" exclaimed Whopper, in horror, as he gazed behind him. "Oh, what shall we do?" "Tear the stuff apart as fast as we can," answered the old hunter, and set the example by springing back and pulling on branches, poles and chunks of snow. Whopper set in to do likewise, and the pair labored like Trojans for several minutes. Then they caught sight of Snap and actually hauled him from the wreckage feet first! "Who's out and who's caught?" demanded Snap, as soon as he could speak, and having learned he went on: "We must get Shep and Giant out, before the fire reaches them!" "Help! help!" came faintly from Giant. "Where are you?" asked Snap. "Here--next to the chimney. I am wedged fast. The smoke is choking me!" "We'll git him out!" spoke Jed Sanborn, who had not stopped in his labors, and he pitched in harder than ever, with Whopper and Snap doing all they could to aid him. Snap had his face and one hand badly scratched, but paid no attention, just then, to the blood which was flowing from the wounds. It was not long before the three outside were able to aid Shep. Using all his strength, which was considerable, Jed Sanborn held up a portion of the fallen roof and Shep crawled forth until Whopper and Snap could get hold of him and raise him up. He had suffered but little, although the breath had been forced out of him. "Get poor Giant!" were the first words. "Don't--don't mind me. I'll be all ri-right when I--I get m-my wind!" The others were already laboring to release Giant. Through the tangle of branches the smoke was pouring, for more snow had fallen on the fire. "Giant, can't you turn and get some air through the cracks of the side?" called out Whopper. "That's what I am trying to do, but I am caught fast," was the gasped-out answer. "I'll try to do something around near the chimney," said Jed Sanborn. "Where's the axe?" It was given to him and soon he was at work close to where Giant was held a prisoner. Fortunately a slender tree of the shelter frame was located at this point and a few well-directed blows cut it off. Then Jed shoved the tree upward, thus making a hole through which Giant fell rather than crawled. "Are you burnt?" asked Whopper and Shep, in a breath. "No, but I am about ha-half smoked!" declared the smaller member of the Gun club and coughed. "Boys, we must put the fire out, or all of your things will be ruined," said Jed Sanborn. "I reckon I know how to do the trick, now Giant and the rest are out." "How?" asked several. "Fill up the chimney with snow." This was a good idea and soon, by forcing the snow down the chimney, they had the fire all but out. Of course it smoked a great deal, but this did little damage. It was three o'clock in the morning and the snow was coming down as thickly as ever. They scarcely knew what to do, until Jed Sanborn suggested they build a camp-fire outside. "So long as you've got plenty of firewood why not use it?" said he. "We want a light, too." "Here is the acetylene gas lamp," said Snap, picking it up from where it had fallen, near the doorway. "And the can of carbide," added Shep. "This will help us to start a fresh fire, even if the wood is wet," he continued. "How?" questioned Jed Sanborn, who had never used such a "new-fangled consarn," as he called the bicycle lamp. "I'll show you," answered Shep. "Just heap up some of the wood, with the little sticks on the bottom." The wood was heaped up and then, in a hollow in the snow underneath, Shep dumped out some of the carbide from the can. Then he lit a match, held it to the snow, to melt the latter a little, and up blazed the gas, at first slowly and then more furiously, until the fire was roaring. "Why, how is that!" cried the old hunter. "Never knew snow to set fire to anything in my life." "It is very simple, Jed," explained Shep. "As soon as the snow melts it turns to water, and the water, soaking the carbide, generates acetylene gas, which burns about the same as gas in a city." "Well, it's an easy way to start a camp-fire," was the old hunter's comment. "I've had lots o' trouble sometimes, when the wood was wet as it is now." The roaring fire made matters a little more cheerful, yet the boys felt discouraged, with the roof of the shelter broken down. Jed Sanborn did all in his power to cheer them up. "When you go camping like this you can't expect everything to go jest right," he said. "You have to take the lean with the fat an' the bitter with the sweet. Now, I knowed a crowd o' men went camping out in the North Woods a few years ago. First one of the men took sick an' had to go home, then the boat they had got to leakin' so they couldn't use it, then came a forest fire, and in running away one of 'em up an' broke his leg. Thet was an outin' fer you!" "Thanks, but I'd rather stay home," said Snap. "But I believe you,--there is no use of crying over spilt milk, as the saying goes. What do you advise?" "Cleaning out the place and puttin' up a good, strong roof. We can do it by night." "Night!" cried Whopper. "What is it now but night?" "No, it's morning, lad, but rather early, I admit." Under the old hunter's directions they went to work, and by seven o'clock had the shelter cleaned out. This gave them a chance to get at their stores and also use the fireplace once more, and they cooked a fish breakfast and made a generous pot of coffee and another of chocolate. "We'll cut all these branches away and then build a regular pole roof," said Jed Sanborn. "Build it right and it will withstand any pile o' snow you kin git on it." He told them just what poles to cut and how to place them, and showed them the best way to put in strips of bark and bind the whole together. By nightfall they had the new roof finished, and all of the boys admitted it was much better than the other roof had been. CHAPTER XIX THE FIGHT WITH THE BUCK Jed Sanborn had promised to remain long enough in the camp to go out on at least one deer hunt with them, and, on the following day, the whole party started out, shutting up the shelter as best they could, so that no wild animals might get inside during their absence. The snow had ceased to come down. It covered the ground to the depth of a foot and a half on the level and Jed said it was just the right kind of weather for deer. "If we spot 'em they won't have much chance to git away," he told them, "They can't run in sech deep snow nohow." Of course they went on their snowshoes. Jed had brought his own along--a pair rather the worse for wear, but on which he covered the snow as rapidly as any of them. He said he had frequently been out on snowshoes for days at a time and they did not bother him in the least. He grinned when Shep took a tumble, but aided the lad to arise without any comment. The old hunter had seen some deer at a place called Doorknob Valley, a hollow to the southwest of Firefly Lake, and led them in that direction. The trail was by no means an even one, and often they had to force their way through bushes half buried in the snow. It was noon before they came in sight of Doorknob Valley, with some hills running around one side and a series of cliffs and rough rocks and scrub pines on the other. To the boys' dismay, not a deer was in sight. Snap looked questioningly at the old hunter. "I think we'll find 'em somewhere around here," said Jed. "Come, follow me, and don't make any noise. I haven't seen a winter yet when there weren't deer in Doorknob Valley." They pressed on, over one of the hills, and then towards the cliffs and rough rocks. Soon Jed held up his hand. "Have you spotted any?" whispered Shep, eagerly. The old hunter nodded, and then pointed to the edge of one of the cliffs. Under, in something of a shelter, they could see several deer and not far away a big, sturdy buck, all feeding on some tender saplings which they were stripping of bark. "Oh, what a shot!" whispered Giant, excitedly. "We'll try to git a bit closer," said Jed Sanborn. "But don't make any noise, or we'll have to follow 'em until they get winded." Hardly daring to breathe after that, the boys followed the old hunter in and out among the cliffs and rough rocks. This was the hardest part of the journey and both Snap and Whopper went down, the latter twice, much to his disgust. "Now, don't make a sound," cautioned Jed Sanborn. "And don't show yourselves till I tell you to." They were passing down between the rough rocks, and soon came to a spot where there were several thick clumps of bushes. Here the old hunter went ahead again. Then he motioned for the boys to drop down low and they did so. Peering forth through the bushes they could now see the deer close at hand. The big buck, however, was not visible. "Where is the buck?" whispered Snap in Jed's ear. The young leader of the Gun Club wished very much to lay that magnificent beast low. The old hunter pointed to a nearby cliff. There was the buck, standing between two saplings, eating the bark of one and rubbing himself against the other. "Can I hit him, do you think?" went on Snap. "You can try. But wait." In a low tone Jed Sanborn instructed the lads to aim and fire to the best advantage. Each was to shoot at his own game, and Sanborn said he would take a shot or two afterwards. "I'll give the word," said the old hunter. "Are you all ready?" They were, and he ordered them to fire. Bang! bang! bang! went the three shotguns, and crack! went the rifle. The deer Shep had aimed at was killed outright and the two aimed at by Giant and Whopper were badly wounded. The buck, upon which Snap had tried his skill, was hit in the flank, and he gave a snort of rage as he swung around, breaking one of the saplings as he did so. "Hurrah, I've got one!" cried Shep, in exultation. "Mine is down, but it isn't dead," said Giant. "Neither is mine, but I guess we can get 'em both," answered Whopper. And then the lads ran forward to secure the two struggling deer, that were floundering furiously in the snow. Snap had turned toward the buck, but now he got a sudden attack of "buck fever" as it is called and stood stock still, with eyes staring from his head. "Look out there, he'll horn you!" yelled Jed Sanborn, and raised his gun to fire. But as he did so, Shep bumped against him, and the buckshot intended for the buck only rent the empty air. By this time the buck was less than a hundred feet from where Snap was standing. That he was wild with rage could be seen from the look out of his wide-open and bloodshot eyes. He lowered his antlers, as if to pierce poor Snap through and through. "Run! run!" yelled Shep. "Run, Snap!" It was then that Snap awoke to the peril which confronted him, and turning, he made a leap to one side and around a clump of the bushes. The buck turned too, and at that moment Jed Sanborn discharged the second barrel of his shotgun, this time taking the game in one of the rear legs. For the moment the buck was halted and he raised the wounded leg and let out a moan of pain. Then his fury increased, and with a mighty effort he arose in the air, intending to leap directly over the clump of bushes and on top of Snap. But now Shep was ready for another shot and he let drive at the buck, hitting him along the left side. This served to bring the leap to a halt in midair, and doubling up, the buck sank down directly in the midst of the bushes. "Good for you!" shouted Snap, and rushing forward he, too, took a second shot. This was too much for the buck, and crashing out of the bushes he rolled over and over and then stretched out, dead. It was fully five minutes before the excitement was at an end. Snap was a trifle pale. "What a narrow escape!" he murmured. "I thought sure he was going to horn me!" "A buck will fight sometimes and when he does he's as ugly as any critter on four legs," said Jed Sanborn. "I might have fixed him with my first shot only Shep bumped into me. But I know he didn't mean to do it," added the old hunter hastily. "I didn't see you--I was looking at the other deer," explained the doctor's son. "Can we get any more of 'em?" demanded Whopper. "Whopper always wants a dozen or two," laughed Giant. "No more deer to-day, lad," said Jed Sanborn. "I think we have had remarkable luck. Why, sometimes a crowd like this can tramp all day and not get a sight of a deer. As it is, we're going to have some fun getting our game home." "Oh, we can't carry such a load!" cried Giant. "We'll cut some drags and get 'em to camp that way," said the old hunter. He pointed out two saplings which might do for drags, and they cut them down with the axe the old hunter had brought along. Then they placed the two largest of the deer on one and the buck and the smallest deer on the other, thus making the loads about even. Some of the branches of the saplings had been cut off, so that they trailed over the snow rather flatly, which was what was desired. They had brought lunch with them, and before they started on the return they built a small campfire and made themselves a pot of chocolate, something of which Jed was exceedingly fond. "I don't go much on candy," said he, "but chocolate seemed to hit the spot, better'n coffee or tea." "I like them all," answered Snap. The repast over, they started on the return, Jed helping with first one drag and then the other. He also pointed out what he thought would be the easiest route to follow. This was over two hills. "Well have to climb, but we won't fall down between any o' the rocks," he said. "It's dangerous walking over rocks with snow on 'em, for if you go down in a hollow you're liable to twist an ankle or break a leg." "We certainly don't want any accidents," said Shep. "How the eyes of Ham Spink and his crowd would stick out if they knew we had bagged so much game!" exclaimed Whopper. "If they had such luck they'd never get done talking about it." "Do you think they'll come out this winter?" questioned Giant. "I don't know," answered Snap. "If they do come out I hope they keep away from us." "So do I," put in the doctor's son. CHAPTER XX SHOOTING WILD DUCKS When the boys and Jed Sanborn reached camp a surprise awaited them. Seated at a small fire in front of Birch Tree Inn was an elderly man dressed in the outfit of a mountain guide. "Why, it's Jack Dalton!" cried Shep. "Hullo, boys!" called the man at the fire, rising. "Thought as how you'd be back some time to-day. How are ye, Jed?" he added, to the old hunter. Jack Dalton, as my old readers know, was a guide of that vicinity, well known to all the inhabitants for miles around. He had visited the boys' camp during the summer and had been friendly in more ways than one. "Thought I might get a shakedown here for the night," said Jack Dalton. "Been hoofing it sence five o'clock this morning--over from Philbrook's preserve--and I'm too tuckered out to make Fairview." "Certainly you can stay with us," answered Snap. "Had any luck?" "A few rabbits and some ducks, that's all. Gee shoo! Do you mean to say you got them deer an' that buck to-day?" "We did." "Gosh all hemlock! No wonder a feller like me can't get nuthin! That's rare luck; eh, Jed?" "It was," answered the old hunter. "They don't expect to do it again in a hurry." The shelter was opened up and all went inside and prepared a generous supper. Jack Dalton insisted upon giving the boys one of the ducks he had brought down, in return for the accommodations received. On their part they gave the guide a generous chunk of venison, for which he was exceedingly thankful. "I'd like to go out duck shooting," said Whopper. "It would be something different." "No ducks around Firefly Lake," answered Giant. "I asked Jed." Jack Dalton was questioned and said that there were plenty of wild ducks below the Philbrook preserve--at a locality known as the Marshes--and he told them how to get there. "But you want to be careful about walking over the Marshes," he said. "In the summer time there are lots of bog holes, an' it ain't none too safe in the winter time." As Jack Dalton was going on to Fairview with Jed Sanborn, it was decided by the boys to send the buck and one of the other deer home, which would be easy, with two men to draw the load. All spent a comfortable night in camp, nothing coming to disturb them. Breakfast was a substantial one, and by nine o'clock Jed and Dalton set off with their load, the old hunter also carrying various letters for the folks at home. The boys went out on the lake to see them off, and gave them a rousing cheer on parting. "Tell everybody we are having the time of our lives," shouted Snap after the pair. There was more snow in the air, and the young hunters spent the remainder of that day in camp, cleaning the game they had brought in and also their firearms, and mending a couple of snowshoes that had become a little broken. A portion of the chimney also needed attention, and before they knew it, night was once more upon them. "I'll tell you what," said Snap. "Out here the time seems to fairly fly." "Boys, do you realize that day after to-morrow is Christmas," came from Whopper. "So it is!" was the cry. "Gracious, I almost forgot about it!" "We must celebrate!" "Sure thing! Oh, we'll have a dandy time. We can have fish, fowl and venison, and pudding and cake and nuts and apples, and lots of good things," finished Giant. "Let us go duck hunting to-morrow and spend Christmas here," said the doctor's son, and so it was agreed. Everything was prepared for an early start, and the four boy hunters were "up and doing" by seven o'clock in the morning. "Phew! but ain't it cold!" ejaculated Snap, as he slapped his hands together. "I didn't calculate on such a drop in the thermometer." It certainly was freezing weather and they bundled up well before leaving the shelter. As before, they shut up tightly, to keep out all wild animals. The deer and other game had been hung high by ropes from several tree limbs. Of course all were on snowshoes, and they carried in their game-bags provisions enough for two good meals. Every day they found walking on snowshoes easier, and all got over the ground, or rather snow, very well. Once over the hills back of Firefly Lake, they took to a route that was new to them, leading through a heavy belt of spruce timber and then over a sloping stretch running down to the lowlands. On the way they stirred up some rabbits and Whopper could not resist the temptation to bring one of them low. "Now I won't have to go back empty-handed, even if I don't see another thing," he declared. It was fully noon by the time they reached the edge of the Marshes, wide stretches of lowlands, dotted here and there with clumps of bushes. At a great distance they heard gunshots, but failed to discover the gunners. They tramped on to a point where Jack Dalton had said the wild ducks were apt to be found. The wind was coming up, and out in this wide open plain it cut like a knife. "We won't want to stay out here more than an hour or two," said Shep. "My backbone feels like an icicle!" "Do you know what I think?" said Giant. "I think it is going to snow." "So do I," came from Whopper. A few minutes later the first flakes fell, and fearful that the snow would interfere with their sight of any wild ducks they hurried forward until they reached a circle of bushes Jack Dalton had mentioned. "Wait, I see some ducks!" cried Giant. "See, they are rising and coming this way!" "Be quick!" cried Snap, and brought around his shotgun. The others also aimed their weapons, and as the wild ducks sailed almost over them they let drive in a scattering volley. Two of the ducks were killed outright and came straight down, while a third circled around badly wounded. The others swept out of range before any harm could be done to them. "We've got two, anyway," said Shep. "I'm going after that wounded one!" cried Whopper, and went off on his snowshoes behind the fluttering game. The duck touched the snow and then arose again and did this several times. Giant followed Whopper, bound to get the third duck if it was possible to do so. "Beware of holes!" yelled Snap, after the pair. "Remember what Jack Dalton said!" The others were too interested in pursuing the wounded duck to pay attention to his words. Thinking he saw a chance, Whopper discharged his weapon but it did no damage. Then Giant took a shot, and this was likewise of no avail. "Gracious, ducks seem to be harder to hit than deer!" cried the smaller member of the Gun Club. "It will get away after all, Whopper!" "Not if I know it," was the reply. "Come on!" The pair continued to run, until fully a hundred yards more had been covered. The wounded duck had now fluttered down into some bushes and both felt sure they would be able to bag it. So eager were they that they did not notice the softness of the snow before them until, without warning, they sank up to their knees. "Hi! what's this?" sputtered Whopper, as he floundered around. "We're in a hole!" gasped Giant. "Say, we had better get back!" They tried to turn back, but it was impossible, and soon both young hunters were up to their waists and then to their breasts. They forgot all about the wounded duck and began to call lustily for help. CHAPTER XXI A TOUCH OF A BLIZZARD "Those boys ought to be more careful," said Snap, as he watched Giant and Whopper plunge along after the wounded duck. "Well, you told them to beware of holes," answered Shep. The two ducks that had been killed were picked up and put in the game-bags, and then Snap and Shep started to follow their comrades, but at a more moderate rate of speed. "Hark! they are calling for help!" exclaimed the leader of the Gun Club, a moment later. "They are in a hole!" said the doctor's son. "Look, I can just see their heads!" "We must help them out! My! how the wind is blowing!" The increase in wind was rapid and by the time Snap and Shep drew close to where Whopper and Giant were still floundering, it carried the loose snow around in a perfect whirlwind. "Can't you crawl out?" asked Snap, coming as close as he dared. "Every time we try we seem to sink deeper!" gasped Giant. "Then keep still and I'll aid you," answered the leader of the Gun Club. "Come, Shep." "What we you going to do?" "I'll show you. Be quick." Walking to the nearest bushes, Snap cut them down with the hatchet he had insisted upon carrying. Shep now understood, and both lugged the bushes to the edge of the fast sinking snow. Then more bushes were brought, and at last, almost exhausted, Giant and Whopper crawled forth on their hands and knees, their snowshoes held in the air. Then they got up on their feet and lost no time in gaining a point of safety. "I told you to be careful," said Snap, rather severely. "And Jack Dalton warned you, too. It is a lucky thing you didn't sink into the marsh up to your head." "We were after the duck and didn't think," answered Whopper. "But you can bet I'll be careful next time." "So will I be careful," came from Giant. "Where's the duck?" "Flew away--I saw it," answered Shep. "Gracious, how the wind is rising!" he added, pulling his coat collar closer to his neck. "It's going to be a hammer of a snowstorm." "I think we had better get off the Marshes," said Snap, after a look at the sky and the whirling snow. "This looks to me as if it was going to turn into blizzard." "Going to leave with only two ducks?" asked the doctor's son. "It seems a pity--after tramping such a distance, too!" "Maybe we'll strike some more going back," said Snap, cheerfully. All of the young hunters were willing to leave the Marshes, for the increasing wind made the situation decidedly unpleasant. When they turned back they had both the wind and the pelting snow in their faces and could scarcely see where they were going. "Isn't this fierce!" gasped Shep, after they had walked less than fifty yards. "I never felt the wind blow so strongly!" "We get the full sweep of it out here," answered Shep. "It won't be so bad when we reach the timber again." The mind was fairly whistling around them now. They could not tell how much snow was falling, for much of it was caught up from where it lay and sent hurtling along, now in straight dashes and then in mad circles that blinded and bewildered them. More than once they had to turn around to catch their breath and clear their eyes. "I wish we we-were to th-the timber!" gasped Giant. "I feel as if the wind was going to pick me up and carry me away!" "Let us keep close together," said Whopper. "There is no telling what will happen with such a wind tearing down upon us." They were all scared and with good reason, for to be caught in a blizzard on that wide stretch of marshland was a serious matter. Sticking as closely together as possible they hurried on, as fast as the gale and the flying snow would permit. The air was growing darker and heavier every moment. "Are you sure you are heading for the timber?" questioned Whopper, presently. "I must confess I am completely turned around." "So am I," added Shep. "I--I think the timber is in that direction, but I am not certain," answered the leader of the club, pointing with his hand. All stared around them in bewilderment. They scarcely knew how to turn. "Well, one thing is sure, we can't stay here," said Shep. "Come on," and he started off in the direction his chum had pointed out. "Mind you, I don't say I am right," called out Snap. "We'll go that way anyhow--if we can make it," said Whopper. It was slow traveling, and they had to rest frequently, for the wind seemed to fairly take the breath out of their bodies. Once they came up to a clump of bushes and were half tempted to make a prolonged stop there. But Snap demurred very strongly. "It won't do, fellows," he said. "The snow is piling up fast and the bushes will be snowed under in another hour or two. We have got to reach the timber somehow. It's our only chance of safety." Again they struggled on, so out of breath and weak they could scarcely draw one snowshoe after the other. Giant fell down and had to be raised up. "I--I am afraid I ca--can't go another step!" he blurted out. "I am as we--weak as a--a cat!" "We'll help you," said Snap, kindly. "Come, Shep, you take one arm and I'll take the other. Whopper can go in front, to break the force of the wind for us." At the end of ten minutes more all were ready to drop. They were numbed with the cold and their breath came in quick, short gasps. It looked as if they must give up and perish. "Oh, if only we were back at camp!" sighed Whopper. "Don't give up!" urged Snap. He stopped and gazed over his left shoulder. "Am I mistaken, or is that a tree yonder?" "I'll soon see," answered Shep and turned in that direction. "Yes, it's a tree and the timber is back of it!" he cried in delight. This announcement put renewed courage in the young hunters, and once again they struggled on against the fierce wind, which was now blowing little short of a hurricane. The trees came into sight dimly through the swirling whiteness, and a minute later they sank down under the overhanging boughs of a big spruce. "Safe at last!" murmured Shep. "Oh, how glad I am of it!" added Giant. "I--I thought we'd be lo--lost sure!" "We must have a fire, first of all," said Snap. "My feet are half frozen already!" "I brought some carbide along, so we can easily start a blaze," added Whopper. "But we've got to be careful in such a wind as this. Just listen!" They listened, and it made them shiver to hear the shrieking of the wind as it went ploughing through the forest, often snapping off a bough here or a tree top there. The spruce they were under bent and swayed, but it was strong and healthy and it did not give way. Leaving his companions for a few minutes, Snap did his best to look around the vicinity. He could see but little, but made out three big trees growing somewhat close together on the edge of the marshland. At one side of the trees was an irregular rock five or six feet in height. "That will have to do," he told himself, and called for his companions to join him. But they did not hear, owing to the raging of the storm, and he had to go after them. "We'll fix up some sort of shelter among the trees," he said. "And we can build a fire against that rock. Let us get to work at once, before it grows colder and the snow gets worse." The brief respite had rested them, and while Whopper and Giant cut some wood and built a fire, Snap and Shep broke down some spruce branches and piled them up around the clump of trees. Then they kicked up the snow into something of a wall leading from the side of the rock to the nearest tree. "There, now we can keep fairly warm if nothing else," said the leader of the Gun Club. It was still very dark and the fire did little to dispel the gloom, the wind having a tendency to blow the smoke in several directions at once. But the fire kept them fairly warm and for that they were thankful. "If this isn't a blizzard it is next door to it," remarked the doctor's son, as he gazed at the display of the elements. "And the worst of it is, there is no telling how long it is going to last." "Will we be snowed in?" asked Whopper. "It looks like it." "And with nothing but a rabbit and two ducks!" cried Giant. "Boys, it doesn't look as if Christmas was going to be such a cheerful day after all." "Never mind Christmas," put in Snap. "Let us be thankful if we are not snowbound so completely that we starve to death!" CHAPTER XXII A REMARKABLE CHRISTMAS NIGHT Night came on rapidly after that, and with the coming of utter darkness the fury of the elements appeared to increase. The wind shrieked and whistled through the timber and hummed in the tops of the spruces overhead. Occasionally they would hear a crash, as some mighty tree would be laid low, and they trembled for fear the storm would damage their shelter. They were tremendously hungry and ate rather more of the lunch brought along than Snap thought right. One of the ducks was cleaned and broiled with care and half of the meat divided into four equal shares. For drinking water they melted some snow, a little at a time, in a drinking cup. After the meal there remained nothing to do but to mind the fire and go to sleep. They took turns at watching the blaze, each boy remaining on guard two hours. All night long the storm raged and the snow came down as thickly as ever. As a consequence, when it began to grow a little brighter they found that they were completely snowed in. On all sides the spruces were nearly broken down with their weights of whiteness, and on the opposite side of the rock where the fire was built was a drift of snow eight to ten feet high. This gave them a little more shelter but cut off a good share of the outlook. "Merry Christmas!" cried Snap, as he got up and stretched himself as well as he could under the low boughs. "Merry Christmas!" cried all of the others, and then Whopper added: "But it isn't very Merry, is it?" "I don't see that broiled fish, and stuffed turkey, and cake and pudding and candy and--" began Giant. "Hold on, Giant, don't make us any more hungry than we are!" interrupted the doctor's son. "We're here and we've got to make the best of it, so don't croak." "Oh, I'm not croaking," answered the smaller member of the Gun Club. "I shall be satisfied if we get back to camp alive with such a snow all around us." "Giant, why didn't you hang up your stocking last night?" asked Whopper, jokingly, and this brought forth a general snicker, and then all the lads felt a trifle less blue. Breakfast was certainly a slim affair, each person getting a small bite of duck, two crackers, a spoonful of cold beans Shep had brought along, and a drink of melted snow. Several gazed wistfully at the rabbit, but Snap shook his head at them. "We've got to save that," he said. "You know that as well as I do." "Don't you suppose there are some birds or squirrels or rabbits around here?" asked Shep. "We can look--if the storm will let us." Breakfast over, one after another of the young hunters went beyond the clump of spruces to look around. But the weather was so wild, and the snow so deep, all were glad to come back. There was little of the holiday air in the gathering. All of the boys were sober, for they fully realized the peril of their situation. Their food would not last long, and where were they to get more? At noon they had little more than a rabbit lunch--something that made Whopper sigh as he thought of the big Christmas dinner he had thought to feast upon. "I think it is clearing a bit," said Shep, about three o'clock. "If we want to move now is our chance to do so." It was voted by all hands to move, and they started without delay. They could not locate the exact route toward their camp, but made it as nearly as possible. The snowdrifts were truly terrific, and even on snowshoes they made slow progress. "Wait, I see a rabbit!" cried Shep, presently, and he pointed to a clump of bushes. Then he unslung his shotgun and pushed his way forward. A gray head appeared over the rim of snow and he blazed away. The rabbit gave a leap and fell dead. "A little more to eat anyway," said the young hunter, as he put the game in his bag. "Wait, where there is one rabbit there are sometimes more," said Snap. "Let us stir around a little and see." They did as he suggested, and soon sent two rabbits skipping from under a low-hanging tree. The rabbits could not run very well in the deep snow and were secured with ease. But that was the last of the game in that vicinity. "Now we won't starve right away," said Snap, and gave a sigh of satisfaction. They were less than half way through the belt of timber when they came to a spot where a big tree had been blown over by the wind. As they walked around this Giant gave a cry, and, stepping between the branches, brought forth a couple of dead squirrels. "Killed by the fall, I suppose," he said. "It's lucky for us," answered Shep, "for it means just so much more food." "Let us look for nuts,--the squirrels must have had some," came from Snap. They made a search, and soon found a hollow half filled with nuts and took them all. Then they went on as before. By the time they reached the end of the timber belt all were too exhausted to go further and they looked around for another shelter of some kind. They found several trees growing close together and in something of a row. "That will shelter us from the wind," said Snap, "although it is not as good a place as the one we used last night." They cut some tree branches, placed them from tree to tree and packed on some snow. Then they lit another fire and banked up the snow on the other side. By this time it was dark again and they were as hungry as bears. They broiled two of the rabbits and ate every morsel and then cracked a quantity of the nuts and picked out the meat. "This is certainly a Christmas to remember," said Shep, as they sat in front of the fire that evening. "I should like to know what the folks are doing." "Don't mention it," cried Giant. "It makes a fellow feel homesick." They cut plenty of firewood, and in honor of the day built a blaze that was to be seen a long distance off. This made them a little more cheerful and they even cracked a few jokes. But with it all that Christmas was far from a bright one. They were still miles from their camp on Firefly Lake and all wondered if they would get back in safety. CHAPTER XXIII IN TROUBLE ONCE MORE The next day it snowed again and the four boy hunters were almost in despair, for they had calculated to strike out for Firefly Lake as soon as it grew light. "It would be foolish to try it just now," said Snap, looking at the sky. "just see how fast the snow is falling!" The heavy snow kept up all day, but cleared away as evening came on. Looking out about eight o'clock Shep gave a shout: "Boys, the stars are shining. It is as clear as crystal!" All rushed forth to verify the glad tidings. It was indeed clear and the glittering stars made a scene of royal splendor. "We'll start for camp early to-morrow," announced Snap. "Now let us get to bed and get a good night's rest. It is going to be no picnic walking on this snow." They turned in, after fixing the fire, leaving Giant on guard for the first three hours. After Giant came Whopper, and then Snap took his turn. Snap had scarcely commenced his vigil when he heard the bark of a fox at a great distance. Presently the barking of the fox ceased and utter silence reigned for all of half an hour. Then came another sound which made the leader of the Gun Club listen with intentness. "Wolves, as sure as fate!" he murmured. "I trust they are not coming here!" Another period of silence, and the mournful howls came still closer. There were many more of them and Snap came to the conclusion that a regular band of wolves were closing in on the little shelter beside the spruces. "Guess I had better wake up Shep," he told himself. "He has got to take the next watch anyway." He aroused his chum and told Shep of what he had heard. Then came more of the howls, still closer. "They are certainly coming this way," said the doctor's son, picking up his gun. "And I'm afraid there must be quite a number of them." After this came another period of silence. Both boys kept on the alert, Snap on one side of the camp and Shep on the other. They felt sure that the wolves were coming closer and they were not mistaken. "I see one!" cried Snap, as a pair of gleaming eyes showed themselves over a rim of snow. "I see three or four," responded Shep. "Call Giant and Whopper." The words had scarcely left his lips when Snap took aim and fired at one of the wolves, wounding it in the shoulder. The report of the shotgun brought Giant and Whopper to their feet without delay. "What's up?" came from both. "Wolves!" answered the leader of the club, laconically. "Get your guns!" The shot had caused the wolves to fall back a little, and taking advantage of this, Snap reloaded the empty barrel of his shotgun and stirred up the fire still more. Bang! went Shep's shotgun, and a wolf was taken directly in his throat. He turned to run away and then fell dead. Without hesitation his fellows fell upon him and rent the carcass asunder. "What horrible cannibals!" muttered Whopper. "Say, how do you like that?" he went on, and fired a bullet from the rifle into the mass of wolves, hitting one in the leg and another in the side. The first wolf was merely wounded but the second was killed. The death of another of their band made the other wolves retreat and they kept away for fully a quarter of an hour. But then their numbers were increased by the arrival of more equally hungry, and they came on in a wide semi-circle, as if to pounce upon the four boy hunters and eat them up. "Shoot 'em--don't let 'em come any closer!" called out Whopper, and banged away with his shotgun, hitting a wolf in the breast. Then the others fired and another of the ugly beasts went down. Still another was wounded just sufficiently to make him ugly, and with bloodshot eyes he leaped straight into the camp and at Snap's very feet! It was a moment of extreme peril, and for the instant Snap's heart seemed to stop beating. Then little Giant turned swiftly and pulled the trigger of his shotgun and sent the load into the wolf's ear. There was one short yelp, a leap of agony, and the wolf landed in the fire, dead, scattering the burning embers in all directions. "Good for you, Giant!" cried Snap, when he could speak. He caught the dead wolf and threw the body among the trees. "Fix that fire up!" yelled Whopper. "It's our best protection!" He ran for some sticks, and they built the fire into a roaring blaze that illuminated the forest for a considerable distance. Then Shep and Whopper fired more shots, wounding two more wolves, and the pack slowly retreated, growling and howling savagely. "What an attack!" said Whopper, wiping the cold perspiration from his forehead. "I don't want to experience another." Further sleep was out of the question, and for the remainder of the night the boys kept a good fire going and watched all around the temporary camp for their enemies. But the wolves did not show themselves again. "And now for Firefly Lake and Birch Tree Inn!" cried Shep, when they were preparing breakfast. "My! the Inn will seem like home, after such experiences as we have had!" It was clear and mild, with hardly any wind blowing. As the sun came up it made the great drifts of snow glitter and sparkle in a manner which was dazzling. "Oh, look!" screamed Giant, just as they were getting ready to set out. "There's a shot for somebody!" and he caught up his gun. Over the spruce trees a flock of wild ducks were soaring, evidently searching for food. They came quite close, and all of the young hunters blazed away, in rapid succession. Six of the ducks came down, one so straight that it hit Whopper directly on the head, almost knocking him over. "There's luck for you!" cried Snap, gleefully, "We've got a few ducks anyway." They placed the game in their bags, and a few minutes later bade farewell to the shelter of the spruces. It was so clear they could see the distant hills and mountains with ease and Snap regulated the course accordingly. Some of the snowdrifts were truly immense, one, they reckoned, measuring twenty feet in height. They had to proceed with care, for they did not want to break through and sink out of sight. Once Whopper fell over and it was all the others could do to set him straight on his snowshoes again. They had thought to take almost a direct course to Firefly Lake, but after covering a mile found this impossible. "We'll have to take something of a round-about way," said their leader. "It will be longer, but it can't be helped." "That will bring us between Firefly Lake and Lake Cameron, won't it?" asked Giant. "Yes." They hurried on for another mile. It was certainly hard work and made them warm in spite of the lowness of the thermometer. Then they came to a big drift of snow and found it no mean task to get over the same. "Hark I what was that?" said Shep. "A gunshot," answered Whopper. "There goes another." After that they heard several more shots, coming from some point ahead. "Some other hunters must be out," said Snap. "Wonder who they can be?" CHAPTER XXIV A DISAGREEABLE MEETING They had reached a point directly between Firefly Lake and Lake Cameron when they came to a little patch of woods surrounding a pond less than a hundred feet across. As they entered the woods they heard a slight noise and saw a small deer running swiftly across the snow on the pond. At once Whopper let drive and so did Snap, and the deer went down, kicked for a moment, and then lay still. The game had been struck in the rump and in the neck, but there was another wound in one ear and still a fourth near the tail. "Must have been hit before she came this way," said Giant. As the young hunters surrounded the game they did not notice the approach of three men on snow-shoes, all carrying guns and gamebags. The three men were Andrew Felps and two of his particular friends, Giles Faswig and Vance Lemon. "Hi! what are you doing here?" demanded Andrew Felps, striding up angrily. "Didn't I warn you off of my land last summer? You have no right to hunt here." "They have the deer!" put in Giles Faswig. "Hang the luck anyhow." "Never mind, the deer belongs to us--it was shot on my land," muttered Andrew Felps. "Certainly it is your deer if it was shot on your land," put in Vance Lemon. The four boy hunters listened to the talk in considerable dismay. Evidently the three men intended to appropriate the game. "Is this your land?" asked Whopper. "We didn't see any fence," put in Snap. "The fences are there anyway--I had them put up last fall, after the fire. You have no right to even cross my land, much less do any shooting." "Felps, ain't you going to claim the deer?" asked Giles Faswig. "Certainly I am. But I want these young rascals to understand that they can't come on my land," answered the lumber dealer. "Mr. Felps, we are not young rascals," said Shep, with flashing eyes. "We shot the deer in good faith and if you take it from us I shall consider it stealing." "Listen to that!" ejaculated Vance Lemon. "And after we wounded the deer first, too!" "I won't talk to you," cried Andrew Felps, savagely. "Leave that deer alone, and get off of my land as quick as you can--and stay off!" His manner was so savage and threatening that the young hunters felt compelled to retreat. Yet they were very angry. "Mr. Felps, I think you'll be sorry for this some day," said Snap. "When I get back to Fairview I shall tell everybody just how meanly you have acted." "Hi! don't you threaten me!" roared the irate lumber dealer. "I know my business. You clear out--and be quick about it." "I suppose you and your friends want our deer because you're not able to shoot one yourselves," called out Whopper, and with this parting shot the young hunters withdrew. All of the men shook their fists at the boys. "Now, wouldn't that jar you!" exclaimed Shep, as they turned toward Firefly Lake. "Did you ever hear of such meanness?" "He's as bad as he was last summer, when he drove us away from Lake Cameron," said Snap, bitterly. For some time after that the young hunters were silent, each busy with his own thoughts. Driven away from the vicinity of Lake Cameron, they had to make another wide detour, and it was one o'clock before they came in sight of Firefly Lake, nestling so cozily among the hills. "It will take at least an hour and a half to get down to the lake and up to camp," said Snap. "Shall we go on or stop for dinner?" "I am as hungry as two bears," said Whopper. "Let us rest up a bit and get something to eat." The others were willing, and soon a fire was blazing and over this they broiled one of the wild ducks. The meal and the rest occupied an hour and a half, but they all felt it was time well spent. Their hearts beat rapidly as they walked down the hill to the edge of the lake. They had to pass a bend and then came in sight of the camp. "The flag is down!" cried Giant, in some disappointment. "I reckon the blizzard was too much for it," answered Snap. "But let that go, so long as the shelter itself is all right." They almost broke into a run on the last quarter mile, so eager were they to see the condition of things. At last they caught sight of Birch Tree Inn. It looked to be exactly as they had left it. "Thank fortune for that," began Shep, when Whopper uttered a cry. "I really believe the doorway is open!" The barrier to the doorway was certainly gone, and with hearts that fairly thumped in their breasts they ran for the shelter, to learn what this meant. All was dark inside and very cold, and with trembling fingers Snap struck a match and looked around for the acetylene bicycle lamp. "It's gone!" he cried. "And most of our things are gone too!" gasped Shep. Then the match went out and they had to light another. A scrap of paper was found and some dry sticks, and they kindled a blaze, heaping up the fire so as to get as much light as possible. "One sled is gone!" "So are all the cooking utensils!" "And the extra clothing!" "And the grub!" wailed Whopper. "Not a bit of coffee, chocolate, sugar, or anything left!" "Boys, this is awful!" wailed Giant. "Who could have done it?" "Maybe the Ham Spink crowd." "Or the Felps crowd." "Or that tramp who made trouble for us before," came from Snap. Then they made a more careful inspection--to find their skates also missing and--most precious of all--all the extra matches and extra ammunition. "This is the worst blow of all," said the leader of the club, referring to the matches and the ammunition. "We can't stay here without ammunition and the wherewith to make a fire when we want it." "What's to do?" asked Giant and Whopper, in a breath. "Either catch the fellow who has stolen our things, or go home." CHAPTER XXV AT THE CAMP ONCE AGAIN The announcement Snap made cast a gloom over all the boys. Each felt that their leader spoke the truth. "Well, as I don't want to go home, I vote we go after the thief," said Shep, who was the first to speak. Fortunately not all of their stores had been taken--they had been too plentiful to pile on one sled--so they had enough left with which to get a substantial supper. But all of the boys did not wait for the meal. "If we are going to follow that thief up we ought to do it right away," said Snap. "The more time that is wasted the less will be our chance of catching him. Shep, if you say so, we can go after him and leave Giant and Whopper to look after what is left here." "Why can't I go along?" asked Giant. "Two ought to stay here," said Snap. "And I've got another plan," he went on. "How much money have we got on hand?" The amount was counted and found to be nearly five dollars. "That's enough," said the leader. "If we can't find the thief, we can slip over to Riverside and buy the things we actually need. I wouldn't go to Fairview, because that would cause too much talk." Snap and Shep put some provisions in their game bags, readjusted their snowshoes, and soon set off. "Have you any idea when you will be back?" called Whopper after them. "No--maybe not till to-morrow," was the answer. In the deep snow it was easy to follow the direction the thief with the sled had taken, and they soon became convinced that but one person had done the deed. Left to themselves, Whopper and Giant did what little they could to restore order to the camp. They saw that the thief must have remained in the shelter one or two days--probably during the blizzard. On leaving he had attempted to break down one wall of the place and ruin the chimney, but had not succeeded. "They'll last as long as we want to stay," said Giant. "But how mean it was to try such things!" In coming to the shelter Whopper had twisted his ankle and this hurt him not a little, and he was perfectly willing to rest the member all he could. Giant prepared supper and they ate it leisurely, in the meanwhile talking over the outlook from every point of view. Morning found the two young hunters stirring early. There was little, however, to do, and they took their time over breakfast. Giant had found where a bag of beans had been spilled on the ground and he picked them up with care one by one. "I think I'll make some bean soup for a change," he said. "I'll throw in some meat to give it a flavor." "That rascal--whoever he was--took all the flour, otherwise we might make some pancakes," grumbled Whopper. "I might try my hand at fishing through the ice again," said Giant. "Baked fish will go fine for a change." "Hadn't I better stay here, Giant? Somebody ought to mind the camp until Snap and Shep get back, and my ankle is quite swollen." "Yes, stay by all means, and if you want me, yell or fire your gun." So it was arranged, and after dinner Giant sallied forth, with the axe, which had not been confiscated, and his fishing lines and such bait as he could scrape together. As Giant had found his former fishing place a good one he went to the same spot again. The snow was deep and he had to sweep it away with a spruce branch he cut for that purpose. Then he chopped a round hole in the ice as before, and sat down on some snow and the tree branch to wait for a bite. Fishing proved slow, and it was a good quarter of an hour before he got a bite and then the fish slipped the hook just as he was hauling the catch to the surface. But he kept on and in an hour had a catch of three, all of fair size. After that, however, try his best, he could not get another bite. Then he determined to go further down the lake, where there was another cove. "There ought to be fish at the bottom of that cove," he told himself. "And if there are, I am bound to have some." Finding a spot that suited his fancy, he again swept off the snow and began to cut a hole in the ice. This proved quite a task, and by the time he had finished he was pretty well winded. He baited up and sat down on a bank of snow he had swept together. Just then some noise reached his ears, and he looked around and listened. But the noise was not repeated. "What could that have been?" he mused. "Some bird?" He strained his ears, but the stillness of the forest lay all around the lake. Of a sudden Giant began to feel lonely, and he gave a little shiver. Then he braced up. "Pshaw, I'm getting as nervous as a cat," he murmured. "And all on account of nothing. I'd better go to fishing and forget it." He dropped in his line, properly baited, and waited for a bite. He was lucky, for soon up came a nice maskalonge. Then, a few minutes later, came a rock bass--something for which he had not been looking. He grew interested, and forgot all about the noise he had heard, until the cracking of some bushes caught his ears. "There's that noise again," he muttered. "What in the world can it be?" For the first time since leaving the shelter Giant wished he had brought along his shotgun. What if some game should suddenly appear? "If a deer should come along and I couldn't shoot it, it would make me sick," he told himself. "And game is always sure to come along when you haven't a gun." Giant had now seven fish, four of good size. He decided to wait for just one more, then wind up and go back to the shelter. It was rather cold sitting at the fishing hole and his feet were beginning to feel very much like the ice under them. He had baited up with care, and allowed the line to sink almost to the bottom of the lake, when a fresh noise startled him. This was another crackling sound. There followed a low, suppressed growl, and turning in the direction of the shore Giant was horrified to see a big, black bear come lumbering into view! "A bear! I'll have to get out of here!" he ejaculated, and snatching up his fish and line and the axe he started on a run for the shelter. The bear came out on the ice and toward the hole. Then it smelt the fish, and a moment later started on a clumsy run after the fleeing youth! CHAPTER XXVI THE TRAIL THROUGH THE SNOW Snap and Shep followed the trail of the stolen sled to the end of Firefly Lake with ease. The track was clearly to be distinguished, and it pursued its course in almost a straight line. "I hope we can follow it thus easily to the end," said the leader of the Gun Club. "I'd hate to lose it." "Let us hurry as much as possible," returned the doctor's son. "We want to overtake the thief before night." They did hurry, and at length came to the outlet of the lake. Before them was Rocky River, a hundred and more feet wide at this point and frozen over solidly. "Hullo, he didn't go towards Fairview!" cried Snap, pointing to the track the sled had left. "He went the other way." "He must have gone to Riverview, or else beyond," returned the doctor's son. They passed the old icehouse where Kiddy Leech had met Ham Spink and his cronies and kept on steadily in the direction of Riverview. Then of a sudden Snap set up a shout. "I see a man ahead--with a sled!" "So do I! It must be the thief, Snap!" "Perhaps, although I can't make out at this distance. I'll tell you what I'll do, Shep--put on the skates and skate on the clear ice. I'll soon catch him that way. You can follow on your snowshoes or take them off, if you'd rather." Shep decided to run without the snowshoes and both lads took off the articles. Then Snap donned the skates and hurried off at his best rate of speed. "If he won't stop--shoot at him!" called Shep after his chum. "I certainly will!" responded Snap, who was worked up more than he cared to admit. Snap had quite a stretch of clear ice, but further on was a long drift of snow over which he made but slow progress. But then came another clear stretch and he spun along, his skates skirring merrily at every sturdy stroke. Snap was within a hundred yards of the man with the sled when the latter chanced to look around. At once the youth yelled at him. "Stop, you thief! Stop!" The man was startled and slackened his pace. Then, when he saw the youth raise his shotgun, he let up a cry of fear. "Don't shoot! Please don't shoot!" "Kiddy Leech!" ejaculated Snap, recognizing the tramp. "Stop, you rascal, or it will be the worse for you!" To this the tramp did not reply. Instead, he ran to one side of the river, and plunged into some bushes. Beyond was a thick growth of trees, and he lost no time in hiding himself among these. At first Snap was on the point of shooting, but he hesitated, as he was afraid he might kill the thief. Then it was too late to fire, and he dropped his gun on its strap. He took possession of the sled, turned it around and skated slowly toward where his chum was coming up on a decidedly lively run. "Did you catch him, Snap?" "No, but I know who it was--that tramp, Kiddy Leech." "Is that so! Are all the things here?" "I don't know." "Where did he go?" "Ran for that woods like a frightened deer. I would have fired, only I was afraid of killing him." "Do you think we ought to go after him? We might be able to trail him in the snow." "We might try it. He was pretty well scared when he saw me with my shotgun." Leaving the sled by the river side, both young hunters made their way through the bushes and into the forest. For a short distance they followed the trail with ease. But then they reached a pond containing some clear ice and here the footprints were lost. "Might as well give it up," said Shep, looking around. "It is growing dark and he will know enough to keep hidden. Besides, if we corner him he may play some trick--tumble a rock on us, or something like that." Slowly the two young hunters retraced their way to the river. They were now so tired they could scarcely drag one foot after the other. The excitement over, reaction set in. "I don't think I want to walk all the way to camp to-night," remarked Shep. "It's too far." "We'll put up somewhere over night," answered Snap. They examined the things on the sled with interest and were glad to ascertain that nearly every article stolen was there. The few things missing were of scant importance. "I'll wager that scamp intended to take the things somewhere and sell them," said Snap. "We were lucky to catch him as we did." Having looked the load over, they repacked it with care and then looked around them, to find out their exact location. "There is a farmer named Masterson, who lives just beyond this woods," said Snap. "My father sold him the lumber for his new barn. Perhaps he'll take us in for the night, if we offer to pay him." "Well, we can try him anyway," answered the doctor's son. They skated along the river until the field leading up to the farmhouse was reached. It was now quite dark. A dog came out to greet them, barking furiously. "Hope he isn't of the biting kind," said Shep, drawing back. "Down, Rover, down!" came in a man's voice, and a moment later Aaron Masterson appeared. He was a man of sixty, bent from age and hard work. "Good evening, Mr. Masterson," said Snap. "I don't know if you remember me or not. I am Charley Dodge. My father sold you the lumber for your new barn." "Oh, yes, I remember you," said the old farmer, with a smile. "You came to the raising, didn't you? Who is this with you?" "My friend, Shep Reed. He is Dr. Reed's son." "Oh, yes, I know the doctor, too. He attended my wife when she had pneumonia--brought her around, too. Well, lads, what brings you in such a snow?" In a few words Snap and Shep explained the situation. When they mentioned the tramp Aaron Masterson shook his grizzled head and his fist vigorously. "The pesky critters! I wish you had shot him! They're a terribul nuisance, tramps is. One day my wife give two on 'em a dinner an' they up afterwards an' stole my new sickle an' whetstone. Tramps ought all to be hung. Come in the house." "Can you keep us until to-morrow morning?" "I think so--I'll have to ask my wife first though." Mrs. Masterson proved to be a motherly lady of fifty, and she readily consented to keep the boys and give them their supper and breakfast. "You won't have to pay a cent," she declared. "I am glad to do Doctor Reed's son a favor, and your friend a favor too. The doctor is a wonderfully fine man." "An' Mr. Dodge treated me right on that lumber fer the barn," put in Aaron Masterson. The boys were invited to sit down to a well filled table, and did so, after washing their hands in the kitchen at the sink. They had a real homecooked supper and enjoyed it immensely. They were just finishing up when there came a loud knock on the dining room door of the farmhouse. Aaron Masterson answered it. "What's wanted?" he asked, of a man who stood on the porch. "Please, sir, I am a poor man looking for work. Would you mind giving me a bit to eat?" came from somebody outside. "It's Kiddy Leech!" whispered Snap. "Now, what do you think of that?" CHAPTER XXVII THE CAPTURE OF THE TRAMP It was indeed Kiddy Leech who had applied for assistance at the home of Aaron Masterson. The tramp had taken it for granted that Snap and Shep had started for the camp on Firefly Lake and would make no further effort to bring him to justice. "What nerve!" whispered Shep. "What shall we do?" "Let's capture him. I'll go outside, and you can remain in here." So speaking, Snap caught up his shotgun, which stood near the kitchen door, and slipped out of the entrance to the woodshed. From there he ran around the corner of the house, coming up behind Kiddy Leech. "Out o' work, eh?" Aaron Masterson was saying. "Wot's your trade?" "I'm an electrical worker," answered the tramp. "The factory I worked in shut down, and I can't get a thing to do anywhere." "Humph! Well, I reckon we can give you a meal," answered the farmer. "Come in." "Thank you very much," said the tramp, and followed through the doorway. Then Aaron Masterson noticed Snap with the shotgun. "Hullo, how did you git out there?" he cried. Kiddy Leech turned swiftly and he started on beholding the young hunter. "Wha--what do you want?" he stammered. "Go on in, Leech," answered the leader of the Gun Club, firmly. "If you try to run away I'll surely shoot you." "What does this mean?" demanded Aaron Masterson. "This is the rascal who ran off with our outfit, Mr. Masterson," answered Snap. "And we mean to make him a prisoner," added Shep. "Kiddy Leech, don't you dare to resist, or it will be that much worse for you." The tramp was caught between two fires, as it were, and did not know what to do. As we know, he was a good deal of a coward at heart, and the sight of the shotgun in Snap's hands made him quake. "Don't shoot me!" he whined. "Please don't shoot me!" And he held up his hands in token of submission. "So you are the pesky rascal the lads was a-tellin' me about," said Aaron Masterson, sternly. "Nice doin's, I must say!" The door was closed and locked, so that Kiddy Leech might not make his exit in a hurry. The tramp was in a decidedly perplexed frame of mind and blamed himself roundly for not having been more careful. "What are you going to do with me?" he asked, as he stood in a corner. "We are going to hand you over to the police," answered Snap. "It is no more than you deserve." "I didn't mean no harm,--indeed, I didn't! "I suppose you think it no harm to steal!" said Shep, sarcastically. "I wasn't stealing your things." "You were!" "No, I wasn't. I was--er--only going to hide 'em on you." "You went a mighty long way to do it," said Snap, coldly. "Where were you going to hide them, at the second-hand shop or the pawn-broker's?" "I'm telling the plain truth. Why, I never stole a thing in my life!" exclaimed Kiddy Leech. "Not even when you ran away from our camp that first time," said the doctor's son. "How can you expect us to believe you? It is a waste of breath on your part." "If I can prove that it wasn't my doings--that is--that I am not the responsible party, will you let me go?" demanded Kiddy Leech, eagerly. "We want to hear your story first," said the doctor's son. "If this here feller stole them things, as you say he did, the best thing to do is to tote him off to the lock-up," interposed Aaron Masterson. "He's evidently tryin' to make up a slick yarn so as to git off." "Aaron, you can't take him to the town jail to-night, it's too late," said the farmer's wife. "Remember, the travelin' is powerful bad, too." "Then I reckon we can tie him up in the barn till mornin'," answered her husband, with an inquiring look at the two young hunters. "We can do that," said Snap. "But first we might listen to what he has to say." "You won't let me go--if I tell you something very important?" asked Kiddy Leech. "Not yet." "All right then, I won't say a word," answered the tramp, and a set look came over his somewhat besotted face. He realized that he was in a serious situation and made up his mind that Ham Spink and Carl Dudder must help him out of it. He knew the two boys were well-to-do and reasoned that their parents would do almost anything to keep their sons out of jail. "Going to tie me up in the barn and starve me to death, eh?" he said sourly. "I wouldn't treat a dog that way." "If we keep him all night I suppose we can give him a little something to eat," said Mrs. Masterson, relenting. "Sit down there and eat," commanded her husband and pointed to a chair. Kiddy Leech dropped into it and was given a fair supper, for which, it must be confessed, he had little relish. Several times he acted as if he wanted to talk, but as often changed his mind. "I'll make them young dudes get me out of this," the tramp told himself. "Maybe their folks will pay me handsomely to keep mum and take what's coming to me. That's their way of doing." The supper over, Aaron Masterson lit his lantern and led the way to the barn. Here the tramp had to submit to having his hands bound behind him, and then he was placed in a large harness closet. The closet was fairly warm, so there was little danger of his taking cold. "Now, you keep quiet until morning," said Aaron Masterson, as he threw in several blankets. "Do you think he can break out of the closet?" asked Snap. "I'll fix it so he won't want to," answered the farmer. When Snap and Shep had come he had tied up his dog. Now he released the animal and brought him into the barn. "Watch, Rover, watch!" he said, pointing to the closet, and the dog gave a sniff and a short bark, and then lay down in front of the locked door. "My dog is here--don't try to get out," called Aaron Masterson, to the tramp. "If you do--well, I won't be responsible, thet's all!" "Mighty kind," growled Kiddy Leech, and that was all he said. After that the farmer and the two young hunters returned to the house and talked the matter over for a full hour. It was decided to take Kiddy Leech to the Riverside jail the first thing in the morning. Then Snap was to go home and tell his father of what had occurred, and Shep was to take the news to the camp on Firefly Lake. The two boys were given a comfortable room in which to sleep. It felt more than good after "bunking around" in camp and forest, and despite the excitement of the tramp's capture, they slept well. "Hi! boys, got up!" they heard Aaron Masterson call, at about six o'clock. "Oh, dear, I wish he'd let us sleep an hour longer," grumbled the doctor's son. "Remember, we are to take that tramp to the lock-up this morning," answered Snap. "Boys, are you awake?" went on the farmer. "I've got news for you! Thet tramp's got away!" CHAPTER XXVIII FOUR BOYS AND A BEAR "ESCAPED!" ejaculated Shep. "How in the world did he manage it?" queried Snap. Then both young hunters leaped up and dressed as rapidly as possible. "He was a slick one," said Aaron Masterson. "He got free of the rope around his wrists somehow and then he clum to the top o' the harness closet and into the loft. From the winder he dropped onto the shed an' then to the ground." "But what of your dog? Didn't he go after him?" questioned the doctor's son. "No, the barn door was shet, to keep out the wind, so Rover couldn't follow him." "When do you suppose he got away?" "Some time during the night." "Can't we follow him?" asked Snap. "We can try." All went outside and down to the barn. The tracks left by Kiddy Leech were plainly to be seen from the barn to the highway, but there the footprints were hopelessly lost in the multitude of others. "Ain't no use to try to follow him," said Aaron Masterson. "The road branches off four times between here an' town an' there ain't no tellin' wot road he tuk. More'n likely he's travelin' as fast as all git-out, too." "He certainly will do his level best to get away--after such experiences as he has had," answered Snap. "Perhaps he will never show himself in this locality again." They remained out on the road, looking up and down, for five minutes, and then returned to the house. "Did he steal anything?" asked Shep. "By gum! I didn't think o' that!" gasped Aaron Masterson. He took a thorough look around and then came in and gave a sigh of satisfaction. "Nothin' missing, so far as I can see," he said. "Reckon he was too scart to pick up anything. The dog must have barked, but I didn't hear him." "Neither did I," answered Snap. "It was so cold I rolled up as tight as I could, ears and all, in the blankets." With the tramp gone, there seemed nothing to do but for Snap and Shep to return to the camp. Mrs. Masterson served them with a fine breakfast of sausage, and, wheatcakes with molasses, and the boys "filled up" as only growing boys can. Then the lady of the house gave them a mince pie and some crullers to take with them. Neither she nor her husband would take any pay for what they had done. "It's too bad thet tramp got away," said Aaron Masterson. "But I did wot I thought best to hold him." "Oh, we don't blame you, Mr. Masterson," said Snap. "But it is a pity such a rascal should be at large." It was pleasant enough when the sun showed itself, and by eight o'clock the two young hunters were on their journey to Firefly Lake. It must be confessed that they found their load a heavy one, and by noon they were still some distance from camp. "We'll have to stop, to rest and get a lunch," said the doctor's son. "No use of killing ourselves." "I suppose Giant and Whopper are wondering what has become of us," said Snap. They came to a rest in the shelter of some pine trees and ate a lunch Mrs. Masterson had prepared for them, in the meantime keeping warm by a fire they built of tree branches. The rest occupied half an hour and then they went on as before. "Wonder what the boys are doing?" said Snap, as they reached Firefly Lake. "Giant said something about fishing through the ice," answered his companion. "He appears to love that sport." "Well, it is nice--when you can catch anything--and Giant is always lucky." They had proceeded less than half the distance up the lake to the camp when Snap came to a halt. "Listen, Shep!" "It is Giant calling," answered the doctor's son. "He must be in trouble!" "Whopper! Whopper!" came to their ears. "Help me! A bear is after me!" "A bear is after Giant!" gasped Snap. "Come on, Shep, we must aid him!" "There he is." said Shep, as they swept around a bend of the lake. "And look, a big bear is after him!" "Let us shoot the bear!" cried Snap, and dropped his hold of the sled rope, while the doctor's son did the same. Then both young hunters brought around their shotguns and aimed at the big bear. But Giant was also in range and they did not dare to fire. "Giant, run to one side!" sang out Snap. "Give us a chance to shoot! I think I can hit him." "Snap!" gasped the smaller member of the Gun Club. "Shoot him! shoot him! He wants to eat me up!" "Hullo! hullo!" came from the camp, and now Whopper appeared, rifle in hand. "By ginger, a bear!" By this time the bear was closing in upon poor Giant. The beast was hungry and the smell of fish was very tempting. With nothing else to do, Giant threw his mess of fish directly in the bear's face. The movement was a surprise to bruin and he stopped short. Then he caught up the string of fish, turned swiftly but clumsily, and lumbered off in the direction of the forest bordering the lake. It was now that Snap and Shep, as well as Whopper, got a chance to fire at the beast, and all did so hastily. But they were excited over Giant's narrow escape and their shots did no more than to wound the bear slightly, in the ear and the side. Bruin gave a growl, made a turn as if to come back, and then dove into the forest and was lost to view. "He--he wanted my fish!" gasped Giant. "Well, he is welcome to them, so long as he doesn't chew me up!" "What a pity that we didn't nail him," said Shep. "Shall we go after him?" demanded Whopper. "The four of us ought to be able to lay him low." "I am not going after him just now," answered Giant, who was still as white as a sheet. The others talked it over for a few minutes and it was decided to follow up the bear some other time, if it could be done. Whopper and Giant were anxious to hear what Snap and Shep had to tell, and all took themselves to the Inn, dragging the sled after them. As soon as the excitement was over, Snap and Shep told their tale in full, to which Giant and Whopper listened with close attention. The latter were sorry that Kiddy Leech had escaped, but glad that the outing had not been broken up. "I'd rather say here than go to court and testify against that tramp," said Whopper. "I don't like to go to court." "Oh, so would I," answered Shep. "But it was our duty to bring him to justice, if it could be done." Giant was sorry he had lost his mess of fish, but he had no desire to try his luck again for the time being. "That bear may be watching around here," he said. "And I don't want him to make a meal of me!" With it all, the boys were happy to be together again, and equally happy to have their outfit back. That evening they cooked themselves what Whopper declared was "a stunning supper," and enjoyed it to the utmost. It was nine o'clock before they turned in, worn out but happy. But they did not sleep long. Snap had just gotten into a doze when he heard a scratching outside. He sat up and listened, and soon the scratching was repeated. "What can that be?" he mused, and then of a sudden his hair seemed to stand upon end. "It must be that bear, and he is trying to get in!" CHAPTER XXIX UNEXPECTED VISITORS For the moment Snap thought to rouse up the others. Then he checked himself, arose with caution, and felt for his shotgun. The fire had burnt low and only a faint flickering of light told him where the firearm was located. In the meantime the scratching outside had ceased. But soon it began again. It was at the doorway, where the logs set up to close the opening left a crack two inches wide for fresh air. Snap waited, his heart almost in his throat. Then he saw a shaggy paw pull one of the logs slightly. He could wait no longer, and aiming straight at the crack he pulled the trigger of his shotgun. Bang! went the weapon, with a noise inside of the shelter that was almost deafening. "Hi! what's up! Who's shooting!" yelled Whopper, leaping up and then sprawling down in his blanket, which was wrapped completely around him. "What's attacking us?" came from Giant. "Did you hit it?" asked Shep. "It's a bear, I think," answered Snap. "He was at the doorway, trying to get in." A low growl at this juncture reached the ears of all. The other young hunters ran for their firearms. The growl came from a distance, showing the would-be intruder was retreating. "I've a good mind to go after him," said Shep. "Don't you do it--it's too dark outside," warned Whopper. "Wait till daylight." They waited several minutes, but no further sound came to disturb them. Then, with caution, they pulled the logs of the doorway aside and peered out. The clouds had drifted over the stars and it was dark, so that they could see but little. Snap took a firebrand and gazed down into the snow. "Blood," he said, pointing to the spots. "I certainly hit him." "And it must have been a bear, by the big tracks," said Giant. "Very likely the one that attacked me on the ice." "We must get that bear," said Whopper. "But not to-night." "Yes, we must get that bear by all means," added the doctor's son. "I vote somebody remain on guard," said Snap. "That beast may come back at any time. Doubtless he is very hungry, and a hungry bear is usually pretty desperate." It was decided that they should take turns watching, and this settled one after another the young hunters went to rest again. But for the balance of the night only an owl came to disturb them and they paid no attention to this. With nothing special to do the young hunters were rather lazy about getting around in the morning and it was after ten o'clock when the breakfast dishes were cleared away. Whopper went outside to bring in some firewood and presently called to the others. "What's wanted?" asked Snap. "Two men are coming this way, from over yonder. Unless I am mistaken they are the two men who were out hunting with Andrew Felps." "So they are!" exclaimed Shop. "What can they be wanting now?" "Maybe they want to drive us away from this lake," suggested Giant. "They are just about mean enough." "No, they can't do that," answered Snap. "I made sure of it before I left home." "They are carrying something between them," said Whopper, as the men came closer. "Looks like a deer." "It is half of a deer--the very deer we killed!" cried Giant. Soon the men were within speaking distance. "Good morning, boys," said Giles Faswig, blandly. "Good morning," returned Snap, briefly. Instinctively he felt that something unusual was in the air. "We've come to the conclusion to let you have half of that deer," said Vance Lemon. "Better keep it," said Giant, curtly. "That's just what I say," murmured Whopper. "No, boys, we want to do the fair thing," said Giles Faswig, smoothly. "As it was shot on Mr. Felps' land he thinks he is justly entitled to it, but at the same time--" "I don't think we want the deer--now," said Snap. "We have plenty of other game, and you acted so hateful about it you can keep it." He looked at his chums and they nodded, to show that they agreed with him. The two men looked rather dissatisfied. "So you won't take the deer meat, even after we carried it away over here?" said Vance Lemon. "No." "That isn't a very friendly way to act." "Well, you didn't act very friendly in the first place," answered Shep. "Having pretty good luck, you say?" asked Giles Faswig, curiously. "The very best of luck," answered the leader of the Gun flub, and mentioned some of the game brought down. "So you can easily see we don't need this venison at all," he added. At this the two men looked at each other and murmured something the boys could not catch. "We came over to--er--to do a little trading," said Giles Faswig. "Got plenty of ammunition on hand, I reckon." "All we wish," answered Snap, and then he suddenly "smelt a mouse," as the saying goes, and winked at his chums. "We thought so, and we thought we'd help you out by buying some from you. What sizes have you got?" "Snap, you don't--" whispered Shep. "Hush, Shep. Let me run this," whispered the leader of the club, in return. Then he turned to the two men again and mentioned what kinds of ammunition they used and how much they had on hand. "Thought so," said Giles Lemon. "We'll take half of what you've got and pay you double price for it." "What!" came from Giant and Whopper, but Snap merely shook his head and winked at them, and then they said no more. "That's a fair deal, isn't it?" asked Giles Faswig, oilily. "You'll make a clean dollar and a half by the operation." "We don't want your money," said Snap, decidedly. "Eh?" came from both men. "I wouldn't sell you our ammunition at any price, and I don't think my friends care to either." "That's the talk," put in Shep. "You don't get anything out of us," murmured Giant. "Not by a jugful!" added Whopper. "Then you won't sell us any ammunition?" asked Vance Lemon, and his face grew as sour as the fruit his name represented. All of the young hunters shook their heads with vigor. "We'll pay you triple price," said Giles Faswig. "Come, that will be easy money for you." "Not if you offer us a hundred times the value of the ammunition," said Snap, firmly. "You treated us as mean as dirt before. Now, if you want any ammunition, you can tramp back to town and get it." At this the men broke into a rage and began to threaten the young hunters in various ways. They had brought over the deer meat merely to smooth matters over, so that they could get the ammunition, which they needed sorely. "Look here, if you threaten us any more, I'll have you up before the squire," said Snap, at last. "You clear out and leave us alone." And then, in high dudgeon, Giles Faswig and Vance Lemon departed, taking the deer meat with them. On their way back to their own camp they met the big bear, and in fright dropped the meat and ran for their lives. When they got to the camp they told Andrew Felps of the result of the trip. "Well, we can't stay here without ammunition," said the lumber merchant, in disgust. "I bought up all Riley had, and Jackson said he wasn't going to get any more of those sizes of cartridges until next week. We'll have to give up. Hang those boys anyway!" And deeply disgusted, the lumber dealer had to give up his outing and go home, and his friends departed with him. They had been more than mean, and, right or wrong, the young hunters had paid them back in their own coin. CHAPTER XXX A SURPRISE--GOOD-BYE After that two days went by without anything unusual happening. The boys enjoyed every minute of the time, and with the bear scare at an end, they went hunting and fishing to their hearts' content. Giant and Whopper caught a mess of sixteen fish, large and small, and Shep and Snap laid low half a dozen rabbits, some squirrels, and also a beautiful brook mink of which they were very proud. "It is too bad that our outing must soon come to an end," said the leader of the Gun Club. "But as we have had a glorious time I suppose we ought not to complain." "I saw some silver tail foxes at the ridge to-day," said Shep. "I think we ought to go after them." "And after that bear," put in Whopper. "We don't want to go home until we lay low his bearship." "Maybe his bearship will lay us low," put in Giant. "That wouldn't be so nice." During their spare time the boys had set several traps, and in these they caught some animals of more or less importance. They also brought down two wild turkeys, and resolved to eat one for their New Year's dinner and take the other home. "Happy New Year!" was the cry, on a beautiful morning, and the young hunters got up to put in a "full day," as Snap expressed it. Right after breakfast they set the turkey to roasting, and made a pie and some other good things. They had a bountiful dinner early and by one o'clock started out for their last hunt. They had already resolved to cross the lake in the direction Shep had seen the silver-tailed foxes. They went over on their skates, and then donned their snowshoes and were soon deep in the forest. Here they soon struck the trail of the foxes and discovered them in an angle, between a cliff and a series of sharp rocks. "There's a shot for you!" cried Snap, as four of the rather beautiful creatures came to view, and without hesitation all took aim and fired. As the various reports died away two of the silver-tailed foxes gave a whirl upward and came down lifeless. The others turned tail and started to rush past the young hunters, but Snap and Shep were too quick and brought them down limping and then the others finished the creatures. "One apiece!" cried Whopper. "Just what I hoped for!" "So did I," said Giant. They tramped on after this, and managed to bring down a big owl, which Snap said they could stuff and put it in their clubroom--providing they ever got one. Then they came to a peculiar trail that bothered them not a little. "Do you know what I think it is?" said Snap, at last. "It's the trail of a bear and the beast was carrying something pretty heavy." "Maybe it is our bear!" cried Giant enthusiastically. "Gracious, I didn't know we owned a bear," answered Shep. "Well, Shep, you know well enough what I mean." "Come on after his bearship!" cried Whopper. "We'll blow him into a million pieces and then take him home as a trophy of our skill." "Who's going to carry the million pieces?" asked Snap, innocently, and then Whopper shied a chunk of soft snow at him. All felt in excellent spirits and willing to go after the savage animal. They advanced with caution among the rocks, until they came to a narrow defile, partly choked with snow and ice. On one side was a big shelving rock, with a dark hole beneath. "Be careful, that may be the bear's den!" cried Snap softly, and just then a loud and deep growl came from the hole. It rather scared all of the young hunters and they retreated several paces. "Wonder how we can make him come out of his hole?" asked Shep, after an awkward pause. "Go in and invite him," suggested Whopper, who felt in particularly bright humor that day. "All right, you go." "Not on your life!" And Whopper took another step backward. "Let us get up on yonder rocks," suggested Snap. "Then I'll throw a stone into the den." They crawled up the somewhat slippery rocks and then the leader of the Gun Club did as he had mentioned. The stone struck something soft, and a moment later out of the den lumbered the big black bear, bristling with rage. As he came forth all of the young hunters blazed away, and the bear was struck in various places. But the shots were far from fatal, and with a grunt of rage and pain bruin started to climb up the rocks after them. "Give him another shot!" yelled Whopper, who had the rifle. "Quick, or he'll chew somebody up!" Again Snap and Giant fired, and the bear received more buckshot in his anatomy. But he was tough as well as big, and the wounds seemed to merely increase his rage. "He's coming up the rocks sure!" gasped Giant. Then he started to run, lost his footing and began to roll down one of the steep sides of the rock! "Giant! Giant!" yelled Snap. "Stop, you are rolling right toward the bear!" "He'll be chewed up sure!" screamed Shep. "Shoot him, somebody! Shoot him!" In feverish haste Whopper had been reloading his rifle. Now he swung the weapon to his shoulder. He was greatly agitated but by sheer force of will power calmed himself sufficiently to take aim. Then the rifle cracked out and the bullet hit the bear full in the chest. It made bruin stagger, and he fell back on his side, kicking up a shower of snow in all directions. "Good! That's the way to do it!" sang out Snap. "Now run, Giant!" By this time the youngest member of the Gun Club had reached the bottom of the rocks and was scrambling to his feet. He had his gun still in his hands, and as the bear lurched toward him he caught the weapon by the barrel, swung it around and let the beast have such a crack on the head that the gun stock was completely shattered. Over went the bear again, kicking up another shower of loose snow. By this time the young hunters were sure they had the best of the fight, and withdrawing to a safe distance each of those having available weapons let the beast have another shot. This was too much for bruin, and with a final roar and a gasp he plunged forward on his head, gave several convulsive kicks, and lay still. "Hurrah! We've got him!" cried Shep. "That's the best haul yet!" "You are right," said Whopper, "even if it did cost Giant his gun." "Never mind, we'll chip in and buy another for him," said Snap. "Say, that was a sharp fight," he added. It was no easy matter to get the big bear on a drag and haul the carcass down to the ice. But once on the lake they made good progress towards the camp. "Hullo, boys, been looking for you!" came the call, and Jed Sanborn appeared. "By Christopher Peter! Got a black bear, have yet! Now ain't thet prime!" "What's the news, Jed?" asked Snap. "Lots o' news," said the old hunter. "First thing is, you're to go home to-morrow." "Oh, we know that already," said Whopper. "Next thing is, do you know that tramp feller with the name o' Kiddy Leech? "Yes." "Well, he's tuk--caught him yesterday. Aaron Masterson spotted him hanging around Riverview. He's arrested." "Good!" cried Snap. "Now he'll get what he deserves." "An' that ain't all. Who do you think the tramp sent fer when he was in jail?" "Who?" asked the four young hunters, simultaneously. "Ham Spink and Carl Dudder. It ain't leaked out jest why, but some folks thinks young Spink and young Dudder got the tramp to steal your things. An' there's more news, too." "What more, Jed?" "It's come out that Ham Spink and Carl Dudder blew up the old boathouse, jest to ruin your things. There was a lively row, but Mr. Spink an' Mr. Rudder settled the bill--to keep Ham and Carl out o' jail, I expect." This was indeed news and the boys listened with interest to all of the details. The discovery about the boathouse had come through a workman who had let Ham Spink have the dynamite. "If Ham Spink got that tramp to come here, he ought to suffer for it--and Carl Rudder ought to suffer too," said Snap. "They shall suffer for it," added Shep. That evening they told Jed Sanborn of their various experiences, and showed him the game they were going to take home. He declared the bear to be the largest he had ever seen in those parts, and said the game would create a stir when exhibited at Fairview. "Don't know as you'll ever have so much fun hunting again," he said, "or so many adventures." But he was mistaken, they did have an equal amount of fun, excitement and thrilling adventures the very next summer, and how and where will be told in the next volume of this series, to be entitled "Young Hunters of the Lake; or, Out with Rod and Gun." The home-coming of the young hunters made quite a stir in the quiet town and when they showed the big bear at one of the stores crowds came to inspect the game. The lads were greatly praised and if their parents were proud of what their sons had done, who can blame them? The truth about the doings of Ham Spink and Carl Dudder soon leaked out, so far as our friends were concerned, although the matter was kept from the general public. Both Mr. Spink and Mr. Dudder were anxious that no charge of theft should be made against Kiddy Leech, so the tramp was merely given thirty days in jail for vagrancy, and was then given some money by Mr. Spink and told to go elsewhere, which he did. In the meantime Mr. Spink and Mr. Dudder paid for all damages our friends had sustained, including the burning down of the log cabin, which the bad boys admitted, and promised to take Ham and Carl vigorously in hand. As a result both of the misguided boys were sent to a very strict boarding school, where their parents hoped they would see the error of their ways and do better. Hearing of this Snap and the other Gun Club members said they were satisfied; and there the matter rested. "Boys, we had a dandy time," said Shep one day, as they were talking the outing over. "Hope we go again soon!" "And shoot more bears," put in Giant. "And deer," added Snap. "And a hundred or two other things," came from Whopper. "The next time I go camping--" "We'll all go with you!" interrupted Snap. "Hurrah for the Fairview Gun Club." And the cheer was given with a will.