E. F. Beadle
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COPYRIGHT, 188?, or Bust: AND Lents.

NEW YORK, SEPTEMBER ] , 1883.

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“Yes. it is my beautiful Rena that is coming- back to me, and by her side rides that prince of Texans, whom men call The Thunderbolt.”

TEXAS JACK,
THE PRAIRIE RATTLER;

THE QUEEN OF THE WILD RIDERS.

A Romance in the Life of a. Real Hero—John B. Omohundro—Te'xas J ack—
and a. Tale of the Southwest Border.

 

TOLD BY HON. WM. F. CODY—“BUFFALO BILL,"

AUTHOR or “ DEATH TRAILER," “GOLD BULLET SPORT," “KANSAS KING.” “ THE PHANTOM SPY,”
“DEADLY EYE,” “WILD BILL, THE WHIRLWIND or THE WEST,”$TC., ETC.

 

CHAPTER XI.

A TEXAN ON HIS METTLE.

WE left Texas Jack. the poor captive maiden,
and the Tonkaway chief Red Snake, in a situa~
tion of desperate peril, at the close of our last
chapter, for the trained steed of Iron Al m the
renegade, hearing the call of his master, at
once sped back toward him with the speed of a
deer.

The animal was a good one, the fleetest in the
tribe, and had the advantage of rest, while the
Texan’s horse, Yellow Chief, had not; but
Texas Jack felt confident that he could ever-
take the flying steed. and rescue the girl from
her new danger, did he have a few moments to
spare.

There had, however, come rapidly down from
the cliff, half a score of warriors on foot, and
they stood in the shadow of the overhanging
hill to catch their chief’s horse when he should
dash into their midst, and the Texan did not
doubt but that others were coming hastily to
the scene.

He was determined to rescue the young girl
at all odds, and rather than see her again fall
into the clutches of Iron Arm, he was tempted,
as he had said, to kill her, for again a captive,
he saw no possible chance for her.

On dashed the horse bearng the maiden,
right for the baso 0f the cliff, where crouched
the warriors, while above, distinctly visible in
the lingering twilight, stood Iron Arm, loudly
calling to the animal.

Coming like a. tornado in pursuit, was Texas
Jack, urging YalIOW Chief to his utmost, and
certainly gaining on the animal he pursued.

Bending forward in her saddle, as though all
strength and hope had left her. was the maiden,
clinging despairingly to the horse’s mane, and
gazing upon the Indians in her front.

A few more bounds, and the flying horse

 

reached the base of the cliff, and halfa dozen
strong arms seized the bridle, while others drew
her from the saddle.

That instant Texas Jack dashed upon the
scene, his revolvers in either hand.

Then he sprung to the ground, and the rattle
of his revolvers made deadly music, and be
rushed directly upon the savages bearing the
maiden away.

Instantly they were brought to hay, and
turning, a fierce fight was begun, while in
thunder tones from the clifl? above, was spoken
in the Comanche tongue:

“ Let my warriors take that palevl'ace alive!”

Texas Jack had reached the side of the young
girl, and had grasped her about the waist. at the
same time attempting to retreat; but at the cry
of their chief, the warriors rushed upon him in
a mass, and although several fell beneath his
unerring aim, he was borne down by numbers,
and secured with buckskin thongs, with the
quickness and perfection that only an Indian
can attain.

But in the midst of the struggle, when eight
or nine warriors were upon him, Texas Jack
had noticed one thing which gave him hope,
and which, cunning and observing as they Were,
escaped the eyes of the Comanches.

He had seen a tall form lide forward, and
then retreat, leading aan ellow Chief and
the horse of Iron Arm. and escaping with them
undetected in the darkness.

"The Tonkawav yet lives, if they have got
me and the girl,” muttered Jack, in his cool
way, and he glanced toward the maiden, who
had also been bound, and stood near.

A call then came from the chief on the cliff to
bring the captives up there, and wishing to dis—
tract their attention from the horses, Jack said
in a low tone to the maiden:

“ Do not walk, but make them carry you. I
have a motive in asking it.”

 

She bowed assent, and they both stood still
when urged by the Indians to move on.

Finding their commands useless. the warriors
were forced to carry their captives the Texan
giving them so much trouble that it took half a
d029n to take care of him.

“ My braves will return for our dead brothers,”
said the chief of the party, motioning to the
three dead warriors.

“ Yes, and your braves will find them scalned,
or I don’t know the 'I‘unkaway,” muttered Jack
to himself, at the same time doubling no a huge
red skin by driving his head wilh terrific force
just above his belt, and causing him to utter a
howl of rage and pain.

With great difficulty the Comanches atlnst
got their captives up to the ridge, where they
were met by their chief, who came forward in
the darkness and said, grimly:

“ Well. my Texas Thunderbolt, you are again
in mv pOWer.”

“ Yes, renegade, luck’s against me just new,”
was the cool reply.

“And you, too, my sweet Senorita Rena. I
shall have the pleasure of entertaining as my

nest.’

“Again I tell you, Sir Renegade, that I am
not the lady you believe me to he."

“Bah! don’t be a fool, girl, for my eyes do
not deceive me. You are Rena Mum and r0
one else. But come; we will not tarry here,
but on to the village.

“You, Cunning Wolf, caught my horse and
the animal that belonged to this ranchero?” and
the last was addressed to the Comanche, and in
that tongue.

Cunning Wolf had to confess that he had for-
gotten about the horses, in the excitement of
catching the captives.

“Then send several of your young braves to
look them up, and bring them on to the vil—
lage," was the order, and the party moVed up
the ridge. Texas Jack giving no further trouble,
to the surprise of his captox s.

A walk of a mile or more brought them to
the Comanche village, situated in a fastness of
the mountain, and a most secure retreat.

Tepee fires burned here and there, and a vast
crewd of braves, squaws and children assembled
to greet the captives. and heap upon them abuse
that made the maiden shudder, as she gazed
into the wild, savage, Cruel faces about her.

Into a log-cabin, which the white chief had
built for his own uarters, the two captives
were thrust, and be ore the door was placed a
Comanche guard.

“There is a room for you, St’Al-lOl‘ltfl Rivera,
and one for you, Texas Jack. and you can make
yourselves comfortable here until morning,”
said Iron Arm, and he turned and left the cabin,
while his fair captive sunk down upon a bed of.
skins with a moan of despair.

But, Texas Jack at once began to lOok about
him to see what possible chance he had of es-
caping, for he was convinced what his fate
would be, as shewn by his quiet remark:

“To-morrow the reds intend to have a high
old time with me.”

 

CHAPTER Xll.
THE TONKAWAY STILL LIVES!

THE rr joicing in the Comanche village, over
the capture of their great. foe, Texas Jack, and
the fair o'iptiVe, was very great, and the din
fell most dismally and unpleasantly upon the
cars of the wretched girl as she lay upon her
bed of skins.

Suddenly the sounds were changed to a wail
of woe. and Texas Jack, who understood well
what this meant, muttered with evident plea-
sure:

“ They’ve brought in the bodies of those
braves, and find their scalps gone. The Tonk-
away yet liVes.”

Through a lookout in the door of his part of
the cabin, Jack spied the tall form of the rene-
gade chief approaching, and the next moment
he stood before him, and asked angrily:

“Are you alone in these mountains, Texas
Jack?”

“No, I have the company of yourself, and
about as bad a lot of red cut—throats around me
as man could Wish to avoid.”

" You understand me. sir; I asked if you had
comrades here with you, for I thought my
brav’es had killed that Indian who was with

on. ’

“Did they say so?”

“They hinted as much: but the Indians you
killed under the cliff have just been brought in,
and they lisv» been scalped.”

" Then I guess the Tonkaway yet lives,” and
Jack laughed lightly.

“ Then, by Heaven, this shall be his last night
on earth, for I shall put every brave in this
village upon his track at dawn,” and Iron Arm
wheeled angrilv and left the cabin, uuheeding
the sobbing sounds that came from the adjoiir
mg room.

Soon after his departure the village began to
quiet down, and Texas Jack stood at the door,
his eyes at the lo ‘kout. Watching the Indian
guard who was standing like a statue so near
him.

The sobbing of the maiden soon ceased, for
weary nature had caused her to drop oil into a
deep sleep.

The Texun‘s feet were hoppled together, and
his hands were tied tightly behind his back, so
that to free them seemed impossible.

There was a log Wall dividing him from the
next mom. and a narrow deorway, over which
huiig a half .10 robe as a curtain.

The room he was in was used as a kitchen by
the renegade chief, and the other was where he
slept, kept his arms, and the trophies 0f the
chase.

The maiden. Jack knew, also had her hands
tied behind her back. so it did not seem that he
could expect any help from her; but an idea
flashed through his mind, and be determined to
act upon it promptly.

Making his way into the next room, he can-
tiou-ly aroused his fellow captive.

“ Oli! where am I 3" she groaned.

“Rh! 1 am working a little plot to get out
of this, and need your aid.”

She was awake now, fully; and arose wearily,
as she whispered in response:

“ I will do all I can to aid you.”

“ Stand up or d turn your back to mine.”

She did so, and Texas Jack at once began to
work at the thongs that bound her wrists.

His own hands were cramped with the buck-
skin strings about his wrists. and it was slow
and painful work; but after a long while he
managed to untie the knots, turning now and
then to aid with his white. sharp teeth.

“Now you are free. Rub your hands so as
to make the blood circulate, and begin on me,”
Whispered Jack.

The young girl obeyed. and with nails, teeth,
and fingers, worked steadily and untiringly
until the ranchero had also free hands. Then it
was but a liftle task for him to untie the thongs
about his ankles.

“ Why, how foolish I have been not to think
of it," suddenly said the maiden.

“ What!” asked Jack.

“ That renegade chin hung your belt of arms

the darkness, she the next instant returned
with his revolvers and knife, which be seized
eagerly.

“ Now I am fixed, for my rifle I left hanging
on the saddle—horn.”

“ But. do you intend to attempt to leave this
camp?" asked the maiden.

“ Indeed I do, and '0 take you with me. If
we cannot find the Tonkaway, I can get two
good ponies out of the Indian corral, and with
sewral hours’ start, they’ll find it hard to catch
us."

“But, that Indian guard?"

“ 0n! he’s wanted up in the happy hunting-
grounds, and I intend to put him on the right
trail to get there.”

She shuddered. but said nothing; while Jack
moved back into the next room, and cautiously
peered through the l okout in the deor.

As he did so he. saw a tall form coming
directly toward the cabin.

The guard still stood where he had been when
Jack last saw him, and his face was turned
upon the one approaching him.

“I‘ve got two to kill, if that fellow comes
into this cabin,” muttered Jack, drawing his
knife across his palm, as though to feel its edge.

Straight up to the guard the new-comer
walked, and Jack discl‘vered that he wore the
head-dress of a chief; but saw that it was not
the renegade.

As he looked, to his surprise. just ashe uttered
some words in a low tone, he saw him grasp the
throat of the guard. and then f”ll(lWPd the
sickening thud of a knife thrust through flesh
and bone.

“ The Tonkaway still lives!” cried Jack,
throwing open the door. and suddenly confront—
ing the new comer, who was holding tightly in
his arms the '- inc, warrior, whose voice vainly
strove to brcaf "with in a warning whoop.

“The Rad S ~. is welcome,” said Texas
Jock, as the Tonk-r ' ~ ‘ . disguised as a Comanche
chief, now ste; pr'd 1 ~ *rd him.

 

 

 

 

 

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“ More Comanche braves here?” asked the
Tonkaway, as though thirsting for more worlds
to conquer. _

“No; but see! I am free, and I was just

oin to eat that Injun up when you came,
td nuke.

“Oh! you are a darling in red colors! But
come; we must at out of this, as I don’t believe
Iron Arm will ee a wink to-night, he will be
so anxious about his captives.”

Going back into the cabin, Jack found that
the maiden had hunted about in the darkness
until she had discovored some Indian to cry,
and this both she and the ranchero hast y put
on as a disguise.

Then they left the cabin, taking'the course
the Tonkaway had come, and Without dis-
cover reached the outer limits of the camp,
Red Snake knowin just where the sentines
were placed, and lea ing the way between them
without bein seen. .

Gainin t e ridge leading to the 0111!,
they cont nued on their way until they reached
the trail descending to the valley, and just then
they heard a wild yell back in the Julian
villa e.

“ ’Fhat’s Iron Arm's sweet voice, and he has
discovered our escape,” coolly said Jack, sup

rting his fair companion, who sudden y
flashed hard upon him, as though fearing the
worst.

Instantly following, the wildest howls were
heard up at the village, showing that the
alarm was spreading, and the maiden mur-
mured:

“Again we are lost.”

“Oh no, iss, for we have a 00d start,'and
the darkne will prevent their nowmg which
way we have gone— I”

Just then they had reached the valley, and
before them they heard voices, and quickly
’fijnjnk back into the shadow of some trees, for,
advancing toward the trail 198de UP the Side
of the ridge, were three forms.

“They are the young braves sent out after the
horses. Use your bow and arrows, Snake,”
whispered Jack, and with the last word a mes»
senger of death was sent flying swiftly upon its
course,

"——

CHAPTER XIII.
THE CHASE.

THE first knowledge of the presence of fees
which the three returning braves had, was to
hear the twang of a bow—strin , the whirr of
an arrow, the thud, and one 0 their number
sunk dead in his tracks.

The other two were young bucks and being
taken by surprise, bounded away like fright-
ened deer, one of them to be overtaken by an
arrow which wounded him, and brought him
down; but springing to his feet, he was about
to rush 'on after his flying comrade when he
beheld boundin toward him the tall form of
the implacable onkaway.

He gave a shout of defia‘hce, and tried to fit
an arrow to his bow; but he was too late, for
Red Snake was upon him, and a short, fierce
struggle followed.

“Two more Comanche scalps,” coolly said
Red Snake, as Texas Jack and the maiden came

up.

“Yes, you‘ve got hair enougli on this trip,
Tonk, to start a hair-mattress s op; but come,
one of those fellows got away, and he’ll soon
have the whole tribe on our track.

“ Where are the horses?”

“Red Snake find horses,” was the quiet re-
sponse, and he led the way across the valley to
a thicket, where the three animals were lariated
out having enjoyed a rest, and a few hours’
pul at the rich grass which grew in abundance
about them.

The yelling at the village of the Comanches
was still ke t up, increasing in volume as the
Indians wor ed themselves into a greater fury,
and Texas Jack knew well t at warriors were
then mounting in hot haste to surround the
camp in pursuit.

So the horses were quickly saddled, and
mounting, they set forth at a gallop, keeping
along the base of the foot-hills, determined to
strke the prairie at a point further up.

As for the maiden, she had regained her
presence of mind the moment she was in the
saddle, and, to prevent another contretemps of
the kind which had caused their recapture in
the aftern 11, Texas Jack had put her upon
Yellow Ch f, while he rode the horse of the
renegade.

As he had feared, soon behind them resound-
ed the wild call of Iron Arm for his horse, and
the animal at once wheeled to the rightabout
and attempted to dart away.

But he found that he had not a helpless
maiden upon his back, but a master, who crag-
ged him back upon his haunches with a force
that he could not resist, and then drove the
spurs into his flanks in a manner that made him
snort with pain, and be glad enough to hasten
on after those he had attempted to desert.

“Thunderbolt make horse much scare,” said
the Tonkaway, with a grin, while the young
girl remarked:

“You have conquered him, sir.”

“ I have at least set him to thinking,” laughed
Jack, and turning short ofl? from the foot-hills,
they struck out across the prairies.

“ Now, why could not that moon have risen
later?” queried Jack, as the moon suddenly
sailed above the horizon of prairie, cisting its
silver light over all.

“ on think it will show the Comanches where
we are?” asked the maiden.

“ Undoubtedly; but we are splendidly mount-
ed and hav little to fear,” and at a sweeping
gallop they eld on, the horse of the renegade
now and then making a halt to run back, but
quickly checked by the ranchero, who each time
taught him the lesson that he was master.

“ Comanche come,” suddenly said the Tonk-
away, who had been glancing over his shoulder
back toward the hills.

The ranchero and the maiden both glanced
quickly behind them, and beheld a dark, mov-
ing mass, coming,directly upon their track, yet
a long distance off.

“ Yes, they have seen us and are pressing on
in a hurry, and there are fully a hundred of
them,” coolly said Jack.

“ Do you think it possible to escape them, sir,
for I would rather die than fall into the hands
of that wicked man again?” said the maiden.

“Oh, es, with this start, and these horses,
we shou d run them out of Sight.

“Come, Tonk, let us drop that crowd, and
then we can double on them, and have ample
time to rest.”

“ Red Snake say yes,” answered the Indian,
and instantly the three horses were pressed into
a run.

“Keep at it, old fellow, for we are leaving
them,” said Jack, after some time had passed,
and it was evident that though their pursuers
were pushing their horses hard, the fugitives
were gaining upon them.

“ Can our horses stand this killing pace?”
asked the maiden.

“ Yellow Chief and the Tonkaway’s horse
can, miss, and from the way this animal I ride
runs, I think he has plenty of wind, while he
certainly is very fast.

“ We evidently could not have gotten three
faster animals together; but see, the Comanches
are no longer visible, and when we strike you-
der stream ahead, we will come a dod e on
them,” and Jack pointed to a dark line 0 tim-
ber half a mile ahead, which he knew fringed
the ban ks of a small stream.

“ Which way, Tonk‘l” he asked, as they neared
the timber.

“ Downstream,” was the laconic reply.

“ And so on round through the Tiger country?”
asked Jack, in a low tone.

(I Yeg.”

“ There is danger with the company we have,
Tonk,” and the ranchero nodded toward the
maiden.

“Comanche think we no go that way, for
we ’fraid Chaparral igers.

“They go up-strr-nm, and we go down; leave
water, and then gr to ranch.”

“ You are right, Tonk, as you always are, for
there is no need of going as far as the chapar-

 

! rals, only far enough to throw the reds off our

track.

“ Here we are, and in we go.”

Into the stream, which was ve shallow,
they plunged, and turning the hen s of their
horses down-stream, urged them along at a
gallop for quite a distance, when they went at a
slower pace. .

For a couple of miles they kept to the watet,
and then leaving the stream, kept in the shadow
of the timber for half an hour, when they
boldly struck out upon the prairie once more,
again pressing their animals into a run, for they
had gained a temporary rest by the slow pace
at which they had lately been going. 0

And thus on through the night they held
their hurried way, unt at dawn they entered a
clump of timber, and threw themselves from
their panting horses.

“ Now, miss, you can et some rest, and when
you wake up, you shal have as good a break-
fast as Tonkaway and myself can get for you,”
said Texas Jack.

But the worn-out girl had already dropped
down upon the velvet grass, and sunk into an
exhausted slumber.

“ Poor girl, she has had a hard time of it, and
I only w0nder that she has not lost her reason,”
muttered Jack, as he unsaddled the horses and
lariated them out near by, while the Ten kaway
climbed a tree to take a n ide view of the prairie,
as soon as the coming daylight would permit.

CHAPTER XIV.
THE RETURN.

“ Por Dios.’ My poor child is forever lost to
me!"

The words came from the lips (f Don Castro
Rivera, some days after his return to his home,
after having intrusted the rescue of his daugh-
ter wholly to Texas Jack the ranchero.

His hacienda was a massive sti ucture, having
once been an old Catholic mission, and was,
although changed into the home of a ranchero,
still known as the Mission Sun J nan,

It was a two-story, rambling building, with
adobe walls, and the towers and turrets of the
old chapel still towered over all, and could be
seen far away ofi? upon the prairie, a beacon of
hope to the traveler, who was ever sure of a
hospitr.‘;le welcome beneath the roof of Don
Rivera. -. .

A walled garden surrounded it, with big-
nonias, orchids, and other creeping vines cover-
ing the walls, and china trees, cypress, and the
towering cocoa-palm oVershadowing all.

Then there ware groves of lemon, orange,
lime, guava, mango, and other fruit trees in
abundance.

The windows of the casa were narrow, and
barred with iron, giving it a prison-like look
from without, though within all was luxury
and comfort.

One wing of the hacienda, that occupied by
the Don and his daughter, was surrounded by a
second wall, the top of which was covered b a
wild growth of prickly pear, which rendere it
a barrier im ible for man to scale.

And this ittle garden of several acres, thus
shut oil! for privacy, was an Eden of beauty,
for it was filled with flowers and delicious fruits,
with shady nooks, arbors, and a crystal stream
gliding through its midst.

Beyond this wing rises the chapel and the rest
of the edifice, with a vast patio, or court-yard,
and innumerable rooms opening upon it.

Passing out of the immense iron ate, past a
portero, who sits there smoking his 5 uck cigar-
rito, we find ourselves in the grounds about the
cam, and which are also walled in.

Here are at one side extensive stables and
outbuildings where the vaqueros, or cowboys,
have their abode, and surrounding them are
groves of pomegranates, oranges, emons and

avas.

Within the stables are numerous horses of
pure breed, and without the walls, roaming the
prairies, are vast herds of cattle that form the
wealth of Don Rivera.

Innumerable servants are in the patio to at-
wnd to the slightest wish of their master,
while within the wing devoted to himself and
daughter Don Castro Rivera has every luxury
that heart could desire.

When uttering the remark that opens this
chapter, Don Rivera was standing upon the tur-
reted top of his hacienda, gazing, as he had
done hour after hour, far off over the prairies
in the direction from whence he expected that
Texas Jack would return.

“ No, no, my beautiful child is lost! lost!

“ Lns Indos have met the Texan and killed
him, and diablos! they have my poor Rena in
their war.

“ ! curses upon them! but I will devote in
life to avenging her— Ah! what is that I see! ’

He strained his eyes far across the prairie,
and, as his face flushed, he cried:

“ There is some excitement yonder! See! my
men are rushing toward a given point, and now
they bait, and wave their hats.

“Yes, they come this we .

“ Now, as the dust lifts see—I see! oh, God
in heaven! I see my child!”

The strong man fairly shrieked the last words,
and clasping his hands he dropped upon the
stone roof, and his lips moved in prayer.

Springing to his feet he again gazed out upon
the rairie.

“ es, it is m beautiful Rena that is coming
back to me, an by her side rides that prince of
Texans, whom men call The Thunderbolt.

“Ab! and that Indian—his friend the Tonk-
away—rides upon the other side of Rena, while
my gallant herders are dashing out to intercept
them.

“ Bravo! Bravo! my gallant Texas Jack! you
have ke t your pledge,” shouted Don Castro,
as the exan, the maiden and the Tonkaway
dashed under the walls of the hacienda, fol-
lowed by a score of cowboys who had been herd-
ing upon the prairies, and seeing them, joined
them, while they made the air ring with their
wild yells of joy.

CHAPTER XV.
A STABTLING DISCOVERY.

HASTENING from the roof to the patio of the
hacienda, Don Rivera sprung forward, just as
Texas Jack lifted the maiden from her saddle,
and clasped her in his arms, while he cried in
thrilling tones of joy:

“Back to my heart again, my beautiful
Rena."

To his dismay his daughter did not return his
embrace, but releasing herself, while her beauti-
ful face flushed and paled by turns, she said:

“ Oh, sefior, I am not your daughter.”

“ You are not my daughter?” gasped Don
Rivera, looking at her with a glance of com-
mingled pain and dismay.

“ No, sefior,” was the firm replfi.

“ You are not the Sefiorita ivera?” asked
the Don, in a Whisper.

“ I am not, sir, and I rffiret to give you this
pain; but surely you sho
ter well enough to see that I am wholly a dif—
ferent person.”

{This was spoken in a kind, yet firm tone,
a d
fac

 

the maiden looked the Don squarely in the

a.

“Good God! her sufferings have driven her
mad,” cried the Mexican, in a quivering voice,
turning his gaze upon Texas Jack, who looked
on With amazement, as did also the several ser-
vants who had congregated there to welcome
back their young mistress.

“ I fear so, sir, and God knows I do not won-
der at it,” Texas Jack sadly answered.

“ Pardon, sefiors, but I am not mad, though
I do wonder that I have my reason, after all
that I have gone through; but I am not the
Sefiorita Rivera, seiior.”

The Don stepped closer to the maiden and
gazing into her face most earnestly, said,
thoughtfully :

“No, there can be no mistake: for you are
my child that I had given up as lost to me for-
ever.”

“ When did you see your daughter last,
sefior?” asked the maiden.

“ Not one week ago.”

The maiden started, and then asked:

“And I am so like her?”

“You are my poor Rena.”

(1 know your daugh-'

 

“ No. seller, 1 am not your daughter; but how
did she leave you i”

“ She rode out upon the prairies and was cap-
tured by the Comanches. Do you not remem-
ber, Rena l" and the Don looked piteously into
the maiden’s face.

" I, too, rode out upon the prairies, a week
ago, seller, and I was captured b the Co-
manches. and rescued by this noble exan and
his Indian ally.”

“Yes, yes; I pursued the diablos Indos, my
child, and song t this brave man, the Senor
Texas Jack, and he pledged me his word to
bring you back, and he has done so.”

“ Oh, sefior, there is some mystery in all this,
for I repeat it, I am not the one you believe me,
much as I may resemble her. ”

“ You are, for you have her voice, her eyes,
her face, her form, ay. the very riding-habit
that she were the day I saw her last. Come.
my child; I know that on have suffered, and
that all seems like a nig tmare, like some hid—
eons dream to you now; but soon all will come
round well, and m little Rena will again sing
as merril as the birds in the garden, and for-

et all 0 her troubles. Come, my child,” and
on Rivera would have led her away.

But she drew back from him, and answered
firmly:

“ Senor, w‘2-y will you not believe me, when
[tell on that I am not your daughter? Do
gnu, Sir. believe me to be the Senorita Renal”
and she turned to Texas Jack, who ansWered:

“ I never saw that lady, miss, but once, and
you certainly are the image of her.”

“And your servants, Senor—do they believe
me to be your daughter!” and she turned to
those who stood near.

Instantly Rena’s old nurse stepped forward
and gazed upon the young girl. and asserted.
sadly: ' ' I d ’ I

“ Yas, you are Sefiorita Rena; but, poor
child, your head is not right now.”

The maiden stamped her little foot impa-
tiently, and said:

“ This is remarkable; but I am not your
daughter, senor. Ah! now I recall it, the
renegst chief called me Rena Rivera, and
said that he had had me captured to avenge
himself upon me for discarding his love.
laughed at him at first, and then I deemed him
mad, and fled from him—and Oh! to what a
fate would I not have gone but for you, sefior,”
and she turned to Jack, while Don Rivera, also
turning to him, asked:

“ Did she say she was not- my daughter, Sefior
J ack, while you were coming here?”

“ No, sir, but then We were pressed too hard
tohave much to say; but I do recall that she
asked me to let her eave me at our last camp-
ing-place, and I wondered at it, and thought her
mind wandering, so told her we would soon be
in safety; but can there be no mistake, sir 1'”

“None, seiior; she is my child,” firmly de-
clared the Don.

“ Pardon me, Don Rivera, but is there nothing
about your daughter by which you could prove
that I am not mad, or trying to deceive you?”

“ How mean you?” sadly asked the Don.

“ Her saddle, that she rode away with for in-
stance, for mine is upon the horse I rode back.
Then, too her dress her jewels—see—did your
daughter have jewels like these?"

She drew of! her gauntlet gloves, as she spoke,
and displayed her fingers full of rings with
precious stones.

The Don seized her hand, and cried, eagerly:

“ No, not one of these jewels belonged to my
child, but—”

“ The saddle is not the one on which the
Sefiorita Rena rode away, sefior,” said a ser-
vant, entering the patio at that moment.

A deathlike silence fell upon all.

Could it mean that this girl, the image of
Rena Rivera was indeed another person?

Just then the 01d nurse stepped closely up to
the maiden and touched her car, while she said,
in a low tone:

“ Sefior, this sefiorita wears ear-rings, and the
Senorita Rena never had her ears pierced.”

To her side, then, sprung Don Rivera, and
then he tottered backward, cr 'ng:

“Holy Mother! She tells t e truth—this is
not m child, Texas Jack, though God knows
she is er living image I”

(To be continued—commenced in No. 40.)

 

How He Got His Name.

BY ARTHUR GLENN.

 

 

,,
HE was a tail man—over six feet—and not
broad in proportion. His legs were long and
sinuous, as well as sinewy; his shoulders were
set forward in a benevolent steep; and his eyes
worea cadaverous look not leasant to behold.

There was an unmistakab e air of self—conceit
about him. His coon-skin cap, with the candle
appendage dangling behind his car, was set ex-
tremely to one side; and his thumbs ever and
anon involuntarily sought the place where the
armholes of the vest would have been had he
worn that useful garment.

He was dressed in a ragged buckskin blouse;
leggins of the same material; and moccasins of
raw—hide, worked with beads and colored por-
cupine-quills. He had an aggressive air about
him from his cap to his moccasins; and to back
up this air, a brace of huge navy revolvers and
a prodigious bowie-knife were prominently dis-
played on his hips. He was an admirable speci—
men of the average backw oodsman, and would
have delighted the eyes and heart of a sensa-
tion‘novel reader.

This was the apparition that greeted myas—
tonished vision as I alighted from the stage-
coach.

“ Is it Billy Barry’s hotel ewant?” he asked,
ejecting a huge stream of to accc-juice. ,

“ That is the name, I believe, sir, ’ I said, keep—
ing at a respectful distance. -

“ Ha—ha! ye called me sir—sir ! Well, may
Il—but don’t ye know me, stranger?”

N o, I did not know him.

“ Wal, coon-skins and cabbages!” he cried, in
evident surprise; “ I‘m Eke, the B’ar slayer;
know him, don’t ye?”

No, I said, I never had the honor of the ac-
quaintance of that illustrious rsonage.

“ Heer’d 0’ him, ain’t ye?” e asked, slightly
discomfited.

I confessed I had not heard of him.

“ Wal, blow me!” he ejaculated, puffing out
with astonishment. Then a sudden, happy idea
seemed to strike him, and he turned upon me
with a contortion of the visage that suggested
the poet’s line:

“ Grinned horribly a ghastly smile.”

“ Heer‘d 0’ his exploits?”

No. I had not even heard of his exploits.

“ Wal, blast me !” he bawled, letting the pent-
up breath burst forth, and gazmg at me With a
pitying expression, as if he were sorry to see
me thus exposing my ignorance.

“ Where he ye from, anyway i”

“I am in search of Bar! y’s Hotel," I said, im-
patiently, “and if you will direct me to that
place I will see that you are not forgot-ten.”

That brought him over, immediately.

“ That’s Bill’s, over thar,” he said, striding in
that direction. “I never drink likker on or-
dinary ’casions; but seein’ as you’re a land-
a ent from York, I don’t mind wettin’ my
w istle at your expense: and ’sides, I kin make
myself kinder necessary over to the survey.”

Strange to relate, this personage had guessed
my business in the neighborhood. We entered
the bar-room, and after gulping down half a
pint of “ likker ” in its crude state, he began:

“Kinder queer name, Eke. the B’ar-slayer,
ain’t it?” he asked, lighting his pipe, and draw-
ing a chair close to mine, and the stove.

For the first time I thought of the full sig-
nificance of the name, and inquired how he
earned it.

“ Earned it?” he cried, vigorously ufling his
pipe: “right ye are! I earnt it by ard fight-
in’. Ye see, it war just this way: I was a kind
0’ careless chap when I hung out over to Dead-
wood. I never did do much diggiu’, but an all-
fired lot of gamblin’ and huntin’.

“At first I scooped in the nuggets by bag-

 

fuls or thereabouts, but I got too partial to
corn-juice, and like all card-slingers I be un to
slide down hill. None of the boys ran after me
and pulled me back, becausa, you see, I war
hu’sred, and a bu’ated man are always destitoot
of friends.

" I hung on round these diggin’s till I became
a target for all the boys to shoot their puns
and jokes at: and whenever .the be a had
any bad likker it war Eke that got t: and
many a time Eke found that likker no likker
at al , but pure Adam’s ale, colored with burnt
sugar.

“ My hair were red then, though it air white
now, and Lord! how my face war freckledl I
didn't like ’em I then, ’cause they made a teller
look kind 0’ fresh like; but I’d ive these
wrinkles, and a heap to boot, for t ose same
freckles now. How a man will get old afore he
knows it, sir! Old Age sneaks up behind us like
a hungry grizzly, and grabs us afore we know
it. is hug air tighter than a grizzly’s; he
never lets go till death comes. But I'm wan-
derin’, sir, as a men air apt to do when he giis
lest in a forest 0’ thought.

“As I were sayin’, my ha’r war red then,
and red ha’r always air an object of ridicool.
The boys wouldn’t let mine burn on in peace.
They said as how it Were a beacon, along wiih
my nose, on the ocean of life, to show the devil
whar to_ dump his cargo of likker. It went
hard With me ; but, as ‘beggars can’t be
choosers,‘ and I war a beggar. I had to swallow
it all, and say nothin’. Men will frame!» on a
fellar-creo-tur’ when he’s down, leif-‘ali 0’ givin’
him a belpin’ hand. I’d ’a’ taken spirit if sonn-
‘un had ‘a’ sn-v'cl‘cd out H's hand to help mi.
as Help pulled Chrisian from the Sh ut-h of
DespOnd—tbe o‘d lady had that book when I
war so highwbut no one thought 0’ the poor old
rum-soaked Eke.”

Here he passed his sleeve across his eyes,
shook the as es from his pipe, very deliberately
deposited it somewhere about his clothing, and
then cleared his throat, coughing significantly.
I took the hint, and another gill of “ corn-juice"
disa peered. He then resumed:

“ he Injuns war makln’ themselves pleasant
neighbors about trnt time—it war only a few
years aged—and the Government sent the troops
out to the Hills. I fixed myself up as good as I
could, an’ offered myself tothe colonel as scout.
He war hard up for scouts, and as a ragged
scout war better ’n none, and I war a rugged
scout, he took me. ,

“Ye see, stranger, if a man holds himself
right up and works steady, he air sure to pull
through straight. I had no time to git drunk in
the Hills; it would have been as much as my
scalp war worth, with Injuns poppin’ at us irom
eve tree an’ rock.

“ saved a heap o’ dust that trip, by keepin’
sober and honest, and I were ha py then. ‘An
honest man is the noblest work of God,’tbey
say, an’ I were proud of being honest. Arter
four months’ scoutin’ I made tracks for Dead-
wood, and went to work in the mines all regular
like, and saved my dust, till, like Sailor Jack, I
had a big lump on my side. A person wanted
me to si a pledge; but, like a greater many
more fee 3, I told him if I couldn’t stop drink-
ill]; without signin’a paper, Iwouldn’t stop at

“ Purty soon after that the de’il got into me,
and I went to drinkin’ an’ mblin’; and that
settled it. I went from g to bad, and from
bad to worse; down the ladder, hand unc‘er
hand, till I war worse than at the bottom: the
ladder were on my back a-crushin’ me, with
Satan on the to rung.

“I lost my ast ounce, and were about to
make matters worse by extarminatin’ myself,
when one 0’ the fellars said he would give me a
last chance.

“ ‘If,’ sez he, ‘you’ll sleep all night up in
Grizzly Grove, without your weapons, I’ll give
ye all yer money back.’

“ I gue he had a grudge ag’in’ me, and
wanted to git me out o’ the way; but I thought
as how I might as well die t at way as any
other, so I agreed. Never heerd o’ Grizzly
Grove? It war on the side 0’0. tall hill, an’a
regular den 0’ grizzlies, and no single man war
ever known to go in thar alone, an’ come out
alive.

“He won the ame: I held a ‘straight,’ he
held a ‘ flush.’ I orgot to tell ye we war to play
a game on it. If I won, I war to git my money
back; if he won I war to sleep all night in
Grizzly Grove. It war fairly, and mighty cute-
ly done. I got up without a word and buttoned
my coat about me: then I turned to the boys:

‘ ‘Good-by, my lads! Give us yer paws.’ I
said. ‘ If we never meet again, ye’ll know how
I died—in the arms 0’ a grily.’

“ Then I turned round and stalked of straight
as an Injun—I s’pcse I war roud then—and I
hwrd arterward that every nckskin sleeve in
that crowd went n , to brush away ther flies.
Straight up the h I went. It war gettin’
dark, and, in spite o’ my nerve, I thort I saw a
grizzly behind every rock and tree. I went
very slowly and careful like when I drew near
the grove. Much as I wished to die that after-
noon, when death stared me right in the face
life became mighty recious al of a sudden,
and it seemed to me t at the world wouldn’t re-
volve right if I war out of it, and, for the sake
of humanity, I resolved ter live.

“ I crawled up very careful like into the grovo,
and laid down beside a rock. It was terrible
dark thet night, and I wasn’t much afraid o’
bein’ found by the b’ars, so ofl.’ I went to sleep.

“ I ’woke about three o’clock, and the mornin’
war just comin’ over the hills; but I didn’t pay
much attention to the ‘gray streaks o’ dawn,’
as the poets call it, though I never could see
‘bar the streaks come in.

“ Standin’ right by me, an’ lookin’ down kind
0’ ’fectionate like, was the biggest grizzly b’ar I
ever laid my eyes on. Whew! he urarabig one!
M ha’r went right up straight, I s’pose, but I
d' n’t lose my Senses. It warn’t any fun; I felt
the cold chills creepin’ down my back as I lay
a-thinkin’ what to do: and pra ed to God for
the first time since I war a c ild to pull me
through. He war gettin’ uneasy, and smackin’
his chops as if he thort I was good meat.

“ Quick as lightnin’ I reached out an’ bbed
the stump of a tail, an’ his right hin leg. I
s’pose that must ’a’ surprised him, for b’ars’ tails,
as a general‘iing, ain’t ornamented wi’ hoo-
man feelin’s.

“He seemed kinder undecided at first; then,
he tried to kick me off, but' I held on like a
bloodhound; ’cause, ye know, to leave go were
to die: an’ I made up my mind thet my time
hadn’t come yet. The Englishman and the tiger
warn’t nothin’ to it. Away we went around
that grove; him runnin’ like the devil were ar-
ter him, an’ me a-floppin’ and slammin’ around
grimiscuous like, like a tin can tied to a dog’s

i .

“It makes me larf. I’ll bet it were fun
sight to see—me a dancin’ round that b’ar, an’
him around ther tree.”

And after unconsciously delivering himself of
this impromptu verse, his whole aspect sudden-
ly changed; his face became as pale as death,
and his limbs shook under him. I ordered a

lass of liquor for him: I thought exccssive
drinking had brought on “ the trembles,” but it
was not so.

“ I s’pose I do make a feel out o’ myself when
I tell that yarn, but I can’t help it. It makes
me shake to think 0’ it. I suffered the torture
0’ a thousand deaths that thar mornin’. He
pulled me ’round that thar grove—scratchin’ me
ag’in’ bushes, slamming me a ’in’ trees, till my
brain war whirlin’ like a Whirligig, an’ the blood
flowed from every squar’ inch of my body; the
skin war peeled off me in strips, an’ I felt I war
goin’ mad wi’ in. Lord, how it did burn, an’
scourge me 1i e hot irons! How my nerves
tinkled, an’ my heart beat! How I cursed, an’
howled an’ Iprayed all in a breath!

“At last couldn’t hold on any longer, so I
let 0, an’ leaped to my feet, I might have been
ma then, but I remember it all as plain as if
every scene war painted on yonder wall.

“1 had no thought then but to fight to the
Anita; I war desp’rit’, and didn’t care how soon I

I .

“He got me sin his grip then; I felt his hot

breath fannin’ my cheek, and his nails sinkin’

v

 

      

in my Is I an’ shoulders an’ back. I felt my
ribs crac in’ like pipe stems, an’ my shoulder-
blades bendin’, an’ meetin in my back. Lord!
how I did screech. au’ yell, an’ its, an’ ouge;
but it war no use; my breath war leavm’ m
bogly an' the trees war flyin’ ’round like a mil -
w as .

“Then my prayer war answered, and God

put an ijee into my head that saved me. I saw
is great jaws open an’ his long red tongue

flamin’, an a sudden thought struck me—I
would choke him .'

“ I threw out my right arm with all the pew-
er left me, an’ sent my fist d0wn his throat like
a shot from a catapult. He gasped, an’ gur-
glued an’ foamed. an’ bit, but I only shoved my

t further an’ further down. I felt my senses
leavin’ me, an’ with one last (ice ’rit’ eflort I
shoved in arm till it seemea like grasped his
vitals. hen all Sense left me.

“ The bags found me in the dead b’ar’s grasp,
an_’ carrie me to a doctor. more dead than
alive. They didn’t despise old Eke then, but
gave him everything money could buy; an’
when he once more went to work, it warn’t
rum-soaked Eke, but Eke, the B’ar-slayer.”

 

 

A DAUGHTER T0 HER MOTHER ON
HER BRIDAL-DAY.

BY HARRIET STEVENS CRESSY.

 

 

Mother, as I stand to—night

Ann lelge my vows of constancy
To one I’ve awry faith to hope

Will all his life prove true to me,

And wear a look of ha piness
When ’twould seem i at one of pain
Would befit me, as you and I must part,
Not to meet for years again;

I almost fear you look upon me
As one ungrateful for ast care,

But could you read my cart aright,
You‘d see the love that‘s hidden there

For you. Bitter tears and! shed ,
When from this, our appy home, I go,
And my heart misgIVes me as 1 think
Of leaving one who loves me so.

D by day you fondly watched
‘er mi cradle bed in infancy,
And all is rough my wayward youth
How patiently you’ve borne with me!

But be assured, most faithful one,
Though a art we henceforth dwell,
M love an titude to you
‘me nor d tance ne’er can quell.
PITTSFIELD, Mass.

Nick Fox.

The Demon Detective;
03.
The Black-faced Band of the

Romany Rye.

BY ALBERT W. AIKEN,

AUTHOR or “rm: DOUBLE DETECTIVE,” “mt
BAT or run menv” “JO r
rm: POLICE srv,” ‘ man man-
ARD,” “WITCHES or
NEW YORK,” ETC.

CHAPTER XVII.
run SECRET SIGN.

THE new-comer was a good-sized fellow, all
mufl‘led up in a heavy pea‘jacket, with a rough
scarf wound around his neck, and an imitation
fur cap, much the worse for wear, pulled down
Over his eyes, just as if he was cold, and was
protecting himself against the weather; but as
the night was a his] one, the natural supposi-
tion arose that t e stranger had adopted these
precautions as a disguise.

The face of the man was not a prepossessing
one: for there was a hang-dog look about it
which would have been apt to put even an inno—
cent—minded man upon his guard.

The complexion was a dirty yellow, the eyes
furtive in their expression, the lids half-closed,
only allowing a part of the eyes to be seen. The
upper lip and chin smoothly shaven, yet show-
ing the stubble of a heavy beard, while under
the chin was a heavy growth of hair, after the
fashion common to some sons of Albion and
Erin, which gave an apish etpression to the

face. .
together the fellow looked like a cockney

 

 

 

AI
brute of the first water.

He came stealthin into the saloon, and before
he closed the door took a good look around.

With most men the reasonable supposition for

the action would be that the new-comer ex-
pected to meet a friend, and was inspecting the
company resent to see if the party was there;
but this fe low acted so queerly that it was plain
he was not looking for a friend, but feared to
see a foc.
And when his gaze encountered that of the
detective officer, who surveyed him with one of
his keen, sharp glances, he looked confused, and
for a moment it seemed as if he had determined
to retreat; but a moment’s reflection evidently
convinced him of the folly of such a move-
ment, for if the detective officer was the man be
feared to encounter, a retro ade march would
only result in exciting thee cer’s suspicions, so
he lounged up to the counter.

The host had taken his measure at the first
glance: a London cracksman, a cross cove of
the first degree, who had left his country for
his country’s good; a stranger who had not been
long in the country, and who had, probably,
been instructed by some old professional, who
knew the re , to come to the saloon with the
idea of meeting friends who could put him on a
good “lay.”
say, do yer know where I can find a.
beastly bloke W at calls ’imself Villiam ’Arris?”
the stranger asked, speaking with a strong
English accent.

“ William Harris?” remarked the saloon-
keeper, reflective] ; “no, I don’t think I know
him. No party y that name ever hangs out
’round here.”

“I think I know a man b that name,” the
detective observed, leaning is elbows on the
table, and surveying the stranger with a pierc-
ing glance, which evidently he did not relish.
“ rditple, short, thick-set fellow, with a black
a

“Oh no nothink of the kind; he’s a slender
cove w’ot don’t wear no beard.”

“ Well, let me see; maybe I know another
William_ Harris—the name seems familiar to
me.” And all the time the detective was study-
in the features of the stranger intently.

e saloon-keeper understood the game of the
officer.

He suspected that the man was some noted
criminal in disguise, and was keeping up the
conversation in the b that he would be able
to detect who he was; at the host was sure the
detective would not succeed in his endeavor, for
he was satisfied the fellow was a. newly—arrived
cracksman.

“ The bloke w’ot I means is tall and thin, and
’e’s a locksmith by trade,” volunteered the stran-

ger.

“I don’t think I know him, then, but, I say,
what might your name be?” asked the officer.

“ Vell, it might be Jones, but it ain’t,” replied
the man, with a grin.

“Oh, come! none 0 fiat no funny business,
you know. I’m not the ind of man to monkey
with. I think I know you l” The voice of the
detective became stern, and be fixed such a
searching glance upon the man that he became
Visit? uneasy.

" ell, if you do, you’ve got a big sight the
advantage of me, that’s all I ve got to say, for
I’ll take my ’davy I never see’d you afore.”

“ Your name is J immy—”

Half the men in the room held their breath as.
the detective paused. Was it ible that this
was the notorious Greek in isguise, and the
blood-hound of the law had detected him
through his disguise.

 

 

 

 

        

 
   
     
   
     
    
        
    
   
   
    
     
      
          
        
       
       
  
    
    
       
    
     
    
         
      
 
   
    
      
       
    
  
  
  
 
  
 
 
 
  
    
  
    
  
    
    
 
 
   
 
  
 
  
  
  
   
 
   
    
  
 
  
 
  
   
 
 
 
    
 
  
 
   
 
 
   
  
  
  
 
  
    
  
    
      
 
 
 
   
  
     
  
   
   
  
    
  
  
    
   
  
 
  
   
   
   
  
 
  
  
   
  
  
   
  
   
  
 
  
 
  
  
     
      
   
 
     
   
  
 
 
  
  
   
  
  
 
   
   
  
    
  
     
    
  
  
   
   
  
   
  
  
 
 
  
    
    
    
  
   
   
    

 

 

 

 

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The host knew better; the stranger was a
taller man than the felon, and not so thick~set,
besides the cast of his features was entirely dif-
ferent. ,

“ Oh, no, it ain’t, so hel me Bob!’ the man
protested." " My name is ick—Dick Sharp.”

“ He ain’t the man on take him to be, at. all”
exclaimed the saloon eeper. “ Just look at his
hands! he’s got a delicate paw ’side the other
fellow.”

This was true, for the hands of the Greek
were noted for their size, and the detective at a
glance saw that his surmise was incorrect.

“ Oh, I was only joking,” he replied, with a
laugh, and, at this admission the rest drew a
long breath, indicative of relief, for many of
them had jumped to the conclusion that the de-
tective had made a shrewd guess at the truth,
and t e stranger was no other than Jimmy, the
Gree , cleverly disguised.

“ Well, I'll see you again, so-long,” remarked
the omcer, and then he sauntered out of the sa~
loon. much to the satisfaction of all present.

“ Who in blazes is ’e, any way?” growled the
stranger,.gazing after the detective with a look
of surly anger u n his face.

“ He’s a detective officer, and an ugly man to
run against, now I tell you !” the saloon-keeper
re lied.

‘A detective! wouldn’t I like to slit ’is wea-
sand for ’im,” muttered the man in an under-
tone, butloud enough to reach the host’s ears.

“ You had better be careful how you talk, or
you may get into trouble,” continued the other.

“ I ain’t afeard of that. I’m as ‘ fly’ as they
make ’em. But 1 say, you can draw me a glass
0’ beer.” and the man tossed a silv r piece on
the counter, making it spin in a peculiar man—
ner.

The host gave a short, quick stare at the
man, drew the beer and placed it upon the
counter, then threw a careless glance around
the saloon to see if any of the inmates were
watching.

But with the departure of the detective, all
had resumed their former occupations, the iii-
cuhus of his presence being removed; the drink-
ing, card-playing and conversation went on
without any One paying particular attention to
the two at the bar.

Perceiving this, old Betterkin remarked:

l (‘i‘g‘hat was a clever little trick of yours, my
a . ‘
“ Never see’d it afore, eh?” and the stranger

chuckled, hoarsely, then took a good pull at the

beer.

“ Well, mebbe I have and mebbe I haven’t,”
the other remarked, evasiVely.

“ I’ll go you a p’und to a shillin’ that you’ve
see’d it done a hundred times l”

“ You’re a kind of a cheeky customer! How
do you know w’ot I’ve seen and w’ot I haven’t
seen?”

“ Oh, I don’t make so bold as that, you know,
but when a cove is up, to snuff, you carn’t throw
dust in ’is peepers. And then the speaker
closed one of his eyes and winked the other in a
very mysterious way.

“ Where did you learn to do the trick 1”

“ In 110d.”

“J ai , eh?”

“ That’s the werry hidentical place. ”

“ Across the water?”

“No, bout Boston way.”

“ Oh, you’ve been in trouble here, then?”

“ Bless yer heyes! I was ‘lagged’ the wery
furst night I landed,” the man replied, with a
grin. “ I was halways a terrier for getting in
my work; I got hot! the blooming ship in the
morning and I cracked a crib that night, but
just as I was a-gitting bout, safe and sound,
with the swag, I’m blessed if I didn’t run hinter
two blooming hobbies and they downed me
afore I could get my tools hout for to ’ave a
crack at ’em, and I got a year for the blarsted
smash, too, you know.”

“ And did you learn how to spin that coin in
the rison at Charlestown’!”

“ he Wery hidentical place.”

“Well, that’s an odd trick to tSick 13), any-
how,” the old man remarked, wi a deway
glance at the customer.

“ Vell, it is now, and vet the cove told me
asuta’ught me ’ow to do the trick is hodder
sti .

“ Who was he—his name?” demanded Better-

kin, abruptly.

“ Red , in for twenty years, combed
ri 'ht in the crib, you know, and smashed a
couple of the blooming peelers afore he was
downed.”

“A good man—as good a workman as ever
took a trio 1”

“’E said, seeing as ’0w I was a stranger, ’e
would put me up to the time 0’ day.”

“ And did he say anythink about me!” asked
the old man, eagerly.

“You bet yer blooming life ’e did! ’E seys
te me, says ’9, Old Po Betterkin will put you
onto a good lay. Al ye 'ave to do is to walk
into ’is ‘ boozing—ken,’ ax for a glass 0' beer and
spin the silver in this hanky-panky way—same
as I did, guv’ner, and when ’e axes yer w’ot

e’re up to, just mention my name and say you’d
like to join the Romany Rye gang.”

“ And what Would you say if you happen to
have the luck to run ag’in' the Gypsy Gentle.
man?”

“ I’m yer man, bold Captain Strike, for life
or death 1”

The host nodded, the password had been cor-
rectlv given, and all his doubt vanished.

“ You’ve come to the right shop,” Betterkin
remarked, “ and you’re just the man that’s
wanted. Are you ready for work?”

‘ ‘ The quicker the better; I’m fly to anythink !”

CHAPTER XVIII.
AN AGREEMENT.

THE new-comer had been sipping his beer at
intervals during the conversation, and as it had
been carried on in a low tone and in such a care-
less manner that no one would be apt to suspect
the talk was of any importance, the inmates of
the room, after the first scrutinizing stare, paid
no more attention to the man.

The host was suspicious by nature, and long
experience had taught him that very little re-
liance could be placed upon the average rogue;
five out of ten would be apt to “ peach” u n
their pals, if nipped by the iron hand of the aw
and they thought their own personal safety
could be secured by betraying their accomplices.

So. the moment old Betterkin came to the
conclusion the stranger might be made useful
and it would be wise to introduce him to the se—
cret band, he kept a watch upon his customers
to see if any of them were payin attention to
the conversation between liimsel and the Eng-
lishman. But as each and every man seemed to
be strictly attending to his own busmess, the
host came to the conclusion that it would be per-
fectly safe to give the “ office,” to use the slang
saying, to the stranger. '

‘ Yes, sir, I’m as game as a pebble and ripe
for hanythink!” the Englishman exclaimed, as
he finished the rest of his beer.

“ Take a walk and come back here arter
twelve o’clock tonight. I close up_ rompt at
twelve; that’s according to law, you now, and
as the cops keep a sharp watch on me I’m very
careful not to give them a chance to catch me
napping in any wa , for they’ll pull the place
in a minute if they ave half an excuse for it.

“You come back arter twelve. You’ll find
the saloon all shut up, but there’s a private door
to the right; you come there and Just tap on it
twice, wait a minute and then rap three times,
so that I will know that it is you and I’ll let

on in.”

“ All right, guv’ner, I’ll be on time, and I’m
obli ated to you for putting me in the way of
getting but a good job.”

Then he ducked his head in salutation, and
sauntered out.

The host gazed after him for a moment, a
thoughtful expression upon his face.

“Is he all right?” he muttered. “Isn’t ita
plant for to trap the gang? There’s no telling
what dodges the pee ers are up to, nowadays.
I had better put a man on him, so as to be sure.
Johnny !" he exclaimed.

A httle, dried-up-looking fellow, with a
shrewd, though evil-looking face, who in a
chair tilted back against the wall, was dozmg

 

 

in adcorner of the room, immediately came for-
war .

No stranger this boy-like man to the police;
young in years, but old in crime, Johnny, com-
monly called the Mouse, from his stealthy ways,
was in police circles reputed to be one of the
most expert knocks—as, in thieves argot, the
pickpockets are termed—in the country.

“Did you notice that fellow that just went
out?” the old man asked, speaking in a cautious
tone, so that no one but the Mouse could hear
what he said.

“ Oh, yes. I got onto him, pop.”

“ What do you think of him i”

“ He looks like a reg’lar out and outer!”

“ He claims to be true blue, but I have my
doubts. He may be got up to run some of the
boys in, you know. He’s coming back to see
me to—night for to talk over a little business.
Now, I want you to follow him, Johnny, and
don’t lose sight of him until he comes back here.
If it is a plant, and he puts himself in commu-
nication with the police, I reckon you‘ll be
smart enough to twig the operation?”

“ Well, I should smilel” responded the other,
with a knowing wink. “I’ll pipe him off like
his shadow!”

“And, Johnny, if you find out that it is a
lant, come back immediately and report. Don’t
ose a minute, you know, arter you catch him

with the police.”

“ Al. right! I’m fly as a bird.”

And the Mouse instantly departed.

When he gained the street be halted for a mo—
ment, eager to catch sight of his man, for he
was afraid that, in‘ the interval which had
elapsed since the stranger left the saloon, the
other might have got out of the way.

Luckily, h0wever, the man had no distinctive
purpose in view, except to kill time, until the
midnight hour should come, and so he was loung-
ing at the corner of the street, listening to an al—
tercation between two drunken fellows which
threatened to develop into a personal encounter,
but bystanders interfered, the crowd dispersed,
and the Engishman sauntered listlessly onward
toward Broadway.

The main artery reached, he turned and fol-
lowed the great street of the metropolis until
he came to Union Square.

Crossing the Square to the ark he sat down
upon one of the benches by t e fountain.

Never had spy an easier task, for the Mouse
golloww the stranger without the slightest dif—

cult .

The?' man, evidently, had not the least sus—
picion that his movements were watched, for he
never took the trouble to turn his head, but
sauntered on in his careless way, indifferent to
all the surroundings.

When he took a seat in the park, the sus-
picions of the spy were at once exci . He
jumped instantly to the conclusion that this
was done to allow some one to communicate
with him, and so, selecting a. seat on a bench a
short distance away the Mouse pretended to
fall half asleep, like the majority of the tramps,
bummers and unfortunate homeless men who
filled the benches, but all the time he kept a
wary eye upon his game.

It was impossible for any one, even in the
most guarded manner, to communicate with
the other without the spy being aware of the
fact.

It wanted a good two hours to midnight
when the two made their a pearance in the
park, and until the hour 0 twelve sounded
from the city clocksthe Mouse did not lose a
movement of the Eu lishman, but as far as he
could see, the man id not communicate with
any one, nor any one with him, either by word
or signal, although at two se to times when
a couple of detectives in plain clothes strolled
through the ark, casting searching glances at
the tenants 0 the benches, the Mom felt cer-
tain that he was on the eve of a discovery, but
neither of the detectives took any more notice
of the Englishman than they did of the rest of
the loungers, although the spy was on the alert
to discover some 3‘ n of intel igence.

“I guess he’s a correct,” the Mouse mut-
tered, as the Englishman rose to his feet after
the clocks announced the midnight hour and be-
gan to retrace his steps. _

The spy steadily followed him, but the
second trip was as fruitless of results as the

first.

Not a single sign was there to indicate that
the man was other than he seemed.

It was about twenty minutes after twelve
when the man arrived at the saloon, and it was
tightly closed, as Betterkin had stated it would
be.

The Englishman gave a cautious look around
and then tapped twice on the door. he can-
tion be displayed was more the resul of habit
than the fear that he was watched.

But the Mouse, on the opposite side of the
street, skulking in the shadow of a doorway,
had his eyes upon him.

The Englishman paused for a moment and
then knocked a sin, giving three separate raps
as he had been nstructed.

The door opened and old Betterkin ap red.

“ Right up to time, ain’t ye?” he exc aimed.
“Step in and wait a minute; I want to take a
look and see if there is any prowling peelers
around the neighborhood.” 7,

“ I threw my peepers about afore I knocked,
but I didn’t spot hanythink,” the other re-
marked.

“I’m better used to the locality than you
are,” responded the host, who had put on his
hat. “ you just step inside while I take a
look about.’

“ All right!”

The Englishman entered.

“Just stay in the entrywai, I will not be
long,” Betterkin remarked, t en he stepped
outside and closed the door after him, leaving
the En lishman in the darkness of the entry.

The ouse came across the street the moment
he saw the coast was clear.

“ What do you make of him?” the saloon-
keeper asked. .

“ All correct, guv'ner, as far as I kin see,” the
spy replied. “ He walked up to Union Square
and sat down in the park until twelve o’clock
came." _

“ And no police spies ’round him, hey?”

“ There was a couple of detectives passed,
but they didn’t take no notice of him nor be of
them.” .

“ No sly signal as much as to say, ‘it’s all

right—I’m working the trick—be on the look-
on i’” .
“ Nary time! and I was so near that I could
have seen it if there had been. Both of the de-
tectives looked at him though as if they reck-
oned that he wasn’t up to no good and they
would like to ‘ run ’ him in.” I _

“Johnny, I .am always suspiCious when_a
stranger comes ’round and wants to stand in
with the an ,” the old man observed. . “ But .I
guess it is a! ri ht this time, and this cove 18
just the kind of fe low that we can make useful,
for he's new to the country and the beaks
haven’t tumbled to him yet.” .

“ Anything more for me to-ni ht?”

“ Nothing more; you’re a g boy, ohnny,
and the first time the gang strike anything rich
I’ll see that you have a finger in the 1e.”

“ That’s right, old man, for I ain’t d a run
of luck for a do '5 age; solongl” .

Away went t e young ruflian while the old
man returned to his abode. _

Opening the door he found the Englishman
leaning against the stair railing. _

“ Now, I’m for you, my pi pin!” he cried.
“ Come right along with me an don’t be skeered
of the darkness,” and he closed the door behind

him. .
Betterkin strode along in the loom and the
Englishman came right at his hee s.

 

CHAPTER XIX.
THE ROMANY RYE.

AT the end of the entry there was a small
door right under the staircase which led to the
second floor, and at this door the old man paused.

“ Stop here a minute till I say a word to you;
your name is Dick, I believe?” the saloon-keeper

k d.
rewfili‘gloit you are—Dick Sharp; and though I

 

mayn’t look it, I’m the cove w’ot kin do credit
to the name.”

“ I hope so, and I hope too that the story you
have told is all straight.”

“I wish I may be eternally juggered if it
ain’t l” the man declared, vehementl .

“ It will be worse for you than or any one
else if it ai i’t correct.”

“ Do \ ou s‘pOse I don’t know that?”

“I reckon you don’t know what a hornets‘-
nest you're going to get into if you ain’t all
right. The gang of the Romany Rye are a
mighty hard crowd to deal with, and once you
get in with them you’ve got to go the whole hog
or else be cut into fiddlestrings. I‘m only giv—
ing you fair warning, you know, so that you’ll
have a chance to back out if you can’t screw
your courage up to the sticking-point.”

“I’m the gamest bird you ever struck!” the
other asserted.

“You can back out now; but five minutes
more, and it will be too late.”

“ Drive on your go-cart! I‘m a born cracks-
man—a rrg’lar high Toby, and I ain‘t afeared o’
hanythink! If the gang ’83 got hany ugly job
—-hanythink that requires pluck and lots of
backbone, that’s the sort 0’ thing that I’m a—
looking arter.”

“ All right! come on then. I only wanted to
give y on fair warning. You’re a stranger, you
know; you gave the sign all right; but for all
that, you might be a detective in disguise, for
some cove in trouble might have pear-bed, and
given away the sign. so as to make things easier
for him. If you are a cracksman, why. you’re
going to get into a good thing; if you’re a spy,
you’ll never see daylight again.”

“ Gov’nor, I ain’t a bit afeard.”

“ Well, I reckon you‘re all right. If you
ain’t, then you are either the biggest fool or the
greatest dare-devil that ever wa
the earth." Betterkiu remarked. "Now, after
you pass through this door, turn to the right,
and go down a flight of stairs; at the bottom,
turn to the right again, and go along about six
steps.”

‘ All correct!”

The old man opened the door, and descended
the stairs to the cellar, the other following
closely behind.

There was a heavy door at the bottom of the
steps, and after they had entered the cellar,
Betterkin took the precaution to slide tne two
heavy bolts which were on the door, home in
their socketS.

“ There, that will keep any meddlesome folks
frorn intruding upon us,” he rem rked.

The darkness was intense; but the old man
proceeded without any difficulty, as if, like a
cat. he had the faculty of seeing in the dark.

Under the staircase was another door. in the
a me position and exactly like the one through
which they had come on the floor above.

The old man opened the door, and instructed
his companion to enter, and when he had done
so, shut the door and fastened it with a heavy
bar, which swung on a pivot in its center.

“ Another little precaution to prevent un-
Welcome visitors from putting in an appearance
without giving us due warning,” the host ob-
served.

While the saloon—keeper was arranging the
bar, the other, with natural curiosity had
stretched out his hands, and made the discovery
that he was in a small closet about four feet

uare, apparently solid walls on three sides,
w ile the door made the fourth.

The object to be obtained by shutting them-
selves up in this cubby-hole was not clear; but
'ust as the Englishman began to puzzle his

rains over the matter, Betterkin completed
the bar job, and then, addressing his com-
panion, said:

“ Brace yourself, now, for we are going right
down into the bowels of the earth.”

Then, to the ears of the wondering adventurer,
came the sound of a small bell tinkling faintly
in the distance.

Hardly had the sound died away when the
Englishman felt that the floor beneath his feet
was descending.

He understood in a moment what it meant.
The floor of the closet was a trap door, worked
by machinery after the fashion of a dumb-
waiter.

He was descending by this admit means into
a sub-cellar, undoubtedly the secret haunt of the
desperado band of the Romany Rye, and the
man could not help admiring the wisdom which
had been displayed in the matter.

A cellar under a cellar, attached to such an
old, common-place house as the one in which the
saloon was situated, was a thing that even the
shrewdest detective would not be apt to sus-

ct.
pelt the house was raided by the police, and the
cellar examined, the chances were a hundred to
one that no one would imagine there was a sub-
cellar under the regular one.

The descent only occupied a few moments,
and then the machine stopped. Betterkin
opened a door, which was in exactly the same

osition as the door above by which the pair
had entered the closet, and revealed a good-
sized apartment lit by a couple of large coal-oil
lamps suspended from the ceiling.

There were half a dozen rude bunks arranged
b the walls, and in the center of the room,
right under the lam s, were two large tables;
eight evil-looking fe ows sat around them, some

laying cards, and all drinking more or less. A
Beg of beer, which was on tap in the corner,
furnished the liquid refreshment, each man go-
ing and helping himself whenever he felt in-
clined.

It was as perfect a thieves’ haunt as the mind
of man had ever devised.

The fellows all nodded to the saloon—keeper
when he a peered, and looked with decided cu-
riosit at is companion.

“ I ring you a new pal, boys,” said Better-
kin, “a gentleman from across the water, an
old cracksman who has already been unlucky
enough to do time in the stone-jug in this great
land of libert .”

“ Alwa s g ad of a new pal, if he’s got the
right stu in him,” responded a young, rather
good-looking, and extremely muscular fellow,
who seemed to be a sort of a leader to the rest.
“ Sit down and have a glass of beer.”

The Englishman’s quick eyes had noted all the
details of the scene, and having taken stock of
every man in the room, judged the speaker to
be a man of note in the gang], but as he was
sandy-haired, with blue eyes, e did not seem
to be the man to answer to the name of the
Gypsy Gentleman, for the Romany race, from
the earliest a es, have been noted for their
swarthy comp exion, ebon locks, and flashing
black eyes.

“Thank ye kindly,” responded the stranger
as the men made room for him at the table, an
be and his companions seated themselves.

One of the gang brought a couple of glasses of
beer, and laced them before the new-comers.

“Well, here’s success to you,” said the young
fellow, raising his glass, and nodding to the
En lishman. “ You look likea man who would
ma 6 a good pal, if you’ve got the right kind of
stuff in you.”

“ I ain’t the man vot ought to say it, I know;
but as there ain’t nobody to the fore for to
speak a good vord for me, nat’rally I’ve got for
to blow my hown trum t. l’m jest the uietest
man in the vorld, a reg’ arlamb; but hif carn’t
’old my hown when it comes to downright busi-
ness, then I’m a blooming dufler, and no good-
but talk is cheap, gen’lemen, and I ain’t one o
the kind that goes in much for it, but just put
me at a piece of vork, and hif I don’t do the job
up hiu nobby style, vhy I gives you leave to
kick me from ’ere to ’Alifax!”

“ That‘s the kind of talk I like; drink hearty l”
the young fellow exclaimed.

The three took a good sweig at the beer, and
then the young man remark :

“ The boss is late to-night.”

“ Yes; but I expect him every minute,” Bet-
terkin replied.

“ I didn’t know as he would put in an ap ear-
ance tonight; as a ’general thing, he se dom
comes so late as this.’

“He had some important business to which
he was obliged to attend; you will understand
all about it when he arrives. ”

Red on top .f'

 

During this conversation the Englishman had
beencarefully examining the place. It seemed
to him as if there was a good deal of the rat-
trap about it. If the only entrance to the cellar
was by the elevator, a betray il of the secret by
one of the gang to the lice would surely
result in the capture of ainho might happen
to be in nthe den at the time the “pull” was
made. for with the blue—coats in possession of
the only entrance, escape would be impossible.

There did not seem to be any other entrance;
but that there must be one the Englishman felt
sure, for these law breakers were altogether too
clever rascals to be so easily entrapped.

A (I while he was wondering over this
matter, all of a sudden, without warning, 8.
door in the rear wall, so skillfully constructed
that it looked like a part of the wall, opened,
and two men walked into the apartment.

The first was a tall fellow, with a full, black
beard, and rather long, curling hair, and from
his SWarthy complexion, a judge of mankind
would have pronounced him a foreigner, a
Spaniard or an Italian. -

The second was all muffled up in an old over-
coat, with a slouch hat pulled OVer his eyes, evi-
dently disguised.

He was quickly recognized by the men in the
room though, for it was no other than the
escaped Sing Sing bird, Jimmy the Greek, the
man the detective had been in search of when
he entered the saloon.

(To be continued—commenced in No. 37.)

 

A Little Straight Poison.

“ GIMME a. little straight poison. More’n that.
I want to feel my licker. There, that’ll do. Yes,
I’m from the West. From California, and what
d’you want to say about it!”

The speaker was tall and angular. He wore
his trow.~:ers in his bootlegs, and under the broad
rim of his slouch but were partially concealed
a very red face and a much redder nose, which
other elements than those of nature had as-
sisted to color. He leaned his broad back
against the bar in a down-town Bowery saloon,
and the moisture ran off his hat and formed a
little pool on the sawdustcovered floor at his

 

eet.

“ What’ll you take, boys?” he continued.
“ This is my drink. Step up ri ht lively now.
Here’s ho! Been ’round some? ell, if I haven’t!
Lamme see; near onto forty years ago up in
Michigan I trapped beaver one season. Dead
of winter, snow on the ground, and the creeks
full of ice. One morning I went down to the
trap to see after the ketch. I laid my gun on
the bank and went down to the water. Some
how or ’nuther I looked over my shoulder and
my heart came flopping right into my mouth.
An Indian buck stood about a rod from me with
his tomahawk in his hand ready to brain me.

“Here, bar-keeper, ’nuther round. Give me
some of the same. Well, I jumped across the
creek and dodged behind a big tree. I peeked
out. There was the lndian right onto me. I
left there in a hurry and made for a pile of
rocks. Hid behind a big bowlder. Looked over
the edge. There was the Indian right after me.
I begin to see it was life or death, and ran like
a deer across the open country to ’nuther batch
of timber, dodged round the trees, and jumped
into the water up to my neck. I squinted over
a log which was lyin’ across the creek, and I’ll
be blanked if there wasn’t the buck about a
yard ofl’. Give us some more licker, bar—keep
er. There, there, don’t give me your whole
shop: a int’s enough for me at one drink.”

“ Wel ,” queried a nervous little man, with
watery eyes and a bulbous nose, who had taken
a deep interest in the tale, “ what did the In—
dian do then?”

“ Oh, he killed me.”

 

 

Casual Mention.

 

DR. DAY says the exhaustion of the nerve
force incident to life in this rapid age, isthe
great predisposing cause of inebriety.

COOPER Cm, in Shasta count , Cal., is ain
depopulated. Three times ha: t is town ta en
gstart since 1863, but each time it has been a
ai ure.

THE rate of vibrations of the rattlesnake’s
tail has been determined by Dr. Ott, to be sixty
per second. The method of experiment was to
attach a pen to the snake’s rattles, the record
being received on a revolving drum.

THE sand of the Sahara desert is sometimes
heated to a temperature of 200° by the vertical
rays of the sun. This gives rise to a scorchin
wind—the dreaded simoon—which is rendere
still more terrible by the burning particles of
sand it carries along.

BREAD is the representative of human food,
because wheat, of which it is made, embraces
all the elements of nutrition necessary to build
up and maintain every part of the system,
keeping it in good working condition, and pre—
serving it unimpaired to a ripe old age.

THERE is a strong prejudice in the South
a ainst opening the ground in a new country
a ter hot weather sets in, an intimate connec-
tion being believed to exist between newly-
upturned land and malarial and even yellow
fever. In some of the Southern cities the law
prohibits the digging up of the streets between
the lat of June and the end of the hot weather.

STATES differ in the kind of ethics which they
inco rate in their legislation—of course they
do. n Maine it is very hard to get a glass of
wine, but very easy to get a divorce. In South
Carolina every facility is extended for the
thirsty bibulant, but you can’t get a divorce—
no, not for millions. Those fond of localizing
the moralities can draw their own conclusions.

A LARGE subterranean grotto has been dis-
covered in the side of a mountain at Dorgali,
in the island of Sardinia. It has many beauti-
ful stalactites, and there are fifteen long lateral
galleries, the arch of one of them resting on a
high range of pillars having a whiteness like
that of marble. A marvelous effect in color
is produced when the grotto is lighted up with
torches.

THE Chinese Government lately received a
formal notice from King Kalakaua that he could
accommodate no more immigrants from the Ce-
lestial Kingdom. The Hiwaiian Islands, not
long ago, were advertising for an increase of
population, but when the United States shut out
the Chinese, Honolulu became a too convenient
substitute for the Mongolians, who crowded
thither in such numbers as to threaten the over-
running of the islands.

THE consumption of beer and liquors in Osna-
bruck, Hanover, is something almost incredible.
During the fiscal year ending March 31, 1882,
there was consumed 88,746 gallons and 903 hot-
tles of schnapps and 401,600 gallons of beer,
making 2.7 gallons of schnapps and 12.18 gal-
lons of beer per capita. These figures are all
the more startling as the average per capita in-
cludes women and children and all other per-
sons not given to the use of these beverages.

THE Balloon Society of London is sending up
small balloons, each bearing self-registering in-
struments for noting the altitude and velocity;
also a post-card, With an address in German,
French, and En lish, with a request that the
finder of the mac ine would forward it without
delay, with a note as to the time and place
where found. The Society hopes by such means
“ to be able to establish in course of time fixed
direction and velocity of currents in the differ-
ent strata at certain times of the year.”

IN the chief towns of the departments of
France, M. Foville tells us the wages of work-
men in the year 1863 averaged 41 cents; in the
year 1882 the average had risen to 59 cents. It
was a rise in the twenty ears of about 45 per
cent. In the same peri , and in the same
towns the wages of workwomen rose from 21
cents in 1863 to 30 cents in 1882, showin a rise
of no more than 41 per cent. It will seen
that women, on an average, earn throu out
France but very slight more than he] the
wages earned by men. ‘

Popular Poems.

-———‘..———

DIXIE.

Blue as the sea, without a single flaw,
The azure sky reflected back the day,
And quietly, through drowsy Summer air,
Magnolia blossoms, beautiful and rare.
Came floating down and vanished far away
Upon the bosom of the Chickasaw.

 

The cotton—fields lay white as driven snow,

The wheat was draped in flowing cloth of gold,
While, Wet with dew upon its blades of green,
The springin grass lay nestled in between,

O’erlooked y pines that, like the bards of old,
Sung rude, sweet music to the earth below.

And at the pine tree’s feet the shining sand,
Bi Southern river sparkling in the sun,
Bas ed in the warm and perfumerI tropic breath,
Till ushered in past twilight’s shadowed death,
The glad gray stars came. twinkling one by one,
And watched hke sentinels o’er Dixie’s Land.
—0hicago Tribune.

 

202

A WILD WESTERN PROTEST.

 

 

A Boston scholar roundly swears
By all the gods above, below,
That we must put on modern airs
And let our Greek and Latin go.
Forbid. oh, Fate, we loud implore,
A dispensation harsh as that—
What! wipe away the sweets of yore——
The dear “ Amo, amas, amatf”

The sweetest hour the student knows
Is not when poring over French

Or twisted in eutonic throes
Upon a hard collegiat a bench;

’Tis when on roots and kaia and gain
He feeds his soul and feels it glow,
Or when his Muse transcends the stars

With “ Zoe 1mm, sas ugde I”

So, give our bright, ambitious boys

An inkling of these pleasures, too,
A little smattering of the joys

Their dead and buried fathers knew;
And let them sing—while glorying that

Their sires so sung long years ago—
The songs, “ Amo, umas, amat,”

And “ Zoe mou, sas agape!”

—Demer Tribune.

 

 

:0:

A FBEEDMAN’S IDEA OF THE NEW
JERUSALEM.

I'se g’wine fer to live in de New Jerusalem,
Dem an e-ls am a-waitin’ fer me to come;
De Law am a-pardonin’ all my sins,
I’m allus on hand when de ’vival begins!
Come along, sister come wid me,
The best waterme 'on eber you see,
Plenty long collards’and hominee.
I’m g’wine home!

De Lawd saves de sheeps; I’se got de wool,
De debbil for my soul gib mighty hard pull,
But my Lawd was strongest, de rope go slack,
An’ old Massa Debbi! went over on his back.

Come along, brother, come wid me,

De gate’s open wide fer you so free.

De lame can walk, de blin’ can see,

I’m g’wine home!

Satan tried it once, my soul to s’prise,
But I took my Bible and hit him ’tween de eyes;
Says I, “ Old Satan, I reckon you are heat,
~ For I’s got dem golden slippers on my feet l”
' Come along, chil’en, come wid me,
If you want dem golden streets to see,
An’ hear dem angels singin’ free.
I’m g’wine home‘
— Washington Pod.

 

:0:
GOOD-BY, 0R HOWDY-DO 7

BY J. w. RILEY.

 

 

Say good-by or howdy-do—

What’s the odds beth the two?

Comin’—goin’— every day—

Best friends first to go away——

Grasp of hands you druther hold

Tshan tlllieir weightin 1p solid tgold,
lipst eirgripw 'egree m’you—

Say good—by or howdy-do?

Howdydo, and then good-by—

Mixes jest like laugh and cry;

Deaths and births and worst and best,
Tangled their con rariest'

Ev’l'y jinglin’ weddin’-beli

Skecrin’ up some funeral knell—
Here‘s my song and there’s your sigh—
Howdy-do, an then good-by!

Say good-by or howdy-do—
Jest the same to me and you;
’Tain't worth while to make no fuss,
’Cause the job‘s ut up on us!
Some one‘s runn n' this concern
That’s got nothin‘ else to learn—
If he’s willin’ we’ll pull through,
/ Say good-by or h0wdy-do?
—Boelon Globe.

 

:0:
“LEAD KINDLY LIGHT.”

 

BY P. L. BLATCKFOBD.

 

She was singing very sweetly
In the old church choir that night;
Many held their breath to listen
As she praised the “ Kindly Light.”
“ Lead me on.” thus sung the maiden,
But her thoughts were far away,
Lingering in the field with Donald,
Who that mom had raked the hay.

Louder rose her voice and sweeter—
Full and clear as tone of lark,
Donald loved her—’twas sufficient—
So the night could not be dark;
And that light she did not need it,
All her life was bright as do. .
Never thought of coming tria
Cast a shadow o’er its way.

Hark! the Vesper H inn is stealing
Once again a: on t at night
When oung Jenny, sweet and jo ous,
Stoo and praised the “ Kindly .ight.”
Year by year its rays have led her;
Now she knows it, feels it best,
Though the night seemed dark and cheerless
When her Donald sunk to rest.

Once again those words are (peeling
From clear voices. rich an rare;
Weary in her pew sits Jenny;
“ Lead me on ” is now her prayer.
“ Through the dark " that prayer is answered
To her loving heart that night,
For she’s led o‘er crag and torrent,
Safe into the “ Perfect Light.”
— (,iImmercial Advertiser.

 

:0.
THE POTATO.

Fair esculent, what person, saint or sinner,

But welcomes tliee each day upon his table,
Es ecially at noon served for his dinner,

Iipresh from thy bin or sheltering bed of sable.

 

 

How would abeefsteak look without thee, facing
With thy mild eyes its blushes faint and tender?
How would it taste without thy round form gracing

The dish o’er which its savory juices wander?

With bursting sides, dry as roasted chestnut,
With fine-grained, starchy fiesh—a piping plate-
fu —
What man, though e icure he he, would haste not
To do thee ample ustice and be grateful?

When dessert comes, a flaky paste or pudding,
It follows well, I grant; ofttimes we need it;
But woe to it, though plums its sides are studding,
If thou dost not, fair tuber, just precede it.

Old Ireland lifts her heart each year and blesses
Thee as her friend; when corn and wine have van-

ished.
Thou hast relieved her wants. her sore distresses,
When, but for thee, her thousands would have
famished.

On rows, in hills. thy slender stenih are growing;
They thrive alike in shine or artial shadow;

All through this pleasant land t eir green is showing,
From Maine‘s far coast to plains of Colorado.

I, precious, healthful plant, for one, would praise
t ee.
Admire thy flower where‘er I see thee_blooming
As beautiful, though common, as the daisy,
And greet thy spheres whene’er I see them com-
ing.

Give all due raise to squashes and cucumbers,
To sugary beets, the smooth, red, ripe tomato;
But generous friend, to thee I write these numbers,
Thou stalwart commoner! thou blest potato!
—NationaJ Free Press.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

‘ :1

"P"

 A

1

 

 

 

 

, 5‘” "9"
. r

Witt!

 

 

!
1p .«
:11, u 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  
 
  
 
 
  
   
 
  
 
  
 
  
  
 
  
 
 
  
  
 
  
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
   
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
  
 
  
  
 
 
  
 
 
  
  
  
 
  
  
  
 
  
 
  
 
  
 
   
  
  
  
 
  
  
 
  
 
 
  
 
  
  
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
  
 
 
  
  
  
 
 
 
  
 
  
 
 
  
 
  
 
  
  
  
 
 
  
 
 
  
 

Published every Monday morning at nine o’clol-lc.

 

NEW YORK, SEPTEMBER 1, 1883.

 

BEADLE‘s WEEKLY is sold by all Newsdealel‘s in
the United States and in the Canadian Dominion.
Parties unable to Obtain it from a Newsdealer, or
those referring tohave the aper sent directci by
mail, gem the publication 0 cc, are supphe at
the following rates:

Terms to Subscribers, Postage Prepaid:

One copy, four months . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . $1.00.
" ‘* one year . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 3.00.
Two copies, one year . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5.00.

In all orders for subscriptions be careful to give
address in full—State, County and Town“ The pa-
per is always stopped, promptly, at expiration of
subscription. Subscriptions can start Wth any late
number. .
TAKE NOTlCE.——In sending money for subscription,
by mail, never inclose the currency except in_a re-
gistered letter. A Post Office Moncy Order is the
best form of a reiniltauce. Loses bV-Illall Wlll be
alnios: surely avoided if these directions are fol-
lowed.

W‘All communications. subscriptions, and let-
ters on business should be addressed to

BEADLE AND ADAMS. PUBLISHERS.
98 WiLLIAn Sr, NEW YORK.

 

 

Take Notice.

Serials appearing in this lVEEKLY will not
be republished in Library or bank form. Back
numbers can be S’upplled by all Newsdcalers, or
sent b y mail, pr. paid, from the publishers.

 

 

To the Readers of Beadle’s Weekly.

 

CONSIDERING the remarkable succession of
brilliant and attractive serials now being given
in our columns, and those especially arranged
for the coming fall and winter, is it asking too
much of our regular readers to request their co_
operation in extending the circulation of the
paper? We are sparing no expense to obtain
the best work of the most popular American
story writers; and while it is not our custom to
boast of what we do, we yet think BEADLE’s
WEEKLY so superior in its attractions that it is
entitled both to the good will of its regular read-
ers (which we well know we have) and to that
good word from them which will induce others
to become readers and subscribers.

May we not have that GOOD WORD?

 

Starting In Our Coming Number!

The Sea Desperado;

THE PIRATE LOVER.

A Romance of the Early Years
of this Century.

 

BY COL. PRENTISS INGRAHAM,
AUTHOR or “SAILOR or FORTUNE,” "MAGIC
SHIP,” “MERLE, THE MUTINEER,” ETC.

 

A romantic legend of the N ew England coast
is here woven into a most toucning and thrill~
ing story. Full of the fine realism of the sturdy
character add the stirring times of eighty years
ago, along the rugged northern main, it is, as a
story, delightfully sensational and will be fol-
lowed, with avidity, we are sure, by every
reader of this WEEKLY.

 

The Wide Awake Papers.

What Does a. Woman Do?

WHAT does a woman do?

That is a mystery 1 am anxious to solve; and
for the mOst unselfish possible reason, as chry
right minded and unprejudiced person will ac—
knowledge. It is a conundrum which interests,
perplexes, and baffles all mankind; and of
which a long-suffering public is never likely to
hear the last unless some heroic soul sets itself
the task of discovering the answer even at the
risk of perishiug in the attempt. Could I but
solve this mystery I should feel that i had ac-
complished a marvelous feat and cleared the
wrinkles from many a manly brow. For where
is the man who has ever yet discovere l what a
woman does—how his mother, his wife, or his
sister, disposes of her time? And the uncer-
tainty wuich surrounds this matter, and the
feeling that he is being impOSed upon—poor
wretcbl—in haviugto labor duin while the
feminine portion of the world sits at home and
twirls its thumbs, must have furrowed many a
man’s brow and turned his hair gray.

And, to be sure, what does a woman do? It
is so hard to tell! if the question took the form
of "What does she not do!” it would not be
half sd hard to answer. She does not lie in bed
until after the last bell rings and then stalk
downstairs and grumble that the potatoes are
cold. She does not leave her room with the
blinds and windows fast shut, the b dcovers
unturned, the basin full of dirty water, the
damp towels lying in chairs, her shoes in the
midde of the floor. and some articles of raiment
upholstcriug every chair. Sue does not have a
pleasant walk or ride in the early morning with
the daily paper or a friend for a companion.
She does not swing in an office chair all the
morning, saunter out for a lunch and a smoke
at noon, write for a little whileiu the afternoon,
and then promenade the streets to meet the
pretty girls. She does not enj )y a lazy after-
dimier smoke and then spend the evening at the
club or reclining at ease on a lounge. Does
your mother do this? Does your sister? Does
your wife! No: Then those are thingsa wo-
man does not do.

TI‘Ue, a woman may be a clerk. an operator,
9. teacher. a ti'adeS‘voman. a seamstress, a law-
yer, a doc or, a factory-hand, or follow some
other calling, trade, or profession which calls
her daily from home. But in this case men
need not rack their brains tv: discover how she
manages to dispose of her time. They may feel
quite satisfied that she works more hours a day,
and more faithfully, than any man in a corres—
ponding position, and for less money. ‘That
she gets home as rapidly as possible after her
Work is finished, then probably helps to get her
own dinner and to do some housework, and
5 ends the evening mending and making her
c othes. And even this lot, which is for less
easy than the man‘s who earns his living in a
similar way. is a blissful one compared to that
of many women who stay at home and look
after a house, a husband, and chiloren.

 

not. to make in the face of the fact that the
whole world of mankind have yet to discover
that women who stay at home do anything?
But it is true, nevariheless. The women who
have a trade or pl‘OleSle'J do not work half so
laid. at their Very hardest, as the women who
stay at home. And yet men say, “ Well. what
in the worH do women do? Tuey just have an
awfully easy lime of it, while we. poor devils,
have to get up early in the morning and work
all day.” Let me tell you that, however hard

That seems a startling declaration. does it-

your lot in life may be, the woman who keeps
your home has a still harder one: “ Mann’s
work is from sun to sun, but woman s we: k is
never done,” is a saying as irue as any ever of.
tered. The woman who kueps hou~e without a
servant, or will) but little help, sun has a family
of children on her hands must needs work from
sunnse to nearly or quite midiii.ht every day
of her life; and always go to bed with the con-
s-iousuess that something tbubshuuld have been
done that day is still left undone.

What dOes a woman do? Why she walks
miles and miles evu'y dayof her life. She takes
tens of thousands and hundreds of t vousands of
sleps between sunrise and 5m set. In the morn-
ing, perhaps, she has the fire to make and the
breakfast to get. “Little things,” you say.
Very Well, if they are so little. eVery other
morning let wife or mother he in bed while you
make the fire and get the breakfast. You Will
find yoursrlf in for an hour, or an rear and a
half, of uninterrupted step. step, strp, to and
fro, here and there, into the cellar. into the
pantry. into the closet, around the table, f'lUSP
to the store; and if at the end of that hour and
a half you have succeeded in doing all that
mother or wife does daily in the same time,
aired the rooms, adjusted the shades, arranged
the breakfast table, swcp’. the sloop, emptied
the ashes and the water pan under the. ice box.
made the fire, shaken the hints, “straightened
up” the dining room, made the coffee. sliced the
bread, filled the suga -buwl and iiiilk jug, put a
fresh piece of butler on a clean butler plate,
supplied the table with a pitcher of hot water
and a pitcher of cold wafer, sherd an-l frch ihe
cold potatoes, made l uttered-toast. broiled the
chops, washed and dressed the children, and
had the breakfast upon the iable exactly at lhe
hour, wi.li the coffee drinkable, the toast un-
burne l, and the chops and potatoes fit to out
you are a wonderful man, and Barnum ought to
exhibit you for the r. mainder of your natural
life and pay you the biggest salary he (‘ch
gave to any one of his “ livmg curiOsities.” Ten
chances to one, .howeVer, your wife generously
washed and dressed the children for you; a
kindness that it seldom occurs to the selfish
heart of a man to do; but even if you did not
do this, and accomplished all the rest. you are
still a wonderful mun—more wonderful, it is
quite ~afe to assume, than you will ever volun-
tarily be again to the end of your days. VVh 11
you sit down to eat your breakfast you will
feel that you have done a day‘s w0ik already.
But that, for Ike housewie is but the smallest
beginning. Sue must keep a good fire all day
and plenty of hot water. She must clear
tables, and wash dishes, and scrape pans and
kettles, and clean silver, and pOllSh cutlery,
and lift heavy weights, and move heavy furni-
ture, and air rooms and make beds, and empty
slaps, and wash bowls and pitchers, and sweep,
and dust, and do marketing, and prepare vege-
tables, and pick over fruit, and bake, and cook.
and wash, and sew, and iron. and darn, and
“pick up” after men and children eternally,
and do endless little deeds for the boys and
girls, and anSWer thousands of uestions. What
does a woman do. indeed? by, the woman
who keeps house, or helps keep house, who has
a family to look after, and sewing and mend-
ing to (10, works harder than a man ever tiliuks
of doing. No matter if she has a servant, or
servants, she still is a hard worker. She has
no end of care; there is literally never a time
when housework or mending for a famil is
absolutely all " done up;” there is never a night
of a housewife’s life when she is not consCious
of certain things crowded out of that day that
she must try [0 crowd into the next: and her
life is filled full of the doing, and remembering
to do, all manner of little petty things that
seem trifling in themselves but upon which all
the success and harmony of the household econ-
omy depend.

it has been urged that women are not strong
enough to earn their Own living as men earn
theirs. Such nonsense! \Vhy the women who
keep hOuse. sew, and bring up children, work
harder. and endure mo: e, than an of their SIS-
terhood who Sit at desks, stand bind coun-
lll‘l's, or follow an trade or profeSsion. And
when men feel inc ined to doubt that their mo-
thers, sisters, and wives, have much to do—
simply because they do not go outside of their
home to work—let them get a day’s vacation
and spend it in doing from sunrise to sunset
exactly what the feminine membch of the
family do each day: and let Wide Aw ke read-
ers, at least, remember that their mot ers, and
sisters. and wives, lead lives filled to the full with
tiresome little duties; and instead of doing or
saying one thing to make the home work
heavier, let them by kind words, lovmg appre-
ciation, and thoughtful acts, cheer and lighten
the labors of the women who work for them and
love them. BELLE BRIGHT.

 

The flnLPapers.

The Bore Social—Male and Female.

UNFORTUNATELY all bores are social because
they were born to be sociable, and if they were
not so sociable they would not be bores. Did
you ever see a quiet, sly—nothing bore, unless ,it
was some country Inver who eventually was
married for sympathy! They are social, and
hence it is Wl‘ittl-li—“SO-shall they bore you!"

What a pitv it is that we were not born with
adamantine flesh, or with ears that could be
,shut up as occasion required! The bores are
born so. There never was a bore who had intel-
ligenee enough to be cognizant of the Case and
did not feel a certain self-satisfaction over the
fact that he has acco plishcd the design for
which he Was intended by an iiiev1table and Ott—
tinn s uncertain fate which cannot be explained.

Did you ever see li0w innocently bores pro—
gress in their avocation? They never think
they are tiring \ our pavience, or worrying you
to any locality in the slightest neighborhood of
dist action, but rather think they are entertain-
ing. and a benefit to society which they haunt,

The breed ha.~ never been catalogued. The
man who started to do it died just as he got inio
the j :b—he worked forty seven years at it and
it overcame him. He uu=iertook too much and
the undertaker took hrm. The job was both too
ponderous and prepondcrous.

In looking OVer his work through a concen-
trating lens we make out the following list
of exalte l personaaes whom he considers social
bores. we condense:

A man who in company overwhelms and un-
dermines the last Siory you told With one of
vaster dimensions. and makes you wish you had
kept still on the subject——whelher he is lying or
not.

A man to whom you give the faintest sign of
recognition on the stnet, and who takes it as a
handle to slop you and hold you, and tell you
in many vurds a long story which you care
nothing ubour: and it is always noticed (or
smeller.) that the mun who has eaten the most
onio: s or drank the most whisky gets the closest
to you when he is telling his tale.

A man who takes the other side of anews-
paper you are reading and gets interested in a
column and a half of political editorial just as
you are done with your page and waut~for
half an hour—to turn over, and him also. 100-
ton-guu bore.

A man who is long in telling you what to do
to sucoeed in business. when you already kn0w
what to do and can’t do it, and fails to prove
his wise precepts by examples which you can
follow.

A female visitor who is ever on the go and
never on the stait, like lhe auctioneer’s going
V never gone: who keeps you on the verge of ex
:pecfafinn and ilie doorstep in the sun or the
5 cold (with the pies in the oven burning f. r at-
. tention) and tells you all she had forgotten to
{tell ai d m we than you care to remember or
hear, at intervals saying, “Well, I must go,”
‘ and goes—on with the talk and the delay.
_ Great Suds! a deadly bore!

A man who never Ins-s any opportunity to
talk about his business when it is none of your
business and I ever will be, while you are try-

3. ing to think of your own, and who persists in

 

 

telling you how much he is clearing each day,
and will] smell signs of him clearing out.

A pl'PhCller who opens on a not Sui‘oay with
a lull: prayer and neglects to deouct it from
the length of the sermon, and Lid: ks that the
longer the prayer is the furiher it will reach.
A smooth bore. .

A y oung lady that giggles in company when-
eVrr spoken to by a young man. an l the young
man dude at whose silly twnddle she giggles.

The old resident who sits and resurrecis all
tl e faded local hislon from the dim and very
uncei‘tnin past: and through his lips like the lids
of a pondemUs old tome, drluges you with
fl sods of o d fashioned language and lore until
you heartily wish that he had been ornament-
ing the under-side of an old tombstone eVer
since lhbSe times.

A mild, sponge-like ab=orber, but poor re-
tainer. of all that is going on and all that isn’t;
a woman that visits one louse and gathers all
the news which she will rid herself of in the next
visting-place, and continually keeps neighbor
boo i family matters warnnd up so they win":
get Cold. and has a nose sharp and of fine scent
which is like] to stir things up lively round
about, and ma 6 it inieresiing. She is the bore
(Id-asp.

A man whd, while you're listening in rupture
lo the strains at a cOnceit in the p lrk, persists
in telling you about the betier music of another
bund while you long to hit him oVer the head
with a slaw of more solid material; and also
the young ladies who strike oil" in a waltz on
tv e walk and slow [Lat tlcy nie posscssul of
very apprrc aliVe feet to which the n.usic is
prone to fly —it runs to their soles.

A woman who lakes it upon herself to do all
the praising of her children. \ll bile perhaps the
baby is “upmg its molasses ffll e on 3 our bosom,
and the OldPet boy pinning a rag on your back.
and the middle one stanoix g on your plug but,
which has the ether of making you land them
so the ski s—yet wishing they were there with-
out the landing.

A man who is always praising you to your
face in a way that makes you fear he has some
favor in view.

A female boss machinist of the piano over the
way, and the fellow next door who fiddles half
of every I ight—blast his picture!

A young lady who at a party takes the piano
with u: an invitation and plays all the evening
i'o show how well she can’t play. or another
vs ho has to be maxed, urged, begged and
dragged.

A man who. seeing you in conversation with
another, comes up and bites your conversation
off in the middle wiihout a permit, and tells
some deadly narrative, and s'icks there and
won’t go, when, p—rhaps, you were on the point
of working up your friend to a trade wherein
you would have made fifty dollars OR of him.
He is a bore de auger.

A set of people who visit you while you are
sick. and recount everyc se of the kind they
suffered or knew, and the fatalities attendant:
who try to cheer you up by frightening you
down. They are a set of bores de ghoul.

A funny man who brings you his last joke,
and ha~has before he tells it, and takes all the
nap off of it before you hear it, and gives it to
you threadbare, and gets downhearted because
you don't laugh. Etc, etc.

It is said the Renowned Order of Bores are to
meet soon in convention, and get up some new
rules, and rte-arrange the code: they want to
start out fresh on something different from the
old style. May the cholera. measles and small-
pox strike tneml SOLOMON SHINGLE.

 

An Amusing Bear Story.

AN amusing anecdote has just been told by
the famous naturalist, Brehm. in a lecture on
Siberia. A few weeks ago an inhabitant of the
village of Tomski Sovod went in a wagon to a
neighboring wood topick up some sweet pine-
apple kernels. His wagon was already more
than half-full, when the peasant. coming back
to it With a new load, saw in the middle of it a
large bear devouring with undisgui‘sed satis

'facti’on the fruit, of which his race is exceed

ingly fond. “ Hu hottl” cried the terrified
man to his horse. Off, of course. went the
horse, the more so that. although he had not
seen the hear, he had perceived its presence by
the sense of smell. But the bear himself was
the most frightened of the three, and began to
bowl lamentably. This made the horse speed
away all the faster. It being confirmation day,
the authorities and all the people were standing
at the viil .ge limits waiting for the arrival of
the bishop. On a signal given b a boy who
from the steeple had seen the c end of dust
raised by the peasant’s wagon. the church bells
rung joyouslg' and all the throng of people
struck up t e hymn, “Gospodine pomilif.”
Judge of their astonishment when, as the
wagon rushed into the village, instead of the
bishop, they saw the miserable bear tumbling
on all sides with the jolting of the wagon and
howling as often as he could get breath enough
to do so. Mavor, aldermen, priest, choir-boys
and peasants fled in all dirlctions, and a few
minutes later, the wagon having been over-
turned, the bear limped back to his native forest.

 

Bloodhounds Trained to Kill.

THE recruiting depét Was at Til-uron, in the
island of S n Domingo, where they were put
through a daily drill in the art of man-hunting.
A sham deserter, clad in dogvproof leather,
was given a start of two or three miles, and the
whipprrs in took care not to overdo their work,
but let the cadets race around till they man
aged to strike the trail. A cart with dog pro-
visions follovved at a distance, but dinner was
deferred till the hunters had overtaken their
game. Sometimes, by way of encouraging
their pluck, an actual criminal was let loose in
the woods. and Offered his liberty if he would
run the risk of the advouture. If be resisted
the dogs were indulged in a set to, i. e., per-
mitted to fear him to pieces. Aflei‘ they had
mastered the rudiments of their art they were
exercised in company drill and field tactics,
and arcustomed to fight in a suit of armor—
jointed brass plates that would not resist a bul-
let, but were a sufficient protection against the
arrOvvs of the natiws. Alter a year‘s training
they were assorted after their individual qualv
ifications, swiftness. Strength or tracking abiL
ity, and assngued to one of the countless mili-
tary posts that lined the coasts from Texas to
Peru. Davila Pcdrai‘ias invaded Costa Rice
with a brigade of mastifi's that had been trained
to fight in ranks, and finished the campaign in
just iwelvo days, for the mere vo‘ce of his were-
wolws frightened the natives so completely
out of their wits that they fled to the icy sum-
mit regions of the Cordblerns. and perished by
tens of thousands. Bulboa’s famous adjufant,
Leouicico, was a gigantic butcherdog that
could kill an indian as a pincher would dis-
patch a rat.

 

A Monster Alligator.

A BAINBRIDGE (Ge-o.) paper tells this yarn:—

“Reuben Cloud, who “ms in the lower part
of this county. and Who, by the way, is a crack
shot with the rifle. recently killed the largest
alligator seen in this sect on for years. His
’gatorship had been depredating for a long
while Upon the cattle and bogs of those farmers
living in the fork of Spring creek and Flint
river. and many had been the rifle-balls that
had flattened against his adamautine skull to
no purpose. He had taken l‘p his aboue in a
large, deep lagoon in that locality, and at even-
tide and in the early morning his bellowings
could be heard for miles, almost equaling in
terrible force the roar of the lion. Learning
his haunts, Mr. Cloud set to work to kill him,
and one day recently set forth to hunt him.
He found him sunuii g on a log, a. d fearing
that l-e would become alarmed, shot him first
about one hundred yards in the linder part of
the body. This shot amend the bowels, and
the writhith of the mon~fer Were fearful to
behold and created a commotion in the wafer
almost equal to 11 held of wild horses. He soon

 

sought a landing, however, and crawled out
again upon a tree-10p, bellowing like a mad
bull. Drawing Dialll‘i‘, Mr. Cloud continued to
peiforute his abdominal cavity until no less
than a (it: n half-ounce rifle bails Were lodged
in him and he lay etlll, uead. He was then
drawn out, skinned and his head taken off for
the iusks and trelh. The munster in usured
eleven feet and six inches fiom tip of nose to
end of tail and six feet and fourinches from
end to end, or f0ur flet acro~s the back, and
would have Wrigbed probably eight hundred
pounds. His skin was brought to town and
sold on Salurday. Sixtyfivo of his teeth and
tu~ks mighed one and a half pounds. His
stomach contained part of the remains of one
or more large hogs. ’

 

Facts About the Revolver.

THE main difference between ancient and
modem revolvers consists in the fact that the
chambe rs of the former were rotated by hand,
w bile in the latter the rotary motion is accom
plished by the trigger or hammer. These lat—
ter were introduced about 1814 yet in a crude
and indrfinite form. In 1835 Colonel Colt, in
patch lng his revolver, claimed the central fire
i2bili0n rather than the ratchet motion of ro
toting the chamber. Before this a sixburreled
l'eVulvlng pis ol cello . the “pepper box” was
extensiv ‘ly used. The hnmmcr was upon top,
the motion of ihe trigger sai‘vin to raise the
cock and rotate the barrels. he nmnber of
revolvers now in the field is great. The Irish
constabuluiy revolwr, ihe bore of which is .450,
with a moderately short ban le, which makes it
light and handy, with the advantage of a large
oore, is double action, and can be cocked by
the thumb or by pulling the nigger when rapid
firing is demanded. Adams‘s patent central
fire breech-loading revower has six chambers,
can be cooked for deliberate aim or discharged
in rapid succession. The Greener bull dogtakes
English regulation cartridges, .450 bore, weighs
eighteen ounces, and its entire length is only
seveniuches. It is the lightest revolver made
for so large a bore. It has a well shaped SiOl-k
or grip and is accurate up to thirty yards. The
Trnntcr revolver is similar to the Adams. is
central fire aid made in a“ osizes—.3SO and .450.
Some one devised an odd pistol for shooting
liyenas, a Specimen of which can be seen at
Mei'c~r’s. It is an iron pistol, and is intended
to be made stationary at some point which the
animal will fro quent. It has two three-barred
spring prongs, upon which the meat or bait is
fastened. Tbe cocks are beneath the barrel,
and when the animal pulls at the meat the
prongs spread, catching in his mouth, and both
barrels are discharged. Another consists of a
twobladed knife and molds in the hanile cap-
boxes and othci’appnrteuances attached. rass
knuckles, revolver and dagger are often found
in connection—a curious iion pistol, made in
the Louisiana penitentiary by a convict, and
entirely composed of iron.

 

A Great Country.

“ YES, gentlemen,” continued the Dakota
man, “ we have got the biggest c :un'ry, the
biggest people, and the biggest farms there are
any where on earth. What d‘ye think of farms
three or four hundred miles s uarel” and the
Dakota man leaned back and enjoyed the aston-
ishment of the mob.

" What d’ye raise, chiefly?” asked a quiet
man. who had taken it all in.

" Wheat.” replied the man from Dakota.
“ We don’t do any business but wheat.”

“ I don’t think I want any of it.” remarked
the quiet man. “ It looks to me as though there
couldn’t be any houses to live in up that way.”

“ That’s so.” murmured the crowd.

“ Houses!" exclaimed the gentleman from
Dakota. “ Houses, houses! W'l y, when I sa
that Territory contains more and better buil
ings than all the rest of the United States at
together. I am ashamed of myself for the mild—
ness in which I draw it! Houses! Gentlemen,
it is a positive fact that there isn’t a square fool.
in that Territory that isn‘t built ovor, and in
some cases they have to run poles off the roofs
of the buildings already erecwd, and on those
poles they have built houses right over the
streets and roads. That’s what kee 5 us so u arm
in winter and cool in summer. be cold and
sunlight never get throu;h.”

“ Do I understand you that every foot of that
country is roofedin?” demanded the quiet man.
“ Is that a fact, or are you easing?”

“Just as sure as you‘re born,” re lied the Da~
kota man, promptly and confidentially. “ If a
man goes into that district with the idea of
building, he’s gflng to be left hard.”

“ In that case,” rejoined the quiet man, slow-
ly—"in that case, will you be kind enough to
explain to me just where those big farms you
have been speaking of are located 3”

“Stranger.” said the Dakota in n. “Stran-
ger, you think you have put a poser, but there
is just where we utilize everything that leads to
wealth. Gentlemen, them farms is on the tops
of the houses, and we put them up there so’s to
lei: ’em get the sun. and at. the same time keep
them out of the wet. “ You see. wheat—"

But they interrupted him with a brick. and
ro'lei him in the and, and when the police got
him avt ay he explained. frankly, that they
would do for police in Brooklyn, but out
where he lived, every policeman covered Over
six hundred thousand square miles, and it only
took two to keep the whole Territory straight.

 

Focused Pacts.

 

HARTFORD insurance cl; rks took to guessing
how many dol or bi is were required to weigh
as much as a $20 gold-piece. Tue IOWcst guess
was 350. and the highest 1,000, while the real
number was 34. '

A TRAVELER in North Carolina says he saw
near \Vuynesville a church 28 by 44 and 18 feet
high, with a pine s eeple, all made from one
tree. and there was enough lumber left over to
fence the church yard.

THE Census Bureau reports 149 coke establish-
ments in tre United Styles. with a capital of
our 355000.000 und an annual production valued
at abom 85.359 000, ()f tr is w mount, Pennsylva-
nia‘s 104 concerns make $4,190,000 worth.

THE town of Waldo, Fla” claims to have the
largest orange tree in [he won ld. It was lanted
65 years ago. and its dimensions are: Hieht 3}
feet: spread of biancbes from tipfo tip.58 feet;
and girth one foot above the base of trunk, 9
feet 2 inches. It has borne over 12,000 oranges
in one season.

OF four hundred while shoemaker. in San
Francisco nearly one-third are Germans. Very
few are English or native Americans. Germans
are Said to like the craft because the princes of
the Fatherland, who have to learn some trade,
prefer to serve apprenticeships either at shoe-
making or bookbinding.

THE highest Sunday-school in American not
in the world, has just been organized at Hau-
cock. Col., 11,000 feet above the sea.' Though
the camp is three years old. no Protestant re-
ligious-ervice had ever been held there. The
SirDO'il sarts off with forty members and hearty
pledges from the miners to support it.

AT the sale of violins of the late Joseph S.
Hulse, of London, the following rializ d high
pr‘resz a Violin by Jusrph Guarnerius, 1738,
$1,450; a violin by Antonius Stradiuaiius, 1687,
known as the "Spanish Slradiuarius," $2 500;
a violin by Carlo Berymizi. $450; a violin by
Joseph Guamerius, 1739, $12.5: a violin by
Francesco Riigerius, formerly the property of
Georg? lV., $1,053.

THE Kaw Indians in the Indian Territory are
dianwmii-g with strange rapidity. There were
fully 10 000 of them in 1870, and the tribe was
holed for the phi sicil power and warlike dis-
position of be men, but sznce then the small-
pox ahd other malignant diseases have done
the most deadly work. It is said that only
about 300 now remain, and these are diseased
and likely soon to die.

 

l England, plays charmingly upon the zither.

Currespnmleits’ Column.

[This column is open to all correspondents. In-
quiries answered as fully and as promptly as cir-
cumstances will permit. Contributions not entered
as "declined" may be considered accepted. No
MSS. returned unless stamps are inclosed.]

Declined. “ A Country-seat Racket;" “ Lulu‘s Lit-
tle Conquest;" “Held at Will;" “Parlor Picnics,"
etc; " A Favored Travelerz" “ Er gineeri'n a Tun-
nel;" " Strike While the Iron is Hot;" “ Vls one of a
Pasui ez" “Not a \\ hite Lie;" “Too-too. My Joe'"
“An ccasional;" “With All Her Heart;” " W0 d
it Were,“ etc.

CANAJOHARII. The American Rifle Team were all
Americans save Smith and Alden—who were born
in England.

SAILOR Ton. The steam yachts are usually riggleld
with sails, also, to provide for any accident to e
machinery, as well as to have the sails in use in a fa-
vorable wind—You will have toget an owner’s per-
mit in order to inspect one of these yachts.

Arman John. New York. at the time of the first
election of President of the United States, not hav-
ing then iatified the Constitution, chose no electors,
and of course *he State cast no rate 107- Pleat/ml.
(This gas also the case with Rhode Island and North

‘aro ' ia.

MELISSA T. In Trinity Churchyard (N. Y. City),
about twenty feet from Broadway and not more
than three rods direclly north of the buttress of the
chuich tower is the grave of Charlotte Temple.
Upon tfis gi ave lies an oblong stone browned with
tilnie, bearing only the inscription “Charlotte Tem—
p e." ‘

Twrucnr CLi'n. Thank you and numerous others
whose communications reach us praising our pa—
per. It is impossible, or rather impracticable, to
quote the complimentary expressions; yet, the
same, we are happy to rcceive, and are grateful for,
them. It is pretly conclusive eVidence that we are
pursuing the right couise in catering for an intelli-
gent class of readers.

SAND-TOWN. The gopher of the Western plains is
a little buriower~—t he name implying as much, be-
ing from the French gau/‘re, honeycomb; the opher
villages literally honeycomb the ground. ut in
diflcrent States a different animal is called gopher.
In Illinois he is a gray ground squirrel; ditto in
Canada; in Wisconsin a griund striped squirrel,
while in Missouri the gopher is a punched rat, with
mole—hire feet.

HOWARD 2d. The increased 3 d of ocean steam-
ers has been in a greater ratio than you have bet
on. The first of the Cunard line of steamers (estab-
lished in 1840) were contiacted to make an average
speed of 8 1-2 knots per hour. with a consumption of'
4 7~10 tons coal r horse-power for the passage.
The Arizona, of t e same line, now has an average
sneed of 16 3-4 knots, with a far less consumption of
coal. So you have easfl y won.

DANDY Joan-Jill. The idea of a “ res table and
well-educated " young man learning t e "trade"
of bartender! Any other calling than that, we
should say. Leave the dealing out of liquid poison
to those who have a taste for the infernal traffic
and its essentially demoralizing associations. Be a
street~sweeper, a mgr-Picker, a bootblack, if you can‘t
do any better, but on‘t go behind a bar to mix
drinks for the victims of the groggery and saloon.

Ton Hmv. The flag of France is called “the
tri-color,“ but any flag of three distinct colors even-
ly divided is equally a tri-color. The tri color of
France is a flag evenly divided into three erpen-
dicular spaces—the first (nearest the pole) b no, the
center one while, and the outer one red. The flag
of the Belgian merchant ships, of the German mer-
chant ships, of the Mexican merchant ships, of the
Russian merchant ship and the ensign of the
Netherlands, are all tri-co ors.

AN'rn Bmun. All the authors you name (every
one of them, without exception) write for us 61’-
«vluaiclly. If any thing has lately appeared, or is an-
nounced to appear, 11 any other paper or library
other than those ubh‘shed by Beadle and Adams,
then it is some 0 work that neither Col. Prentiss
In raham. Albert W. Aiken, Joseph E. Badger on,
of Coomes, Ca t. Fred. “'hitlaker, Buckskin Sam,
Buffalo Bill, T. . Harbaugh, Capt. Mark Wilton, Ed-
ward L. Wheeler, etc., etc., would now care to

acknowledge. They are an 18mg only for our publica-
lions.
ANXIOUS R. D. 1. You must answer an invitation

to dinner immediately upon receiving it: otherwise

ou must not go and you may expect the host and
hostess to treat you coldly in future, and, perhaps,
to quite ignore you. 2. Use a sheet of heavy, hand-
some white paper, with envelope to match. 3. Be
on time to the minute. 4. Go dressed in evening~
dress, but without gloves. 5. Leave an all jewelry
but one ring, one stud and your sleeve-buttons. You
ma wear your watc , if you have onl a fob at-
ta:- ed to it. 6. Call uponthefann'ly wit ' tendays
afterward.

F. C. C. When a gentleman takes two ladies
to a place of amusement, he would ordinaril take
the outside place, and allow the two ladies to s t side
by side. No man. however, should be so silly;e and
weak as to fear to doin such matters as most p uses
his compan ons and himsdf. If it would be pleas-
anter for all three to have the gentleman sit with a
lady on either side, there is no reason wh that
should not be done—Ii is not considered g taste,
for a gentleman to walk the streets with a lady on
each arm. or even on each side of him. The two
ladies should walk side by side.

Ros Br. J GEN. If the lady “ several times " pleas-
antly bowed to you and smiled at on, it was evi-
dent she would not have been often ed if you had
spoken to her. Of course it would have been rude
to have joined her at such a time or for so long as to
have monopolized her attentions to the exclusion of
her gentleman escort; but during one of the inter-
missions it would have been pcrfectl correct for
you to have joined her and conve for two or
three in utes—No, under such clrcu instances there
wouldh ve been no necessity for an introduction,
and the lady would be wise not to give it.

“Doc-run." 1. Read answer to “Mourners.”
2. No gold should be worn with deep or even “ half "
mounning. When you wear a gold chain and sleeve-
buttons your mourninl! will be at an end. 3. Send
your card to the lady fi'ieud—inclosed in one en-
velo and bya messenger—upon the day of her
wed ing. She will understand that you cannot be

resent while in deep mourning for your parents.

Vhen you leave ofl your incoming you should make
a peisonal call upon her. 4. It is more fashionable,
at present, to write “James Smith Esq." upon an
envelope than " Mr. James Smith;” but both forms
are correct.

JOHN H. and LOUIS S. 1. Thanks. 2. We have
repeatedly said that ladies rarelytake a gentleman’s
arm in the da hue and not then unless the two are
engaged. 3. e do not believe the girls “mean "
anything when they owe you the mustache cu .
They i robably thong t them a prett‘ and use ul
gift. Girls are often thoughtless an wanting in
tact, and they may have been perfectly innocent of
suggesting any criticism upon your manners by the

‘ft. It is never well to search for causes for ofi’ense.

the meant to offcnd they were very rude and
unkin ; but if they treat you as kindly as ever, you
should return the compliment.

Faun: D. It is claimed that theidea of the “ Stars
and Stri s ” was suggested by the coat of arms of
the W ‘ ington fam' y; this Was a silver shield upon
which were two red bars and three five-pointed
stars. This coat of arms was granted to Lawrence
Washington by Henry VIII.— A portierelpronounced
nor-(eel; 7 ) is a curtai a hung across a doorwayeeither
the space of a s ngle door or of double doors. It is
made of heavy silk, velvet, wool, cretonne, scrim,
lace, or anything used for upholsteiing fumiture or
cuilaining windows. Th-se curtains have large
rings sewed to their upper edges, and the rings are
strung upon wooden or brass bars.

“ QUOTATION.” You are mistaken. “Escaped by
the skin of his teeth ” is not sla cg, but an incorrect
quotation of a Bible phrase found in Job xix. 20. It
reads—" Escaped wi h the skin of in teeth.”——It
was in Sir Walter Scott‘s novel of Rob \ that the
expression. " There‘s a good time coming." first ap-
peared.——" That will re a feather in his ca .” means
that will be something Io his credit, or his renown,
and rtomes from at. an‘cient Hungarian custom. No
Hungarian was allowed to wear a feather in his but
unless he had killed a Turk; and by the number of
feathers in a warnor’s cap might be known how
many of (hes: enemies he had slain.

IcsonAilcs. We have never heard that the pea-
cock feaiher “had a language." It is, we believe,
one of the national emblems of Burmah. Perhaps
it is to this you have reference. The cpmmon use
of the peacock feather in modern embrOicery, paint-
ing, and household adornment. has been largely
brought about by certain celebratco English artists,
who made fashionable the fancy for painting ceil-
ings and adorning diningrooms with the “eyes”
and colors of peacock feathers Then the aesthetes
to. k up the style, and a p..intcd jir, a mirror, a
peacock feather. and a sunflower, became “the
rage ” in the way of householl adornment.

“INQUIRER.” A zlther is a musical instrument
now fashionable for ladies‘ use. It is a little box
furnished with strings, and is laid flat upon a table
before which the performer sits, and manipulates
the strings wiili thumb and finger to which little
metal clnws are attached. The instrument costs
from $75 to $200. It can be procured from any of
the large musical instrument stores, but you would
have to learn it with the aid of a te-icher. Write to
some llrfilllll'i‘nl musical firm and they can tell you
more than We \ on show ihe matter. It is said that
the Princess Louise Victoria Alexandra Dagmar, cf

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Fireside Ballads.

THE AMERICANIZED CHINAMAIV.

n mas’ o. cownaicx.

[A committee of citizens call on the Chinaman at
his place of business.]

” John Chinaman. my John,

When you first Ian ed here

You wur a right good man, John,
But now you’re a-gettin‘ queer.

Yo lie, you steal, you swear, John,
Alhd also cheat at cards;

You've lost your manly ways, J ohn—
I‘ll prove i by my pards.

“ You've buckled on a belt, John,

All full of knives and pops,

And when you do git mad. John,
Then somethin‘ surely drops.

You're wearin' high-top boots, John,
In which to hide an ace;

You wur a right good man, John,
But you hev fell from grace.

“ It was all ve well John.

And no fa t did we find,

But last ni ht down at Pete's, John,
You heldg four of a kind.

There was no harm in that, John;
It was a right good hand;

But, rakin‘ in ten thousand, John—
That's more than we can stand!

“Sich work as that won‘t do, John,
It ain‘t j’st right, you know;
We've summ’d th' hull thing up, John,
An' think you’d better go.
The trouble is. you see, John,
You’re gettin‘ too dern’d smart;
We’ll give ye jist an hour, John,
To pick right up and start."

[They produce a rope with a nOose at one end. to
show what the result will be if the Chinaman don‘t
[IO-l

 

“ Chinaman he know it, sah,

He velly solly too:

He on'y common heathen, sah,
But tries to be like you.

No he. no steal. no swear, sah,
An‘ never cheat at game—

Him never own to that, sah,
Like ’Mellican allee same.

“ On’y a common washee, sah,
A heathen Chinaman,
But me’s tried velly hard, sah,
To be like 'Mellican.
Velly much likee stay here, sah,
No ready to go yit:
Ha'dl think me will go, sah;
’Me can men jest git!"
[The Chinaman here reaches down and draws a
big revolver from each boot, and the committee are
gone in an instant

Fred Flyer,

The Young Reporter-Detective ;

on.
The Bounding Boy of the Star.

BY CHARLES MORRIS.

CHAPTER IV.
THE FLOWER OF THE FAMILY A'r Hon.

Mo's domicile was at a considerable dis-
tance from the oflce, but his rapid walk soon
brought him to it, and he Lroke- into the house
with a cheery laugh and a hearty welcome that
startled the inmates of the room.

His father and mother, and a small group of
brothers and sisters, were seated around, look—
ing dismally gloomy, as Fred burst in among
them. Tney sprung up with cries of alarm and
gladness. _

“ Mercy on us, what‘s this?” cried the mother.

“It’s the b0 himself, and that's all a con—
founded lie, as said it was,” declared the father,
with an l-told-you-so air.

“ You’ve seen that raScally paper, then?” de-
manded Fred. “Hoped I'd get home fir.-t, but
had to stop at the office. I ain’t gone under yet,
and ain't going under soon, nary time.”

The whole group had now gathered around
him, the mot er clasping him to her breast,
with tears in her eyes, while one of his younger
brothers embraced Fred’s leg, and howled in
sym athy. _ _ n _

" f you’d only give up that busmess, said
the weeping mother. “ You don’t know how we
were frightened. I‘m sure you‘ll be killed et.”

“You take too big risks. boy,” grumble the
father. “ There’s no sort of reason in it.”

“l’m sound now, anyhow,” answered Fred,
cheerily. “ And I won t try the river again, on
fliating ice, if all Jersey blows up, I promise
that. And, now, mother, what have you got to
eat? I’m as hungry as a wolf. I suppose you’ve
saved me a bite.” . ’

“ That I have, though I was afraid you d
never be here again to eat it. It will be a month
before I get over the start that paper gave me.
Get off your overcoat, Fred. I’ll have your
breakfast ready in a minute. I hope I’ll never
have such a fright again.” '

She was in a busy bustle as she spoke. setting
Fred’s warmed-up breakfast on the table, and

curing him out a cup of scalding-hot coffee.
She eould not keep her eyes off him as she did so.

“ To think it was all a false alarm, and that
I‘ve got my Fred again! Thank the Lord for
His merc‘esl" '

Meanwhile brothers and Sisters had been
eagerly helping Fred off with his coat, hat and

loves, while the father sat in a corner, growl
ing to himself, yet looking at his recovered son
with a deep satisfaction in the corners of his

 

 

 

es.
0y“That’s the stuff,” cried Fred, as he took a
deep sip of the hot coffee“ “I’d have ginn a
gold mine for that last night, when the Wind
was cutting me like a knife. What else have you
got? Buckwheat cakes and sausage. Couldn t
suit me better, nohow.” .
His breakfast. h0wever, was not made in as
much peace as he would have preferred, for'he
was besieged with a hundred questions, which
he had to answer between the mouthfule
“ Here, drop all that,” he cried. impatiently.
“I’ll starve if you don’t stop. Wait till, 1m
through and I’ll give you the whole story.
And he resolutely refused to answer another
question until he had finished a hearty meal.
Then he seated himself before the stove, and
ave to his excited and admiring auditors the
whole story, from the time the newsof the acci-
dent had reached the office, until his return to
the city, with ii full report of the occurrence.
There were starting eye: and shuddering breaths
as he told the tale of his narrow escape from
drowning, and his mother again exmtedly

cla~ rd him in her arms, as if to make sure that

of the
boat with the ice, the
the SCudding and scrap-

ani the ion and fierce fight ere victory
 acc‘oniplishedg, and the wharves of Philadel-
I tle less exciting to the spell-

lie indeed had him safe. .

a The story of his return to the City,
struggle of the ferry-
grinding and lieavmg,

hia reached, was lit
ound auditors.

I u u I n I
And the remaining episode, the Mrs. Brier y
rescue, and her flight through the stormer‘o:
had a story-teller such an excited and interested

her brutal husband, capped the climax.

aufllf'33A. that’s about all.” exclaimed Frednat
last. “ Now for a snooze, for I‘ve got to strike

for Camden again, to see about the poor wo-

man—Do you hear that?" he continue-(i. us a
cry arose in the street. “ Extra M
Tncie‘s the “hole story of the smash up, now.
And if you want :0 find out if I’m nlwe or not,
' s ‘. Hf.
I’unit blsfedflelt now. Don’t disturb me before
norm, for I’m about. flagged out.” .
Fred ma rchcd (if up stairs to bed, leaving the
family below to talk ovwr the deeds of their
oung hem, and to congratulate themselves on
aviug such a brave fellow as Fred as son
and brother. f
u ) ,u n
up.”1d:c‘lz;il‘e(‘iztin apibitious WEI/3’28]; old.
’ ' to war 9 across . 1:”,
tlgotsgl‘intfiie fire after news, just like our Fred.
See if I don’t!”

nor, too when I grow
be a repo , “ And

lrning Star .'

don't. want to find out. for

and jump

“CrOW ahead, little cha .” said the father,
taking him on his knee. ‘ It doesn’t cost any-
thing to crow, and I guess you’ve the making
of a fine fellow. But Fred’s a terror of a boy,
and no mistake.”

It was full or on ere Fred awoke and made his
way down—stairs, still looking sleepy. But a
souse of head and hands in cold water. anda
good dinner made him fully hi nself again, and
buttouing himself up warm he started out into
the sharp wintry day, bound for Camden.

“ Take care you don’t run any risks 10-day,”
warned his mother at the door. “ If the river
isn’t right, don’t on cross.”

“ All right, mot er,” answered Fred, cheerily,
as he kissed her good-by. “ I calculate last
night‘s busnness was enou b of the kind for one
day. I won’t try it on again.”

Yet what he did try seemed almOst as danger-
ous. The ferry-boat had no easy job in cross—
ing. It had made a lane through the solid ice,
but all the ice in the middle of the river was
loose and floating, and the huge cakes surged u
against the boat as if they would break throng
her stanch sides. The grinding, ripping and
rending was frightful, and all breathed more
freely when they had passed the floating rack.
An hour had passed ere the battered boat drew
into the slip at Camden.

Fred hastened back through the town. He
had marked the location of the house in which
he had left Mrs. Brierly, and made the best of
his way thither.

The door opened quickly to his knock, and the
old woman, whom he had seen the previous
night, reappeared. -

" How d’ye do? Come in !” she exclaimed.
“ The poor lady wants to see you.”

Mrs. Brierly broke into the passage ere Fred
could reach the room, and rushed excitedly to—
ward him, wiih a face still marked by fright.

" Is all right?” she eagerly demanded. “Has
he found out where I am?"

“ Calculate not,” ans .\ered Fred, cheerily, as
he pushed in.

 

CHAPTER V.
FRED GETS AN IDEA.

“STRANGE SEQUEL TO THE TERRIBLE RAIL-
ROAD ACCIDENl‘l

“DISAPPELRANCE OF THE WIFE AND CHILD OF THE
HON. ROBERT BRIERLY, OF MONTANAI

“ This honorable gentleman, who. as our readers

 

will remember, was among the wounded by_the col-
lision, is in sore distress about his wife and child,

 

 

 

 

who have not been seen since the night of the oc-
currence. They were in the palace-car, which he had
left just before the collision for the smoking-car.
None of the inmates of the car were in 'ured. and all
are accounted for with the exception 0 Mrs Brierly.
It is feared that the poor woman, who is said to be
rather feeble-minded, wandered off in her terror, and
became lost in the snow-drifts of that terrible night.
A close search for the missing ladv is being made.
No trace of her has yet been found, but she cannot
long remain missing. The distress of the bereaved
husband in his terrible loss is pitiable to behold. and
it is sincerely to be hoped that nothing serious may
have happened to her.”

“Distress of the old boy!” cried Fred, as_he
angrily folded up the newspaper containing
this announcement. “If that ain’t tafly, then
I don't know what tafi'y is. I thought that
chap was a barking dog, but he’s worse tbsp
that. He’s a snake in the grass._ If he aint
been buttering that reporter’s brains, then I m
adonkey. Bet you high he cou'ldnt put no
such stuff off on this coon, nary time!”

This newspaper item appeared on.t_he day
after his 'ourney to Camden, to Visit Mrs.
Brierly. On that occasion the poor lady, who
was terribly in dread of her savagehusband,
had given Fred a sketch of her life which
stirred up the impulsive lad to warm sym~

th . '
pa“ He’s a hog, that’s what he is!” cried Fred,
on hearing her story. “ And I’m the chap that
would like to tell him so, only that he’s got his
leg broke. I don't want no odds of that sort.
Don‘t believe in taking advantage of a man
with a broken leg. But, I ain’t gomg to stand
by and see you Swallowed up, nonow.”. ”

“You cannot imagine what a life Iveled,
groaned the pour wife, whose pretty, girlish
face was full of distress. “He has treated me
shamefully. And it is all because  Will not
consent to surrender my fortune to him.”

“I wouldn’t give the galoot a red cant, “I
was you,” protested Fred, warmly. “ there 5
his Own money? He‘s an honorable, and that
sort ought to have cash.” ' _

“He has spent it all in politics,” answered
the wife. “ He would spend mine, too, only
my father on his death bed made me promise
not to give him a penny'to squander. “I have
refused to do so, and that is the trouble.

“But what makes you run away? He can’t
get it if you keep stiff on that figure. ’Tain’t
in the law to make you pony over. ' H

“You don‘t know What a fiend he is. was
the moaning reply. “ He has led me a terrible
life. But, that is not all. He has brought rne
East for n purprsc. He has threatened me With
something dreadful. I know that he has de—
vised some brutal scheme to forcu money. from
me. What it is, I know not, but the railroad
accident was a godsend to me. It gave me a

mnce to csca e.”

ClFred looked fit her with some contempt at her
weakness. He was too bold and daring himself
to appreciate such a feeling. And he knew too
little of life to understand the power a brutal
husbmd might have ovar n wer Wife. His lip
curled sli;hlly, but he said nothing. There are
033503 wh. re a wise; Elsi: or a shrewd boy deems
' ' i-‘« s to Ilnll is onguc.

1t 9‘"\dV(hlri)i:1is to lecome of me?” she moaned,
wringing her hands in distress. “I know no
one here. I have scarcely any money. He

 

 

 

   

will set all the officers of the law on my track.
I cannot escape him! Oh, I know I cannot es-
cape himl My child! my child l”she exclaimed,
catching up her little daughter in her arms,
“ what is to become of us? We have no hope,
no safety from your terrible fatherl”

Fred looked at her, With a curl in his lip and
a flash in his 6 e.

“Just you eep up your spirits. ma’am,” he
said. “I‘ve took this job in tow, and I ain’t
going back On it. He’s got to discount Fred

lyer before he snatches you, and that ain’t no
baby’s job. Only you keep a stiff upper lip,
and ’see if we don tsettle Mr. Bob Brierly’s bash

at.
3 “You!” she cried, her eyes opening wide in
mingled dread and hope. " Oh no! You would
only be getting yourself into trouble. I could
never, never consent to that. You do not know
what kind of a man my husband is.”

“And he don’t know what sort of a boy I
am,” answered Fred, stolidly. “ But he’s going
to find out if he runs afoul of me, now you bet.
I don’t want no better tun than to astonish Mr.
Brierly. Just you leave me alone, and see if I
don’t take the starch out of himl”

Mrs. Brierly’s e} es opened wide in hope and
and admiration. Fred was a revelation to her.
She had never seen a bov of that kind before.
Brought up in the Far I’Vesu she knew little of
city life, and had never come across a genuine,
wide-awake, high-pressure city boy, sharp as a
steel-trap, and ready to take anything in
hand, from selling peanuts to running a loco.
motive. She continued to look at her bright
and bri:k young friend as one might look at a
leopard in a menagerie.

" But what can you do?” she queried, with a
voice full of doubt.

“ I don‘t know," answered Fred. “ But some-
thing’s got to be done, and that Spry. Just let
me get my working-cap on, and I’ll hit on
something. You can’t stay here, that’s flat. I
don’t know these people, and ain’t going to
trust them. Leave it all to me. I’ve got half
an idea in my head. Only you keep cool and
quiet and I’ll drop things around all right afore
a crow could caw l"

Fred seized his hat and made for the door.

“ Where are you going?" she cried in alarm.
“ I am afraid to stay here. Something may
happen. You do not know how terrified I
am '

‘5 Don’t see as there’s anything to be skeered
at just now,” answered Fred, shortly. “Just

CHAPTER VI.
THE YOUNG REPORTER's LI'rrLE GAME.

AN hour afterward the young reporter was
‘at home. He found his mother busy in the
mysteries of cooking. Supper was frying and
hissmg away on the stove, while the small fry
of the.house were looking hungrily on, and
takiiifg in the appetizing smell.

“ other,” cried Fred, bustling in, “where
does Mrs. Maloney live?”

“Mrs. Msloneyl The Iri-‘h washerwoman?
:vhat under the sun does the boy want with

er?

‘I‘ To know where she lives,” answered Fred,
quietly.

“But what do you want to know where she
lives for?”

“So that I can find the house when I go
there."

“And what in the world do you want with
Mrs. Maloney’s house?”

“ To see Mr s. Maloney.”

The mother turned and made a clip with her
cooking fork at the vexing boy, who was as
grave as a judge.

“You haven’t told me where Mrs. Maloney
lives,” be repeated.

“ And I don’t think I will tell you very soon,”
she answered, sharply. “It is something new
for Fred Flyer to answer his old mother with
impudence. I didn’t expect it of my son.”

“Impudence, motherl' But you might tell
me where Mrs. Maloney lives.”

“ You are not go ng to get anything washed,
are your”

“It‘s a business secret, mother. You don’t
want me to tell business secrets?”

“ I’m sure I never told any of your secrets.
Fred. One would think you were afraid of
me.

F"('il'here are too many ears about,” answered

[‘9 .

Mrs. Flyer, who was grown very curious
about her son’s secret, turned and drove the
small fry from the room, as one might drive a
brood of chickens. Holding the door of the
room into which she had driven them she turn-
ed to Fred.

“Igow, my son. Quick, while I keep them
out.

“You remember, mother, what I told you
about the poor lady with the baby that fell
down in the snOw?”

“Yes, yes!” eagerly.

“Don’t speak of that on any account. No-
body must know of it.”

 

you keep cool, Mrs. Brierly. If you’re going

to be skittish you’d spoil the best game as was

 

 

 

“‘Wild horses couldn’t draw it from me,” an-

v.—

 

WN‘ ‘9 ——"“"-“*

/

I
, i-
.
,’-'w.llrlp
. ,. . ,

-._..
|.

\ _ \\\.
as \i
:\\:‘§\' 5‘
st“ 45‘

\\“\\
\ .~ I I .

a!
t

 

 

 

 

r

ever at up. If you’re going to play that hand,
then ’11 throw u the cards instanter.”

“Oh, no, no! 'ou must not desert me!”

" Then you mustn’t play the baby. If I‘m
going to help you you‘ve got to help me. Old
Nick couldn‘t do nothing with his hands tied,
and if you’re laying out to tie mine it’s all up.
Now just keep up your heart. Mrs. Brierly, and
trust a boy that don’t turn back for nothing.
You’ll see me ag'in tovmorrow.”

Fred dived out of the house like a shot. He
had enough of that sort of women for the pres-
ent.

“Good gracious!” he growled, “I wouldn’t
give a cent a cart-load for folks without u back
bone. A chap gets clear wilted down talking to
some folks. Takes the starch out of you like
rain does out of a standing collar.”

Off to the ferry he dashed, stopping only to

ick up a Camden item or two in hi< way. He
had an idea in his head, but Fred always kept
one eye open for business.
ever escaped his sharp eyes.

The ferry-boats had now made a definite
channel through the ic=, and crossing had
become less diflicult. They were making their
regular trips. Within an hour Fred was at the
office of the Morning Star.

He delivered what items of news he had
picked up, and was about to take his departure,
when he was called by the chief editor.

“See here, Fred,” said the latter. in his brisk,
sharp way. “How about this item of news
that’s just come in? There’s a woman and
a baby mis<ing from the railroad smash-up.
How comes it you didn‘t pick that up, eh?
You’ve let the Telegraph get in a point ahead
of us.”

“S‘pose it has,” answered Fred, quickly.
“ Can t help it if they pick up some of our spilt
crumbs. It’d look hoggish if we snapped up
everything.”

“I don’t begrudge them the cold scraps of
the news,” laughed the editor. “But this is
your job, boy. I want you to go for that
woman. There’s a mystery here, and that‘s
what the dear public wants. Pick her up, and
bring her in, if it’s in the wood.”

“ All right,” answered Fred, evasivelv. “ I’ll
give you an item before long. It will be a
scorching one, too. Hope you won’t be afraid
to publisn it.”

“ The Slur is afraid of nothing,” rejoined the
editor. "What is it. Fred? You know some-
thing about this affair?”

“I’ve got ii point about the Honorable Bob
Brierly,” replied Fred. “ He’s a galoot. right
out from the shoulder. I’m going to tickle him,
through the Shir, if you’ll put it in.”

“Not too sharp, Fred. He may tickle us in
return. through the courts. Come, what have
you hit on?”

“It is not in shape yet,” answered Fred,

No item of news

shortly. “Ain’t going to leak till it’s all
ready to come out. Anything more, Mr.
Brace?"

“ No,” answered the editor. a little angrily.

Fred walked out. He had nothing m we to
say, and did not think it advisable to keep up
the conversation. As for letting his secret. get
afliat in the editorial room, he was too sharp
for that.

 

“ Where are you going 2” she cried in alarm. “I am afraid to stay here.”

Swered the good woman. ” You know there is
nobody like me in keepin a secret. But why
do you ask, Fred? There is something behind
all this.”

" Yes,” answered Fred.

“ What is it, my son?”

“ IVliere does Mrs. Maloney live?”

Mrs. Flyer released her hold of the door with
the an ry intention of shaking the annoying
boy. here came a very unexpected result.
The small brood fastened within the room had
been heaped three deep against the door, eager
to hear something of the mysterious conver-
station. The released latch left the door loose.
Oren itflew with a splurge. and out came the
inmates of the room in a volley.

In a moment the floor at Mrs. Flyer’s feet
was covered with a writhing heap of legs and
arms, from which came a shrill chorus of the
“music of the household,” that would have
shamed a locomotive-whistle.

That episode of Course capped the climax,
and Fred soon escaped from the Babel of slaps,
Shi‘ieks and adjura ions into the street, in pos-
Scssmn of the number of Mistress Maloney’s
mode-‘t little down town residence to which be
bent his way, and soon was interviewing the
lady of the house.

“Faix, an’ I’m not quite distitute. 0’ rooms
nlthegither and inlirely,” declared Mrs. Malo-
ney, in answer to the young reporter's in-
quiries.

Mrs. Maloney was a native of the green
island of Erin. You only wanted a look at
her nose, or an echo from her rich brogue to
make sure of that. Yet she was not wanting
in good looks, while a warm heart seemed im-
printed on every line of her broad face.

“It won’t be for long. Mrs. Muloney. The
lady only wants a hiding place for a short
time.”

“ She kin stay till doomsday, if she’s a mind.
An’ I’ll only ax her to pay fur the trifle of vit-
tels she ates, and maybe a bit to the back 0’ it
fur extry trouble and soap. I ain’t forgot the
send friend your mother's been to meself, me
boy. An’ the poor crayter in diffikilty, too.
What mought she want to be hidin’ for, if it’s
no secret?"

“ But it is a secret, Mrs. Malonev. I wouldn’t
like to ask you to trouble yourself with other
people's affairs.”

" Indade. and I’ve always had the riputation
of niver tellin’ nobody’s bizness, ’cept me own,
an’ that somehow leaks out 0’ me unbeknownst.
But if it’s a poor crayter in trouble I kin be as
dumb as an oyster.”

“ And you’ve got the room to spare?" queried
Fred, evading the question about keeping
secrets.

“Sure an’ there’s bigger rooms in a palace
nor I kin offer her. An’ finer furniture, and
broader windys. And it’s like the ’ating might
be higher-toned. But a warm heart’s better
nor sunshine, me lad, and the laste mom in the
world spreads out when ther's a welcome in it.
An’ faix she’s likely to have more. welcome
than mate. when she lives wid Kitty Maloney.”

Fl'Pil laughed as he plunged out of the door,
calling back:

“ To-night’s the time, then.

Or maybe
sooner.”

 

    
 

_He hurried away, for fear of further ques-
tions about his secret. He did not care to pour
too much knowledge into such a leaky vessel as
Mrs. Maloney.

 

CHAPTER VII.

MANAGING A WEAK WOMAN.
IT was a busy scene when he réentered the
editorial rooms of the .Morm'ng Star. A dozen
editors and reporters were Stated around as
many tables, the only sound in the room being
the semi: h of pens, as they traveled at 1i ht—
ning spexd‘ over broad sheets of paper. be
news of the world was being manufactured at
race-horse rate in that narrow apartment, and
wise utterances, that were to astonish the city
the next day, were being hammered and
screwed out of half-empty brains.
The young reporter seated himself at his own
particular desk and was quickly as busy at the
game as any of the others. He had learned the
art of making much out of little, which is so
important a part of an editor‘s duty. To make
a little matter look like a big one, and stretch
a few ideas over a good deal of paper, is an art
that does not come by nature.
“What have you got, Fred?” asked the news
editor, who was making his round of the re-
porters. “ Something spry, I hope.”
“ Fiddler’s news.” answered Fred, indiffer-
ently. “The market is as dead as a stone.
Nothing doing. Everybody Ve getating. and
living on cold cabbage. Picked up a trifle or
two, but—” and he shrugged his shoulders as if
(fiisgusted with the humdrum state of city af-
airs.
“ Let me have them. What are they?”
“Mere trifles. Here’s a boy run over by a
street-car. Killed square out. Smashed flat.
If he’d only been badly hurt now, there might
be an opening for hospital items and lawsuits.
It’s aggravating, the way folks get themselves
done for. They don’t take any interest in the
newspapers.”
“ What else?” asked the editor.
“Another bit of the same kind. Suicide. A
man hung himself, and then hid the rope he did
it with.”

“Hid the rope?” exclaimed the surprised edi-
tor. “ Hang it, Fred, that won’t do! You are
drawing the long—bow with a vengeance. How
is a dead man going to cut himself down, and
hide the rope? Come, come, the public won’t
swalIOW that.”

“That’s my item, anyhow,” answered Fred,
sturdily. “And I ain’t going back on a word
of it. Don’t tell me what the public won’t
swallow. Why, I told them last week about a
he doing a hard sum in arithmetic, and they
too it all in. You’ve only got to grease your
items. and they’ll go down slick enough. And
see whats neat opening I’ve got here. I can
tell to-morrow all about the finding of the rope.
After he had at enough hanging he stuck the
rope in his pOc et, for fear of giving a shock to
his family. Then the next day we might brin
him to life a sin. Make it out all a caseo

strahismus. but will satisfy the public, and
stretch out the item.”
“I think on are a decided case of moral

strabismus,” aughed the editor, as he snatched

up Fred’s manuscript. “Away with you, you

young rascal. You will destroy the character

of our paper if you keep on. Bring in somethin

Bru9”and lively, if you can. And keep clear 0
es.

“ Lies!” answered Fred, as be seized his bat.
“Just let any fellow of my size call me a. liar,
and I’ll plug his head. You’re too big for me,
so I’ll let you 011’. But I’ll tell you this, if you
were to prune all the lies out of any news aper
there wouldn’t be much mor‘ than a lank
sheet left. S’pose I don’t know?”

Fred left the room with a merry laugh, and
dashed down the stairs like a foot-ball that has
been well kicked

‘It was in crossing the ferry to Camden that
he read the newspaper item which we have
given at the head of the last cha ter. The boy
was thrown into a brown stu y. Here was
trouble ahead. That item would set the whole
public on the lookout for Mrs. Brierly. It was

nown that she was missing. That she was a
person of importance. No offer of a reward for

er recovery was in the paper he read, but such
an offer, and a description of her appearance,
would very likely be given in some of the pa-

rs.

“I’m afeared there’s going to be a blue time
in getting her over the ferry,” said Fred to him-
self, as he set his lips firmly. “There might be
a thousand sharp eyes on the lookout. But it’s

at to be done. Iain’t going to be discounted
in this game, nary time. Lucky the folks she’s
with ain’t the sort that reads the newspa ers.
I’ve got to get her away before they hear w at’s
in the wind. There’s no odds in this business,
Fred Flyer. You’ve got to be spry, or you’ll
get left, I tell you that. You’d best get on your
thinking-cap, instanter.”

Fred settled down to a dee study of the situ-
ation. But he had reached t e house where his
proto‘gée was in hiding ere he could come to any
definite plan. He had made up his mind to take
her over the ferry, but it might not be so easy
an undertaking.

The runaway wife had a very disconsolate
look upon her face when Fred burst cheerin in.
If she had Owned the world, and had just lost
it, she could not have looked more gloomy. But
he was as bright as a bluebird, and her face
lighted up on seeing his cheery countenance.

“I have been in such a way!” she declared.
“It is so long since I saw you. And I was so
afraid Of being found.”

“ I’ve been working, Mrs. Brierly,” he cheer-
ily answered. “You’ve got to get out of here,
that’s flat. But I’ve got a safe place laid out.
Haven’t been any strange noses poking around
here, have there?”

“ What do you mean?” she asked, in alarm.

“ Folks prying about. Trying to pick up
items. None of that sort, eh?”

“ No. All has been quiet. Why do you ask?
Is there danger?” Her face grew pale, and a
shudder of fear ran through her.

“Dunno,” said the boy. as he threw off his
hat and seated himself before the trembling fu—
gitive. “He’s waking up, Mrs. Brierly, that’s
a fact. Folks are hunting you. But you needn’t
get skeered about that.”

“What is to be done?” she asked, wringing
her hands helplessly.

“I tell you what’s to be done,” began Fred,
earnestly. “ You’ve got to get up some back-
bone. If you’re going to be like a wilted—down
leaf. the dog’s dend. Just look at me. I was
never skeercd in my life: and I don’t believe I
could be. Now, just take after me, and we’ll
go through swimming.”

“1 wish I was onlya little more like you,”
she replied. looking with admiration into his
open, steadfast face. “If I only had the least
bit of your courage! I don’t know how I will
ever repay you for your kindness.”

“Oh. pshaw! that’s all nonsense. You don’t
s'posc I’m a pig, to let you get snatched up
again? Why, there ain‘t a boy in those dig-
gings that wouldn‘t do as. much and more, too.
Just you shutdown on all that nonsense. See
hora, Mrs. Brierly. there's only one trouble.
We’ve got to go across the ferry. and I’m afenred
somebody will be on the lookout there.”

“ The ferry?" she answered. “ that shall we
do? Could I not disguise myself somehow?”

“ I had a notion of bringing over a suit of my
clothes.” rejoined Fred. “ We are about of a.
size, and I thought you might dress up as a
bov, and go ovor that way.”

She looked at him for a moment with an ex-
presdon of bewilderment, and then burst into a
ringing lauzli.

“Dear me, what a figure I would be!“ she
merrily exclaimed. “If that isn’t a boy’s ideal
No. no; I can’t do that. And it would only
make things worse. I’d be sure to be recog—
nized as a woman.”

“You might cut off your hair, and comb it
like a boy’s.” rejoined Fred, pleased to have
roused her from her depression. “ And I could
get you some newspapers or shoe-blacking to
sell. I think it would be prime.”

“Thank you for the idea; but I do not care
to lose my hair. And what is to be done with

 

the baby? Boys don’t carry babies.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

   
 
   
     
   
  
 
   
 
  
    
   
  
  
 
  
  
  
     
   
  
  
      
     
  
   
 
 
 
  
  
   
 
 
    
  
  
    
  
     
    
  
  
   
    
  
 
  
  
 
 
  
  
   
   
 
 
  
 
 
  
 
 
  
  
  
 
   
 
  
 
 
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
  
    
   
    
    
 
 
   
 
  
  
   
   
   
  
 
 
  
 
  
 
  
   
  
   
  
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
  
   
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
   
   
  
 
 
 
  
  
 
  
 
  
    
     
    
   
    
  
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

    

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

   

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

  
       
  
  

 

 

 

 

 

 

   

 

“ll'mflllllllll‘l’m'llnw”,

J.

 

 

“D n't they, then? That‘s all you know about
it," cried Fred, with energy. “It’s queer if I
haven’t carried babies enough. Re ular little
squallers, too. Why, there’s ha] a dozen
young ones in our house. And when they get
on their muscle, you bet it’s fun to carry them!
I’ve been through that mill, and I know all
about it.” .

She laughed again, at Fred’s comical vehe-
mence. He had certainly roused her up into
cheei'fulness. .

“But how are we to manage about the baby?"
she asked.

Fred looked at her with a serious counte-
nance. .

“ Could we not put it into a pillow-case, With
some feathers?” he suggested. "Then they’d
think it was only a pillow. We could cover its
head up in going over the ferry.”

“And smother the poor dear?" .

"But it would only take about five minutes.
Queer if it couldn’t stand that much. It might
start howling, though. They always do howl
when you don’t want them to. Don’t believe it
would work all right to have a howl coming out
of a pillow.” _

“I am afraid you will have to give up the

illow project,” answered the amused mother.
Her face had wonderfully lightened up during
Fred’s absurd propositions.

“ There,” he cried. “Just you look like that,
and nobody will ever take you for a runaway
wife. You can pass anywhere for a lively
young girl And, see here. It‘s a woman With
a baby they're looking after. Let me take the
baby. I know how to carry them, now you
bet! You can come behind. and see that I
don’t run off with the pet. “'e can play that
we don’t know one another.”

“ An excellent plan,” she joyfully answered.
“It must work. I will fix my hair to look
very young, and try and keep a smile on my
face. Let us go at once. I am so anx10us to
get away from here. What shall we pay these
people fortheirtrouble? Give them this. They
have been very kind, and deserve to be well
paid.” She handed Fred a twenty-dollar bill.

“Much I’ll give them that .”' he answered. “If

on fling cash around that way you’ll be poor
before a week. And you’d only make them
think there was something wrong. Just let me
settle it. You get ready while I go to see the
good woman.”

Fred went in search of the woman of the
house, leaving Mrs. Brierly to get herself up In
the r, In of a young girl.

(To be continued—commenced in No. 41.)

WHAT WE MAY DO.

BY FRANCIS K. KEEPER.

 

 

We may write something some day
To cheer a lonely heart.

Or cause the eye to glisten
Where sorrow’s tear doth smart.

We may speak a kind word some time
That will touch a way ward soul,
With a well-timed admonition
To shun the maddening bowl.

We may write something some time

'I‘ at will make the sick-room bright—
One little ray of sunshine

To chase away the night.

A word for those in trouble,
To ease Life’s weary load

Who are sinking ’neath their burden,
Or resting by the road.

We may speak a word in sympathy
That wil live when Time is old—

Thar will teach the weary pilgrim
The world is not all cold.

The Sailorogl Fortune;

The Buccaneers of Barnegat Bay.

A Romance of the Early Days of the
Present Century.

{BY COLONEL PRENTISS INGRAHAM,
THOR or “THE MAGIC SHIP,” “SCARLET
SCHOONER,” “BUCCANEEB BESS,”

“ EREELANCE," “ MERLE, THE
MUTINEER,” ETC., ETC.

CHAPTER XXXV.
A SCENE ON THE RIVER WALK.

STELLA FERNCLIFFE was beginning to feel
that in spite of her beautiful home, a devoted
father, loving friends, and riches at her com-
mand, her lot was not exactly a happy one,
with the continual danger that threatened
her from those of the band who were deter-
mined to make her suffer.

She was no 00ward, and yet it was a disagree-
able feeling to have hanging over her that any
day or night Caspar Knowles or Carter Hayes
might pounce upon her and take her from her
home.

Ye she would not tell her father of her fears,
knowing full well that he would make the first
cruise of the Spiteful which was about com-
pleted, one of war against the haven.

For the sake of the few guilty ones she did
not wish to punish the innocent.

She had heard no more of Caspar Knowles,
and hoped that his good feelings had gotten
the better of his evil heart, and caused him to
let her alone, after she had done what she
could to save him and his crew.

Nor had she heard of Hugh Talbot, though
she had longed to hear some word of him.

The bold visit of Carter Hayes troubled her
more than she wished to acknowledge, for she
knew well his revengeful nature, and that his
mother had never liked her because she did not
prefer her son to Hugh Talbot, while at heart
she was a woman to be governed wholly by
her passions and one to be feared.

Shortly after the departure of Carter Hayes,
Stella saw the carriage drive back into the
yard, and that there were occupants in it she
could easily see.

Hastening to the house she was greeted by
Midshipman Manning, who at once presented
to her a lovely young girl as his sister Nellie.

“ My sister gave me a surprise visit this morn-
ing, Miss Fernclifle, arriving in the packet from
Boston, and your father insisted that I should
bring her back to the mansion in his carriage,
for your guest the few days she is here.”

“ I will be more than happy, Miss Manning,
in being your hostess, and you are more than
welcome I assure you. while I owe my father
thanks for sending you to cheer me in my lone—
liness,” said Stella in her sweet way, which
caused Nellie Manning to feel at home at once,
and she explained that she and her brother had
lately inherited a fortune from a distant rela-
tive, and she had come on to tell him all
about it.

The handsome young middy could not tear
himself away from the mansion for a couple of
hours, but then hastened back to the vessel,
leaving the two maidens alone, and fast becom-
ing friends.

That evening Captain Fernclifi’e brought the
middy and Lieutenant Burr Mabrey home with
him to supper, but soon after received a note
from the Admiral asking him to come to see
him in a. distant part of the city, and the four
young people were left to themselves.

Thinking that Peyton Manning might Wish
to talk business about their inheritance, with
his sister, Stella invited the lieutenant to a

ame of chess with her in the libra , but this

rst move in the game the middyc eckmated
by asking Miss Ferncliffe to sing a favorite bal-
lad of his, and doing it as innocently as though
he had not heard her little plan to leave t e
room.

Of course Stella complied, and the midship-
man handed her her guitar, while the lieutenant
crossed over and sat down by Nellie Manning,
who was certainly a most beautiful and charm-
in girl, a year the senior of her brother.

Several songs did Stella sing in her sweet,
simple way, and then the sly middy, not to lose
her, asked her to play chess with him.

 

 

 

 

It was a game which her father had taught
her, and she was anxious to practice it as much
as possible, so as to be a fair opponent for him,
so she complied by going to the library With
young Mr. Manning.

Left to themselves, Burr Mabrey proposed a
stroll in the grounds, for it was moonlight, and
the air was balmy and inviting.

Much pleased with her handsome companion,
N cllie Manning could but accept, and soon after
the two were strolling along the river walk,
now in the shadows of the foliage, now in the
moonlight.

“ What a' lovely girl Miss Fernclifle is, Lieu—
tenant Mabrey,” said the maiden as they walked
81011 .

“ ghe is indeed a charming young lady, Miss
Manning.”

“She is so different from what I expected to
find her, knowing her strange history, for she
is refined to elegance, though scarcely eighteen,
I should think, and she knows, it seems, much
of the world, the little while she has mingled in
society.”

“ She has read much, and I believe, though
humble fisher-people now, those who reared her
had seen better days by far, and had devoted
much time to her education.”

“ How fortunate that she did not fall in love
with and marry some fisher-lad, for he could
never have been elevated to what she is.”

“And yet there is one down in the little
hamlet where she passed her girlhood, Miss
Manning, who is as elegant in manner as she is,
and one of the bravest fellows I ever met,
while he is as handsome as an Apollo, and a
perfect seaman.” .

“ You certainly are his warm admirer, lieu-
tenant: but is he a lover that may some day
turn up for the hand of Miss Femclifi’e?”

“ Ah! that no one can tell' but he would be a
dangerous rival to any man. ’ .

“ My poor brother is desperately in love with
her, 1 see; but then a few SlglJS, a few tears, a
heart-throb at losing her, and Peyton is of that
age to seek consolation with another fair one.

“But he is a noble boy, lieutenant, and will
make a fine man, I hope.’

“ Thrre is no doubt of it, Miss Manning,
especially when he has a sister like yourself to
guide him.” _

“ You flatter me, Sir.”

“Oh, no; for Peyton has told me much of
you; and, do on kn0w. that I think you
strangely like iss Ferncliffe i”

“ Indeed! she told me to-day that she thought
we were alike, as we stood before the parlor
mirror together putting flowers in our hair.

“ We are certain] about the same size, and I
esteem it a compliment to have a face like
hers."

“Yet you have, and had I met you driving
alone, I would have bowed to you for Miss
Fernclifi‘e; but come, let us retrace our way,
for the path becomes gloomy now in this dense
foliage.” '

They turned about, but had taken only a few
steps when several forms stole quickly up be-
hind them, a dull thud was heard and Burr
Mabrey fell upon his face his full length, while
strong arms seized Nellie Manning, a rude hand
was thrust over her mouth, and she was borne
rapidly away. .

“ Bring that man i” said a deep vmce, and the
form of the lieutenant was raised by powerful
arms and c irried rapidly along the dark path-
way after those who bore the maiden, who had
fainted.

 

CHAPTER XXXVI.
THE YACHT STARTS ON A CRUISE.

Two games of chess were played by Stella
and the middy, and then, as the had taken
some time, and the lieutenant an Miss Man-
ning did not join them, the maiden suggested
that they should look them up.

The parlor was vacant, and a glance into the
conservatory showed that the were not there.

Then the middy and Ste] a expected they
would certainly find them upon the piazza, but
in this they were also disappointed.

“ Where can they be?” asked Stella.

“ I will tell you, they are out walking, for I
know Sis cannot resist water scenery by moon-
li ht.

g“ Shall we look them up?” said the middy.

“ Oh, yes, for it is getting late ” and some-
how a dread of evil c utched at he heart of
Stella.

Taking the arm of the middy they strolled
out into the grounds.

But a visit to the different arbors and along
the aths showed no trace of the missing ones.

“ et us return to the house, for they may be
laughing at us there, while we are searching for
them,” said Stella.

So back to the house they went, but Gibson,
the bu‘ler, could ive no account of the lieu~
tenant and Miss anning.

It was now eleven o’clock, and just then the
carriage rolled up to the door with Captain
Ferncliffe.

Instantly he was made acquainted with the
state of affairs, and the servants were called
and ordered to thoroughly search the grounds.

But the search was fruitless, and now, thor-
oughly alarmed, Captain Ferncliffe ordered the
boatswain of the yacht to be sent for.

“ If it was you and Stella that were missing,
Peyton, I could believe you were playing some
prank; but not so with Lieutenant Mabrey
and your sister.”

“ No, sir, Sis is full of fun, but she would not
treat her host and hostess in such an unladylike
manner, while it is not at all like Lieutenant
Mabrey,” answered the middy.

Just then the boatswain of the yacht arrived,
having hastily sprung from his bunk at the sum-
mons of his captain.

“ Boatswain, have on noticed any strangers
about the grounds this evening?”

“ No, sir.”

“You are sure?”

“Yes, sir.”

“ You have seen no one?”

“No strangers, sir; but 1 passed Miss Stella
and the leftenant as I went down to the yacht
some two hours ago.”

“ It was Miss Manning and the lieutenant,
father, for I have not been out of the house.”

“ Begging pardon, miss, it looked like you.”

“Yes, boatswain, my daughter does not look
unlike a lady who is her guest.

“ But where were they when you saw them?”

“ Going along the river walk, sir.”

“In which direction?”

“ Toward the Wild Nook, sir, as they call
yonder clump of rocks.”

“ And this was two hours ago?”

“ Shortly after eight bells, sir.”

“ Have you seen any strange craft on the
river. to—day ?”

“There was a trim-looking smack went up
shortly after daylig -t, sir, and passed down to-
night.”

“ At what time did she go down?”

“ About half an hour afterI seen the leftenant
and leddy, sir.”

“You are sure of this?”

“ Yes, sir, I was just turning in when she
passed.”

“My glass. Gibson.”

The spy-glass was handed to Captain Fem-
clifie, who leveled it down the river toward the
harbor.

For full a minute he kept it to his eye, and
then said, hastily:

“ Boatswain, the craft you speak of is just
passing through the Narrows.”

“ Yes, sir.”

“Quick! get on board and get all ready to
sail, and you, Manning, jump into my carriage
and drive to the Spiteful.”

“Yes, Captain Ferncliife.”

“ Tell Lieutenant Rupert that I wish twenty
seamen, and Lieutenant Field with ten marines.

“I want all armed thoroughly, and to come
with lenty of ammunition—and stay!”

“ es, sir," and the middy paused on the steps.

“Tell Rupert to send in the launch the two
boat howitzers. and you meet me off the Battery
with them, for I shall sail in the yacht as soon
as I can get off.”

Fortunately the coachman had not been dis-
missed, and the middy, springing into the car-

 

riage, was driven away at the top-speed of the
horses.

The Spitel'ul was nearing completion, but she
was not yet in sailing trim, though her guns
and crew were on board.

Hailing her, the middy soon had a boat sent
for him, and half an hour after the launch and
first cutter left the side of the saucy-looking
cruiser, and pulled rapidly down the East River.

The yacht was just rounding the Battery, and
layin ~to, the boats ran alongside, and began to
quick y dischar e their freight.

“ He has goo three hours’ start, if not more,
but I think we can sight him once we get clear
of the Narrows or the Hook.

“ If not, Manning. we will follow him to his
den,” said Captain Fernclifle, grimly.

“ Do you know where that is, sir?” asked the
midd .

“ as. for the boatawain says it is one of the
vessels that was anchored in the fishers’ haven,
when we were wrecked there.”

“ Indeed, sirl do you think that they would
be guilty of such a wrong!”

‘ I begin to fear that they are worse than
they look, Peyton.”

“I hope not, sir.”

“I hope not, too; but then this attempted ab~
duction of Stella, and the recognizing as smug-
glers of the crew that were in the river at the
time, with to-night’s performance, lead me to
believe that these fishermen are perhaps little
better than pirates.”

“ But Miss Fernclifi‘e would certainly know
if such was the case, sir, after her long stay
among them.”

“ I think not. Peyton, as men engaged in such
desperate work would keep it a secret, among
themselves.

“ At any rate, I shall find out, and with our
three guns, ten marines, and twenty—five sea~
men, I shall make it warm for those fellows if
they have run off with your sister and Lieu—
tenant Mabre .”

“ Why they should kidnap poor Nellie I can-
not 898, sir.”

“ You heard what the boatswain said?”

“ What was that, sir?”

“ About mistaking Nellie for Stella.”

“ Yes, sir.”

“Well, between your sister and Stella there
is certainly a striking resemblance, and my
idea is that she has been kidnapped, believing
her to be my daughter.”

“ It may be, sir.”

“And they have either killed poor Mabrey,
or run off with him, too; but unless he was
taken unawares, he was not tamely caught.”

“ But for what purposes, sir?”

“I am rich, Peyton, and so is Mabrey and a
ransom would be greatly coveted by lawless
men.”

“ I see, sir, and I hope it is no worse; but I
will give my share of my inheritance in;gold to
get oor Nellie back.”

“ e’ll give iron, lead and steel instead of
gold, Peyton, to ransom them,” was the grim
reply of the captain, and he turned to his
helmsman and ordered him to get out of the
yzcht all that he could in the run down the

y.

 

CHAPTER XXXVII.
BROUGHT 'ro BAY.

HUGH TALBOT was an early riser, and the
sun was just above the sea~horizon when he
came out of his little cottage home one morn-
ing, and glanced around upon the waters.

He had heard of the sailing of the Shadow
the night before. but it was said that she had
gone down toward Barnegat for a fishing
voyage, and so he had not gone after her to see
what Carter Hayes was up to for it had been
reported to him by his faithful spies that the
young ski per had not given up the thought of
winnin Stella, and he knew that he would
prove angerous in carrying out his intentions
against the girl.

“ Ah! there comes the Shadow into the har-
bor now.

“ Carter did not stay long, or he can ht a big
haul in a short time,” sai Hugh, as ' eyes
fell upon the little smack gliding up to her an-
chorage.

“ Ah! there comes Captain Fernclifle’s yacht!

“ And she is heading toward the mouth of the
river!

“ What can she want here?”

The yacht was now visible heading directly
into the river, and Hugh continued:

“ She either has a pilot on board, or is risking
running in without one.

“If she had fired a gun I would have gone
out and brought her in, though I hope she does
not mean trouble for us here. -

“But she is crewded with men, and I see
three guns upon her decks!”

With this the young sailor boldly walked
down the hill, followin the path toward the
shore off which lay the little hamlet fleet.

The Shadow had glided to her anchorage and
dropped anchor, just as the yacht entered the
river, and was in plain view of the latter ves—
sel. for they were but a mile apart.

Under full sail the yacht held u the river
before the wind, following the win ings of the
channel with remarkable accuracy without a
pilot, for she had none: but then the difl’erent
color of the water here and there marked it out
pretty well to the helmsman.

y the time that Hugh Talbot reached
the landing the yacht had reached the harbor,
and had come to with her guns covering the
Shadow, while the men on the other vessels
looked on in amazement and alarm.

Cart:r Hayes had sprung into his boat, after
dropping anchor and furling sails, but seeing
that the yacht evidently was making for his
vessel, he put back to her and boarded her,
while he stood quietly awaiting her approach.

It may be that a gun trained upon his boat
had decided his return, but his putting back
was just in time, as Peyton Manning held the
fuse ready to fire when he did so.

The hamlet was now fully aroused, and back
upon the hillside were visible women and chil-
dren in a great state of excitement, for it was
evident that the yacht’s visit was a hostile one,
crowded as she was with armed men, and bold-
ly entering the quiet little harbor with a crew
at each gun, and the marines with their mus-
kets at a “ ready.”

Men were also seen hastening down to the
shore from the hamlet, and what the result
would be no one could tell.

As Hugh reached the shore he sprung into a
skiff and rowed out toward the yacht.

As he did so, he heard Captain Fernclifle’s
stern deep voice cry out:

“ 0, that smack!”

“ Ay, ay, sir,” answered Carter Hayes.

“ I wish to see your captain. Is he on
board?”

“ Ay, ay, sir.”

Springing into the yacht’s yawl Captain
Ferncliffe was r0wed rapidly on board the
smack, where Carter Hayes received him at
the gangway. saluting politely, and saying:

“ This is an honor, sir, for a naval captain to
visit my humble vessel.”

Captain Ferncliffe was taken aback by the
coolness of the smuggler.

He had chased the smack through the night,
and had seen her put into the river.

No boat had left her side, because he and
several others with glasses had kept close
watch.

He confidently expected to find on board
Nellie Manning and Lieutenant Mabrey, and
yet withal he was met by the smack’s skipper
with a polite coolness that amounted to almost
eifrontery.

What could it mean, he wondered.

“My dear young skipper, you will be more
honored by my attentions, if I discover on this
vessel two persons whom I seek,” replied the
ca tain.

‘ Indeed, sir, I do not think you will find any
deserters from the navy among my crew.

“ In fact, I know it.’

“I am not searching for deserters, sir; but
tell me. where are you just from i”

“ New York, sir.”

“When did you leave the city?”

 

“ I left the Hudson river about nine o’clock
last night, sir.”

” When did you go there?”

“I left this river, sir, night before last, and
passed up by the city shortly after daylight.”

“How far up did you go'!’

“ To the lumber yards above the city.”

“ Ab! and your pur cse in going there?”

“ To get lumber, s r, to build me a new
cabin.”

Captain Fernclifi‘e was annoyed, for the
youn skipper told a straight story.

Ha he told a different one, Captain Fern-
plilflel would have known that he was speaking

a se y.

But he had followed the smack a long way,
and was not going to yield for fear of wound-
ing the feelings of the young skipper, so he
said bluntly:

“Well, young sir, your vessel was pointed out
as one suspected of being engaged in some
deviltry, and I have been in chase of you since
midnight, so you will excuse me if I have your
craft searche .”

“It is a small vessel, sir; so you can easily
fl'ld smuggled goods if there are any on
board.”

“ I am not looking now, sir, for smuggled
goods.”

“Igdeed, air?” and Carter Hayes looked sur-

rise .

p “I am looking for stolen goods, sir.”

“I am no thief. sir. nor am I a smuggler.

“I am but a poor fisherman, and you, with
your men and guns at your back, have, of
course, the power to insult me.”

Carter Hayes spoke warmly, and with the air
of 'ust indignation.

Hut Captain Fernclifle answered:

“ My dear sir, in these times I make no
apology for m actions.

“ The goods speak of as having been stolen,
are, to tell the truth, an oflicer of the navy. and
a lady, who, I have every reason to believe,
were kidnapped from my grounds last night.”

“Indeed, sir; what would I desire, kindly tell
me, with a naval officer and a lady?”

“Gold for their ransom, of course,” was the
blunt reply.

“ Again you insult me, sir.”

“ Take it as you please; but your vessel was
near at the time. She has a suspicious look;

our fishing fraternity along this coast do not
bear the best name just now, and hence I gave
chase to you.”

“ And your chase is a fruitless one.”

“ I am not yet convinced of that, though you
appear honest."

“ I am honest, sir.”

“ That remains to be proven.”

“ You are at liberty to search my vessel.”

“I shall do so, and if I find on board those I
seek, I will swing you up to the peak of my
yacht with but five minutes for rep Intance.

“If I do not find them, I will regret that I
troubled you, and depart, expecting at some
future time to catch you in deviltry, for, in
spite of your assertion of honesty, you have a
look that gives your words the lie, and sets
you down my in mind as a rascal.”

“What, again I” hissed Carter Hayes.

“ Yes, again.”

“Oh! but you should rue your words, ay,
and eat them, did we stand upon equal terms.”

“ My dear sir, my yacht is alone in a fleet of
thirty vessels.

“ I have not two-score men, all told, at my
back, and I see on these vessels alone that
number, and fully half a hundred more upon
the shore, so we are certainly not on equal
terms, as your side is the stronger.

“ But I wish no quarrel with you, for I owe
it to the good people in yonder hamlet that m
daughter lives to day, and that my w' e
received kindl burial.

“ I have pai the pecuniary debt I owed those
who cared for her; but the debt of kindness I
can never repay, and I tell you that I have held
of! from attacking yonder hamlet on my child’s
account, though rumors are brought to me
daily that you pie are the Buccaneers of
Barnegat, smugg ers and wreckers.

“ I have tried not to believe it and so I shall
continue as long as I can: butl warn you, if
you are the wolvos in sheeps’ clothing that men
call you, a fearful day of reckoning will come
for on all.

“ ow, sir, I shall search our vessel, and not
finding those whom I seek, shall depart.

“ Finding them, you know your fate.”

(To be continued—commuted in No. 38.)

 

 

Western Meatless.

BY FRANK TRIPLE".

01 Shepherd.

WHEN the war broke out, it found 01 Shep—
herd a beardless boy driving a stage upon one
of his father’s lines, the ph sicians having
recommended an out-of—door ife as the on!
means of saving him from consumption. 0
one who saw him at that time would have
thought that the gentle boy would ever live to
become the fierce, relentless man, who, in the
terrible band of rough-riders, that followed the
fortunes of guerrilla warfare in Missouri, went
through dangers innumerable, that were enough
to daunt the irits of the boldest, and for four
years raged 1i 9 a tiger in daily combat. The
sickly frame had broadened out to the ropor-
tions of health, and the delicate boy ad be-
come a warrior.

Educated in the school of camp and battle, his
was one of those untamable spu'its that could
not beat the sword-blade into the pruning-hook
and from a gallant soldier settle down into a
peaceful citizen. Ever ready to dare any dan~
ger in order to attain his end, he, like many
others, seemed to forget that daring was not the
sole qualification of manhood, nor was it an
Equivalent for a proper regard for law and or-

er.

When Clemens organized his novel industry of
robbing banks in open daylight, Shepherd rode
with him to Liberty where he 5 il amounted
to nearly seVenty-dve thousan dollars and
wh.n the bandits did not experience the sli ht-
est difficulty in escaping with their plunder. e
method was so novel, the men so unknown, that
the afirighted citizens did not know, after re-
covering from their panic, in which we to set
about seeking for the spoiler, nor shou d the
find him did they have the utmost faith in their
ability to cope with him. True the detectives,
ever ready to assert their superior sagacity,
eagerly took the trail to run the raiders to earth,
but they signally failed in everv instance. Two
of these gentry scouting the Osage Hills came
to a lonely cabin, where Shepherd had just got
into bed. The woman of the house, divining
the character of the men, ran hastily in to warn
the ex-guerrilla.

“I can’t help it,” said Shepherd, “ if the are
officers. I’m tired and I’m goin to slee ,’ and
he coolly turned over and wait until t ey be-
gan hammering at the door, calling for him to
surrender.

“ Let ’em in,” said Shepherd to the trembling
woman, “ I ain’t going to hurt ’em.”

Opening the door, the two oflcers entered,
and asking the man in the bed if he were Shep-
herd, received the following reply:

“ If it suits your (p es you can call me
that; now what the euce do you want?”

At this they drew out a warrant, and were
proceeding to read it, when Shepherd threw

ack the cover and in a twinkling the emcers
were lookin down the barrels of two dragoon
revolvers. nowing the reputation of the man
for cool and desperate bravery, the backed out
of the cabin, and mountin their areas made
haste from the locality, while Shepherd turned
over to get the much-needed sleep. In excuse
for the non-arrest, the ofllcers said Shepherd
took it so easy that they felt sure that there
were others of the bandits around.

His next escape was a more narrow one.
Riding up to a small store near Gad Fly Mills,
in Southwestern Missouri, while still in hidin
on account of the Liberty bank robbery, he an

 

Dick Burns came upon four rties, who, as it
afterward came out, were gaming for some
horse-thieves. Just as the two men were on
the point of dismounting, one of the hunters
for the horse-thieves came to the door, and lev-
eling a heavy rifle on Shepherd ordered him
and Burns to surrender. Tue word was an un-
known one in Shepherd’s vocabulary, and
throwing himself forward, his pistol was drawn
with a celerity almost surpassin belief, and
the two reports rung out on the air simultane-
ously, Shepherd’s ball cutting the lock OR of
the rifle and making a slight wound through
the check of its owner. while the rifle—ball
passed harmlessly over the two men

There was a yell of pain, ahurried rush of
feet in the store, and not knowin what number
it might contain, the two ban its fled after
firing into the gathering crowd in the doorway,
She herd laughingly saying to Burns:

“ 0 li nor for us here, pardl We’ll have to
ride a litt 9 further.”

She herd was ready when the remnants of
the o d bands gathered to make the raid on
Richmond. The object of this exploit was two-
fold: some were there for the purpose of at-
tacking the juil and rescuing several of their
comrades whom they declai ed to be wrong-
fully deprived of their liberty, while others
went for no other purpose than robbery hrs
and simple. Some few there were, like ep-
herd, who were Willing to unite business with
pleasure and make a stroke on their own ac-
count, while they disinterestedly aided their
former comrades.

The outrage, which resulted in the killing of

two or three citizens, including the mayor of
the town, Shaw, stirred up a perfect hornets’
nest about the ears of the guerrillas and sent
them flying in evory direction.
Shepherd, who had ridden to the meet with
Peyt ong, decided that if in union there was
strength, yet there was safety in solitude, and
rode single-handed and alone toward the Osage
river.

On the way to a crossing well known to him,
he was hemmed in in a narrow cut, his horse
shot under him, and himself slightly wounded
in the leg and arm. Crawling as best he could

up the stee bank, he made a stand in the dense
woods, an from a thicket began firing on his
ursuers. Will Belt, as game a man as ever

ived, was knocked from his horse b a ball

through the shoulder, and Fine (or Phineas)
Belt, his brother, had his left ankle broken. The
rest of the posse hastily turned back, and Shep-
herd limped off through the brush, making his
way to some friends living near.

As soon as his wounds would permit, be de-
termined to leave his hiding-place, as the hunt
was still being kept up, and having located a
thoroughbred mare in the neighborhood, he
went to the stable, and having found a saddle
and bridle, he led out the mare and proceeded
to saddle up preparatory to a ride. By this
time, however, Mr. Davis the owner of the ani-
mal, had been awakened by the barking of the
house-dog, and started toward the stable to see
what was the cause. The moon coming from
under the cloud just as he had reached the gate,
he saw Shepherd in the act of leading the mare
out of the stable-lot, and running back to the
house for his gun, he fired at him within thirty
yards. The mare winced slightly from a cut on
the rump, and Shepherd, ridin up to the gate,
drew a revolver and an ing, “ f you make an
more such breaks I’ll b ow a hole through you, ’
slowly rode of! toward the Osage river.

Thinking he might yet recover his mare, a
very valuable one, as she had always refused to
take to the water, Mr. Davis started with some
of his neighbors early the next morning on
Shepherd’s trail.

Following swiftly they reached a ford on the
river, and from every evidence of a hard strug-
gle between horse and rider were led to believe
that the bandit had here lost valuable time.
This was the case, for findin where he had
turned down the river, they ollowed on, and
abogt twelve o’clock came in sight of Shep-
her .

When he first heard them he turned as if he
intended to make a fight, but seeing several
rifles in the party he put spurs to his horse and
headed for a point about half a mile ahead,
where there was a steep bank and very deep
water on the side they were traveling, and a
shelving bank and dense thickets on the other.
Thinking they had him now, they spread out so
that he could neither dodge them up nor down
the river, but Shepherd ran the more full tilt at
the bank, and before she knew it had her into
swimming water.

Making 11 the bank, Mr. Davis, who was
nearest to 't e bandit, afterward said that ho
was so surprised to see the mare swimming like
a duck that be neglected to fire until Shepherd
was nearly across. Then a volley dashed up the
water around the flying bandit, but he gained
the other side evidently unhurt, and turning at
the edge of the bushes he snapped both of his
Bistols at the crowd, but both missed fire. Mr.

avis measured the water where the mare
jumggl and found it eighteen feet deep, and as
the nk was about ten feet high it is most
likely that both horse and man were submerged
at the first plunge.

Nothing more was heard of She herd for some
time, though a man an. wering is description
had a running fi ht with a sheriff’s posse near
Croly’s Ridge in orthern Arkansas, and though
outnumbered five to one, made ood his escape.
It is most likely that this was 1 Shepherd on
his way into Kentucky, where he had numerous
relatives and friends, and which State for some
time he made his home.

If Shepherd was an aged in any other raids
until that of Russellvi le, Kentucky, we can find
no record of them. That he participated in the
dash on the bank at Russellville is bevond a
doubt. When the retreat began, for the rob-
bery differed in no grave particulars from all
those which were the handiwork of this gang,
the bandits separated to meet on the banks of
the Mississippi river on a certain da , and if
that point could not be reached in time y all of
them, the first were to cross and wait at a cer-
tain point in Southeast Missouri until their com-
rades rejoined them. Of those engaged in it
but one (George Shepherd, a cousin of 01’s) was
taken, and he not at his home, but seven hun-
dred miles distant. This is only mentioned to
correct the general belief that George Shepherd
was taken in his own house at Chaplin, whither
he had gone after the robbery.

0] Shepherd was one of the first to reach the
Mississippi, and narrowly escaped capture
while waiting for the others. Thinking the
western shore the safest, he crossed over, and
being soon re‘oined by the others all made
their way to estern Missouri in safety. Hot
on their trail came the Kentucky ofiicers, and
being armed with proper requisitions, made an
attempt to arrest Shepherd, whose whereabouts
had been discovered. One of his sullen, indif-
ferent moods was upon the man and instead of
flying he only made answer that he “ didn’t
know how to surrender,” and by sheer force of
superior courage, and without firing a shot,
caused them to withdraw.

What the officers of the law feared to attempt
the Vigilance Committee determined to efi'ect.
Twenty-five strong, and armed with breech-
loading rifles, they surrounded Shepherd in a
piece of timber and called on him to surrender.

“ I tell you I don’t know how,” said Shep-
herd, and the combat began, if it can be called
a combat when one man with revolvers defies
twenty-five with long~range rifles.

Answering their rapid volleys with shots that
became slower and slower, this human tiger at
bay compelled them to fire hundreds of shots
and to pierce him with seven balls before he
could be taken. Waiting then for some time
after his answering shots were quieted, for fear
he was playin a ruse to trap some of them to
their deaths, t ey at last closed in upon him.

There, with his back against a brave old oak,
a revolver in each hand and a smile of defiance
upon his lion-like face lay the casket which had
held the unconquerable spirit of 01 Shepherd.
Both of his pistols were empty, and when his
blood-soaked garments were removed it was
seen that seven heavy rifle bullets had torn
their way through his body.

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

J

i. _

._J

-1}.  

 

 

 

AN AUTOGRAPH.
T0 7'. a. W.

_—

31 AL. W. OBOWELL.

When the winter days KNW~OId*

When the birds begin their nesting!—
When the tender shoots unfold

From their winter place of resting—

When the lips form new requesting,
Prompted by our new desires—

When our barquea new waves are hreasting_
~ When we build new altar~fires~

When the frost-time melts to dew
In the changetul April weather-
When the hearts we thought were true
Yearn to break their gentle tether—
When the hands that were together '
Cleft asunder are for aye—-
In the changeful April weather—
Hold a thought of me, I pray!

When the heart forgets its friend
And on newer joys be f ing,

Or when pain and anguish rend, \
Of its newer pain he bleeding—-
Tbo’ it turn from others‘ pleading,

" Knowing but its dead desires,
Unrasponsive and unheeding,

Mourning o’er its funeral pyres—

Let a mow/it or me be there. r
Or in sunshine or in sorrow;
Friendship claims an answerer! pmyer
In the d m and vague To-morrowl
And whatever Fate may borrow
0f the buried Yesterday——
Be it sunshine, be it sorrow——
Hold a thought of me, I pray.

Norman—Base, Primer;

From the Form to the Forum.

The Story of a “ Typo” Who Went
to Congress.

BY CAPT. FRED. WHlTTA KER,
AUTHOR or “JOHN ARMSTRONG,” ETc., ETC.

CHAPTER XXV.
PEARL‘s STRA'I‘AGEM.

To say that Norman Case was astounded to
find his sister in the Locke mansion istotell
not half the truth. He was bewildered. He
could not understand it. How did it happen?
‘ All the time of his contest with Locke no one
had mentioned the general’s name in Belmont
and he had grown to believe they had for-

tten all about the trouble; yet here was
Poearl intimate with May.

Before he could collect his scattered senses
they heard the rapid step of the general, his
loud voice echoing throughout the house, and
into the room he came calling out:

“ Hallo! hallo! Who’s here, May? Why, as
I live, it is the young lady who quarrels so con—
stantly. Miss Case, I salute you before we be-
gin our usual tilt. And—why it’s Case. So
you’ve come at last.”

“ Better late than never, general,” said Nor-
man, holding out his hand.

The general screwed up his face.

“H’m! yes. But I’m not used to asking a
man so many times.” .

“ That’s because you think too much of your-
self,” interrupted Pearl, coolly. “ You see,

eneral, this is a free country, where no class
in society can afiord to treat the others as
interiors. You want to live in Europe and be
a noble, but you can’t do it. They wouldn’t
think any more of you than my brother over
there, and you know it.”

Locke turned to Norman ruefully.

“That’s the sort of salute I get, every time
she comes to see May—”

“Well at in,” interrupted Pearl. “I didn’t
come till was asked, and you had to ask me.”

Norman was puzzled, and he touched his sis-
ter on the arm, whispering:

“ Pearl, Pearl, don’t be so rude.”

Pearl laughed as she answered aloud:

“ Oh, be rather likes it. He’s so rude himself.
May didn’t dare say her soul was her own till I
came to help her—”

“And since you’ve been here,” interru ted
Locke as rudely as she had done, “I’ve be no
peace of my life. You‘re a regular Spitfire.”

“ You haven’t life enough for that,” retorted
Pearl. “ All the fire’s gone out of you, long
ago: burnt out, if ever you had any.”

The general colored and walked to the win-
dow, while Norman stared in wonder and May
Locke looked amused at the tilting of the pair.

Presently Locke came back irritably, and
said to Pearl as spitefully as possible:

“You ma try to insinuate that I’m getting
too old to tafk to youn ladies; but I’d have you
know I can get marrie to morrow, if I please.”

May beckoned Norman over to a window and
sat down, as Pearl retorted:

“There’s nothing like self-conceit, if one has
nothing else to support one. I’d like to know
who’d have you, when they knew you?”

“ You would, for one,” said the general.

“Try me, and see,” retorted Pearl, curling
her lip. “I wouldn’t have you for ten times
your money, if only for one thing.”

“ And what’s that?” asked be.

“ You can’t raise a decent mustache,” she re-
plied with a laugh, at which he grew so angry
that he strode out of the room, and May said in
a low voice to Norman:

“ It’s the strangest thing. That’s the way
she treats him all the time. Rude as it is pos—
sible to be and what would be unladylike in
any one else, yet he always asks for her, and
insists on my sending the carriage to the school
every day, except Saturdays.” _

Pearl came back to the window and stifled a
laugh as she said to May:

“That was rather too hard about the mus-
tache. He can’t help that.”

Indeed it was the great mortification of the
general that he had never been able to grow
the least mustache, being of an almost hairless
nature, and it made him nearly wild to be
twitted with it, be bein a very Conceited man.

But what surprised orman was that the
two girls evidently had some sort of an under-
standing together, for May smiled at Pearl and

.d _ ,

 

 

 

i .

“ He’ll be down again in a minute, you’ll see.
He can’t rest easy.”

And indeed in a very short time after the gen—
eral was back again, quarreling with Pearl in
the most undignified manner and totally losing
the courtly politeness be had been wont to affect
where ladies were concerned, while the girl
gave him back better than be sent every time,
with a power of sarcasm that Norman had never
dreamed her to possess, showinga knowledge of
all the general’s weak points. _l_-i~x_ vanitiesnbis
love of dominating every one, his literary pride,
his closeness in money matters.

She got him so angry at last that he rushed
off again to his library, and they .could hear
him cursing the servants, in a shocking temper.

And all this time Norman was making love to
May Locke, openly at last, for he began  see
how the land lay, and bad the satisfaction of
hearing her so to his avowal: '

“Yes, Mr. ase, it is true. Pearl knows it.
She has told me so much of you and your noble
efforts, that I could not but admire you and re-
spect ou hi bl .”

“ Rgspecti ’ sin Norman, softly; “ and is that
all you can ive me? Ab, Miss Locke, do you
remember t 8 day you first saw me?

Ma smiled.

“ es, I remember I thought you such a
funn looking boy. I’m afraid I was rude.

“ ou were—very. You told me I had a hole
in m boot, and ought to get a new pair.”

“ id 1?” she asked, coloring.

“ Oh, yes, you were very rude indeed, so rude
that you ought to make me amends now. 7 Miss
Locke, May, you know I love you. X on ve
l known it a long time. Once I should not have
dared to say it, for fear of being called a for-
tune-hunter; but now I can address you as one,
though not equal in riches, still able to ask you,
will you be In wife?”

May colore still deeper.

Pearl was at the other end of the long room,

 

 

 

    
     
      
   

 

  

(I

    

/\\\
.- -

-I‘s-

7'.

'i
A;
-

 

l the general was scolding down-stairs, and there

was no one near as she whispered:

“ Yes, I will.”

It was wonderful how discreet Pearl was that
day, and how resolutely she kept her back
turned to the lovers, till she heard the general
coming back, when she observed audibly, with-
out turning her head:

“ Take care, May; he’s coming in again. Is it

settled yeti”
“Who’ll tell him! I

“ Yes.” replied May.
declare I’m afraid.”

“ I will,” said Pearl, saucily.
afraid.” ,

But Norman rose up in a moment.

“No, my dear, no. I appreciate your very
valuable assistance so far; but there are some
things a man must do for himself. This is one of
them, Pearl.”

The general came in grinning.

“ Well, Miss Pert,” he said to Pearl, “I’ve
been thinking over your last pretty s oh, and
I’ve concluded you didn’t mean it. he fact is
that you’re very fond of me and won’t own it.”

Pearl nodded and smiled.

“ You’re quite right. I do like you.”

The general brightened up.

“ I thought so. Ahem!”

“ Yes, I like you very much. You’re 30—”

“So what?”

“ So funny. I remember seeing alittle monkey
in the Central Park I uSed to like very much.
His face strongly resembled yonrs. I’ve never
forgotten him since I knew you. I like you im»
mensely.”

The general twitched his face awry.

“ Come. come, Jet’s cry peace. I‘m tired.
You’ve got tongueenougb for ten. I sup it
comes of teaching those schoolvboys a1 day.
They’ve taught you all the slang.”

“ On the contrary, I‘ve caught it listening to
you, scolding the poor Servants.”

“ Well, anyway let’s have peace. Dinner will
be ready vei‘ soon, and I never fight over the
soup. since rs. Locke left me, poor woman.”

“ Happy woman!” said Pearl, emphatically.

“Why happy? Yes, she was very happy. ’ v

“ Is. you mean.”

“Why, why, why?"

“ She can't hear you scold.”

“H’m! There’s plenty women would like to
hear me all the time, scold or not. ”

“ So you tell me, often.”

“ And don’t you believe it?” asked the general,

“ I’m not

irritably.

“I think our vanity runs away with your
judgment, neral Locke. I know one woman
wouldn’t.”

“ Perhaps she’d better wait till she’s asked.”

“ Rest assured she will, for she knows that
you daren’t ask her.”

“ I dare ask any woman in the world,” qpoth
the general, sharply. “You, for exampl .

Pearl shrug ed her shoulders.

“ I don’t be ieve you do. You’re very good
at boasting, but nothing else.”

The general turned red as fire. .

"I’ll show you whether I’m afraid, Pearl
Case. You’re ,young enou h to be my daugh-
ter; but if you i say yes, I’ l Inarry you.”

Pearl laughed heartin at him.

“ Will you? How kind. What am I to say?
Are we to £1 ht all the rest of‘our lives?”

“ I don’t now,” said the general, shortliy.
“You dared me to ask you, and I’ve done t,
like a fool, before witnesses. You’ve got me.
Come, ive me your answer. I won’t back out.”

Pear turned to Norman:

“ What had I better say, Norman?”

Norman smiled, not a little puzzled.

“ It depends on what the general says to me.
General, I have just asked your daughter to be
my wife and she has consented. Have we your
consent to the match? If 30—”

The neral had turned all sorts of colors,
and he roke in on Norman: _

“Confound it, Case, this is not fair. May’s
worth more money than you are. Besides,
here’s that spitfire of a sister of yours. She’ll
be your mother-in-law, and I shall be May’s
brother-in-law. Oh, confound it all! It won’t
do. It won’t do. We’ll get so mixed up we
won’t know which is which.”

“I’ll tell you what it is, general,” remarked
Pearl, coolly. “ I’ll make a bargain with you.”

“ What is it?” asked the general.

“ You give your consent to Norman’s match
with May, and I’ll let you off marrying me.”

“ Will you?” ,

“I will, honestly. If you don’t, I’ll sue you
for breach of promise. here.”

“ NO you won’t.”

“ Why not?”

“ Because I’ve not refused to marry you. I’ll

do it at once, if you like.”
“ Then Heaven help you ” said Pearl, earnest-
ly. “You don’t know half how hateful I can
he till I’m tied to you fast. Come, you’d better
give your consent, before it’s too late.”

The general hesitated. He was a rich man
and very greedy of money for himself and his
child but the act was, as Norman began to
see, that Pearl had fairly bewitched him, and
he was more than three-quarters in love with
her, old as he was, and young as she was.

The other quarter was the common sense that
told him the girl was no fit mate for him, and
so he hesitated, till at last he said:

“ Now look here, Case, this isn’t fair. I’ve
been good to you, haven’t I? I’ll tell you what
I’ll do with you. You get elected to Congress
this fall, and I’ll say yes.”

Pearl instantly rushed at the general, before
any one knew what she was about, and gave
him a heart hu , saying:

“You're iyiot Ealf as bad as I thought, and
I’ve been playing with you all this time. But
I’ve made him sup sorrOw, haven’t 1, Norman?”

The general looked astonished.

“ What, have you been playing a part all
this time? I believe I’ll marry you anyhow.”

Pearl made him a low courtesy.

“ Thanks, general, for the honor, but I have
other enga ements. I decline. I mean to die
an old maig.”

_—

CHAPTER XXVI.
CONCLUSION.

NORMAN CASE took Pearl home that night in
a singular frame of mind. He hardly knew
whether to be glad or sorry at what had. hap-
pened. and did not quite understand how it had

me to ass
coPearl ISeemed to be very thoughtful all the
way home, and it was not till they were in
Belmont, and their mother was present, that
she said. rather regretfully: ‘ '

“ Mother, I think I’ve done a foolish thing
after all. I rather like the general. With all his
oddities. He has brains, and that’s more than
half the men I see have.”

Mrs. Case looked inquirineg at Norman.

“ What has he ned, dear?” _

“ I have askedgfiy Locke to be my Wife, and
she has consented,” said Norman, slowly.

Mrs. Case smiled.

“ I knew she would, three months ago.”

“ Wh mother?”

“As sygon as she came to call on us, and took
to Pearl so much. I knew what it meant. She
is of age, you know.”

“ No, I didn‘t.” _

“ She told us so—that is, she comes of age this
year. Her fortune is her own. It comes to her
from her mother.”

“ How do you know i”

“ She told us herself.”

“ When?”

Norman began to be excited. .

“ Three days after the general quarreled With
you, and she bowed to you.”

“ Tell me all about it.”

“ Ask Pearl. She can tell better than 1.”

Norman looked at Pearl.

“ Here is Some mystery. I wish you would
be good enough to explain it.”

Pearl answered slowly:

“There’s not much mystery. .She came to
call on us. That was the first Of it.”

“ Well? What happened?”

“ Well, I was cold, and so was _
did not know what to make of it. I admit that
I hated her. I was jealous of her. It seemed a
shame that you should love a girl whose father
treated you like a mendicant.’

mother. We

 

“Well, go on. Never mind that.”

“ Well, she saw our coldness, and seemed to be
cut by it. She asked me to come and see her,
and I refused, saying that I had my school to
attend to, and devoted Saturdays to you.”

“ And then?”

“Then she seemed to be disappointed; but
before she went away asked me if I would not
come to see her just once. She had so much to
say to me. In short, she was so gentle and
loving, I could not resist her. I tried hard; but
at last I consented. Next day the carriage
came for me as I left school, and I first set foot
in her house. Then she told me all.”

“ What did she tell you?”

“Never you mind, sir. You’re my brother;
but she's a woman, and you’re a man. Enough
for you to know, I found out that she thou ht a
good deal of you, and that made me like er.”

“ Well, Pearl, well?”

“ Then I began going there after school, for
she Sent the carriage regularly. Her father
was of! on his business, and i did not see him
for two or three weeks. When I did, she had
con uered me, and I resolved to conquer him.”

“ ow did you Set about it?”

“ I began by teasing him all I could. He was
ver stately and courteous at first: but I could
see c didu t like me on your account. He was
very bitter aga nst you. Y: u must have
humiliated him in some way. Did you?”

“I think I did. He tried to bribe me, and I
made him leave the city.”

“ I thought so. He came back furious. and I
happened to be alone when he came. For the
first time in our acquaintance he was rude to
me, and his daughter came in and found me
quarreling violently, and ready to leave the
house. He made me so angry I cried.”

“ Yes? What then?”

“Then—I don’t know why—he seemed to be
sorry for what he’d done, and apologimd. DO
you know, Norman, that man can be very sweet
when he tries. Positively, he was almost fasci-
nating. The end of it was we made it up; but
'from that day I had him.”

“What do you mean?”

“ I found that he actually cared for me; didn’t
want me to go away; liked to see me, if only to
quarrel; and I made him sup sorrow, as I once
said I would.”

The girl's eyes glittered as she spoke, but
present y she said with a slight sigh:

“Ah, well, it’s all over now; but I couldn’t
help liking him, after all. I used to tease him
as never man was teased, and he never grew
angry till that day, and then I knew that I’d
touched his heart. But I’ve done what I said I
would, and you can marry May Locke. I hope
you will be happy, Norman.”

She closed rather abruptly, and went 03 to
bed, when Norman gravel observed to his
mother, who sat thoughtful y knitting:

“ Mother. do you know—”

“ What, Norman?”

For he had stopped speaking. \

“I begin to think Pearl 13 more taken with
Locke. Old as he is, than she likes to admit.”

“ I know it, Norman.”

The old lady spoke very decidedly.

“I’ve known it all along. He’s notso very
old—only fifty.”

“ But Pearls not more than twenty-two.”

“ I know it, but she’s diflerent from most
girls. ,Sbe likes brains, and he is a very talented
man.’ '

Norman frowned slightli.e

,“ But he’s old enough to her father. It’s a
ridiculous idea.”

“ Norman,” said Mrs. Case, slowly, “ which is
most ridiculous: your marrying y or his mar-
rying Pearl? You can’t supfiort her as she is
used to being supported. 9 can do as he
pleases. Most people would say she made a
splendid match if she married the general, Old
as he is. Most people would call you a fortune-
hunter—”

“ That’s true, mother, but I’ve not married
her at, and may never do it.”

“ Why not?”

“Because it is agreed that my success is to
de nd on my election to the next Congress.”
rs. Case smiled.

“ Is that all? You’ll do it. It’s in you, and it
has to come out. You’ll marry her. But it’s
Pearl I’m uneasy about. Did she refuse the gen-
eral openly ?"

“ She did, mother.”

“ Then she means it, unless—”

“ Unless what, mother!”

“Unless he asks her again.”

“That he’ll never do, unless he’s very much
in love, and that does not seem natural.’

Mrs. Case smiled.

“You’ll see. 1 think he’ll be here to-morrow.”

They parted for the night; and. next day, as
Norman was hard at work in the League office,
who should walk in but the general.

“ Case,” he said, “ where’s your sanc'um? I
want to talk to you.”

Norman led the way to his inner ofl‘lce, and
the general closed the door and began:

“ Norman Case, haven’t I been good to you?”

“ You have.”

“ Then be] me.”

“In what? ’

“ To induce your sister to reconsider her de-
cision yesterda . know I’m an old fool, Case,
but you know adore brains, and that girl has
more brains than all the women I ever knew.
If she won’t have me, I recall my consent. I
don’t care what any one says. I’m used to hav-
ing my way, as you know, and I’m set on this.”

Norman could hardly help laughing at the
serious face of the general,

“ I’ve no control over Pearl,” be said, “you’ve
my permission to try. It’s Saturday, and she’s
home. and see her.”

“ May I?” asked Locke, gratefully.
a good fellow, Case. I’ll go.”

He went away, but came back an hour later,
and broke out:

“ Norman Case, that woman’s as obstinate as
a mule. She won’t have me unless I turn and
help elect you to Congress I can’t do it. I’ve
been on the other side of the house too long to
change. What am I to do?”

Norman looked at him closely. The usually
bright and impetuous general was taciturn and
gloomy, and he looked worried.

“Gener .l,” he asked, “did Pearl say she
would not marry you, unless you helped me to
go to Congress?”

‘ ‘ You’re

“Those were her very words,” said Locke,_

shortly.

“ Then you may depend on it,” said Norman,
“ that she’ll keep her word. If you were a poor
man, she might yield, but as you’re a rich one
she’ll be firm as a rock.”

The general made a rueful rimace.

“ Confounded jealousy. on poor
think a rich man has no feelings you’re
to respect.”

Norman could not help laughing.

“ It’s not often we get a chance to dictate our
own terms. But suppose the tables to be turned.
You’d do the same. ’

“ N o I wouldn’t,” retorted the general.

“ Pardon me, but you’ve done it already.”

“ How? What do you mean?”

Positively General Locke looked mystified till
Norman observed quietly:

“ You told me not half an hour ago that you
withdrew your consent to my marriage with
your daughter, unless Pearl married you. She
will never yield till you do.”

Locke looked thoughtful.

“There’s somethin in that, isn’t there? I’m
afraid I’ve been use to having my own way
too much.”

“ That’s your only fault. You don’t see both
sides. It’s a pity you weren’t born a poor man,
general. You might have done some work in
the world.”

“ Thank you for nothing,” retorted Locke.
“ I don’t want to try it. I’ve seen too much of
it in your case. But what ought I to do?”

“ Do you want my advice?”

“Yes. I do.”

“ I’ll give it then, but you won’t follow it.”

“ How do you know?”

“ Because you’ll have to admit that you’re
beaten, horse, foot and artillery, and thro
your pride into the mud to be trampled on.”

The general compressed his lips irritany and

epic
ound

 

was just going out, when a better thought
seemed to strike him and he came back.

“ Norman Case,” he said, “l’m getting old.
As long as my daughter was with me I could
stand up. But you’ve stolen her from me. I
don’t b ame on; but all the same I see she
loves you. m t no longer; only number
two With her. Are you going to condemn me
to a_lonely life all the rest of my time, with no
one in the house even to quarrel with? I don’t
know how it comes about, but I feel as if I had
no heart for anything else since I’ve known
Pearl. She’s a witch. I want her with me all
the time. I’m conquered. Do what you will.
Marry May tomorrow if you like, but if on
do it and your sister won’t marry me, I believe
I shall—”

“What, enerali”

_ “Well, won’t say. You won’t believe it
tell,it’s done. Give me your advice. I’ll follow
1

“ Go to Pearl once more,” said Norman,
gravely. “ Tell her what you've told me.

ell her that you ask no conditions, that you
how to her will, and mark what she says."

The general went away again and did not
come back that day.

When Norman went home he found Pearl
looking as if she had been crying, and he asked
her, when they were alone:

“ Well? Was he here?”

Pearl bowed her head.

“Yes. He’s a better man than I thought.
He has given up everythin to me. He will
undo all his friendships to e ect you and has
fiithd’i‘awn all Opposition to your Wedding with

ay.

“ And you, Pearl?”

“ And I—l am to—”

“ To what, Pearl '1”

“ To marry him, she answered, with a slight
sig , “on the day you take your Seat in Con-
gress.”

“ Why do you sigh over it, Pearl?”

Pearl looked at him in a doubtful wa .

“I don’t know. I suppose I had visions of a

hero. Girls all have. But I shall get over
that. He’s very talented and does really love
me. I didn’t believe it at first, but when he

yielded so completely I saw it. Somehow it
does not seem so natural as I thought—”

“ What does not?”

“His yielding to my wishes so entirely. I
don’t want a henpecked husband.”

Norman laughed.

“ And you used to declaim against the
tyranny of the monster man. Never mind,
Pearl. You two will not be master and slave,
or (£168!) and serf if I read you ari ht.”

T e conversation dro ped, an from that
time forward General ke was an untiring
worker in Norman’s favor during the fall Con-
gressional campaign.

To tell the storg in full would be to repeat
much similar inci ent in the past.

Norman had a hard fight in his oath to beat
his experienced antagonist Mr. wley who
had already held the seat for three terms and
had the presti e Of past success to help him.

Mr. Scowley eat the nomination on one side
by a single vote after a desperate fight in con-
vention, while Norman had to run with the
certainty that Scowley’s friends would try to
slaughter him on election-day. They even
talked of putting Scowley up as an independent
bolter; but the wind was all taken out of their
sails a week later when Locke’s party met in
convention, and for the first time in twenty
years indorsed the Opposite party’s nominee,
agreeing to run no candidate.

It was done a inst a storm of Opposition
which split Lockes friends into three distinct
warring factions.

One of these named a candidate, another in-
dorsed Scowley, and the third supported Nor-
man Case.

The end Of it was that Norman (got a plural-
ity vote sufficient to elect him, an was greeted
everywhere as the “Lucky Case,” the “B0
Congressman,” the “Young Fraud Killer,” and
other appropriate names.

The election cost him five thousand dollars,
but on its announcement the League went up
in circulation nearly two thousand copies from
the curiosity of the people to see a paper edited
by a Congressman.

That winter he married May Locke, and
Pearl was first bridemaid.

The general was radiant at the ceremony and
the papers were full of the wedding, with all
sorts of romantic stories about the courting of
the happy pair.

When they came home from their tri Nor-
man and May went to Belmont, where orman
had bought a handsome house. They expected
to see Pearl and her mother there, but the door
was opened to them by no less a person than
General Locke, who hugged his daughter, shook
hands with Norman and burst out:

“ I’ve done it, I’ve done it. She was obstinate
as a mule, but I’ve beaten her at last.”

“What do you mean?” asked Norman and
May, wonderingly.

“ I mean Pearl. She Went of! with me uiet-
ly the day after your wedding, and she’s ‘ rs.
Locke now, God bless her. We’ve not had a

uarrel since, and I don’t believe we ever shall.
ere, Pearl, Pearl, come here.”

And Pearl came out with her mother, looking
radiant, hug ed May and Said:

“ He tease and teaSed till I had to give in.
You’re not angry, May, are you? I won’t be a
very disagreeable step mother.”

So it was settled, and Pearl became Norman’s
mother-in-law, while Norman became Locke’s
brother-in-law, and as Jack Simmons observed:

“ Such a mixed~up concern I never saw in my
life. I’m glad I’m not in it.”

Norman Case sits in Congress now, and
“ Case’s Luck” has become proverbial.

But as his mother says when she hears it
talked of:

“ He had to work hard for it, and so did we
all. We suffered every sting that poverty
could give us, and every step of the way was a
fight. He learned his trade well, and that’s
half the battle, and we are where we are,
because, in America, work will make its way to
the front, if a man only uses the opportunities
he’ll find in no other part of the world.”

THE END.

 

A Successful Fisherman.

 

“ GET any trout?” asked the cashier, turning
to his books.

“ Well, ye kin jedge. I made a cast one day,
and them trout ain’t all in yet! That hook
wasn’t into the water when a trout took bolt,
and then another trout took bolt of him, and
another took bolt of him, and so on, till we had
to wind ’em up on a reel, and them as is 'edges
says that one cast is likely fer to last ti 1 cold
weather!”

“That’s pretty good,” smiled the cashier,
scratching his nose.

“Them as knows as 3 it’s pooty good,” con-
tinued the farmer. “ bat one fly has landed
1.600 weight up to date! But fishin’ on the
island ain’t what it was when I was a boy.”
And the old man sighed.

“ Don’t mean to say you ever did better than
thatl” exclaimed the cashier.

“Ye don’t talk like ya know them trout-
streams down on the island pooty well. I seen
a Baptist minister dip fourteen converts, and
when he pulled ’em out they was so covered
with fish that they didn’t git wet, and the min-
ister said the baptism didn’t take, and had to
baptize ’em all over in another brook] That’s
what I call right smart 0’ fish 1”

“ I should remarkl” grinned the cashier.

“But my boy done the derndest thing! He
got in some work that the rest ain’t tacklin’,
and never will. He goes down to a brook ri ht
close to the house and builds a fire. Onto t at
fire be puls a fryin’-pan, and as soon as the pan
was hot, he begins to sing ‘ When the Swallows
Homeward Fly’; and I wish I may break a
spring on the way home if, every time he got
to the word ‘ fly,’ the trout didn’t ,jump out of
that brook and land in the fryin~pan every
flop! Yes, sir, bet yer life 1”

 

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Walking.Runnin,Jum in ,HaresndHunds
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BY CAPT. FREDERICK WHI’I'I’AKER.

 

 

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The Irishman’s Panora- When the Com Come
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The Lightning—rod Agent. The Donation Pm ty.

The Tragedy at Four Acer'l‘ommy Taft.

Flat. 'A Michigander in France.
Ruth and Naomi. [Not One to Spare.
Carey of Carson Mrs. Breezy’s Pink Lunch.
Babies. Rock of Ages.
John Reed. ‘J.Caesar Pompey Squash‘s

The Brakeman at Churcb.i Sermon.

Passon Mooah’s Surmount . Annie’s Ticket.

Arguin the Question. iThe Newsboy.

Jim W0 fe and the Cats. ‘Pat’s Correspondence.
The Dim Old Forest. Death of th‘ Owd Squire.

 

Rasher at Home. Mein Tog Shneiiz.
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David and Goliab. The Cry of Womanhood.

Dreaming at Fourscore. [The Judgment Day,

Rum. |The Burst Bubble.

Why Should the Spirit ofCurfew Must Not Ring To-
Mortal Be Proud? I night.

The Coming Mustache. The Swell.

The Engineer’s Story. The Water Mill.

A Candidate for PresidentSam’s Letter.

Roll Call. Footsteps of the Dead.

An Accession to the Fam- Charity.

ily. lAn Essay on Cheek.

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THE PRETTY _§_nAss-Wmow..

BY J0 ma.
Her husband‘s not laid under grass,
A thing which he should have seen to,
And he was too fond of his'glass _
Which his vanity made him look into.

She is now in the hay-day of outh,
For her inaidenhood is hart ly o’er;
Time‘s scythe has not fallen in ruth
Though the marriage moon is no mower.

You may talk of the Blue Grassm/i bi [Zr-a,
And say that they‘re wealthy in graces,

And their laughter with symphony. Wells,
But where is a face like her face is?

And though a grass-widow, I ween, .
You‘d hardly know what you re saying
If ou’d think for a moment she’s green
or the lover who goes out a-haying.

She's modest, she’s shy, she is wise;—
She wears not the Weeds of a Widow;
No blade finds a smile in her eyes,
And her life is a beautiful meadow.

Her voice is as soft as the breeze

That sighs as it roams through the clover;
Her laugh like the ripple of bees

That you hear ere the harvest is over.

Her days are unbroken h care,

And she is not lacking or sympathy; —
At church she is constantly there

And her Bible is open at Timothy.

A Sight of her cheers as the scene_ .
When the wind o‘er the grasses is wavmg;
And though a grass-widow, I ween,
She’s a crop that is well worth the savlng.

And blest will the husbandman be
Who, while the sun shines, is not idle,
But makes hay while it‘s shining so free,
And wins her dear hand for the bridal.

 

 

fitnund the Camp-Fire.

BY CAPT. “BRUIN” ADAMS.

 

 

The Secret Mission.

ONE night, as I was giassing down the prin-
cipal street in Santa F , listlessly idling away

Once I was importuned to bet, but declining,
I was pressed no more.

As regards drinking it was different, and be-
fore I was aware of it, I felt the fumes of the
brandy mounting to my brain. Late in the
night we prepared to leave. Again I caught
those furtive glances, this time unmistakable
in their character.

A porting drink must be taken, and we
stepped to the magnificent Sideboard upon
which the liquors stood.

At that moment a man brushed past, slightly
touching me with his elbow, and instantly be
gun a profuse apology for his unintentional
rudeness.

I turned and saw that it was one of the dark-
browed gentlemen, and after accepting the ex
cuses, again faced my friend, who hadhalready
poured out the liquors, and stood, glass in hand,
waiting for me to drink.

I remember now that a faint suspicion of
something wrong flashed across my mind, what,
I know not; but, putting it aside, and seeing
my glass ready, thinking I had poured i: out
before the little affair of the jolting took place,
I clinked glasses and swalIOWed the liquor at a
draught.

I recollect leaving the room and standing a
moment on the banquette, but, after that, save,
perhaps, a fant, uncertain memorv of gettit g,
or being put, into a carriage, all was blank for,
I know not how long.

A racking pain in my head, an intense sore-
ness in my limbs, and a difficulty of breathing,
were the first sensations of returning conscious-
ness

It was pitch dark. I felt a chill air blowing
upon my face, and heard a hollow murmuring,
a subdued roar were perhaps a better expres-
sion, as though of water flowing rapidly or
against some obstacle.

Further, I was bound hand and foot, and

agged so securely as scarcely to permit of
(gnawing my breath.

That it was not a dream, I was only too fully
aware, and then he occurrences of the last
hours, Whether few or many I knew not, flashed
across my brain.

It is singular h0w rapidly and how correctly
the mind will sometimes act under such circum-
stances.

As though by intuition I saw through the
whole plot.

The fancied friend, and his kind attentions,

 

the time, and wishing for something to do, I ' the days Of Pleasure'seeking. the Vivi“ '10 the

was accosted by a heavily-cloaked individual,
and abruptly asked if my namo was not ,

dams. l

At first I hesitated in replying, not at allj
fancying the fellow’s manner, but on second i
thought I said that it was, and in return asked 1
why he wished to know. I

“Follow me and you will learn,” was the,
somewhat startlin roposuion; for a man i
would be reckless 1n and to obey such an in-l
junction from _ every or any one he met on the i
streets of Santa Fe; but. prompted by a sudden f
impulse, I told him to lead off. looked careful- 5
1y to my weapons, and fell in behind. Half an i
hour’s walk brought us in front of a. long, low l
adobe house, with shuttered windows and mas- ,
sive door, upon which my conductor knocked, ,
and we were instantly admitted. I

From the street we stepped directly into oi
large, well~lighted room, in which were assem- i
bled some fifteen or twenty men, evidently of t
the better class of Mexicans. ’

I noed not enter into any detail in regard to
this part of my adventure. After assuring
themselves that I was really the person they
were in quest of, they at one- entered upon the 3
business in hand. i

They were the leaders of o. political faction, ,
and wanted a man upon whom they could do- i
pend, to go to New Orleans on a most delicate ‘
and highly important mission. I

How they came to fix upon me I knew not, i
nor did I care. All I asked was that they;
should thoroughly inform me on overy point of t

he matter, and then leave me to accept or de- 3
eline as I thought proper. g

This they did, and after thinln'ng u‘on it at
few minutes, 1 informed them that was at;
their service. i

When could I start, and did I need funds for f
the trip? 1

Within an hour, and I did need money. Let
it suffice for me to say that the mission was a i
delicate one, and, the kindly informed me, '
there might be some anger attached thereto.
Spies, hired assassins, and the like would ho
on my track. 5

I was furnished with all necessary docu~ ‘
merits, amounting but to two iittlo slips off
paper upon which were written some cabalistio ?
words—so they proved—and tho street and;
numbers of the only two houses it would bo
noedful for me to visit in the transaction of my, ,
or, rather, their affairs. In duo time I found;
myself comfortably uartered at the St. E
Charles, and early on t e following morning I i
took a cab and drove to one of the designated ‘
places. I

My reception, after the bankers had read the 1
little slip of paper, was sufficient to show me!
that I was not mixed tip in any second rate
affair, and that they evidently regarded me‘
with a good deal of interest, aside from other
feelings. What puzzled them was my being an
American, and yet employed by that powerful
clique, every member of which could be doomed
by a single whisper into proper ears, if I chose
but, utter it.

That day they would not hear of business,
but insisted on spending it in seeing the city?
and enjoying its pleasures. '

But the day following their whole mannerl
changed.

The other house was consulted, a meeting'
held in a room carefully guarded from outside l
parties, and the business discussed and pushed
to a completion with a rapidity that was almost '
marvelous. The u‘most precautions were tak-
en to keep the affair a profound secret. I was ,
cautioned again and again to be more than,
careful, and watchful, for, were it to be even
rumored that I was there upon such a mission,
my life would be far more endangered than it
ever had been among the savage tribes with}
whom I had so long mingled. I

That was about the substance of their not
altogether pleasant warning.

 

But, secret as we had been, there were eyes i

upon us, and ears to hear us, that no one eVer

dreamt-d of. In a word, there must have been I

taro-bank, the parting drink, the uninten-
tional (t) rudeness of the dark browed stranger,
all formed one link with another until the chain
was complete.

While my back was turned, in the act of re-

; ceiving the man’s excuses, my companion had

drugged the liquor.

What a simpleton I had been not to have seen
througu it all! So I thought. as I lay bound
and gagged in that unknown place.

Presently a door opened, a faint gleam of
light stole in, and, immediately after, three
men, masked, entered, and, without a word,
lifted me up and bore me from the place.

I gave no sign of consciousness, hoping to hear
something of their intentions.

But they preserved a stiict silence, and con-
tinued ounntil the open air was reached. Here
I was instantly placed in a carriage, "which
drove off at a rapid rate.

The drive was a lengthy one, and when at
length the vehicle stopped, and I was lifted cut.
I saw that we had either left the city, or else

a traitor in the camp, though the fact was ' _Were in some one of the many large parks

never ascertained.

Relieved of the affair—for now I had nothing
more to do with it—I determined to spenda
few days in the city before returning to Santa

Ifound the change of life exceedingly agree-
able, at least for a day or two, and with a

chance acquaintance picked up at the hotel, I I

did the city pretty thoroughly.

or gardens that reach down to the water’s
ed 0.

There were trees and thick shrubbery on every
side, save that bounded by the dark, silently-
fiowing river.

No time was lost here.

A low whistle brought a fourth person from
somewhere. A hurried consultation ensued,
and I was again lifted and borne forward,

The next morning, the fifth of my Sojourn, , this time into a skiff that lay moored to the

I had set for my departure, and so informed
my friend.

“ Well, then!" he exclaimed, “there is yet
one place you have not seen, and you must not
leave the city without visiting it.”

This wonderful place proved to be the cele-
brated McGrath taro—rooms, and thither we
went, not for the purpose of playing, but sim-
ply as lookerson.

It was. intie d, a remarkable scene, such a one
as I had never before witnessed, and I soon
found myself deeply interested in observing
what was going on around. During the even—
ing I noticed that my companion appearel
Well known to many who were evidently habit-
ur‘s of the place, and this gave me some little
matter for thought, as he had asserted that he
was any thing but an admirer of the life—in
fact, rather strOngly condemned it.

I ziiso observed that glances, quick and
stealthy, were cxcbanged between himself and
s ywral dark-complwxioned individuals, and
OllCe, by means of a mirror, detected him in
making a significant motion toward mySelf, in
looking at one of them.

Now, this might all be imagination. So I
tIiOilglti'; but my life on the border had given
me a particularly wide awake habit, and I
never permitted anything to pass unnoticed.

bank.

I saw the end now. I was to be tossed over-
board and left to feed the catfish.

A hundred feet from the shore the boat sud-

; denly stopped. I was lifted, for the third time,
I or partially so, and deliberat ly Tullvd UVt‘r into
the water.

In such a condition, and under such circum-
stances, a man would naturally think there was
no chance for him, and so I thought.

But there is always a chance, a hope, as long
as the breath is actually in the body.

I have said they rollwd me over the edge of
the skiff, and, in doing so, one of the turns of
the cord that bound my hands caught upon a

, row-lock, the full weight of my body was

"thrown upon it, it snapped like thread, and
dou‘n I went.

i They must have backed oil' the moment I dis-

'appe-ired. for, when I came to the surface,

, which I did very quietly, the skiff was almost

, lost in the darkness.

] In an instant I had torn the gag from my
moufh. and was, for the time at least, saved.

' Swimming slowly, and without. noise. I struck

, out for a vessel. the dim outlines of wffich I

, could see some distance below, and in ten min-
utes was clinging to her fore-chains.

I Without difficulty I aroused the watchman,

v as hauled up on board, and immediately sub—
jected to a series of questions that came tumbling
out one (iVer the other.

The follon ing morning I returned to the city,
sought not the gentlemen to whom I had borne
the slips of paper, and in formed them of the af~
fair.

They merely looked wise, advised me not to
pursue the matter. but to get back to my na-
ti'Ve ( ) wi‘ds, or some other place, jUst as soon
as convenient. '

I did so, and returned to Santa Fé, where I
again met the secret cont-lave and rendered an
account of my stewardship.

So well pleased were they that they imme-
diately offered me another commission. which,
I need hardly say, I respectfully declined.

 

The Diver’s Peril.

BY THE EX REPORTER.

 

 

SOME years ago, the old Magnolia left her
Whaif at Portland, and, under the most fa-
vora ble circumstances, began her long journey
to New Orleans.

It So chanced that a large amount of Govern-
ment specie was on board, it being in process
of transportation froth Washington to the
above-namrd city, and it also chanced that the
steamer’s boilers exploded just after entering
the Mississippi. tearing the boat to atoms, kill-
ing and wounding a large iiuml er of passen-
gers, and Causing the hull, with its precious
freight, to sink and become bedded in the mud
and slime of the river bottom.

At that time the use of submarine armor was
just coming into practice, and consequently
was neither so pertect in construction, nor so
easdy and successfully handled, as at the pres-
ent day.

The armor itself was exceedingly weighty
and cumbersome, while the apparatus by whic
the diver was supplied with necessary air was
dangerously imperfect and hard to manage.

Nevertheless, there were found men who, for
the sake of large pay, Were willing to risk the
descent, and one of these, a diver from Pitts-
burg, was induced to go to the scene of the
Ma nolia‘s disaster and attempt the recovery
of t e lost gold.

He brought his assistant with him, the man

 

l who was to manage the air pipes, and, an hour
after arriving on the spot, he was ready to
make the descrnt.

The diver was a small, slightly-built man.
evidently of the better class. and a thorough
master of his art, and, withal. perfectly fear-
less. He had recently been married, and had
left in the midst of the marriage festivities, as
it were, to win the large reward offered by the
Government for the recovery of the sunken
treasure.

The assistant was altogether of a different
type of mm. Standing full six feet in his
stockings, straight as an Indian, with enormous
breadth and depth of chest, he presented a pic-
ture of perfect physical development. But,
while his splendid physique could but please the
eye, his face, with lOWering brow, deep-sunken
eyes. and square, brutal jaw, more than coun-
teracted and destroyed any favorable impres-
sion that may have existed.

Three separate efi? irts the diver made to find
the safe in which the gold liy, and as many
times was be compelled to return, unsuccessful.
to the surface, to gather strength to renew the
dangerous effort.

In these attempts the greater part of the day
was exhausted, and now night was near at
hand.

But, anxious to complete the job, and return
to his bride, the diver determined to make one
more effort.

The long, flexible tubes were arranged, a few
words of caution 0r instruction spoken to the
assistant, and once more the uncouth figure
of the diver sunk from sight in the turbid
water

It was observed by those who were attentive-
ly watching the apparatus, that the assistant
appeared strangely nervous, and at times un-
certain in his movements. His scowling face
gleamed deathly white through the twilight,
and his powerful hands were shaking, as
though in a palsy. Suddenly he was seen to
start erect, grmping the rubber apparatus in
his hands, and apparently pulling violently
upon it.

“Here, quick, some of you l” he exclaimed.
“The. air-tube is foul and— Great heavens, it
has parted!” And the man staggered back,
drawing the broken tubes and life-lines with
him a distance of several feet.

For Sew ral moments not a word was spoken,
not a sound beard, save the sullen wash of the
water against the huge chimneys of the
boat, which projected several feet above the
surfaco.

The assi~tant seemed utterly prostrated by
the terrible event. for he knew. better than any
other. that there was no hope for the man be-
neath the fiend.

It was now completely dark. Nothing could
be done toward rescuing the unfortunate man’s

 

 

l

 

 

body, and after lingering near for a short while,
the cr0wd of country people, together with the
assistant, betook themselves to a farm-house
near'at hand.

But scarcely lad the last one disappeared be-
fore a singular—looking object appeared from
behind one of the smoke-stacks. It was the
helmeted head of the diver, who was clinging
to the pulley-lines by which the lar e lanterns
were raised and lowered from the eck to the
to of the chimneys.

Izlrre. clinging by one hand, and working with
the other, the diver, with infinite trouble and
labor, divested himself of the heav “armor,”
letting each piece go as be freed himself from
it, until, at length, all was off. Then, letting
go his support, he struck out for shore, and
landed a few rods below.

In the farm—house a silent, horror-stricken
group sat round the ample fireplace, discussing,
in low, scared tones, the awful fate that had
befallen the helpless diver. ‘

The assistant spoke not at all. He was seated
in one corner, his repulsive face buried in his
hands, so that those present might not see the
look of devilish triumph that rested upon it.

In a pause in the conversation, the quick,
sharp bark of a dog was heard without, and the
next moment a heavy knock sounded upon the
door.

“ Come in,” called the farmer.

The door Swung slowly open, and there,
standing out in bold relief against the dark
background without, was the drowned man,
in dripping garments, and with deathlyrpale
face.

The cries and shrieks of alarm from all
present were dr0wned in tho unearthly yell of
terror that came from the lips of the assistant.

He sprung to his feet, gazed wildly into the
face of the diver, and fell, limp and lifeless, to
the floor.

A few words from the rescued man calmed
the others, and he then told them how it all
came about.

The assistant had willfully, deliberately, bro—
ken the supply tube and life line by a sudden,
though powerful pull. He was at the moment
preparing to descend the companionway from
the hurricane-roof to the cabin-deck, and was
standing with one hand resting on the chim-
neys, and touching the signal halyards that car-
ried the red light up, when he found'that his
supply of air was cut off. He knew it could
not have been an accident, and like a flash of

__.

I was lifted, for the tlfird time. or partially so, and deliberately rolled over into the water.

light the reason of the assistant’
dawned upon his mind.

His only hope lay in reaching the surface
by means of the ropes he luckily grasped.
They proved strong, and hand OVcr hand he
drew himself to the top. It chanced that he
came up upon the other side, and hence was un-
observed.

“I know the reason why that villain wished
my life," he continued, pointing to the still in-
sensible form of the assistant. “He loved the
woman that I have just married. She discard-
ed him, and though he never evinced the hatred
that lurked in ms heart, I now know that it did
lurk there.”

It was only with the utmost difficulty that
the people were prevented from lynching the
miscreant then and there. He was, however,
sent up to Cairo by the first up bound boat,
and there lodged in jail, from which, however,
he made his escape a few nights after.

The diver procured a new outfit, and She.
ceeded in not only recovering the steamer’s
safe, but many other articles of value, besides
his Sllit of armor that he had been compelled
to commit to the deep.

treachery

 

 

Obedience.

 

COMPOSITION BY JOHNNY CHAFFIE.

 

THE disobedience of parents is often the
source of a grtat deal of uneasiness to their off-
spring. Mcn who commit the darkest crimes
generally begin by being disobedient to their
children.

Disobedient parents are often the result of
indulgent children, who intend it for the good
of their progenitors, but are aware, too late,
that it is not beneficient. Of course. parents
have their privileges, and do not relish having
them interfered With, but it is the duty of every
conscientious child to see that they do not
assume too much authority. Parents are natu-
rally presuming,unless they are checked up once
in a while. How often do we see a. home where
there is no peace, no harmony, and no love!
The indulgent kid allOWS not only his parents,
but his grandparents, and relatives who may
be in the house, to have their own way, and
follow the dictates of their own foolish desires.
The child who fails to keep a tight rein on the
reckless parent, is, sooner or later, sure to have
his gray hairs, if he lives long enough, brought
down in sorrow to the cemetery. Parents who
obey their children are the first to obey their
Heavenly Father. What a wise old adage it is
—“ Bring up a parent in the way he should go,
and when he is old he will not depart from it.”
Obedient and good parents make useful men
and women, when they grow up.

 

Unbleachgtlyomestics.

BY ALF RESCO.

 

“Hat ” on Theory and Practice.

“ WHAT are you preaching about, old man i”
“1’s ’bout gun up dat line ob hizness, Mars'
Alf; an’ I’s ’clined ter think dat, fur es most

preachin’ goes dese yere times, do world kin ,

ford ter git. ’long widout it, to’r’ble well.” ’

“ What kind of preaching do you refer to?"

“ Isn‘t pertick’ler. MOs’ any kine. Dey seems
ter treat subjicks ’bout alike, fur ‘98 I kin
dese days. 1 doesn’t cornflne my ’marks ter do

'poolpit. Dar’s a heap ob fine discou‘ses proach
outstde, an’ in numerous numbers ob ways.”

“ I don’t doubt it in the least.”

“ Yas—sir; dey is mighty high-soundin’, an’
day takes wid de crowd, but dey won’t b’ar fol-
lerin’ up. Ef de man what gits of! all dis good
adwice to dem what hungers an’ thirsts ai‘ter
’lightenment, could peg out den an’ dere, or also
light out an’ never be hearn ch in dis hemaspear,
hit ’u’d be a good thing all ’roun’.”

“ Really l”

“ Cou’se hit would. You hes beam demi”

“ Oh, es, indeed.”

“ We! , den, dere ain‘t no needcessity fer mo
ter norate furder on do subjick. Yer kin seo
’bout es fur ’roun’ a corner es mos’ folkses.”

“Just about, I fancy; and therefore I can’t
see what you‘re driving at.”

“Doesn’t yer kn0ws dat day all says one way,
an’ does anoderf Doesn’t yer knows dat dey
talks like dey war all types an’ shadders ob
good things ter come, an’ den goes 0!! an’ acts
like dey didn’t b‘lieve de fust word ’bout hit
dereselves?”

“ Perhaps they don’t?”

“ Oh, I reckons dey does, mos’ giner’ly.
When dey talks sense, dey b’lieves hit, ef dey
isn’t fools. An’ ’tisn’t fools 1’s ’ludin’ at jes’
now. Nobody is a-carin’ what dat class ob do
poperlati'on hes ter say, or how dey cuts up ar-
terward. Fools don’t count nowhar.”

“Only when they pass for wise men.”

“To be certingly. Dey does dat sometimes.
But do elerment ob society what disgusts mo
wid humin natur’ don’t come urnder dat head
by no marner ob means.

“ Heaps ob dem am de smarties ob creation,
an’ dey knows hit. Dey hasn’t no stroublo
‘bout gittin’ a orjince when dey hes a mine tel
speak, an’ hit don’t marter what de subjick am,
dey kin talk like a. book.

“ Call bit preachin’, call hit lecturin’, call it
noratin’ ob ary fashion yer hes a likin’ ter, hit
draws like a blister. An’ dey talks fn’r an’
squar’—preachers an’ pollerticians alike—dero
am right smart what a senserble man kin pick
up out oh what dey lets fall; but when yer its
de fragmin’s tergedder, jes skip, dat’s all. it
may do yer some good in dat case.”

“ If you lin er, what then?”

“ Oh, you ears heaps ob smarties, takin’
fast one side an’ den de oder. Ary one ob dem
knows mo’ dan de man what proach or norated;
jes’ ter hear dem tell it. Ef‘ yer listens at dem,
yer’ll git all mixed, an’ yer'll go ’way, like co
not thinkin’ dat de gen’leman didn’t say nuffln’
arter all dat you couldn’t any better dan he did.

“ But dat’s all poppyvcock. Hit’s de fools
yer hes bin listenin’ at dat time. Ef yor hes do
grace ter go straight ’bout yer business, yer has
made one p’int."

“ In what way, uncle?”

“ Dis-a-wa , boss. Ef you never known
nuflln’ mo’ bout de gushin’ chile ob natur’
what yer hes bin n-hearin’, de words may ben-
erflt yer in right smart ob ways. Ef yer dorg
de chances am dat you is woss of! fer do re-
mainder ob your days, clan of yer hed neber
hearn him open his head.”

“ You take a dark view of things, I see.”

“Dat may be kase 1’s ruther darkcompleo-
ted. But one thing I is sure of. Ef de way
arn’t ter talk one way, an’ mean jes’ de opper—
sito, hit am ter talk squar’ an’ do crooked. I’-
been watchiu’ dem.”

“ I should sa you had.”

“De cander ate fer orfice am all in favior ob
’connermy. Hit am de ’stravagance ob de Gov’-
ment what am clean ruinatin’ do nation an’

ever body else. Hit sounds like Gospill truth,
on’ reckon hit am; but jes’ put dat identicklo
inderwiddlo whar he wants ter git,'o.n’ watch ‘
him. Ihes done bit, Mars’ Alf. Dey is all alike."I

“ A sod reflection, truly l”

“ Yes, 1’s refloctin’ on dem—I knows hit—nn’
dey leaves room for hit. Dey tells yer ’bout do
no-‘connt ’p‘intmonts what hes bin mode, on’ do
gin’ral forlornity dat hes follered in cornso-
quenco. Hit’s de Lor’s trufe, in a numerosity
ob oases. But does doy better it! Jes’ you
watch dero motions. Dey wossers hit.”

“ It’s bad enough, Pm afraid.”

“An’ hit don’t grow no better. An’ all dat
preochin’ an’ noratin’ am speshly designed to:
frow san’ in do orbits ob do public, an’ set dent
tor restin’ on do hope dat do good om comin’,
on’ nigh ’bout orrove.

“Hit useter make me madder dan ten we.
hens, jes’ ter listen at de quantity ob home—
made lies dese yere deceivers ob de public man-
idged to git 017, an’ pass current es ginawino
true bills; but I hes done got ober dat. Hit
don’t rile me now wo’th a cent.

“Ef folkses am willin’ ter be tuck in, time
an’ ag’in, forever an’ etarnally—why, let dem;
that’s all. I ain‘t a-carin’.”

“But do you think, Hark, you are justified in
being so indifferent?”

“What’s de odds, Mais’ Alf? Hit can’t be
holp. All do worrymeiit dat me an’ you, an’
all sincere pay- triotes, from Mister Dinnis
K’arney ter Sargint Mason, can’t do do fus’
thing ’bout reconstructin’ hit.

“An’ jes’ like es not, of we sot out ter try,
we mought fotch 17p same es de ballunce 0b
dem, ’fore we is done. Dar am sometin’ dis-
morilizin’ ’bout it.”

“ You give it up, then?”

“I done gun it up, ’fore de ball got well in
motion. An’ hit hes made me ’bout lose faith in
mos’ eberything else what’s got ter be proach
about, like hit needed a heap ob moril props.

“ Ef do cause am all right, hit don’t need
dem, an’ do people. when dey hesn‘t dere eyes
blinded wid de san’ what hes bin frowed inter
dem, an’ de wool what hes bin clawed ober
dem, kin be left purty safe to dereselves ter
manage ’ligion an’ ebery oder sort an’ com-
dition ob reform.”

" I don’t know that, old man. We need on-
lightenment, now and then—even the wisest of
us.

“ Sartingly; an’ we am allers mighty sure ob
gittin’ it. But it am jes’ what I’s bin a-sayin’.
Ef we is corntent wid listenin’ at what dey is
tryin’ ter say, an’ don’t ’spect (lat dey am
gwine ter preform de fust stroke ob bit, we is
l amin’ somefin’, an’ is none de woss fer it.
But, on de corntrair, ef we pins our faith onter
de coat-tails ob a pollertician what preaches
ecornomy, an’ fills his pockets wid de spiles ob
orfice when he gits dar, we mought es well shut
up shop, an’ he did wid it.

“ Jes’ in de same way. Ef we puts our corn-
fidence in ’ligion, ’ka’se do preacher ‘zorts us ter
lay up treasures in Heaven. an’ lets go our grip
Onter de pomps an’ vanities, an’ all do time he
am heapin’ up de Shekels, I tells you right now,
we is mighty lierr-le, when we loses faith in do
messinger. ter lose hit in de message.”

“ You like to see a little more work, I fancy,
and less talk?”

“ Hit stan’s ter reason, boss. Anybody would.
Hyer I hes bin shootin’ 011’ my bazoo fer de las’
quarter oh 9. hour, an’ dis yere dug-out hain’t
gone no faster dan de current ob de bayou. I
reckon you’ll ’gin tFl‘ lose faith in my Scullin'
preperties ’fore long. Hit wouldn’t sprise mo
ef you did. De worl’ am jes’ about 68 slouch-
ways in one porfession e= another.”

“Always excepting mine, Hark.”

“ An’ what am dat, boss’.‘l l ’clar’ ’fo’gracious,
all de time Is know’d yer, I hesn’t foun’ out yitl’
“ Mine is to do nothing—nothing but talk.”

" Dat perfession am crowded, Mars’ Alf.
Hit’s cl’ar overdid, a‘ready. You jes’ mine
what 1 done tole yer.”

“ What part of it, in particular?”

“ geople talks too much wid dere moufs, es hit
sml

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

_A"XI .

 

 

 

 

 

  
 
 
   

.,4vv.; .v. .- .1

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