make i satn , only house. tis the in the iti, 54, of the to ale rer, | some two, exish knowl: trans: tussiat 391 em niles ot comes na few v eithel rf each nvineel wh betl threatly ar, all es, and he samme ‘arise D8 but be in and 4 ition of een the rk well ilt were ng col ras mor ion tha? pr intel \eyar Lot that, tH? rar sine? othings, do is died 7 was sa 15 youu epure at arthed # sre rede mated ¥ ne, ent patient to only THIS WEEK. THE SEALED BOX; Or, The Trail reser: india. READ iT By ‘ARCHIE VAN. Entered According to 0, gress, v7 ear 1892, b eel a nee n ce of thé Lvorarvan oO ngress wn cording to Act of Congre in the Year 1892, by Slreet & Sn ith, the Offi f the 1 f Co Wash ton, D. O niered as Second-class aller at the New ? N. os ice, July 9, 1892. Sie ane Ent Mat Y., Post-Off Ju », 1892 ae errueta tae neseetenteeteateateattat Saree atte thee yt tyet yet Pat teetee eet ye yt ten ten Mentenne or DaMeeMOer er reh rar MeO Oyerue tel ue ashe New York, ‘July 9 a, 1892. Subscription Priees4 Subscription Price, $2.5 THE SEALED BX The Tra Sa india, By See ee VAN. i paul mo i age | i ON ii ° hel] MSROOM Wi ony AND | RURRAY. DICK DURWOOD AND OLD TOM McQU q TERE ; Ss d 4 O} McQUADE WERE COMPELLED TO WATCH, FROM s I W SN 5S : eae ’ i A DISTANCE, HE DESTRUCTION OF y a UPON FOR MEANS TO RECOVER THE SEALE Ox. N C I 0 HAT THEY HAD RELIED 1810 GOoDpD NEW Ss. THE SEALED BOX; 2 The Trail Through India. BY ARCHIE VAN. + CHAPTER TI. OLD TOM. «<+Oh, would I were a boy again, Give me back my sixteenth spring; I'd rather laugh, a fair-haired Doy, Than reign a gray-haired king’ HAT under the shining canopy XY ‘f, have we here?” Mr. Thomas McQuade inter- rupted himself in the midst of his song, and paused in the act of taking a prodigious pinch of snuff. The suspension of his entertainment, vocal and nasal, was caused by his notic- ing a small boy and still more diminu- tive girl who stood before him, the former raising his hat, the latter crying bitterly. “If you please, sir, can you make it alive again?” : ; The boy indicated’ a small bird which he held in his hand, and looked -expect- antly in the kindly face of the man. he scene was the work-room of a taxi- dermist in» one of the long business avenues in the city of New York. Above, around, on every hand, in fact, were specimens of that art which pre- serves the skins of animals and_ birds so as to almost counterfeit life itself. The taxidermist himself was seated upon a slightly elevated platform before a small table, where he had been engaged in mounting a handsome hawk. “Make it alive again!” repeated Mr. McQuade, musingly, as, having titillated his expanded: nostrils with a generous amount of the brown powder, he closed the box with a snap and looked seriously at his youthful questioner. “Yes, sir; if yuu please.” “Did you hear me singing?” “Yes, sir; and I'd rather be a king, with three fiddlers a-fiddlin’ while I ate a pie with twenty-four birds in it, and then sat in the parlor on a big throne and counted out my money.” “I’d rather be a queen, and eat bread and honey.” As the little girl said this she wiped her eyes and Te on the floor an empty bird-cage which she had been holding. “And you are right, children; from the standpoint of youth, you are right. You wouldn’t be worth the trouble of raising if you didn’t take that view of matters at your age.” “Do you think we’ll get there?” asked the boy, who was watching the expressive face of the man. “‘T do not know. Perhaps you might, But only, children, hear it right: Anh, never to return again, The eternal dawn, beyond a doubt, Will strike on hill and plain, And put all stars and candles out, Ere we be young again.’ “Like the song,” added Mr. McQuade, “that’s not original with me, but I guess it’s true.” “But the bird?” said the girl, by way of recalling the taxidermist from _his|t poetical flight to the business in hand. “T can’t be young, little daughter, but I can feel as cheery as the most youthful. Neither can I make your bird alive again, but I can make it look much as if it were.” : “Can you make it sit up in the cage?” “Oh, yes!” “That ll do.” f “That'll do,” repeated the boy, as he laid the dead bird upon the table. 5 “All right, then. ho’s to pay for it?” The boy looked at his bare feet, and did not reply. [ “I suppose you have no money?” the man went on. ; “He said you’d do it for nothin’,” re- turned the girl. a “Oh, yes!” added the boy. “He said all we had to do was to mention his name, “Yes, sir—Dick Durwood.” “He told you I wouldn’t charge you anything?” 7 “Yes, sir; but the king business made me forget all about it.” “The young rascal !” The children started back as they noted & look like a black cloud upon the man’s ace. Their dismay was only momentary, however, for the cloud soon broke, and a eal, not of thunder, but of whole-hearted Saeater ensued. iy “He sends me more business than I can attend to, that scapegrace of a young Dick,” remarked Mr. McQuade, as his merriment subsided; “and it’s always of the ‘I’m-much-obliged’ kind.” “He gave mother a dollar this morn- ing,” cried the girl, “to buy some medi- cine for the baby.” “Then I’ll stuff the bird, for nothing, since he’s done the same good act to the child. It’s a case of trading work, that’s all. “Oh, thank you!” cried the boy. “Also,” added the girl, with a little courtesy. “Come in the first of the week. Be off now.” Though not frightened at the frown this time, the children scampered away. “TI wonder what keeps Dick?” said the taxidermist, musingly, as he once more took up his snuff-box. “He’s a prince among boys. “4Pd rather laugh, a fair-haired boy, Than reign a gray-haired king.’ ” As the words died away, Mr. McQuade adjusted his spectacles, and turned his attention to the poise of the hawk. CHAPTER II. YOUNG DICK. TT ALLOO! Tom, old-boy!” de] “It's young Dick, at last.” Ay Mr. McQuade pushed aside the bird upon which he had been en- gaged for some time and started to his eet. The first speaker, a tall, well-formed boy of that happy age the praises of which the taxidermist had been so enthusiasti- cally singing, had entered the place, at once the work-shop and sales-room, with arush and hurrah, which told of viva- cious youth, free alike from care and re- straint. “Why do you ao ‘at last?’.” cried . he, as he seated himself upon the small table at the imminent risk of overturning the hawk, and viewing the children’s bird which lay beside it. fa expected you this morning, that’s “T couldn’t come. Father’s not feeling well, and I’ve been down to Temple Court on an errand for him.” “And stopped on the way to work up a pair of customers for me?’ Mr. McQuade pointed to the bird, and smiled. “Well, yes. I knew you were not very busy, and feared you’d get out of prac- tice.” “That’s what I intend to do.” “What do you mean?” “I’m going to quit this business.” “Quit business !” But for the agility of Mr. McQuade in darting to its rescue, the hawk would have been dashed to the floor, so suddenly did Dick spring to his feet. “Yes,” returned the other. “The cus- en you sent me to-day will be my ast.” “ 5 Mr.+—" “Tom! Tom McQuade!” “How long have you contemplated such a move, Tom?” “All day.” . “That's a long time—for you. How did it come about?” “T had a curious dream last night.” “You don’t believe in dreams?’ “Not in the least.” “I don’t see, then——” “Give the old man a chance, and you’ll learn. I dreamed last night that I saw my brother.” “T never heard you speak of him, I hought you had no relative.” “T’ll tell you about it, Dick. You see: ‘ . A loud beating upon the door inter- rupted Mr. McQuade in the midst of his sentence. . “Come in!” shouted Dick, as if the place were his own. E But the impatient caller had not waited for an invitation, but was already in the room. _ He was a well-dressed boy of about the other's age. ; “I’m looking for Dick Durwood,” cried he. “What's the matter, George Raines?” “You’re wanted at home.” “What is it?” “Your father’s sick. I told your house- keeper I ean I could find you.” “T’1l be back later.” With this, Dick Durwood followed the other boy from the place. Once in the street, he took the lead and hurried along without asking a single question. This silence was not to be accredited alone to anxiety to reach home. It was evident that the feeling between the two boys was of none too friendly a nature. heir fathers, William Durwood and Robert Raines, had for some years been partners in the business of importing dia- monds and other p°ecious stones. This partnership had been terminated something more» than a year previous to the opening of our story by the death of Mr. Raines. The affairs of the firm had been prompt- ly settled up, and quite a respectable for- ' tune realized in money, Mr. Raines’ por- tion going to his widow and only child, George. Mrs. Raines was'a woman possessed of but little strengtb of character, and it was soon apparent that George was to be the ruler of the household, He had always been of a proud and |’: overbearing disposition, which, however, the authority of his father had kept under reasonable restraint. Possessed now of a liberal amount of pocket-money, he gave free rein to his fancy, and though not yet seventeen, as- sumed the role of arather fast young man. Dick, who was motherless, loved his father devotedly, and while he was al- ways allowed a great amount of freedom, neyer abused it, but was always obedient to his father and thoughtful and consid- erate of the rights of others. Though the two had been schoolmates, and lived in the same block, they had never been what could be called friends, and of alate a coldness, amounting al- most to ill-feeling, had grown up be- tween them, “T say, Dick,” said George, as the two hurried along. “Well?” “Your father’s well fixed, ain’t he?” “What of it?” “He’s pretty sick.” “T fear so.” Dick quickened his steps as he spoke. “And your mother being dead——” “What do you mean, George Raines?” Diek Durwood stopped short and faced the other. ‘ “Tf the old gent should make up his|$ mind to ‘shuffle off this mortal coil’ you’d be left in good shape.” A flush of anger instantly darkened the other's. face, “George Raines——’ “Oh, don’t get huffy! I was only dis- cussing your prospects.” “Your prospects of a broken head are rapidly improving, you unfeeling rascal.” Dick clenched his hands, and advanced a step. “Street fighting is the height of vul- garity. Don’t be vulgar, friend Richard.” “Look here, George Raines! Never, either in jest or earnest, address meas friend again. I’m much obliged to you for coming for me, and I trust you will never put me under the necessity of saying so |f again.” Without giving his companion an op- portunity to reply, the speaker turned and alked across the street. Without once looking back, he pursued his way. In. a few minutes he entered an unpre- tentious house. : “How’s father?” he asked of the house- keeper, who opened the door, “He had a fainting spell, but he’s bet- ter.” “Where is he?” “In the library with Mr. Joyce, the lawyer.” : “Why, I took a note to him at Temple Court this morning.” sree “And he came in answer to it. Go right in;.Mr. Durwood wants to see you.” Jick found his father seated in an arm- chair, looking nervous and worried. Near him, before a table, upon.which were spread out a number of papers, sat the lawyer. “IT can put off the day no longer, Mr, Durwood,” the latter was saying as the boy entered. : ‘ “Ah, there comes Dick!” cried the gentleman, raising himself in the chair. “Are you better, father?” “Much better; but I am glad that you have come. I’m in trouble. You are not only my son, but my friend and compan- ion as well. Sit down. I want you to un- derstand the situation.” With an anxious face and an ominous sinking of the heart the boy obeyed. : “Dick,” began the lawyer, in obedience to a look from his client, “your father is in a position of great embarrassment. “When the affairs of the late firm of Durwood & Raines were settled up, he assumed the debts of the concern and de- signed to carry forward the business upon his own account. “As you know, a serious illness coming upon him shortly afterward decided him to abandon the enterprise and be content with the modest fortune which he already possessed. “But in the few months in which he operated by himself he had gone into a venture of considerable magnitude in India. “Vine, Blecha & Ropstorff, brokers and bankers at Bombay, with whom he had transacted much business, advised him that a unique and valuable collection of diamonds and other gems were for sale at a great bargain by S. Govinda Row- Sattay, a once enormously wealthy but now impoverished prince of Puttiala, in the northern part of India. “Messrs. Vince, Blecha & Ropstorff agreed to purchase the jewels through an agent of theirs, who was to see them tag packed and sealed, after which hey were to be forwarded through the regular channels to the firm at Bombay, and by them to your father in New York.” “To be_paid for here?” inquired Dick. “No. The money was to be paid to Row-Sattay on the delivery of the sealed packet for shipment to Bombay.” “Wasn’t that a little risky ?” “Oh, no! The merchants of India are roverbially honest, and then the firm of Jurwood & Raines had made purchases there in that way for many years without meeting with asingle loss. Well, your father remitted the money.” “Ninety thousand dollars,” remarked that gentleman. “This valuable packet has not arrived,” continued Mr. Joyce. “Then it is lost?” “T don’t say that—I trust not.” “Tf it is, how about this firm of Vince, Blecha & What’sname being responsible?” “Not if it left their hands with its contents intact. But, then, the question of their responsibility will notarise.” “Why so?” “Because we have advices to-day that the great firm of Vince, Blecha & Rops- torff has completely and entirely failed.” “Then all depends upon the arrival of the packet?” “Exactly. It’s long over-due, but may yet turn up. The worst feature of the case is that certain creditors of your father refuse to await longer for the satis- faction of their claims, and if not paid to-day will to-morrow attach everything he possesses.” “What does he owe?” asked Dick, with admirable self-possession. all he has. not counting this packet, wil! barely realize under a forced sale.” “Tam ruined!” moaned Mr. Durwood. “My son will be left a beggar.” “No, father,” cried Dick, stoutly. “I'll never be that. You’ve given me a good education for my age, which is all you had to make a start with.” “Well spoken,” said the lawyer, with an approving smile. “And if allis gone, which I’m not will- ing to admit, neither you nor I will come to want.” “A package, Mr. Durwood,” 'said the housekeeper, from the door-way. “Bring it right in,” directed the mas- ter of the house, rising excitedly to his eet. “What if it should be the one from Bombay,” cried Dick, a hopeful look sweeping his serious face. : “It is,” said the lawyer, with emphasis, as he took from the woman’s hands a black, oblong box, upon which were a number of red seals. “*Received in good order. Vinc, Blecha & Ropstorff,’” read Mr. Durwood, look- ing eagerly over the other’s shoulder. e 7 it, Joyce.” “Look to the seals first,” warned Dick. “They’re all right. And here are two put on at Bombay by the firm there.” As the lawyer spoke, he produced a knife and began cutting the strong silken cords which were knotted about it. . After this was accomplished he chipped away the seals, and with the aid of a chisel whith the housekeeper had brought at the suggestion of Mr. Durwood, pried it open. Father and son pressed eagerly forward. An_ instant later a cry of mingled as- Seana: and dismay went up from the rio. The box was entirely empty. : CHAPTER III. OLD TOM AND YOUNG DICK, “ THE MALAY’S GRATITUDE. Piacente BY ROGER STARBUCK. —+ aT was a clear day in June, 18—, when bi a boy of sixteen, wearing a midship- man’s uniform, was passing through South street, New York, on his way to the boat, which was to take him ahoad his frigate, the Y—~. He wasa fine, spirited-looking boy, who could not fail of attracting attention, especially from the gentler sex. He had nearly gained Fulton street, when his attention was attracted by a crowd gathered near the,corner. He then noticed a poor little girl, barefooted and attired in a faded dress, occupying the center of a crowd of rough boys, who were hooting and shouting at the little one. She was avery pretty girl of ten years, although her dark skin and the eculiar expression of her face betokened er to be a Malay. Perhaps it was the singularity of some — of her attire that had drawn upon er the ridicule of the boys; for she wore a little hat of braided cocoanut, and a eurious string of beads and coral, while about her waist was twined a broad sash of some kind of matting, doubtless ob- tained from her native isle. The child was weeping and sobbing, vainly requesting her tormentors to per- mit her to pass. Harry Borden, the young midshipman, was a lad of kindly feelings, and it made his blood burn to see the child thus har- assed. One of the boys was in the act of pok- ing the girl’s waist with a sharp stick, when Borden knocked it out of his hand. “Get out!” he exclaimed, “and let her alone.” “What’s it to you?” inquired the other, doubling up his fists. “Give it to him, Jim!” cried another boy... “I’ll back you!” te a moment half a dozen boys rushed toward the young middy, headed by the one who had attempted to use the stick. This fellow Harry promptly knocked down with such a well-directed blow of his fist that the scamp hung back, not caring to meet with a repetition of such treatment. The others, however, would doubtless have closed around and pummeled the boy badly but for the interposition of several policemen, who now drove the gang off. The Malay girl then looked at Harry gratefully, and thanked him in broken English for his kindness. “T had better see you home,” said the gallant lad, “as those boys might try to head you off.” She assented, and he conducted her without farther trouble to her lodgings in’ an old sailor boarding-house near James Slip, where she had informed him she was at present staying with her father, who had come to this country on business. Harry would not stop to go in, as he was in a hurry to reach the boat, the crew of which would not know what had become of him if he remained longer ab- sent. Going along he thought of the little girl, whose beauty had made upon him a powerful impression, young as he was; and he wondered why she had blushed so when she spoke of her father. * * Years passed, and Harry had nearly for- gotten the little Malay girl. He was now a handsome, manly fellow of nineteen, passed midshipman aboard the sloop-of-war Gunther. One evening as the vessel was booming along through the South Pacific Ocean, on her way to the East Indies, Harry went aloft with aspyglass to look at an island, faintly piaibte in the distance, about ten miles off the lee bow. While on the top-gallant yard, a sud- den, unexpected squall pounced upon the ship. rien were promptly given to take in sail, but, ere they could be obeyed, the vessel was down on her beam ends, rush- ing through the mad waters like an angry bull, with everything cracking and rat- tling. The top-gallant sails and royals were at once blown in tatters from the yards, while the. jib-boom, snapping short off, hung trailing in the sea. Meanwhile the shrieking of the wind in the rigging, and the roaring of the vast wilderness of waters made terrific din. When the squall first struck the vessel, Harry had endeavored to get hold of the top-gallant sail, as it was clewed up, to roll it on the yard. The sail, as explained, however, had burst loose from the jackstay, and blown to pieces. The young man was about descending, when there was a crash, as the ship made a tremendous lurch, and away went the top-gallant mast with him upon it. fe was now pitch dark, and Harry, cling- ing to the mast as it hung down, vainly endeavored to make his situation known to those below, above the roaring of wind and wave. Soon the spar, swinging violently, struck the main-brace, and the youth was hurled headlong into the angry sea. He. saw the ship’s lantern receding fast away from him, and the faint outline of the vessel’s huge hull ere she vanished in the darkness. He shouted instinctively, but the next moment a feeling of despair came over him, for he knew that his cry was not heard aboard the vessel in that raging tempest. He was an excellent swimmer, but could not hope to keep himself above water many hours. Something brushed his face as he floated there on the careering seas, and he dimly saw the form of a sea-bird go by him. “I may as well give myself up,” he muttered, “and prepare to die like a man.” Even as he spoke, his hand came in contact with something, which he knew py the feeling was the vessel’s jib-boom, cut clear by some of the seamen. He mentally thanked Heaven for this support, and hope revived within him as he clung to it, lashing himself to it by means of the ropes trailing from the spar. Now, as he drifted on, tossed hither and thither, he heard the mad tempest. still screaming in his ears, while the spray flying all over the vast expanse nearly suffocated him. Anxiously he waited for the abating of the tempest, hoping for a clear moon, which might enable him to see some sign of the Gunther. Hours passed. The first squall was suc- ceeded by several others, and it was mid- night ere the din of their mad career sub- sided. Then the moon came out from be- hind the clouds, throwing her radiance, with weird effect, far over the still agi- tated waters. Harry looked on all sides, as far as he could see, but he beheld no sign of asail. He was weary, and his tongue parched; the thought of suffering from hunger and thirst, made him almost wish he had perished at first, which were better than such a borrible, lingering death as seemed in prospect. The long hours wore on, and the faint light of dawn stole in the east. There lay a few clouds tinted deeper every moment, with the gorgeous colorings from the ris- ing sun. he young man watched attentively the beautiful spectacle. which produced upon him in his then situation an effect both weird and strange. *Yloating—drifting alone, Jashed to a spar on the broad Pacific, his very soul saddened by the vast watery solitude around him. But he raised himself as high as he could on the spar, and looked - round him in all directions. Suddenly a glad cry broke from the 1812 GooypD NEWS. watcher. Far away he beheld a thin line, which he at once knew to be the mast of some vessel. He pulled out his handkerchief, and, waving it as a signal, knew that he was observed, for soon the vessel headed toward him and came on before a spanking breeze. Nearer and nearer every moment. But now a shudder passed through his frame, for there was death in the cut of that vessel’s sail. She was a pirate—a Malay proa—and it had been better for him, he thought, had he not. signaled her. In a short time she came near, a boat was lowered, and the castaway was picked up by a crew of dark, fierce-look- ing fellows, wearing close-fitting ie and with knives in red-and-blue sashes around their waists. They glared fiercely upon him, as they pulled for the proa, and spoke in a lan- guage which he could not comprehend. But one of them, tapping the knife at his belt with one hand, drew his finger across the throat with the other, by way of ex- plaining to Harry that he would be killed the moment they should arrive aboard. Soon they were on deck. The captain, a tall, dark fellow, with black, bloodshot eyes, came and looked Harry savagely in the face. “English dog!” he said, contemptu- ously, “you be our slave, or we quick kill.” Harry well knew that to be a slave to such cut-throats was to be kicked and beaten within an inch of his life. He would sooner die than suffer such a slow death, and so he stated in a firm voice. Meanwhile another person had now come up from the cabin—a Malay girl, evidently the captain’s daugh- ter. On her face was none of the fierce- ness that animated her father’s. Her eyes were large, dark, and soft, and her long hair floated as naturally down her shoulders as the long sea-grass from her native rocks. “English dog! you have said, and you shall be thrown to the sharks.” He made a sign to several of his fierce men, who, pouncing on the young fellow, threw him down, one of. them, while the others held him, about to apply the keen edge of a knife to his throat. At that moment the Malay girl, who had been attentively surveying the face of the prostrate youth, threw herself be- tween him and the upraised knife. “No, no,” she cried. Then she said a few hasty words to her father, the captain, in their native tongue. A look of surprise passed over the man’s face; then his features softened. He spoke quickly to the men, who at once released the prostrate youth. Harry rose to his feet. As he did so, the girl, smiling, said: “You not know me?” He looked at her steadily, and it oc- curred to him that he had seen her face before, though where he could not de- termine. “You no remember day when you saved poor Moha, then little girl, from boys in the great city?” He remembered now. “Ts it possible you are that little one?” he exclaimed, surveying with admiration the beautiful, queenly form before him. “Yes,” answered Moha, sadly and sweetly; “you see me aboard pirate. Me try often to make father no be bad and give up such life, but he no won't.” Here the captain made a_ gesture of stern impatience, and bade Moha go into the cabin. , “Yes,” he said, fiercely; “me try to give up, and go to great city to get work, but you white men all laugh at me and give me nothing to do, Then meship as sailor aboard merchant ship, but the captain beat me worse than ever beat my own men, so me say me go back and be pirate again. But you been kind to Moha, and me love my child; so me not hurt you. Me put you on island where you soon see ship, and white man take you off.” On the evening of the following day he kept his word. y Harry was put ashore, with plenty of provisions, just as darkness gathered. The vessel thén sailed away, and as it went Harry heard a mournful wail, which he knew came from poor Moha. Next morning he was picked up by a merchant vessel bound to New York, where he arrived in afew months. But he was destined to see Moha again. Several years later a number of Malay vessels were captured by a cruiser aboard which he served, Among the prisoners was Moha, whose father had been killed while fighting against the whites. The poor girl begged so hard to remain forevermore with Harry.that he concluded to educate her and make her his wife. He did so, and never had cause to re- a his marriage with the pirate’s daugh- er. weary ———_-_ ~~ 6 > —____—__ Your friend’s regard for you is in proportion |not what to say. PHILIP ALLISON’S LESSON. ie pee ee BY HORATIO ALGER, JR. “PA HERE’S a boy below who would 2 like to see you, sir.” . “Very well; let him come up.” Philip Allison was indolently sip- ping his coffee at a late breakfast. There was no pressing necessity for his rising early. His property yielded him an inde- pendent income, and he chose to make ; pleasure his business. A moment later a boy of twelve was ushered into the room. He held his cap awkwardly in some em- barrassment. “Well, my lad, what’s wanting?” asked the young man, carelessly. “Father sent me with this, sir, and he hopes-you’ll be able to pay.” | hilip Allison took the slip of paper from the boy’s hands. “Ha, my boot bill. ton’s boy?” e “Yes, sir.” “Let me see—fifty-five dollars. I didn’t suppose it was so much. Well, you may leave it, and I’) settle it in a few days.” “Couldn’t you pay it to-day, sir? Father needs the money very much,” said the boy, pleadingly. “That’s what all my creditor’s say,” said Allison, laughing. “I guess he can wait a few days.” A look of deep Singeealeee® over- spread the boy’s face. He well knew how hard it would be for his father to wait, how urgently the money was really needed. But he was a boy, and bashful. So you’re Pendle- beautiful |, fhe handsome breakfast-room, and the careless manner of superiority which Al- lison unconsciously assumed overawed him, and he was silent because he knew Slowly he opened the door and went out. The last glimpse of his sad face touched Philip Allison temporarily. “After all,” he thought, “I have the money with me. Perhaps I should have done better to pay him.’ He was on the point of ringing to have him sent back, but unfortunately he dal- lied toolong inirresolution until he heard the outer door close. “Well, it’s too late,” he said to him- self. “However, I’ll attend to it soon.” Henry Pendleton went home slowly, sad because of the eens he knew. there would be at home when it was found that he had returned empty- handed. His father, James Pendleton, was acus- tom boot-maker, and a capital workman, who would have made a very good living if he could have worked steadily. But he was unable, at least a third of the time, and this was a great drawback, and kept him. constantly behindhand. Another trouble was, that his customers, rich young men, who employed him because they understood his skill, were in the habit of having bills elsewhere, and did not understand why he could not wait for | his dues as well as the larger traders. It was thoughtlessness, but it was none the less hard for him. Henry had yet another bill to present, but unfortunately met with no better success than with Philip Allison. “Tam afraid Henry has got no money,” said his mother, anxiously, peering out of the window, and noticing how slowly he walked. “If he had he would be hurry- ing home.” “No money,” said Henry, a minute later, entering the house. “Didn't you see, Mr. Allison?” “What did he say?” “That he would pay in a few days.” a you tell him how much we needed i “Yes, but he only laughed, and said that’s what all his creditors said.” “T wish he knew what. it was to lack money,” said Mrs. Pendleton, indignant- . “He might be more considerate.” “Did you see Mr. Graves?” pursued. his father. wae ;, he has gone out of town for a fort- ight. Mr. Pendleton sighed. “Tt seems hard that I ean’t get my hon- est dues after working so hard for them. How much money have you on hand, Sarah?" he inquired. ‘ Mrs. Pendleton kept the common purse. Som: a dollar ahevetate cents.” _ “And our rent is already two months in arrears.” “Mr. Brandon has little mercy on de- linquent tenants. I very much lene that he won’t let us remain longer unless we can satisfy him. Is there no way of rais- ing the money?” “None; unless my bills can be paid.” “Can’t you borrow?” “Who would lend me?” Mrs. Pendleton sighed, Two days later the worst which they had apprehended came upon them. Their landlord, a man who cared more for money than for his kind, compelled them n street at an hour’s notice. The excitement and exposure, for it was a cold day, brought on one of Mr, Pendleton’s old attacks, and thus aggravated the sadness of the family. They finally hired two poor rooms, into which they moved with a portion of their furniture. The best of it had been seized by the landlord. * * * * * “Good-morning, Brandon,” said Philip Allison, strolling into his office one morn- ing soon after the occurrences above re- lated. “Good - morning, new?” “Nothing of importance. thousands I should like to invest. would you recommend?” “The most profitable investment you can make is to buy up some cheap tenements, and let them out.” “Have you money invested in that way?” “Yes, and it pays me thirty per cent.” “Thirty per cent! That is enormous. But it is rather hard on the tenants, isn’t Allison, anything I have a few What “Oh, well, they must have somewhere to live!” “Yes,” said Philip, rather soberly, for he had a heart, which Brandon had not; “but that is no reason for charging them extortionate rates.” “Oh, Ido not charge them any higher than others.” “But suppose they can’t pay?” “Oh, I get rid of them!” “Do you often have such cases?” “T had one two days since.” “Indeed |” “Yes, a man named Pendleton. He was owing me two months’ rent.” “Pendleton!” repeated Philip Allison, with sudden recollection. “Do you know his business?” : “He was a boot-maker, I believe.” “What was the amount of his rent?” “Thirty dollars.” Thirty dollars! Philip remembered with compunction that if his bill had been paid, this misfortune would have been spared. : “Where did they live?” he inquired. The address was given. “Do you know where they are now?” “No. It seems to me you take a great interest in them.” “Ido. I fear it is my fault that they could not pay their rent. I was owing him money which I neglected to pay.” “Oh, well, I saved myself!” said Bran- don, carelessly, “I seized furniture enough to cover the rent.” “You did,” said Philip Allison, coldly, surveying Brandon with a glance which the latter did not nnderstanae “Yes; it was my only course.” “Tf I. pay the bill, you will, of course, restore the furniture?’ “Certainly. All I want is my money.” “You shall have it,” said Allison, cold- y. The money was paid and a receipt taken. Allison went out into the street, and, jumping into a cab, ordered the driver to proceed. to the address which had been given him. Arrived there, a little inquiry enabled him to find the Pendletons’ new uarters. He knocked. Henry opened the oor. “My lad,” said Philip Allison, kindly, “Tam come to repair the injury I have done you by not paying my bill more promptly. Is your father in?” “Father is sick,” said Henry, sadly. “He took cold when we were turned out of our rooms, and has not been able to work since.” “I am shocked to learn it,” said the young man, and_ he really looked so, “Will he see me, do you think?” “Oh, yes, sir.” The young man entered the scantily furnished room. Mr. Pendleton was pros- trated by a severe attack of rheumatism. Mr. Allison went up and took his hand. “I deeply regret my thoughtlessness,” he said, “and its unfortunate effects upon yourself. These rooms are not suitable for you.” “They are the best I could get, sir. I was fortunate to get any, as it was known why I was turned out of my last tene- ment. You must excuse the bareness of the place, sir.” “Yes; I know how it came about. But I have a paid your rent, and the furniture will be restored. Now I must find you new rooms. Are there any you have in view that you would like?” Mrs. Pendleton mentioned a _ small house which it had long been the desire of her husband to obtain, but the rent was too high. “I think that can be arranged,” said a young man.. “Now, let. me pay my pill. : He handed Mr. Pendleton fifty-five do)- ars. rent, sir. You forget that.’ “No; Iremember it. That shall bea part of - amends to you for the incon- to your usefulness to him, to turn out of their dwelling into the “But you have already paid for the|P installed in a comfortable house, from which there was no fear of their being summarily ejected, since Mr. Allison had purchased it, and was their landlord. ‘hrough his influence, Mr. Pendleton soon had a list of profitable customers, who paid their bills as they came due. Grown easy in mind, his health has im- proved, and prosperity seems to have dawned upon the family. There is little likelihood that Philip Allison will forget the lesson he has learned. But there are many others whose thoughtless neglect is the cause of unnecessary suffering to the poor and struggling, who, if it could be brought home to them as it was to him, would be shocked at their own cruelty. If any such there be among the readers of this sketch, let them resolve to pay their small debts promptly, lest unconsciously they bring sorrow and dis- appointment to some needy household. —— 9 — 9 — The Most Curious Weapons of War Now In Use. Chg HESE are to be found in Australia, Patagonia, and India, where the boomerang, bola, and chakra are the weapons of war used by the na- tives respectively. The Australian boom- erang is a most formidable weapon, much more so than itlooks. It is made of hard wood in a curve, and is from two feet to two feet nine inches long, by from two to three inches broad. It has one side con- vex, the other flat, with a sharp edge along the convexity of the curve. The curve varies greatly in different instru- ments. The thrower can hurl it with great force in any required direction, even making it return and fall behind him.