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Entered According to Act of Congress, in the Year 1895, by Street & Smith, in the Office of the Librarian of
Entered as Second-class Matter at the New Yori, N.Y., Post-Ofice.

Street & SmiTH, Publishers,
New York.

£9 Rose Street,

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CHAPTER I.
THE

({47 HAT?” shouted Jim Bolt, chief of

a ’ cowboys on the Cross Bar Ranch—

- 2} Want a job—want work—want to
become a cowboy? What, you? Wa-al, durn
my hoofs!’

With this explosive ending he placed his
hands on his hips, close to the butts of two
heavy revolvers, and stood glaring at the

BOY FROM THE EAST.

 

THR R
B v re Tr
ONCO REARED AND PLUNGED, BUCKED AND BIT, BUT IT ALMOST

SEEMED THAT THE PLUCKY LAD WOULD PROVE THE MASTER.

New York, April 20, 1895. ea

2.50 per Year.

‘‘what’s that you say, tenderfoot? |

WAP che GG Ak Ts Ee

Congress, Wash ington, 27.

 

        

“THE BOY CATTLE KING.

A STORY OF THE GREAT COLORADO COMBINE.

BY HARRY DANGERFIELD,
Author of ‘*The Boy from the West,’’ etc.

‘thin, pale-faced boy who trembled and
shrank back before him.

Other cowboys came from the stables and
| corrals and gathered about the big weather-
| beaten man and the timid, shivering lad,
| staring at the latter in open-mouthed aston-
ishment, as if they had never before seen a
creature of that kind. :

“I?ve got to find work somewhere, sir,
declared the boy, his voice unsteady and
husky: ‘‘for I’m out of money, and I must
live. Perhaps I can become a cowboy after I
| have practiced a while.”’

”

  
 
 
  
       
  
    
    

    
     
    
   
     
     
 
  
    
  
  
  
  
   
   
  
    
  
   
   
  
 
  
  
   
 
   
   
   
    
    
  
  
   
  
  
  
  
  
   
     
  
  
   
    
   
  
    
  
  
  
   
  
  
  
   
   
   
  
  
  
  
   
  
 
  
  
   
  
  
  
 
 
  
   
   
  
   
    
 
     
   
 
    
    
    
   
   
 
  
   
   
  
  
     
        
   
   
   
 
  
  
  
    
    
   
   
 

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This seemed to strike the rough listeners |
as particularly funny, for every man}
grinned or burst into laughter, with the ex-
ception of Jim Bolt, who looked blacker
than ever, and glared at the boy with in-
creased fierceness.

‘‘Him be a cowboy!’’ chuckled a thin,
dried-up old fellow, whose pame was
Simeon Dolliver, but who was commonly
known as Silver Sim, on account of a pecu-
liar taste that led him to decorate his per-
son, his saddle, and entire outfit as far as
possible with silver. ‘‘Why, he an’t nothing
much more’n a babby yet! And a _ tender-
foot at that! Youngster, you’d best go back
home an’ stay thar till you kin raise a
beard.”’

‘*Bet a steer he run away from home,’’
said another. ‘‘I’ve seen his kind before.”’

‘He don’t look tough enough to tend
sheep, let alone cattle,’’ observed yet an-
other.

‘*Say, sonny,’’ called a red-whiskered fel-
low, stepping forward, ‘‘does yer mammy
know ye’re out?’’

‘*My mother is dead, sir,’’ returned the
boy, speaking with an effort, and ending
with a hollow cough.

‘*Wa-al, then, yer dad should look after
ye all the sharper, kid.”’

‘*My father is also dead.’’

“Then yer must have a guardeen, an’ it

nan’t be he’s pi assed over the divide.’

To this the lad made no reply, and Jim
Bolt seemed to decide that the time for him
to speak had again come. One big, broad
hand was lifted from his hip and fell with
crushing force on the boy’s shoulder, turn-
ing the lad till the chief of cowboys could
glare straight into his face once more.

“‘Auah!’’ grunted Jim. ‘‘So ye run away
from yer guardeen an’ came out West to be
a cowboy! Been readin’ stories about what
fun it is to be a cowboy, I'll bet a hawse.
Wa-al, you’ll have fun, you will!’’

‘‘Tt is not fun I am looking for, sir,’’ said
the boy, still hesitating in the presence of
the rough men. ‘‘I am not strong enough to
live in the East, Sree

‘So you think ye’re strong enough to be
a cowboy out hyar. Wa-al, that’s ther
blamedest idea I ever heard! What do you
know, anyhow? Can you shoot?’’

‘*T don’t know. I never fired a gun in my
life.’?

As they heard this, the cowboys roared
with Jaughter again; but Jim Bolt never
cracked a smile.

‘*Can you throw a rope?’’ he asked.

‘*Throw a rope—how?”’’

‘*Why, rope a steer—ur anything?’’

**You mean to ask if I can throw a lasso?’’

‘*Huah! We call it a rope out hyar. Only
tenderfeet call it a lasso.”’

‘*Well, I never tried to throw a rope, sir.

‘*Healthy old cowboy you’d make! Don’t
know how to shoot a gun ur throw a rope!
What can you do? Can you ride a hawse?’’

The boy’s face brightened abit, as he
eagerly replied:

‘*Yes, sir, I can ride a horse,’’

‘Bet the only kind he can ride is a saw-
hawse,’’ put in a cheap wag. ‘‘All hail the
great rider of the bucking, untamed saw-
hawse!’?

This caused another burst of coarse
laughter, and a faint flush tinged the lad’s
cheeks for a moment. He straightened up
proudly, declaring:

‘‘Tf [ can do anything, I can ride a horse.
I have ridden all my life. The exercise has
kept me alive, for old Doctor Brown said I
must have died long ago otherwise.’’

‘*Ho, Juan!’’ shouted Jim Bolt, to a
Mexican, near one of the corrals; ‘‘bring
out Dynamite. Hyar’s a young fellow wants
ter ride him.’’

‘* Si, senor,’? and the Mexican horse-
breaker disappeared round the corral toward
the gate.

‘*What’s yer name, tenderfoot?’’ inquired
Silver Sim.

The boy hesitated a moment, and then re-
plied:

‘*You may call me Don Kirk.’’

‘*Hooraw for Dandy Don, the cowboy !’’
cried the red-whiskered fellow. ‘‘Wait till
Juan brings out the bronco, an’ he’ll give
us some points on ridin’.’’

The boy set his teeth, and his face grew
stern and determined, as if he had madea
resolution to show them he could ride, for
all of their sneering. Now and then he
coughed behind his thin, delicate hand in an
unpleasant way, and, despite his clear,
bright eyes, it seemed apparent that he was
in the second ste ige of consumption, at least.

Under other circumstances, the physical
weakness of the lad might have appealed to
the sympathy, of the rough men; but they
had very little regard for any "boy who
would run away from a good home in the
East and come West with his head full of
foolish notions concerning the romantic life
of a cowboy. “They had seen such silly lads
weaken and cry baby too often to have pity
on one they believed belonged to the class.

In a short time Juan swept around the
corral on the bare back of a scrubby and
vicious-looking bronco, came lunging intc
the midst of the throng that scattered be-
fore him, and nearly ran down the boy
from the East, who made no move to get

9?

9?

| young man gets on,’’ directed the chief of

‘“‘Jest hold fast ter him till this hyar

cowboys. ‘*Hold fast, an’ look out fer his
heels.’?

‘*Carramba!’’ exclaimed Juan, surveying
the boy. ‘‘Dynamite will keel him dead!’’

‘*Wa-al, he says he can ride, an’ he wants
to become a cowboy. It’s best ter give him
a good dose ter start with. I reckon it will
cook him in short order.’’

This made Don set his teeth all the harder.
He had heard of bucking broncos, although
he had never seen one “before, and now he
was determined to ride the beast if the
ability lay in him.

Up in the open rear door of the great
stable, another boy, about Don’s age, was
watching the scene with some interest and
curiosity, as he lazily puffed at a -paper-
covered cigarette. He was well-dressed—too
well-dressed, in fact, for he wore tailor-
made clothes, stiff hat, patent-leather shoes,
white shirt and standing collar, with a gor-
geous tie of the very latest design. There
was a haughty look on his face and a con-
temptuous curl of his lip as he watched the
pale-faced boy and the cowboys.

This was Aubry Beauchamp, son of
Warren Beauchamp, the owner of Cross Bar
Ranch. Educated in an Eastern college, he
had lately came back to the West, where he
was making himself particularly obnoxious
about his father’s ranch by his overbearing
ways and the contemptuous manner in which
he treated everybody he considered his in-
ferior.

‘*Look at those cattle,’’ he muttered, con-
temptuously, as he watched the cowboys.
‘‘They make me very ill! I wonder what
they are doing with that strange boy?’’

Springing down from the door, he ap-
proached the group, just as Don, aided by
the willing hands of several grinning cow-
boys, managed to get astride the restless
bronco.

‘‘Stand clear!’’ shouted Silver Sim.
‘*Hyar he goes!’’

Then the men fell back precipitately,
leaving Don, mounted on the bronco, in the
center of an open space.

For a moment the animal stood perfectly
still, looking over its shoulder at the boy in
an inquirizg manner. Then, setting its ears
back, showing its teeth, and giving a vicious
squeal of anger, the cree ture le: uped straight
into the air, coming down with its four feet
close together and its back ‘‘humped.’’

The movement was so sudden and unex-
pected that the boy from the East was sent
bounding like a rubber ball, turned com-
pletely over, and landed flat on his back on
the grass, causing the cowboys to dance and
howl with delight.

Pausing near at hand, Aubry Beauchamp
surveyed the scene, a cynical smile on his
vace, as he airily puffed at the cigarette.

The overthrown boy was somewhat dazed,
but he quickly scrambled to his feet, made
a spring for Dynamite, caught the beast’s
mane, and was again on its back in the
twinkling of an eye.

Then the bronco resorted to other tricks,
and for a few moments its movements were
wild and grotesque, while the lad who
wished to become a cowboy clung fast for
dear life. For a time Don managed to stick
to the creature, but the vicious beast finally
threw him again, this time more heavily
than before.

Don arose slowly, coughing, but with his
eyes gleaming still with a desperate resolve.
Once more ‘he rushed at Dynamite. This
time the creature whirled and kicked, and
the tenderfoot would have been injured
severely had he not been so close to the
horse’s heels. As it was, he was flung twice
his length, struck the ground, rolled over
and over, and then sprang up again.

‘‘Great smoke! but he has grit!’’ mut-
tered Silver Sim, asyhe saw the lad rush at
the bronco a fourth time.

Avoiding Dynamite’s twinkling heels, Don
succeeded in mounting again, and this time
he clung longer than before, seeming re-
solved to stick fast or die in the attempt.

The bronco reared and plunged, snorted
and squealed, bucked and bit, but it almost
seemed that the plucky lad would prove the
master. All at once, as if enraged by Aubry
Beauchamp’s derisive smile and contemptu-
ous manner, the bee ast rushed open-mouthed
at the ranch-owner’s son. It seemed certain
Dynamite would have trampled the boy
down had not three or four.of the cowboys
flung themselves at its head and clung there,
while Jim Bolt shouted to Don:

‘‘Jump, kid—git off! git off! You can
ride—some.’’

Don was only too glad’ to get off, and he
did so as quickly as he could. Then the
chief of cowboys turned the bronco over to
Juan, who took the creature away.

Sim Dolliver was about to congratulate
Don when Aubry Beauchamp came forward,
pale-faced and trembling with passion.

‘*What do you mean?’’ he eried, address-
ing the boy from the East. ‘‘ You tried to
run over me!’

‘*T beg your pardon,’’ said Don, respect-
fully, ‘‘I did not try to run over you. The
horse did that.’’

‘*You pulled the beast toward me—I saw
you. deliberately do it! You made me
scramble and run like a child to get out of

 

out of the way.

‘‘Here you have him, senor,’’ cried the, the way.”’

Mexican, leaping to the gr ound, and bow- ;
ing, sombrero in hand, to Jim Bolt.

CGooD NEWS.

  

the face of danger, and the cowboys, who
did not like him anyway, would now think
still less of him.

‘*You are mistaken,’’ asserted Don, as
calmly as he could speak under the circum-
stances, his words breaking with a short
cough. ‘‘I did not pull the horse toward
you.’’

‘*Do you call me* a liar?’’ grated Aubry.
‘*You young nobody! Take that!”’

Smack !

ine speaker’s apes hand struck the cheek

‘ the other boy fair and square.

“C rack!

Like a flash Don Kirk’s fist ‘shot out and
was planted full between the eyes of the
rancher’s son, sending Aubry Beauchamp to
measure his length on the grass.

CHAPTER II.
BOY AGAINST BOY.

;'T wasa pretty blow, delivered with the
4 quickness of thought, and with aston-
ishing strength for one who looked so
‘S> delicate and slender.

Cries of mingled surprise and admiration

 

not expected to witness such an exhibition
of energy and pluck on the part of the
young tenderfoot.

‘Great ramping blizzards!’’ squealed
Silver Sim, unable to repress his delight.
‘*Wasn’t that a dandy! Did you ever see
the beat of it, pards?”’

‘*Shut up!’’ promptly cautioned Jim Bolt,
‘*The fool tenderfoot’s struck the boss’ son,
and that means trouble. The man who don’t
want to get into it deep had better keep his

their own scrimmage. ’’
The men knew this was good advice, for
Aubry Beauchamp was the apple of his

they still drew farther back and _ stood
watching the two boys.

Astounded beyond measure by his sudden
and utterly unexpected overthrow, young
Beaucbamp sat up and stared at the thin,
trembling, white-faced boy who stood with
hands clinched, lips pressed together and
eyes flashing, gazing down at him.

All about them was the trampled grass, at
the edge of which the cowboys had formed
an irregular circle, while a short distance
away were the ranch house and outbuild-
ings, with the corrals to the left, and the
fertile valley lands of Warren Beauchamp
to the south, where bunches of cattle could
be seen grazing here and there. Over all
was a cloudless, sunny sky that seemed- to
smile down on two boys who were glaring
into each other’s eyes, their faces distorted
by passion.

Aubry lifted one hand to his forehead, as
if still doubting that he had really been
knocked down by the other boy. But there
was no chance for doubt, as he soon com-
prehended, and he leaped to his feet, utter-
ing a cry of fury. ;

You’ shall pay for this!’’ he declared,
showing his white teeth—‘‘and pay dearly! |
I’ll make you beg!’

‘*You can’t do it!?’ was the defiant retort.
‘‘You are bigger and stronger than I, but
you can’t make me beg. Garvice Seely never
could do tunat, and he nearly beat the life
out of me more than once.’’

‘We’ll see whether you’ll beg or not!’’
grated Aubry.

‘*Come on! If I’ve got to fight you, I’m
ready.’ :

‘Bah! Do you think I would fight with
you? | Not much! I?ll fix you in a different
way.

With a spring, the rancher’s son reached
the side of a cowboy who held a heavy, long-
lashed bull-whip. In a twinkling the whip
was snatched form the man’s grasp, and,
whirling it above his head, Aubry turned
back to face the boy from the East.
but a very thin veneering over his natural
character, the cattle magnate’s son knew

something of rough life on the ranges, and

with considerable skill, as well as ride, shoot
and throw the lariat.

more, as he rushed at the unarmed boy,
to such a weapon as the whip, and could not

yet quite understand that Aubry really
meant to use it.

the report of a pistol.
son, as he swung the lash again.

awaken from his stupor.

same weapons I possess—my bare fists!?’

returned Aubry, as he struck again.

 

Aubry’s dignity was injured, for he knew
"he had betrayed the most abject terror in

came from the lips of the cowboys, who had |

trap closed. Let the two youngsters settle |

father’s eye, and the person who dared |
meddle with him in any way would be made |
to suffer by the wealthy cattle magnate, so |

For all of his Eastern polish, which was

he could wield the cumbersome bull-whip

‘‘T17]] make you beg!’’ he grated once

who seemed utterly taken by surprise, as if
he had not expected his antagonist to resort

‘*That’s only a taste!’’ cried the rancher’s
Then the boy from the East seemed to

‘*Coward!’’ he shouted, huskily. ‘* You do
not dare meet me fair and square with the

‘‘T said I’d make you beg, and I’Il do it!’’ | to find themselves face to face W!

Stung to a perfect tempest of fury by the
cutting lash, Don rushed blindly at his foe,
got inside the other boy’s guard, clutched | still grasped in his hand.
; him about the neck and tried to throw him.
However, Don was no match in strength dark-faced man, stout and rugge

| for young Beauchamp, and Aubry quickly
| broke away, casting the infuriated tender-
foot to the ground.

Springing back, the lad with the whip
| struck again, just as Don was rising to his
knees, coughing, but unconquered. The lash
twined about the body of the gritty but un-
fortunate boy, and ‘he toppled over once
more.

‘*Tt’s a durned shame!’’ muttered Sim
Dolliver, aroused at last. ‘‘Ef thar don’t
nobody else take the part of that thar ten-
derfoot, why I’m goin’ ter!’’

‘You won’t meddle!’’ promptly declared
Jim Bolt. ‘‘This an’t none of your funeral,
an’ you’ll keep out.’’

‘‘Great smoke !?? squealed Sim. ‘‘Do you
propose ter stand still an’ see that kid with
the hackin’ cough cut to death with the
whip?’’

‘*f don’t propose to meddle with Mr.
Beauchamp, an’ I don’t propose that any-
body else shall, fer I know his father’d fire
me instanter if anything of the kind hap-
péned. The galoot that puts his hoof in hyar
will have ter climb me.

They all understood what that meant,
for Jim Bolt had a ‘‘record,’’ and the hand
that rested carelessly on his right hip was
now seen to creep a bit farther back toward
the butt of a big revolver that hung ‘‘con-
venient for the draw.’’ Little danger that
any one there would interfere after that
warning.

Again Don Kirk struggled up, and, de-
spite the blows of the terrible lash, he
gained his feet and rushed at young Beau-
chi amp. This time he closed in, caught the
rancher’s son about the waist aa managed
to throw him, at the same time ‘*butting’’
him fiercely in the face with his forehead.

Something like a muttered exclamation of
satisfaction came from the eagerly watch-
ing cowboys.

Then Aubry turned his slender and weaker
foe, tore away, and got up, whip. still in
hand. His face was now dark with passion,
and he delivered blow after blow with all
the strength of his arm.

Don Kirk writhed and squirmed on the
grass, partially rising time after time, but
falling back ‘before the terrible lash that
could cut the hide of a bull like a keen
knife. His face was ghastly pale, but his
eyes still blazed, and bis spirit was uncon-
quered.

‘Beg!’’ cried the cattleman’s son. ‘‘Beg;
or I’l] never stop!’’

Not a word—not asound. Up to his knees
the boy from the East rose once more, par-
tially got upon his feet, his eyes showing his
determination to again “hurl. himself at AU
bry’s throat; but his str ength was not suffi-
cient for the effort, and he staggered, stum-
bled, went down before the merciless lash.

Then, lifting himself to his elbow, hé
looked ,squarely at the other lad, as hé
faintly cried:

‘““You’d better kill me, for if you don’t
I’ll make you suffer for this some day !’?

Then, as the lash hissed through the aif
again, the gritty tenderfoot gave a loW
moan and sank prostrate on the trample
grass, motionless and prone, conquered i
body, but not in spirit.

Now, all at once, Jim Bolt leaped forward
and grasped Aubry Beauchamp’s wrist, 4"
resting the blow that would have followe@:

‘‘You’d best not hit him again, Mr. Beat
champ,’’ said the cowboy, respectfully.

“Let gol’? panted the rancher’s so
‘‘How dare you touch me? I will hit hiv
age 1in! He’s got to beg!’’

‘-He can’t beg now.”’

**Can’t???

*6No.?

‘*Why not?’’

‘‘Because he has fainted, sir.’?

Aubry stared at the prostrate boy in 8
tonishment, anid then he saw the cow 004
had spoken the truth. Beaten down and ové
come, the slender lad had been robbe :
consciousness by the terrible Pony Bree
and his own weakness. He now lay va
trate and pallid on the grass, his w nite £ —
upturned to the sky that had steadily smi
down on all his agony of body and spirit. ing

‘‘Let go,’? said Aubry, huskily, st@ ei
at that ghastly face; ‘‘I won’t hit
again.

“CAT right, sir,’’ and the chief of contol
fell back a step. ‘‘I beg your pardon gt
grabbin’ ye, but I thought you wou
want to let him have it any mor e—nOW had

‘‘That’s right. I hope I haven i
him! The fool! Why didn’t he beg? , ajf

‘‘He an’t built that way,’’ muttered AU
ver Sim, under his breath, glaring 8” nd

 

3ut Aubry did mean to use it. Back went | bry’s back. ‘“One of him’s worth a thom neD
his hand, and the long lash circled in the| such as you, an’ ef he lives, Pl bet
air, following which it shot forward and
cut about Don Kirk’s body with a crack like se.

prove it some time.’’

CHAPTER III.
FACING THE MOUNTAINS. oF
s : 3 al.
HAT’S this—what’s the ee 0
of this??? demanded a Sbé
miliar voice.
Aubry and the «

 

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Beauchamp, the cattle magnate. , qu aby
Not one of the cowboys spoke, aul whl?
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Warren Beauchamp was a thick, sper

     

            
         
         
       
      
 
      

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as if he had never seen an ill day in all his
life. He was dressed something like his own
cowboys, roughly, with spurred boots and
wide-spreading sombrero, but there was no
weapon visible about his person. He wore a
black mustache and imperial, and was
smoking a twisted Spanish cigar.

The rancher stared in astonishment at the
prostrate body of the unconscious boy,
whose clothing had been cut through again
and again by the lash of the bull-whip.

‘¢What’s this?’’ herepeated. ‘‘ What’s hap-
pened here?”’

Still no one ventured to answer him.

“Speak up!’? commanded the man,
sharply, lifting his eyes from the boy on
the grass to the boy who still stood mute,
whip in hand. ‘‘Has there been an accident,
Aubry?’’

The college-bred Western lad raised his
band to his face, which bore the bruise of
Don Kirk’s desperate ‘‘butt’’ in self-defense,
and then he slowly said:

‘*He struck me.’’

Warren Beauchamp looked astounded.

‘*Who struck you—who dared?’’ he hotly
demanded, glaring around at the circle of
cowboys.

‘*Tt was that fellow there,’’ explained Au-
bry, pointing the whip toward the motion-
less body of the boy from the East. ‘But I
paid him back for it, by Jove! and I paid
him good. I don’t believe he’ll try the trick
again very soon.’’

‘«This is surprising—surprising,’’ repeated
the ranchman. ‘‘How did it happen—tell me
how it happened?”?’

It is possible Warren Beauchamp recog-
nized something incongruous about the
situation, for he could not fail to see that
the unconscious lad was much slighter and
more delicate than his own son; but he had
all a father’s unshattered trust in Aubry,
and he would have taken his boy’s word
against that of the entire world. Aubry had
ever been cautious in his statements to his
father, tempering them so they could not
possibly be construed as falsehoods, but must
seem misunderstandings of his meaning, in
case proof positive to their inaccuracy was
placed before Mr. Beauchamp. In this way
the young rascal had retained his father’s
most implicit confidence, even while he often
led him into an utterly false belief.

Aubry’s brain worked swiftly on this oc-
casion. He saw it would not be policy to tell
his father he had struck the tenderfoot first,
and, at the same time, he could not deliber-
ately state he had nof struck him first, for
the cowboys were listening, and they had
Witnessed the whole wretched affair. Again
he must lead his father into a false belief
Without telling a bare-faced lie,

‘This fellow was out here trying to show
off,’’ he said, speaking deliberately. ‘‘I be-
lieve he ran away from a home in the East
somewhere, and came out here to be a cow-

oy or hunt Indians. He thought he’d show
the men how he could ride, and they were
having some sport with him, for he knows
about as much about riding as a steer knows
about Latin. All the same, he knew enough
When I came out here to watch the sport to
pull the bronco round and try to run me

down, I suppose he was mad because I
laughed, Then, evhen I accused him of the

dirty trick, he told me I lied. Of course, I
Was hot, but it made me hotter when he
Struck me all at once when I wasn’t looking,
and knocked me over, so I—’?

““What’s that??? cried Mr.. Beauchamp,
More astonished than ever. ‘‘Struck you
and knocked you over? He did?’?

‘* Yes, but I wasn’t looking, father—don’t
forget that. If I had been——”’

“Why, you ought to break him in two!

ou did do him up?”’ eagerly.

‘I rather think I did. I gave him a lesson
he will not forget for a while.’’

‘I thought it couldn’t be you took boxing
Ssons three years for nothing.’’

i “Oh, I didn’t fight with him—I wouldn’t
wer myself to fight with him,’’ said Au-
ry. loftily.

You didn’t? Then how—— Great Jupiter!
You don’t mean to say you shot him?’’

The rancher’s face assumed an expression
the 8enuine alarm as he took a step toward

© prostrate figure.
Rid is no,’’ half-laughed Aubry. eo simply

1m the way I would an obstinate steer

le

weve him the quirt till he had quite

®nough,??

sat Was evident that Warren Beauchamp
peht have been better pleased. He shook
8 head slowly, saying:

Sar am afraid you permitted your anger to
Meee too far, my son. You seem to
Biddeni<= him pretty roughly. And then,
in uy realizing the cowboys were watch-
added. listening to- every word, he hastily
j ; fou had great provocation—that
done th Any one in your place might have
Up—hn same. He seems to be quite used
i hocked out. I'll have him brought

Sexy house and. straightened up right

bya eh he directed some of the men to lift
leag; Gy of the unconscious lad and follow,
Jo ue the way to the house.

hi Be, Caine about that when Don opened
Comfort, ene found himself stretched ona
Spots eh: le cot, while his bruises and the
cut ae the lash of the bull-whip had
banda 8 flesh had already been bathed and
Slice Sed by one of the cowboys who had

Practiced medicine,

 

| pened,’?’ continued Mr. Beauchamp. ‘‘I don’t

 

GOOD

Warren Beauchamp was pacing restlessly |
up and down the room, in which he was
now alone with the boy from the East.

Uttering a short exclamation of surprise
that was broken by a cough, Don attempted |
to sit up, but fell back, astonished at his
own weakness and the soreness and pain that
seemed in all parts of his body.

‘*So you have come round at last,’’ said
the rancher, stopping and facing the cot.
‘‘T am glad of it. I have been waiting for
you some time.”’

He spoke as if the unfortunate boy had
perpetrated an offense by remaining uncon- |
scious so long and thus keeping him waiting.
Don looked at him in mute surprise.

‘* am sorry—very sorry this affair hap-

know you or anything about you, but you
should have had judgment enough not to
strike my son.”’ |

‘* He struck——”’’

‘“*‘T know all about
rupted the rancher. ‘‘I have heard the en- |
tire story. Of course, Aubry is not free|
from blame,’’ he reluctantly admitted, ‘‘but |
you should have known better. I am his|
father; this is his home, and——’’

With sudden fierce energy, Don sat my
|

it,’? sharply inter-

crying: .

‘*Let me go! I'll goat once! From this
day your son and myself are enemies, and I
have sworn that some time I will make him |
suffer for the cowardly beating he gave me!
I’ll keep my word, if I live!’

‘‘Great Jupiter!’’? exclaimed Warren
Beauchamp, in amazement, staring at the
excited boy. ‘‘You’ve got the temper of a
wild-cat! It is remarkable—really remark- |
able! Do you dare tell me you cherish
schemes for revenge on my son?’’

‘‘Yes, sir. More than that, he tired to)
make me beg, and I’ll] yet make him beg. I
came here for work, willing to do anything |
for my keeping; but I wouldn’t stay now
for a hundred dollars a month! I'll find!
work somewhere, and I’m not going very |
far away. Il’ll stay near and wait for my |
turn. It will come!’’

He rose to his feet and walked toward the |
door, all his usual strength seeming to come |
back with the knowledge of his position. )
Mr. Beauchamp would have stopped him, it |
being his intention to find out something |
about the boy’s history, and how he came |
to be looking for work in the West, but Don |
repulsed the man with one defiant gesture, |
and hastened from the room and the house.

‘*Well, let him go,’’ muttered the rancher.
‘¢Why should I bother my head about him.
I did intend to offer him money, if he
needed it; but ten chances to one the savage
young rascal would have thrown it in my
face. I’m sorry Aubry used the whip-on
him, but—let him go.”’

And he decided to dismiss the matter from
his mind then and there.

Don was hurrying from the ranch as fast
as he could travel when old Sim Dolliver
overtook him and thrust something into his
hand, saying:

‘‘Hyar, tenderfoot, this yar’s ther bundle
you drapped when you tried ter ride Dyna-
mite; an’ I want ter say you come a durned
sight nigher ridin’ him than ary one of the
crowd reckonedsye could. An’ you’ve got |
grit—heaps of it. The way you stuck to the
bucker, and the way you tcok the beatin’
from the boss’ son showed that. I call that
dirty, an’ I would have interfered ef I’d
dared. Jim said no, an’ he had his hand on |
his hip when he said it. It wasn’t healthy
to take a hand in the game after that, you
bet! All the same, it near twitched the
gizzard out of me to see you cut up with the
whip after that fashion. Ef you two’d been |
bare-handed, both of ye, durned ef I don’t |
judge you’d gin him a hard scrimmage. I’d |
liked ter seen ye licked him, though it’d cost |
me my job ef anybody else knew I said so.’’

‘*No danger of my telling, sir,’’ said Don;
‘fand I thank you for your kind words and
for bringing me these things. I should have
forgotten them. They are not much, but
they’re all I have now,”’

‘*Poor tenderfoot!’’ muttered Sim, glanc-
ing around. ‘‘But I mustn’t be seen talkin’
to ye. I thought you might need something
to eat, and I tucked a bit into the bundle.
Ef you want work, mebbe you’ll find it with |
Enos Dingle, as keeps a sheep ranch up thar
in the maountings over yon. He has a hard
time to git any help, as sheep-herdin’s looked
on as onery out hyar, an’ nobody wants that

 

:

kind,of a job. It an’t so bard as this yar
kind of work, either, an’ that’s'in your
favor. 1 hope you’ll have luck. Good-by.
Don’t forget Sim VDolliver. I’m your
friend.’’

‘‘T won’t forget you,’’ promised Don,

‘‘and I thank you again. I'll try to find the
sheep-herder’s.’?

‘*Keep straight toward the south side of
the split peak over yon. ‘You'll find a pass
tharabouts that’ll take ye right to his ranch.
Mebbe we’ll meet again some day, little
pard.’’

‘*Tf you remain on this ranch it is pretty
certain we shall, for I am coming back some
time.’’

‘*Comin’ back hyar! What for???’

‘“*To call on a certain young man with
whom I have a very large account to set-
tle,’? was the reply.
debts.’ That is my motto.

 

Good-by.’’

He grasped the hand which Silver Sim!

impulsively extended, and then they parted,

Author of ‘Between the Lines,”

| right to expect; but it can’t be long before

‘* ‘Always pay your!

  
      
  
 
 
 
 
  
    
   
   
  
     
  
  
    
   
      
     
   
  
  
 
   
   
  
 
 
    
    
    
    

NEWS.

the boy setting his face toward the moun-
. 5
tains, and never turning to look back till
he had dwindled to a mere speck on the |
plain and vanished from view in the purple
haze that seemed to creep out from the base
of the rugged range.
(TO BE CONTINUED.)

+0 eo ——
[This Story Will Not be Published in Book-Form.]

A PRISON OF ICE;

OR,

ALICE GARTLAND’S RESCUE.

es

A SYORY OF ARCTIC EXPLORATION.
BY LIEUT. JAMES K. ORTON,

> “Tom Havens
With the White Squadron,” ete.

JA PRISON OF ICE” was commenced in No. 247.

Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]}

CHAPTER XXXII.
A SURPRISE.

HEN the line of march was taken
up again there appeared to be no
signs that the natives were coming
<2) in pursuit.

They could be seen moving back and forth
at the edge of the crevasse, evidently hunt-
ing for a trail, and Neil said, as he gave the
word for the flight to be continued:

‘They have allowed us to stay here a full
hour, which was more than we had any

   

the method of our leaving will be known.
It should be possible to make the journey
from this point in three days, if we continue
on at a moderate gait.’’

‘‘We will do our share,’’ Alice replied,

CO enn any STS

4131

conversation was indulged in from that time
until all save the sentinel were wrapped in
slumber.

On the following morning it seemed to the
fugitives as if it would be absolutely impos-
sible to continue the flight.

Each was footsore, suffering from severe
pains in the eyes, caused by the glare of the
sun on the snow, and it required all the
will-power that could be summoned to so
much as stand upright.

‘*Don’t you think we could make a longer
halt here?’’ Alice asked, and Neil replied:

“‘If you say it is impossible for you to go
any farther, we shall be obliged to do so. I
know how you feel, and would be only too
glad to stay here a while myself; but the
danger is too great to admit of it if you can
manage to move.’’

Alice said no more; but both the girls
hobbled painfully along, depending upon the
boys for support, until noon, when both
gave out entirely.

‘‘] have kept up just as long as I can,”’
Alice said, sinking down upon the snow with
a faint moan.

Neil spread the blankets at once, covered
the girls with them, and then withdrew a
short distance to discuss this new phase of
the case with Spence, for matters were now
serious indeed.

‘‘Tt is almost the same as suicide to stay
out here twenty-four hours, even if the
natives have no idea of pursuing us,’’ he
said, ‘‘and I——’’

Spence interrupted him by a low cry of
alarm as he pointed toward the west, in the
direction which they had been traveling.

‘*Look! Three dog teams coming this
way! That explains why we have seen noth-
ing of the natives in our rear.”’

‘*What do you mean?’’

‘“‘That those fellows from the crevasse
knew of a road to the coast without going
over the range, and have circled completely
around us. The time has come when we

 

speaking for herself and Keemie, and then
the little party began the ascent of the
range.

They were able to move much faster going
down than when ascending; but at the same
time it was far more dangerous, for a single
misstep might disable or kill the one who
was so unfortunate as to make it.

In many places the young ladies were
lowered by means of the blankets, and more
than once did Neil or Spence find it all that
he could do to prevent an ugly fall.

It was noon when they were finally on the
plain below, and then came the long stretch
which must be traversed at the expense of
most severe exertions.

The weather was yet mild, almost too
much so for comfortable traveling, and the
girls were forced to throw off their outer
coverings of fur because of the heat.

When night came the natives could not be
seen, and the boys made-~ preparations for
sleeping by building an apology for a tent
with the blankets and rifles.

It served to break the wind in a measure,
which was better than lying on the damp
ground with no shelter whatever, and but
one of the boys would share it with their

must fight,’’? and Spence stepped quickly

| back for his rifle, which had been left near
|

the blankets.

The strangers were approaching rapidly,
and there was but little time to prepare for
defense.

Neil whispered a few encouraging words
to Alice; but she was too nearly exhausted
to pay any particular attention to them,
and then the boys, standing side by side, made
ready to defend their companions.

It seemed singular that the teams should
continue to advance in such a reckless fash-
ion; but they came on as if there was noth-
ing to fear, and Spence had just suggested
the advisability of shooting the foremost
dogs when Neil struck the muzzle of. the
Weapon upward.

‘Those are the Eskimos at whose house
we visited that dreadful day Alice was run
away with!’’ he cried. ‘‘They couldn’t have
come in a better time, for now we can hire
them to carry the girls to the sound.’’

Then Neil waved his arms in greeting, and
the occupants of the sledges, instead of the
drivers, responded.

‘*Those are not Eskimos——’’

His surprise was too great to admit of his

 

companions at a time, since it was necessary
a strict watch should be kept to guard
against a surprise.

Although all were weary, the excitement

f the escape, and the fear that they might |

0
be yet overtaken, prevented any of the
party from sleeping very soundly.

|
It was early when Spence aroused ‘the |

fugitives for breakfast, as he said:

‘*The sun will rise in about an hour; but
it’s light enough now to see the needle of
the compass, and I think we had better be
moving.’’

Breakfast was eaten as they traveled, and,
as a means of distracting the young ladies’
attention from the hardships of the journey,
Neil began forming plans for the winter life
yet before them.

‘‘T never realized until now that we would
be obliged to stay in. the store-house until
spring,’’ Alice exclaimed. ‘‘{t will be terri-
ble, for I shall fancy every moment that the
natives are creeping upon us.’’

‘*They’ll find it precious hard work. We’ve
got plenty of provisions there, and could
shoot»down every one of them, no matter
how many came at a time.’’

‘*And don’t you think it will be dreadful
to have such things happening?’’

‘“‘P?}1] admit they won’t be particularly
pleasant, but it’?]] go way ahead of thinking
we are bound to be recaptured.’’ /

It was possible thus to beguile a portion
of the time; but as the day wore on and
weariness of body asserted itself, all re-
lapsed into a moody silence.

A halt at noon, three short ones during
the afternoon, and another day had come 10
an end.

This night was spent in a small thicket of
bushes, where it was possible to make quite
a presentable camp of the blankets, and
Spance said, cheerily, as they ate their sup-
per of Cold meat:

‘*Qne more night on the plain, and then
another day’s march will bring us to the
sound, where we shall fairly revel in good
things to eat, and the pleasing knowledge
that we are secure from all the natives in
this portion of the country.”’

30th Alice and Keemie were so nearly ex-
hausted that even this picture of future
comfort failed to revive them, and but little

 

concluding the sentenée, for almost as he
| spoke, the foremost team was in front of
| him, and he recognized no less a person than
| Captain Gartland.

| ‘*Why, how does it happen that you are
| back here?’’ Spence managed to ask.

‘‘Both Halsey and I felt guilty at having
left you behind; we struck a contrary wind
next morning after sailing; the weather
looked as if it might hold mild a while
longer, and we came back to persuade you
into going home with us. This is the second
day I have been scouring the country for
you, and had begun to fear we returned too
late.’’

‘*Well,’’ Neil said, his voice trembling
with suppressed emotion, ‘‘we are ready to
sail in the Hawk as soon as you wish to
leave port.”’

‘*Now I am glad, for——”’

‘*Don’t you want to know why we have
changed our minds?’’ Spence asked. ‘‘Come
back here a bit and see what we intend to
take on board with us.”’

The captain understood from the tone of
the boy’s voice that some great surprise was
in store for him, and when Neil removed
the blankets, disclosing the exhausted girls,
he sank on his knees in silent prayer.

* * * * * *

There remains very little more of partic-
ular interest to, be told.

Before night Alice and Keemie were in
the former’s cozy cabin on the Hawk, and,
with a fair wind, the brig was sailing out of
Scoresby’s Sound.

In due time she arrived at the port of de-
parture, and within a week it was definitely
decided that she should return to the Arctic
regions in the following spring, so great had
been the profits of the cruise.

Is it necessary to speak of the quartet
who escaped from the crevasse?

It hardly seems so, for after what, had
happened there could be but one result.
When the Hawk returns from her second
voyage there will be two weddings, or,
rather, a double one, in which Neil and
Spence, members of the firm of Hammond
& Murray, will play an important part. and
it has been fully decided that Uncle Ab-
salom shall make the wedding-cake.

[THE END. ]

 

 

 

  
  
   
     
    
    
   
    
    
   
  
  
   
  
   
  
  
  
     
   
 
  
   
   
  
  
  
   
    
   
  
    
  
  
  
  
 
 
  
    
  
 
    
 
    
  
    
 
   
   
 
  
   
     
  
     
  
       
 
  
 
  
    
      
 
  
   
   
    

 

 

 
  

   
   
   
   
  
   
  
   
   
    
  
   
   
  
   
  
   
  
   
   
   
    
   
   
    
  
 
  
  
   
   
   
    
   
    
    
    
  
  
    
   
   
   
   
   
     
    
  
    
     
   
   
   
  
 
  
  
  
    
   
   
    
    
  
   
  
     
   
   
   
   
    
   
      
   
   
  
  
   
 
   
    
   
   
    
    
  
   
    
   
   
    
   
   
    
    
   
   
    
   
 
   
   
   
    
    
    
    
   
    
    
   
   
   
    
   
   
   
 
    
  

   
    
  

 
  
 
  
  
  
 

 

 

 

 

 

Ope Peres Sy ox

41532

BY ARTHUR FERGUSON.

+

HEN I was seventeen, I lived with
my parents upon a ranch in
Southern California. One bright,
cou! morning, I mounted Brownie,

one of our horses, and set out to pay a visit

to my cousins, who lived a good twenty
miles distant at a place called Jacinto.

The road was very lonely, for after one
passed Parker’s Wood, five miles beyond our
ranch, there was not a sign of civilization
until the town of Jacinto came in sight.

I had just got through the wood when a
man on horseback, tearing along at a furi-
ous gallop, overtook me, and slackening his
speed to suit mine, accosted me with some
introductory remark about the weather.
Like myself, he seemed glad to get a little
companionship on the way, and so we fell
into talk as we rode on together.

My new companion was a big, strongly-
built man, and though his general appear-
ance suggested that he now lived at a per-
manently low level, morally, socially and
financially, there was something in his looks
and accent which gave you the impression
that he had once been a gentleman—an im-
pression strong enough to bear the strain
put upon it by the ridiculous boasting that
pervaded his talk.

I had never seen the man before, but his
steed had a puzzling look of familiarity to
me. It was a fine dark bay mare, with in-
dications of great strength and spirit; my
own horse, though a good, stanch beast in
his way, made a poor show beside her. Be-
fore we had ridden far together, I became
suddenly able to ‘‘place’’ the mare.

‘ Why,’’ Isaid to my companion, ‘‘your
beast looks uncommonly like Mr. Daly of
Foresthill’s thoroughbred. ’’

‘*She is Mr. Daly’s mare, my lad,’’ he re-
joined, complacently, softly stroking her
neck. ‘‘Isn’t she a fine creature? I believe
you won’t find her equal for strength and |
endurance within fifty miles. That is why l
have borrowed her for the journey I’ve in
view.”

‘*I’m rather surprised at Mr. Daly’s lend-
ing her,’’? I remarked. ‘‘{f thought he never
allowed any one to ride her save himself.”’

‘*Oh, I dare say not,’’ he returned, care-
lessly ; ‘‘but I borrowed. her, as well as the
saddle and bridle, without Mr. Daly’s knowl-
edge.’’

This was said in a matter-of-fact manner
that quite bewildered me'for a moment.

‘‘What!’? I exclaimed, ‘‘you don’t mean
to tell me that you have stolen her?’’

‘*T am no horse-stealer!’’ he said, frown-
ing grandiloquently. ‘‘I will return the
mare when I am finished with her, and pay
Mr, Daly liberally for her use. Indeed, I
would have paid him beforehand, or pur-
chased her outright, had it not been for the
beggarly state of my finances, to amend
which I am undertaking this journey. It is
shameful,’’ he went on, angrily, ‘‘that a
man like myself should be reduced to such
straits. And I have actually had of late to
earn my living by sheep shearing. Picture
the degradation of it, my boy. I, who am
the son of a Governor of New York, and
have held in my time many important posi-
tions, among others the presidency of a
great bank, should be compelled to sheer
sheep.’

Those magnificent assertions about h'm-
self I should at once have regarded as a
kind of ‘tall talk,’’ sometimes indulged in by
men whose past history is unknown to their
auditors, had not the unmistakable earnest-
ness of the man convinced me that he be-
lieved in the truth of what he was saying.
I could not share his belief, however, and I
now began to suspect, from various things,
that my companion’s mind was considerably
astray. His further remarks confirmed my
suspicions.

‘*Finding that Iam not able to earn even
a bare subsistence by sheep shearing, I am
now on my way home to New York, to re-
quest the loan of a few thousand dollars
from my father,’’ he continued. ‘‘I intend
going by the Panama Canal, since that will
shorten the journey so immensely,’’

‘‘But the Panama Canal isn’t made yet,’’
I objected.

‘*You are rather backward in your infor-
mation, my good fellow,’’ he returned,
patronizingly. ‘‘The Panama Canal was
opened to commerce with great splendor
three weeks ago.’’

I began to find the poor man’s hallucina-
tions almost amusing, and prepared to draw
him out.

‘*But how do you propose to pay for your
passage to New York if you have no
money?’’ I inquired.

He smiled in a superior sort of way.

‘tT shall not require money, for I shall not
go by any vessel. Since the opening of the
Panama Canal, the passage offers little diffi-
culty to an enterprising man. I am nota
particularly good swimmer myself, but I
will back this animal to do the business, if
put to it, in very little over the time in

which the mail steamer makes the passage.
We shall enter the sea at Stormy Bay, and I
confidently expect that within three days

 

CFUOO ID

The extraordinary jumble of hallucina-
tions revealed in this statement, together
with the arrogant self-confidence of his
manner, struck me as irresistibly comical,
and I burst into an uproarious fit of laugh-
ter. It was a very foolish proceeding on my
part, and I was doomed. to pay dearly for
it. The madman, feeling his dignity out-
raged, got into a great passion, which no
apolog.es of mine could altogether appease.
‘‘since your laughter indicates that you |
think my scheme impracticable,’’ he- at
length suid, sternly, ‘‘I will—no matter at
what convenience to you—I will demon-
strate its practicability ina fashion that must
carry conviction even to your dull mind.
You will have to accompany me on my
journey to New York!’’

I suddenly thought I saw a way by which
I might be able to get Mr. Daly’s mare re-
stored to her rightful owner, and the poor
lunatic prevented from doing himself harm,
so 1 humored him by appearing to agree to
his peremptory declaration. I added, how-
ever, that I could not come with him at
present, as I was due at my uncle’s house at
Jacinto for dinner, but if he cared to come
and eat dinner with my relatives, I could
easily accompany him afterward on his ad-
venturous trip.

He looked at me suspiciously, and declined
my dinner invitation, on the plea that his
journey could not be delayed.

I retorted that if he could not wait for me
he must go without me.

‘*T will certainly not go without you,’’ he
said, with angry determination. ‘‘You are
bound to come with me, whether you like
it or not.’?

‘*And I say, that unless you suit your
time to mine, I will not come with you,’’ I
returned answer.

I thought that there I had got the whip
band of my friend, and was resolved to use
it in order to get him into Jacinto, where
steps might be taken to prevent him en-
dangering his own life ‘or the life of the
valuable animal he rode.

‘‘Bah! I will make you come with me,
you insolent fellow!’’ he cried, violently.
‘*You will scarcely be able to do that,’’ I
retorted, laughing, and putting my horse
into a canter.

But instead of keeping up with me, as I
had expected he would do, my lunatic slack-
ened his speed. I looked back to see what
this meant.

I had noticed before that he had attached
to his saddle-bow a small coil of rope, which
I mentally concluded had been the mare’s
tether, and had been ‘‘borrowed’’ with the
animal.

Now, on looking back, I perceived that he
was busy doing something with this rope,
though what I could not make out. '
Suddenly he put his mare to a wild gallop
and came after me. Standing up in his sad-
dle as he overtook me, he made a move-
ment as if throwing something.

The next instant I felt myself nearly
jerked out of my saddle head foremost, and
was conscious of a sudden painful. tightening
at my neck and an unbearable sense of
suffocation.

Through the loud surging noises in my
ears, [ heard the madman’s voice:

‘‘Ha! ha! you’re finely caught now!’’ he
shouted. ‘‘I don’t think that, even in the
old Mexican days, I ever made a_ better
throw than that.’’

Then I understood what had happened.
The madman had made a slip noose of one
end of the rope, and cast it over my head,
and now, with this rough necklace encircling
my throat and nearly choking the life out
of me, I realized that I was at the mercy of
a man who was only governed by the wild
impulse of insanity.

As he relaxed his speed a little, I was able
to relieve the suffocating pressure by inter-
posing my hand between the rope and my
throat.

With one hand in this position and the
other grasping the bridle, I pleaded as well
as I could with my captor to stop and let
me take off the lasso and I would go with
him where he wished.

But he only answered my entreaties with
loud laughter.

Having, unfortunately, left my pocket-
knife at home, I tried with both hands to
break the rope, but it was good, stout man-
illa, on which my utmost force made no im-
pression.

Then I made various attempts to lessen
the distance between me and the other fel-
low, so that the slackening of the rope might
enable me to slip off the noose; but he was
always on the alert, and when I increased
my speed he increased his, so that the rope
was constantly kept at the same degree of
tension.

All my attempts to jerk the lasso out of
his hands were equally useless, for he had a
marvelously strong grip, and had, more-
over, twisted the rope through the iron loops
on his saddle-bow.

So I had to resign myself to the situation
with such sensations as may best be im-
agined. My present position was bad enough
in itself, and my mind was full of. horrible
anticipations of worse to come; for, from
the beginning, I had no hope of being rescued
by the aid of others on that lonely road,

We were going along at a pretty fast

   
 
  
 

NEWS.

 

neck dislocated. That also would be the re-

sult were my captor to increase his speed to

any considerable extent, for my horse would

not then be able to keep up with the mare. |
Then, further, I was aware that, even if

neither of these contingencies occurred, the

end must come for me when we reached

Stormy Bay.

Though Mr. Daly’s spirited mare might |
readily take to the water, 1 knew nothing

would induce my borse to do so, and the

struggle could not fail to prove fatal to me. |
Just as we were mounting the rise at the |
spot where the Stormy Bay track joined the |
main road, I heard the sound of horses gal- |
loping far behind, and as we reached the |
top, and our figures were outlined against the
sky for a moment, a loud, confused noise of
shouting was borne toward us cn the wind.

The madman heard it, too, and looked |
back without drawing rein.
“It’s Mr. Daly and one of his men! |
They’ve missed the mare and are coming |
after me!’’ he cried, excitedly. ‘‘Come, you |
there! if you don’t want to be throttled,

put spurs to your beast. We must get into |
the sea before they catch up to us!’’
So saying, he urged the mare into a gal- |
lop, and dashed up the track toward the |
bay. |
The rope tightened to suffocation around |
my neck, and I desperately dug my spurs
into my poor horse’s sides. He gallantly re-
sponded by bounding along after the mare,
while I kept my knees glued to the saddle,
and despairingly tried to loosen the deadly
grip at my throat.

But, truth to tell, I haye but a confused
recollection of the last part of that dreadful
ride.

About the only thing I remember clearly
was hearing the madman shout gleefully as
we came in sight of the great stretch of |
shining ocean, that the tide was in, and |
that, instead of going down the long, wind- |
ing path to the shore, he would take a leap |
over the cliffs into the sea.
And I remember vaguely thinking that, |
since death was so inevitable and so near,
it might as well come to me through a leap
over the cliff as by any other way.

Later on, I became dimly aware that I
would never reach the cliffs, for poor
Brownie, who, under my desperate goadings, |
had been doing wonders, was showing symp-

toms of great distress. In a few moments I
knew he must give in, and then it would be
all over with me. ; |
But just when the end seemed come, I was
suddenly conscious of a violent commotion
in front of me.

The mare and her rider disappeared in a
cloud of dust, and the tension of the rope}
attached to my neck immediately slac ened,
I couldn’t clearly understand what had
happened, but I knew that I was saved!

My horse carried me, sick and trembling

 

|

 

|

or so farther on before he came to stand-still.
Then I just managed to put my arms
around his neck and slide gently to the
ground before my senses quite left me.

When I recovered consciousness, Mr. Daly
and the man accompanying him had come
upon the scene, and were bending over me.
Then I told my story, and learned the
nature of the accident which had left me
alive to tell it.

The mare, it seems, had in that mad gal-

track and thrown her rider, who, in his in-

ally let go his hold of the rope.

The mare herself was little the worse for
her tumble, but the poor madman had _ been
pitched on his head and instantly killed.

Mr. Daly knew something of the poor
fellow, who, it appeared, had been living in
a hut on some waste land not far from Mr.
Daly’s farm.

He had not been long in California, but
his solitary life and the wild drinking bouts
with which he used to vary its monotony,
had played sad havoc with his brain, and
the general ‘‘queerness’’ of bebavior which
had lately characterized him seemed to have
culminated that day in the mad exploit
which had had such a fatal termination for
himself.

After all, I got to my uncle’s house, but
not in time for dinner. It is needless to say
that I did not wish any, for I had left my
appetite on the road.

_——— > 0»
EDISON’S JOKE.

Edison is a great lover of practical jokes.

Once upon a time, when the phonograph
was more of a novelty than it is at the
present time, he hid one of these machines
in a grandmother’s clock, which stood in the
guest chamber.

One night as a friend was preparing to get
into bed he suddenly heard a ,voice exclaim:

‘*Wleven o’clock—one hour more,’’

He crept into bed, and lay perfectly still,
frightened out of his life, and hardly daring
to breathe.

At midnight he heard the same weird
voice again exclaim:

‘*Twelve o’clock—prepare to die.’’

 

 

this stanch little mare will land me some-
where near New York.’’

canter, and I knew that, if my horse were
to stumble or fall, I must inevitably get my

of Edison and another friend, who had been
sitting up awaiting his appearance.

lop put her feet into a hole in the rough |

stinctive effort to save himself, had natur- |

Gy. OR
‘Do EHINGS.

 

EDITED BY DAVID PARKS.
HOW TO PLAY THE GAME OF HOPPY.
_ I
OW that spring is here, all out-of-
door games are popular, and Hoppy
is one that I think will be new to
many of the readers of Good News,

 

|It is not a very aristocratic title, but it is

first-rate fun all the same.

Mark off a space about the size of a tennis
court. At one corner of each end of the
court, mark off a jail in which to put your
prisoners as you make them.

Having picked sides from ten to twenty,
you stand in a row at the base-line at each
end of the court. Fold your arms across
your breast, take up one foot (it does not
matter which), and look at your opponents
in: a contemptuous sort of way, as by so
doing you may chance to inspire them with

|a becoming dread of the crushing defeat in

store.

Ata given signal either side will charge
in a way best left to its own judgment. The
proper way to act is this: Once inside the
base-line you must keep on the foot by
which you commenced hopping. You must
not change feet unless you hop back outside
the base-line from which you started. It is
seldom, however, you want to do this unless
when in great peril. If you do change feet,
and are caught at it by an opponent, you
become a prisoner; as you do if, from any
cause, you unfold your arms when attack-
ing an opponent. You are also a prisoner if
you are forced outside the boundary lines,
even though you remain on one foot.

The great aim of each player is to capture
a prisoner for his side. To do this you may
attack from any seeming point of vantage,
and, leaning well forward, ‘‘butt’’ your op-
ponent—not with your head like a young
goat—with your folded arms. If you can
upset his balance so as to compel him to put
down his raised toot to save himself from
falling he is your prisoner. If you happen
to push him down—why, of course, he is
down and a prisoner.

If you succeed in taking a prisoner, or de-
tect an opponent making a prisoner of him-
self by breaking any of the foregoing rules,
you are at liberty to put down your own
foot to enable you to conduct your prisoner
to the jail-keeper’s custody. After which
‘*you sally forth on other captures bent’’—
or to be made a prisoner in your turn.

The jail-keeper ought to be a big fellow,
for he is often answerable for the whole
| fortune of the game. Each side is at liberty
to recapture their members who have been

from the violent reaction, a hundred yards | made prisoners. Thus it happens that a

| player, having broken through the line of
|opponents, bears down on the jail-keeper
| with a mad and often irresistible rush. It
| he can vanquish the jail-keeper all the pris-
oners are free, and again join in the game;
but if he only evades the jail-keeper and can
touch a prisoner (only ope at a time), that
prisoner is released, to again join the game
| on which side he belongs.

| A word as to dodging. All fair ‘‘dodges”’
| are legitimate, I word it thus because 1 am
| sure you do not want me to tell you what 1s
| unfair—all unfair play being always too ap-
) parent to players and spectators alike. It is
true a big fellow will sometimes dig bis
|elbow into the muscles of one’s arm, but
| not unless you carelessly allow him to do 80:
|and after all it only tends to harden them.
| But if a fellow is ever guilty of aiming at
your face, get your chums to unite with you
in ‘‘hounding’’ him out of the game.

If you are an adept at dodging, you ca”
often take a prisoner by causing him to
overbalance himself from the confidence?
with which he bears down on you. I have
known many good players go sprawlils
from not meeting with the expected resist
ance of an opponent. (

The side taking all of the other side pris
oners wins the game. This is often done
very quickly. There is no rule against any
number of players falling in a mass on rs
of their opponents, so that when one side 1
weakened the end is not long in coming: t

But the game is always worth playing 0"
to the ‘bitter end, because a good, stu
player will often carry the jail by a rus’
and release all the prisoners, as set 0! ”
above. Then the whole tide of battle ta’
and the struggle is renewed. ; ten

As either side takes prisoners, it of ly
happens that toward the end of a game ong
the ‘‘champions’”’, are left. These be! ig
pretty evenly matched, a brilliant stant ni
made before ‘‘ Victory !’’ is shouted, accol

panied by a loud, ringing cheer. N
SOME GAMES PLAYED BY GERM4!

BOYS. ang

Chase Ball (Jagdball)—The opps @

 

parties of equal numbers stand 1D one
circle, each party a few yards apal® ica
the other. Each of the parties posse? si,
large and heavy ball of a different co. ts

| e poll

This was more than mortal flesh could! The ‘balls are thrown from opposit Peel
stand, and, springing out of bed with a S
shriek, he flew out of the room into the arms who catches and passes it on

“oft aj ° aver to t
of the circle from one playe in the aime
way as quickly as possible. The ob et ith
either party of players is to overt@

 

 

 

 

 

 

a ee ee ee

— 7 - 2 he el a oe

rp «a DTD =H

— mt > AS

 

 

 
 
  

 

 

 

 

their ball the one of the opposition, and thus
decide the game in their favor. If one or
the other player misses a ball and lets it fall
to the ground, the other ball passes and
wins.

Tambourine Ball is played by four players
posted in a circle in the manner of shuttle-
cock and battledore, with a tambourine
which has no handle, and a small India-
rubber ball.

Balloon Ball (or sling ball as it is also
called)—The object of the players is to toss
a large leather or India-rubber ball by its
handle from. one goal toward the other,
neither of the contending parties allowing
the ball to reach the ground, and returning
it vigorously when caught. This is a very
popular game with elder boys, who catch
the ball either with their bands or on their
arms, passing as in the Rugby game of
foot-ball, or punching with the hand.

Drive Ball—All the players: but one stand
in a wide circle and place their stout sticks
in dug-out shallow holes. A larger hole in
the center contairs a wooden ball, which at

the commencement of the game is lifted by :

the players with their sticks and thrown
high in the air. While it descends, the play-
ers run back to guard their holes in the
outer, circle. The one of the players for
whom no hole is provided now becomes the
driver of the ball, endeavoring to push it
into one of the outside holes. If he succeeds,
and the ball is not beaten back by the stick
of the defender, the latter has to change
places with the driver and repeat the game.

Urbar—This isa very exciting and popular
game, in which almost any number of boys
can join. To begin, one boy called Bear
starts from the goal and chases the other
players, who carry twisted handkerchiefs
with a knot at the top. The object of the
urbear must be to touch one of the other
boys with his hand. He then becomes a bear
himself, and has to follow the urbear to the
goal, both being pursued by the other boys
on their, way there, being soundly beaten all
the while with the knotted handkerchiefs.
The bears, with hands linked together, again
sally forth, trying to touch one or two of
the free boys, and returning with their
prisoners to goal. The same maneuver is re-
peated until all the free boys are absorbed
in the chain of bears. In any case, if the
chain is broken by an attack from the back,
the bears have to return to the goal, cud-
geled by the free boys, and re-form.

Running for the Cap (Schlaglaufen)—
Two parties of boys of equal numbers
stand fifty yards apart; one is called the
runners, the other the catchers. Between
the two—twenty yards from the runners
and thirty yards from the catchers—a post
is fixed in the ground with a cap on the top.
On the command—one, two, three—one
player of each party runs out from the goal.
The runner nearest to the post will arrive
first, and has to put the cap on his bead and
then replace it. This must be done in as
Short a time as possible, as any delay gives
a chance to the catcher to overtake the run-
ner on his way back to goal, when he be-
comes his prisoner, and is debarred from
further playing.

Harl and Hamo,:° Meriden, Conn., have
written me, asking

HOW TO MAKE A SAFETY LIGHT.

You' simply take a clear glass bottle such
as a small vial, and put a small piece of
phosphorus about the size of a pea into it.
and see that the cork is sound and a good
fit. Then get a little of the clearest olive
Oi], such as that sold for table use, heat it
to boiling point, and then pour it in on top
of the phosphorus. Fill the bottle about one-
third full, and then cork tightly.

When requiring a light, remove the cork
to allow air to enter and then cork up
again, and the whole of the empty space in

® bottle will now become luminous, giving
Sufficient light to read the time by a watch
or for other purposes when a night light is
required.

As the light becomes dim, 1t is only neces-
Sary to withdraw the cork again to allow a

resh supply of air to enter.

A bottle used like this will continue to
Sive a light for some months, but it should

® kept warm during the winter time, for
Should the oil become solid through the cold

® vial will have to be held in the hand for
Some time to warm it sufficiently to act.

0
HE HAD A CAT.

Book canvassers should take courage from
E Story told by a lecturer on ‘‘The Art
ookbinding.’’ A man of their profession
called at a house whose occupant met
with a growl.
(5 no use tome. I never read.’’
AR there’s your family,’’ said the can-

¢
him
oe

Vas
sé . .
(Haven't any family—nothing buta cat.’’
at ell, you may want something to throw
the cat... ,
he book was purchased.

a

 

oxuittle Boy—‘‘I want you to write me an
se for being late at school yesterday.”’
€weler—‘‘Eh? You are not my son.”’
Z Binge Boy—‘‘No—o, but mamma says I
0 ay etty of time to get to school, so I sup-
he clock yousold her doesn’t go right.”’

GOOD

(This Story Will Not be Published in Book-Form, }

JACK FERDHAM, SECOND MATE :

The Three Mysterious Birth-Marks.
A STORY OF THE GREAT LAKES.

BY CLARENCE CONVERSE,

Author of ‘Captured at Sea,” “Dick Oakley’s
Adventures,” ete.

ze -

(“JACK FERDHAM, SECOND MATE,” was com-
inenced ,in No. 255. Back numbers can be ob-
tained of all News Agents. ]

CHAPTER XVI.
CAPTAIN CARROLL SHOCKED.

APTAIN CARROLL! Mr. Morse!”’
Jack called, loudly.

That the man who came out from
the spare state-room of the Milkmaid
bore a slight resemblance to some one he
knew, flashed through Jack’s brain as he
whirled about, alarmed by the noise of the
man dashing the door open.

Then, too, the man’s oath had been ut-
tered ina voice of peculiar familiarity to
the young second mate.

It suggested to him that he had heard
both before some time.

But the cabin light was not turned up
| high enough to make it possible for Jack to
distinguish features; at least in the few mo-
ments at his disposal. Nor was the man’s
identity the thought of the young sailor so
much as that of his capture, red-handed, so
to speak.

With his accustomed cautious forethought,
Jack sprang between the fugitive and the
companion-way, blocking it determinedly.

The thief paused for an instant.

 

Jack hoped, congratulating himself that the
man would be quickly captured; for, al-
ready there came the sounds of Captain
Carroll, Mr. Morse and Miss Avis springing
from their berths in response to the alarm.

The thief’s right hand was raised, some-
thing glaring in its grasp.

‘-Here—none of that!’’ cried Jack, spring-
ing toward him.

The man bent forward; there was a flash
—a sharp report.

To miss would have been next to impossi-
ble at that distance.

As Jack sank to the floor, a tiny rivulet of
blood trickling down his forehead, he was
only vaguely conscious of the man who fired
the murderous shot, plunging over him in a
mad flight for the deck.

Then there came an utter blank.

A loud splash was heard alongside as Cap-
tain Carroll threw open his state-room door

followed there by Mr. Morse and Miss Avis.
The three were greatly alarmed.
The concussion of the air had extinguished
the lamp, leaving the apartment in total

the open companion-way.

Two dark apertures told that the doors of
Jack’s and the spare state-room were open.

The atmosphere was heavy with the odor
of gunpowder.

The three occupants of the Milkmaid’s
cabin quarters ‘took these details in in-
stantly.

Captain Carroll started for the deck at a
bound, with a cautionary exclamation for his
daughter.

Upon his foot striking Jack, he paused for
an instant.

**Here’s one’ of them!’’ was his grave
warning. ‘‘Jack, maybe.”’’.

Murder had been attempted, perhaps ac-
complished; and not waiting for the light
Mr. Morse was striking, Captain Carroll
sprang upon deck without longer delay, and
gazed over the side.

There was nothing unusual in sight.

‘*T heard somethin’ soundin’ like as though
a table fell, or a revolver was fired, sir,’’
said Hi Sutton, coming up to him from the
gloom forward.

‘‘Ye han’t had cause to shoot, bave ye?’’
Sutton persisted, as Captain Carroll uttered
an exclamation of disappointment.

Mr. Morse came up from below at that
moment,

He brought the news that the body below
was indeed that of Jack, and he asked for
news; but his question was ignored by Cap-
tain Carroll.

‘*Alive?’’ asked the captain, agitatedly.

‘Yes; but he’s had a second mighty close
call to-night,’’? was the grim answer. ‘‘The
revolver was so close to -his head when the
villain shot him that the powder singed his
hair. Any sign of the murderous scoundrel?’’
Mr. Morse asked again.

No, there was not the slightest sign of the
man. Nor did he appear in the water near
the schooner.

The trio went below into the cabin.

They found Avis bathing Jack’s wound—
a narrow® furrow which began high up on
his forehead, and extended some four inches
back along his scalp.

Some minutes later he regained his senses.

He looked about him in a dazed way, and

 

This was not irresolutely, however, as}

and sprang into the main cabin, to be shortly |

darkness, yet it was possible to distinguish |

NEWS.

41353

 

then smiled his thanks to pretty Avis for
her tenderness.

*‘Jack,’’ exclaimed Captain Carroll, ear-
nestly, ‘‘tell me, did you see the man well
enough to give a description of him?’’

Jack shook his head.

With his slowly returning consciousness
had come the suspicion of whom his assail-
ant was.

The eager face of Sutton was all that
checked Jack from declaring this, as, on
opening his eyes, he found his friends lean-
ing over him anxiously.

‘‘Tt was very dark—I couldn’t see his
face,’’ Jack said, half-closing his eyes.

Was it imagination, or did Sutton’s grizzly
face bear a look of relief? This might have
been through the sailor’s regard for Jack.

‘*Well, I'll go for’ard ag’in, unless you’ve

lessly from the step where he had been
squatting.

“You may do so,’’ Captain Carroll an-
swered. ‘‘What’s the matter, Jack?’’ he
added, as Sutton left the cabin and was
| heard hurrying forward.
| Jack had looked about the cabin search-
ngly.

“Do you wish me to go ashore and try to
|look up the chap who visited us to-night?’’
| Captain Carroll persisted.

‘*No, I guess that would be time wasted,’’
returned Jack.

Captain Carroll turned to Mr. Morse.

‘“You may see to our getting under way.
The other vessels have pulled out already,’’
he said, briefly.

Owners again! The captain would have
preferred lying at anchor somewhat longer,
not to mention scouring the country for the
person who had shot his young mate.

Instead, there were soon heard the sounds
of hurrying feet, the threshing of canvas,
and finally the clank of the capstan.

Laboring heavily in the long seas left by
the gale, the Milkmaid was shortly again
upon her interrupted run up the lake.

Then Captain Carroll went to Jack’s
state-room.

‘*Miss Avis,’’? said Jack, to the pretty
young lady who had shown him every pos-
sible attention, ‘‘will you do me a favor?’’

She regarded him in surprise, for he had
spoken extremely low; and though he had
not mentioned his suspicions to her, still
that shrewd young lady had a vague belief

 

_

in regard to the shooting in the schooner’s
cabin that night.

‘*Will you please leave me alone with your
father, and at the same time keep a constant
outlook that none of the sailors lounge near
{my window withont your letting us know?”’
‘‘Jack—what on earth——’’ began Cap-
| tain Carroll, in astonishment; but he ceased
to speak at a motion for silence from the
young fellow.

Avis left the state-room without delay.

In a few moments Jack began:

‘‘Captain Carroll, I believe that it was
Tom Greer who broke into the spare state-
room and shot me——”’’

‘‘Why, my lad, that couldn’t be—that is,
it seems hardly probable. You know we
| heard the splash of the fellow jumping over
the side,’’ exclaimed the captain. ‘‘We have
about concluded that it was some French
Canadian who was rowed out here bya
friend,’’ he continued. ‘‘ Any man aboard—
particularly Greer—knows that I keep no
money in the medicine chest, yet we find
that the thief had attempted to pick its
lock.’’

‘Yes, I know,’ Jack answered.

Miss Avis had told him of this.

‘‘ But it wouldn’t surprise me if Greer was
not on a thieving expedition for money. You
have chloroform and laudanum in the chest,
have you not?’’? Jack asked. ‘‘l think I
heard you say so a few days ago, when
George had trouble with his tooth.’’

Captain Carroll’s face had whitened be-
neath its tan. He stirred about uneasily.

‘“Yes,’’ he answered; ‘‘I try to be never
without either of these drugs. But why do
you think it was Greer who shot you? I
don’t doubt that he would be a man to do
such a thing. Though I hardly see why he
should wish to gain possession of any of the
contents of the medicine chest.’’

The captain spoke like a man who was
greatly mystified.

As Jack hesitated in order to put his sus-
picions into tangible form, Captain Carroll
added:

‘‘Greer and Sutton shipped with me at
Buffalo. I’d never known anything about
either before that time: but I’ve found
them both active, obedient men, barring
Greer’s behavior this night, for which I
have disrated him, I’ve never thought that
they needed any especial watching.’’

‘Well, to begin with, I’ve put two and
two together,’’ said Jack.

He had determined to say nothing about
the trouble between him and Greer on the
night he had come to Avis’ assistance.

‘‘The man who shot at me seemed to be
an unusually familiar one in figure and ac-
tion. Miss Avis told me fully of Greer’s be-
havior when I was trying to save Beebe,
and I don’t like that. I fear there is some
connection between both acts.”’

‘*But what do you think Greer is intend-
ing—that is, if he is the man?’’

Jack shook his head.

‘*T?ve no idea. Perhaps it is only to do me

,

 

 

“

orders, cap’in,’’ said Sutton, rising care- |

| that he had not told them all that he thought

 

some bodily harm. He—a—he seems to have
taken a deep dislike tome. Then, again, he
may intend to injure the schooner. Let me
tell you something I had intended telling
you to-morrow.”’

In a low tone, Jack recounted his strange
interview with Beebe. just previous to the
squall which interrupted it and separated
them until he neared the unconscious man,
or his corpse, in the tossing waters of the
lake.

It is almost unnecessary to say that Cap-
tain Carroll listened with a grave and ear-
nest mien.

He at first laid the sailor’s story, and the
man’s quickly-occurring death, to one of
those strange coincidences which happen
once in a _ thousand years, and which
strengthen one’s superstitious feelings when
they should have no such effect.

He hardly believed that Beebe had in-
tended to warn him of any peril threatening
himself and the vessel, because of the sailor’s
not wishing to die with the knowledge of it
undivulged.

Yet the suspicion seemed not impossible.

Jack’s description of Beebe’s bleeding,
lacerated face and staring eyes shocked him
immeasurably.

Captain Carroll disliked to believe that
Beebe had been murdered to make the secret
safe which he had been about to confide to
Jack just before going to his death aloft.
This was Jack’s theory, as he recalled
Beebe’s uneasy glances about them when
the dead sailor had spoken as he had.

‘‘The whole thing is horrible to think
of!’ Captain Carroll exclaimed, with a
shudder.

‘“‘T wish Avis was not aboard,’’ he said,
in a lower tone, to himself.

CHAPTER XVII.
THE TIME APPOINTED.

HO was aloft on the mainmast
\\ with Beebe—it was Sutton, wasn’t

*\ it?’’ Jack asked the captain, after
-e) along silence, broken only by the
sound of the swirling water alongside and
the creaking of the bulkheads.

A grave nod was Captain Carroll’s’ an-
swer.

‘‘He seemed unusually desirous of learn-
ing if I reached Beebe,’’ said Jack. ‘‘Put
all of these things together for yourself.’’

Captain Carroll rose to his feet and
agitatedly paced the small confines of the
little state-room. Deep concern was clearly
visible upon his stern, strong «face.

This was the first time in his long lake ex-
perience that murder had been committed
upon his vessel, though he was well aware
that many of the men he had been forced to
ship would hardly hesitate at such a crime.

He had a shadowy, growing anxiety lest
harm should come to his only ecbild. For
himself he had no fear or uneasiness.

Turning suddenly, he dropped upon Jack’s
sailor chest.

‘*You seem to be concocting a plan, Jack
—Mr. Ferdham,’’ he said, abruptly. ‘‘Let
me hear it. If it is a good one we might try
it: if not, it might suggest another one.’’

‘“*Yes, I have a plan,’’ was Jack’s re-
sponse. ‘‘There may only have been a slight
feud between Sutton, Greer and Beebe,’’
Jack continued. ‘‘None of the men seemed
to like the man. But that shouldn’t have
given them an excuse for murder.

‘“‘T think they’ll bear watching, so that
we may learn if they do intend any serious
mischief. That this may be done thoroughly,
you might make it as easy as possible for
me to overhear their conversation when
alone, say, when they are forward. This
is why I said nothing before Sutton.’’

‘*{ will do that; and Mr. Morse shall be
let into the secret and put on his guard,’’
exclaimed Captain Carroll, gladly. ‘‘Men
sha’n’t be stabbed and thrown from the rig-
ging of my vessel if I can help it, nor shall
there be any other villainy practiced here. Go
ahead, Mr. Ferdham; and if we can get any
proof of the men’s guilt I shall see to it
that they suffer just punishment before this
run is finished. I can only say now that I
never for a moment thought that Beebe had
been the victim of foul play. It certainly
looks as though Greer was in the plot, and
that, therefore, he did not like to bring the
Milkmaid into the wind, fearing you might
have gotten to Beebe in time to learn of the
attack upon him from his own lips... But J
dislike ‘to believe that the man could be so
base !

‘‘And now, Mr. Ferdham, take the rest
you so much need, and be sure that I and
Mr. Morse and Avis will be on guard for
anything unexpected.”’

The captain arranged the bed covering
carefully.

Jack did attempt to rest. when Captain
Carroll left him.

Wearied nature happily asserted ‘itself at
last. The young sailor slept heavily. How-
ever, as the Milkmaid’s binnacle bell chimed
eight bells, at the close of the morning
watch, Jack awoke with a start.

He felt so refreshed that he arose and
dressed. :

Greer, who was at the helm as he came on
deck, regarded him with concealed hate and
not a little uneasiness.

Their eyes met, Jack’s containing a cold,
grave expression, despite his self-coutrol.

R

    

 

 

 

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41354

Greer looked hastily away over the now
blue and beautiful surface of the lake.

Wondering if he would have to continue
his surveillance long before he would learn
something pro or con in regard to his ap-
prehensions, Jack entered into a friendly
conversation with Miss Avis.

The day passed uneventfully.

Nothing unusual occurred until the latter
part of the first dog watch that evening.

Leaving Avis, with whom Jack now spent
all the time he was able, after the exchange
of a look, the meaning of which that bright
young lady well understood, the Milkmaid’s
second mate stepped noiselessly toward the
forecastle hatch.

Greer’s dark-whiskered head had just been
thrust above it for what had seemed to Jack
to be a reconnoitering glance. Greer, Sut-
ton, Farrar and the starboard watch were
below.

Darkness had just set in. The schooner
was moving along easily and gracefully over
the dying swells.

By the light of the lantern swung from
one of the smoke-blackened beams of the
stuffy little forecastle, Jack, peering from
above, saw Greer and Sutton seated upon
chests, talking in low tones, their heads
close together.

One man Jones lay snoring in one of the
berths. His back had been strained during
the storm of the previous night, and he was
not called on deck with his messmates, Les-
lie and a Scotchman by the name of. Clark,
the three belonging to the port watch.

Jack took it for granted that Sam Farrar
occupied one of the other bunks, which were
built upon the sides of the little quarters,
where the noise of the parting waters at the
schooner’s bows was such that a landsman
would think sleep an impossibility.

The rush and roar of the breaking surge
was so loud here that the guarded tones in
which the two sailors were talking were
hardly audible to the listener. ‘hey, how-
ever, soon spoke louder in their growing
fervor.

Jack Ferdham’s sensations can be easily
guessed, as, holding his breath and putting
forth his entire aural faculties, the follow-
ing words came to bis ears:

**T tell you I am certain that he suspects
me,’’ said Greer. ‘‘The look he gave me this
morning gave him away as plainly as though
he had spoken his thoughts.’’

‘‘Y@ mean he’s dead certain it was ye as
+Aot him?’’ was Sutton’s query—‘‘or that he
thinks we had somethin’ to do with Beebe’s
demise?’’

‘*T don’t know whether or not he suspects
that Beebe dropped into the lake not entirely
by accident; but I know he thinks it was I
who was in the spare state-room, last
night, and who shot at him. I wish to good-
ness I’d shot four inches lower !’’

Greer spoke with venomous earnestness.

Sutton’s heavy brows were contracted, and
he eyed his companion sharply.

‘*Look here, Tom,’’ he said, suddenly, as
Greer looked away in sullen silence. ‘‘ Look
here. As I’ve allowed afore, ye seem to
have a special grudge ag’in that young
chap. We’re mates in this little affair, Tom,
an’ I thinks ye oughtn’t to keep nothin’
back. I——’’

He was interrupted by an impatient ges-
ture from Tom Greer.

‘‘T_a— I’ve taken a dislike to him, hang
him !—that’s all!, Drop him! We must get
about the other business now.’’

‘‘That what I’ve been a-puttin’ forward
Gir?

‘*Yes; you want to try to first win over
another Beebe!’’ was the sneering reply, at
which Sutton, who was fully as brave as the
other, though of a more cautious disposition,
was stung into a hot denial.

**‘T tell you we must take the schooner
without any more dilly-dallying,’’ ex-
claimed Greer—‘‘do it to-night !’’

Jack fairly ceased to breathe.

‘‘This is a little early,’’ Greer admitted.
‘¢And we’ll have quite a sail before us,
short-handed. But there’s no knowing what
that young cub of a second mate may say
or do that will upset all if we wait.

‘‘T was unsuccessful last night, or it would
be the easiest thing in the world. But now
here’s one man as good as useless’’—he nodded
toward Jones’ bunk as he spoke. ‘‘There are
only Blake and Leslie left to take as they
come down at the end of their watch. Only
one of .us need go on deck—say Farrar—to
relieve the wheel if there is no more wind
than is blowing now—and from the looks of
the weather when I dropped down, there
seems to be a long spell of light airs before
OA.’

The heart of the listener above beat furi-
ously.

Though Jack had felt that Greer would
not be likely to hesitate at almost any
crimé, after what the young sailor was
morally sure the disrated sailor had at-
tempted, be had hardly imagined that the
villain would go so faras to attempt the
seizure of a three-mast schooner of the
Milkmaid’s porportions upon ‘so. greatly
traveled a thoroughfare as the lakes.

Yet Greer very evidently’ intended this
very thing.

His face stern and -set, Jack listened
breathlessly for Sutton’s opinion of the
atrocious scheme.

The elderly sailor had very likely been
the direct cause of his shipmate Beebe’s

 

 

 

GooDpD

terrible fate, yet Jack hoped he would hesi-
tate, now that the actual question of start-

NEWS.

| bound, clasping one palm effectually over
| his mouth, and Sutton and Farrar jumped

| truly perilous nature of the occasion. There
| would then be shots fired; and, taken ata

ing the mutiny—to give it its true name—|to assist their ringleader after they had} disadvantage, murder would doubtless be

was before him.
For sailors are ever grumbling in the

sacred confines of their forecastle. There’s

hardly a cruise, in fact, when it is not sug-
gested that the ‘‘old man’’ should be dressed
down a bit, and when fights among the crew
are not indulged in, though the men seldom
gofurther. This talk might go for naught,
too.

‘*Speak up,’’ Tom Greer exclaimed.

He, as well as Jack, did not know but

that Sutton would withdraw, now that the |

time had come when their dastardly plan
should be put into actual execution.
‘Well, er—I says all right, I’m willin’.’’

‘Of course you are!’’ exclaimed Tom |

Greer, with enthusiasm.

Jack, who had heard enough, ay, more
than enough, started to draw back.

He thanked the ‘fate, Providence, what-
ever it had been, that had given him his
original impression that these men were not
what honest sailors should be, and that it
was confirmed by his plunging in after
Beebe and seeing that the taciturn sailor
had, more likely, been the victim of a crime
than of an accident.

What might have become of sweet Avis
Carroll in the event of the schooner being
taken by this, lawless trio, was a thought
which made him tremble.

{t was an odd coincidence, but the first
thoughts of our hero upon this, as upon the
other occasions when the vessel had been
threatened, were of the young girl and her
safety.

As the days had passed, Jack had grown
to feel less and less regret that it had been
his fortune to have his lot cast with that of
Captain Carroll and his little ship’s com-
pany, even though there were such men in
it as Greer and Sutton.

No man could have been kinder, more
considerate than had been Captain Carroll.
Avis, on her part, had never questioned
Jack as to the vessel he had been sailing on
before he signed with her father, though it
had been very evident to the young sailor
that she felt that he was keeping back some-
thing.

Some of these days Jack intended to give
her a full story of himself. He wanted to
appear in a good light before her.

He did not want Avis to think that he had
ever done anything of which he was
ashamed.

Now, however, his mind quickly reverted
to thoughts of his present responsibility.

His apprehensions had proved to be cor-
rect.

With the substantial warning which he
could now carry aft, the plot to take the
schooner could be easily frustrated.

Making little or no noise, Jack drew back
from the hatchway.

A hand, the fingers of which were rough
and muscular, closed about Jack’s throat,
while a long arm was thrown about his
body from behind!

The hand prevented him from making the
slightest sound of protest or alarm}; the
man’s arm effectually put struggling out of
the question.

Fickle fate had apparently turned against
him again. Jack groaned inwardly as he
made every effort to shake himself free,
knowing how much the safety of his friends
rested upon the story he had been about to
carry aft.

CHAPTER XVIII.
THE SIGNAL GIVEN.

AM FARRAR, in whose strong grasp
. Jack vainly struggled and attempted
to ery out, wasimmediately joined by
7“ Tom Greer, who sprang up the fore-
castle ladder like & cat, at the slight noise
made upon the deck.

A hasty whisper from Farrar explained
the situation.

With Sutton’s assistance from below, Jack
Ferdham was quickly drawn down through
the forecastle hatch, strong, agile youth
though he was. Farrar and Sutton held him
on the floor, jammed between two of the
chests, while Tom Greer fashioned a gag out
of his sailor’s scarf with suspicious dex-
terity.

The knot at the gag was thrust into Jack’s
mouth and the long ends of the scarf tied
under the the nape of his neck, effectually
checking any sounds which he might attempt
to make. His wrists were bound with a few
but well laid lashings.

Looking up, at a slight noise from the
sick man’s bunk, Jones was seen to be rest-
ing upon one arm and regarding the scene
in wondering silence.

This little occurrence, had it happened
upon the high seas, would have had less in
it to astonish any one of a vessel’s crew.
Here, on the lakes, most of the open vio-
lence between officers and men is indulged
in ashore in the sailors’ boarding-houses and
rum shops.

It may be said, to Jones’ credit, that as
his weakened senses comprehended the situa-
tion, he attempted to spring from his mat-
tress and interfere in Jack’s. behalf.

In this attempt, however, he was too late,

‘*You keep out of this!’’

Tom Greer was upon Jones at a fierce

  

| flung Jack’s helpless body into a vacant
| berth to get it out of sight from the deck.

Jones’ struggle was a feeble and useless
one.

Fate seemed to favor the plotters.

There had been no sound of alarm on
| deck.
| Farrar tossed some of the lines to Greer,
|

 

pieces of which had been made use of in
binding Jack. Jones was secured in the
same way as the young second mate.

The sick sailor groaned painfully as he
was thrust into the back of his berth, but
| his sufferings brought no expression of sym-
| pathy from his mutinous shipmates. Their
eyes gleamed murderously as they glanced
toward the open hatch above their heads to
seo if the slight. noise of the scuffle had been
heard in any other part of the ship, and
they were to be attacked.

Only the sounds of the breaking water and

rigging were to be heard, with the low dis-
jointed ditty of ‘‘the doctor’’—the ship’s
cook in the little caboose.

Jack Ferdham’s spirits sank as those of
the. mutineers: were brightened.

It was evident that Blake had seen noth-
ing unusual. Perhaps he was asleep.

Jack had hoped that Avis had waited by
the main shrouds while he crouched at the
forecastle hatch. Her anxiety would have
prompted her to do this.

In that case, she would certainly have
noticed his capture.

He knew enough about the cool bravery
of the young girl to feel certain that she

the whole ship, but would have quietly
slipped aft and told her father of what she

quickly made sure of Leslie’s and Clark’s

addition of George’s doubtful assistance, put
a hasty stop to the villainous proceedings.

Now, however, the truth was only too
clear that the affair in the forecastle was,
as yet, wholly unknown and unsuspected
aft.

The fact was, indeed, that shortly after
Jack had left Avis for his vigil, her father
had called her aft. This was quite correctly
assumed by the mutineers from what Farrar
had been able to tell them as they occupied
themselves with binding Jack and the sea-
man, Jones. Farrar had gone aft before he
had come forward and discovered Jack by
the fore-scuttle.

‘*Well—now what?’’

Sutton turned toward Tom Greer with
this query while slowly rolling up the sleeves
of his rough shirt.

Greer said nothing in response, but
dropped on his knees by his chest.

From down next to its bottom he drew
forth three ugly-looking’ revolvers of blue
finish, which were of familiar appearance
to Jack.

It had been from one of these weapons, he
was very certain, that he had nearly met
his death the night before. He shuddered at
the sight of them.

Greer had very evidently reckoned that
the finding of two or more such pistols in
the chest of a ship’s officer would cause less
suspicion than if they were detected among
the belongings of foremast hands.

From a box of cartridges he replenished
one chamber of one of the revolvers; and,
slipping it into the breast of his shirt, he
handed the other two to Farrar and Sutton,
who disposed of them in a like manner.

‘““This little capture of ours just plays the
whole thing into our hands,’’? Tom Greer
exclaimed. ‘‘We’re neatly rid of the second
mate, and there,are only the old man, Mr.
Morse, Clark and Leslie to be taken care
OL"

‘¢And George,’’ Farrar suggested.

Greer uttered a contemptuous grunt.

‘(The nigger’ll run, and perhaps jump
overboard,’’ he exclaimed. ‘‘We’ve nothing
to fear from him or the doctor. There’s
only one revolver aft.’’

‘*The old man has one, then?’’ growled
Sutton.

‘Yes, but what of that?

‘“‘It must be nearly eight bells. When
they strike, Farrar is to go to the wheel,
the same as though nothing was going to
happen, as I’ve said before, and relieve
Leslie. When Leslie and Clark come below
here, Sutton and I’ll take care of them.

‘‘Then, we will steal aft and do up the
officers. It will be the old man’s watch; so
we may only have him to deal with at first,
and, perhaps, he won’t have his gun with
him.’

‘*He’s the worst of the two,
comment.

‘‘But he won’t bave much of a chance
between us three.’’

‘‘Not with these.’’ The sailor tapped the
breast of his shirt significantly.

‘‘Well, I guess not!’’

Jack, looking on and listening to the pirati-
cal plotters, ground his teeth in helpless vex-
ation. oe

He well knew that Captain Carroll would
not surrender without a desperate struggle.

Prevailed upon as he had been by Jack to
earry his revolver, that arm would doubt-
less be drawn when the captain realized the

”? was Sutton’s

 

the hum of the summer breeze through the |

would not have called out in a way to alarm |

had seen. The captain would then have |

stand in regard to the matter, and, with |
them and Mr. Morse, with, perhaps, the |

effected before the schooner could be taken
by the mutineers.

Then—what?

The little party in the Milkmaid’s fore-
castle maintained an ominous silence. Jack
and Jones could do nothing.

The watch was nearly at an end.

Suddenly there came the sound of some
one approaching the fore-scuttle.

Jack’s heart leaped with hope.

The three conspirators started up nerv-
ously, exchanging glances of inquiry, their
right hands slipping toward their breasts.

This interruption was an unexpected sur-
prise.

Guilty consciences are their own accusers.

‘*Trapped!’’ was Tom Greer’s exasperated
growl. ‘*‘They’re on to our game!”?

Jack came near bursting his bonds with
the strength which those footsteps inspired;
for one determined man on deck, with a re-
volver, would bea complete master of the
situation even then.

A pair of feet, monstrous in their size,
were swung down through the space from
above, and their “owner, George, began
lazily to descend to the little apartment.

This was a disappointment.

Tom Greer put his finger to his lips.

Slipping to the side of the nearly vertical
ladder, he waited, with his revolver clubbed.

Slowly and clumsily, the burly figure of
George came down from above.

_ dack tried vainly to alarm the unsuspect-
ing negro.

When George’s black head came below the
hatchway, Tom Greer’s revolver-butt de-
scended upon it with a blow that was well
| calculated to crush the man’s. skull, while
| Hi Sutton grasped the negro by the throat.
**One, two, three, four, five, six, seven,
| eight!?’? came the taps of the binnacle bell
| faintly from the schooner’s stern.

‘Here! where’s the rope?’’ exclaimed
Greer, hastily; ‘‘we haven’t a second to
| Spare—that’s the bell!”’

Farrar, seizing a piece from the floor, it
was quickly bound about George’s wrists.

Sam Farrar eyed Greer questioningly.

At a nod from Tom Greer, Farrar climbed
the little ladder to relieve the wheel, as had
been planned.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
————_~>_+ + _—_
(This Story will not be Published in Book-Form,]

LITTLE SNAP,

The Postboy of the Kanawha;
OR, |

THE CHAMPION OF UNCLE SAM.

 

a

BY VICTOR ST. CLAIR,

Author of ‘Little Hickory of the Mountain Ea-
press,” ‘Zig-Zag, the Boy Conjurer,”
“The Young Stone-Cutter,” ele.
(“LITTLE SNAP” was commenced in No. 2538. Back
numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.)

CHAPTER XIX.

THE BUSH BINDERS DISCLOSE THEIR PLANS
TO THE POSTBOY.

—AITTLE SNAP’S first impulse, as he
saw the trap into which he had been
: driven, was to turn at bay and meet

G~” his enemies in a hand-to-hand strug-
gle, as hopeless as his chances were.

But at that moment Jack had reached the
bank of the stream, and the fleeing horse,
instead of checking his speed or turning
aside, sped like an arrow out over one of
the bridge stringers toward the other side!

The postboy was not far behind the gallant
steed, but he had opportunity to see the
horse rush safely the length of the timber,
to reach the clear way beyond.

With a snort, as if of triumph, Jack re-
newed his swift flight now in comparative
safety.

The sight of this feat caused the hopes of
Little Snap to rise, and he resolved to fol-
low the example set by his equine friend.

‘On, Fairy!’ he cried; ‘it is our only
chance !’’

The pursuers ‘suddenly stopped, as they
beheld with amazement the daring deed at-
tempted by the fugitive.

Fairy, seeming to realize the desperate part
she was to act in the startling undertakings
rushed fearlessly in the steps of her mate.

Sitting firmly in his saddle, the postboy
felt himself carried out over the dark
chasm, and he caught a gleam of the foam
ing waters burling their forces madly aga!)
the rock walls of the channel. The next 10°
stant he felt a quiver run through the fram?
of the faithful steed, and he knew that sh?
was falling!

Under the weight of her burden the mare
somehow missed her footing, her feet slipPe
on the treacherous way, and she trie sc
vain to recover her equilibrium!

Finding that she was falling, Little Snap
freed his feet from the stirrups just as horsé
and rider shot headlong into the boiling
river ! d
At that moment the pursuing party halte

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

      
       
   
 

    
  

       
       

2
S

         
 
  

   

 
  

 

 

 

a

GooyrDd

   

NEWS.

4135

 

on the bank of the stream, amazed wit-
nesses of the mishap.

Little Snap was carried completely over a
stringer running parallel with the first, and,
lighter than the horse, struck in the water
farther down the stream.

Fortunately, he escaped the jagged rocks
of the banks, though the fall deprived him
of his senses for a time. When he came to a
realization of his situation, he found himself

struggling in a mass of debris which had |

clogged the river a short distance below the
crossing.

In the midst of his efforts to extricate
himself, he heard a voice just above him.

Then, as he peered out from his retreat, he |

saw some of his.enemies coming rapidly to-
ward the place.

‘*T can see him!’’ cried the foremost.
knew he came down this way.’’

‘*Give up, younker!’’ called another voice.
‘Ye mought as well, fer we air sure to git
yer.’’

Letting go of the branch upon which he
had found himself clinging, Little Snap
hoped to elude his foes by swimming down
the stream. Buthe found himself so en-
tangled in the mass of floating wood about
him, that before he could get clear the
party was in the water beside him.

A sharp struggle ensued, but at its end
the postboy was dragged out of the water
by the hands of the Burrnock gang.

‘Bind him, boys!’’ said the leader, ex-
ultantly. ‘‘That’s gittin’ him what I call
mighty easy. I tole yer the bridge racket
would fix him.’’

‘*‘What do you mean -by this treatment?’’
demanded the postboy, as he found himself
bound hands and feet.

““Keep cool an’ ye’ll find out quick
’nough, younker. Tote him erlong, boys.’’

Little Snap looked for some trace of
Fairy, but in vain.

Nothing further was said by his captors,
While he was borne away into the depths of
the forest, with such thoughts and feelings
as may be imagined. What would they think
at home of his non-appearance when the
time for his return came? Then he thought
of Jack, and wondered if the horse would
keep on until he had reached Six Roads. He
Was certain he would, and this gave him
the only hope he felt in his captivity.

At last the captors and their prisoner
Yeached the little opening marking the top
of the bluff overhanging the cave, where
Little Snap had once sought Ab Raggles.

In the party which had effected his cap-
ture he saw Buzzard and Hawk Burrnock,
While the leader of the gang was none other
than he who had been chief spokesman in
the cavern. This man the postboy soon
found was Bird Burrnock, the father of the
our brothers.

Avoiding a description of the descent into

® cave, as soon as the underground room
Was reached, Bird Burrnock addressed the
Captive as follows:

‘Time is too mighty short, younker, fer
Us to perlaver with yer. ‘Tis true we
Mought hev saved a good leetle slice o’ yit

Y knockin’ ye in th’ head when we pulled
Y@ out’n th’ river. To speak th’ truth, I
Oped th’ river would fix yer; but seein’ yit
Wan’t likely to, we got round in season to
4ke enny idee o’ escape ye mought hev hed
Cut yer head.

‘We know yer air wanted mighty bad up
to th’ Roads, but we want yer wuss hyur,
though they air, playin’ inter ouf hands.

a |

a yer mought give ’em th’ slip. Yer can’t
Het But this an’t bizness.

‘To say nothin’ 0’ th? shabby way yer
ated th’ boys, we hev a double puppose

gittin’ yer inter our grips. Yit don’t
ake enny difference to ye wot it is, so long

tre

is
a tig so.. Now we hev got yer, we hev got
etle proposition to make yer, on which

iy’ future happiness depends, es th’ parson
Ould say.
hey Lan’t enny use fer me to deny, but we
thi pour eye on thet mail route, "cos we
fast yit can be made a mighty payin’ in-
' ment. Shag wants to run in shacks with
» but we like yer girt well ’nough to make
st: nee with ye. Now, if ye’ll ’gree to
We] in with us, an’ do th’ square thing,
b not only give' ye a shake in th’ profits,
All xe ll see thet ye don’t hev enny trubble.
ye’ll hev to do will be to stop yer hoss

Mig, Dough ter us to look th’ baggage over.
Promj y®, we do th’ sortin’. Further, we
trubpy thet ye won’t hev enny further
Ts .° at, Six Roads, or ennywhere else.

Lite et? younker?’’ %
Acions Snap was so amazed at this au-
S scheme that at first he could not

(Where to reply to Bird Burrnock.

at if "2 > 4 7 ‘ 10

Contract: I refuse to enter into any such a

nit hen our own safety demands thet we

Ye® where ye can’t trubble us enny more.

it ye won't?” rr

an do1»
} this simple declaration the little knot

Upp, -2e's started excitedly, and Bird

Sath, » the leader, uttered a fearful

tm
Risse? ye wanter die, younker?’’ he

V6

0
long e Course I do not, sir! But I cannot

Wh ids aid to any such infamous scheme.
®annot ® robbery of the worst sort, and you

i “arry it on for’ any length of time
t? eing caught.’’

Sour lookout. Mebbe ye air shaky

}

in thet direction, but I can tell yer we air
well heeled thet way. Why, th’ mos’ in-
fluential citizens o’ th’ Roads air in with us.
There’s th’ judge, an’ the colonel. Then,
too, we’ll take keer o’ Shag. Once more,
will yer fall in with th’ plan, or shall we be

Little Snap realized that he was in the
power of men who would hesitate at nothing
to carry out their unlawful purpose, and he
thought of his mother even then anxiously
awaiting his return home, and imagined the
anguish she would feel upon his failure to
come. He thought of his father, so helpless
to aid the others, and his younger sister and
brother, and the sorrow they would experi-
ence. Still, with these sad reflections in his
mind, and the dread consequence if he re-
fused to comply with the demands of his
captors plainly before him, he hesitated but
a moment in his reply.

‘*] cannot accept your terms.’’

‘*Fetch erlong th’ rope, boys,’’? ordered
Bird Burrnock, tersely.
take us long to change his mind.”’

CHAPTER XX.
A STARTLING DISCOVERY.

UZZARD BURRNOCK quickly en-
tered one of the dark recesses of the
} cavern, returning a moment
77 with a coil of rope lying on his arm.

‘*Make a loop in one end,’’ commanded
the elder Burrnock. ‘‘Be lively, too, fer we
don’t want to fool with him hyur all day.’’

When the rope had been arranged to their

pee

  

Snap’s shoulders, so the cord encircled his
body under the arms,

‘* Drag him to th’ pit!’’ cried the leader.
‘*Reckon a leetle consideration there’ll take
th’ starch out’n him.’’

Buzzard Burrnock and Hawk then seized
hold of the postboy, one on either side, and
half-dragging him, he was swiftly taken
along a winding passage leading from the
underground room, until the sharp voice of
Bird Burrnock ordered a halt.

‘‘Swing forward th’ torch so’s he can see
wot’s ahead,’’ said the chief, when Little
Snap saw to his horror that he stood at the
brink of a huge fissure in the rock.

‘Tis bottomless es fur es we know. At
enny rate, it’s deep ’nough to send you into
eternity. Now, boys, lower him over th’
hole, an’ let bim down till he says he’s
willin’ to agree. to our terms. Hev it over es
quick es possible.’’ .

‘*Look here!’’ exclaimed the postboy; ‘‘if
you are in such haste and time is so valu-
able to you, I will tell you how you can save
this delay. You waste time in thinking you
can make me agree to your terms, My an-
swer was final.’’

The outlaw waved his hand impatiently,
when his followers pushed Little Snap over
the edge of the abyss, so he dangled from
the rope held in their hands.

‘‘Lower him away!’’ ordered Burrnock.
‘‘T reckon a taste o’ thet darkness’ll bring
him to his senses. Lower!’’

A thrill of dread ran through the post-
boy’s frame as he sank lower and lower-into
the unknown depths.

‘*Why don’t ye yell out?’’ demanded the
outlaw chief, his dark visage appearing over
the rim of the rock. He was evidently dis-
appointed at the coolness of their victim.
“Yell at th’ top o’ yer lungs; needn’t be
*fraid o’ ennybuddy hearin’ ye! Haw! haw!”?

Then the speaker’s coarse face disappeared,
and he was dropped several feet ina jerky
manner.

of escape for him, Little Snap did not lose |
courage, and as he descended he threw out |
his hands to catch upon the rugged wall.

Once his fingers touched a rough edge of |
rock, but they slipped away, and he found |
himself again sinking, when he. brushed!
against a shelf, which was wide enough for
him to gain a good hold.

Hope lending him strength, he clutched at |
the projection, to find that he was able to)
hang there for a skort time: He had, at the
same moment, the presence of mind not to
allow the rope to slacken, and by holding
on the ledge with one hand, be held firmly
on the line with the other, managing to |
keep it straight.

Ina moment the men stopped lowering
the rope, when the voice of their leader de- |
manded:

‘* Air ye ready now?’’

**No! Do your worst; I will never yield!’

Little Snap was really anxious to bring
about a crisis now, knowing he could not re-
main in his position long.

‘*Let him go!’’ eried Bird Burrnock.
can’t fool with him. We can
Shag.

‘*Dix Lewis, th’ consequence 0’ this is on
yer own head. Good-by.’’

The next moment the men let go the rope,
when it went down with a rattling sound.
At the same time, in order to keep up the
deception, the imperiled boy ‘uttered a
piercing scream, which rang through and
through the subterranean passages with a
startling effect, echo after echo succeeding
it, until it seemed they would never end.

‘*He’s done fer fas’ ’nough,’’? declared
Buzzard Burrnock, peering into the dark

‘We
trade with

 

 

   

depths with a hasty glance, as if frightened!
at the place.

*bliged to take desprit measures with yer?’? |

‘“‘T reckon ’twon’t |

later |

satisfaction, the noose was slipped over Little |

Though he felt that there was no avenue! claimed Mr. Rimmon.

| With a low neigh, the panting

of relief as he listened to the sound of their
retreating footsteps.

Then he shifted his position so as to be
more comfortable, while he waited for them
to get out of hearing. :

Though he had found a narrow support
| for his feet, his weight hung largely on his

arms which were beginning to ache so that
he knew he must soon loosen his hold upon
| the rocks.

In this dilemma he moved one foot to and
fro, up and down, on the rocky wall, hoping
| he might find a better standing place.

In this he was so far successful that he
changed his position to one of comparative
| ease, when he drew his first long breath
| Since entering the place.

It was too dark for him to see anything
of his surrotndings, and he soon began to
realize that there was small chance for him
to ascend to the top of the chasm. He hardly
dared to move, for fear he should lose his
hold and fall headlong into the pit yawning
below him. Such attempts as he did make
showed him the utter impossibility of climb-
ing the perpendicular side of the rocky wall.

He made a discovery, however, which
gave him a ray of hope. ‘The shelf upon
which he stood extended farther than he
could reach with his foot.

Carefully then he moved along the — pre-
carious path, inch by inch, until he had
traveled several feet. Stopping then for rest,
he happened to thrust out one hand, when
to his unbounded joy he touched the oppo-
site wall!

The fissure had narrowed so the sides here
came within a short distance of each other.
| Again he tried to climb to the tép, and by
pressing against the two sides he managed
to ascend.

With what gladness he finally found he
| was near the surface need not be told. He

was so weak from the ordeal that he fell ex-

hausted a short distance away from the
| brink.

| Quickly rallying, he tried to penetrate the
gloom enough to enable him to get away
|from the place; but only blinded by the
| cimmerian blackness, he was forced to feel
| his way along as best he could, knowing
that he was

| enemies at any moment.

[
|
|
}
|
|
|
|

 

 

!
}
;
|

sound of voices reached his ears. Listening
| a moment, he heard the harsh tone of Bird
Burrnock give some command to his follow-

ers.
| Obliged to advance if he moved at all, be
| crept nearer to the outlawed gang, moving
with extreme caution, until he knew from
the sound of their voices he was close upon
j them. Asif to verify this a faint gleam of
|light from their torch fell across his path-
| way.
| The leader of. the party was saying some-
thing as he stopped, which he did not hear
plain enough to understand, Listening more
intently for the reply, he came near betray-
ing his presence by a low cry, not at the
words spokén, but the tone in which they
were given.
It was his father’s voice!

CHAPTER XXI.
‘‘WHAT JACK RIMMON SAYS, GOES.”’

  
 
 

“HE little crowd about the post-office at
> Six Roads looked with speechless
) amazement upon the riderless horse
as the animal approached at a furious

 

pace.
“Something has happened to Dix!’’ ex-

‘*T feared it. Come
here, Jack; where is your master?’’
horse

stopped beside him, the creature trembling
in every part.

Even Dan Shag was moved to emotion,
and for the time he forgot to repeat his re-
quest for the mail-pouch.

“*T wish you could speak, Jack,’’ said the
postmaster, patting the horse’s head. ‘‘Where
did you leave him?’’

‘*Tt’s pas’ six!’ broke in Shag. ‘‘Reckon
ye’ll let me hev th’ Government traps?’’

‘*Not yet, Dan. Wait till we learn the
fate of Little Snap.’’

‘Don’t see wot thet hes to do with me.. I
hey been ’p’inted to carry thet mail, an’
every minnit ye keep yit frum me makes ye
liable fer damages. Reckon ye wouldn’t
want ’em to know at Washington ’bout this
yer foolery.’’

Mr. Rimmon paid no heed to these words,
which fact perhaps enraged the impatient
Shag more than any reply would have done.

‘Look byur, Jack Rimmon! air ye goin’
to let me hev thet mail—right’ off—ter
wunst?”’

Mr. Rimmon’s reply fairly took away his
breath.

‘*No,. sir.”?

At first the would-be mail-carrier could
not believe his ears.

‘*Wot’s thet ye say, Jack Rimmon?’’

‘‘Stand aside now, Mr. $hag; there is
more important matter on hand than your
buisness. J will talk with you about this
mail matter when I have more leisure.’’

With these words, Mr. Rimmon, leading
Jack by the bridle, started toward the home ,
of the Lewises.

‘*Great guns!’’? exclaimed Shag, as soon |
as he could speak; ‘‘wot in creation do ye

A minute later Little Snap drew a breath mean?

likely to stumble upon his |

Foolin’ with me, a United States
officer, in thet way! Where’s Judge Claver-
ton? Ill hev him tear this ol’ shebang o’ a
post-offis down, but I’Jl hev thet mail-bag!?’

A few of the spectators cheered him, but
the majority followed the postmaster to-
ward the more exciting scene around the
besieged house.

At least that is
Rimnion, as he
walking by his side.

Foremost in the excited throng that had
surrounded the bome of the postboy, was
Sheriff Brady, who was speaking to Mrs.
Lewis and the crowd at his heels in almost
the same breath.

‘‘Wait a minute longer, boys! Tell us
where he has gone, Mary Lewis, and we
won't molest you.”’

The over-wrought woman was standing in
the doorway with one of her children on
either side. Her inflamed eyes told that she
had been weeping. It had been a night sbe
would never forget.

‘*T repeat, Mr. Brady,’’ she said, for the
twentieth time, that he has gone to Volney
to see Mr. Calvert, and that he will be back
at six!”?

‘‘Tell us something else; it will at least
make a change, Mrs. Lewis. Of course, we
know better than that. You are knowing
to where he has hid himself.”’

“*It’s past six!’’ cried some one from the
crowd.

‘*So ’tis,’’ cried the sheriff. ‘‘I don’t like
to resort to any violence with a woman.
Wait one minnit longer. While we wait tell
us the truth, woman.’’

In vain she reiterated the
her statement.

The frenzied spectators would listen to
nothing reasonable.

At this critical moment little Sammy

Lewis, dragging his boyish figure to its full
height with manly dignity, stepped in front
of his imperiled mother, crying:
» ‘*You shall not burt her! She has told the
truth of Dix. We do not not know why he
does not come; but he went to see Mr.
Calvert. He will come back as soon as he
can.”’

‘‘What means aJl this outcry?’’? demanded
the clear voice of Mr. Rimmon. ‘‘Sheriff

what it looked to Mr.
approached, with Jack

truthfulness of

| Brady, is it thus you perform the duties of
In fact, he had not gone far before the |

your office with such a
back?’?

Every one started in surprise at the ap-
pearance of the postmaster, and low excla-
mations came from the lips of all at sight
of the postboy’s horse.

Mrs. Lewis seemed to comprehend the
worst at a single glance.

‘‘My boy! what bas happened to him???
she cried, rushing forward to Mr. Rimmon.

‘*Be calm, Mary. Let us trust he is safe.’’

‘*But how came Jack here without him?’’

The appearance of the horse was then told
in a few words, while numerous conjectures
were offered in regard to the rider.

‘*You say he went away with both his
horses,’’ said Mr. Rimmon. ‘‘The fact that
this one has come back without any saddle
shows that he must have been riding Fairy
at the time Jack got away from him, or
was perhaps sent ahead by his master to tell
us that he is safe. I look upon it as a good
sign.

‘*Cheer up, Mrs. Lewis; I guarantee that
no harm shall come to you. Mr. Brady, I
advise you to withdraw your men. Dix
Lewis will not be hard to find when he
comes,”’

‘‘Tf he comes!’’ said the sheriff. ‘‘ You
may not be aware, Mr. Rimmon, that War-
field has concluded not to stand the boy’s
bail, and thus we must have him.’’

‘*I know nothing of this,’’ replied the post
master, sharply. ‘‘Why didn’t you or Mr.
Warfield come to me in regard to the mat-
ter?’

‘“‘Of course I did not suppose you would
care to stand in for the runaway, if Mr.
Warfield did not. In that case it was my
duty to capture the scamp as soon as pos-
sible.’’

‘Give yourself no further concern in that
direction, Mr. Brady. I will answer for the
boy. Is that sufficient?’’

Mr. Rimmon was not the right man for
Sheriff Brady to antagonize. Besides being a
person of good financial standing, he was
known to be a man of sterling integrity, and
to use a cant expression, ‘‘what Jack Rim-
mon says, goes.’’ So the officer said:

‘“‘Of course, Mr. Rimmon. But I want to
tell you that you are making the greatest
mistake of your life.’’

‘*That’s my lookout. Now go to your
homes, every man of you, and when Dix
Lewis is wanted I will guarantee he will be
on hand, or there will be good reason for his
not being there.’’

Before any reply could be given a dis-
covery was made which completely changed
the situation, bringing terror to the hearts
of many present, Mrs. Lewis falling in a
swoon at the postmaster’s feet.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
a oe i

Mrs. Billus (after the company had gone)
—‘‘Johnnie, you shouldn’t have eaten those
preserved fruits. They were not intended to

rabble at your

 

 

  

be eaten. They were put on the table to fill
up.”

Johnnie Billus—‘‘ Well, that’s what I used
’em for, mamma.’’

   
    
   
  
    
   
    
 
   
    
   
   
   
   
    
   
   
   
  
 
 
   
    
   
  
   
   
   
   
  
  
  
 

 

 

 
    
       
 
 

 

 
 
         
     
     
     
     
         
     
     
   
     
      
      
     
     
       
       
         
   
  

 

  
     
       
     
             
      
    
     
         
       
    
    
        
 
       
     
      
    
     
     
         
       
         
        
 
      
    
       
     
   
     
     
     
       
       
       
       
          
 
       
         
    
 
         
       
       
       
          
          
           
          
    
       
       
       
     
       
     
   
    
              
 
   
     
     
 

 

ie
op
> e

  
 
  

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

ZEST. STORES Fai

Sa

NEW YORK, APRIL 20, 1895.

Terms to Good News Wail Subscribers:

(POSYAGE FREE.)

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STREET & SMITEIVS GOOD NEWS,
27 & 29 Rose Street, N.Y.

 

 

Back numbers of GOOD NEWS can always be
obtained from your Newsdealers. If they do not
have them please send direct to this office and we
will supply them by mail on receipt of price.

Advertising rates, 50 cents per agate line.

 

Contents of this Number.
SERIAL STORIES.

“The Boy Cattle King,” by Harry Danger-
field,

“A Footlight Favorite,” by Manager Henry
Abbot. ,

“Jack Ferdham, Second Mate,” by Clarence
Converse.

“Little Snap,,” by Victor St. Clair.

‘In the Days of the Gladiators,” by Alfred
Armitage. ;

“Fighting for Freedom,” by J. Gibson
Perry, U.S. N.

“A Prison of Ice,” by Lieut. James K
Orton.

“Chip and Chuck,” by **Pat.”

SHORT STORIES,
“In the Grip of the Lasso,” by Arthur Fer-
guson.
‘“Watson’s Tragedy,” by W. E. Cule.
“Gordon Corbett’s Temptation,’ by Robert
Overton.
“The Retired Burglar,” by Horace Martin.
“The Boy Without a Chum,” by W. W.
Tremaine.

REGULAR DEPARTMENTS.

“Short Talks With the Boys,” by Arthur
Sewall.

“How to Do Things,” by David Parks.

‘Vicklets,” by Chas. W. Foster.

“Mail Bag,” ‘xchange Department,”
“©lub Notices,” etc.

 

 

WEEK AFTER NEXT

We shall begin a splendid story, full of

exciting adventures and thrilling en-
counters with wild beasts and

savage natives, entitled

JUNGLES AND TRAITORS;

OR,

The Wild Animal Trappers of India,

BY
WILLIAM MURRAY GRAYDON.

eas Bilan

* A capital story of the Pacific Coast. will
follow.

clases! msaassountsh

We have a host of good things in store
for you, boys!

—+4

Be sure and tell all your friends of

WATSON’S TRAGEDY.

BY W. E. CULE.

It was Watson’s high ambition in his rather
youthful days,

By some deed of solid prowess to deserve the
people’s praise ;

And his longing took direction in a wild
desire to shine

As an amateur detective in the blood-and-
thunder line.

 

On a dark December evening he was hurry-
ing home from town,

When a sudden storm came up, sir, and the
rain, of course, came down;

Rain will even wet a hero—’tis a fact su-
premely clear,

So he sheltered in the archway of a gloomy
building near.

It was cold and it was draughty—all de-
serted, still and lone,

‘‘Just the place to suit a murder,’’ he was
muttering, with a groan,

When, behold! a sound of footsteps, then a
stealthy, husky call,

And two figures brushed before him as he
stood against the wall.

One—a villain stout and burly—bore a
burden on his back ;

And just guess poor Watson’s horror—some-
thing writhing in a sack!

And, that moment, as they vanished, came
a groan, a stifled cry, “
Then the paralyzing whisper, ‘‘We must
leave him here—to die!’’

What a host of awful fancies flashed across
our hero’s brain;

Silently he left his shelter, heeding not the
pouring rain;

Noted, well the place of horror (this was
glorious work for him),

Rushed away and told the story to a police-
man tall and grim.

‘*X¥ 300’? nodded darkly, left at once his
quiet beat,

Sought the station, where our comrade did
his gory tale repeat;

Then a sergeant, with his henchmen, march-
ing boldly in a row,

With young Watson-as their pilot, sought
the silent scene of woe.

Bare of all its chilling horrors did that sim-
ple archway seem

When the officers surveyed it by their lan-
terns’ searching beam ;

But, half-hidden in a corner, stood a small
and secret door,

Which the fatal legend ‘‘Enter’’ on its dusty
panels bore.

‘‘Break it down!’’ exclaimed our hero;
‘‘sure, the victim lies behind!’’

But the sergeant viewed the matter with a
more official mind,
Drew his deadly truncheon slowly, with the
majesty of law,
Touched the door and threw it open; saw—
well, fancy what they saw!

Just. an office, neat and cozy, lined with

parcels small and large,

Which a pleasant-featured clerk appeared to
hold in proper charge ;

And our gumptious little hero in a moment
‘“‘saw it all,’’

For the legend ‘‘Jones’ Dye Works
gaze upon the wall.

”? met his

And you’ll fancy his sensations when the
clerk exclaimed, in wonder:
‘“‘Tt appears, my clever youngster, that
you’ve made a little blunder.
Murderers? They were carrying Mrs. Park-
er’s long-haired skye;
She desires; to change its color, so they’ve
left it here—to dye!”’

 

—~)—- 0» —
THE MANUBRACTURE OF WILD MEN,

There are many curious trades in the
world, but the most strange must surely be
the ‘‘artificial manufacture of wild men.’’
Yet a well-known English doctor in China
has-just certified from his own personal ex-
perience that this art is regularly practiced
in the Flowery Kingdom. : 5

First a youth is kidnaped, then bit by bit
he is flayed alive, and the skin of a dog or
bear grafted piece by piece upon him. His
vocal chords are next destroyed by the action
of charcoal to make him dumb; and. the
double purpose of causing ‘‘etiolation’’ of
the skin and utter degradation of the men-
tal faculties is effected by keeping him im-
mured in a perfectly dark hole for a number
of years.

In fact, by treating him like a brute for a
sufficiently long time, he is made into one.

At last he is exhibited to the entirely
credulous Chinese as a wild man of the
woods, and his possessors reap a rich harvest.

The priests, it seems, are adepts at the art.
When a kidnaper, however, is caught by
the people, he is torn to pieces, and when
the authorities get bim they torture him

GOOD NEWS.

vw)

| knows a lot of things his son doesn’t know.

HORT ‘TALKS ==

>

—¢

/,

Wire fue Boys.

EDITED BY ARTHUR SEWALL.

—-+

WHAT SHALL I BE?

 
   
  

HIS question has been asked me so
~2 often by boys, that I have determined
‘\ to use this column this week to preach
<> a little sermon with ‘‘What Shall I
Be?’’ for a text.

It is a fine thing to be independent, and
the sooner a boy learns this truth the better.
The parental yoke may not be a very gall-
ing one, but it still spells ‘‘dependence,’’
and at times it is irksome, because a young
lad does not look upon things from the same
standpoint as his father does.

The father was a_ boy hitnself. once, and
as time wore on he gained experience, pay-
ing perhaps deeply and dearly for it. He

He knows the value of money, for instance.
He knows how difficult it is to make and
how easy to spend. He knows how easy it
is to slide into temptation. He knows the
uncertainty of life—and something, too,
which is of equal importance, the uncer-
tainty of health. Good health is a gift that
is quite as easily squandered as money it-
self. And if you own not the first you can
never win the second.
The father knows, too, how to put the |
right value on hope. Hope is a fine thing in |
one way, but it isn’t the anchor a youth |
should trust his bark of life to. Hope, like |
a will-o’-the-wisp, has led many a lad into |
a quagmire ere now, and left him there. |
Hope is a fine thing only when it goes band |
in band with hard work and earnestness of |
purpose.

And this same hope has often ere now

caused many a boy to throw over allegiance

to parental rule and rush away out into the}
world, glamored with the desire to be inde- |
pendent, but without knowing in the least
what to do or where to seek for work.

Boys like this have sometimes found that
the rule of a master was/far more firm and
hard to bear than the loving yoke of parental
authority. They have found this, ‘and longed
to be home again once more. Pride, how-
ever, may have prevented their asking for-
giveness; and they have, preferred remain-
ing in a state worse than slavery to return-

ing to the shelter of the parental roof.
But now to steer round to the practical

side of my text and boldly try to help you

to face the question— What shall I be?

And I may say here at once that this

little sermon of mine is written with the

view of assisting those who are desirous of

helping themselves.

What shall I be?. ~What am I fitted for?

you may also ask; and not only this, but,

What. can I fit myself for? The question,

What would I like to be? is really of second-

rate importance. We seldom getall we want.

‘*What can I fit myself for?’’ Almost any-

thing in a modest way, if you care to work

and study, if you are in downright earnest
and full of. purpose.

Now, mark my words for it, the boy who
is going to be a successful man in this world
and ride in his own carriage before he is
forty, is be who begins to think early and
to’ look ‘before him, and to put himself to
anything that is useful and profitable.

Such a boy, mind you, will not begrudge
himself sport and enjoyment in due measure.
He will not be an old man of a_ boy, or,
what is worse, an old woman. You will
find him cycling now and then if he can
afford a cyele. You will not miss him from
the ball field, and sometimes you will find
him fishing by the’ river or lake. But I
guess, if you were to ask him, you would
find that he had earned these pleasurable
outings, and can therefore enjoy them with
an easy mind and an easy conscience.

Nor will such a boy be a miser, or a
hoarder up of money that could be profit-
ably spent. But, being strong and healthy,
he has a mind of his own, and will not
therefore be led astray in thought, word or
deed when mixing with the companions of
his own age. There is no nervousness about
him. Not asquare inch. He does nothing
to make him feel nervous, and, what is
more, he doesn’t mean to; and if other boys
ask him why, he will tell them why, fear-

 

what they think of him.

Now, this is the place, perhaps, for me to
|say a word or two to boys about the sin of
day-dreaming. One sentence or two will
suffice, and simple they shall be.

 

 

THE KING OF BOYS’ WEEKLIES.

and promptly behead him. Such is life under
the rule of the Son of Heaven.

Just suppose, then, the case of two boys
who start in the race of life in every way ;chines, and never rise above the ram’
with equal advantages. One is a hard-work- | file. But there are a score of better OPT
ing, plodding boy, the other has plenty of | ings for energetic young men than ©
brain, power and ¢an work, too, when he | ships afford. say’
chooses; but he is given fo fits of day- to
dreaming, or aerial castle building. He | in this article, and yet I trust you W)
spends hours in imagining joys that never |a little from it.
may come, and flatteringly telling himself! Try to!
what he will do and how he will enjoy him- Do!

 
 

 
  
  
  
 
     
   
    
  
  
 
 
  
 
    
   
   
 
    
  
   
    
    
   
   
  
  
 
   
    
  
  
    
  
 
  
 
  
  
  
  
  
   
  
  
 
  
   
  
  
  
   
    
  
 
  
 
 
  
    
 
 
 
 
   
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
  
  
  
   
 
  
 
 
  
  
  

self when he is this, that and t’other. Which

of these lads is going to win the race? Why
the first, of course. The other won’t be
in it.

Did ever you hear the expression, Mens
sana in corpore sano? It means, ‘‘a calm
and thcughtful mind in a vigorous, health-
ful body.’’ The two must go hand in hand
if you would fit yourself to battle success-
fully with the world.

Well, then, what [ want you to do, In
order to be fit for anything that may turn
up, is to live while now in your teens in
such away as to insure yourself of that
priceless boon—a healthful body. Regular
exercise in the open air, taken steadily and
without heart-straining, spurting and record-
building, will work wonders; and fresh air
night and day will tend to build you upa
constitution that felling trees in an African
jungle would not be able to shake. When in
the open air, however, be doing something.
Nothing is worse than loitering about with-
out a purpose; temptations may fall in your
way, you may get into company with the
idle and the useless, and soon degenerate
into a common loafer.

Well, now, if I have got you to adopt
health habits that soon become second
nature, [ have already put more than one
spoke in the wheel that is going to whirl
you on to success in life.

But you must study at home. I want you
to acquire the art of quick, clear, ready and
readable penmanship; and I want you to
read such books as. will improve your con-
versational powers, and teach you also the
art of expressing your ideas in writing. Re-
member, this is best done in language that
is practical and to the point as well as

| simple.

I want you to keep a good, roomy copy or
note-book, and to practice descriptive
writing every day of your life. Have your
dictionary alongside you while doing. so, so
that you may not use words or language
that is out of place. Describe anything you
have seen during the day or read in the
papers—the history of a ramble out of doors,
a base-ball match, a bit of scenery or land-
scape, or even a walk round your garden.
In six months, if you practice this, you will
be astonished at the advance you have made,
and the ease with which you can talk your
own language.

In conversation always speak slowly and
distinctly ; and keep cool. Don’t strive after
fine language—that will-come in good time,
if ever it be needed.

A boy who can write a good letter from
his own dictation, who can ‘talk grammati-
cally and in fairly good English, and who is
clear-headed, healtby-looking, and strong,
has already taken a few steps up the ladder
of life.

But every boy who wants to succeed must
| master the art of quickly and correctly add-
ing up or multiplying columns of figures.
| You cannot study this art too much; you
|should be constantly at it when you have
'time to spare; for itis an art that is not
|only somewhat difficult to acquire, but one
that is soon forgotten if it be allowed to fall
into disuse.

By the time a boy—as much probably
: through his own exertions as from any eX-
‘ternal help he may have received—is so faY
advanced as to be able to read and write @
|nice hand understandingly, to converse
| boldly and’ freely, and to do sums well, he
will have gained confidence, and his abil-
ities to do more and more will advance rap-
, idly.
| Now, while trying to elevate the mind,
|the pushing boy or young fellow must not
|fail’ to have a fad or fancy of some kint
+that will not only pleasurably occupy 8
spare time, but be really useful to him.

I have only space to mention one or tw
of the best of these, and first comes carpe®:
tering. A box of good tools is the best gt
'a parent can give toason. They must D0
| be mete boys’ tools, however. And if th®
| boy is wise, he will take lessons in how to
use them.

Then comes gardening. To succeed in th
he must not only have a good book and g0°
practice, but he must, if. possible, have ®
| friend a gardener. d

Well, there is taxidermy. Why, a 89?
taxidermist can always make ‘his bes 1B
the world; so, too, can a good photograp c
And mind you this—both arts are only }
their infancy.

But what is to hinder some Jads from
spending an hour or two a day, 1 ’
have the chance, even ina blacksmith 8, A
making themselves useful in a chemist § e
druggist’s.

OF cnet many boys fight and struggle ve

get into an office or. behind a bank counters
; cured #

 

is,

lessly and straight, and will not care a cent |and they think they have thus se

independence and a career. They ™4
may not have done so. like
If they settle down simply to work ily
machines, spending their spare time 1? Pan
amusements and making no effort to}

° : : ‘ 1a-
prove their minds, they will remain "od

Pe

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This Story Wil) Not be Published in Book-Form.

A POOTPLEG EH

DY RAV ORITT EH;

OR,

BORN. LPO Be AN: ACTOR.

BY MANAGER

[*‘A FOOTLIGHT FAVORITE

vas commenced in No. 257.

HENRY ABBOT.

Back pumbers can be obtained of all

News Agents.]

CHAPTER VII.

SOMETHING MORE THAN AN ACTOR. |
GREAT cry went up as Mark Dale |
disappeared behind the _ sheet of
smoke and flames. |

‘‘He will be burned alive!’’

‘We will never see him again!’’

 

++
SS

Frank Oldham was nearly distracted, and
it was only by main force that the other |
actors kept him from rushing into the

flames to attempt to

‘*Now hold tight! And may Hé@aven be with
us !?”

Out into the passage-way he dashed, with
Marie clinging tightly to his neck.

The smoke and flames were now thicker
than ever, and it looked as if all escape was
cut off.

‘*T’]] do it or die!’’
closed his mouth
stant he was in the very midst of the seeth-
ing conflagration.

thought Mark, as he

In her fright Marie buried her head under !

tightly, and the next in- |

1 to his coat, but he did not stop, and five
seconds later stumbled out into the alley-way
with Marie safe in his arms.

‘<He’s out! He’s out! He has Marie!’’

‘*Good for Mark Dale!”’

‘‘Where is my daughter?’’ cried Frank
Oldham, frantically, and in a moment more
Marie was safe in her father’s arms.

‘“*Good for you, Mark!’’ exclairned Le-
roy. ‘‘ You are a true hero, and—hullo!
fainted!’

It was true; the strain had been too much
for Mark. safe, he fey
yards up the alley-way and then

| lump of lead to the ground

‘Pick him up tenderly, men,’’ said Frank

he’s

a few

fell like a

staggered

Once

Oldham. ‘‘Such a hero deserves the best of
care.’’

Mark was carried out on the street. Here
a carriage was summoned, and he was

speedily driven to his hotel and taken to his
room.

A doctor was sent for, but before he arrived
Mark was sitting up. His few
dressed with the best of professional skill,
|and he was given a tonic to brace him up.
|. **How ? Is she safe?’’ were

wounds were

is Miss Marie?

his first questions.

 

rescue his daughter.

‘‘Tt won’t do!’’ cried
Leroy. ‘‘It is sure death
to go in there!’’

‘Yes! yes!’’ said an
other. ‘‘See! the flames
are everywhere!”

In the meanwhile the

alarm was sounded, and
soon the engines and
hook and ladder trucks

came dashing up to the
scene.

Luckily the audience
got out’ in comparative
safety. There were sev-

eral limbs broken, and
three women fainted,
but this was nothing

in view of what might
have oc-curred.

In a few minutes half
a dozen streams of wa
ter were being poured
on the stage, where the
fire burned fiercely
among the scenery.

Down below the flames
roared and crackled
madly, and it was be
hind this wall of almost
certain death that Mark
Dale had gone to the
gallant rescue of little
Marie Oldham.

Crouching low, so as
to get the benefit of
what little pure air re-
Mained, Mark made his
Way with all speed to-
ward the line of dress-
Ing-rooms occupied by
the female portion of
the company.

He hardly dared to
take a full breath for
fear of being choked.

All about him
filled with fine
Sparks, which often
burned him severely
Upon the hands and the
ack of the neck.

But, undaunted by
this, he kept on until
at last he reached the
door of Marie’s room.

‘‘Miss Marie!?’’ he
Called out.‘‘ Miss Marie!
Where are you?’?

‘Help! help!’? came
the childish voice from
Within, ‘*Break down

& door !??

Mark waited to bear
40 more. His shoulder
went up against the
thin, matched boards,

wie went the door

 

was
flying

WHEN

1a bang,

“Oh, thank

t Heaven!’ cried Marie Old- |
1am,

a ‘‘T dropped the key, and it fell ina
Tack of the floor! Where is dear papa?’’

‘ery ® is safe outside!’’? returned Mark. |

j ! 7

ont come! there is not a second ar
4

Sac But what has happened? Ob! the pas- |
Se is full ot

little girl
had

fire!’’’ and the

ack in terror, for the flames

Not ’

“penetrated to her room.
es

Ms... “: and the whole

Liss Marie!’ cried

> too late!”
She ; P
. 2 W

Sta rted

stage is in flames,
Mark. ‘‘Hurry, or it

his d ‘as too terror: stricken to comply with
by oemand. She ran up and clutched him
Nene arm.
sa Ob; save me! save me, Mark Dale!’’ she
é beseechingy
8 os y wu I
Sttbrace en her up in his strong, youthful
el .

WwW i |
so will, Marie! Hold on tight and hide
y I fa ©1n my coat. You had better take

rer A
at eath, too!

> Ne was « ;
the Ww was speaking, Mark moved over to
vash-basin

Some in the room. Taking up

8 Water ; : a

and a vater, he poured it over his clothing
tim, 5° OVer little Marie.

9 Keep it fy : 3 ‘ ;
“Sep it from burning,’’ he explained. '

TMT
TN

; WH
NN NN

THE CURTAIN WENT DOWN ON THE FINAL GRAND CLIMAX HE HAD TO GO

KN

\

 

OUT

BEFORE

STAR AND HIS DAUGHTER.

his coat. She prayed for safety, and silently |

blessed the youth who had risked his life to

| come to her assistance.

reached. Twenty feet farther was the door

| leading to the open alley-way.

But what was between them and safety?
A living’ wall of fire! Never would it be

| possible to pass that and live!

Mark almost gave up for lost. There was
no other way out, for the door by which the
sneak Lyle’ Quigg had entered was. still
farther away.

Suddenly Mark heard a sizzing sound to
his left. He recognized it instantly. It was

‘*Yes, she is all right,’’ replied
who sat beside him. ‘‘You did nobly, Mark,

| nobly !”’
And now the end of the passage-way was |

| take such a risk!

,

|

the water from the nozzle of a hose beating |

down the fiames.

‘‘Hullo! hullo!’’ he yelled.
straight ahead !’’

At first his ery was not heard. Then came
several voices as he repeated his call, and
soon the stream of water came flying
directly toward him and his little protege.

‘Turn it on

It knocked out much of the fire, but in-
creased the smoke. Yet a narrow passage
way was cleared, and across this Mark

leaped with the rapidity of lightning.

The flames brushed his cheek, and set fire |

‘Il didn’t do any more than my duty,’
returned the youth, modestly.

‘*Ves, but not one in
It was
at the cannon’s mouth!’’

Half an hour later Frank Oldham, who
had been attending to the wants of little
Marie, came in. He caught Mark warmly

like

     
   

THE CURTAIN

|

Je

a thousand would |
facing death }

by the hand, while the tears stood in his|

eyes.
‘I don’t know how to thank you,’’ he
said, brokenly.

‘*Don’t try it,’? replied Mark, getting

back to something of his natural dryness.

‘“Tt’s all right.’’
‘‘But you saved Marie!
on earth to me!’’
‘*Well, I couldn’t
would
ply.

The dearest one

stand it to
be burned up,’’
Away down in

think
rejoined Mark, sim
his heart he thought

much more of bright-eyed little Marie Old-
ham than he was willing to acknowledge,

even to himself.
‘You can rest assured that you shall lose
nothing by what you have done for me,’’

|

she |

/ came the warmest of friends

ene ene

 

 

 

4137

star of the company. ‘‘From
enceforth, I shall keep my eye on you.”’
And he was as good as his word, as the

 

 

chapters to follow will show.

1 not take the fire department long to
put it the conflagration, which was con-
fined entirely to the stage and the apart-
ments beneath. The scenery was entirely
consumed, and so was much ‘of the actors’
baggage

The disaster kept Leroy and the others
busy for over a week. The engagement at
Philadelphia was entirely off, and it was a
hustle to get into shape to open in Baltimore

on the following Monday.
Luckily scenery and costumes had
so the company lost little by
ire. Extra scenery and wearing apparel
» telegraped for, to New York, Boston
lsewhere, and by the following Sunday
» organization found itself in Balti

+1
the

been insured

     

 

more f ‘equipped to go on with two of
the plays in its repertoire.

By this time little Marie, as well as all
the others, had fully recovered from the
shock. The little actress was very grateful

to Mark, and from that time on the two be-
Several glow-
ing accounts of Mark’s
bravery had crept into
the papers, and when he
appeared on the stage
in Baltimore, in a small
speaking part in Julius
Ceesar, he was given a
rousing welcome.

‘“There’s the boy who
saved Marie Oldham’s
life!’

‘*He’s a good-looking
chap, an’t he?’’

 

LTT TA

‘‘Let’s give him a
cheer !??
‘‘Hurrah for Mark

Dale!’

The cheer was given
with a’will. Mark did
not wish to take notice
of the demonstration,
but could not help bim-
self.

‘Step forward and
bow,’’ whispered Frank
Oldham. ‘* You deserve
this call, my boy.’’

 

So Mark at last
stepped forward and
bowed, not once, but

balf a dozen times; and
at that moment he felt
he must be the hap-
piest boy in the United
States.

CHAPTER VIII.

MARK MAKES AN AD-
VANCE.

U % T every perform-

¥) c h . > °

\(, ance in ‘ Balti-
~ more the house
YY was crowded,
and each time Mark re-
ceived a friendly recog-
nition.

‘*His bravery had been
worth just so much to
the box office,’’ said Le-
roy, toOldham. ‘‘Some
folks come more to see
the boy than they do to
see the play.’’

‘*T believe you,’’ said
the star. ‘‘And Iam in
for raising his wages.”’

The matter was talked
over, and the upshot
was that Mark was in-
formed that thereafter
when ‘“‘the ghost
walked’’ he would re-
ceive twenty dollars per
week.

  
 

He was very thank-
ful, but took the ocea-
WITH THE sion to talk over his

ambitions to Oldhame.
‘*T like the money, but

Leroy, | it is not that lam after exactly,’’ he said.
‘<T want

to become a really great actor, if
it is in me.’* !

‘*T think it isin you,’’ returned the star.
‘*All you need is practice.”’

‘*Would some lessons be a good thing??’

“Oh, yes, but you are on the road
now-—

‘I wish you could teach me!’’ cried
Mark, impulsively. ‘‘You could do more, I

am sure, than any city dramatic teacher.”’

Frank Oldham mused for a moment.

‘*Well, I will teach you, Mark,’’ he said,
kindly.

‘You can take part of my pay for the
trouble——’’

‘‘No! no! I do not want a cent. Do I not
owe you a debt 1can never repay? I wiil
teach you for one hour each day hereafter.’’

The star of the company was true to his
word, and under his directions Mark began
rapidly to acquire a most perfect stage
training.

Most of the members of the
liked Mark, and were friendly to him.
there was one exception.

This exception was a fellow named Bart
Powell, a tall, awkward man, given to

company
But

 
 

 

    
  
     
   
  
    
 
    
  
  
   
  
  
   
  
  
  
  
   
   
   
  
   
  
   
  
  
 
   
   
   
   
   
 
  
 
    
    
  
 
   
   
  
  
 
 
    
 
  
    
   
     
 
  
   
  
   
   
    
  
    
 
   
    
   
     
   
   
   
   
  
    
     
   
   
   
   
       
  
   
   
    
     
   
   
   
   
  
   
   
    
   
   
      
  
   
   
     
 
   
     
  
   
   
    
   
    

 

 

tg
4
‘

 
 
    
  
 
  
  

4138

much loud talking and not a little drinking.
How he had gotten into the organization
was a mystery to most of the others. To
tell the secret, Leroy and Oldham had given
him an opening because a number of friends
had asked for it.

Bart Powell made himself obnoxious to
Mark from the. start. He was only a fair
actor even at his best, and as he was of an
intensely jealous nature, it made him furi-
ous to see Mark being pushed so rapidly
ahead.

‘*Make a great ado about a know-nothing
boy and leave an experienced actor like me
out in the cold,’’ he grumbled to himself.
‘Tt an’t fair.’’

Once he went to Frank Oldham with his
grievance, but the star cut him short.

‘Mark Dale deserves all the kind treat-
ment he is getting,’’ said Oldham. ‘‘Heisa

born actor.’’

‘*But he an’t had such an experience as
I’ve had,’’ growled Bart Powell.

‘*No, I’m thankful to say he has not,’’ re-
joined the star, pointedly; and there the
conversation was dropped, leaving Powell
in a worse temper than ever.

Whenever Powell was out of sorts he in-
variably resorted to the bottle to brace him

up.

That afternoon he drifted into one of the
saloons close to the wharves, where the
oystermen of Baltimore were wont to con-
gregate after working hours.

He fell in with half a dozen hail-fellows-
well-met who did not object in the least to
drinking at his expense.

At the six o’clock rehearsal he did not
turn up, and all wondered what had become
of him,

‘*Has any one seen Powell?’’’ asked Le-
roy.

*‘T saw him at three o’clock,’’ said one of
the actors.

‘*Did he say where he was going?”’

‘ ‘No. »?

Leroy and Oldham were worried about his
disappearance, but said nothing more, and
the rehearsal went on without the missing
member.

At quarter to eight o’clock in the evening
Powell had not yet shown up.

The theater was beginning to fill up, and
in fifteen minutes more it would be time to
ring up the curtain.

‘*We must do something,’’ said the stage
manager to Frank Oldham. ‘‘The chances
are that he has gone off on a spree.’’

‘So 1 was thinking,’’ returned the star.

‘*How shall we manage it? Shall I put
Graham in his place, and shift Lancaster
up?’

‘‘Graham can’t do the part,’’»said Old-
ham, shaking his head. ‘‘It’s too young and
light for him.”’

**T don’t think Walters would do,’’ went
on Leroy, musingly.

‘‘We will give the part to Mark Dale,’
said Oldham, suddenly. ‘‘He will do just as
well as any of them, and perhaps better.
We can’t afford to shift around double or
triple.’

‘*Why, he don’t know a line of it!’’ cried
Leroy.

‘**T think he does. Call him up.’’

So Mark was called up from the dressing-
room, wondering what was up.

**Mark, do you know anything of Powell’s
part in the play to-night?’’ asked Oldham.

Mark looked puzzled for a moment.

‘*You mean his speaking part?’’ he asked.

‘*Yes, and the stage business.”’

‘*Yes, sir, I know every word. In fact, I
have learned the whole play by heart,’’ re-
plied the youth.

‘*There! I told you so!’ exclaimed Old-
ham. ‘‘Do you think you could take Pow-
ell’s place to-night? He is missing, and it is
most time to ring up.’’

For the instant Mark was staggered. The
part was not very large, but it was im-
portant.

. ‘*I—I—I am willing to try, sir,’’ he fal-
tered.

‘*Then get into the duds just as fast as
you can, and leave the management of the
soldiers to—to——’’

**T’l] look out for the soldiers,’’ inter-
rupted Leroy. ‘‘Hurry up, Mark, Baltimore
audiences don’t like to wait.’’

With his head in something of a whirl,
Mark ran down to the dressing-rooms.
Powell’s costumes were too big for him, but
something that would do was ‘‘faked’’ up,
and he was soon dressed and made up for
the first act.

As he came upon the stage he saw that
something like a small row was going on
near the second entrance on the right.

Bart Powell had come back. The actor
was under the influence of liquor and very
noisy.

‘‘Lemme go!’’ he cried to Leroy, who
was holding him back. ‘‘I’m all right!’

‘*You are drunk!?’ said the stage man-
ager, sternly. ‘‘You go down stairs and
stay there or I’ll put you out altogether !”’

‘“An’t drunk! Was never so—hic—sober
in my life!’’ hiccoughed the intoxicated
actor. ‘‘Lemme get into my duds. It’s most
time for me to go on.”’

‘*You’ll not go on to-night,’’
Leroy.

‘*Won’t, hey? Then who’ll take the part,
that’s what I want to know.”’

‘*Mark Dale is going to take the part.’?

On hearing Mark’s name wmentioned,

replied

 

   

C#COO 1D

 

NEWS.

  

 

Powell grew greatly enraged and began to | ‘‘Putty well.’’

use language unfit for print.

‘That little swelled-head !”’
‘*He can’t act at all!’

‘*T fancy that he will do as good as you,’’
retorted Leroy. ‘‘Now down you go, and be
quick, for I have no time to’ waste on you!?’
‘*But see here——’’ blustered Powell.

he roared.

He got no further. Leroy motioned to two |
hands, and between the three |
men the intoxicated actor was run down the |

of the stage
stairs, thrown into an empty dressing-room
and the key turned on him.

Here he stormed for a while, but failing

to get any one to listen to him, began to| big guns, as we call them.
in his pocket and was| will call on the President?’’

drink from a bottle
soon in a stupor.

In the meanwhile the curtain was rung up
and the play began. Although inwardly
nervous, Mark was outwardly calm.

He made a graceful entrance, and from
the start threw his whoJe soul into the part
so suddenly thrust upon him.

At first the audience gave him but scant
notice, but gradually the fire he infused
into his lines attracted attention, and at the
end of the second act he got a generous
round of applause.

‘*Very good, indeed!’’ said Frank Old-
ham. ‘‘Keep it up, Mark, and you may get
avcall,”?

Thus encouraged, Mark did even better
than before, and when the curtain went
down on the final grand climax he had to go
out before the curtain with the star and his
daughter and another.

On the following day the Baltimore papers
gave him several first-class notices, of which
he was very proud.

‘Another round of the ladder gained,”’

he said, to himself. ‘‘A dozen or so more
and I will be at the top.’’
But Mark had, made a great enemy

through this hit, Bart Powell, and this fel-
low was destined to create a deal of trouble
for our young hero.

CHAPTER IX.
A ORASH ON THE ROAD.

N the following night Powell went on,
as usual, but he was given two
weeks’ notice to leave the company,
and Leroy warned him that if he

drank in the meanwhile he would be dis-

charged cn the spot.

This made Powell more angry than ever,
but he dared say nothing, for he had no
money saved, and it would take him two
weeks, if not much longer, to find another
situation.

So he directed bis hatred altogether at
Mark, and determined, come what might,
to get square with the boy.

‘*You shall have Powell’s place perma-
nently after he leaves,’’ said Oldham, and
this pleased the boy greatly, for it placed
him among the inner circle of actors and
above the ordinary ‘‘supers.’?

He devoted all of his spare time to study-
ing the various parts Powell had filled, and
Oldham gave him the best instructions pos-
sible.

On Saturday night the engagement in
Baltimore came to a close, and early on
Monday morning the company took the
train for Washington, where they were to
open in’ the new play which had been in
constant rehearsal since leaving New York.

The train was but sparingly filled. Most
of the actors took themselves to the smoking-
car, but as Mark did not use tobacco in any
form, he went back and took a seat about
in the middle of the train.

There were only four or five men in the
car, and half a dozen women, and Mark had
a double seat to himself.

Just ahead of him sat an old man, evi-
dently a farmer. He was dressed in his best,
and Mark rightfully guessed that he was on
his way from some little country district to
pay a visit to the Capital.

Presently a slick-looking young man
lounged in and sat down beside the farmer.
The slick-looking young man wore a heavy
mustache, and something in his face looked
very familiar to Mark, but he could not
place the chap.

The new-comer endeavored to make him-
self agreeable to the farmer. He found out
where the countryman was going and a
number of other things.

“Tam well acquainted in Washington,’’
he said, smoothly, ‘‘and 1 will be pleased to
show you the sights. ’’

‘“‘Thank yeou,’’ returned the farmer.
‘*But wouldn’t thet be too much trouble for
yeou???

‘‘No trouble at all, my dear Mr, ——’?

‘“My name is Obadiah Junkins.’?

‘*No trouble at all, Mr. Junkins.
name is Harold Smith—I am the son
Senator Smith, of Idaho.’’

‘*Oh, be yeou?’’ The farmer stared at the
pretended son of a Senator, and willingly
grasped the extended hand. ‘‘Proud tew
know yeou. Iam from Squills’ Corners,
New Jersey.’’

‘*Ah, yes, a fine little place. And how is
Mr. Squills now?’’ went on the slick young
man,

‘*Mr. Squills is dead—died
ago,’’ returned Obadiah Junkins.

‘‘Indeed! Too bad! A very fine man, I
understand. And how are affairs going with

 

My
of

four years

-you?”?

 

‘*Crops good this summer, eh???’
‘*Putty good.”’

‘*And now you are going. to enjoy the |

sights of the Capital, eh? That is very good.

Lam glad I met you, for I love to show off |

the place to strangers.’’
‘lt must take lots o’ time,’’ ventured the
countryman.

‘‘Well, my time is my own,’’ was the

careless reply. ‘‘I don’t have to work for
|my living as most folks do,’? which was
strictly true. ‘‘I shall be happy to take you
around and introduce you to some of our

Of course you
‘‘Wall, I reckoned as how I might, ef I
got a show, but——’’

‘*TPll see you through, Mr. Junkins.’’

‘It’s putty hard to get in, an’t it?’

‘*Not for me. The President is a personal
friend of the family, you know.”’

The countryman didn’t know, but he was
glad to know it. He began to consider him-
self very lucky in having fallen in with such
a well-known personage as Harold Smith,
son of Senator Smith, of Idaho.

‘‘By the way, I left an acquaintance in
the smoking-car,’’ went on the slick young
man. ‘‘I wouldn’t care, only I owe him
twenty-five dollars and wish to pay him.
Just excuse me for a moment, will you???

‘*Certainly, certainly,’’ said the country-
man.

‘‘My friend gets off at the next stop, and
I don’t want him to think I forgot to pay
him on purpose!’’ laughed the young man.
Then he put his hand in his vest pocket and
drew out a small roll of bills. ‘*Pshaw! I
thought I had change, and I haven’t any-
thing less than a hundred-dollar bill.’’

The countryman’s eyes stuck out at this
announcement. It was the first time he had

| meta man who carried nothing smaller than

one-hundred-dollar bills around with bim,

‘Can you kindly change one of the bills
for me?’’ asked the slick young man, as if
struck with a sudden idea. ‘*‘ You can easily
get it broken up again in Washington,”’

‘tT reckon I can,’’ replied Obadiah Jun-
kins. ‘‘I brought a hundred an’ ten with
me.’’

He produced a huge wallet and began to
count out the bills. In the meantime the
train began to approach tbe station at
Laurel.

Mark had listened to the foregoing conver-
sation with much interest.

From the start he had made up his mind
that the slick-looking young man was noth-
ing less than a sharper.

The conversation had proved such to be a
fact, for the game about to be played was
an old one, well-known to those who do
much traveling.

Leaning forward, he tapped the country-
man on the shoulder.

‘*Excuse me, but I would like to speak to
you a moment,’’ he said, quietly.

The countryman was much surprised, As
for the young man, he looked greatly dis-
turbed.

‘‘We are in a hurry,’’ he said, irritatedly.
‘*This gentleman wishes to change a bill for
me. You can talk to him afterward.’’

‘“‘T prefer to talk to him before,’’ replied
Mark, firmly.

‘‘See here; just keep still. Here is the bill,
Mr. Junkins. You have the hundred counted
out, haven’t you? There is my friend on the
platform waiting for me.’’

As he spoke the young man thurst his bill
at the countryman, and attempted to grab
the smaller bills in Junkins’ right hand.

‘*Hold on to your money!’’ cried Mark,
warningly. ‘‘I understand there are lots of
counterfeit one-hundred-dollar bills afloat
on this railroad.”’

At the mere mention of a counterfeit the
countryman grew pale.

‘‘Shut up there, what do you know about
this?’’ growled the sharper, for such he was.
‘‘This bill is genuine,’’

‘**T would submit it to the conductor first,’’
said Mark, to the countryman.

‘*T don’t want no spurus bill, noheow!’?
exclaimed Oabdiah Junkins. ‘‘Jess call the
conductor an’ let him take a squint at the
money; that’ll be fair enough,’’ he said, to
the slick young man.

At that moment the conductor passed
through the car, Mark at once stopped him.

‘‘What’s the trouble?’’

‘‘There is a confidence man trying to
work off a counterfeit one-hundred-dollar
bill on this man,’’ said the youth. ‘‘It’s the
old ‘change wanted, please’ racket.’’

The conductor turned toward the slick
young man, whose face had turned a sickly
green.

‘*How about this?’’ he demanded.

‘All a mistake,’’ was the lame reply.
‘‘The bill is good, but he needn’t change it
if he doesn’t want to.’?

‘*Let me see the bill.’’

The conductor held out his hand. But the
sharper backed away, and, watching his
chance, he turned and ran out upon the
platform of the car.

‘*T know who. he is!’’ cried Mark, sud-
denly: ‘‘It is Dinky Montrose, the bunco
man, from New York. I thought I had seen
him before.’’

‘‘We’ll hand him over to the police,’’ said
the conductor.

Both ran out after the bunco man, fol-
lowed by Obadiah Junkins. But Dinky Mont-

 

 

rose was too quick for them. At the risk of
breaking his neck, he leaped from the train,
which was slacking up, and speedily disap-
peared in a belt of timber near by.

Obadiah Junkins was highly pleased for
what Mark had done for him. He wished to
reward the youth, but Mark would not have
it. Junkins found out that Mark was an
actor, and promised to come to the theater
and see him in the new play that very
night.

After some little conversation, Mark re-

‘turned to the play he had been studying.

The train rolled on, and in the interest he
took inj the drama, Mark soon forgot all
about the little incident just described.

Crash! crack! crash!

It was a fearful shock. The train came to
a sudden halt, and the splintered wood and
smashed glass flew in all directions. Mark
was thrown out into the aisle, with Obadiah
Junkins’ valise on top of him. Then the
front end of the car shot up into the air,
another crash followed, and in the midst of

| the wildest confusion the car toppled over

and rolled down an embankment!
(TO BE CONTINUED.)

~ ~~ @ > —-

[This Story Will Not Be Published in Book-Form. }

FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM;

OR,
The Birth of the Stars and Stripes.

 

BY J GIBSON PERRY, U S.N.,
Author of “Out With Commodore Decatur,” ete.

(“FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM” was commenced in
No, 249. sack Lumbers can be Obtained of all
News Agents. }

CHAPTER XXXI.

WHEREIN TWO OLD SHIPMATES ARE ENCOUN-
TERED.
(PA HE greeting between Captain Jones
2 and his protege was extremely cor-
‘b\. dial. The gallant American officer
o> lost his habitual dignity and fairly
wrung Paul’s hand. Stubbs also received a
share of his beloved commander’s welcome.
The Marquis de la Fayette and the aged
commissioner stood by and marveled at the
friendliness between senior and junior.

Explanations were speedily in order. All
took seats, and for halt an hour the middy
had the floor, describing in detail the
mutiny aboard the Drake, their escape and
the adventure in Amiens. At this point the
chevalier became conyulsed with laughter,
declaring it was the greatest joke of the
season.

‘‘] was dull this morning, dear friends,’’
he remarked; ‘‘byt then I did not know the
fun in store for me.’’

Captain Jones listened to the tale of Lieu-
tenant Simspon’s perfidy and the traitorous
conduct of Midshipman Dick Haslett with
lowering brow. When Paul had finally con-
cluded, the commander said, gravely:

‘‘T have long’ distrusted that man, but I
did not think he would fall so low as to for-
get the nature of his commission. I care
nothing for his actions as regards myself,
but it is the fact of his forgetting his coun-
try. America has too few friends and sup-
porters to be able to spare even one. I feel
in my heart that Simpson and that mis-
guided lad will meet their just deserts.’’

‘*They will if we run across them,’’ Paul
whispered to Stubbs, with a significant
wink.

‘*T have tried to learn what had become
of the Drake, but your government,’’ here
Captain Jones nodded meaningly to the
marquis, ‘thas kept her arrival in Dunkirk
a profound secret. Well, in exchange they
have placed mein command of the Duras,
or Bon Homme Richard, to give her the
new name. Paul, you and Master Stubbs
have arrived just in time to embark once
more. We sail from L’Orient within ten
days.”’

‘‘May I ask after my friends, Jabez
Preble and Harry Adams?’’ quoth the mid-
dy, modestly,

‘‘Ha! ha! you have not forgotten your
shipmates. They are both as lively as eels
upon a book. The mischief is in both, but
they are great-hearted lads, and a credit to
the ship. They are aboard the new vessel.’

‘*Pirthee tell me if I am mistaken in seé@-
ing a resemblance between thee and this
lad??? suddenly asked Commissioner Fi1ank-
lin, addressing the commander.

During the conversation, the aged states-
man had been watching Paul and his bene-
factor with puzzled eyes. From his youth,
Benjamin Franklin had been a close OD;
server, and very little escaped his shre
glances. While the rest were talking he had,
as was his wont, closely examined the faces
of the new-comers. He had been attracte!
by Paul’s frank, open countenance, and bis
manly air, and it required but little effort
to make a discovery which astounded bot
the commander and our hero.

‘‘The lad resembles me?’’ slowly echoed
Captain Jones. ‘‘’Tis strange. I fancied tha
I had found some traces of some former
friend in his features. The mystery deeP
ens.’?

  
  

 

    
 

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‘‘Then there is a mystery connected with
the lad?’’ queried the chevalier, curiously.

In reply, Captain Jones explained the
finding of Paul adrift upon the floating top-
mast, and his subsequent adoption on
board the Ranger. He also stated that he
had given him the name of Paul Jones at
the suggestion of the frigate’s surgeon.

‘And, strange to relate, it seems that my
real first name is Paul,’’? spoke up the
middy.

He then explained his conversation with
the British officer, Lieutenant Broadhead,
in the ’tween decks of the Drake.

‘He resembles me and his name is Paul,’’
Mused Captain Jones. ‘‘It approaches the
Marvelous of a verity. I would give a great
deal to clear away this mystery. I feel
Strangely drawn to the lad, and have since
Mine eyes first beheld his face.’’

‘It will probably be thy good fortune to
fall upon a solution of the secret some day,”’
Said Franklin, kindly. ‘‘I myself would like
to restore the youth to his parents’ arms.

nd, if I mistake not, young Paul himself
Would hail the hour with joy. This total
Oblivion of the past is a wonderful manifes-

tion of God’s hand in some mysterious
Movement of His will. Be of good heart,
friends; all will turn out rightly.’’

The party remained in conversation for
Several hours. At Captain Jones’ suggestion,
the commissioner sent forth servants with in-
Structions to purchase proper clothing for
the middy and Stubbs. While waiting for

he garments, the commander explained his
Movements since the Drake had disappeared
i the Channel.

‘‘We captured three prizes that day and
then sailec into Brest,’’ he said. ‘‘I found
Mstructions awaiting me to send the Ranger

Ome under a small crew, and to plave my-
Self in readiness to take command of a
frigate loaned to America by the French

Overnment. I am very glad you arrived in

aris to-day, as I intend to proceed to

Orient by morning, and ft is my wish

at you accompany me. The Alliance, a
Very fine frigate, is in port, having recently
arrived from home. She is commanded by
& French officer named Landais. By the

ime I am ready to sail I hope to havea
fleet of at. least five vessels.’

uring the evening Paul and Stubbs took

&@ long walk through the streets of Paris.
®y marveled greatly at the strange sights,
and paused in reverence before the massive
Cathedral of Notre Dame, The narrow ways
illy lighted by scattered oil lamps, and the
Tows of old-fashioned houses, with here and
re a much-frequented cabaret, or wine
Shop, as found near the Seine, drove them

Oward the parks and open squares.

While passing along a brilliantly lighted
boulevard near the center of the city, they
Were attracted by the sounds of loud talking
front of them. A man anda youth were
Walking slowly along the path, engaged in
an animated conversation.

@ elder of the two was costumed in an
Undress naval uniform, while the lad ap-
re to be clad in the garb of a midship-

pat sight of them, Paul instantly halted
nd Srasped his companion’s arm.
«ey all that’s wonderful!’’ he ejaculated.
St What is the matter?’’ hurriedly asked
ubbs

biny *

th The two officers in front of us—don’t
fY seem familiar to you?’’

sh ® master’s mate leaned forward and
Aded his eyes. He stood thus for a brief

downent, then with an exclamation deep

ob; Nn in his throat, he started toward the
Jets of his scrutiny.

tak,w! caught up with him before he had
20 ten steps.

hastily” are you going to do?’’ he asked,

&s
Sin peath and wounds! It is Lieutenant
plied oo and that cub Dick Haslett!’’ re-
CAige the master’s mate, endeavoring to re-
ha himself from the middy’s detaining
them’ p, Let me go, lad; we must capture
‘ot efore they get away.’’ ‘
thig Will not help us to create a row in
‘te | Public place, Stubbs,’? urged Paul.
ang; attack them, it will bring a crowd,
best 4 the excitement they may escape. The
Where ay Is to follow them to their hotel, or
Capt Yer they are living, and then notify
a Seon and Doctor Franklin.’’
a less you are right, lad,’’ finally
altine Stubbs. ‘‘We’ll follow your idea,
throats my fingers itch to clutch their

Ont Joe ome on; watch carefully, and
oth em give us the slip.”’
» Now ,, UMloosened their swords—which they

Suspect; and quietly walked after the un-

and thes pair. The evening was young,
by the a Oulevard was plentifully occupied
Passeq elite of the city. Gorgeous equipages
ack and forth, filled with gallant
d fair dames. Crowds of foot
hronged the walks or stood in
© in the numerous: parks lining

Senger.
Wy oes t
the Nag
PAt Ah.
itt, Aree Paul and his companion found
i. bout culty in following their prey, but
hat 8 Svard became so crowded at last
ee Ain past became exciting. At one of
tht dis Pp street corners, Simpson and Has-
+ 8Y Ww, peared. After much running about
the’ i spied some distance away, and

meughfare. of turning down a narrow

Boar
Middy and the master’s mate imme-

 

diately gave chase. Suddenly Dick turned
and glanced back. Then he cried out to the
lieutenant, and the two started off at a run,
with our hero and his redoubtable friend in
close pursuit.

CHAPTER XXXII.
THE JOURNEY TO L’ORIENT.

“Oo,
= -ON’T let them escape! Gird up your
fs) loins, lad, and capture the rogues,”’

: breathed Stubbs. ‘‘Get your sword
REA ready, as they may turn on us. Ah!
we are overhauling them. Look out!’’

By speed of foot, Paul and the master’s
mate had quickly caught up with the fugi-
tives. The warning cry was called forth by
a sudden action on the part of Simpson and
Haslett. Seeing that flight would not avail,
they stopped short in a shadowy spot and
prepared to give. battle to their pursuers.

The thoroughfare was amere lane in
width, and on both sides ranged houses of
shabby exterior. Here and there a faint light
gleaming through windows begrimed with
dust, indicated that the occupants of the
disreputable row had not yet retired. Ata
near-by corner a huge lantern creaked dis-
mally from an iron holder, but the oil had
long since given out.

The night was fairly dark, only the occa-
sional rays of a quarter moon dispelling the
shadows. As the lieutenant and his com-
panion halted, a shutter was cautiously
thrown open just above them. A head was
thrust out and the owner thereof watched
the scene below with intentness.

Drawing their swords, Paul and Stubbs
boldly advanced. The former singled out
Dick, and the master’s mate rushed head-
long at Simpson. There was a clash of
swords, and then the strife began.

‘*Traitor, I have you now,’’ gritted Paul,
making a shrewd lunge at Haslett’s breast.

The thrust was parried, but with great
difficulty. The bully’s face was pale in the
moon’s rays, and great beads of perspiration
rolled down his cheeks. It was plainly evi-
dent that he had little stomach for the fight.

Stubbs and his antagonist remained silent.
Sharp and shrill came the clang of their
weapons. They were fairly matched; but
one fought with a desire for revenge, and
the other was spurred on from sheer des-
peration. By an unlooked for move the
master’s mate succeeded in grazing the lieu-
tenant’s shoulder. The pain drew a mut-
tered curse from Simpson, and he fought
more furiously than ever.

Making a daring rush, he forced Stubbs
against a wall, and would probably have de-
feated him if a sudden and most curious in-
terruption had not occurred. The head pro-
truding from the upper window had disap-
peared, but in its stead came an arm grasp-
ing a peculiar instrument. A second later a
prodigious noise burst out above the com-
batants.

It was the whir of a watchman’s rattle,
and the echoes from it resounded through
the narrow street like the rat-tat of three
score drummers beating for dear life.

At the same time an adjacent window
opened, and several buckets of dirty water
were emptied upon the heads of the fighters.
The result was immediate and decisive.
Spluttering with rage, all four hurried out
of reach. The hubbub still continued, how-
ever, and added to it were half a dozen
lusty voices calling for the gendarmes.

Taking advantage of the disturbance,
Simpson and Haslett crept to the nearest
corner, and then dashed from sight.

‘¢ After them!’’ roared the master’s mate.
‘*Confound the gendarmes! If they catch us
we can call upon Doctor Franklin for aid.
Run, lad, or those scoundrels will escape !’’

Paul shook the water from his shoulders
and hastened after his comrade. As they
left. the street a couple of city police, fol-
lowed by a crowd of citizens, appeared at
the other end. Luckily, the new-comers
were too excited to distinguish the fleeing
figures, and the twain disappeared down the
next thoroughfare,

They turned the corner to make the un-
welcome discovery, however, that both
Simpson and Haslett had vanished. The
narrow street was entirely empty. A run to
the next corner ended with the same result.
Wild with rage and disappointment, Paul
and Stubbs made a hurried search through
the vicinity.

They peered into doorways, probed the
deeper shadows, and were at last compelled
to acknowledge that. the two rascals had
made good their escape. A tumult sounding
behind them, they discreetly withdrew, and
made the best of their way back to the com-
missioner’s house.

It had been arranged that the middy and
his companion should sleep that night in one
of Doctor Franklin’s spare rooms. _ Captain
Jones also accepted his aged friend’s hos-
pitality, as he had resolved to make an
early start for L’ Orient.

A light was seen in the smaller salon, so
Paul and the.master’s mate lost no time in
visiting the apartment, where they found
their commander and his host engaged in a
game of chess. The Marquis de la Fayette
had long since retired to his own residence in
another part of the city.

Their appearance, with clothing disordered
and stained, elicited an immediate query
from the commander. Paul explained their

 

   
 
    
  
 
   
   
  
   
   
     
     
  
   
   
 
  
   
 
   
 
   
    
   
 
    
    
  
  
   
    
 
   
  
  
  
    
  
    
  
   
   
    
  
     
   
    
    
   
     
    
   
    
    
 
    
  
    
   
    
  
   
  
   
 
  
  
   
        
 
    
  
  
  
    
 
  
 
   
   
      
   
   
  
  
    
    
       
   
    
  
   
     
   
   
  
    
   
     
 
          
      
      
       
       

COO D NI W's.

meeting with the recreant lieutenant and
midshipman, in detail, not forgetting their
own discomfiture.

***Sdeath! is it possible that they are bold
enough to enter Paris, knowing that I am
here?’’ exclaimed Captain Jones, starting to
his feet. ‘‘I will notify the chief of the gen-
darmes and have the city searched for the
traitors.’’ :

He started for the door, but a word from
the commissioner caused him to return.

‘*Tt will not pay thee to do this, friend
-aul,’’? said the statesman, mildly. ‘‘Thou
knowest that thy former officers are sup-
posed to be in the employ of France now. If
it be so, thee will only meet with rebuff.’’

The commander saw the truth of Frank-
lin’s remark at once. He sighed impotently
and shook his head.

‘Tis true. I must let the rascals go until

by good fortune I meet them myself. What
uniforms did they wear, lad???
‘‘T cannot say positively, sir,’’ replied

Paul; ‘‘but they seemed to me to be clad in
American uniforms.”’

‘*°Tis impossible. They would not dare.
What say you, Master Stubbs?”’

‘‘Paul is right, if I am not mistaken, sir.
The elder rogue surely wore a coat like
mine, and moreover, carried a regulation
cap a-top his head.’’

‘‘Well, ’tis passing strange, the whole
affair. Alas! they have escaped us for the
time being. If I ever have the good fortune
to run across them at sea, their punishment
will be swift and certain.’’ .

Paul and Stubbs soon retired, leaving the
commissioner and their commander in deep
conversation. The following morning found
them early abroad. Three stout horses had
been provided by Doctor Franklin, and after
a hearty breakfast the little party set out
on their trip to L’Orient.

The aged statesman stood in his doorway
and bid them Godspeed with benevolent
emphasis. He waved his hand to Paul and
called forth:

‘*Keep up thy heart, my son. Thou art
sorely afflicted, but surely the time will
come when thy parents will find their lost
child. Let me hear from you when it comes
to pass, as I confess to a pardonable curi-
osity on the subject.’’

The morning of the fourth day found the
travelers in sight of the bustling port of
L’Orient. Two score vessels flying the
French colors occupied the main portion of
the harbor, but over at one side five men-
of-war were huddled together, riding easily
at anchor.

Indicating them with his whip, Captain
Jones announced the presence of his fleet.

‘*Yon frigate with the painted ports is my
new flagship, the Bon Homme Richard, and
the sturdy vessel next to her is the Alliance,
fresh from the hands of our skillful ship-
builders at home. The others are the Pallas,
the Cerf and the Vengeance. The latter
three have been placed under my command
through the generosity of France. The
Alliance is the largest and fastest frigate in
the fleet, but her commander, ‘Pierre Lan-
dais, is not to my liking. Ah! here comes
the gentleman now.”’

CHAPTER XXXIII.
PAUL MAKES A DISCOVERY,

TF AUL and Stubbs glanced in the di-
iF rection indicated by their com-
JAS mander’s finger. A thin, sallow-
ay visaged man clad in a captain’s uni-
form was approaching from the other side
of the quay. He gave a start on seeing the
little party, then advanced with hesitating
steps.

Captain Jones’ confession that he did not
like the man was sufficient to arouse the
middy’s curiosity. He well knew that any
one incurring the dislike of the generous-
hearted patriot must be degraded indeed.

‘*Good-morrow, sir,’’ coldly exclaimed
the new-comer. ‘‘We did not expect you so
soon:”’

‘‘A busy man need must change his
schedule at times, Captain Landais,’’ was
the calm reply.

‘‘True; but I thought the pleasures of gay
Paris would détain you until the hour of de-
parture, sir,’’ said Landais, with a sneer.

‘‘Tt might in your case,’’ retorted Captain
Jones, biting his lips; ‘‘but I have much to
do, fitting out my fleet. We sail to-morrow.’’

The commander of the Alliance gaye a
start of surprise.

‘*So soon? Why——”’’

‘“‘Po-morrow at full
rupted Jones, sternly. ‘‘The fleet will be in
readiness at that hour. Good-day, sir.’’

Turning his horse, he rode up the quay
at a dignified trot. Paul and Stubbs “fol-
lowed closely. When they had taken a dozen
paces, the former glanced back. Captain
Landais was standing as they had left him,
but the lad imagined he could See a vindic-
tive fist shaken after them.

As the commander did not offer to explain
the eause of his dislike for Landais the sub-
ject was dropped. Captain Jones did not re-
cover bis calmness of: manner until the Bon
Homme Richard was reached. The little
party found a cutter waiting at the land-
ing, and were speedily placed alongside the
frigate.

Paul kept an eye out for Jabez Preble and
Harry Adams, and finally caught sight of

tide, sir,’’ inter-

 

4139

the former at one of the gun-ports. The
slim middy glanced into the boat with wide-
open eyes, and then disappeared, leaving
behind him a shrill cry of delight.

Refore the commander and his companions
had reached the deck, Jabez and Harry

Adams appeared at the gangway. After re-
spectfully saluting their superior officer,

they seized Paul and Stubbs, and triumph-
antly carried them forward, where they im-
mediately held a levee in the cockpit.

‘‘John Potter, you owe me ten shillings!’
exclaimed Harry Adams, cutting a caper on
the mess table. ‘‘You bet they wouldn’t
turn up again, and I said we would see
them within six months at the latest. Pay
up, or I'll go to the purser.’’

Potter’s face looked very unpleasant, but
he reluctantly handed over the silver. It
was eivdent his wager was more the reflec-
tion of his desire than the result of common
sense.

‘«The fellow is a fool to make such a bet,’
spoke up Jabez Preble, shaking Paul’s hand
for the tenth time. ‘‘He should have known
that both of you bear charmed lives. Why,
old Davy Jones wouldn’t have Joyful Home
as a gift.’

‘*Still up to your little tricks, eh?’’ quoth
the master’s mate, grimly. ‘‘I suppose I’ll
have to break out my rope’s end and com-
mence operations before the day is over.
You’ll find that your uncle’s right arm hath
not lost its cunning.’’

To appease the curiosity of his audience
Paul was conipelled to relate their adven-
tures in detail. He painted the treacherous
conduct of Lieutenant Simpson and Dick
Haslett in glowing colors, and bis hearers
gave free rein to their wrath. If the mutin-
eers bad been present at that moment,
their fate would have been sudden.

By the time Paul's story was condluded
dinner was placed on the table. Stubbs took
his accustomed seat at the head, and it was
plainly evident that he felt overjoyed at his
home-coming. “He actually smiled. Reach-
ing for the molasses jug, he poured outa
double portion for Jabez, and remarked,
gravely:

‘‘Remember that shrapnel you threw
overboard, my boy? Yes. Well, I promised
you something for it, didn’t I? But if you
don’t eat every drop of that molasses I’ll
break your head.”’

The feast was a merry one, and long be:
fore it was finished Paul and Stubbs felt
themselves thoroughly at home on board the
new frigate. After dinner they were shown
over the ship by Jabez and Harry.

The Bon Homme Richard was adapted for
a battery of eighteen-pounders, but Captain
Jones had been unable to scrape together
more than six of that caliber. The rest of
the armament consisted of thirty-four
twelve-pounders. There were three hundred
and twenty-nine officers and men on the
muster rol].

The crew had been hastily gathered from
American prisoners rescued from English
prisons, from French peasants, and from
vagabond English sailors, who were ready
to enlist under any flag for the money.
There were not more than fifty Americans
among the crew, and the majority of these
were formerly on board the Ranger.

It was with this ship—which really had
been converted from a merchant vessel—that
the intrepid Jones proposed to sally forth to
do battle against England’s powerful fleet.
True, the Bon Homme Richard had four
consorts, but, as the reader will soon learn,
little aid could be expected from them.

The Alliance was a stanch American-
built frigate of great speed, but she was
commanded by a bitter enemy of Captain
Jones; while the other three were under the
French flag, and officered by men extremely
jealous of the gallant patriot’s fame.

The state of affairs aboard the Alliance
was such that the frigate was no help, but
rather a hindrance to the enterprise. The
crew were in a state bordering on open
mutiny, while the majority of the officers
were almost as bad. The Vengeance was
also a merchant vessel, very poorly equipped
for battle. The Cerf, however, was a fine
cutter, and the only vessel] in the squadron
which was well-fitted and manned.

All this was learned by Paul and his
faithful friend before they had been on
board twenty-four hours. Stubbs—who Had
expected to find a gallant fleet—was heart-
broken at the prospect.

**The old man will have a hard time of it
with this outfit,’’ he said to Paul, as they
were inspecting the frigate. ‘‘To tell the
turth, I’d rather take chances with the little

tanger. What do you think Captain Jones
means to do?’’

‘‘T know,’’ spoke up Harry Adams, im-
portantly. ‘‘He intends to capture the city
of Liverpool, or did until news came that
the Marquis de la Fayette and his land
forces have been withdrawn by order of the
French king.’? 7

‘‘Has the expedition been withdrawn?’’
eagerly asked Stubbs.

‘“‘Yes. I learned it from the first lieuten-
ant. That is the reason the old man is going
to sailso soon. We get under way at day-
break.’’

Both Paul and the master’s mate were
sorry to hear the news, as they had formed
a great liking for the gallant young French-
man. The following morning found the fleet
in readiness, and the five vessels set sail

dia LESS cm eo EET CY

 

 

 
 

Se

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

4140

from the harbor of J’Orient amid the
thunderous salutes of the French war-ships.
The squadron was first employed in con-

voying a fleet of merchant vessels up the |
coast to Brest. After seeing their charges in |
| head grazed one of the stone urns, and when

sight of the harbor, the war-ships hauled
their tacks aboard, and stood away for the
English coast.

On the second night after leaving Brest
an accident occurred which nearly put an
end to the cruise. Paul had the forecastle
watch until eight. After being relieved, he
joined Stubbs, who was pacing up and down
on the other side of the deck.

Before the friends had time to exchange
greetings a man standing close by suddenly
ealled out, in frightened tones:

‘*Took out! Port your helm! port your
helm! My Heavens! she is aboard of us!’?’

At the first word Paul and Stubbs jumped
back, and they wheeled around just in time
to see the huge hulk of the Alliance crash
into the. Bon Homme Richard’s bow. The
shock knocked, Paul from his feet, but he
speedily scrambled erect.

Just then the mizzn-mast fell with a
deafening report, and immediately follow-
ing came a rending sound, as the long bow-
sprit of the Richard was torn away. Unable
to do aught for the moment, Paul glanced
toward the Alliance. As he did so a light
flared up near the waist, revealing to his
startled eyes the familiar features of the
two mutineers, Simpson and Dick Haslett!

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
——- > © o>. —
{This Story wlil not be Published in Book-Form, }

In the Days of the Gladiators

OR,

THE TWIN PRINCES OF BRITAIN,

BY ALFRED-ARMITAGE,

Author of “With Crusader and Saracen.”

(“IN THE DAYS OF THE GLADIATORS” was com-
menced in No.251. Back numbers can be obtained
of all News Agents. }

aegis
CHAPTER XXV.

THE COURSE OF THE GOLDEN FLAGON.
©
4 SOR a brief instant Harl was terrified
birt. and sobered by what he had done.

4 1 cy ‘You drove me too far,’’ he mut-
noe tered, ‘‘and I forgot the strength
that lies in my hand. Are you hurt?’’

Rufus was not in a condition to reply. He
sat slowly up, rubbing his bruised forehead,
and looking around in a dazed manner, as
though he did not realize what had bhap-
pened. Turco had gained the rim of the
fountain, and was perched there like an
ebony statue, shivering with cold and fear.

Meanwhile Quintus Sulla had been tug-
ging hard at a jeweled dagger that hung by
his side, but would not budge from its
sheath.

Now a desperate jerk released it, and he
sprang forward, brandishing the gleaming
weapon.

‘*The insult shall be avenged, Rufus!’’ he
cried. ‘‘I will spill this base-born slave’s
blood.’

Har] had turned toward the passage, but
at this he wheeled around to meet the at-
tack. The vile words had fired his passion
anew, and at sight of the insolent young

  

¢

,Roman he lost every atom of his self-con-

trol, and became a true barbarian at heart.

With a howl like a wild beast he ran at
Quintus, and received the dagger in his left
side. Luckily, the point struck a rib, and
glanced off, and before Quintus could strike
again the weapon was sent flying from his
grasp across the floor.

Har! hit out wildly with his fists, landing
a couple of stunning blows on his opponent’s
face and breast. Quintus was staggered, and
fell back a little; then he came on with a
rush, bawling out profanity and vile names.

Harl broke savagely through his guard,
pinned his arms to his sides, and lifted him
bodily from the ground. It was a heavy
burden for the young Briton, but madness
had endowed him with almost superhuman
strength.

Quintus struggled furiously, but he found
it impossible to break loose. Harl bore him
to the rim of the fountain, and, by one
fierce effort, pitched him head first into the
spouting waters.

Quintus went clear under before he could
gain a footing. He splashed to the nearest
edge, and crawled out upon the marble
floor. The aristocratic young dandy was
now a sight to see. His costly garments
were ruined, one sandal was gone, and his
perfumed hair ‘hung in strings about his
neck, t

As soon as he could spit the water from
bis mouth, and get breath, he burst into: a
torrent of threats and foul language.

‘‘Dog! slave!’’ he cried; ‘‘you will pay
dearly for this! The lash shall strip the flesh
from your bones!’’

But Quintus had no energy left for fight-
ing, and when the Briton’ came madly at
him again he retreated around the fountain.

By this time Rufus had recovered from the !

effects of the blow, and running between

 

|
|

 

the two, he confronted Harl, his face fairly
purple with rage.

There was a brief scuffle, and it ended in
Rufus receiving a chest blow that stretched
him once more on his back. In the fall his

he rose dizzily to his feet blood was stream-
ing down one side of his face.

Rufus now had enough, and he retreated
with Quintus to the mouth of the passage,
where the tumult had brought a dozen of
the household slaves, Borak’s tall figure
among them.

With a snarl of defiance Harl stopped: he
faced the group for a moment, and then
walked to the fountain. The cut made by
the dagger was bleeding freely, and he tried
to check the flow by splashing the wound
with water.

Turco had taken advantage of the confu-

| sion to slip away from the court, but Har!

was in too reckless and passionate a mood to
do the same. He cared nothing for the con-
sequences now, and felt a savage longing to
shed blood.

A hoarse murmur of voices warned him
that more trouble was brewing, and he
looked up to see the big Scandinavian ap-
proaching with a malicious smile on _ his
brutal face, but with empty hands.

‘‘Keep back, Borak,’’? the lad cried; ‘‘it
will be at your peril to touch me.”’

‘*‘T can break you in two like a reed!”’
howled Borak, ‘‘and I am going to do it
now, you dog of a/British boaster!’’

He came slowly and warily nearer, while
his fellow-slaves howled approval.

“‘Stop, Borak,’’ cried Rufus; ‘‘I have a
better plan. You shall take the long chariot
whip and lash this insolent rascal until he
begs for mercy, and after that he shall be
strung up by the feet and beaten with
rods.”

‘“Yes, that’s it!’? screamed Quintus.
*‘Good for you, Rufus! Have the dog lashed
until the flesh drops off his bones. I should
like to see his eyes torn out. To think that
he dared to lay violent hands on me, the
foul barbarian !’?

companions. Ata word from Rufus, one of
the slaves darted off through the passage.

For an instant Harl stood like a tiger at

bay, his fists clinched, his eyes flashing fire,
and his chest and nostrils heaving with rage.
He scarcely heard the taunts and jeers that
were being hurled at him, for his blood was
boiling at the thought of the coming indig-
nity. ;
To be overpowered and beaten like a help-
less dog! It was enough to drive him mad,
and he swore by the gods of Britain that he
would rather die than submit to it. He
glanced wildly about in search of the dag-
ger, but it was nowhere to be seen. Then,
knowing that the time was short, he turned
away from the fountain and made a dash
for the banqueting-hall.

He flung open the bronze doors, and sped
down the loyg room to the table which was
spread in readiness for the breakfast of the
Lady Cornelia. He snatched a tall golden
flagon with an ivory lid—the most handy
weapon he could find—and ran to the rear
doors.

They were tightly locked, and Harl was at
bay. In his fiery passion he could not stand
still. He plunged back as he had come,
driving before him and across the court half
a dozen slaves who had dared to follow him.

The appearance of the young Briton was
so terrifying that all fled to the passage,
Quintus and Rufus with the rest. Harl
paused by the fountain, and just then the
slave arrived from the stables with the
chariot whip. A hoarse shout arose, and out
of the throng advanced Borak, whip in
hand,

‘‘Look out for the flagon!’’ Rufus cried.
‘*Slash it out of his hands if you can.’’

‘*Cut him across the eyes!’’ bawled Quin-
tus.

‘*]’l] fix him,’’ roared the giant. ‘‘With
your leave, young master, I'll tear his limbs
from his body.’

Nevertheless, Borak had a wholesome re-
spect for the young Briton, and after coming
within a dozen feet of him he circled to one
side, as a lion prowls about its victim in the
arena,

Har! stood with the flagon clasped in both
hands, watching every move of his enemy
with burning eyes. A mist seemed to hang
before his vision~a hazy, red mist, as
though the air was a blood color.

Suddenly, with unexpected swiftness,
Borak darted nearer, and let fly a_ terrific
stroke. The long lash curled over the lad’s
shoulders, leaving a stinging pain and a
livid streak. The stroke did not acconiplish
what the giant wished, and he drew back
for a second. E

But that instant, with a hoarse cry, Harl
threw the flagon with all his strength. Only
a hasty jerk of his head saved Borak from
death, and as it was, he received a glancing
blow from the missile that cut his cheek
open from mouth to ear, and hurled him
over on his back.

The flagon was full of wine, and its course
was marked by a trail of drops as it sped
on across the court, and brought up with a
crash on the tiled wall, directly over the
ear doors that led from the audience-
hall.

 

The proposition evidently pleased Borak. |
He parted his white teeth in a huge smile, | home.
and stepped a few paces back toward his |

 

 

 

And that very second, as luck would have} Marcus Galerius lifted the whip, and after
it, the doors opened from within, and a| gazing hard at the lad for a few seconds, he
richly-dressed man, wfth a hard, proud face, | lowered his arm and stepped back a couple
stepped upon the threshold in time to be|of paces. An ashen,tinge came into his face,
drenched from head to foot by the ruby | showing conclusively that he was an arrant
shower of wine from overhead. The flagon | coward at heart.
barely missed his head in falling. ‘*You think it better to leave the work to

Behind the stranger came the \long-absent | my slaves?’? asked Julius Metullus, smiling
head of the household—the stern Roman | a little scornfully. ;
general, Julius Metullus, who was supposed ‘*You read my mind aright,’’ exclaimed
to be in distant Britain. Both men looked | Galerius, catching eagerly at the suggestion.
with angry amazement on the scene, abso- | ‘‘Truly it would defile my hands. In a mo-
lutely too dazed to speak. ment of passion I forgot what was befitting

The slaves huddled into the passage, trem-|a noble Roman. I will forgive the dog—
bling with fear, and for an instant Rufus|nay, more, since he hath a fiery spirit after
and Quintus were as badly scared. Harl|my own heart, I would have him for mine
stood his ground, as defiant and passionate | own property. What paid you for him?”?
as ever. Borak rose with a how] of rage and ‘*Five thousand sesterces,’’ replied Julius
pain, and dripping with blood. He was} Metullus.
about to rush at his enemy when he caught “*T will give you six thousand,’
sight,of the unwelcome intruders, and then | Galerius.
his big limbs shook with sudden fear. ‘| The general folded his arms, and looked

Rufus was the first to speak. thoughtfully at the floor. A faint laugh

?

cried

 

‘You here, father?’’ he exclaimed, in aj} rippled among the slaves, for they all under-.

frightened tone. ‘‘We—we did not expect | stood that Galerius’ motive was purely one
you.”’ jof revenge. Rufus also knew this, and a
‘‘T can well believe that,’’ the general | sudden gleam of pity and remorse came into
cried, sternly. ‘‘But afew minutes ago I| his eyes. He was about to speak, when a
entered the city, having traveled rapidly by | contemptuous glance from Quintus checked
sea and land from Britain on a matter of | him. i
urgent import concerning the appointment | ‘‘Were I not shortly going back to Britain
of a new governor to the colony. And this|my answer would ~be no,’’ said Julius
is my home-coming! One would think I had | Metullus; ‘‘but I dare not leave this young
entered a tavern brawl by mistake. What firebrand to disturb my household. You
does it mean?’’ |shall have him for the price offered, but on
‘*By Pollux! you have cause to _ be} two conditions.’’
offended,’’ growled the dignified stranger, ‘*And what are they?’’
whose face and eyes were ablaze with eo | “That you remit his punishment for this
ous passion. ‘‘Never have I suffered such |} offense, and that you sell him back to me
treatment. Was it not enough to escape! for an advance of five hundred sesterces at
losing my head from yonder missile that I | any time I may so demand.’’
should be drenched with its foul liquor? My | “I accept the conditions,’’? said Galerius,
garments are ruined, and my feelings are | smiling, grimly. ‘‘My scribe will bring you
sore hurt. Truly, this is fine hospitality, | the money this evening, at which time I
Julius Metullus!”’ will send also for the slave. Keep him safe
‘*And for it I crave your pardon, Marcus | until then.’
Galerius,’’ muttered the general, ‘‘and | This sudden. change in his fortunes so
do assure you that the deed shall not go un-| dazed Harl that he offered no resistance
punished. It were time I left Britain when) when the slaves of Julius Metullus pounced
worse barbarians need a checking hand at} upon him at their master’s command. His
‘ |}arms and legs were speedily bound, and he
‘*Speak, Rufus!’’ he thundered, in a tone | was lugged off to a gloomy dungeon under
of fury, turning to his son. ‘‘What excuses | the mansion. " é
have you to offer for this vile brawl? How} Here he spent a dreary day in solitude
came you to turn my court into an arena? | and silence. Food and drink were shoved in
Forsooth, I. wonder that my ancestors did|/to him through an iron grating, but he did
not turn themselves from the sight on their; not know who brought them. He did not
marble pedestals !’’ | even hear the footsteps going and coming.
——- He was still in too passionate a mood t0
CHAPTER XXVI. think much about the future, and his heart

burned for revenge on the whole househol
HARL ARRIVES AT THE HOUSE OF MARCUS | Of Julius Metullus. He had a well-founded
GALERIUS.

 

fear that Marcus Galerius would disregar
Pe ; | his promise, and exact some terrible penalty
EVER had Julius Metullus been seen | for the drenching of wine he had received.
insuch a towering rage, and to| ‘‘Let him try it,’? Harl muttered, fiercely:
\}N pacify him it promised to be no easy | ‘Slavery may be borne for a time, but
@/\ task. Between them Rufus and/swear that no Roman lash shall stripe MY
Quintus glibly narrated the thrilling affair.) back.”’
They colored it highly, and though they | It was long past dark when the cel! door
told only what was true, they succeeded in| was thrown open by four slaves, wh?
making it appear that the blame rested en-| dragged the captive to the end of a long
tirely with Harl. | corridor, and thence up a flight of narrow
‘‘What have you got to say for yourself, | steps to a spot which Harl recognized 4
you dog?’ cried the general. ‘‘This is fine | once.
gratitude toward those who saved your life.’’ It was a paved court in the rear of the
‘‘T have nothing to say,’’ replied Harl, his} stables, and a pair of massive gates, noW
eyes flashing with indignation, ‘‘and 1/ thrown wide open, led to a private thorough”
would do the same thing over again. Borak! fare on which abutted the stables of th®
is to blame more than I. He drove the little | neighboring residents. In the court stood
Nubian in here, and I tried to protect him! the chariot of Marcus Galerius, and tb®
from cruelty.’’ | driver, a brutal-looking fellow, was at the
‘*Be silent!’ ;roared Julius Metullus. horses’ heads. Otherwise, the court was 4@
‘‘How dare you take a hand in the ruling | serted; not one of» the family or household
ot this household? So you struck my son, | had come to bid the young Briton farewe “4
and all for the sake of a black slave. You Still helplessly bound, Harl was pitche
are but a slave yourself, and had no right! into the bottom of the chariot and during f
to lift a finger, no matter what the provoca-| brief period of waiting he was made a bu”
tion. for insulting jests by the slaves and the
‘*T will have you taught a lesson, dog,’’ | charioteer who failed, however, to provoke
he added, ‘‘and I trust you will know your} him to reply. f
place in future. One hundred lashes on your| At last there came from the direction ©
bare back and a week in a dark cell is your | the house a dapper little clerk who carrie! 8
sentence. And count yourself fortunate. | bunch of waxed tablets and hada styl
But for that service done in Britain your) pushed behind his ear. He jumped inte oe
head should roll from your shoulders. Many | chariot, the driver mounted to his place. @
a slave forfeits his life for a less offense.’’ | the four spirited horses rolled the veb!
‘*You speak truly, my friend Julius,’’ | out of the court. ie
said Mareus Galerius; ‘‘yet this is scant! The ride was a long one, and Harl’s ie"
justice, and hardly a healing balm for the| tion prevented him from seeing avy thy
peril and indignities I have suffered. Add| along the way. He knew by the gloom ape
but a few lashes to the decree, and let mine | the infrequent sounds of street life that of
be the hand to lay them on. By Jupiter! I} hour was late. Occasionally, a ban@ 94
will show you that I have not lost the| drunken brawlers passed by howling
strength for which I was famed in youth. | singing.
[ll warrant the rascal writhes like an eel.’’?} ‘*Who is this Marcus Galerius t
There was a murmur of approval among| you are taking me?’’ Har] presently
the slaves, and Borak laughed horribly as] tured to ask.
he held both hands to his gashed cheek.
Rufus and Quintus came eagerly forward, | clerk. ‘‘You will know soon enough; ¢
and fixed their eyes on Julius Metullus,}aslave! Your new master is a mag}® give
whose inscrutable face gave no sign one way ; of great, wealth and influence, and bis pe do
or another. is a terror to all evil-doers. Especl@*? opt
Marcus Galerius took this for a silent; the Christians fear him, for he bath bro soe
assent. He picked up the whip, which lay | many to their death; for the same ron
where Borak had dropped it, and cracked it | he is in high favor with the Emperor Neil’
in the air a couple of times as he advanced] Har! asked nothing more. He had ad of
to within six feet of Harl, of the stern Roman magistrates, and ae
‘“Now, dog, it is your turn,’’? he snarled. | the sect of Christians who were being P° ge
‘‘See these rich garments stained with wine? | cuted so bitterly for their religio:
For every spot thou shalt have a lash, and] found himself thinking about then wh?
ten extra strokes for the flagon that nar-| with feelings of sympathy for a peop it wi?
rowly missed my skull.’’ found Rome as cruel and merciless 4
Harl neither spoke nor moved, but his| to him. bar?
teeth showed through his parted lips, and Now the chariot began to make * wis

  

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lofty house-tops or gilded domes.
the arched covering of a gate glided over-
head, and the charioteer, after making a
short and rapid wheel, reined in his panting
steeds.

A murmur of voices was heard, and as the
scribe slipped to the ground two stalwart
black slaves pulled Harl to an upright
position, while they cut the cords from his
ankles.

The lad’s back was to the horses, and he
that the chariot had been wheeled
around at the very door of a marble stable.
To the right towered a stately mansion, and
on the left thé court was bounded by a high
wall.
chariot had entered
they appeared to lead into a dark street.

when the two slaves led him into the stable,

At last |

 

In the rear the gates by which the |
were still open, and |

| low, and armed with a long whip; his atti-
Harl had barely made these observations | tude threatened trouble.

to the bottom, whence their voices rose in- |
stantly in muffled tones. |

Almost before the second slave could real- |
ize what had happened, Harl was upon him |
like a tiger. The fellow went down after a|
brief struggle, and the back of his head |
struck the stone flagging with such force as |
to stun him. A stout club that was tied to
his waist slipped loose, and rolled upon the
floor.

Har! snatched this weapon, and sprang to
his feet. A hasty glance showed him that |
he had yet one formidable foe to contend
with. Turpinus, the scribe, was trembling
with a lamp in each hand, and bawling for
help, but the charioteer blocked the way to
the door and freedom. He was a burly fel-

 

Harl did not linger asecond. Swinging

and halted a few feet this side of a square, | his club, he dashed forward with a mad cry.

black hole, that evidently gave access to an
underground dungeon.
couple of lamps slimy steps could be seen
leading down into the gloom.

By the . light of a|

A heavy tread was heard close by, and |

Marcus Galerius stood before the young
Briton, his stern face wreathed ina smile
of malignant triumph.

‘*T have been expecting you, dog,’’ he
Snarled, ‘‘and all is ready for your recep-
tion. Down yonder steps the rods are wait-
ing to lacerate your back, and here are
Strong-armed Nubians to do the task. Yon-
der is also a filthy dungeon, and there you
May ponder, with your bleeding back, on
the insult you offered me in the house of
Julius Metullus.”’

_ Harl was dazed and horror-stricken for an
Mstant, and could neither move nor speak.
A wild gleam of terror and rage flashed
from his eyes.
_*‘So you thought I would remit the pun-
ishment,’? added Galerius, with a mocking
laugh. ‘‘That promise was exacted by
Metullus merely to ease his _ conscience.
ell he knew that I should not keep it, nor
did he intend it so.”

Galerius satisfied himself by a glance that
Harl’s wrists were bound. Then he-took one
of the bronze lamps and moved toward the
entrance of the dungeon.

*‘T had best. lead the way,’’ he grumbled,
turning to the slaves. ‘‘Keep an eye on the
Tascal, you dogs, for he may be minded to
S1ve you trouble.”’

CHAPTER XXVII.
A RIDE FOR FREEDOM.

@pusr as Marcus Galerius reached the
f head of the stepsa draught of air
from below extinguished the lamp he
; was holding. With an angry exclama-
tion, he turned to the scribe.
“Bring me another, Turpinus,’’ he
EYowled. ‘Hold! you had better re-light
M8 one also; we may need them both.’
The scribe hastened toward the rear of the
Stable, and the two slaves, with their cap-
1V6 between them, halted within two feet
of Galerius.
his gave Harl an opportunity to look
aout him. He glanced first at the stalls to
ight and left, half a dozen of which con-
Bane costly and beautiful steeds. Then he
oh ced back toward the front of the stable,
with oot he saw there made his heart throb
a sudden gleam of hope.
1 Sesab outside the door the chariot and
Slog Stood in the same position, facing the
still gates across the court, which were
; Open to the lonely street. By this time
® charioteer should have closed the gates
Derg, put the horses away; but instead of
ee ne that duty, he had yielded to his
and 1 and was now standing, whip in
» Inid-way between the door and slaves.
usual caretakers of the stable were
Gaqecre to he seen; evidently, Marcus
fo ane had taken good care to have as
‘ itnesses as possible to the cruel and
dious deed he was about to execute.
4 “We Instantly made up his mind. He saw
ac &nee to escape, and though it wasa
it, 24d desperate one he determined to risk
for a” did not think much of the danger,
ave ane in a reckless mood, and would
the yg led rather than _be lashed to satisfy
Ta. Dgeance of Galerius. ae
Main cause of his determination was
Part] act that his+ wrist-fetters had come
twist CO8¢, and he felt sure that either a
hot aor & jerk would free his hands. He did
Would e "to reflect on the difficulties he
M al sie unter in the great city that lay
Objac ’ Sides ; his mind was centered on one
Shmen to escape from the ignominious pun-
nly a sti awaited him in the dungeon.
ar) Gon ~©w seconds elapsed from the time
1b into foe the daring plan until he put
Slaves effect. Galerius had his back to the
With °"d the little scribe was fumbling
8S Bo '@ lamps a dozen feet away. It was
®XNecteg Opportunity as could have been

     

Now

Dut aly une Briton drew a long breath, and
Urious Je strength of his arms into one
hands gotk. _The cords snapped, and his
rvement > free! With a lightning-like
Sla s, 186 slipped behind one’ of the
at Sent hj gave him a tremendous shove
. im crashing into his master. The

ad Galerius pitched head first into
ng hole, and rolled down the steps

 

around his shoulders, and then his club
crashed fairly on the face of the charioteer,
and felled him like an ox.

With a spring Harl had leaped across the
body, and as he sped over the flagging to |
the door he heard the maddened cries of |
Marcus Galerius mingling with the shrill
bawling of the scribe, while from outside
same an answering tumult and a clatter of |
feet. |

A second later and the daring young
Briton was in the chariot. As he stood to |
his feet and seized the lines, he saw lights
flashing in the mansion, and half a score of
dark figures running toward the stable.

‘Stop him! stop him!’’ roared Marcus
Galerius. ‘‘Head him off! Five hundred
sesterces for the rascal, dead or alive.’’

‘““T will be brought back dead or not at
all,’? muttered Harl, bringing the whip
down with his utmost strength. The mad-
dened horses pranced and swerved, and then
dashed across the court on a furious gallop.

There was a rush to intercept them, but
the eager slaves might as well have tried to |
stop a hurricane. Two of the luckless fellows
were trampled under the hoofs, and the |
wheels rolled over a third.

With the whip in one hand and the lines
gathered in the other, Harl shouted defiance
to his foes. He skillfully guided the fiery
steeds, and the chariot plunged straight be-
tween the open gates, and turned down the |
center of the dark street without.

In those first few moments of mad exulta-
tion Harl neither knew nor cared where he |
was going. ‘The horses galloped at will over |
the granite flagging, and the few people who |
were on the ftootways gazed in wonder at
the swaying chariot and its stalwart driver. |

Harl was not familiar with this part of
the city, and as soon as his excitement had |
cooled a little, he began to consider what he |
had best do next. But before he could make |
up his mind he happened to glance around,
and was startled to see a group of horsemen |
galloping in pursuit. Evidently they were |
Galerius and his slaves.

The danger was imminent, and as the
streets now showed more signs of life, Har!
decided that in sticking to the chariot lay |
his best chance of safety. So he drove furi-
ously on, turning corner after corner, and |
glancing back at intervals to see that his |
pursuers were still in sight. Worse than
that, they were slowly gaining!

To escape to the hills through one of the
gates was what Harl hoped to accomplish,
but as yet he had not been able to get his
proper bearings. He noted with alarm that
he was approaching a more animated part
of the city, and he gave himself up for lost
when, on turning around a sharp corner, he
saw a brilliantly lighted cross street only a
block ahead. The worst of it was that the
thoroughfare leading to it did not continue
on the farther side.

However, the young Briton was not in a
mood to yield tamely to recapture. With a |
glance at his approaching and shouting foes, |
he plied the whip, furiously, and wheeled |
steeds and chariot into the center of the
street.

At the first glance he recognized the
Flaminian Way, and he knew also that it
could not yet be much more than midnight.
Bands of revelers were strolling to and fro,
and here and there the doors of wine shops
or other places of dissipation were open.

The furious advance of so costly a chariot
and horses attracted universal attention at
once, and when the mounted pursuers clat-
tered around the corner, and came on with
hoarse shouts, the situation was quickly
understood.

As the excitement spread rapidly, a crowd
began to form in front as well as behind,
and Har] knew that he could not long con-
tinue his flight. A loop-hole of escape
offered when he saw the mouth of a cross
street close ahead, and by a desperate tug
of the lines he wheeled the horses into it. A
yelling crowd was alieady there, ready to
intercept the fugitive, but they fell back in
a panic as Har) slashed at them with his
whip.

Steeds and chariot safely wade the turn,
and went flying along the gloomy thorough-
fare, between rows of silent houses and
gardens of trees and shrubbery. * A glimmer
of light ahead marked another prominent
street, and Har] suddenly made up his mind
that now was a good time to give his
enemies the slip.

He waited until the horses had reached

He felt the whip curl with stinging st
|

 

 

   

GooD NEWS.

the darkest part of the street, and then, by
a well-remembered trick Prasagus had
taught him, he leaped off the flying chariot
without injury. Behind him the night
echoed to the clatter of hoofs, the rush of
feet, and the roar of frenzied voices.
Sereened by the darkness, Harl turned to
the left, and sprang over a low parapet into
a garden. Without waiting to see whether
his ruse had been discovered or not, he ran
on at the top of his speed, past trees and
clumps of shrubbery and spouting fountains.
The garden proved to be an extensive

| one, and by the time the young fugitive
|reached the end of it there was scarcely a

sound to be heard in therear. He easily
scaled a seven-foot wall, and dropped into a

 

dark street that looked to be deserted. He |

|rested for a few brief moments, and then

hurried on; he knew that by this time the
empty chariot must have been overtaken,
and that his pursuers would retrace their
steps.

For fully a mile Harl pursued his way in
as straight a course as possible, for he fre-
quently had to turn aside to avoid belated
pedestrians. He had lost his bearings again,
and with every moment he became more
uneasy.

His only chance of freedom was to reach
the suburbs of the city before daylight.

Suddenly he heard a tumult from some

| invisible quarter ahead, and at the same

time a cry rang out behind him. He paused
an instant to listen, and the sound of voices
and running feet satisfied him that his foes
were once more on his track.

He hurried to the next cross street, and
he had hardly turned into it when he was
startled to see a glare of torches some dis-
tance ahead, and to hear a furious turmoil
of shouts and clashing weapons. From all
directions, men seemed to spring out of the
very ground, and the lad concluded that he
was hopelessly trapped.

But the hurrying people paid no attention
to him, and now he saw that they were
bound for the scene of the disturbance. He
was sharp enough. to know that in a crowd
he would be safer than anywhere else, and
so he ran fleetly along with his unknown
companions.

The goal proved to be the intersection of

| two wide streets, and here Har] saw a thrill-

ing scene, the meaning of which he did not
understand. A mob of several hundred were

| shouting and bawling around a half-score of

infuriated men, who were laying about
them with heavy staves. Stones and clubs
were flying thickly in the air.

‘‘What does this brawling mean?’’ Har]

amination. That walk resulted in strange
things. During it he made himself the hero

of a startling adventure.

The railway ran across the center of the
main street in town at what is called a level
crossing. When a train was signaled the
gates were shut. All vehicles had to wait
till they were opened again; foot passengers
had either to wait also, or cross by the little
flying bridge.

Just as Gordon neared them on this par-
ticular evening, the gates were slammed to.
Being in no hurry, and feeling too fagged
out with his studies to care about going over
the bridge, he lazily hung his arms on the
gate-post and waited til] the train should
pass. ;

It was coming; the shriek of the whistle

| and the roar of the engine heralded the ap-

 

asked of an exquisitely dressed young Ro- |

man, who
amusement.

‘*Yonder lictors began it,’’? was the reply;
‘*an hour since they arrested some Christians

was looking on with evident

| by order of the emperor, and as they were

coming this way with their prisoners a party
of drunken revelers molested them for sport.
The lictors slew one, and his companions
found a crowd ready to help them to their
vengeance. ”’

Harl did not venture to ask any more
questions. He moved along the outskirts of
the throng toward a marble statue of Julius
Cesar, and just as he reached it a hand
plucked his elbow.

(TO BE CONTINUED).
tee

Gordon Corbett’s Temptation.

BY ROBERT OVERTON.

ae —

NDOUBTEDLY the biggest event of
the year at the Newtown School was
the scholarship examination, which

9’ only the elder boys ever went in for.
Gaining the scholarship meant a boy’s for-
tune, for it took him to college for four
years. The boy who gained it was the hero
of the year.

There were seldom less than twenty-five
competitors, for many boys were sent to the
school on purpose to have a chance.

The hardest-working competitor for it a
few years ago was Gordon Corbett. It
seemed to him that gaining it meant gain-
ing everything, and losing it losing every-
thing, for since he first entered the school
his father had died, and his mother looked
to him as the hope of the family, for they
were poor compared with the families of
almost all the other boys. Gordon was
seventeen years old—just old enough to
realize how much depended on his success.
For the sake of his mother and of his
younger brothers and sisters, as well as for
his own sake, he worked his hardest. As the
time approached, the river and the base-ball
field knew him no longer. All games, all
sports, all light reading—he gave them all
up for the sake of hard, persevering study.

At times he was hopeful of the results of
the approaching ordeal, but at other times
he almost despaired. The examination was
so stiff, the other fellows who were in for it
were so numerous and so smart. However,
he steadily plodded on, resolved that at all
events he would do his best.

The only relief he allowed himself from
his studies was a walk sometimes in the
evening through the town or into the fields.
He was so walking one evening about a
week before the first day of the eventful ex-

 

proach of the express train. But suddenly
rose above the whistle and the roar another
sound—a cry, @ woman’s piercing scream.
The next second,. with one quick glance,
Gordon saw the situation. On the bridge
was a wild-looking woman, shrieking and
wringing her hands. Below, on the railroad,
in the track of the now visible express round-
ing the curve at lightning speed, was a
child, a little toddling boy of some two or
three years.

No wonder that his mother on the bridge
above should shriek so wildly, for the little
fellow is crossing right in front of the train.
No wonder that she should cry now more
wildly yet; no wonder that the faces of all
the people who come running up should turn
so pale, for the child has tripped over the
rails—fallen, and cannot rise. In a few
moments the wheels will be over him!

But, no; thank God! no; for with a nim-
ble spring, Gordon Corbett has cleared the
gate; the next instant he’ has stooped and
clutched the child in his arms; the next he
has sprung clear of the track; and then,
the next moment, the express is thundering
past.

He was dazed and dizzy as he ran toward
the mother. With tears streaming down her
face she seized the rescued child from his
arms, so eagerly, so hungrily, smothering it
with kisses, sobbing still in her happiness
and thankfulness. Then she turned to Gor-
don. She seized his hand, she poured out her
heart in words of wild gratitude. To com-
plete his embarrassment, she tried to kiss
him. He couldn’t stand that. And to make
it all worse, the crowd was cheering him
with might and main, and all sorts of hands
were thrust out to him—women’s hands and
men’s hands, some clean and some dirty, but
all eager to touch his hand.

With an effort he struggled himself free,

; and walked rapidly away till he gained the

 

| fields.

How quickly it had all happened!
How like a dream it seemed! After a while
he felt less faint and dizzy, and walled
back to school again, carefully avoiding the
néighborhood of the railway bridge, lest
any of the crowd should be there still. He
got out his books and tried to study—tried
hard, for the examination was only a week
off. But he couldn’t.

He seemed to hear the roar of that engine,
the hiss of the steam, the cries of the
mother, and then the mighty cheering of
the crowd. At last he locked up his books
again in despair, and went to bed, where he
dreamed that be was a runaway locomotive
chased by a mob, who all wanted to shake
his front buffer for having run over and
killed a child.

Early the next morning the door bell of the
school was rung with considerable violence.
The instant the door was opened the rough-
looking man standing on the porch ex-
claimed, loudly:

‘‘T want to see the young gennelman who
saved my kid!’’

‘‘Want to see who?’’ demanded the serv-
ant.
‘‘The young gennelman who ketched my
kid off the railroad, I tell you,’’ repeated the
visitor. ‘‘I knows he’s here, ’cos he was
identified by one o’ the porters. Prodooce
him !?’

‘*What’s his name?”?

‘‘T don?t know. Names be blowed! Names
is nothing. I don’t know his name, but J
know what he done. Prodooce the young
gennelman, please.’’

The servant called a master, and, inquiries
soon bringing out the facts, the man was
conducted to the ‘‘young gennelman’’ he
was so anxious to interview.

The father’s gratitude was almost as de-
monstrative as the mother’s had been, and
Gordon found it so hard to get rid of him
that he at last ‘‘excused himself’? on the
ground that he was studying hard, and
wanted to get back to his books.

‘*You’re going in for the scholarship busi-
ness, maybe, sir?’’

‘*VYes,??

“Safe to get it, I suppose, sir?’’

Gordon shook his head dolefully, The man
glancéd nervously around the room, as
though he feared some one might be listen-
ing. Then he put his rough hand on Gor-
don’s shoulder, and said earnestly, but in a
much lower voice—speaking almost in a
whisper:

‘*You
life——’?

‘‘What has that to do with it?’’
Gordon, a little impatiently. _

‘‘Everythink. It was my kid, and I love
it, and because you done what you did, I

shall win it. You saved my kid’s

asked

ses

——

 

 

 

    
 

 

   
   
 
  
  
  
  
 
 
  
     
  
  
   
 
  
 
  
 
   
 
  
 
   
  
  
    
 
  
 
  
  
   
    
 
  
 
  
 
  
  
  
  
  
  
 
  
  
   
  
   
  
 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
     
  
   
   
 
  
  
   
 
  
  
   
   
  
  
  
  
   
  
 
 
 
  
 
  
  
  
 
  
  
  
 
 
 
  
 
   
 
   
 
  
 
  
 
  
   
  
 
  
 

 

 

GooDpD

 

  

NEWS.

 

say that you shall win that scholarship—
and through me.’’

‘“‘Through you?’?

‘‘Wus, me! To-day’s Friday. When does
the examinationing begin?”’

‘(On Wednesday morning.’’

‘*Young gennelman, don’t ask me no ques-
tions just now. Better not ever ask me no
questions. Will you meet me at the top of
the lang at the back of this house at nine
o’clock Sunday night? If you do, the
scholarship’s yours, as sure as it’s certain
sure you saved my kid’s life.’’

He spoke so earnestly, even pleadingly,
that Gordon at length agreed to the meet-
ing, and his strange companion went
away.

As young Corbett was walking down the
High street toe next afternoon he saw the
man again, on the point of entering the one
printing establishment of the town. Observ-
ing Gordon as he passed the shop, the man
turned and touched his hat, remarking:

‘‘This is where I work, sir.’’ ‘Then ina
whisper, he added: ‘‘To-morrow night.’’

As nine o’clock struck the next evening,
Gordon Corbett, with many misgivings,
walked to the trysting place. The other was
there already. Stealthily drawing a closed
envelope from his pocket, he placed it in the
boy’s hand, saying:

“Walk straight back, and don’t open it
till you get there. Good-night, sir.”’

Fighting with the thought that had now
taken definite form in his mind—trying to
thrust it from him as though it were some-
thing that was striving to touch him, and,
touching, would defile him—Gordon Corbett
retraced his steps, entered his study (all the
scholarship students had each a rvom to
himself), lit the lamp, opened the envel-
ope, drew out the paper it contained, and
looked at it. One glance at the head-lines
only was enough. It was the question-paper,
printed, for the scholarship examination!

With quick fingers—trembling, but not
irresolute fingers—he laid the paper face
down upon the table, placed a book upon it
—a heavy book, as though he feared the
paper and feared himself—walked to the
door and locked it.

Then he lowered the lamp, seated himself
at the table, spread out his hands before
him, and sank his aching head upon them.

Gordon Corbett was alone with his temp-
tation.

There before him, his hand almost touch-
ing it, was the key of the door that opened
into fortune. With a knowledge of the ques-
tions printed upon that long white paper he
could be prepared by Wednesday with every
answer. ‘I'he scholarship was his, if he would
but take it.

He thought of the honor and glory that
were his, all his, if he would but move that
book and turn the paper. He thought of his
name on the marble slab which told the
record in the school hall of the winners each
year of the great prize—he saw his name
there. With those that were before it and
with all that should come after it, his name
could be there forever. His hand moved
nearer to the paper—nearer, till it touched
it.

He thought of his mother—her pride and
joy when he telegraphed the great news that
her boy had—had what? Done a mean and
dishonorable and dishonest and dirty act?
Never! He recoiled; his hand moved farther
from that heavy book.

But the future—it all depended on his
winning—not only his own future, but his
mother’s,, and the future of his younger
brothers and sisters. He was the hope of
them all.
him unless he could carve out a career for
himself?
carve out, if—— ‘This time his hand was on
the book. The scholarship was more to him
than to any of the others; it meant much
more for him than the wealthy boys who
were struggling with him for it. It was in
his grasp. He could not let it go.

Who shall say that it was not an angel
who brought the thought that stayed his
almost guilty hand?—the thought of an altar
at which as a child—ay,jand even as a boy—
he had knelt a thousand times in prayer. It
was an altar upon which no flowers vied
with silken hangings; no candles gleamed;
around which floated no wreathing smoke-
clouds of sweet incense; an altar so near to
God that no priest was wanted there.

For it was the altar of his mother’s knee.
In the dusk of the evening, in the morning

of his life, he had prayed there as she taught |

him:

‘‘Deliver us from evil.”’

With a cry that was itself a prayer he fell
upon his knees,

‘‘Teach me to pray it again.’’

Steady was the hand that lifted that
heavy book, steady the hand that seized the
tempting paper beneath it. Steady was
Gordon’s hand as—without a look, a glance,
upon it—he flung it upon the flames of the
little fire that burned low in the corner of
the room.

His face lightened with the momentary
brightening of the fire.

“Thank God!’’ he said—adding, after a
pause: ‘‘and my mother.”’

When his name came out at the head of
the list, when the boys carried him shoulder
high across the quadrangle, when all the
masters shook hands with him, when all the
people cheered him, when his own nyother

 

 

‘late, so as not to disturb the folks.

And what a grand career he could | but

was there, weeping happy tears, when he
had won the scholarship after all. Gordon
Corbett felt thankful for the strength that
had enabled him to resist his temptation.

—_—__—_~+ ~~» _____-

THE RETIRED BURGLAR.

BY HORACE MARTIN.

iene

ry)

“<A” window, as I usually did when I was
I looked
around the cellar, found the position of the
stairs, and started up.

About three-quarters of the way-up they
made a sharp turn to the left. 1 bad my
jimmy in my right hand and my lamp in
my left, so as to be all ready, especting to
put my lamp down on the top step and
gently pry the door open; and I was just
going along comfortably enough, when, just
as I was stepping up at the turn, a rope
stretched across caught me under the chin
and toppled me over down stairs.

There was only the stone wall of the
cellar on one side, and no rail on the other,
so there was nothing to grab at, and I just
tumbled down. As I bumped along some-
thing seemed to be coming with me, whang-
banging down the steps over me and under
me and around me, chasing me all the way
down, and when I finally got to the cellar
bottom that thing was lying across my
chest.

It was the coal shovel, which had evi-
dently been balanced across the rope, and
which I had jarred loose.

But the worst thing of all was that my
lamp was broken. I lost my jimmy on the
way down, but I hung-on to my lamp. But
now the light was out and the glass was
broken. The slide was jammed, too, in
front, and 1 could not turn it. I felt about
till I found my jimmy, and then I waited to
see if I’d roused anybody up. I didn’t hear
a sound, so I started again, and this time I
felt my way up the stairs carefully to the
door.

T found it unlocked, and I had got it open
about an inch, I should think, when I heard
a little bit of a scraping on the other side,
and the next instant the dreadfullest racket
that anybody ever. heard, the falling of a
dozen dish covers that must have been hang-
ing on the other side; and at the same time
what [ imagine must have been the potato
masher—lI don’t know, because I didn’t look
for it—dropped from the top of the door
upon my head.

This door to the cellar opened from a little
square hall that had, as I learned by feel-
ing, a door to the left—to the kitchen, I
suppose—and one to the right, I fancied,
into the front hall. I waited again, but no
sound from up stairs, so I turned to the
right and opened that door, and stumbled
first of all over a rocking chair close by the
hall, and almost broke my shins,

I felt along, and found a row of chairs
standing close. together right from that door
to the front door.

I sat down in one of them and nursed my
shin and waited, and thought about a good
many things.

Still no sound, and I tried again, and_ got
along all right this time, and turned off to
the left and into the parlor, and back from
that into the dining-room, for a wonder,
without falling over anything, and I began

NE night late, said the retired burg-
» lar, 1 entered a house in a small vil-

What would become of them and | to feel encouraged.

But in the dining-room there was nothing
plated spoons and forks, which, of
course, I ‘could tell by the touch, just as
well as though I’d a light with me. If they
had any silver they had carried it up stairs,
as some people do at night.

I turned back into the hall, and groped
my way through that row of chairs to the
foot of the stairs. To make sure of the first
step in the dark, I stepped high, and stepped
into a pan of water on the bottom step.
That made me cross, but it didn’t make any
noise, so I stepped out of it as quietly as
possible and started on up.

At about the third step my leg struck a
string that was strung across these stairs,
and set a bell ringing; and kicking that
string started down on me from above,
loosened, as I suppose, by another string
tied to the one I had kicked, a shower of
sauce-pan lids; I had got my leg tangled up
in some way in the string across the stairs,
and as I struggled to get free, the bell kept
on ringing and the lids rattling, and pres-
ently I fell over a fender that had been set
on the stairs a step or two up, and brought
that down on me.

As ft was floundering about “n this tin-
ware and string and bells and things, I
heard children’s voices up stairs, and a
minute later steps on the stairs above, and I
could see in the blackness up there the white
of a night-gown at the head of the stairs.

Then something came bounding against
the balusters, hitting me as it rattled down,
and finally landing with a great bang on the
floor, among the chairs in the hall. The
minute he threw it, whoever he was, he ran,

 

and I began to think it was about time for
ime to go, too,

1 / | back and saw three children all in white, all
lage, making my way in by a cellar |

hall again. This time I stepped on a rolling-
pin—that was what had come banging down
at me from above—that rolled out from
under me, and upset mé once more among
those chairs. I lifted myself up and opened
the front door—it wasn’t locked—and got
out onto the porch. Before I had reached
the top front step, I heard a horn blowing
from an up stairs window on the side of the
house, and an instant later a shot from a
revolver and a big bell ringing.

There was a late moon rising, and a little
light now, and as I went away I looked

leaning out of the window on the second
story.

On one side there was a boy of about four-
teen, as I should guess by that light, firing
a pistol. On the other side was his younger
brother, with a horn about as long as a tele-
graph pole, and in the middle was their
little sister swinging a big bell with both
hands; and, take ’em all together, they
were making a deal of noise.

I didn’t wait to inquire about it, but it
was just as simple as rolling off a log. The
children’s parents had been summoned away
over night, and had left the children alone.
The young folks had forgotten to lock the
doors, but there wasn’t any necessity for
locking ’em with such a burglar-alarm sys-
tem as that.

THE BOY WITHOUT A CHUM.

ASTORY OF BOARDING SCHOOL LIFE,

 

 

BY W. W. TREMAINE.
(Sy Ss a muff!’ said Charlie Anson,
Hot curling his lips with scorn. ‘‘It is
2 | a mystery to me what his father
“34y"" could be thinking of to send him
here. St. Clement’s School wants fellows

who can take care of themselves, and not
moony milksops. He is fit for nothing but
to sit in the shade of a tree and pore over a
musty old book. What do we say—shall we
cut him—have nothing to do with him??’’

‘‘ Don’t let us be too much ina hurry,’’ Jack
Haswell said, thoughtfully. ‘‘You see, Bert
Buckingham has been here only a week,
and, although he has not impressed us
favorably, he may come out of his shell
and do wonders yet.’’

‘“Humph! you are much too soft-hearted,’’
Anson rejoined, discontentedly. ‘‘I tell you
that there is nota redeeming feature in
him. When I asked him if he eould fight he
shook hfS head, and said it was a bad prac-
tice, unless there was something worth fight-
ing for; and then when I told him to his
teeth that I suspected he was a coward, he
only stared at me out of his girlish eyes,
and smiled as if something had amused him
mightily.’’

The subject of this interesting conversa-
tion was at this moment crossing the play-
ground, thrown into the shadows by the
gray old school building.

Bert Buckingham was a tall, slim lad,
about fourteen years of age. His face was
almost oval, and somewhat pale; his eyes
were large, and as_ blue as the deep sea; his
hands ,long, slender and tapering, and, at
first sight, he might have been judged as
one who had grown beyond his strength.

So far as St. Clement’s School was con-
cerned, Bert had not a single friend.

His quiet demeanor had got him into bad
odor from the very hour that he entered the
building.

He declined to be tossed in a blanket, ob-
jected on principle to fight a boy he had not
quarreled with, and behaved so strangely
that the boys rose up against him, and
nicknamed him Berty Buckingham.

‘¢Hullo!’’ cried Charlie Anson. ‘‘Suppose
we tackle him with his extraordinary con-
duct? Let us give him another chance, and
if he refuses it, let us have done with him
forever.’’

‘‘Worever is a long time,’’ Jack Haswell
remarked. ‘‘All right; I will leave him in
your hands.’’

Bert Buckingham turned aside at the
sound of Anson’s voice, and walked calmly
up to the fiery youth, who had such a short
time to rehearse what he was going to say,
that he began stammering, and wound up
by addressing the new boy in a bullying
tone of voice.

‘‘Just. listen to me, Buckingham,’’ he
said. ‘Tf you have no desire to leada
miserable life here, you had better alter
your tactics. You ‘have seen enough of us
to know that we are not the sort of fellows
to put up with any kind of nonsense, so you
had better veer around and join us. What
do you say to a bird-nesting expedition this
aftérnoon? If you can’t climb, you can hold
the eggs we fetch, and that will be better
than doing nothing. Come! redeem your
character, and let the boys find that you
are not quite so soft as putty!’

‘*Many thanks for your invitation, but I
must decline it,’? Bert replied. ‘‘I hold
taking birds’ nests to be cruel and unwar-
rantable. How would you like having your
home pulled down over your head? Don’t
you think that the birds can feel grief and
pain as well as mortals?’’

Jack looked rather sheepish,
ging his hands deep down in his jacket
pockets, remarked, with no genuine ring in
his voice, that Bert Buckingham certainly
entertained odd ideas.

‘‘Odd ideas!’’? echoed Anson. ‘‘Why, I
don’t think he can be quite right in his
head! Well, let him go his way, and we’ll
go ours. As I have said a score of times, it
is a great.pity that he was sent here at all.’’
‘*T will give you the best of reasons for
that,’’ Bert replied, smiling. ‘‘My father is,
comparatively speaking, a poor man; and
what is more, suffers from a malady for
which there is no known cure. He is desir-
ous that I should fit myself to relieve him
from the toil of the counting-house, and
sent me here for two years to ‘finish,’ as the
saying goes. I suppose you will not blame
me if I make the best of my time?’’

There was so much reason in this, that
Charlie Anson could not find an answer to
it; but he was not in the mood to admit
anything, and, after staring Bert Bucking-
ham full in the face, turned his back on
him and cut him dead.

Charlie was the leader of the school, and

—that he had no alternative left but to
follow in his footsteps.

The news went forth.

It spread like wildfire; and when Charlie
Anson commanded that Bert Bucking-
ham should be cut until he apologized and
amended his ways, the boys treated the vic-
tim as if he had no existence.

For some time Bert Buckingham bore his
unpleasant position without a murmur.

No word of complaint from him ever
reached any of the masters’ ears, although
it was quite possible that they had a shrewd
idea of what was going on.

But they preferred, and, perhaps, to some
extent wisely, to let the boys settle their
differences among themselves; otherwise the
school would have been in a constant state
of turmoil and bickering.

The summer passed away, autumn came,
and still Bert Buckingham was without @
friend.

He studied hard and took long walks,
with the result that he acquitted himself so
creditably that Reverend J. Wilberforce, the
head master, marked him down as one 0
the most promising lads in the establish-
ment. ®

This, instead of gaining the admiration of
Charlie Anson and those who followed him,
like sheep, was the means of incensing them.

They were not cruel and unkind by nature,
but in an unreasoning style they argued
that Bert had come to St. Clement’s for the
express purpose of bearing off best
prizes. "

Some, who were far behind in theif
studies, and looked gloomily forward to the
examinations and the reports which woul
be sent home through the post, went so fat
as to assert that Bert had been sent to take
all the shine out of the old pupils, and
make them look foolish.

It was a cold, blustering Wednesday late
in October when the boys were thinking ?
gathering around the school-room fire in t
long, dark evenings.

There had been a frost, and the yelloW
and amber leaves falling from the trees
were driven in wild and fantastic showel®
by the wind.

The boats were housed for the season; th?
river ran gurgling and swirling drearily be
tween its brown banks, and the base-b@
field was deserted.

There was eveh a promise of snow in the
sky, and the masters wore their overco@ j
When they took exercise between cho?
hours. 1

It was in the afternoon, when the weathé
was finer and had settled more soberly dow”?
that Bert Buckingham, sitting at his favor
ite window, saw Charlie Anson leave
school grounds, with a fishing-rod and ap
ing-net over his shoulder, and a reel
tackle and odds and ends hanging 4
side. # tic

Anson was an expert and enthusi@a®),
angler, and never missed an opportunity to
try his hand at luring the finny tribe
leave their natural element.

Anson was quite alone, it being

the

probab} 0

run the risk of loitering at the damp $
chilly riverside.

The stream was spanned by
deserted water-mill. 3.

A balcony with a rail ran across its “of
the quaint old place was a favorite a
the disciples of Isaac Walton, for in the ¢ tbe
race and the dam beyond lurked some ®
finest fish in the neighborhood. so?

Bert Buckinghum had often seeD a
leaning pensively, rod in hand, over ee
which, being as old as the mill, wa
too safe. ee?

The top of the water-mill could be sow?
from the school windows, and for 4 10
reason, which he could not accou® che
Bert felt uneasy in his mind as he W#%/jed
Anson following the winding path tha
to the river.

‘‘We might have been friends,
Bert, with a sigh; ‘‘but he is mY, t
foe, and has set everybody agai, pae
Well, I bear him no malice, although poe
been mainly the cause of my wretche., pe

pitter @

 

 

! J had freed myself of the bell-cord by this
time, and I got down the stairs and into the

 

‘*What did I tell you?’” Anson demanded,
turning to Haswell.

Some day he and all the others w
sorry for what they have done.’

and dig-—

Jack Haswell felt—albeit, very reluctantly,

an old and

that his most devoted chums did not cal q —

 

 

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Bert Buckingham had risen to put his
books away, when he heard a dull but re-
sounding crash.

His first impression was that an explosion
had taken place somewhere in the neighbor-
hood; but his face suddenly changed, as he
thought of Anson and the old mill.

Something might have happened there.

It was within the bounds of probability
that the ruinous building had collapsed
under the tremendous pressure of the cur-
rent, fed by a hundred broad ditches over-
flowing with the floods from the submerged
meadows.

Without raising an alarm, Bert tossed his
cap on to his head and rushed from the
school.

He ran as perhaps he had neyer run be-
fore, and then stopped and pressed his hand
to his heart, as if its action had failed.

Where the mill had stood, only two totter-
ing wooden walls, leaning ominously over
the water, remained.

The rest of the building, taking with it,
roof, rusty machinery and wheel, had col-
lapsed.

Bert could see nothing of Anson.

In despair, he shouted out the missing
lad’s name, but only the echo of his own
voice answered him.

‘“*Gone! Drowned!
clutching at his hair.

At that moment a hand, with the fingers
distended and working convulsively, rose
above the water, in which the debris of the
fallen mill was swirling hither and thither.

Bert threw aside his jacket, and, kicking
off his shoes, leaped boldly to the rescue.

A few bold, swift strokes, and he had the
hand of the drowning lad in his own, and
then a white face_rose slowly.

Anson was already unconscious, and was,
to all appearance, dead when Bert, with a
Superhuman effort, drew him to the shore
and lifted him out.

Then his own strength gave way.

He tried to shout, but his voice failed him.

A mist gathered before his eyes, he be-
came giddy, and fell fainting at the side of
the lad he had so gallantly saved.

* * * * * *

‘‘This noise in the play-ground must. be
stopped. All this cheering is all very well,
but it will do much more harm than good
just now.’’

Bert heard these words as he opened his
eyes.

He discovered that he was in bed, and

that Mr. Wilberforce and the school doctor
Were at his side.
_ ‘*How is Anson?’’ he asked, remembering
m a moment what had happened, and
Striving to raise himself on his elbow. ‘‘I
am a little weak, but I shall be all right
Soon. Tell me—tell me how Anson is?’’

‘‘About the same as yourself,’? the medi-
Cal man replied. ‘‘He has asked to see you,

Dead!’’? Bert gasped,

‘Dut Ihave forbidden him until the morn-

ing. ”

‘‘And when you do meet,’’ Mr. Wilber-
force remarked, giving Bert his hand, ‘‘I
feel convinced that there will be no shadow
of a parting in it for a long time to come.
Buckingham, Iam as proud of you as the

OYS are now ashamed of themselves; but
they are making amends fast. Listen! I
have endeavored to quiet them, but all in
yain. They are waiting to claim you as
their hero and friend.’ ;

he meeting between Charlie Anson and
Bert Buckingham need not be described;
and it must suffice ‘to record that it was a
Prolonged and happy one.

The lads had been found side by side, and
Now, side by side, hand in hand, they stood
-~the very best of friends.

I had not reached the. balcony mahy
Minutes before the mill’came down,’’ Anson
Said; ‘‘and, luckily, I was hurled forward,
hy I should be lying crushed and dead in the
ne of the river. But still luckier, dear

rt, you came to my rescue. Fright, cold,
ee a blow on the head, received from
Something falling, stunned me, and——’’
don’t think we need say any more
coy Bert Buckingham interposed.

ae oe both much to be thankful for.’’
8s, , if 7
found ae ey lost my life, and I have
the tienda!” cried Jack Haswell, throwing
Hee door open and bursting in. ‘‘Hurrah!

Ye they are, lads! Come in! Come in!”?

, © room soon became uncomfortably full
©YS, who laughed when they could not
ut, and cried when they could not laugh.
80m last the masters came on the scene, and

‘hething like order was restored.
eye iit are friends now,’’ Bert said, as his

contt up with a glorious light.
or life!’’ added Charlie Anson.

————_ +.
THE SUM TOTAL.

Sho

ce
the How much is seven and nine?’’ asked
; ' teacher.

Glaag 2”’ said the boy at the foot of the

6%
youre suppose I say that your father and
Gmncle went fishing on Saturday——”’
they didn’t go fishin’,”?
ell, just suppose that they did, and

you
‘Your father brought home seven fish and
ep?) “Bcle nine more—what would that

GOT )
he, hy an awful surprise to ma!’’ said
an appreciative grin.

 

A M OIN Gr
fy» sx
(GLUBS.

[SPECIAL NOTICE.—This column is for GOOD
NkEWs Clubs only. No notices will be inserted
excepting such as are genuine GOOD NEWS Club
notices, and nothing in the shape of an advertise-
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fy

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eee aleninas

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GOOD NEWs Club Badge and Electrotypes see ad-
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cao taste tee

“A word to the wise is sufficient.’? Now is the time
to join the Goop Nrws Monumental Corresponding
and Reading Club of Baltimore, Md. If you are wise
you will join at once. Initiation fee only 10c; no dues;
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young ladies and Baltimoreans, and we would be
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ama, Nova Scotia, Natal, Cuba and Japan. Further
information cheerfully given by addressing, with
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Boys and girls, give us a moment of your time. We
want 100 new members in the next 60 days, and will
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and six foreign or rare United States stamps, Our in-
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turn postage, will receive by the next mail reading
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issued which will be sent to them on receipt ofa 2c |

stamp for postage. Address all communications to C.
D. Wallace, secretary of the Goop NrEws Reading and
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The Goop NEws Reading and Pastime Club of New-
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Goop NEWS, and would be pleased to have them join.
Boys and girls who would like to join this club are re-
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new members you receive 100 valuable foreign stamps
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Handsome card of membership, bundle of reading
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Important Notice— The Goop News Theatrical Club
of Chicago, had a meeting at 164 North Halsted street,

| place of the Golden Recorder.

| fee is 10¢c; no dues.

 

Any one send- |
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|

supply the members with the best of reading matter.
This club hasan exchange list also, so send in your

exchange list to the secretary. The admission fee is

8c; no dues; ladies free. Address the secretary, J. M. |
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Join the Goop News Stars and Stripes Correspond- ;
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Ralph W. Murphy, 3 Richard
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Capital City Goop Nrws Club of Washington, D. C.
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Only 6c to join the Star Goop NrEws Exchange Club
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Join the Goop NrEws Corresponding Club of Clinton,
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Address the secretary, Arthur D. Orem, Clinton, Mo.

2

‘E, XCHANGE A EPARTMENT.

Sec dpe

   

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partment.” )}

 

oo > mecca

STAMPS.—James V. O’Hara, 437 Virginia street,
Vallejo, Cal., has 1,000 foreign stamps to exchange for
every 50c Columbian; 400 for every 30c; 100 for every
15¢; 150 foreign for every 100 2c Columbians; a genuine
World’s Fair admission ticket for every 75 1c or 2c
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READING MATTER.—Wade Troup, Rich Hill,
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Good News, 8 libraries, and 14 other boys’ papers to
exchange for printing press or best offer.

|
MISCELLANEOUS.—Charlie Stahl, Gorham, N.H.,

has 75 numbers of New York Weekly, 25 magazines,
cloth-bound books, 2 puzzles, 1 game of dominoes, a

| checker-board, 1,000 United States stamps, and 1 nickel-

and decided that the initiation fee will hereafter be 15e, | ra
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dues 5c per month, all members to receive books.- the
latest songster, entitled ‘‘Up to Date Songster,” ‘‘The
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Everybody joining during the next two weeks from
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dent. Fee, 10c ; foreigners free, and ladies a 2c stamp.

Address ©. H. Noyes, secretary, Box 20, Newport, Vt: |

“Good thing. Push it along.’ The Goon Nrws
Bay State Corresponding Club is a good thing, and
wants your push. Three different photographs of
members, either ladies /or gentlemen, membership
card and list, circulars, etc., to all joining. Initiation
fee, 20c; no dues; ladies and foreigners, not including
Canadians, enrolled free. Address B. A. Stickles, sec-
retary, 347 Walnut street, Springfield, Mass.

Hurrah! Hurrah! Everybody join the Goop News
Cadet Club of New York city. Walter Staeble, cap-
tain; Oscar Neaher, first lieutenant. The first one
joining will be elected an officer, and every one join-
ing will receive one year’s subscription to a beautiful
paper and a handsome card of membership. Initia-
tion fee, 10c; dues, 5e per month. Address Walter
Staehle, 69 Third avenue, New York city.

Come, come, come, and join the Goop Nrws Read-
ing Club of Rankin, Pa.!

The best reading club in!

 

The vote was Wm.-|
Address either |

 

plated watch-case to exchange for a safety bicycle,

larger, ora foot-power scroll-saw. All letters answered.
PLAY.—W. T. Ballew, Decatur, Ala., will give good

exchange for Goldsmith’s play, “She Stoops to Con- |
eo?

quer.

READING MATTER.—Charles Shaw, Post-Office
Drawer 1536, Philadelphia, Pa., has Goop NrEws, de-
tective libraries, and other boys’ papers to exchange
for punching-bag, athletic goods, or reading matter.

MISCELLANEOUS.—Charles C. Bee, 730 Franklin !
Members introduced to each other | Street, Johnstown, Pa., would like to hear from those
7 ; | having bicycles, printing presses, and punching-bags

to exchange ; he has one of the best exchange lists on
record. All letters answered.

STAMPS.—L. M. Libbey, 6 Holland street, West |

Somerville, Mass., will give 100 mixed foreign stamps
for every 100 @ommon 2c United States stamps; will
give 75 all different foreign stamps for every 1,000 com-
mon 2c United States America.

PRINTING MATERIAL.—Charles W. Simison,
Staunton, Ill., has 3 large fonts of type, 2 sets border,
ornaments, cases, rules, steam engine, 86 cuts, and
other goods to exchange for a 5x8 self-inking printing
press.

MISCELLANEOUS.-— Robert Ackerman, 905 Town-
send street, Syracuse, N. Y., has 235 scientifle papers,
an emery wheel, and 17 lantern slides to exchange for
boys’ paper or best offer.

ATR GUN.-— Percy F. Garnett, 339 West Fifty-ninth
street, New York city, would like to hear from some
one who has an air gun to exchange; would like to get
a “Chicago.” Write for particulars.

STAMPS.—John Saulsbury, 33 Lyon street, Batavia,

N. Y., would like to hear from any one having stamps |

to trade or wishing to trade for stamps, and would like
to hear from any one having electrical goods to trade.

MISCELLANEOUS. — James Nuckols, Hartford
City, Ind., has a collection of United States stamps,
valued at $10, Goop Nrws, and other boys’ papers to
exchange fora printing press 344x444 inches or best
offer. All letters answered.

STAMPS.—H. L. Walsh, 1312 Prairie avenue, St.
Louis, Mo., will exchange 1,000 United States 2c red
stamps and 275 2c Columbian stamps for the best offer;
reading matter preferred.

BOOKS.—L. D. Lillie, Staunton, Ill., has 10 books
to exchange for every old font of type, or 2 books for
every metal cut; good exchange for sweater or base-
ball goods.

BOYS’ PAPERS.—M.S. Davis, 228 St. Clair street,
Frankfort, Ky., has 30 numbers Goop Nrws and
other boys’ papers to exchange for a set of boxing-
gloves or best offer.

MISCELLANEOUS.—A. W. Pemberton, 255 Gene- |

see’ street, Buffalo, N. Y., has magic lantern, with
slides, accordion, 12 keys, picture cards, story books,
gummed hinges for stamps, stamp album, with collec-
tion of stamps, etc., to exchange for kodak, printing
press, or electric bell with battery and push button.

INDIAN CLUBS, ETC.—H. P. Fagan, Post-Office
Box 112, Peace Dale, R. I., has a pair of Indian clubs
and a pairof dancing clogs, used only two or three
times, to exchange for foreign and old United States
coins.

GOOD NEWS.--Joe Schell, 89 Stanton street, Cleve"
land, Ohio, has Goop Nrws from 198 up to date, in
good condition, value $2.80, to exchange for a good set
of boxing-gloves and reading matter.

SCROLL SAW AND OUTFIT.—Walter Leonard,
168 State street, Brooklyn, N. Y., has a scroll saw and
outfit, worth $2.50, which was bought at Christmas; two
feet of mahogany wood, two feet of white ash, and 1
dozen saw blades to fit the same to exchange for a pair
of fencing-foils,2 masks and 2 gloves, or best offer.

Western Pennsylvania. The object of this clubisto Local offers preferred.

Address E. F. |

od th t ; Address al] |
connnunications for this column to “Exchange De- |

 

WATCH.—Clayton Barrett, Crafts, N. Y., has a
good watch, books, tricks, etc., to exchange for base-
ball goods.

MISCELLANEOUS.—Earle ©. Hessler, Box 424)
Red Oak, Iowa, has a magic lantern, pair of roller
skates, parlor croquet set, a fine collection of birds’
eggs, and a book of receipts to exchange for best offer;
would prefera printing press and outfit. All letters
answered.

CAMERA AND TYPEWRITER.~— H. L. Snow, 49
South street, Lynn, Mass., has a snap-shot camera and

| a $1 typewriter to exchange for an electric telegraph

instrument, either with or without the battery.

Our Mail Bag.

oe

[Questions on subjects of general interest only are
dealt with in the ‘Mail Bag.” Medical or legal
questions not answered.’ Goop Nrws goes to press
two weeks in advance of date of publication, and there-
fore answers cannot appear until two or three weeks
after we receive them. Communications intended for
this column shonld be addressed Goop NEws “Mail
Bag,” P. O. Box 2734, New York City.]

-

Matt Lincoln, Uniontown, Pa.—1. The process is too
long to describe here. 2. A good developing solution
is: Protosulphate of iron, 2drams, dissolved in 8 ounces
' of distilled water ; add 234 drams of alcohol and 5 min-

ims of nitric acid ; filter and pour into a well-stoppered
| bottle. This solution will keep good for several weeks
| if notexposed to theair. 3. We do not know who is

the largest man in the United States. 4. The seventh
of October, 1890, fellon Tuesday. 5. Weshall havea
| story by Emerson Bell before very long. 6. No. 7.
| Clean with rottenstone, common hard soap,and a
| woolen cloth. 8. Weare glad you think Goop NEws
‘the best of all.”

R. W. E., Davenport, Iowa.—To geta tight ring off
a finger, thread a needle, insert it with care under the
ring, and pull the thread through a few inches toward
the hand; wrap the long end of the thread tightly
round the finger regularly all down to the nail, to re-
duce its size, then lay hold of the short end and un-
wind it. The thread, passing against the ring, will
gradually remove it from the finger, This never-fail-
ing method will remove the tightest ring without diffi-
culty, however much swollen the finger may be.

Stage-Struck, Denver, Col.—1. Miss Ada Rehan is at
present playing at Daly’s Theater in New York. 2
The character you refer to is probably Peg Woftington
| in “Masks and Faces,’ a play by Charles Reade and
|Tom Taylor. 3. Lawrence Barrett died some years
ago. Wilson Barrett is not a relative. 4. Edwin Booth
was undoubtedly the better Hamlet of the two. We
do not think he has ever been surpassed as the Prince
of Denmark. 5. The old Wallack’s Theater is now
| the Star.

W. F. Z., Chicago, Tll.—1. The silver three cent
piece, with star in center, of 1867, is worth thirty cents.
2. Queen Victoria began to reign in 1837. 3. The Pope
is the oldest monarch alive. Heis 85 years old. 4.
“Zig-Zag, the Boy Conjurer,’’ began in No. 192 of Goop
News. 5. Nick Carter. 6. The Vice-President of the

| Confederacy was Alexander H. Stephens. 7. Yes, the
whole of Australia belongs to England. 8. The United
States. 9. The name of the Sultan of Turkey is Abdul
Hamid.

A. M., Vancouver, Wash.—l. Volume 1 of Goop
News is out of print. You can obtain volumes 8 and
9 for 85 cents apiece. 2. ‘(Camera Bob’’ was begun in
No. 179, volume 7, and “‘Glim Peters; or, Tracing the
Insurance Swindlers” in No. 173, volume 7. 38. No.
4. ‘““With Crusader and Saracen.” 5. A large number
of the stories in Goop Nrws are founded upon facts.
6. Walden F. Sharp is now at work upon.a detective
story, which we shall publish shortly.

Paul Jones, Vineland, N. J.—1. There is such a de-
| tective, but he does not wish his real identity revealed.

2. No. 3. One isa penny and the other an English

shilling. There is probably no premium upon either,

certainly not on the latter. 4. Weare pleased that you
| think so highly of Goop NEws.

Captain Dick, Baltimore, Md.—1. Write to the com-
mander of any of the school-ships. 2. You are much
above the average in both height and weight. 8. Your
writing is good. 4. Try running each day, gradually
increasing the distance, but be careful not to overdo it

T. L. O., Greenville, Mich.—1. Yes, we shall begin
the publication of a circus story in the early summer.
2. The average height of a boy of 17 is 5 feet 2 inches,
and his weighta little over 100 pounds, 8. You are
, about the average, perhaps a trifle over in weight.
| Amateur, Reading, Mass.—Yes, photographs can be

taken by moonlight, The length of the exposure de-

pends altogether upon the strength of the light and the
kind of plates used. Experience is the only guide in

| matters of this kind. .

1 eB: B., New Orleans, La.—1. We may in the future,
2. Harvey Hicks writes exclusively for Goop NEws,
and we shall bave stories from his pen from time to

| time. 38. Possibly. 4. We will give your message to

| Mr. Stratemeyer.

| H. ¥. K., Merrill, Wis. —1. Yes. 2. Write to the

| American News Co., Chambers street, New York. 3.

Mr. Parks is always glad to receive suggestions in re+

| gard to his department. 4. Your handwriting is good.

C. H, H.—We do not know of any such books, Mr.

| Parks has received several requests for further partic-
ulars in regard to ventriloquism, and will probably

| have another article on the subject shortly.

J. E. Q., Utica, N. Y.—The quickest game of base-
ball on record was played in San Francisco, Novem-
ber 9, 1893, by the Oakland and San Francisco clubs.
| The time was 47 minutes.

Student, Clinton, Mo.--‘‘Character and Reputation,”
“The Coming Man,” “The Advantages of Education,”
“The End of the Century” are good subjects for a
: graduating oration. ‘

&. L. C., Muscatine, Iowa.—Tar can be easily re-
| moved from clothing by immediately rubbing it well
| with clean lard and then washing it with warm water
and soap. ;

L. I: B., New York city.—The numbers you inquire
for are out of print, but we have bound volumes con-
taining No. 27 to No. 100. See advertisement on last
| page.

J. F., Shamokin, Pa.—See .“Short Talks” for last
week, and also in No, 221 of Goop News you will find
| full particulars of the naval apprentice system.

Little Snap, Batavia, N. Y.—There is no premium on
an 1858 nickel cent. The only nickel cent that is
| worth more than its face value is that of 1856,

M. H., Philadelphia, Pa.—You don’t really mean
that you want to join ‘“‘a cruelty to animals club,” do
you?
| E. B., Marion, lowa. —Your notice is practically an

advertisement, and we regret that we cannot insert it.

Miss S. J. J., Atlanta, Ga.—There is no premium on
either of the coins you mention.

Paul Jones, Columbus, Ohio.—Yes, Harvard beat
Yale at foot-ball once, in 1890.

V. 7., Windsor Locks, Vt.—No, so long as they do
not exceed one each week.

R. L. C., Melrose, Mass.—No premium.

{Several communications left over to be answered next
week. |

 

 

 

 

   
  
  
   
  
  
   
    
 
  
  
  
   
  
 
   
    
  
  
   
 
  
  
  
 
 
 
  
    
  
 
 
 
 
   
    
  
 
 
  
 
  
  
  
  
  
   
  
 
 
      
 
       
 
        
     
    
      
     
   
     
      
 
     
   
   
   
       
 
         
            
   
 
      
     
 
      
     
   
   
     
 
      
      
        
   
 
        
 
    
   
   
 

 

 

 

 

 

 
   
    
 
      
    
    
 
   
   
     
     
     
      
           
       

 

        
     
       
     
       
        
 
     
     
      
 
 
       
         
   
        
   
     
        
           
           
       
          
 

 

   
  

  
  
   
  
  
  
  
 
   
 
   
  
  
  
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
   
 
  
 
 
  
 
 
  
  
      
 
 
 
  
 
  
 
 
 
   
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
  
   
 
   
 
   
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
   
 
 
  
   
 
  
  
  
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
  
 
 
 
   
 
 
 
   
   
 
  
 
  
  
  
  
  

ange 6 mer oF ~

   
   
  
   
 

   
 
   

 

 

 

 

 

an re 2
Pe z

ww W > :
W HOLESALE DEALERS IN RACKETS.

 

CrOOD

NEWS.

 

 

 

eS es eae aa

CHAPTER VIII.
CHUCK TO THE RESCUE.

   

AALK about excitement—well, you’d

iH? Oughter been around there about

‘. then!

‘7 Scared? Why, them folks was so

seared they all turned pale, and some of

them came nigh turnin’ wrong side out.
‘*Tt’s Rough on Rats!’’ shrieked Ike Spif-

kins. then threw the cup and its contents right at |

‘‘But it’s a thundering sight rougher on |
us!’ roared Major Blister. ‘‘Who knows an
antidote?’’

‘‘Hot mustard and water!’’ cried Mrs.
Duffer—‘‘bring some hot mustard and

out a cupful of very hot water, addin’ a

big spoonful of stuff from the package he
had flourished in the air.

‘‘Here you have your mustard and water,

ladies and gentlemen,’’ he said. ‘Walk
right up and help yourselves.’’

Major Blister thrust everybody else aside
and grabbed the first cupful.

He took about half of it at the first gulp.
He didn’t take any more. 5
He seemed to grow strangely agitated, and

my pard, after which he doubled up and | npon receipt of price, ten cents, by the pu
hollered awful hard, hangin’ right on to the
middle of his -person,,as if he was hurt
somewhere.

‘‘What in the world. is the matter with

‘ ~y? ee
water! the poor major?’’ fluttered Mrs. Flanders.

‘What kind of water?’’ sobbed Mrs. Flan-

‘*1t?s the poison,’’? sobbed Chuck, ‘‘It’s

ders. beginnin’ to get in its work on him. I fear

‘““Why, just plain water, of course!’’
howled Major Blister. ‘‘Think it requires
mineral water? Imagine it takes soda-water

me much he took the mustard and water too
late. Alas and alack!’’

3 ; Heme . )
‘‘Wow! Whoop! Sizzlin’ blisters !?’ howled

‘ ob: ave you got ¢ 4 , ey
er at o ee Dy eee Lape the major, as he kept right on, twistin’
4 J ; himself into strange positions. ‘‘That water’s

goin’ to wait to have it filtered? Are you
troubled with an idea that the water’s got
to be diluted? Great glittering guns! Bring
on your water, and bring it with a rush!

teeth out of his head! Holy smoke! where’s
your water?”’

‘Water a fuss you're makin’,’’ chirped my
pard, as he gaffled to the water-pitcher and
thrust it at the major, stickin’ the nozzle
into the opening of his vest and emptyin’
about two quarts of water where it would
do the most good.

‘*Wa-a-ow !”?

The major jumped right up into the air
about four feet and thirteen inches, lettin’
out a whoop of great surprise.

‘‘ Anybody else like a little water?’’ in-
quired Chuck, in his innercent and child-
like way. ‘‘It’s quite inexpensive. Speak
right up, everybody.’’

**Tt’s warm water we must have,’’ gur-
gled Mrs. Duffer. ‘‘Warm water and mus-
tard.’’

‘‘Well, why didn’t you. say so before?’?’
sobbed Chuck. ‘‘Oh, major, forgive me! I
fear I have but hastened your. demise.’’

‘*Confound you!’’ shouted the major,
wringing water out of every part of his
person. ‘‘If I ever get holt of you P’I——”’

‘‘Mustard!’’ squealed Miss Tart. ‘*Some-
body find the mustard! There is plenty of
warm water in the tea-kettle.’’

‘‘T?ll find the mustard or perish in the at-
tempt,’’ shouted Chuck, and he rushed away
to the pantry.

Miss Tart and Mrs. Duffer both plunged
into the kitchen and came runnin’ back
with the tea-kettle between ’em,

Chuck waltzed out with his arms full of
bottles and bundles, dumpin’ the whole pile
on the table.

‘‘Ah, me!?? he moaned, as he wildly
clawed round in the mess. ‘‘I fear the mus-
tard has gone out for a walk. It’s quite
strong enough to do so. But here’s John-
son’s Anodominie Bitters, plenty of cinna-
mon, nutmeg, Sweet Clover Flour, Skifoo-
gle’s Rheumatic Cure, Sure Death for
Chilblains and Ingrowin’ Warts, Doogin’s
Washin’ Powder, rock salt, rock and rye,
Rock of Ages, and Rocked in the Cradle of
the Deep. Name your medicine, and see me
compound it with the deftness and skill of a
modern up-to-date horse-doctor. I’m a
howlin’ wonder when I get started, and _ it
will be worth more than twice the price of
admission to see me juggle with the mix-
tures.’?

‘“There must be some mustard in the
house !’’ shrieked Miss Snort.

‘*Nothing but niustard will save us now!”’
cried Mrs. Duffer,

‘*Bring out the mustard!’’ roared Major
Blister, shaking his clinched fist in the air.
‘*Find where it has hidden itself. Produce
the mustard! Get out a search-warrant and
probe to the last retreat of the measly old
mustard! Let me try.my hand there. Can’t
no ordinary every-day mustard hide from
me!’

‘*T have it!’’ shouted Chuck, with a*glee-
some little gurgle in his throat. ‘'You are
all saved, saved! And I done it! 1am the
heroic soul to whom: you owe the preserva-
tion. of your lives.’’

He waved a package above his head.

Then there was a scramble.

Everybody wanted a drink of mustard
and water first.

Chuck caught up the tea-kettle and poured

 

lunch off chain-lightnir
os ie , 109 dels, 11. vhs
Sap . dee and, in sooth!’? said Chuck,
Talk about Rough on Rats! This is the first | . Tn leed, , . L Ty atemished der |
time I ever knew it would blow a man’s |5°0™™ pretty much astonished as he ex-
eS | amined the stuff he’d put into the water; |

red-hot! Wa-a-a-ow! And that mustard’s
red pepper! Whoop! I feel like I’d taken a
? 1)?

‘‘this is really red pepper. What a sad, sad
mistake !’’

By this time the major had secured the
water-pitcher aud swallowed all the water
he found in it, and he snarled:

‘*It was a put-up job! Oh, 1711 make you
wish you hadn’t—yes, I will, by the great
glittering guns!’’

‘Tt pains me to think I am thus suspected,
of duplicity,’? moaned my pard,

‘* A]l this time the poison is gettin’ in its
insiduous work on our systems,’’ put in the
parson, excitedly. ‘‘Why don’t somebody
go for Doctor Cobb?’’

‘*That’s it!’? cried everybody, as if they’d
just thought of it. ‘‘Somebody go for Doc-
tor Cobb!’’

‘Trust me,’’ said Chuck. ‘‘I’ll fly to him |

on the wings of the wind!”’ :

He rushed out of the room and came hust-
lin’ up the stairs.

‘‘Hey, Chip!’’ he panted, as he came into
the room where I’d been watchin’ the fun
through the scuttle-hole; ‘‘I want you. Get
a move on now, and we’ll have some fun.’’

‘*What do you want?’’ *

‘“‘Here,’’? he replied, as he jerked out a
drawer in the dressin’-case and took a
hairy, bushy thing from it. ‘‘Put this on.
Il fix it for you.”’

Before I knew what he was up to, he had
a false beard on my face. Then he took a
long-haired wig out of the same drawer
and fixed it on my head.

‘Drop yourself into these pantaloons,’’
said he, havin’ rushed out of the room and
returned with a suit of clothes. ‘‘They’re
pa’s Sunday best. Never mind if they be
long—turn ’em up at the bottom. That’s
English, you know. Here’s the coat, and
here’s pa’s old stove-pipe hat. You’d never
know yourself. Come on.’’

Then he run me down stairs and into the
dinin’-room, where he introduced me.

‘‘Ladies and gentlemen,’’ said he, ‘‘Doc-
tor Cobb is away attending a serious case;
but here is Doctor Snide, who, fortunately,
happens to be visitin’ Doctor Cobb for a
few days. He has volunteered to save your
lives for a purely nominal fee.’’

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
ee
UNNECESSARILY ALARMED,

‘‘Johnny,’’ said Mrs, Simpson, to her
eldest olive-branch the other day when he
returned from school, ‘‘I forbid you to play
with that Bobby Wilson any more. Mind

ARRIAGE PAPER witb 1,000 ads. and photos
of marriageable people, many rich, lists of rare
books, ete., free. GUNNEL’S MONTHLY, Toledo, Ohio.
Mention Good News.

Send 2c. stamp for Sample Book of all the FINEST and
CARDS LATEST Styles in Beveled Edge, Hidden Name, Silk
Fringe, Enve ppemd Calling CARDS FOR 1895. WE SELL
[eee CARDS, NOT TRASH, UNION CARD CO,, Columbus, Ohio,

Mention Good News. — ats

Dialogues, Speakers, for School,
Club and Parlor. Catalogue free,
T. S. DENISON, Pub. Chicago, lll.

Mention Good News.

 

FOR 1895. 50 Sample Styles
Cc Re AND LIST OF 400 PREMIUM ARTICLES

FREE.HAVERFIELDPUB CO,CADIZ,OHIO
_Mention Good News.

WONDER CABINET FREE. Missing Link |
Puzszie, Devil's Bottle, Pocket Camera, Lates(

 

  

Wire Puszle, Spook Photos, Book of Sleight oi
Hand, Total Value 60c Sent free with immense

b ‘ , = NN catalogue of 1000 Bargains for 10o. for postage, |
remo (NGERSOLL & BRO. 65 Cortlandt Street, N. ¥

Mention Good News.

   

‘Amateur’s Manual of Photography,

S. & S. MANUAL LIBRARY, No. 6.
PRICE, 10 CENTS.

A hand-book of practical instructions in the art of
| dry -plate photography: Itisa complete guide to this
| fascinating art. Fully illustrated. ‘Tells from how a
camera is made to the finish of a first-class picture.
| Photography is a clean, light. and pleasant occupation,
| suitable for any young lady or gentleman, and within

| the reach of all.
lor sale by all Newsdealers, or will be sent, oes
; lishex's,

MANUAL LIBRARY, 29 Rose Street, N.\.

 

Good News Binder

) Price 50 Cents.

| Answers the purpose of a bound volume, Holding
| fifty-two copies comfortably.

It is, without doubt, the finest binder ever offered
| even for double the price we ask, and is indispens-
able to those who are keeping their papers, as it
not only preserves GOOD NEWS for future reference,
and from being lost, but keeps them clean, and in
good order, Itis both useful and ornamental.
| It has a durable black embossed cover with
flexible back, and a gold stamp title on the outside
cover, It opens flat as any book, and each week’s
paper can be inserted as soon as received, Full
directions for inserting the paper accompany each
binder.

We will send the Goop NEwWs binder, and a pack-
} age of binder pins, postpaid, to any address on re-

ceipt of 50 cents.
Mention Good News.

QUT-DOOR SPORTS.

S. & S. Manual Library No. 7. Price, 10 Cents.

A book of instruction for playing many of the
most popular out-of-door games. A book that will
supply a long felt want. The games introduced,
while well known, are elaborated, and many new
| features introduced, which makes them more inter-
hesting and less Jikely to become stale. Illustrates
| games with and without toys,for the city or country.
For sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent, post-
paid, upon receipt of price, 10c., by the publishers,
STREET & SMITH 29 Rose Street, N.Y.

Mention Good News.

THE PEERLESS RECITER,

_This book contains thirty-seven selected recita-
tions, humorous, pathetic, and historical, All who
desire to secure recitations thatare bound to please
the hearers will do well to examine this book. For
sale by all Newsdealers, or will be sent, postpaid,
upon receipt of price, 10 cents, by the publishers,
STREET & SMITH, 29 Rose Street, New York.

 

 
   

As asample of
elegant Fountain Pen, warranted a perfect writer, and im-
menselllus. Bargain Catalogue, for 10c. to cover postage, etc.

-R. H, INGERSOLL & BRO., 65 CORTLANDT ST., N.Y. CITY.

Jfention Gaod News.

TURKISH HAIR ELIXIR
Grows a Heavy Beard, a Glossy Moustache, Beautiful Eyebrows,
or Luxuriant Hair on Bald Heads in one month, or money refund-
ed. A preparation you may rely on. We warrant every packaye.
Price 20 cts..ready for use, 3 for 50 cts., 7 for $1. ,8ealed by mail.
TREMOUNT MAN’G (CO., Sta. A, Boston, Mass.
Mention Good News.

 

I USEDIT

This cut is the exact
size and style of the
GOOD NEWS Club Badge.
The badge is made of a
high grade of German
silver;. artistic in design
and something every
reader will be proud to
wear. Any reader send-
ing us 10 contsin stamps
ov silver will receive a
badge.

Electroty pes for-print-
ing the badge on letter
heads, cards, etc., will be
sent post-paid on receipt
of twenty-five cents.

Ten cents is all that is required to secure this
handsome badge. Address GOOD NkEWs Corre
sponding Club, 29 Rose street, New York.

 

The Young Gymnast.

S. &S. Manual Library No. 9. Price 10c.

A perfect instructor for the amateur and professional
gymnasium, and of incalculable value to any one who
wishes to become a gymnast. Profusely illustrated.
Explains the mode of training, treatment of accidents»
gymnastic exercises of the arms, ’‘umb-bells, Indian
clubs, trapeze, horizontal bar, an! all sorts of tricks
and feats of gymnastics. For sale by all newsdealers,
or sent post paid, upon receipt of price, 10 cents, by
the publishers,
STREET & SMITH, 29 Rose Street, New York.

BOUND VOLUMES OF GOOD
A NEWS.

We haveissued volumes two, three,
four, five and six, bound in an attrac.
tive heavy paper cover. ‘'wenty-six
numbers constitute a volume. ‘I'he
papers are cut and trimmed and

bound with as much care as an expensive cloth
binding, and the prices are

Vols. 2 and 3, $1 Each.
Vols. 4, 5 and 6, 85c. Each.

These volumes contain serial stories by
Kdward 8. Ellis, Horatio Alger,
Jas. Otis, Edward Stratemeyer,
Harry Castlemon, Wm. Murray Graydon,
Walter Morris, Oliver Optic,
W. B. Lawson, Lieut. Lounsberry,

And others equally well known,

Address Subscription Department GOOD NEWS,
29 Rose street, New York.

Volume One out of print.

THE WAY TO DO MAGIC,

S. &S, Manual Library No. 8. Price 10e.
A complete expose of the so-called black art, It is
illustrated, and shows how easy it is to afford amuse-
ment to others, which cannot be over-estimated. At
a party or social gathering, if youcan perform any
tricks or legerdemain you are hailed as a public bene’
factor. Forsale by all Newsdealers, or will be sent,
vostpaid, on receiptof price, 10c. Address,
STREKT & SMITH, 29 Rose Street, New York.

Be sure to use **Mirs. Winslow's
Soothing: Syrup” for your children
while Teething. 25 centsa bottle.

 

Mention Good News.

price 10 cents each includes postage.

Album Writer’s Assistant,
Amateur’s Manual of Photography,
How to Do Business,

Short Hand for Everybody, -

The Taxidermist Manual,
Everyday Cook Book.

Boys’ Own Book of Boats.

Out Door Sports.

The Young Gymnast.

The Hunter and Angler,

Dunn’s Fencing Instructor.

Prof. Muldoon’s Wrestling.

The Complete Checker Player.
Backgammon and Bagatelle.

Capt. Webb’s Swimming Instructor,

that, now, and if I ever hear of you playing | poo, Foot-Ball

with him any more, [’ll give you a good
whipping.’

‘“Why can’t I play with Bobby, ma?’’
queried the youngster, with some surprise.

‘*Because he’s a bad, wicked boy,’’ re-
plied his mother.

‘*Well, ma,’’ returned Johnny, after a mo-
ment’s thought, ‘‘I don’t think I’m so awful
good myself that you need to be so scared.’’

_— > © > ——-—

 

Campbell’s Lawn Tennis,

Zola’s Fortune-Teller.

The Way to Do Magic.
Heller’s Hand Book of Magic.

The Peerless Reciter,

Barney-—-‘‘Say, Phelim, what’s a ventrilo-| mp Young Elocutionist.

quist?”?

 

side ay the room and talks to himself from | gents each, postage free. Address,

the other.’’

*helim—‘‘He’s st 3 These books will be sent prepaid upon receipt of 10 cents each. When ordering, pleas®
Phelixn He’s a lad phat stands on) one ticular to send the fill title of the book desired, also your full name and address. The books #

MANUAL LIBRARY, 27 Rose St., New YorR

R EVERYBODY.

 

BO 0 KS ra CENTS EACH,

The following list of books will be found useful. entertaining, and full of instructive information fot
all. ‘hey are handsomely bound in attractive covers printed on good quality paper, illustrated, and ar
marvels of excellence. These books have never before been offered at such a low figure.

The

UWseful and Instructive Information.

The Book of Knowledge.

Women’s Secrets ; or, How to be Beautifal.
Mill’s Universal Letter-Writer,

Good Housekeeping.

People’s Reference Book.

The Marriage Mirror; or, Love and Courtship.

CAMES AND SPORTS.

Riddles and Their Answers.

Amateur and Professional Oarsman’s Manual.

The International Cricket Guide.

Complete Training Guide for Amateur and Pro
essional Athletes.

Riding and Driving.

Callahan’s Easy Method of Ventriloquism,

The Complete Angler.

Aquatic Guide; or, Yachting and Sailing.

FORTUNE=TELLIN G.

Imperial Fortune-Teller.

Napoleon’s Book of Fate. Zola’s Dream Book. : otes
Cupid’s Dream Book. Hermann’s Black Art; or, Witchcraft, Necromancy, Mesmeris™,
TRICE Ss.

Hermann’s Tricks with Cards.

RECITATIONS AND READINGS.

Select Recitations and Readings.
The Standard Reciter.

pe pm,
re #8