The Project Gutenberg eBook of Harper's Round Table, February 2, 1897, by Various.

Jenks, the master-at-arms, otherwise known as Jimmylegs, was the best Jimmylegs in the naval service of the United States. His countenance was usually as stolid as a mummy's, and his voice as steady as the Sphinx's might have been. He would have announced "The magazine is on fire, sir," in precisely the same tone as "John Smith has broken his liberty, sir." Therefore when Mr. Belton, First Lieutenant of the training-ship Spitfire, in his first interview after coming aboard, detected a rudimentary grin upon Jimmylegs's usually impassive face, he stopped short in the perilous operation of shaving while the ship had a sharp roll on, and asked:

"Just this, sir," replied old Jenks, crossing his arms and tugging at his left whisker with his right hand. "Along o' that 'prentice boy, Hopkins—the other boys call him Crying Tommy, because he's always blubbering about something or 'nother. That boy'd be worth good money to a undertaker, he's got such a distressful countenance. Well, sir, I brought him down, with a batch o' other boys[Pg 330] from the training-station, and he didn't half seem to like going aboard ship. Howsomedever, I never misdoubted as how he'd jump the ship. But after them boys was landed at the dock, I looked around, and there wasn't no Crying Tommy. I brought the rest of 'em along, and reported on board ship, and then I started out on a quiet hunt for that there boy. I didn't have no luck, though; but about dark that evening there come over the for'ard gangway a great strappin' red-headed girl about fifteen, holdin' on to Crying Tommy like grim death, and he scared half out of his wits. She marches him up to me, and she says, 'Here's that dratted boy'—dratted was the very word she used, sir—and she kep' on, 'He won't run away no more, I think—not if my name is Mary Jane Griggs.' And I says to her, bowin' and tryin' to keep from grinnin', for the girl had as honest a face, sir, as I ever clapped eyes on, 'Miss Griggs, may I ask what relation you are to Mr. Hopkins here?' And she snapped out: 'Not a bit; only after his mother died we took him in our house, and he paid his way—when he could. Then one day I read in the paper about naval apprentices, and I said to Tommy, "That's the place for you." So he went and signed the articles. That was six months ago. And this afternoon, when I come home from the box factory where I works, there was this great lummux.' Well! how her eyes did flash! Mr. Belton, I'm afraid o' red-headed women and girls, sir—that I am—and Crying Tommy, I saw, was in mortal fear of Mary Jane Griggs. And she says, 'I marched him straight back; he bellowed like a calf—he's the greatest crier I ever see; but I want you to take him and make him behave himself.' 'I will endeavor to do so, Miss Griggs,' says I, and then she gave her flipper to the boy, and went off home, I suppose, and we sailed that night."

"Well, sir," he said, presently, "the boy ain't no shirk. He's a foretopman, and the captain of the foretop says he's the smartest boy he's got aloft. But he keeps on crying, and I'm mightily afraid he'll start some of the other boys to crying, and they'll think the ship is a penitentiary. Low spirits is ketchin','specially in the foc's'l', and I wish that blessed brat would stop his bawling. I'd like you to speak to him, sir; you've got such a fine way with boys, sir." Which was true enough.

Presently there came a timid knock at the door, and Crying Tommy appeared. He was a sandy-haired boy of sixteen, ill-grown for his age, and of a most doleful countenance.

"Well, my lad," said the Lieutenant, cheerily, "I hear that you are always piping your eye. What's that for?"

Crying Tommy looked about him more helplessly than ever, and then burst out suddenly and desperately:

"I don't know, sir, except that I've always had—somebody to look out for me. Mary Jane Griggs done that—she's a corker, sir—and she made me go and be a 'prentice—and I didn't want to; she made me go—that she did, sir!"

"I'm not surprised that Mary Jane wanted to get rid of you if this is the way you acted. Now mind; do you stop this boo-hooing, and do your duty cheerfully. Do you understand me? For I hear that you do your duty. And if you don't, why"—here the Lieutenant quickly assumed his "quarter-deck" voice and roared out, "I'll give you something to cry for!"

Crying Tommy fled down the gangway. Half an hour afterwards the Lieutenant was on the bridge, the anchor was picked up, the Spitfire was spreading her white wings to the freshening breeze. Mr. Belton, watch in hand, was keenly observing the young bluejackets, and when he saw that all plain sail was made within ten minutes, he put his watch back with a feeling of satisfaction. He had sailor-boys to count on, not farmers and haymakers, aloft. Especially had he noticed one boy, who, laying out with cat-like swiftness on the very end of the topsail-yard, did his work with a quickness and steadiness that many an old man-o'-war's man might have envied. When this smart youngster landed on deck Mr. Belton was surprised to see that it was Crying Tommy, looking, as usual when he was not crying, as if he were just ready to begin.

But Mr. Belton had something else to study besides the boys, and this was the ship. The Spitfire was a fine old-fashioned, tall-masted, big-sparred frigate, which could leg it considerably faster under her great sails than under her small engines. She had the spacious quarters for officers and the roomy airy spaces between decks for the men of the ships of her class, and was altogether a much more comfortable ship for cruising than the modern floating forts that could have blown her out of the water with a single round. Stanch and weatherly, Mr. Belton had but one fault to find with her, and that was her powder-magazine was exactly where it ought not to have been; the breech of one of her guns was directly over the chute by which the ammunition was handed up. Whenever that gun was fired, Mr. Belton would go up to the gun captain and give him a look of warning, and the man would respond to this silent caution by touching his cap. Nevertheless, the Lieutenant said to himself sometimes, "If we finish this cruise without some trouble with the magazine, the Spitfire will deserve her name of a lucky ship."

They had sailed in April, and six very satisfactory weeks had been passed at sea. Homesickness and seasickness had disappeared after the first week, and the whole ship's company from the Captain down—who rejoiced in such a First Lieutenant as Mr. Belton—was happy and satisfied, with the possible exception of Crying Tommy. The master-at-arms never had so little disagreeable work to do, and so he told Mr. Belton one Sunday morning after inspection.

"By-the-way," asked the Lieutenant, "I see that Hopkins boy is doing well. He has never had a report against him. Has he stopped that habit of howling for nothing?"

"Well, sir," replied old Jimmylegs, "he has, partly. The other boys laughed at him, and that done him good. They've caught on to Mary Jane, and they asks him if he has to report to Mary Jane twicet a day when he is ashore, and such like pullin' of his legs as boys delights in. The other day, sir, he got to cryin' about something or 'nother, and they run him too hard. I saw 'em and heard 'em, but they didn't know it. Fust thing Crying Tommy lights out from the shoulder, and laid the biggest of 'em sprawlin', and they shoved off pretty quick, sir. I didn't think as 'twas my duty to report him for fightin', and I 'ain't never had occasion to report him for nothin' else. A better boy nor a smarter at his duty I 'ain't never seen, sir."

One lovely May morning a few days after this found the Spitfire off the glorious bay of Naples. The sun shone from a sapphire sky upon a sapphire sea, while in the distance rose the darker blue cone of Vesuvius, crowned with fire and flame. Across the rippling water swept innumerable sail-boats, while tall-masted merchantmen and steamships with inky smoke pouring out of their black funnels ploughed their way in and out the harbor. Near a huge government mole half a dozen majestic war-ships, strung out in a semicircle, rode at anchor. A great British battle-ship, all black and yellow, towered over the smart little cruiser near by, which also flew a British ensign from her peak. Not far away lay a French ship with remarkably handsome masts and spars and a wicked-looking ram as sharp as a knife, that could cut an armored ship in half like a cheese if ever she got the chance. Farther off still lay three Italian men-of-war, from one of which flew the blue flag of an Admiral. The Captain of the Spitfire was with Mr. Belton on the bridge as they came in, with a fair wind, and a mountain of canvas piled on the ship. The Captain, knowing that no man could handle a sailing-ship more beautifully than his First Lieutenant, was quite willing[Pg 331] that he should show his expertness before the thousands of sailors watching the Spitfire. On she rushed, the water bellowing against her sides as her keen bows cut her way through the blue waves. Mr. Belton, with a seaman's eye, selected an admirable anchorage, and just as the on-lookers were wondering where the Spitfire meant to bring up, she made a beautiful flying move. Her yards were squared like magic, and her sails furled with almost incredible swiftness. With a gleam like lightning and a rattle like thunder her cable rushed out of the hawse-hole, and scarcely had the splash of her anchor resounded when the Italian colors were broken at the mast-head and the first gun of the salute boomed over the bright water.

Twenty guns roared out, with scarcely a second's difference in their steady boom!—boom!—boom!—and then there was a sudden break before the twenty-first gun was fired. Mr. Belton turned, and his eye instinctively flashed upon the starboard gun over the magazine. Yes, there it was—that accident he had been looking for ever since he set foot on the ship. The shreds of a blazing cartridge-bag dropped under the breech, and a faint puff of wind blew them over the edge of the open chute, and down they went into the powder-magazine.

The Lieutenant hardly knew how he reached the deck and sped along it, but in a moment he had leaped down the ladder toward the open door of the magazine, where an ominous crackling was heard. And instead of half a dozen men at work flooding the magazine, there were half a dozen pale, wild-eyed, and panic-stricken creatures, as the bravest will be sometimes, crowding out into the passage, and quite dazed with fear.

"Return to your duty!" shouted Mr. Belton, feeling for his pistol, and not finding it, seizing a bucket of water that was handy and dashing it in the men's faces. The shock brought them to their senses; they stopped in their mad flight and turned toward the magazine. Mr. Belton rushed like a catapult among them, wedged together in the narrow passage, and right behind was old Jimmylegs with a bucket of water. They could see a boyish figure on hands and knees in the magazine with a wet swab, crawling about and putting out the sparks that flashed from all over the floor. The next moment the whole floor was awash; the danger was over, and Mr. Belton and the master-at-arms had time to observe that the boy who had stood to his post when men fled was Crying Tommy, and he was crying vigorously. When he saw that the fire was out, he sat down on the wet floor and began to howl louder than ever. Old Jimmylegs seized him by the shoulder, and giving him a shake that made his teeth rattle in his head, bawled,

Crying Tommy was so scared at this that he actually stopped weeping, and wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his jacket.

"I see the loose powder on the floor burning, and the men saw it, and then one of em called out, 'Oh Lord! we're dead men!' and they all ran away." Here Crying Tommy piped up again.

"And I reached out for the swab and the water-bucket, and I swabbed the floor the best I could."

"Well," said Mr. Belton, "you had something to cry for this time. Now get out of here. You've saved the ship."

Not long after this, one Sunday morning, the boatswain was directed to pipe all hands up and aft. And when all the officers and men were assembled, the Captain read out the appointment of Thomas Hopkins, apprentice boy, as acting gunner's mate for his gallantry in putting out the fire in the magazine on that May morning. Then Mr. Belton handed Tommy a handsome watch as a gift from the officers, at which the men cheered, and Tommy bowed and bowed again, and presently put up his ever-ready jacket sleeve to his eye; and the officers roared with laughing and the men grinned, and Tommy went below, weeping but very happy.

One day, some years after this, Mr. Belton and old Jimmylegs, who were then on different ships, met at the navy-yard gate, and, being old shipmates, they exchanged very warm greetings. Presently there passed them a smart-looking young gunner, and holding his arm was a tall fine-looking young woman in a red gown, with a red feather in her hat, red cheeks, and a brilliant red head, and she looked very proud and smiling. Her companion, on the contrary, seemed overcome with bashfulness on seeing the Lieutenant and the old master-at-arms, and hurriedly saluting, made off in the opposite direction, looking uncommonly sheepish.

"That, sir," said Jimmylegs, with a sly grin, "is Gunner Hopkins, and that is Mrs. Hopkins. They're just married. He used to be called Crying Tommy, and she was Mary Jane Griggs, sir."

A BOY'S APPEAL.

I wonder if grown people who have all their growing done
Remember, as they sit at ease, that growing isn't fun.
One's legs and arms have separate aches, one's head feels half asleep,
But every day, let come what may, at school one has to keep.

And there the teachers never say, "Just study as you please,"
When shooting pains are flying round about a fellow's knees.
Reports say, "Tommy's progress is not what is desired,"
And fathers call you lazy when you're only deadly tired.

You have to learn the things you hate; it almost makes you sick,
There's such a lot of grammar, there's so much arithmetic,
The maps and boundaries to draw, the text to get by heart,
And all the while those growing pains to pull your joints apart!

Now skating, and snowballing, and managing a wheel,
Are very, very different things; though tired you may feel,
You manage not to mind it; the time goes rushing so
That you are interested and forget you have to grow.

Dear mothers and grandmothers, they seem to understand;
All boys should always meet them, bowing deeply, cap in hand,
For they have sense, and don't expect what fellows cannot do,
Though other people laugh and say, it's all the point of view.

But, oh! if grown-up gentlemen with growing safely done,
Would just remember now and then that growing isn't fun,
Perhaps they'd make it easier for boys who'd like to be
A trifle brighter, if they could, but are growing just like me.

Tommy Traddles.

GOLF ON SHIPBOARD.

Marine golf is the very latest aberration of golfing genius, and though the new game is but a distant relative of the "Royal and Ancient," its novelty may commend it to those who want amusement on long sea-voyages, and who have wearied of "shuffleboard" and "deck quoits."

It is evident that a ball is out of the question, and in its[Pg 332] place is employed a disk of wood about four and a half inches in diameter. A rather heavy walking-stick, with a right-angled, flat-crooked head, is the "club," and serves every purpose from driving to holing out. The holes are circles about six inches in diameter chalked upon the deck, and the links are only bounded by the available deck space, the good nature of the Captain, and the rights of the non-golfing passengers.

Hatches, companionways, and the deck furniture in general serve as bunkers, and the ship's roll is an omnipresent and all-pervading hazard.

As the disk is propelled over the deck and not sent into the air, hitting is useless, and the proper stroke is something between a push and a drag, with the club laid close behind the disk. The player, in driving, stands with both feet slightly in advance of the disk, the shuffleboard push from behind being barred. As the club is virtually in contact with the disk, or "puck," keeping one's "e'e on the ba'" is not necessary—in fact, the best results will be obtained by aiming as in billiards and kindred games. A good drive will propel the disk for forty yards along the deck—that is, if the wind does not interfere by getting under the disk and sending it wildly gyrating into the scuppers. The carrom is permissible, and furnishes occasion for scientific play, but the great sport of the game lies in the skilful utilization of the pitching and rolling of the ship. The disk takes a bias from the angle of the deck, and some impossible shots may be triumphantly brought off—round the corner, for instance. Even in putting, marine golf may lay just claim to the variety which is the spice of (sporting) life. On a gray day the boards will be half as slow again as when the sun is shining, while with any spray coming aboard it is impossible to tell whether the disk will drag or slide.

BOYS IN WALL STREET.

BY COL. THOMAS W. KNOX,

Author of the "Boy Travellers" Series.

The visitor to Wall Street in business hours will see many active, bright, pleasant-looking boys moving more or less rapidly in all directions, and evidently absorbed in work. Some are in blue or gray uniforms, but the majority are in plain clothes, and almost invariably neatly dressed. The uniformed are employed by telegraph and messenger companies, the others by bankers, brokers, and other men of affairs.

Their chances of rising are about as many as boys ever have—the really able, honest, and pushing boys go up as they grow older. As a dignified-looking gentleman passes along the sidewalk we are told: "That is the president of the —— Bank. He knows Wall Street and all its ins and outs. Been here all his life. Began as an office-boy in a brokerage house; became partner; got elected a member of the Stock Exchange; now he is near the top of the heap. I could name several bank presidents who began as brokers' boys at two or three dollars a week."

Our informant went on, "Yes, and there are lots of cashiers of banks and other banking officials who began life in the same way. The partners in a great many banking and brokerage firms began as Wall Street boys."

Boys have begun in Wall Street at one dollar a week. Employers can generally tell in a week or two whether the boy is likely to "amount to anything." If the boy is faithful and energetic his wages are advanced so that he gets three dollars a week in two or three months from the start. Boys usually get not far from one hundred and fifty or two hundred dollars for the first year, and from three hundred upwards the second year. A prominent banker of New York once told me:

"My father died when I was sixteen years old, and that threw my mother and myself on our own resources. We had so little money or property that it was necessary for me to leave school and go to work. As the late Thurlow Weed had been a warm friend of my father, I came to New York to ask for his influence in getting a clerkship in the Custom-house, or something of the sort. I knew Mr. Weed as a boy of my age would know a man of his, and he greeted me cordially. When I had told him my story he said:

"'Now, Charley, find a cheap boarding-place and send your address to me. Don't come to me again, but as soon as I have anything for you I will write to you. Meantime look around and see what you can find for yourself.'

"I did as he told me, and a week went by without my hearing from him. One day I found a place in a broker's office where they would pay me two hundred dollars a year, and that very day I received a letter from Mr. Weed saying he had a place for me in the Custom-house at seven hundred dollars a year. I went to him, thanked him for his kindness, and declined his offer, telling him I preferred the broker's office, although the salary was much smaller. He patted me on the shoulder and said,

Many Wall Street boys lose their places by loitering on errands. Employers know perfectly well how long it takes on the average to reach a certain point, transact the necessary business, and return. There are delays now and then, but if a boy returns late to the office several times in a day with excuses for delay his employers understand the situation perfectly, and he is soon "bounced."

A Wall Street boy is expected to be at the office at nine o'clock in the morning, and remain there as long as his services are needed, though he usually gets away about four o'clock. He has an allowance of half an hour at noon for luncheon, but the rest of the time belongs to his employer. He is expected to be neat in appearance, clean as to hands and face, well mannered, truthful at all times, prompt in obedience, and faithful in guarding the secrets of his employers.

The duties first assigned to him are to carry messages, deliver stocks at other brokerage offices, and obtain checks for them. After a while he is advanced to making comparisons of sales of stocks and taking the checks received from other brokers to be certified at the banks.

Of late years the Stock Exchange Clearing-house has done away with so much of the stock delivery by boys that the number of them on the Street is not more than half what it used to be. Formerly it was not uncommon to see from twenty-five to one hundred boys waiting in line at each of the prominent banks to get checks certified, and nearly every bank employed a private policeman to keep the boys in line and in order.

A story is told of a new boy on the Street who once went to make a delivery of stock. When the bookkeeper made up the accounts at the close of the day he found himself eighty thousand dollars short, and an examination of the books showed that one of the boys had failed to bring back a check in return for some stock he had delivered.

He was perfectly innocent about the matter, and said that he had handed the papers in at the office where he was sent to make the delivery, and as they gave him nothing he supposed there was nothing for him to get. His employer treated him kindly, and told him to be careful not to make the same mistake again. He never did. That boy is now at the head of one of the largest brokerage houses on Broad Street.

As the Wall Street boy advances in proficiency he is put upon the purchase and sale books. Then he takes charge of the comparison tickets, and then of the stock ledgers. Then he becomes a bookkeeper or cashier, and if he shows himself valuable enough he receives a junior partnership, and later on rises to a higher one.

It is proper to say, however, that only a small proportion of the boys who begin life in Wall Street work their way upward to positions of consequence. Fully fifty per cent. of them go wrong, or, at all events, leave the Street, and are not heard of afterward. Not less than half of the others remain in subordinate places. Either they lack the intelligence, energy, and fidelity necessary to secure advancement, or they have vicious tendencies which lead them into trouble.

There is a class of speculating establishments in the neighborhood of Wall Street which are known among the brokers as "bucket-shops," where any one can go and risk one dollar, or as much more as he likes in speculation in stocks. Suppose he has but one dollar; he places it upon a certain stock, and watches the indicator till it goes up or down. If it rises a point, he makes a dollar, but if it goes down he loses, and the dollar he risked is wiped out.

Men with very limited capital are the chief patrons of these bucket-shops, but a good many of the boys slip around to them, and risk anywhere from one dollar to five dollars in speculation. Sooner or later they come to grief. A knowledge of their conduct reaches the ears of their employers, they lose their situations, and have great difficulty in getting others.

Boys are taken into brokerage offices only upon good recommendations, and it is almost invariably required that a boy shall live with his parents and not by himself. Employers well know that a boy not living at home is far more likely to fall into evil ways than one who has a home and is under the eyes of father and mother.

In addition to their regular wages the boys in Wall Street offices receive presents in money at Christmas-time, the amount depending partly upon the good conduct of the boy himself, and partly on the condition of business in the year just closing. If times have been hard, speculation light, and incomes small, the broker's gratuities to his employees are much smaller than if the reverse is the case. In the one instance, he feels poor and forced to economize; in the other, he feels prosperous and is liberal.

There are other kinds of boys on Wall Street than the ones just described. In the Stock Exchange about one hundred and fifty boys are employed as pages to run with messages for members in the Board Room, not outside. They receive from three to five dollars a week, with a gratuity at Christmas.

There is no prospect of these pages rising to higher positions while in the employ of the Exchange, and when they grow too large for employment there they drift away to other places. Many are the applicants for these positions, and in order to secure one there a boy must be well recommended. The pages wear gray uniforms with brass buttons, and are generally bright little fellows who soon learn to know every member of the Stock Exchange by name.

Perhaps two hundred members of the Stock Exchange have private telephones in the building, and there is a squad of some fifty or more boys in blue uniforms who look after these telephones. The Stock Exchange has its own messenger service, each boy wearing a gray uniform with a military cap. The duties of these messengers is to run from the Exchange to the offices of the members.

All these boys are remembered at Christmas-time. The members of the Exchange subscribe from five to twenty-five dollars each to make up the gratuity fund, which is divided among the boys according to their time of service. Those who have been there two or three years obtain quite a handsome little present during the holiday season.

Then there are boys connected with the American District Messenger service; there are Western Union Telegraph boys; Cable Telegraph boys; boys in the offices of lawyers, corporations, and the like. But the principal and most important boy of all is the one who starts in an office at a small salary, determined to win his way to fame and fortune, and possessing the ability and intelligence to do so.

THE MIDDLETON BOWL.[1]

BY ELLEN DOUGLAS DELAND.

CHAPTER IV.

"Boys," said Mrs. Hoyt, "the Misses Middleton have met with a great loss. Their beautiful bowl is broken. You have seen it, and you have heard of its value, and you can imagine how badly they feel about it, and now they are trying to find out who broke it. You were at their house this morning, I believe. Do you know anything about it?"

Raymond and Clement were unmistakably very much surprised. They had not heard of the accident before, it was plainly to be seen, and they eagerly disclaimed all knowledge of the affair.

"Was that the broken china you found in the currant-bushes?" exclaimed Raymond. "How on earth did it get there?"

"Oh, I say!" cried Clement, in the same breath. "Teddy, what were you and Arthur doing by the currant-bushes before the kitten's funeral? Don't you remember, Ray?" And then he stopped abruptly. He did not want to "give them away," he said to himself.

"Arthur, come here to me. Now tell me, darling, did you go into Miss Middleton's parlor this morning?"

The silk gowns of the three visitors rustled audibly as they leaned forward to listen. Teddy drew a step nearer and waited eagerly for his reply, and the other boys gathered about their mother and brother, as though to sustain the family honor through this terrible emergency. But Arthur remained silent.

And then, boy of eleven though he was, and with his older brothers looking on, he began to cry.

"Pshaw!" exclaimed Raymond, "don't be a baby, Art! If you did it, why don't you own up?"

"Because I didn't do it," said Arthur. "I didn't do it, and I wish I'd never seen the old bowl!"

"It is very strange," said Miss Joanna, grimly. "Theodora and Arthur both had something to do with the calamity, for Arthur acknowledges that he was there, and Theodora carried away the fragments. One of them must be guilty of it. Is your boy truthful, Mrs. Hoyt?"

Before his mother could speak, Raymond stepped forward and stood in front of the Misses Middleton.

"Look here," said he. "I guess you'd better understand that we Hoyts aren't cowards and we aren't liars. If my brother Arthur broke that bowl, you bet he'd say so!"

"Hush, Ray!" said his mother. "That is not the proper way to speak to ladies. But I think, Miss Middleton, that what Raymond says is the case. If Arthur had done it he would acknowledge it."

"But, Arthur," cried Teddy, whose face expressed her complete mystification, "I thought—I don't understand!"

"Suppose we ask Teddy to give an account of what transpired this morning," said Mrs. Hoyt. "Did you find Arthur in the parlor?"

"Yes, Mrs. Hoyt," said Theodora. "I wasn't going to tell this, on Arthur's account, but I suppose I'll have to as long as you ask me. When I went down to wait for Aunt Tom to go to the garden I went to the parlor, and there I met Arthur coming out. He was crying, and he seemed terribly frightened, and was saying, 'Hide it! hide it!' and he ran away. When I went in, there was the bowl on the floor, broken. And then I heard Aunt Tom coming down stairs, and I didn't stop to think, but just picked up the pieces and carried them out under my apron."

No one could doubt the truthfulness of this statement, and the three Misses Middleton rose to go, satisfied, if only for the moment, that their niece was guiltless. They drove off, Theodora occupying the fourth seat in the old barouche, and Mrs. Hoyt was left alone with her boys.

A week passed away, and the mystery of the broken bowl was as far from being solved as it had been at the beginning. It was carefully carried by three of the ladies to the old china-mender in the town of Alden, who skilfully cemented the pieces together in such a manner that the uninitiated would never discover that it had been broken; but its owners knew only too well that this treasure was no longer what it had once been, and their feelings had received a shock from which they could not soon recover.

As Miss Joanna remarked, when she examined the bowl upon its return, "Mr. Jones has done it very well; but he cannot mend our hearts, which were broken when the Middleton bowl was broken, and even if the cracks are well hidden, they will always stare us in the face!"

Though her aunts no longer thought that Theodora was actually responsible for the accident, they were quite sure that she knew who was, and they censured her severely for her silence. Even Miss Thomasine felt that she might tell them more if she would. But Teddy had already given her version of the affair, and there was nothing more to be said. She had supposed from the beginning that Arthur was the author of the misfortune, and though she did not like to doubt his word, she greatly feared that he was not speaking the truth when he denied this.

His brothers stoutly maintained his innocence when talking to Theodora, or to any one outside of the family, but with one another they acknowledged having some misgivings.

"You see, Art has been sick such a lot that I guess he is afraid to own up," said they among themselves. "He isn't just like the rest of us. Look how afraid he is in the dark, and in that spooky place in the woods, and of lots of other things. I suppose he is afraid father will punish him if he owns up, and so he's going to keep it dark as long as he can."

Mr. and Mrs. Hoyt were both greatly troubled by the affair. They knew the value of the bowl, a value which could not be made good by any amount of money, and they knew that such a rare work of art could never be replaced; and, besides, the fact that if Arthur had broken it he lacked sufficient moral courage to confess was a bitter grief to them. But the "if" was a large one, and Arthur's mother could not bring herself to believe that her boy was not speaking the truth.

Arthur himself showed plainly that he was suffering. He grew pale and lost his appetite; he started at every sound, and when he was out-of-doors he would stop constantly in his play to look about apprehensively, to peer behind bushes or trees, and to take refuge in the house did he see any one coming.

He and Teddy discussed the subject more than once, but never with any satisfactory result. It usually ended in his running to his mother to declare, with tears and sobs, that he did not break the old bowl, and he wished that he had never seen it.

In the mean time Teddy continued to ride the bicycle. Her aunts seemed to have completely forgotten having seen her in the very act. They did not mention the subject again, being absorbed in conjectures and grief about[Pg 335] the bowl, and Theodora, apparently believing that silence gave consent, did not recall it to their minds.

The boys were all perfectly willing now that she should use their wheels, for she soon rode as well as they did, and as there were so many bicycles in the family, there was usually one that she could take.

One afternoon Teddy had been off on quite a little excursion by herself. She was on Arthur's wheel, and she had gone "around the square," as they called it, coming home by a back way. Just as she drew near her aunts' house a heavy shower which had been gathering for some time, unnoticed by Theodora, came pattering down.

There was hail as well as rain, and Teddy rode quickly to the house and went in by the kitchen door. She took the wheel in with her and placed it in the back hall, in an out-of-the-way corner, intending to return it to Arthur as soon as the storm should be over.

But it lasted longer than she expected, and by the time it had ceased to rain supper was ready. It was quite dark now by six o'clock, and Theodora knew that her aunts would not allow her to go out alone so late, so she determined to get up early the next morning, and take the wheel back then. She said nothing of this plan, however, and did not mention to her aunts that a hated bicycle was in the house.

In fact she was not at all sure that she was doing right to ride without their permission, and she made up her mind that she would tell them to-morrow. Now that she had attained her object, and had learned how, she would not mind so much if she were forbidden by them to ride, for she was sure that when her father and mother returned to this country in the spring they would buy her a wheel, and until then she could wait. Indeed, she hoped, from what she had heard her mother say, that Mrs. Middleton would learn to ride herself, in spite of the sentiments of her sisters-in-law upon the subject.

Eight o'clock was Teddy's bedtime, and she bade her aunts good-night at that hour as usual. She had been asleep but a short time when she was awakened by a commotion in the hall, most unusual in that quiet household. There were hurried footsteps and half-smothered exclamations, and presently she was quite sure that she heard moans of pain.

Springing out of bed, she ran to the door and opened it just in time to see Miss Thomasine hurry through the hall with a mustard plaster in her hand, while in the distance appeared Miss Melissa with a hot-water bag, and from another room emerged Miss Dorcas with a bottle of medicine.

Much startled, Teddy went back to her room and waited. Then she concluded to dress herself and go to her aunt's door to see if she could be of any help. This did not take long, but when she knocked at the door it was opened by Miss Dorcas, who told her that she had better not come in.

Theodora was sadly frightened, and the groans which she heard did not tend to reassure her. Her aunt must be very ill; perhaps she was even dying.

"There is no one to send," said Miss Dorcas, "for John is in bed with a bad attack of rheumatism; so your aunt Melissa is going with Catherine, the cook. They are getting ready now, but I am afraid it will take them a long time to get to Dr. Morton's house; and it is so very late for women to be out alone—after ten o'clock!"

And then she shut the door again, and her niece was left alone in the hall, with the sound of her aunt Joanna's moans in her ears.

She went to look for her aunt Melissa, and found that she was just rousing Catherine from her first heavy slumber. Though ten o'clock was not late in the eyes of the world, the Middleton household had been in bed for an hour, and to them it seemed like the middle of the night.

It would take Catherine a long time to get awake, to say nothing of dressing. Miss Melissa herself was in her wrapper, and Theodora supposed that she would not go forth even upon an errand of life and death without arraying herself as if for a round of calls, down to the very last pin in the shoulder of her camel's-hair shawl—and in the mean time Aunt Joanna might die!

How dreadful it was! Teddy wished that she could do something. She did not love Aunt Joanna as she did either of her other aunts, but she would do anything to save her life. She could run to Dr. Morton's in half the time that it would take Aunt Melissa and old Catherine to get there.

Suddenly she bethought herself of Arthur's wheel down in the back entry. She would go on that!

No sooner said than done. She did not tell her aunts of her inspiration, knowing that valuable time would be lost in the discussion that would ensue, and she would probably be back before Aunt Melissa had left their own gates. She flew down stairs, picking up her worsted cap as she ran through the hall. It took but a moment to unfasten the back door and lift the wheel down the short flight of steps. Another moment and she was mounted and off.

The storm clouds had rolled away, and the sky was now perfectly clear. The moon had risen an hour since, making the night as bright as day with its strange, weird light, the light that transforms the world into such a different place from that which the sun reveals. Teddy had seldom been out at night, and now to go alone on such an errand and in such a manner filled her with excitement.

To be fleeing away on a bicycle at dead of night to save her aunt's life was something which she had never dreamed it would be her fate to do.

Puddles of rain-water stood here and there in her path, but the Alden roads were noted for their excellence, and even after the heavy shower they were hard as boards, and the pools were easily avoided. The moonlight cast strange shadows over the lawn, and as she flew past the gate-post it almost seemed as if some one were standing there and had moved; but of course that was only her imagination, Teddy told herself. The child had not a thought of fear.

Her aunts' house was on the outskirts of the town, and at this hour the street was but little frequented, and she met no one as she skimmed over the broad white road. Dr. Morton's house was about a mile from that of the Misses Middleton, and it did not take long to get there. The doctor's buggy was at the door, and he himself was just in the act of alighting, when there was the whiz of a wheel on the gravelled driveway and the sharp, sudden ring of a bicycle-bell.

The doctor turned in time to see a small girlish figure swing herself to the ground.

"It's Teddy Middleton, and Aunt Joanna is very ill. Please come just as quick as you can, Dr. Morton."

"Bless my soul!" repeated the Doctor. "You don't mean to tell me the good ladies have allowed you to come out at this hour of the night, and on a bicycle?"

He knew them well, and had heard them discourse more than once on the subject of their pet aversion.

"No, they don't know anything about it," said Teddy. "And Aunt Melissa and old Catherine are getting ready to walk here, so I must hurry back and stop them; and I think Aunt Joanna is dying, Dr. Morton, so please hurry."

Before the doctor could reply she had mounted her wheel and had disappeared in the shadow of the trees at the gate. Without waiting another moment he stepped into his buggy, and turning his tired horse once more away from home, he drove after her as quickly as possible.

Teddy reached the house just as her aunt, clothed with the care which she had suspected, and accompanied by the still half-asleep Catherine, emerged from the front door. The sight of some one at the foot of the steps nearly caused Miss Melissa to faint with horror upon the spot.

"No, it isn't, Aunt Melissa. It's only Teddy. You needn't go for the doctor; he is coming."

"Child, what do you— Catherine, your arm, please! Surely you haven't been—and on that!"

The unwonted excitement under which Miss Melissa was laboring caused her to be more incoherent even than usual.

"Yes, I have been for him," said Teddy, coolly, as she lifted the bicycle up the steps and stood it on the piazza, "and here he comes now."

The roll of wheels and the quick tread of a horse's hoofs were heard upon the avenue, and in another moment the doctor had alighted. Miss Melissa, incapable of further speech, turned and followed him into the house.

He found Miss Joanna indeed very ill with a sharp attack of the heart trouble to which she was subject. It was some time before she was relieved, but at length the pain passed by, and she was at least out of danger; but it had been a narrow escape.

"If I had been five minutes later I doubt if I could have saved her," said the doctor, "and it is all owing to that niece of yours that I got here in time."

"May I ask what you mean, doctor?" said Miss Middleton. "I thought that my sister Melissa went to you."

"Miss Melissa was just about to leave the house when I drove up. That bright little Teddy came for me on a wheel. Where she got it I don't know, unless you have relented and given her one. If you haven't, it is high time you did, for she deserves it for her presence of mind. And it is high time, too, that you changed your minds about bicycles, for it is all owing to one that Miss Joanna is alive now. I tell you that if I had been five minutes later she wouldn't be living now."

"Oh, doctor!" exclaimed the three ladies who were with him in the room next to Miss Joanna's, while the fourth watched by the invalid's bed.

"It is the truth," continued Dr. Morton, who was in the habit of speaking his mind plainly to the awe-inspiring Misses Middleton as well as to every one else; "and that bright little Teddy deserves a wheel of her own—if you haven't given her one already."

In the mean time Teddy had been wandering about the big house, not knowing quite what to do with herself. She went to her own room at first, but she could not stay there. It was just near enough to her aunt Joanna for her to hear muffled sounds from her room without knowing what they meant. She could not go in there, and her aunts were all too much occupied in obeying the doctor's commands and in waiting upon their sister to speak to her.

The servants had collected in the back part of the hall, very much frightened at the state of affairs, weeping and exclaiming with one another. Theodora, after trying each unoccupied room in turn, at last found herself in the parlor. It was very dark at first, but she pulled up the Venetian-blinds at the front windows, and let in a flood of moonlight.

Teddy had never before seen the room look so attractive. It was not often so brilliantly illuminated, for the shades were always carefully drawn. She moved restlessly about for a time, not daring to touch any of the treasures, but looking at them with interest and curiosity.

The mended bowl was again in its place upon the Chinese table, the beautiful yellow porcelain shining in the silvery light.

"I wonder if Arthur really didn't do it?" thought Teddy. "It is the queerest, strangest thing that ever happened. I wish we could find out about it."

She thought about this for some time, and then spying a Chinese puzzle which hung from a corner of a cabinet, she took it down and began to play with it. It was composed of a number of slender sticks of carved ivory which were strung horizontally upon silken cords of various colors. Theodora had seen it before, and she never wearied of slipping the sticks up and down the silk, first disclosing a dozen cords, then but two or three, sometimes more, sometimes less, the mechanism of which constituted the puzzle. She worked at it for ten minutes, sitting in the full glory of the moonlight; and then suddenly she became conscious that she was not alone in the room.

A slight, almost imperceptible noise behind her, the faintest of movements in the back of the room, told her that unquestionably some one was there!

[to be continued.]

A LOYAL TRAITOR.

A STORY OF THE WAR OF 1812 BETWEEN AMERICA AND ENGLAND.

BY JAMES BARNES.

CHAPTER XV.

A GENTLEMAN VALET.

I breakfasted next morning with my three titled friends, and during the discussion we held it was agreed that the best way to keep suspicion from me—for they were apparently quite as apprehensive of my being taken by the authorities as an escaped prisoner as I was myself—was for me to assume the position of private servant for the nonce to my patron and kind friend Monsieur de Brissac.

We started about nine o'clock in the morning along the post-road to the eastward, with a ride of some hundred and ten miles and over before us, I was informed.

The two gentlemen drove ahead in a high-wheeled chaise, while I and the servant of Monsieur le Marquis de Senez followed by the coach within a few minutes of their starting. It was our intention to pass the night at Oxford, and we expected to reach London on the afternoon of the following day.

They had spoken very openly before me, and although they had not indulged in any explanations, I garnered from the earnestness of their talk, and from the substance of it, that they had not given up all ideas of dwelling once more in France, and returning to the grandeur they had been accustomed to. Their bitterness against Napoleon was extreme, but with him out of it, I do not see how they ever expected to live in a country whose inhabitants they hated as a nation; for if the common and middle class of people do not compose a nation's blood and body, I miss my reckoning.

The view from the coach-top as we descended the hill from the inn was extremely fine. The river below took a bend almost in the shape of the crook of a man's elbow, and enclosed an island covered with houses, connected with the shore by a large bridge. But soon we had shut the view of the water behind us, and as we progressed inland the smell of the sea disappeared entirely.

The man Baptiste, alongside of whom I was sitting on the second seat, had the impassive, expressionless face of the trained servant. As he was not disposed to be communicative, and had evidently been told to treat me with respect, I grew reserved, and out of caution I kept silent; but nevertheless my enjoyment was not prevented from being of the very keenest.

I could crowd these pages by detailing my sensations. I could have sung or shouted, so high were my spirits. And I had to keep all this to myself; and being but a lad, as I say, it was far from easy. Two or three times I got down to stretch my legs, and thus I found myself walking behind the coach as we entered the little hamlet of Witney. In fact I did not know that we were so close to a village until I saw the guard get out his horn to toot it, as was his custom when approaching one.

Running after the coach, I swung myself on board just as we rolled across a bridge over a small clear stream. We had taken on fresh horses at a place called Burford, if I remember rightly, some short time back, and we would not[Pg 338] have stopped at the little place we were entering at all (the driver was pleased with himself and proud of the rate at which we had been travelling), but as we went by the gate of a private park we were hailed, and looking over the side, I saw two officers in regimentals waiting to be taken up on the coach. One of them had the uniform of the Somersetshire regiment that had been stationed at the Stapleton prison. In fact I recognized the man before he had seated himself as one of my former guardians. But he glanced carelessly at us, and stared rather insolently into the face of a young country lass who was evidently leaving home, as she had had her handkerchief to her eyes for the past hour or more.

I need not have feared recognition if I had thought for a minute, for I was something of a dandy in my way. My legs were encased in gray breeches buttoned tightly from the knee to the ankle. My coat, with its long tails, was of blue cloth, with brass buttons, and the large velvet collar reached up behind, almost swamping my ears. My waist-coat had wide lapels (pulled outside the coat), and was made of cream-colored satin. My stock was of clean white linen, and my hat, that was a trifle too small, would persist in getting rakishly over my left eye, as if it understood that I was careless, happy, and defiant of bad fortune.

I believe I could write pages of descriptions of all I saw and felt on this journey, but I am really most anxious myself to reach the more interesting part of it, and so resist temptation. We arrived at Oxford in the late afternoon. I was delighted at the glimpses of the old college buildings and the students playing at cricket in the fields, while through the trees I could see that we were near a river, as now and then the water would flash into sight.

When we reached the inn at which we intended to stop, Monsieur de Brissac, who had arrived already, sent for me to come to his room. I was fully prepared to carry up his box or to tend him in any way, as befitted my supposed position; but as soon as I entered the apartment he greeted me with a smile.

"I will explain to you," Monsieur de Brissac went on, "that in London there are a large number of us who have been forced to take up residence outside of France. Your own story is so remarkable that although, believe me, I myself do not doubt it, it would not be best to tell it to every one who might listen. Therefore, believe me, forget, as you have said, that you were an American, put outside from you the idea, above all things, that you have escaped from a prison of the English, and indeed, if possible, show little knowledge of the tongue. It is a frightful speech at the best, and racks the throat and ears. To people whom you meet you are Jean Amédée de Brienne, son of le Marquis Henri Amédée Lovalle de Brienne; your story is that you have come to England from America" (he lowered his voice and looked over his shoulder) "to join us. Ah, we need young blood and swords."

"But, Monsieur le Marquis," I interrupted, intending to blurt out the truth and abide by the consequences, "there is just one thing I—"

Monsieur de Brissac playfully touched me on the shoulder. "Never mind about that now," he said; "you will understand everything in a short time. Perhaps some day your grandfather's great estates shall belong to you, as they must in the sight of God and the saints, and as the blessed Church allows it to be true. Then," he exclaimed—"then we will whip this canaille, lash these dogs into shape, or drown them as they drowned us, eh? Ah, yes, that we will do. The bubble will soon burst, and they will be glad to take our crumbs. But no more for to-day. To-morrow you shall be informed. I know that you are to be trusted, monsieur. Say nothing. It is my pleasure to serve you. Be cautious with others."

Of course this touched me, and I do not doubt I showed it as I bowed myself out of Monsieur de Brissac's apartments, that were the best the place afforded. Our conversation had been held in French, of course, and in setting this down I have condensed it somewhat, but the gist of what he said is here.

I had begun to grow very much attached to my kind patron, for such I call him in this recounting; and I also was much taken with the elder man, the Marquis de Senez; but he was not so frank or, if I may say it, so simple as the other.

Well! I have taken a leap over two weeks of time as the very best way to avoid falling into the error of becoming verbose.

It is a great shift of scene. Here I was, seated in a low-backed soft-cushioned chair, with my feet on another, a linen napkin tucked in about my throat, and over me was bending a strange little old man who addressed me as "monsieur le marquis," as he curled my hair with a pair of hot irons. Now truly this was a change from being a prisoner at Stapleten, a scarecrow-clad figure doddering along the highway, or even from the position of a gentleman's gentleman riding outside of a coach on the post-road. Yet all these three had I been almost within the fortnight, and what was I now? Why, "le Marquis de Brienne," who dined with noblemen, and had learned in these few short days to make pretty speeches to ladies of quality in silks and satins. What is more, I was fairly launched as a conspirator.

I hope that none who reads this will suppose that I was not sailing a proper course, or that I was living a life of deceit for the purpose of gain, for the reason that it is evident that I am gifted with an adaptable temperament. Oh no! I hope I can say that what money I had I came by honestly, for it had been given to me with the intention that I should pay it back at some future time (I have paid it long since, to the last penny), and I was imposing on no one, unless it was my friend Monsieur de Brissac, whose pleasure it was to do anything for me, and lastly there is nothing in all this that is intended as an apology of my position.

It cannot be said that I was luxuriously surrounded, despite that I was lolling in an easy-chair and having my hair curled by my own private servant. I was living in lodgings on the top floor of a house not far from Orchard Street, off Piccadilly, a house that had more the dignity of age in its appearance than an air of prosperity. I was the possessor of a suite of four rooms under the roof.

"Ah, Monsieur le Marquis, I remember well your grandfather when I was a young man, and he not much older! He wore his own hair, monsieur. I never remember seeing him in anything else. It was much handsomer than a wig. You resemble him much, monsieur."

This speech had called me back to myself, for at that moment I had been thinking of Mary Tanner and the old days on the hill-side at Belair. Yes, there was no doubt about it, she was much prettier than the Comtesse de Navarreins, with whom I had danced a quadrille the previous evening. What a strange career I had had! Oh, if Mary could see me now! How fine it was to be the nobleman! How Mary's eyes would open!

"Ah, Gustave," I replied, making a wry face at myself in the glass, for the old man had given my hair a tremendous twist with the tongs, "I doubt that we shall see the old days again. From what I hear, France seems to be getting ahead fairly well without such men as my grandfather. The people seem to be able to look out for themselves and struggle on."

I glanced at the reflection of the old man's face. On it was a compound of expressions.

"Monsieur le Marquis," he said, quietly, "had they not killed the kindest master in the world I should be one of them to-day. It is that alone that made me leave my country. Could I but forget the guillotine and the days of horror, and that I really loved my King, I could rejoice in France's every victory."

It rather surprised me to hear the old man speak thus, for his language was better than one might expect to hear from the lips of one who had been born and bred a lackey. But they set me to thinking, and his next question chimed in well with my thoughts.

"No, Gustave, I have never been there," I replied. "I have lived my life in far-off America."

Now with this word a surge of pride came over me. What was this France that I had never seen to me? What were the plottings of the little band of nobles who had been despoiled of what they called their rights? Why, I was an American! There was my heart! Could I ever truly enter in with all my will and spirit for the cause or the factions of another exiled government? What reward was there for me? Ay, what reward? I remembered those brave men whom I had left in prison. (Ah, one can learn patriotism in a prison!) Sutton, the boatswain's mate, with the stars and stripes as big as your two hands tatooed across his broad chest, came in my mind's eye. His country's flag was mine! The watchword of Lawrence, that had been brought to us by the prisoners from the Chesapeake, rang in my ears as it had rung through the crowded prison, "Don't give up the ship!" Of a truth I was no Frenchman, though I could pass as such, and had done so.

Wondering what my messmates had been saying about my strange disappearance, I fell into a reverie of retrospection. Where were Captain Temple and the Young Eagle? Where was Cy Plummer, who had loaned me his belongings, and who, in my mind's eye, I could see with his bundle over his shoulder, chanting his song as he went over the hill? Where was the brave sailor who had thrown his severed hand at the feet of the English officer, and what was I but a person who was allowing himself to become deeper embroiled in a cause in which he had no heart, and becoming committed deeper and deeper every day to plots and conspiracies for whose methods he had no stomach (yes, I may set it down—assassination, dagger, and pistol, were spoken of). Truly I had no place here, and a great wish came over me that I could exchange this borrowed finery, and this assumption of being what I was not, for a sailor's toggery, the wide sweep of the sea, and take up again my life on a vessel to whose peak I might look up and see the flag for whose sake my countrymen were dying, for whose sake I should and would be fighting as soon as God would let me.

The door of the little room opened. Gustave had long since had my hair arranged to his satisfaction, and I had been sitting in silence I know not how long. But with the draught of air from the hallway I turned my head and saw a small dwarf of a man, who was a sort of a servant and boots in the house, standing there with the morning paper. I took it—the London Times—and read the head-lines in the first column, "England's Disgrace," in big black letters. And below it, "Has Another Vessel Been Lost in Single Action to the United States?" Hastily I read the reported rumor (pity 'twas nothing else) of the capture of another forty-four-gun frigate by the Constitution. I laughed aloud at the Times's expressions of astonishment that such things should be, and then I threw the paper down and burst into a loud huzza.

"No, no; not that," I answered, smiling to myself, and I think truly that the old man gave a sigh of relief. At this moment there was a tap on the door, and the old servant laid down the fine plum-colored coat that he had been preparing for my wearing, and Monsieur de Brissac was ushered in by him with a low bow. The nobleman closed the door behind him. "Mon ami," he said, hurriedly, "I would speak to you alone." Gustave (he had been "loaned" to me by De Senez) was too old a servant to be told. He picked up a pair of boots and went out into the hallway.

"It is arranged!" cried Monsieur de Brissac, speaking quickly and excitedly. "Three of us must leave for Paris. A cipher letter has been received. The time is most opportune, my dear Blondin."

He gave me an embrace, to which I confess I replied, because he was my friend, and then he continued. "You are the one to go with us," he said. "De Senez and you and myself. We can face the danger bravely, mon ami. Consider the reward!"

"I have an invitation for you to be one of a little partie carrée this evening," Monsieur de Brissac went on. "I judge it is best that you attend. Eh, what's the matter?"

I was standing with my back to him looking out of the window, when he approached and placed his hand upon my shoulder. I turned, and his eyes met mine. I was constrained to speak at once of what was uppermost in my thoughts. It required some courage.

"I think you are one who can be trusted," he replied. "In fact, on that I would stake my life; but—" He hesitated.

"I pray you not to take offence," my kind friend went on; "but why should I not tell you? The manner of your joining us was certainly most strange, and in some minds has excited a suspicion. That there have been spies among us, I know well; but you—"

I interrupted him. "Believe me, my dear friend, I would rather die than betray a single word of what I have heard or know by being told. But listen"—I spoke earnestly and slowly—"one can be honest with a friend. I truly doubt the ultimate success of any scheming to restore the old French régime. I have thought everything over carefully, and have come to a decision, my first statement put aside."

Monsieur de Brissac said nothing, but stood there listening, with one elbow on the mantel-piece, whilst I continued speaking. It was some minutes before I had finished, but I told him frankly of my position, and what I considered right for me to do. He was most attentive, and although once or twice I saw that he felt like making some interruption, he restrained himself.

"I shall not ask," he said at last, "why you did not tell me this thing before; but, believe me, even at this late hour, monsieur, I appreciate the confidence that you have placed in me. As to your misgivings in regard to our attempts to restore the better things, I shall say nothing. If you have weighed carefully the matter, I shall not attempt to dissuade you. But one thing, spoken as a friend, I must tell you: Do not, for your life, breathe a word of this to De Senez or to any of the others."

"It would be wrong," the Marquis replied, musingly, but with a sad tone in his words, "not to help you, aside from the requirements of friendship. So do not fear."

"You must come with us to France," Monsieur de Brissac answered, speaking in the same low tone of voice. "Despite the embargo laid on trade and importations by the usurper, money works corruption, corruption means many things. It is a known fact that licenses to enter French ports have been sold to both American and English vessels. You are not safe in this country. Come with us to where danger will be no less, but chances to follow your own ideas the better. I can explain that you have left for some French port when you leave us, and if you do not return, I shall join in the mourning, that is all. We will increase our party by one in order to keep up the original number. I shall let you know to-night how we intend to leave England. Good-by, until this evening. Au revoir, monsieur."

When he had gone I began to think and ponder over what had passed. Had I been foolish in being so frank and clear spoken? A word from the Marquis, and I might be returned to the hulks or the prison-yard. Yet in getting out of England lay my only chance. From what had gone before, I understood that it was intended to make a voyage across the Channel in one of the small smuggling vessels that plied an adventurous and remunerative trade along the coast of England, despite the careful watching of the coast-guard vessels and the war-ships. But Monsieur de Brissac's manner had chilled towards me—I felt that. My words had killed the enthusiasm with which he[Pg 340] had always addressed me. I half feared that I had been rash.

Notwithstanding this, we made rather a merry party at the gathering that evening. To all intents, nothing had occurred, and not until it came to the breaking up of the little poverty-stricken court, which was held at the mansion of the Comtesse de Navarreins, was there anything said of the approaching departure; but as we left, De Brissac ran his arm through mine, at the same time saying, "I shall walk home with you, if you will permit me, Monsieur de Brienne." We strolled in silence, I waiting for my friend to speak. At last he did so, at my door. "At twelve o'clock to-night you and I will start northwards in a chaise, and to-morrow evening," he whispered, softly, "we will find ourselves in the neighborhood of N——, where we will meet the others, and debark, if the weather permits, in one of the little luggers that cut deeply into the King's revenue. If we land safely on the other side, you had best leave us at once. Leave it all to me. In an hour I call for you."

Before daylight of the next morning Monsieur de Brissac and myself were some thirty miles north of London, driving through the county of Essex. At about ten o'clock we breakfasted at a way-side tavern, where we exchanged our tired horse for two saddle beasts, I having quite a tussle with mine as I mounted, and then we pressed ahead all the afternoon, expecting to be near the little village of N—— some time in the evening. It was damp and chilly for this time of the year; the prospect was not fine in the way of scenery, and my companion was in no talkative frame of mind. It was strange; I was, so to speak, a blind man in the power of his guide, for if I should lose Monsieur de Brissac, I should be in a bad way. At last I knew we were near the sea, for I could smell it in the air long before it burst in view.

I wondered greatly at my patron's knowledge of the road and the by-ways by which we reached this particular bit of the coast. For hours we had ridden across a wind-swept plateau, seamed by many deep-worn paths running in all directions. In the earlier part of the afternoon gibbetlike sign-posts had helped to point us to the right direction, but as it grew toward dusk we saw none of them, and yet never once had Monsieur de Brissac faltered; turning and twisting and yet keeping the same general direction, until he had brought us to the edge of the narrow height along which we were riding. Finally we sighted a little cluster of huts, whose roofs we looked down upon from the top of a great, high sand cliff, and then Monsieur de Brissac pointed.

"Your eyes are good," he said. "Can you see whether there is anything hanging from the window of the house nearest yonder small dock?"

I gazed intently. In the growing darkness I could make out a white rag or something fluttering from the window-sill, and so I reported.

"The signal," was the response to my information. "They are ahead of us, and all is well."

It was no easy job to urge our tired nags down the steep runway, and had my mount backed and filled the way he had when I first put my leg over him, we might both of us have pitched headlong upon the roofs of some of the outlying huts, for they were scarcely more.

I suppose that this little village was considered of too small importance to be watched closely by the government, but it must have been apparent that it was not fishing or net-mending that kept so many stalwart sailor-men there.

[to be continued.]

CAPTAIN LEARY'S SAMOAN EXPERIENCE.

SOME STIRRING INCIDENTS IN RECENT AMERICAN NAVAL HISTORY.

BY FRANKLIN MATTHEWS.

No man can deny that there are times when war, with all its horrors, is necessary and honorable. One of these times is when war is waged for the rights of common humanity. Some of the most stirring episodes in our history have been associated with this kind of noble effort. Many a time have the decks of our men-of-war been cleared for action in such a cause. Many a time has some one of our naval officers, thousands of miles away from home, with no means of asking for instructions, taken action which meant warfare, with its loss of life and great expenditure of money, simply because he knew he was doing what was right, and really was acting for the civilized nations of the world. We thundered at the gates of Japan. We have fired on and punished pirates. Only recently we cleared our ships for action in the harbor of Rio de Janeiro. More than fifty years ago one of the bravest men that ever wore the naval uniform of the United States defied the power of Austria in her own waters because she would not give up an American citizen confined on one of her war-ships, and the roar of "Old Ingraham," as he ordered his ship cleared for action when he knew that in a fight he would probably be beaten, was heard around the world.

Most of these "minor episodes" of our navy have been associated with the misdeeds of half-civilized nations. Occasionally one has had to do with a nation of first rank. One of these was the stand of Ingraham in Austria. I want to tell of another deed which, in my judgment, was as important as that of Ingraham, and which came within a hair's-breadth of involving us, in 1889, in war with Germany, then, as now, a nation of great military prowess. It is a story the full details of which have never been made known, and one that should make American blood tingle with pride. The story reveals the heroism of one of our naval officers who has always refused to exalt his part of the work, saying he merely did his duty; he did not hesitate, even if war with Germany should result, to uphold the honor of our flag, and to protect women and children and the sick and infirm in the name of humanity.

That man was Commander Richard P. Leary of our navy, and the incidents that led up to his action happened at and near the harbor of Apia in the beautiful Samoan Islands. Time and again have I and other writers asked Leary to tell about it, and time and again has he resolutely refused, saying that the sense of having done his duty was all the reward he wanted. Consequently I have been forced to go to the public records and to some of the men who were in Samoa at the time to get the details of a long series of acts which resulted one day in an American man-of-war and a German man-of-war lying side by side a short distance outside of Apia Harbor, each cleared for action, and war between our country and Germany depending upon whether the Captain of the German ship should fire upon some native forts on the mainland. Such shots would have gone over the deck of the Adams, which Leary commanded, and he practically, although not literally, sent word to the German commander that the first shot on the native forts would be answered by a broadside from American guns. After almost an entire day of intense excitement on board both ships and on the mainland, the German commander yielded—went back into port—and a grave crisis in our history was safely passed—because of the patriotism and pluck of one of our naval officers who to this day refuses to talk about it.

To understand the story fully we must go into the causes of the trouble. The Samoan, or Navigator Islands, have always been an object of envy by nations which are known as "land-grabbers." The desire of the Germans to secure control of those islands had caused most of the troubles of the Samoans in recent years. It was the old desire for money and property over again. The United States had long recognized the Samoans as a civilized people, and had made a treaty with them. In time Germany and England united with us in a joint treaty with the Samoans for their protection and development. German residents there wanted control of trade, and stirred up a rebellion against the High Chief, or King, Malietoa. They took the side of Tamasese, a pretender to the throne. On a pretext that property belonging to Germans—some pigs and some cocoanuts—had been stolen by Malietoa's men, they declared war against him, and finally made him give himself up to them to save his people from slaughter. He was deported to Africa, and later to Germany. The Samoans would not have Tamasese for King, and practically the entire nation rallied around Mataafa, who succeeded Malietoa.

There was now a civil war between the two factions. The Americans did not take sides, except to refuse to acknowledge Tamasese as King. The Germans did take sides, notwithstanding the treaty of neutrality. They bombarded villages on this and that excuse; they fired on unarmed natives in boats; they gave aid openly to Tamasese; they assumed an air of possession of the islands. Now it must not be supposed that all this was done with the full approval of the German government, because the Germans in time brought back Malietoa, and since then they have recalled the one man who stirred up most of the trouble. In speaking, therefore, of the matter, let it be understood that we have strict reference to those Germans alone who were in Samoa.

There was constant friction between the Americans and Germans in Apia, and many letters passed between Captain Leary and the Captain of the German war-ship Adler, stationed there at the time. This being a story of Captain Leary's patriotic acts, we need go no further into the details of Samoan history. One of the first of Leary's notable acts was to send a letter, on September 6, 1888, to the Captain of the Adler. The Adler, on the day before, had gone to the island of Manono to burn the houses and villages of the natives who would not support Tamasese. The war-ship took some of Tamasese's boats in tow, and soon the guns of the war-ship were heard bombarding houses known to have been occupied by defenceless women and children. The Adler came back the next day, and at once Captain Leary sent the German Captain a letter of protest. He recited what he knew of the bombardment and what he had been told, and then he added, with a firmness that does one good to read:

This was the first open breach between the commanders of the two war-ships. Leary based his action simply on the ground of humanity. One of his next conspicuous acts was to uphold the honor of the American flag. A body of Tamasese's men were encamped on Mulinuu Point, which the Germans claimed was under the jurisdiction of their government because Germans owned property there. Some of these natives saw an American flag floating at the top of a tree not far away. It was placed there by a half-breed who was an American citizen. It floated above his own property. The Tamasese men tore it down and into strips. Then they partly wrecked his house and threatened to kill him. Captain Leary soon heard of it, and he sent a letter to the Adler's Captain asking if the natives were under the protection of the German war-ship. He wanted to fix the responsibility for the insult to the American flag, because, as he said, he was "obliged to furnish necessary protection to Americans in jeopardy."

The German Captain made a non-committal reply, and the next day Leary repeated his request, saying that the question at issue was not one of diplomacy, but of military policy. He then showed his American spirit in these utterances:

Leary received an evasive reply to this, and the relations between the two commanders became more strained. Leary did not stop with this. He sent a letter to Tamasese demanding restitution. The Germans, who had control of the local post-office, would not forward the letter, and later Leary sent another, in which he said:

No second notice was required from Leary. Tamasese restored the property to Mr. Scanlan, including the American flag, which floated secure from insult on his property afterward.

[to be continued.]

THE WRONG TRAIN.

BY SOPHIE SWETT.

The night telegraph operator at Orinoco Junction had the mumps. His name was Samuel Dusenberry, and he was seventeen, which is young to have so responsible a position; in fact it was Sam's first position, and he was on trial. He was also the head of his family, and in that position Sam had been heard to grumblingly remark that he was also on trial, for Phineas and Mary Jane, and even little Ajax, thought they could manage things as well as he could.

Although seventeen is young for such responsibilities as Sam's, it is disgracefully old to have the mumps—or so Sam thought, and he persisted in declaring that he hadn't, while his cheeks swelled and swelled, until his watery smarting eyes were almost concealed; and he was extremely cross when little Ajax assured him that if he felt just as if he were not Sam at all, that was the mumps, because that was the way he felt when he had 'em. Mary Jane, who attended to the family grammar, was somewhat troubled because they all spoke of the disease as plural; but Phineas stoutly maintained that this was proper when you had 'em on both sides at once, like Sam.

He hadn't the mumps, and if he had, he was going to his work at the station that night; that was what Sam insisted, although Mary Jane begged him not to with tears in her eyes, and threatened to tell their mother, from whom they carefully kept every worrying thing, because she was a helpless invalid. It was only at the last moment, when he found that things began to whirl around him and his knees to shake, when he tried to get to the door, that Sam gave up, and said he supposed Phineas would have to go in his place.

"But he's such a sleepy-head. I ought to have asked the company to appoint a substitute. It's irregular, anyway, and if anything should happen—!" groaned Sam.

He was one who felt his responsibilities, and mumps are not conducive to cheerful views. As for Phineas, he felt that at last the boy and the opportunity had met. Phineas had been repressed—kept in the background all too long, in his own opinion, first by the supposed superior "smartness" of Sam, and second by the continual tutelage of his twin sister Mary Jane. Her whole attention seemed to be given to the subject of what a boy ought not to do; after a time this becomes wearing upon the boy. Perhaps Mary Jane had come to assume this unpleasant superiority because a heavy twin-sisterly duty constantly devolved upon her—keeping Phineas awake; in the history class, in the long prayer, when Uncle Samuel came, periodically, to give them good advice, Mary Jane found it always necessary to keep her eye on Phineas and the sharpest elbow in Orinoco in readiness.

At first Mary Jane had said that he ought not to learn telegraphy, because he could not keep awake; but when he persisted, she came to share his optimistic belief that it would keep him awake. But perhaps Sam's groan was not without its excuse; certainly no one disputed that Phineas was "a sleepy-head."

"I tell you it's hard for even an old stager to keep awake all night long"—Sam had been an operator for two months—"even when he's had some sleep in the daytime, as you haven't. It won't do for you to sit down at all, you know; or if you get all tired out walking round, sit on the tall three-legged stool out in the middle of the floor; if you get to nodding, that will tip over. I've fallen asleep once or twice, but it has waked me when my office has been called on the wire. It wouldn't wake you!"

"You have to swing a red or a white lantern. I shall be glad when we have the semaphore signals on our road." (Sam's easy use of learned technical expressions always caused Mary Jane's mouth to open wide with admiration.) "I say, Phin, what color are Mary Jane's mittens?" Sam asked this question with sudden breathless eagerness. "A new operator, who was color-blind, wrecked the Northern Express on the L—— road!"

"Red," said Phineas, with scornful promptness, and was then forced to pass an examination in all the colors of Mary Jane's hooked rug.

"And if there's anything you don't understand, you can ask Lon Brophy in the ticket-office." Sam fell back on the lounge, with a long sigh, as he gave Phineas this parting assurance.

But Mary Jane ran out to the gate after him. "Don't[Pg 343] sit down even on the three-legged stool. It might go over and you wouldn't wake. Think of the boy that stood on the burning deck, or the one that let the fox gnaw him, whenever you feel sleepy." Along with this stern advice Mary Jane forced upon Phineas a dainty lunch that she had prepared, and a can of coffee, which he could heat upon the station stove.

After all, Mary Jane was a good sister, and perhaps she did not deserve that Phineas should mutter, as he walked along, that it was a mistake for a girl to think herself so smart.

As Phin walked toward the station in the bracing air of the November night, he was hotly resentful of the distrust that had been shown of his ability to take Sam's place for just one night.

The station at Orinoco Junction was a lively place when Phineas relieved Tom Woolley, the day operator, at six o'clock. At that time many trains stopped, and they were crowded, because there was a great political gathering at L——, twenty miles farther on. The little restaurant was filled with a jostling crowd. The sharp cries of the popcorn boys mingled with political announcements and a running fire of boasts and jokes.

But at the door he turned, as if struck by a sudden misgiving, and looked Phin over critically.

"It's going to quiet down by-and-by. Can you keep awake all night—a youngster like you?"

It seemed as if Mary Jane must have been telling; she always did talk and talk—a worse fault than being a little sleepy, if she had only known it, thought Phin. Tom Woolley was nineteen, and had an incipient mustache; he twirled its imaginary ends as he looked Phin over; and Phin's blood boiled.

"Oh, well, sonny, don't fire up," said Tom, easily; "but you'd better look sharp, you know," he added, with a grave nod. "There are a couple of extra trains expected, and the president of the road is likely to be on board of one of them; lives up at Ganges, you know—going home to vote."

Phin muttered that he guessed he could take care of extra trains, whether there were presidents on board or not, and when Tom Woolley had taken himself off, his courage rose, and he felt himself master of the situation.

By seven o'clock there came a lull; when the nine-o'clock bell rang from the Baptist church steeple you would have thought all Orinoco had gone to sleep. There were no trains between half past eight and ten. Nine o'clock was Phin's bedtime; it's queer, but almost anywhere, unless it's the night before the Fourth of July, a boy feels his bedtime; besides, the room was close, and the clock ticked monotonously. Phin heated his coffee and ate his luncheon; he wasn't hungry, but it was necessary to do something to shake off drowsiness. There was chicken, and Nep crunched the bones and barked for a cooky; after that he scratched the door and whined so that Phin was forced to let him out; he thought the dog only wanted to stretch his legs and breathe a little fresh air, but Nep walked deliberately homeward, and refused to be whistled back. Nep disliked irregular proceedings, and knew the comfort of one's own bed at night.

"Of course I don't really need him to keep me awake," Phin said to himself; but nevertheless his heart sank; he began to have a suspicion that nights were long.

He pulled himself together and began to walk the floor; when he grew so tired that he ached he drew the three-legged stool out into the middle of the floor and perched himself upon it.

Suddenly—it seemed only a moment after he had brought out that stool—he found himself in the office with his hand on the key; there had been a call on his office; he had been asleep, and had been wakened by it, as Sam boasted that he had been! A fellow might allow himself to drowse a little when he could wake like that.

No, the Punjaub express had not passed; that was what they wanted to know at Cowaree and all along the line. Presently uncomplimentary epithets began to be hurled at him over the wire. Sam had complained that the fellow at Cowaree had "the big head," but—the Punjaub express had passed, so they said!

He must have slept very soundly; the three-legged stool was tipped over; he remembered vaguely that he had picked himself off the floor to answer that call.

Drops of perspiration stood upon Phin's forehead when he returned to the waiting-room after that Cowaree fellow and the others had exhausted their eloquence.

He began a weary march around the room; it would not do to sit down again, even upon the three-legged stool. Did any one ever know, who had not tried it, what a terrible job it was to keep awake all night?

Another call! An order from the despatches to hold No. 39 express for orders, and run downward trains against it. That was a responsibility, for failure might involve serious accidents. There was no danger that he would fall asleep now!

And yet, after a long hour had dragged by, there was a heaviness upon his limbs, an oppression upon his brain. He forced himself to walk, but he remembered that he had read that sentries sometimes walked while fast asleep. Something must be done, and Phineas forced his wits to work; they were the wits that had floored the schoolmaster and helped to invent the skunk-trap.

He twined some cotton twine across the track at such a height that the train would break it. He fastened it to the platform railing, then drew it through the key-hole of the door; he tied a piece of zinc upon the end, and his coffee-can and the poker, and all these articles he placed upon the top of the stove. There were two trains to pass before the No. 39 express; there would certainly be a clatter that would awaken him to report the first one.

He lay down upon the lounge; he was conscious of a blissful, irresistible fall into a gulf of sleep, and then— There was no clatter, but a wild scream of pain and fright from the track. Phin sprang to his feet, his heart beating wildly; he had slept, and the accident he had dreaded had come! He rushed to the track. A man was scrambling to his feet, begging for mercy, and piteously demanding a temperance pledge; it was old Hosea Giddings, of Crow Hill, who never missed a night at the Junction saloon. He had tripped upon the string and broken it. It was evident that no train had passed, and Phin felt a thrill of relief. He stood back and let the old man scramble up unaided; it was well that he should find snares for his feet in the neighborhood of the saloon.

It grew still again, deadly still, after Hosea Giddings and his vows were out of hearing, and Phin felt that sleep was again settling down upon him. He found a ball of very stout linen twine—that was not a bad scheme if the string were strong enough; but this time he tied the end to his own wrist. A pull upon that would be more certain to awaken him than any noise. Two trains before the No. 39 express; after they had passed, a string would not serve, for that must be stopped with the red lantern.

He lay down again upon the lounge; the last thing that he remembered was feeling for the string about his wrist, to be sure that it was tight.

He was hurled violently across the floor; he felt an almost unendurable pain; there was a crash, as if heaven and earth came together, and then—was it a long time or only a moment afterwards that he saw Mary Jane's face bending over him? She had put water upon his face, and something redder than water was trickling from his wrist.

That twine had been strong enough to drag him, and it had cut his wrist almost to the bone; his head had hit the stove, and all those things that he had forgotten to take off it had come down and hit him.

"I had such a bad dream I just got up and came! I couldn't help it," he heard Mary Jane say.

It all seemed to him like a bad dream; but he heard himself say eagerly, although it sounded to him like a far-away voice, "No. 39 express, stop it! stop it!"

There was in the distance the thunder of a train. Mary Jane seized the red lantern from its nail and rushed out.

Though he was still half stupefied, Phin staggered to his feet and made his way to the door; in the moonlight he could see the flutter of Mary Jane's plaid shawl as she stood on the track.

The conductor demanded an explanation in an excited voice; the engineer and the brakeman were complaining in strong language that the train was behind time, and shouldn't have been stopped unless for a matter of life and death.

Phin had made his way to the track, although he was faint and dizzy; but his voice failed him when he tried to speak, for he realized in a flash that it was the Ganges branch train that Mary Jane had stopped!

"She—we meant to stop No. 39 express. I got hurt a little and mixed up," he faltered at length.

The conductor and the engineer and the brakeman and several train-boys and passengers expressed in chorus a strong though condensed opinion of the Orinoco station, and of telegraph operators who fell asleep and left girls to manage affairs. Perhaps it was as well for Phin's feelings that he could not stop to hear it all; there was a call on his office, and he hurried as well as he could to the instrument.

Phin seized the red lantern, which Mary Jane still held, as she sat, mortified and miserable, upon the door-step, and rushed up the track. The Ganges train had only just started on again, but there was evidently a distrust of Phin's red lantern; by the hootings with which it was greeted, Phin judged that they thought it a bad joke or another mistake. They seemed to mean to run him down. Well, then, they might!

Phin set his teeth, held the lantern aloft, and stood as if he were rooted to the track. He made ready to spring for the cow-catcher; it actually grazed him as he stood before the train stopped.

"Tunnel bridge broken!" he screamed, hoarsely, as he had been screaming incessantly above the rushing of the train and the din of angry voices; but it was mechanically now, and they had to carry him back to Mary Jane. His wrist had been bleeding all the time; the right wrist, too, that swung the lantern; and his head was badly hurt; and—well, it is no disgrace for a boy to faint sometimes.

The passengers poured into the station; there was a great chorus of thanksgiving, and they made what Phin called a great fuss over him and Mary Jane. There was an old gentleman with a fur collar turned up to his ears, who made friends with Mary Jane. He seemed to feel deeply what a narrow escape the train had had, and he sharply rebuked the conductor when he said that the night was so light that they might have seen that the bridge was broken; he "did keep an eye on that bridge as soon as the frost came, because it was old." (It proved to have been a gang of discharged workmen who had wrecked the bridge.) The old man declared it a providential mistake that had stopped the wrong train and let the message arrive in time.

When they were relieved, in the early morning, after all the Ganges passengers had gone on by such conveyances as they could find, Phin and Mary Jane walked homeward together.

"You needn't say a word to Sam," warned Phin. "It would only worry him. I mean about stopping the wrong train, and all that. I've just heard that the old gentleman who talked to you was the president of the road. I hope you didn't tell him anything!"

The president of the road! Phin turned and looked with severe suspicion at Mary Jane, and Mary Jane turned so pale that the freckles stood out like little mud spatters on her face.

"I only told him how anxious Sam was," she faltered, "and what you did to keep awake—all about the zinc and poker and things, and how your wrist was cut."

"You've told the president of the road that I'm a sleepy-head! Now I hope you're satisfied!"

That was, I fear, an unhappy day for Mary Jane; but the next night, when Phin went down to help Sam, who would go, although he was not much better, Tom Woolley reported that he had received a message from that Cowaree fellow, the same one who was so uncomplimentary, that orders had been received from headquarters that a place was to be found, the very first desirable vacancy, for "a plucky, wide-awake fellow" who had substituted the night before in the Orinoco office. And a free pass had been ordered for Miss Mary Jane Dusenberry, with the compliments of her friend the president of the road.

As there has been occasion more or less of late to deprecate the holding of so-called "junior" events in track-athletic meetings, it is perhaps an appropriate time to devote some space to the subject of athletics for younger sportsmen, and to try to impress them, if possible, with the fact that any kind of training for boys under sixteen years of age is not only inadvisable but absolutely injurious. If boys of that age wish to take regular exercise—and they all should—there are better things for them to do than to train for contests of speed and endurance. They will do better for themselves if they will restrict their endeavors to a milder form of athletics, to simple body motions or calisthenics. This, of course, is not so interesting, and I know these words will fall upon many deaf ears, but their truth will be recognized none the less by those who have the slightest experience in such matters.

It is perhaps natural that young boys who see their older companions constantly at some kind of preparation, or training, for some branch of sport, should wish to imitate their elders, and go in to some similar kind of regular work. The older athletes, and those who look after their development, ought to use all their power to prevent the youngsters from trying to train, instead of encouraging them, as they do, by offering medals as prizes in "junior" events.

The last thing that growing boys should try to accomplish is to get hardened muscles. This sort of thing retards growth and development, thereby defeating the very end that the boys think they are attaining. The best kind of training for the younger lads is to keep regular hours, both for meals and sleep. They will find this more beneficial than to keep a regular hour each day for running or jumping or putting up heavy dumbbells. The boy who gets his breakfast, luncheon, and dinner at a regular hour each day, and who sleeps eight or nine hours each night, and who bathes every morning, will make a much stronger man than the boy who trains for "junior" events.

But, as exercise should form a part of each day's occupation, the sixteen-year-old boy should take his exercise in a way that will do him the most good. He will probably not find it so interesting at first, but he will soon discover that he is becoming a better specimen physically than his fellows who can run a hundred yards or a mile under a certain figure, that really does not mean very much.

There are a number of body motions that can be performed at home alone, or in the gymnasium with others, that develop the chest and the arms, the back and the legs, so that when the time comes when it can do no harm for a young man to enter into regular athletic training, his muscles are supple, his skin is clear, his chest is deep, his back is straight, and his legs are firm enough to allow of the natural strain which comes from any kind of training.

One of the simplest methods of developing the strength of the legs is to stand erect with the hands on the hips (Fig. 1), and to perform what is called the frog motion.[Pg 346] That is to bend the knees and to squat down, rising at the same time on the toes, and keeping the body erect, from the waist up (Fig. 2). This motion should be continued up and down until you feel tired. Stop at once when the slightest sensation of fatigue is felt. At first a boy will not be able to perform this motion more than ten or a dozen times, but if he keeps it up every morning he will soon find that he does not become tired until he has dropped and risen again some seventy-five or a hundred times. The important point, however, that must be kept in mind all the time is not to overdo.

Having gone through the exercise just described, for a few minutes, it is well to try something else that will exercise a different set of muscles. For instance, stand erect and lift the arms high overhead, the palms turned outward, and then bring them rapidly down to the level of the shoulders and up again (Fig. 3). Do this a few times, and then try another arm motion. Stretch the arms forward, the finger-tips touching, and then swing them horizontally back as far as possible, rising on the toes at the same time (Fig. 4). As in the case of any other kind of work, this practice will tire the novice, but at the end of a few weeks it will be surprising to note how long the exercise can be kept up without fatigue.

These three exercises will be found sufficient for the first few weeks, but thereafter a greater variety may be adopted. An excellent exercise is to stand erect, with the hands lifted above the head, thumb to thumb, and then to bow over forward, keeping the knees stiff (Fig. 5). At first the hands will not come within eight or ten inches of the floor, but within a week or so it will be an easy matter to touch the carpet with the ends of the fingers.

Another movement that will develop the muscles of the waist and back is shown in Fig. 6. Stand erect, with the heels together and the arms akimbo, the hands firmly settled upon the hips. Then move the body about so that the head will describe a circle, the waist forming a pivot about which the upper portion of the body will move. At the start the circle described by the head will be very small, but as the muscles become limbered and the waist becomes supple the body will swing easily about through a much broader area.

There is no use denying that all these things are at the start uninteresting, and I know from experience that even with the best intentions there will be a strong temptation at the end of a week to give up the whole business. But here is where the sand and determination of the American boy must prove itself, and the lad who sticks to the monotonous exercise in his own bedroom will be the one in after-years to stand the best chance for a position on his college crew or eleven.

There was a man in my class in college who as a boy lived in a small town where there were no athletic contests. Some one told him that if he wanted to get strong he ought to start in in the morning and dip between two chairs, lacking parallel bars. His adviser told him to dip once the first morning, twice the second morning, three times the third morning, and so on. It is evident that on the last day of the year he would dip 365 times, if he could only keep up this regular increase. He soon found that he was unable to do this, but he was surprised at the end of the year to notice how easily he could dip a number of times between two chairs, whereas his playfellows could barely perform the act three or four times.

When that boy came to college he was the strongest in our class about the chest and arms and back, and could perform wonderful feats of lifting himself and of dipping on the parallel bars in the gymnasium. But, unfortunately, the man who had suggested to him to dip each morning between two chairs had not thought of telling him that he ought likewise in some manner to develop the muscles of his legs, and so he was consequently overdeveloped from the waist up and under-developed from the waist down. This goes to show that when exercising it is imperative that all the muscles of the body should be given an equal chance, otherwise some parts of the anatomy must suffer at the expense of others.

A very little exercise performed regularly and for a long period will do much more for any boy or man than[Pg 347] vigorous exercise performed for one or two hours a day for only a few weeks during the year. It is the little drop of water falling constantly that wears away the stone.

The accompanying illustration will give a better idea of the proportions of a hockey-stick, and the manner of holding it, than any description can do, better even than the photograph published in the last issue of the Round Table with a brief description of the game.

The members of the Arbitration Committee of the New York I.S.A.A. at a recent meeting voted to ask the University Athletic Club to accept the responsibility of acting as arbitrators in any future disputes between the schools. It is to be hoped that the University A.C. will undertake this, for a committee of college graduates can, beyond question, be more serviceable to the interests of amateur sport in this matter than any committee made up of individuals whose interests are closely related to scholastic athletics.

It is pleasant to note that the officials of the N.Y.I.S.A.A. refused to allow the tie between Berkeley and De La Salle for the skating honors of the League to be settled by the unsportsmanlike expedient of gambling. One of the schools wanted to toss a coin to settle the matter, but this was very properly overruled. There is only one step from this sort of thing to the settling of all contests by the arbiter of a coin without taking the trouble to go to the field. That is not sport. When it is proved (as in a jumping contest) that two contestants can do no better, after repeated attempts, one than the other, it is just and proper that some method be adopted to determine who shall have the medal—although the points must be split. If both contestants agree to toss for the medal, well and good; for the medal is merely an evidence of success, and does not in any way affect the merit of the contest which has already been settled and recorded, before the owners of half a medal each determined to take the chance of possessing two halves of a medal or no medal at all.

The renewal of athletic relations between Exeter and Andover seems to have put new life and energy into every branch of sport at the New Hampshire school. An enthusiastic meeting of the entire school was held a few days ago in order to collect money for the management of a track-athletic team, and a very respectable sum was realized. More men have turned out for practice than for many years at Exeter, and the Captain of the team feels greatly encouraged over the prospects for the winter and spring season. A team of Exonians will go down to the big in-door meeting of the B.A.A., and a still stronger team will probably be gathered to represent the school at the New England I.S.A.A. games in June. Dual games with Worcester and Andover will probably also be arranged. It is pleasing to note this renewed activity at Exeter, for there was a time—just about ten years ago—when the P.E.A. accepted second place to nobody in athletics. The decadence which the school has just passed through, and from which she is now making a vigorous endeavor to arise, may prove to have been a blessing in disguise. The fact that all this was the result of questionable methods in sport should stand as a glaring proof that straightforwardness, after all, is the only path to success in athletics as well as in any other work. Exeter now stands as a champion of purity in sport, and for that reason we may very well look forward to her brilliant success within the next few years.

In connection with the news of activity in northern New England comes the report from New Haven that the Hillhouse High-School will not put a track-athletic team into the field this spring. At a recent school meeting this action was definitely determined, and it was voted that the school would support a baseball team only. If it was found that the school could only support one of these two branches of sport, the choice to keep up baseball was a wise one, but at the same time it is regrettable to see so strong a member of the Connecticut Inter-scholastic League as H.H.-S. fall out of the ranks. So far as I am able to ascertain at the present writing, the reason for dropping track athletics was purely financial, but as the Connecticut Association seems to be rich just now, perhaps this obstacle may be removed.

The comment upon the dispute over the football "championship" going on between the Southbridge High-School and the North Brookfield High-School, printed in a recent issue of this Department, has called forth a number of letters from partisans of both sides. The actual standing of the affair seems, however, to be very clearly settled by Mr. T. E. Halpin, Vice-President of the Worcester County South A.A., who assures me that there existed no league for football in the Worcester County South A.A. this fall, and that therefore there was no possibility of there being any "championship" of football in that association, since the W.C.S.A.A. claims no jurisdiction over football affairs. It would seem that Southbridge and North Brookfield have been wasting a great deal of valuable breath and writing-paper over nothing, and if the two schools are uncertain as to which is the better in athletics, they might preferably wait until next spring and settle the question on the baseball-field.

At the Skating-races held recently in Stamford, W. S. McClave, of Trinity, proved himself one of the cleverest of the skaters present, and won several important races. The illustration on another page represents McClave winning the novice race.

It has been decided that the race between the crews of the Milwaukee East Side High-School and the St. John's Military Academy shall take place on the last Saturday in June.

It seems necessary to repeat every few months that the editor of this Department can pay no attention to anonymous communications. Correspondents who desire to have their questions answered, whether by mail or through these columns, must give their names.

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QUESTIONS FOR YOUNG MEN.

ON EXAMPLE.

There is a famous statement of the average preparatory-school boy, which has been so often made that it is historic, to the effect that he can do whatever he pleases because nobody will be fool enough to follow his example. He feels that men older than himself—men in college, or graduates of college, or grown-up men—may be setting example to others, but that he has not sufficient influence with any one to induce him to follow his example in anything. Sometime after the preparatory-school boy has grown up he will find that from year to year the same feeling sticks by him, and that he never considers himself a person worthy to set example to any one else.

If he only realized it, he would discover that even as a preparatory-school boy he is looked up to by the younger boys in the lower classes and by those who have not yet arrived at the point where they can enter a school at all. In other words, you, as a schoolboy, are setting an example to somebody else just as certainly as is your father or your grandfather is setting an example to others; and the feeling you have, that you are responsible to no one as an example for what you do, is wrong. It is very simple to understand this if you think it over a moment. For instance, a member of a college 'varsity team is a great man to the members of school teams. If they see a member of the 'varsity team drinking and smoking, they believe that it is proper for them to do so, and yet if you were to ask this man if he realized what an example he was setting, he would maintain that nobody was fool enough to think of looking to him for guidance. And this influence not only spreads over younger men in the school, but has a strong power in the college itself; for the fact that an athletic man is looked up to at the university and that the athletic man lives a normal life induces a great many other members of the university to take him as an example; and as a matter of record the strict training and the loyalty and thoroughness required by captains from members of their teams have done much to raise the standard in our big colleges to-day.

Every boy, therefore, should always bear in mind that he has a name to keep up and a record to keep clean, not alone because it is right to do so, but because he can never tell when some one else may not be looking to him as an example and may not be tempted to do things unworthy of boys because he does them. There is perhaps just as much evil on the other side of the question—that is, where a young man (or an old one, for that matter) feels that he is continually an example to others, and lives two different lives, one for the benefit of his friends and the other for himself. The example is of no value itself. It is merely that you, living your daily life, entering into sports and into studies at school, can never tell when your school-mates or persons whom perhaps you may never know may not be unconsciously observing your actions, and be accepting them as standards for themselves.

Thus every man and boy and girl is at some time or other, and often frequently, a guide or example for others, and it behooves him or her to bear this in mind from day to day. It should not cause worry; the responsibility of it ought not to weigh any one down; but the idea that you can do whatever enters your head, provided that in your mind you are satisfied that it is right for you, is not always correct.

TRYING HER IN A SQUALL.

A good story is told of the late Captain R. B. Forbes, who was interested in some seventy sail of fine vessels, and who built many clippers for the India and China trade before the general application of steam. It seems that while testing the sailing qualities of a clipper-schooner, she was struck by a squall in Boston Harbor, fell on her side, filled with water, and went down. Fortunately she had a boat in tow, which saved all hands. He would not start a sheet nor luff her into the wind to prevent her being capsized; he was determined to know what she could do in a squall, even at the risk of his life and the lives of a select party of nautical friends he had with him; and although this experiment may have been of intense interest to Captain Forbes, it is doubtful whether his invited guests relished their position. Later she was raised without much trouble and had her spars reduced. For years afterwards she was famous along the coast of China for her speed.

Captain Forbes's brother, Hon. John M. Forbes, now in the eighty-fourth year of his age, has an original steel clipper of the following dimensions: Length on the water-line, 125 feet, 154 feet 6 inches over all; has 27 feet 6 inches extreme breadth of beam; is 12 feet 6 inches deep; has engines of 400-horse power; is fully rigged as a two-masted schooner, and has a steel centreboard 21 feet long by 6 and 7¾ feet wide; is a complete sailing-clipper as well as a steamer, and is the only vessel of the kind in the world. She is also unsinkable; if full of water she will still float, having air-tight compartments along her sides like a life-boat.

Under sail, with a working breeze, she will stay within nine points in three minutes; by the wind, sail eight knots; and going free, twelve knots. She is named the Wild Duck, has been in service about two years, and has been quite successful under steam and sails.

THE CAT.

The cat's a happy animal
When blows the winter bluff,
Because she purrs and dreams all day
Within her downy muff.

But I am sure when summer comes
And roasts us with its glare,
She'd like to be the Chinese dog,
That hasn't any hair.

R. K. M.

SAILORS AND THE SMALL BOAT.

It is a curious fact that few seamen can handle a small boat with facility. This applies chiefly to the crews of sailing craft, as the large steamship corporations long ago realized this failing among sailors, and instituted a series of boat drills on their steamships that have been productive of excellent results. Knowledge of the workings of small boats is a requisite that every seaman should possess, and young men intending to follow the sea for a livelihood should acquire it before they tread the decks of a vessel, as they will have but little opportunity afterwards.

The wise forethought of steamship corporations on having their crews drilled saved many lives at the wreck of the steamer Denmark, as something like 734 persons were transferred from her to the Missouri without a single accident in mid-ocean during a heavy swell. It follows, therefore, that those who seek recreation on the water would do well not to go in any boat, unless it is in charge of an experienced boatman, and is amply supplied with life-preservers. Boats ought to be ballasted with fresh water in small casks, instead of stones or iron, so that, in the event of being capsized, the ballast may help to keep them afloat. A young man who may have been only a very few times in a boat, under favorable circumstances, assumes he can manage one. He makes up a party, the wind freshens or a squall ensues, he loses his head, a capsize takes place, the boat sinks, and the chances are that he and his companions will be drowned. Those who go boat-sailing ought to leave as little to chance as possible.

This is the height of the auction season. One auction a day is a fair average, and several lists with reserved prices have been sent out to prospective buyers, who are asked to compete against each other by mail. The straight auction where no stamp is held at a reserve will always commend itself to collectors. In the few instances where it was suspected that "a string was attached to the valuable stamps," such dissatisfaction was aroused that no self-respecting or far-sighted dealer will countenance any thing which savors of unfair bidding.

In the issue of January 5 I referred to a rumor that the Bureau of Engraving contemplated a new issue of U.S. stamps. Although no official notice has been given, it is believed the government intends to issue the new set during the International Postal Union Convention which meets in Washington this spring. I advise young collectors to look up the blank spaces especially in the current issue. For instance, the guide-lines now used make eight varieties of the 1c. and 2c. stamps, viz., guide-line at the top, bottom, left, or right, and the lines at top and left, top and right, bottom and left, and bottom and right. Then there are the three varieties of triangles in the 2c. stamps, and also the marked varieties in the color of the early compared with later printings.

IMPORTANT BOOKS

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"Harper's Round Table" for 1896

Volume XVII. With 1276 Pages and about 1200 Illustrations. 4to, Cloth, Ornamental, $3.50.

Naval Actions of the War of 1812

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And Other Fairy Tales. Collected by Zoe Dana Underhill. With 12 Illustrations. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.75.

A Virginia Cavalier

A Story of the Youth of George Washington. By Molly Elliot Seawell. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.50.

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THAT MYSTERY TRIP.

Answers and Money Awards in that Exciting Contest about a Queer Journey.

The Mystery Trip story proved a mystery indeed to many, for while the puzzle was rather easy, it scared out not a few contestants by its looks—like the famous animal in the Bunyan narrative. And the questions thought by most solvers to be the hardest proved to the successful ones the easiest. For example, the great majority could not find "Tidbottom's spectacles," nor guess the riddles. The first-prize winner failed on one of the easy questions—What was the sea of darkness?—but answered everything else. His name is Herbert Wiswell, and he lives in Melrose, Mass.; and since he did so much better than any one else he is awarded a big prize—$25 in cash. The next two winners are girls. One is Anna Whitall James, of Riverton, N. J., and the other Bessie Steele, of Chicago. They did almost equally well, but not quite the same. So to the former is given $5 and the latter $3. To the other eight of the best ten—in addition to the first big prize—the offer was to divide $40 among the best ten—$1 each is awarded. Their names follow in order: De F. Porter Rudd, of Connecticut; Franklin A. Johnston, New York; Bryant K. Hussey, of Illinois; J. Lawrence Hyde, of Washington; W. Putnam, of New York; Fred P. Moore, of Massachusetts; J. Lurie, of New York; and G. Edwin Taylor, of Pennsylvania.

The following are placed on the honor list. All found at least 33 of the 37 questions: Freida G. Vroom, of New Jersey; Nannie R. Nevins, of New York; Maud G. Corcoran, of Maryland; Robert Meiklejohn, Jr., of Ohio; Ernest Haines, of New York; Frank J. and S. N. Hallett, of Rhode Island; Robert C. Hatfield and William J. Culp, of Pennsylvania; Margaret A. Bulkley and Rose G. Wood, of Michigan; and Claude S. Smith, of New York.

Here are the answers to the questions: 1. A travelling-rug that would transport its owner anywhere he wished to go. 2. A golden arrow given him by the gods which rendered him invisible as he rode through the air. 3. Vulcan. 4. Spectacles that enabled their wearers to see real character beneath an assumed one. (See George Wm. Curtis's Prue and I.) 5. A broom which he put at his ship's mast-head to indicate he intended to sweep all before him. 6. A Druid monument near Aylesford, in England. 7. Don Quixote. 8. Rosinante. 9. Dean Swift. 10. John Brown's dog "Rab." 11. One that could cover an army and yet be carried, when desired, in one's pocket. 12. An offering given to the priest at Whitsuntide according to the number of chimneys in his parish. 13. Roman coins dug up at Silchester, in England. 14. Old German coins made to unscrew; inscriptions were placed inside. 15. The Gate of Dreams. 16. An old name for the Atlantic Ocean. 17. A ship made by the dwarfs, large enough to hold all the gods, which always commanded a prosperous gale; it could be folded up like a sheet of paper and put into a purse when not in use. 18. The flying island, inhabited by scientific quacks, visited by Gulliver in his travels. 19. A mountain which drew all of the nails out of any ship which came within reach of its magnetic influence. 20. Scotland. 21. Roger Bacon. 22. Charles II. 23. Garibaldi. 24. Robert Southey. 25. Should have been "budge," not "bridge." The question is therefore ruled out—that is, none who missed it had the error counted against them. The answer is: a company of men dressed in long gowns, lined with budge or lamb's wool, who used to accompany the Lord Mayor of London on his inauguration. 26. Something made of all the scraps in the larder. (See Merry Wives of Windsor.) 27. An imaginary land of plenty, where roast pigs ran about squealing "Who'll eat me?" 28. The Escurial. 29. Caverns in the chalk cliffs of Essex, England. 30. An old jail in Edinburgh, Scotland. 31. A curious stone in Mexico cut with figures denoting time. 32. Corea. 33. December 13, 1688. 34. Simple people in the time of King John who danced about a thorn-bush to keep captive a cuckoo. 35. A badge worn by those who received parish relief in the reign of William III.; it consisted of the letter P, with the initial of the parish where the owner belonged in red or blue cloth, on the shoulder of the right sleeve. 36. The paper that enclosed the cartridges which were used in the Civil War. 37. A bookworm.

Boys will be Boys.

In the Life and Letters of Dr. Samuel Butler recently published, it is shown that the saying "boys will be boys" was as true many years ago as it is to-day.

"There was a certain Exciseman in Shrewsbury who was very trim and neat in his attire, but who had a nose of more than usual size. As he passed through the school-lane the boys used to call him 'Nosey,' and this made him so angry that he complained to Dr. Butler, who sympathized, and sent for the head boy, to whom he gave strict injunctions that the boys should not say 'Nosey' any more.

"Next day, however, the Exciseman reappeared, even more angry than before. It seems that not a boy had said 'Nosey,' but that as soon as he was seen the boys ranged themselves in two lines, through which he must pass, and all fixed their eyes intently upon his nose. Again Dr. Butler summoned the head boy, and spoke more sharply. 'You have no business,' said he, 'to annoy a man who is passing through the school on his lawful occasions; don't look at him.' But again the Exciseman returned to Dr. Butler, furious with indignation, for this time, as soon as he was seen, every boy had covered his face with his hand until he had gone by."

Signs of Coming Events.

"If you sneeze on Monday, you sneeze for danger.
Sneeze on a Tuesday, kiss a stranger.
Sneeze on a Wednesday, sneeze for a letter.
Sneeze on a Thursday, something better.
Sneeze on a Friday, sneeze for sorrow.
Sneeze on a Saturday, see your sweetheart to-morrow."

Eugene Ashford.
Portland, Oregon.

"Evening red and morning gray
Lets the traveller on his way.
Evening gray and morning red
Brings down rain on the traveller's head."

Knew Himself Best.

The Rev. John Watson, who has written several successful books under the nom de plume of "Ian Maclaren," recently visited this country—his home is in Liverpool, England—where he met with wonderful success on a lecture tour. Just before departing for his home he met a New York editor who was a class-mate of his at school years ago in Edinburgh, Scotland. Calling him familiarly by his first name, as of old, Dr. Watson, in response to congratulations, said: "I am glad this success did not come to me when I was young. Why, Dave, if this had happened when I was twenty-one, it would have turned my head, and I should have thought myself a very great man! But now I know better."

Funny Incidents with Unfamiliar Languages.

The late George du Maurier, an account of whose early student days has recently been published by Messrs. Harper & Brothers, was once much put out by an Englishman who took him for a Frenchman. The two conversed for a while in French, the Englishman stumbling through the conversation, thinking it necessary to bring into service all the French he knew in order to make himself understood by this greatest of English satirists.

But Du Maurier was not the only man to have this experience. Some years ago a party of four American gentlemen met, in the park at Versailles, four American ladies whose acquaintance they had made some months before in Germany. Desiring to treat them to a carriage ride, one of the gentlemen motioned to a cab that stood near. Supposing cabby to be French because he was in France, the eight summoned their best French, and, after a great deal of difficulty, in which cabby seemed dull and the Americans unable to give a French pronunciation to their French, succeeded in fixing upon a price for a two-hour ride. As four of the party were about to enter the carriage, one lady objected to the small seat. The cabby desired, so it afterward developed, to tell the lady she could sit on the front seat with him. Thinking of an inducement for so doing, he undertook to express it by bending over, shaking his trousers, then his coat tails, next his coat collar, and lastly his mustaches, which he pulled to their greatest length, having first inflated his cheeks to their fullest extent. His performance was so ludicrous that the whole party laughed, and some lady, in true American vernacular, shouted,

The man straightened up instantly. "Are you folks English?" he ejaculated. Assured that they were next thing to English, and that they could not speak French, cabby said, "Neither can I."

Of course the objection to the seat was waived, and the party, not put out as was Du Maurier, enjoyed a hearty laugh over their half-hour wasted in trying to make a bargain with cabby in a language that neither they nor he understood.

Societies Active in Good Deeds.

National Amateur Press Association.

A NEW PROCESS FOR SENSITIZING PAPER.

In the American Annual of Photography for 1896, Mr. E. W. Newcomb tells how to make vignettes with an atomizer by spraying the paper with a sensitive solution. This seemed such a clever idea that the editor made a trial of the method, and found that many artistic effects could be produced in this way which could not be made by any other process either of printing or sensitizing the paper.

The sensitizing solution can be applied so as to obtain any form desired, and paper thus prepared may be used in many different ways not possible with a paper which is coated all over evenly.

The atomizer must be of hard rubber—both tube and stopper—as metal either corrodes or injures the sensitive solution. The spray must be so fine that it is almost a mist, and the atomizer should be tried before purchasing. Clear water will do to test the fineness of the spray.

The first experiments should be made with the blue-print solution, as this is not only cheaper, but easier to prepare and handle, and when dry it shows just where the solution has been applied. Pin the paper by the corners to a smooth board, set it in an upright position, and holding the atomizer perhaps a foot away from the paper, direct the spray to the place on the paper where the heaviest printing is intended. Squeeze the bulb gently, so that the solution will not soak into the paper, and at the edges, where the solution must be applied lightly in order to produce vignetted effects, hold the spray farther away from the paper. By a little practice one can soon make any shaped vignette desired.

If any member of our Camera Club is looking for some new way of making prints for gifts, here is a suggestion: Cut plain salted paper in sheets 8 by 10 in. in size. Take an 8 by 10 in. card-mount, and cut out a square from the centre, leaving a margin 1 in. wide on one side and at the top and bottom, and on the other side a margin 1½ in. wide. Over the corners of this mat paste triangles of paper in the way that corners are made for desk-blotters, pasting the edges down on one side, and on the other leaving the paper free from the card-board, so that a sheet of paper may be slipped under the corners. Take a piece of plain paper, slip it into the mat—the corners holding it in place—turn it over, and hanging or fastening it against the wall, spray it with the sensitive solution in the places where you wish to print pictures. The mat made of card-board protects the edges of the sensitive paper, and makes a nice wide margin. Half a dozen sheets sensitized, printed, and bound together with an attractive cover, either made of rough paper or some fancy card-board, will make a pretty gift for a friend, and something that will not be duplicated. To make a more elaborate present, select some familiar poem, easily illustrated, choose negatives which will make appropriate pictures for it, print, wash, and dry the pictures, then with French blue water-color letter the verses of the poem in the clear spaces left on the paper. If a little taste is used in arranging and printing the pictures, putting them in different places on the sheet, one can make a very artistic little booklet. The side of the paper with the 1½ in. margin is the edge for binding. If a touch of gold is given to the lettering the effect is more striking. Small cakes of what is called water-color gold may be bought for 10c. or 15c., and is the kind used for lettering on paper.

This way of sensitizing paper will suggest many ideas for decorative work, such as menu-cards, letter-heads, calendars, mats for pictures, etc. The blue-print solution is the simplest to use in preparing paper in this manner, but the same result may be obtained with other solutions. The formulas given for tinted sensitive solutions in previous numbers of the Round Table could be used, and many delicate and attractive tones be obtained. Prints made on paper sensitized with a spray instead of being applied with a brush have the appearance of wash drawings.

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RULES FOR BOBBING.

When you start out to "bob," it is just as well to determine in advance what kind of bobbing you are going to do. There are several kinds, as most young people know—such as bobbing for apples, bobbing for eels, and bobbing on a bob-sled. A rule which would do very well when bobbing for apples would not suit you at all when sliding down hill, and vice versa. Therefore, the first general rule for bobbing is to select your kind, and then go ahead. The following rules are for the sled variety:

1. First get your bob. There is no use of trying to go bobbing without a bob. The boy who tries to bob without a bob is apt to wear his clothes out in a very short time, and to experience considerable discomfort into the bargain.

2. Having secured your bob, and got its runners and steering-gear into good working order, select a convenient hill upon which to coast, and start from the top of it. This is one of the most important of the rules of bobbing. Boys who have tried the experiment of starting to bob from the foot of the hill have met with considerable opposition not from the people about them, but from certain principles of nature which make it impossible for even the best of bob-sleds to coast up hill, and while there is no law against your trying to coast up hill which would result in your being put into jail if you broke it, persistence in the effort might result in your landing sooner or later in a lunatic asylum.

3. Having started from the top of the hill, then stick as closely as you can to the line mapped out before the "shove-off." It is always well to know where you are going to land, particularly when you are bobbing. It is true that when Columbus started out to discover America he did not know where he was going to land, or, indeed, that he was going to land at all, but he had a pretty good general idea of the possibilities, and that is what you need to have before the shove-off. The experiences of a New Hampshire boy who ignored this point will show its importance. He shoved off all right, but having left the chosen path, found himself speeding down the hill directly at the rear of the village church. He could not stop, and the first thing he knew he crashed through the stained-glass windows, down through the middle aisle, and out into the street, slap bang into the arms of the town constable. He was arrested, and his father having to pay the fine imposed, as well as to give the church new windows, and carpet for the middle aisle, where the runners of the bob had destroyed the old one, made him very uncomfortable by spanking him regularly every time it snowed during the following winter.

4. Do not try to coast unless there is snow on the ground. Coasting on bare hill-sides or down stony roads is not very exhilarating sport, nor will the oiling of your runners help you a bit. The only boy who ever got far by oiling his runners for a slide on a snowless road covered twenty feet, and then had his bob destroyed by fire. He had used kerosene oil, and the friction of the runners upon the road created such an intense heat that the oil ignited, and in a short time the bob was a smoking ruin. What became of the boy is not known, but it is safe to say that if he were scorched at all he would have found the snow rather more cooling than the country road without it.

5. If on your way down hill you see a horse and wagon approaching, do not try to slide between the wheels and under the horse; nor should you trust to a fortunate thank-you-marm in the road to enable you to jump the obstruction. Steer to one side if there is room, and if there isn't, try your fortunes in a convenient snow-bank, should there happen to be one, and if there shouldn't happen to be one, do the best you can with what snow there is. It is better to be landed head-first in the snow than to become involved with a horse and wagon in any way.

6. In case your bob should run into an unforeseen stump on the way down, you might as well make up your mind to keep on your journey whether the bob stops short or not. You cannot help doing so, whether you wish to or not, and it is always well, in view of possible accidents of this sort, to have it understood by on-lookers that that was the way you intended to do, anyhow. If you can convince the on-looker of this, he will not have half as much excuse for laughing at you as he might otherwise have.

7. The last of the suggestions to be made here at this time is the only rule that young ladies need observe in bobbing. That rule is to leave the management of the whole affair to the boys. Just take your places on the bob and don't bother. The boys will attend to everything involved in the preceding rules, and then when the foot of the hill is reached, after a glorious trip down the precipitous descent will, if they are the right kind of boys, tell you to sit still and they will haul you back to the top again. Of course this rule is not available in leap-year, when, if the young ladies insist upon having all their rights, it will become their turn to take charge and to haul the boys up.

AT THE SUMMER HOTEL.

"Well," said Polly, sadly, "it's because when papa is all through there isn't any paper left in the house."

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Begun in Harper's Round Table No. 898.

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published weekly.	NEW YORK, TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 2, 1897.	five cents a copy.
vol. xviii.—no. 901.		two dollars a year.