CHAPTER VI.
Half panic-stricken for the moment, I quickened my pace; but when I looked behind again ten minutes later, it appeared that the tramp had lessened the distance between us.
It now began to seem like a nightmare. There was no prospect of getting away from my pursuer. If I hastened, he walked faster, and I no longer felt the least doubt that his intention was to rob me. Although the road was little frequented, it was by no means deserted. An occasional bicyclist would pass, or a waggon, or a dog-cart, while here and there stood farm-houses and cottages by the way-side.
I believed that the tramp would dog my steps until dark, and that in the meantime he would not allow me out of his sight. Yet, until the present, I had no actual cause for complaint, and when I met a policeman, there seemed no excuse for referring to the tramp's existence. Feeling bound to speak to the policeman, however, I stopped to inquire the time, and he eyed me curiously as he took out his watch. My clothes were by this time covered with dust, and no doubt I appeared a disreputable figure.
'Five past five,' said the policeman. I must have slept in the wood longer than I had thought.
'Thank you,' I answered, and he passed on, greatly to my regret.
The finger-posts told me that a place named Polehampton lay ahead, but I would not inquire the distance, and so tell the policeman that I did not know much about my destination. But when I fancied he must be close to the tramp, I looked back, just in time to see them exchange a nod in passing.
Every time I looked behind after this, my pursuer appeared to be gaining, although he took care not to overtake me. He could easily have done so had he wished, because I was becoming extremely tired, the more, no doubt, because of the fear which oppressed me. As this gained strength, I did the worst thing possible—playing, as it were, into the tramp's hands if his purpose was what I suspected. But this walk along the straight, open road as evening fell became gradually more and more unbearable. I even began to ask myself whether it could be actually a nightmare, and I should presently awake to find myself in bed at Ascot House, scarcely knowing which would be preferable.
Seeing a stile leading to a field-path on my right, I suddenly determined to climb over it, and though I had no notion whither it lead, to take to my heels, regardless of everything but the chance of leaving the tramp behind. In a second I was over, and, doubling my fists, began to run. There were some cattle in the field, and the path appeared to end at another stile, beyond which was a plantation of chestnut-trees. To the left, beyond a hedge, lay a large plot of waste ground; to the right, a dense wood, where I could hear some pigeons cooing.
I did not stay to look back until I reached the farther stile, a good deal out of breath, and then, to my intense relief, I saw nobody in the path. I persuaded myself that the tramp must have reached the first stile before now, and that, as there was no sign of him, he had gone on his way. Perhaps, I thought, as I climbed over the second stile, I had wronged the man after all, and had simply been the prey of my own timidity. Resting on the top of the stile a moment, I began to look around. In front was a narrow path through the chestnut plantation, and it must lead somewhere, though I knew not where. But I determined to follow it, thus making a slight divergence from the main road, and finding a way back to it to-morrow. Meantime, I might come to a village, where it would be possible to obtain some supper and a bed. So, rejoicing to have shaken off my nightmare, I sprang to the ground on the other side of the stile, when immediately I felt a hand on my collar, and saw the dark eyes of the tramp once more peering into my own.
He had, of course, dived into the wood when he saw me climb over the first stile, and, cutting off the corner, had been coolly awaiting my arrival. On the whole, I think that being in his grasp was almost preferable to the feeling that he was dogging my steps. His left hand gripped the collar of my jacket and flannel shirt, and instantly I began to wriggle, twisting my leg about his own in an attempt to bring him to the ground; but the man was of enormous strength, and, freeing himself, he shook me as a terrier shakes a rat, until I felt there was little breath left in my body.
Yet I did not give in without another struggle. I knew that he would take every penny I possessed, and that there was nothing else on which to raise any money. I was still nearly ninety miles from London, and already ready for another meal. I butted my head into his stomach, I struck out madly with my fists, I writhed and kicked, until, raising his right arm, he brought down his fist on my head, and after that I knew nothing for some time.
When I regained consciousness, I lay in the plantation about two yards from the path, just where I had been flung, I suppose. My head and body seemed to ache all over, but, on attempting to rise to my feet, I found no difficulty, beyond a slight giddiness. My bag had disappeared, my knickerbocker pocket, which had contained my total capital of fourteen shillings and eightpence, was sticking out empty, and, of course, there was no sign of the tramp. Walking to the stile, I found that my left ankle pained me, although not very severely; I could also see in the lessening light that my clothes were considerably torn.
So hopeless appeared the outlook that I confess I rested my arms on the top of the stile, buried my face on them and sobbed, until the increasing darkness warned me that crying would not provide a bed for the night. A bed for the night! But how could I obtain a bed without money? Still, it was not practicable to remain where I was, while I thought it would be better to take my chance through the plantation than to return to the road, where I might even meet the tramp again. Certainly, whichever direction I followed, I had no wish to walk very far. I had never felt quite so worn out in my life, as I continued my way through the plantation and a field beyond, the gate of which opened into a pleasant country lane. Here I turned to the right, as the main road lay to the left, and I had not walked many yards before I reached a pretty farm-house, standing well back, with a barn on its left, in which some cows were lowing. The sky was by this time of a dark blue, and one small star twinkled. I could not help looking rather longingly at the cosy house, and, while I looked, a lamp was carried into one of the front rooms and a red blind was drawn down. However, it was no use lingering there, so I walked on beside a hedge, fragrant with honeysuckle, past one or two fields, until I came to a black gate with something shadowy behind it. Stopping by the gate, I saw that the object in the field was part of a haystack, one side being cut into a kind of terrace. Four black calves came to the gate, but they turned tail and trotted away again as I put my leg over the top rail, for I at once made up my mind that there would be no better place to sleep than the haystack. The night was fine and hot, and my body ached to such a degree that I felt I could sleep anywhere.
TAKE CARE OF THE DAYS.
he little days come, one by one,
And smile into our face;
Each hath its dawn and set of sun,
Each hath its little place.
Then scorn them not, but use them well,
Treat each one as a friend;
Neglect them not! We cannot tell
How soon our days may end.
Heed not the years! Make every day
With love and labour fair;
The years, then, as they roll away,
Will need no further care.
E. D.
THE CAPTAIN'S TURN FIRST.
The captain of a merchant ship, on being appointed to a new vessel, heard that his crew had a very bad name for the use of oaths. He determined to put an end to bad language on his ship, and, knowing how hard it would be to do so by the mere exercise of authority, thought of a novel plan which was entirely successful. He summoned the men and addressed them thus:
'I want to ask you all a favour, and I know that British sailors will hardly refuse a favour to their new captain. It is my duty to take the lead in everything, and especially in one thing. Now, will you grant me my favour?'
'Aye, aye, sir,' said the men, not knowing what he would ask.
'It is this, then. I want to take the lead in swearing, and to use the first oath on board this ship, before any of you begin to swear.'
The men were at first surprised at the strange request, but they soon recovered and gave the captain a rousing cheer. Needless to say, the captain's oath was never uttered, and so the men had no excuse for swearing.
SAVED BY TWENTY GUINEAS.
hanks to his quickness of brain and fleetness of foot, M. de B——, a French Royalist officer, was able to use a well-known device and so effect an escape from imminent death.
On a certain memorable morning, sixty-nine brave soldiers were executed by the Republicans. The story of these deaths, and of one remarkable escape, is related by a fellow-prisoner who witnessed the scene.
At nine o'clock in the morning the prisoners were startled by the entrance of a Republican officer, who held a piece of paper in his hand, and was attended by an escort of about twenty soldiers. As he came in he announced:
'Citizens! you are to accompany me. Those whose names I shall call will not return to this place. As I read out the roll, let each one named range himself on the right-hand side.'
The men obeyed this order in silence; no one knew what it meant, and all feared the worst. Only two names were excepted from the roll; the other prisoners, seventy in number, stood in line, awaiting their unknown fate.
'The word was given to march,' says the narrator, 'and the whole seventy-two of us, guarded by a large number of Republican soldiers, filed out from the gloomy gaol. We were taken to the seashore, where a halt was made; then the officer in charge read the death-sentence, adding, as he turned to us—the two whose names were excepted from the fatal list—these words:
'"These others will not be sentenced until further evidence has been heard, but they will be present at the execution of those condemned."
'The unhappy men were then and there shot, one by one. This work of horror went on for an hour, and we, whose time had not yet come, were forced to stand by, fully expecting that the same fate would shortly be our own.
'Sixty-nine had fallen, and at last came the turn of De B——. The four men told off to shoot him said, "We are extremely sorry to do this, but it is the law, and we cannot help ourselves; and now, if you have any money about you, please bestow it upon us."
'A happy thought flashed through the Royalist's brain. "I have twenty guineas," he replied calmly, "but I do not desire to cause any jealousy amongst you. I will therefore fling down the coins, and let each one get what he can."
'With a dexterous movement of his hand he sent the golden coins spinning in all directions. The soldiers, in their greedy eagerness, forgot the prisoner for a moment, and scrambled for the money; this was what M. de B—— had reckoned on. As he was an excellent runner, taking to his heels, he promptly fled, got safely away, and was never recaptured.'
"The soldiers forgot the prisoner, and scrambled for the money."
"'Fight against my country! Not for the ransom of a king!'"
THE ADMIRAL AND THE FISHERMAN.
M. de Tourville, a French Admiral who lived in the beginning of King William the Third's reign, proposed to make a descent on the English coast, and, as his intention was to land somewhere in Sussex, he sent for a fisherman, a native of that county, who had been taken prisoner by one of his ships, in hopes of obtaining some useful information concerning the state of the Government. He asked the fisherman to whom his countrymen were most attached, to King James or to the Prince of Orange, styled King William.
The poor man, confounded by these questions, made the Admiral this reply: 'I have never heard of the gentlemen you mention; they may be very good lords for anything I know; they never did me any harm, and so God bless them both. As for the Government, how should I know anything about it, since I can neither read nor write? All I have to do is to take care of my boat and my nets, and sell my fish.'
'Then, since you are indifferent to both parties,' said the Admiral, 'and are a good mariner, you can have no objection to serve on board my ship.'
'I fight against my country!' answered the fisherman, with great vigour. 'No, not for the ransom of a king!'
W. Y.
GOOD-NIGHT, GOOD-DAY!
e got up to welcome the swallows
This morning as soon as the sun;
Then over the hills and the hollows
We went for a beautiful run.
The daisies were ready to meet us—
All over the meadows they grew;
But now we must say:
'Good-night, O good-day!
We've been very happy with you.'
We sang with the busy bees humming
O'er blossoms too bright to forget,
And when the soft breezes were coming
We saw the grass bow as they met.
Oh, may all the hearts that have known you
Now beat with a pleasure like ours,
And cheerfully say:
'Good-night, O good-day!
And thank you for sunshine and flowers.'
John Lea.
WHALEBONE.
Many thrilling stories have been written about the dangers of whale-fishing. The perils and hardships of whaling expeditions are braved in order that we may be supplied principally with two things—whale-oil and whalebone. If you can learn what whalebone is, and what is its use, you will know a good deal about the habits of the whale itself.
The substance which we call whalebone is not true bone. It would be much more correct to call it whales' teeth, as it occupies the same position as teeth, and, in a measure, serves the same purpose. Moreover, the whale has a skeleton of true bones underlying its flesh, and serving as a framework for its huge, bulky body. These bones are very light and porous, and this is a great advantage to the whale, which spends most of its time floating upon the surface of the water without having to make much effort.
There are numerous kinds of whales, and they do not all yield the substance which we call whalebone. The sperm whale, or cachalot, has teeth in its lower jaw, and no whalebone whatever. The Greenland whale, on the other hand, which is the one most sought after for its oil, has no teeth, but abundance of whalebone, which hangs from the sides of its upper jaw.
In order to get some idea of what this whalebone is like as it hangs in the whale's mouth, we must try to picture what the whale itself is like. The largest of them grow to something like sixty feet in length. The head is unusually large, and forms about one-third of the whole body, and the inside of the mouth is about as large as a ship's cabin or a very small room. The strips of whalebone, which reach from the upper jaw to the lower one, must, therefore, be very large. The largest strips, which hang in the middle of the jaws, are rather like large planks, being from ten to fifteen feet long, and about twelve inches across at their widest part. They are thinner than planks, however, and perhaps we might better compare them to long and broad saw-blades. There are altogether about three hundred of these whalebone planks or blades in the whale's mouth. They are set transversely—that is to say, one narrow edge of each piece touches the tongue, while the other edge lies against the cheek or lip. They lie so close together that from the middle of the edge of one blade to the middle of the edge of the next the distance is less than an inch, and yet there is a space between them. The whole set extends like a huge grate round the whale's mouth, the bars of whalebone being long in the middle of the sides of the jaws, and growing shorter near the back and front.
Whalebone is very fibrous or stringy, and it splits very readily. The lower ends of the pieces in the whale's mouth are split and frayed into stiff bristles, and the inner edges are frayed in the same way, while the outer edges are made smooth, so that they do not hurt the inside of the animal's lips. The roof of the whale's mouth is covered with smaller pieces of whalebone hanging down like bristled quills. Many of these are only a few inches long, but they make the whole of the upper part of the whale's mouth rough and bristly.
The creature's tongue is an enormous one, often measuring six yards long and three yards wide. Its throat, however, is so small that sailors often say a herring would choke it. What can be the use of such a large mouth and tongue, and such large bars of whalebone to a creature which has so small a throat?
On the surface of the Arctic Sea, where the whale lives, there are swarms of living creatures. Some of these are jelly-fish, like those which are often left upon the sea-shore when the tide goes out. But one of the commonest of these lowly animals is a little soft-bodied creature about an inch and a half long, which moves along through the water with the help of two organs like wings or paddles. It is called the Clio borealis, and it is very rarely seen near the shore. It is upon these creatures that the whale feeds. Opening its mouth wide, it rushes through the sea, and takes in a crowd of these soft-bodied animals, along with the water in which they are swimming. Closing its mouth, it drives out the water through its plates of whalebone, and the little creatures are caught in the bristles as in a net. Its great tongue is lifted up, and crushes them all into soft pulp, which is easily swallowed, even down the whale's small throat.
Thus every part of the whale's mouth is altered to suit its strange mode of feeding. The hard teeth, which would be of no use for biting small pulpy animals, are done away with, and a new growth of whalebone appears, which is of the utmost service in catching the whale its food.
Whalebone has been used for many purposes. It is split up into little pieces, and used for light frameworks, which are required to be stiff, but, at the same time, elastic. It used to be used for the ribs of umbrellas and for ladies' hoops. It was also split very small and used for the bristles of brushes. But it is now becoming scarce, and other substances are generally used in its place.
W. A. Atkinson.
SAVED BY THE ENEMY.
The following story of the Crimean War, told by the Russian author, Turgenieff, is well authenticated.
A young Russian Lieutenant, named Sergius Ivanovitch, was one cold night with an attacking party whose object was to drive a body of French soldiers from their position in front of the Russian lines. Wishing to be as free from hindrances as possible, this young lieutenant did not take his military cloak.
The French proved to be well posted on the edge of a wood. At the end of a desperate fight, the Russians were forced to retreat, leaving behind them their dead and wounded. Among the latter was Sergius Ivanovitch.
How he now longed for his cloak! He suffered even more from the cold than from his wound. Although a bullet was in his leg, he knew that the exposure, rather than the wound, would be the death of him. With many a shiver and groan, he was trying to examine his leg, when he heard some one say in French:
'You had better leave it alone. Be patient, and disturb your wound as little as possible.'
The man who thus spoke was a veteran French captain, who lay close by, more severely injured than Sergius.
'You are right, no doubt,' said the Russian; 'but I shall die of cold before morning.'
Then the Frenchman blamed him for coming out in the snow without his cloak. 'I have learned by experience,' said he, 'never to go out without mine. This time, however, it will not save me, for I am mortally wounded.'
'Your people will fetch you presently.'
'No, my dear enemy, I shall not last until help arrives. It is all over with me, for the shot has gone deep. Here! take my cloak. Wrap yourself up in it and sleep. One can sleep anywhere at your age.'
The young Russian protested in vain. He felt the cloak laid upon him, and its warmth sent him to sleep.
When he awoke in the morning, the French captain lay dead at his side. The Russian never forgot this generous act of one whom the policy of his nation had made his enemy.
E. D.