On Board of the Sea Eagle
OR, THE
Adventures of a Homeless Boy.
BY RALPH HAMILTON,
AUTHOR OF “CHESPA,” “OFF TO THE SOUTHWEST,”
ETC., ETC., ETC.
CHAPTER XII.
A SAIL—LAND.
Since the night of the mutiny they had been flying a signal of distress, and when Frank saw it fluttering at the mast-head, through his bitter, blinding tears, he wondered if it would bring assistance to him, or must he float on and on over this wide, silent sea till he, too, died? The thought was an appalling one, and he threw himself on the deck in an agony of despair.
So intense was his strange fear and grief and loneliness that he did not realize the fact that the schooner was driving through the water at the rate of five miles an hour, though he heard the wash of the waves against her sides, and felt the momentarily freshening wind blow cool on his face and pipe lonesomely through the cordage.
Weary, sick at heart, and worn out with watching, he finally fell asleep, and when he awoke the wind was gone, the sails flapped idly against the mast, and the sun, in unclouded splendor, was just beginning to peep above the eastern horizon.
He got up, feeling refreshed, but very hungry, went to the galley, searched around till he found some bread and a bit of cheese, and then came back to the shade of the awning to eat it.
The long day passed, the night came and went, and another day dawned, only to find Frank still drifting aimlessly on before any breeze that chanced to blow.
A little past noon he saw a sail a long way to windward, and so great was his joy at the discovery that he shouted at the top of his voice, and ran hither and thither about the deck in a mad transport of sudden hope and delight.
The vessel proved to be the British bark Swallow. Frank could hardly restrain his gladness within rational bounds when he saw her change her course and stand directly toward the Sea Eagle, with all the speed the light wind that was blowing would permit her to make.
When within speaking-distance, the stranger hove to and hailed:
“What schooner is that, and where bound?”
“The Sea Eagle, from Ruatan to Philadelphia!” piped the boy’s voice from the schooner’s deck.
“Where is your captain?”
“Dead!”
“His name and yours?”
“Captain Calvin Thorne. My name is Frank Arden, and I am all alone. First we had a mutiny on board, and then yellow fever, and now I am the only one left.”
“Yellow fever!” The captain of the bark repeated the words with a kind of terrified jerk. “Forward there, men! Bend on all sail and stand off!” he shouted to his crew, as he turned from the rail, where he had stood while speaking to Frank. “We can’t help you, boy. Sorry, but we can’t, if it’s yellow fever you have on board.”
And, to Frank’s unspeakable amazement, the bark was instantly put about, and was soon rapidly widening the distance between him and safety.
He had not thought of the dread pestilence the Sea Eagle carried in her every rope and spar and sail.
For a moment he felt as if he should die, so great was the reaction from eager hope and joy to bitterest disappointment and despair; but he rallied his sinking heart, after a little, and watched the bark disappear in the sun lit distance, with strangely-bright and tearless eyes.
“FRANK WORKED UNCEASINGLY UNTIL NEAR SUNSET.”
No one could, no one dared, to help him, when they knew it was yellow fever that menaced them, and tainted the very air through which the Sea Eagle sailed. He no longer need look for relief by means of a passing vessel. That hope was gone utterly; for it would be wicked and cruel not to tell of what it was the captain had died. And who would aid him, when they knew it was to risk their life to do so?
Yellow fever, and with good reason, is only another name for death to a sailor, and Frank could not blame them for giving the schooner a wide berth.
When the Swallow was quite out of sight, he returned to his seat under the awning. It was now almost sunset, and the haze and mist of early twilight began to creep over the tossing waves.
For the first time since he was left alone on the vessel, he sat himself down to calmly think over the terrifying position in which he was placed and gravely consider what it was best for him to do.
He had passed through all there was, he thought, of sorrow, dismay, disappointment and horror; and whatever there might be of suffering and danger in store for him, he felt that, at most, they could give him no greater pain than he had already endured.
The reflection somehow was as comforting as it was sudden and startling to his weary energies and overtaxed strength. He would not give up again, and, from that moment, resolved to save both the vessel and himself, if he could.
Captain Thorne, when predicting his own speedy death, had spoken as if he thought Frank would live to reach land; and in this belief he had died, after giving into the lad’s
keeping his little all of wealth and telling him what to do in case he survived the perils of this most perilous voyage.
And, oh, how faithfully would Frank carry out his dead benefactor’s wishes, if he but lived to set foot on the soil of Pennsylvania again!
Buoyed up by this new hope and determined henceforth to make the best of all and everything that might befall him, Frank went to the galley, made himself a cup of strong coffee, and, with some hard biscuit, cheese and dried beef that he found there, made a hearty supper.
Everything remained in the galley just as poor Nat had left it, and during the whole time he was on the schooner it constituted the limit of Frank’s foraging-ground, for he had not the courage to enter the cabin yet, or search for other stores than the cook’s room afforded.
On the evening of the fifth day a brisk breeze sprang up, which set the whitecaps to tumbling far and near and sent clouds of spray flying from the schooner’s bows.
The sun set in the luminous west, leaving behind a long track of orange and purple light; the growing moon flung its yellow rays across the troubled waters, melting into the million phosphorescent gleams that sparkled and quivered along the surface like living jets of fire. Frank had never before seen so lovely a sunset, or one so utterly lonely and sad. He stretched himself on the deck, with his two hands clasped under his head, in lieu of a pillow, and watched the masts make eccentric circles through the stars, and the few fleecy clouds, that for a time had followed in the wake of the moon, vanish, as it seemed to him, into the sea.
“The vessel must be making six knots an hour, and doing it, too, easily.”
Frank fell asleep with some such vague calculation drifting disconnectedly through his mind. He was awakened about daylight by the loud screaming of a number of gulls that were flying near the vessel in anxious search of a morsel of food.
He jumped up in great excitement, not on account of the noise made by the gulls, but another sound he heard—a deep, continuous roar, not unlike the moan of the wind through a pine forest.
He looked around him, first confusedly and then with surprised wonder. His eyes brightened, and a cry of joy broke from his lips, for there, not a mile away, was land. A long, white line of surf marked the boundary of the beach, and beyond it he saw the feathery tops of palm and cocoanut trees, nodding in the fresh morning breeze.
Land at last!
Again Frank’s jubilant shout echoed oddly clear and solitary above the incessant booming
of the breakers and the monotonous wash of the waves.
Land, and no mistake, and the Sea Eagle was driving straight toward it with a speed that would strand her in twenty minutes, if she kept on.
And grandly determined upon her own destruction looked the staunch old schooner, in the fast brightening rays of the rising sun, as, with all sail set and never a hand at her helm, she plowed her way toward the low, sandy shore stretching away like the shadow of doom before her.
Frank meant to beach her, and take his chance on the island, for an island he felt pretty certain it was.
He flew to the cabin, and brought up the captain’s glass. He could do it now without superstitious fear. To the southward he saw a black, barren ledge of rocks, rising abruptly out of the sea, but to the north and east the shore was low, and there did not appear to be much surf.
He ran to the wheel, and gave it a turn a point or two more to the north and east. The vessel obeyed her helm splendidly. The tide was at the flood, the wind fresh but steady, and blowing directly on land.
With firm, shut lips, watchful eyes and pale, resolute face, Frank kept his small hand on the spokes, the rapid pulsations of his heart telling away the seconds so audibly that he could count them.
In less than ten minutes’ time she struck, grounding lightly and getting off again; then she plunged forward, driven high on the beach by an incoming wave, and was as motionless as if she had never pitched and tossed through mountainous billows or careened to the angry rush of the storm-lashed sea.
Frank relinquished his grasp of the wheel, and drew a long breath of mingled regret and satisfaction.
“Fast aground till a squall comes along and breaks you up,” he said, as if speaking to the vessel. “It’s all there was left for either of us to do, for we are death, it seems, to every one that comes near us.”
Hardly a dozen yards were between him and solid earth. Frank soon had the ladder over the side, and in two minutes more was on shore.
He ran up and down the beach a little way, shouting at intervals as loud as he could, but there was no answer.
Scores of beautiful little paroquets were chattering in the palm trees, and numbers of long-legged sea-fowl stalking about on the reef, but no human being, or any sign of one, did he see.
It was necessary that he should know something about the size of the island before deciding what next it was best to do, so he set out to explore its wooded portion and ascertain what the prospects were for living on it for an indefinite length of time.
An hour’s tramp showed him that it was perhaps two miles long by less than half that distance wide, and to all appearance no human being other than himself had ever set foot upon it.
The northern part was simply a barren rock, fissured and seamed by the action of the water, its base marked by a tossing line of foam of ominous import, for it told of the sunken reefs hidden beneath its restless ebb and flow, and extending far out to sea. The
southern and eastern end were covered with a dense growth of tropical vegetation, but fresh water he did not find, or any animal, great or small. Many varieties of brilliantly-plumaged birds flew screaming away at his approach, but they were the only living things he saw.
He came back to the schooner, clambered on board, went to the galley, got himself a good breakfast, and, while he was eating it in the shade of the awning, made up his mind what he would do.
The rainy season was near at hand—a period which Captain Thorne had told him was usually ushered in by frequent afternoon squalls, accompanied by terrific thunder and lightning, which was more than likely to be speedily followed by a hurricane of such violence as to destroy in a second a vessel beached and helpless as was the Sea Eagle. The tide was going out by this time, and the schooner’s bow was buried high and dry in the sand.
Frank’s first act after finishing his breakfast was to take in the sail. Such of it as he could not handle he cut away, and then began to carry it on shore. The captain’s small boat still hung in the davits, but he did not need it as yet.
With the sails and spars he made a nice roomy tent, under the largest of the palm trees nearest the shore, so he could always have the schooner in sight, and also an unobstructed view of the open sea.
His object now was to make himself as comfortable as he could on the island, and then wait patiently for a sail to come and take him off, or something to turn up in his favor of a nature calculated to restore him again to the world and enable him to carry out to the letter Captain Thorne’s dying request.
By noon he had his tent up; then he went to the vessel and quickly removed to his new quarters one of the smallest of the casks of water on deck, a case of ship biscuits and the tin box the captain had charged him to guard with untiring care.
He worked unceasingly until near sunset, and the surf was again beginning to play around the stranded schooner’s bow.
He was so tired he could hardly stand, and made his last trip to the vessel for that day just as the moon began to glimmer over the water.
It looked so very friendly, hanging directly above the mainmast, like a great golden world, that he thought it would be pleasant to eat his supper on land, by the light of its mellow rays, though the fire he had kindled an hour before flamed up brightly on the sand close by and the fragrance of boiling coffee mingled appetizingly with the briny breath of the sea.
After partaking of his supper, he swung his hammock in the tent, for he had no desire to pass another night on the schooner, and in five minutes was fast asleep.
He had a lively remembrance of the red ants, soldier-snails, gnats, lizards, mosquitoes and sand-flies of Ruatan; but none of these winged and creeping pests disturbed his slumber, and he slept on until the sun was fully an hour high and the palm trees vocal with the chattering of the paroquets.
He awoke refreshed, sprang from his hammock and ran to see if the schooner was all right.
Yes, there she was! Her tapering masts shining like polished marble in the brilliant sunshine, and the tide fretting and frothing against her sides.
After an exhilarating plunge in the surf, Frank set about getting his breakfast. The day previous he had carried on shore all the galley furniture, completely dismantling poor Nat’s late quarters of stove, cooking utensils, cups and plates, and everything portable, even to the zinc covering of the floor.
He had not ventured so far as the hold, but had taken everything of value from the captain’s cabin—his books and charts, the ship’s instruments, a fine eight-day chronometer clock, still going, and which he wound up with no little pleasure.
He carefully housed on shore the contents of the lockers, which included a case of port wine, a little bag of Spanish reals, another of doubloons, a case of canned meats, two of preserved fruits and jellies and a small medicine chest.
All the cargo, save the cocoanuts, was a rotten mass in the hold, the larger part of which he eventually pitched overboard.
There were coffee, chocolate, sugar, rice, beans, dried beef, barley, vermicelli, a small quantity of tea, salt pork, hard biscuit, flour, salt beef, lemons, honey, a cask of vinegar, a dozen sacks of salt and a few other supplies, such as a sailing craft of the kind usually carries.
In four days’ time Frank had every movable article out of her, yet the dreaded squall had not come nor a drop of rain fallen.
There lay the Sea Eagle, blistering under the sun by day and gauntly outlined under the stars by night, changed in no way since she stranded, except that she had settled quite two feet in the sand and was aground
so firmly that it looked as if it would take a pretty strong gale to blow her to pieces.
So far, Frank had been too busy and too much engrossed by the novelty of his situation to devote much time to thinking; but now, when the excitement and hurry was over and he had leisure to turn his attention to other matters, second only in importance to securing all there was of value in the schooner, he concluded to make a thorough exploration of the island and the grim, conical-shaped ledge of rocks that formed its upper, or southern part.
So, the fifth day of his landing on the island, he got ready the small boat, placed in it a bottle of water and a good supply of food, and set out to row around the reefs.
He made a complete circuit of the island, and found it to be one of the many results of volcanic eruption common throughout the Pacific Ocean and the Caribbean Sea.
At low tide, a long, black reef showed its frowning edge above the restless surf, connecting with the higher point of rocks overlooking the narrow strip of fertile land lying between it and the sandy beach, where the Sea Eagle had stranded, and still maintained the strange and lonely anchorage she had made for herself.
Frank, curious and venturesome as he might be, was yet keenly alive to hidden dangers, and, as he rowed around among the rocks, kept a sharp lookout for treacherous currents and submerged ledges.
The meridian sun was pouring down its fiercest rays, and he was thinking of returning to his tent and the grateful shade of the palm-trees, when, just as he had rounded the jagged spur of a particularly ugly-looking coral reef, he suddenly saw before him a deep, dark line of perfectly smooth water, over-arched by a natural bridge of grayish-white limestone, and flowing, as it seemed to him, directly under the island.
The entrance to this odd underground water-way was not more than four feet in height by six wide, but he unhesitatingly entered the narrow channel, bent upon seeing what there was of it and where it led to.
Drawing a long breath of surprise and satisfaction, he ceased rowing, and, as the boat came to a stand-still on the glassy surface of this subterranean sea, he uttered an exclamation of wonder, and looked around him in a maze of doubt and admiration.
The cool, grotto-like atmosphere and dim, half-twilight contrasted pleasantly with the heat and glare outside, though the silence was something oppressive, and different from any he had ever before known.
No sound of wave or sigh of wind or howl of tempest seemed ever to have been heard here. The water along the edges of the rocks was absolutely without motion, and the light from either extremity of the cave—as one might call it—nearly lost itself before it reached the vaulted centre.
Frank shouted loudly, and in answer the rocks sent back only the faintest and most weirdly far-away echoes.
When Frank had somewhat recovered from his astonishment, and his eyes had become accustomed to the dim light, he found the cay, or channel, to be some fifty yards in extent, cut through the soft, porous rock by the action of the water, that for ages and ages of time had beaten against its gradually-yielding base, until it had made for itself a passage such as man, with all his marvelous ingenuity, could never have fashioned.
Frank rowed the entire length of the cay—as the Bay Islanders call these little wave-made inlets—coming out on the opposite side to that which he had entered; and then, as it was getting late, he returned home, as the brave-hearted boy termed the spot where he had pitched his tent and stored his provisions.
Apart from finding the channel, he had made no discovery worth mentioning. With the exception of a few sea-birds, he saw no living creature, great or small; but this he did not much mind, for he hoped a sail would come his way soon, and solitude was no new thing to him. So he ate his supper with hearty relish, and, when it was dark, clambered into his hammock and fell peacefully asleep.
CHAPTER XIII.
A CHANGE OF PLANS.
The morning of the tenth day of his residence upon the island Frank rowed around to the grotto—as he called his new-found giant’s causeway—taking with him his fishing-tackle and a substantial luncheon of bread and cheese and dried beef.
Fish of various kinds abounded in the quiet waters of the inlet, and in an hour he had caught as many as he wished to carry “home.”
He had seen no sharks anywhere near the reef, and so, when he saw a beautiful pearly-white shell lying at the bottom of the water, which was not more than five feet deep under any part of the natural arch of soft porous stone, he threw off his clothes and unhesitatingly made a dive for it.
He got the shell, and made a very important discovery at one and the same time. Happening to glance upward as he came to
the surface, his quick eye saw a low, narrow opening leading directly into what seemed to be the solid rock.
The mouth of the cavern was slightly shelving, and situated a little less than mid-way of the centre of the arch.
Frank lost no time in climbing into it, and was surprised to find himself in a semi-dark, sea-scented cavern, in shape something like an old-fashioned Dutch oven and fully seven feet in height.
There was sufficient light to enable him to see that the floor of the cave was thickly strewn with fragments of shells and gray-white coral, the stone itself being so soft that he could easily penetrate it with his jack-knife.
These submarine caves or grottos are numerous in the Bermudas, and the limestone rock of which they are mainly formed so extremely impressionable as to be readily cut into blocks for building purposes with a common saw.
Frank remembered having heard Captain Thorne speak of them, but he little thought at the time that he would ever be the discoverer of one on an island in the midst of the Caribbean Sea.
Solitude, and having to look out for himself, as the saying goes, if it had done nothing else, had sharpened his wits, and he was not long in coming to the conclusion that, by enlarging the cave inland, he could make an opening quite near his tent, and thus have both a dry and wet-weather habitation.
He returned to the beach, where the Sea Eagle was daily sinking deeper and deeper in the sand, full of his new plans. He could hardly prepare his supper, so eager was he to begin work on his latest project and have his stores securely housed before the rainy season set in.
He went to bed early, but was up with the dawn, ate his breakfast while yet the rays of the rising sun were but faintly illumining the east, and then, with hatchet and hammer and saw, some coils of stout rope and a plentiful supply of food, set out for the cave.
He was not long in reaching it, and by noon had cut through five feet of the calcareous stone, piling up the portion cut away in a kind of wall on the lower side, where the rocky floor sloped somewhat precipitously, forming a channel, through which a considerable rivulet stole silently along, to join and lose itself in the great ocean that for miles and miles surrounded it on every hand.
For four whole days he worked like a Trojan, cutting away and piling up the soft, limy stone, and on the fifth was rewarded by a glimmer of sunlight shining through the aperture he had made in the landward part of the rock.
From the small opening he could see the tent, the tall palm trees that sheltered it from the fierce rays of the meridian sun and the tapering masts of the old schooner as she lay fast aground on the blistering strand, and the landwash lazily undulating against her stern.
A little way beyond, some gulls and a blue heron were watching for flying-fish, great numbers of which would every once in awhile skim like so many silver leaves over the surface of the water, coming up and going down at short intervals, more in fear than play, for no doubt their relentless enemies, the dolphins, were after them, with a view to making a meal off as many as were so unfortunate as to come within their reach.
Frank could not repress a shout of delight, in which there was mingled a good deal of pardonable triumph, when he nimbly scrambled through the narrow aperture he had made with so much patient toil, and stood on the firm, warm earth without the gray, damp cavern.
All about his feet grew luxuriant ferns, soft mosses and trailing vines, the vegetation gradually lessening as it met the base of the dark rock forming the roof of the cave, and disappearing altogether before it reached the summit, or what Frank judged would be the summit if one were to approach it from the direction of the tent.
The next three days Frank spent in removing the most perishable part of his goods to the cave, and this he did none too soon, for the afternoon of the third day a dense black cloud suddenly arose in the northwest, accompanied with ominous rumblings of thunder and quivering flashes of lightning.
There was no fresh water on the island, so far as he had been able to discover, and the patter of the big rain-drops on the broad leaves of the palms was not only a pleasant sound, but one that assured Frank that for a time, at least, he was not likely to die of thirst.
This warning foretaste of what he might expect for the next three months, if he stayed so long on the island, admonished Frank to make himself as comfortable as possible in the cave, and from its snug shelter defy wind and wave.
He had heard Dunham say that these sudden storms were diurnal in their nature, and frequently of great fury and destructiveness, so the following morning he moved all his belongings into the grotto, as he liked best
to call the cave, and set up housekeeping in a manner that no hurricane, however severe, could interfere with.
“Nobody can say I am in the way here,” he said—for he had gotten into the habit of talking to himself—surveying, as he spoke, his rocky home, and smiling sadly. “I am neither a bother nor a burden to any one now. I’m alone on an uninhabited island, and may die here, for all I can tell to the contrary; but I don’t know but what that is better than being nagged by Aunt Susan, or driven about on the ocean, with nothing but an old schooner between one and the bottom of the Caribbean Sea. It’s just eighteen days since I landed on this island, and I was five days on the schooner—that makes twenty-three—and I’m alive yet. If I have to stay here a year, that will not be very long. I’ve provision enough to last that length of time, and it will give me an opportunity to grow and to think. I’ll read all Captain Thorne’s books, and there’s a good many of them, including works on navigation, history and science. I’ll fish and row when the weather is fine, and when it isn’t I’ll amuse myself in enlarging the grotto. I’ll make a collection of all the plants and flowers I find on the land and all the shells and seaweeds I find in the sea, or that may drift on the shore. I’ve a whole island that I may honestly call my own, a box of candles, plenty of matches, four cans of oil, a lamp and a lantern, a good boat, and lots of other things besides; so I am pretty well off, after all, and ought not to grumble at the hard luck which has befallen me.”
And Frank did try hard not to grumble; but, with the sea beating eternally around his rocky home, and no change anywhere, day after day, save in the scudding clouds and the waning of the old and the rising of the new moon, he grew very weary of his utter loneliness, and there came a time when he would have given his life to hear again a human voice and see again a human face.
CHAPTER XIV.
DANGEROUS VISITORS.
Every hour in the day Frank scanned the horizon in hopes of seeing a sail. He felt that he could not be more than a hundred miles from the Bay Islands, and not altogether out of the track of sailing vessels.
Once he saw what appeared to be a long, low cloud hovering midway between the sky and water, and which he knew to be the smoke from a steamer; but it was so far off that, even with the glass, he could only make out the slow-moving line of smoke that marked her course.
His boat he kept in the channel forming the water entrance to the grotto, and during the roughest weather he had yet experienced on the island the tide never once rose higher than from four to six inches, and its ebb and flow was so silent that it was never heard, no matter how loud and tempestuously the surf was roaring without.
The rainfalls, though light, were more frequent, denoting the near approach of the dreaded wet season, when for days together he might be kept a prisoner in the cave, so he wisely took advantage of what remained to him of fair weather, and was out on the reef every morning as soon as it was light, looking, with longing eyes, for the hoped-for sail.
What wonder, then, after all this patient watching and waiting, that his heart leaped with indescribable joy when he saw a sail, not three miles away, and heading directly for the island!
At first he thought it was a turtle-sloop, by its size and rig, but, as it came nearer, it looked more like a pilot-boat, and somehow the sight of it strongly reminded him of his old enemy, Juan Montes, the wrecker.
They were beating up toward the point where the schooner lay, and their object evidently was to land and take a look at the stranded vessel.
A sudden fear seized Frank. It might be wreckers in search of spoils, and, in that case, from the recent experience he had had among them, it were better perhaps for him to retire to his cave until he knew something more of their intentions.
This he quickly did, taking care, however, not to break or bend a feathery fern or crush a tuft of moss, as he hastened within his retreat.
Then he hurriedly pushed to its place the block of stone that served for a door—or, rather, a window, for the aperture was only just large enough to admit of Frank’s crawling through—and, when this was done, he took up his position at one of the two small loop-holes he had made, as a precautionary means when stormy weather might make it necessary to close the window.
Both lookouts commanded an unobstructed view of the sea and that part of the beach where the Sea Eagle lay.
Frank watched the slow approach of the sailboat, with bated breath and loudly-beating heart.
It was Juan Montes! and with him Dick Turpie, the mulatto, Sagasta and Chris Lamberton.
A chill of mortal fear crept over Frank, from head to foot. He could not speak nor stir—scarcely to breathe—so great was his surprise and terror.
He saw them haul down the sail, drop the anchor, all four jump into the small boat towing astern, cast off the line and pull for the shore.
If discovered, he would surely be murdered, for as well might Frank hope to escape the blood-thirsty jaws of a wild beast, if in its power, as to expect mercy from these cruel, half-civilized, lawless men.
With a yell of exultant joy and malignant triumph, Sagasta cried, as he leaped on shore:
“It’s the Sea Eagle, by all that’s lucky! Come on, mates. She’s ours now; and no mean prize, either!”
The three quickly followed Sagasta’s lead, and were soon clambering up the side of the Sea Eagle, like so many overgrown, ill-favored monkeys.
But their joy speedily changed to anger and disappointment, when they discovered that the schooner had been already pillaged of everything of value about her. Even the cabin door and windows were gone, and every rope and spar and sail; the cook’s galley, hold and forecastle plundered of every article worth carrying off, and an air of general desolation and ruthless ransacking pervaded her from stem to stern.
“Somebody’s been here afore us!” said the wrecker, with a quick look shorewards. “I don’t understand it. Where’s her boat? What’s become of her captain? If he, or any of his crew, are a-hiding anywhere on the island, I’ll soon know it. Let’s have a look around, lads, afore we begins work. This way!”
He drew his knife from its sheath as he spoke, the others following his example, Sagasta alone of the formidable quartette producing a revolver in addition to his knife; and thus armed, and ready to meet and exterminate any foe who might happen to be near, they separated, Sagasta going around to the southward, Turpie to the north, while Lamberton made for the centre of the island and Montes bestowed all his attention on the reef and its immediate neighborhood.
Frank was pale with suspense and fear. If they should find the seaward entrance to the cave, he was lost. Yet they might easily discover the causeway, and even sail through it, and still fail to find the cavern itself. He had found it only by the merest chance.
The thought gave him new courage, and he dared to again fix his eyes on the beach and the bit of sea where the wreckers’ boat was gracefully rocking on the short land-swells.
All four returned in little more than an hour, and sat down under a wild plantain tree, not three feet from Frank’s place of concealment.
“There’s no one on the island, I’m certain of that,” said Montes, whose squat, ugly form was so near the loop-hole that it actually darkened Frank’s range of vision. “I can’t just make it out, but I know this much—that’s the Sea Eagle, and she’s ours dead sure! We’ll get her off to-morrow at flood-tide. There’s a bit of a blow in that cloud a-comin’ up in the east, but it won’t amount to much, so we’ll light a fire, get something to eat, and take it easy.”
“It’s pretty nigh a month since she stranded, by the depth of the sand around her,” remarked Turpie, looking first at the schooner and then at the fire he was kindling a little way from the others. “I’d like to know what’s become of the captain and the mate and Jack?”
“I reckon Dunham’s in Davy Jones’ locker, for that air slash Dardano gave him wasn’t no scratch, I can tell you. They was short of hands, and didn’t have no time to attend to him; but that don’t satisfactorily account for the schooner bein’ here, and dismantled as she is,” rejoined Montes, with a puzzled air. “Captain Thorne wasn’t the man to abandon his ship while a plank held together, and there’s the Sea Eagle with as sound a hull as ever floated, and a—”
“And the better luck for us,” roughly interrupted Sagasta. “I’d like to have got a whack at the boy; but, since he’s food for sharks, I’ll call it square. Wreckers have been here before us—there’s no doubt of that—and they’ve cleaned her out pretty thoroughly, too; but we’ll take the schooner, and she’s a good enough prize to suit me,” he laughed, with a cunning glance at Montes. “Yes, good enough, and as lawful a one as was ever picked up on the high seas,” he continued, in a rather more positive tone of voice. “All we have to do is to get her off, bend on a sail or two, and head her for Bonacca or Barbette. Once there, we’ll just paint out her old name and paint in a new one, and then, with that dark water-line transformed into a light blue, and I am Captain Sagasta, if you please, with fair pay for your services, of course, mates.”
This last remark of Sagasta’s did not seem to meet with much favor from Chris and the mulatto, but they were prudently silent, for the Spaniard was obviously the master-spirit of the unprepossessing gang. Even Montes, cruel and greedy as he was,
yielded him the palm of superiority in matters of this sort.
Having finished their hastily-prepared meal, Turpie acting both as cook and steward, they cut down several of the largest of the palm trees that grew in the vicinity, and began shaping them into rollers ready for getting the schooner afloat.
Frank was a frightened but very attentive watcher of all they did. Not till he saw them repair to their boat for the night did he venture to snatch a mouthful to eat.
Every word of their conversation, while seated under the plantain tree, he had heard, and the recollection of it, and the near proximity of such dangerous neighbors, prevented him from closing his eyes the live-long night.
By the first peep of day the wreckers were astir, and so was Frank—that is, he had taken up his station at the loophole, determined to let nothing escape him in relation to their plans and purposes.
As soon as the tide was out, they began shoveling away the sand that had collected around the schooner’s bow, the four of them working like beavers till there was space made sufficient to allow of placing the rollers under her, and, by this means, gradually extricating her from the imprisoning sands. They were still working when the tide was up to their knees and lapping high on the beach.
“Hurrah! There she goes!”
The shout startled Frank, and, with a sick heart and quivering lips, he saw the Sea Eagle slowly turn broadside toward the sea, and then fall off into deep water. The staunch old schooner was afloat once more, as sound as the day she was launched.
The pilot-boat was brought alongside and made fast, then they bent on all the sail they could muster, and, as the hastily-rigged canvas caught the wind, Sagasta waved his sailor-cap and exultantly exclaimed:
“Here’s to Captain Thorne, a hundred fathoms below soundings; and here’s to the Sea Eagle and her new commander!”
All repeated Sagasta’s shout with a hearty good will, for they were now fairly under way—the Spaniard, Chris and the mulatto remaining on the schooner, and Montes alone managing the pilot-boat.
Frank never took his eyes off the vessels, which kept close company, till both were nearly out of sight. Then he removed the stone, crept through the opening, and ran to the spot where only the ashes of the wreckers’ fire were to be seen.
He felt unutterably lonely. To look at the beach and not see the schooner there was like missing for the first time the face of a dear and only friend. He sat down on the sand and listened sadly to the moan of the surf fretting along the beach and the hollow boom of the breakers dashing against the reef.
The Sea Eagle now was but the merest speck on the ocean. It disappeared utterly, and the sun set in a bank of wrathy, black clouds.
Frank returned to the cave, too miserable to care for any supper, lay down on his bed, drew the blanket over his head and sobbed himself to sleep.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
[ How My Camera Caught a Bank Robber.]
BY ELTON J. BUCKLEY.
Lester Drake’s detective camera first created the idea of photography in my mind. Before that, I hadn’t the slightest inclination toward the art whatever, but when Lester purchased his neat little leather-covered box, and went around merely pressing a button, and getting dozens of pictures by no other means, I immediately decided that I, too, must have a camera.
Lester’s was not an expensive one. His father had found it in one of the photographic establishments in Philadelphia, and being of a slightly scientific turn of mind himself, had purchased it and brought it home to Lester. The latter fitted up a corner of the cellar as a dark-room, and straightway launched himself as an amateur photographer.
Lester’s first attempts, revealed by the chemical development, were surprisingly good, and inspired a strong feeling of envy in the breasts of those of his comrades whose fathers were blind to the oft-repeated advantages and delights of amateur picture-taking. Even more exasperating, he straightway became the idol of all the girls at school, whose zeal in posing for him was only equaled by the grotesqueness of some of their postures.
I brooded long and deep over this unpleasant condition of affairs, and finally arrived at the conclusion that I would have a camera like Lester at any cost.
Lester was kind enough to initiate me into the mysteries of his dark-room, and to allow me to examine the interior of his camera
by ruby light. With the knowledge thus gained, I resolved to manufacture one myself. It wouldn’t be as handsome as Lester’s, perhaps, I thought, but it might do just as good work. So I made the attempt, using the lenses from an old microscope which I owned, but in vain. The instrument never reached the second stage of its construction.
The contrast between Lester’s clean, smoothly-covered box, and what I knew mine would appear, even if I could finally complete it, was too great, and I abandoned it in despair.
Then I tried another tack. My father was exceedingly skeptical concerning the desirability of amateur photography, and flatly refused to furnish the necessary funds. It was October then, so I conceived a plan by which I would earn money during the fall by corn-husking among the near-by farmers, so that when spring opened I would have the price of the coveted camera.
No one could have worked harder during the weeks through which the season lasted than did I. Huskers were in demand that fall, and I secured work wherever I applied.
It is just possible that if Lester had grown tired of his camera in the meanwhile, and had ceased to use it, my desire for one might likewise have gone by the board, but the snap of his shutter was heard everywhere and at all times, and even at night—by flash-light—in the barns, where the frequent huskings were progressing.
When, after a few weeks, the farmers ceased to require buskers, I struck up a bargain with our grocer, whereby I was to spend Saturdays running errands for him. The money from this helped out wonderfully, and, according to my expectations, when April opened, a snug little sum reposed as the fruit of my labors in one corner of my top bureau drawer.
As soon as the weather moderated slightly, Lester, who now posed as a photographic oracle, and myself, went to the city one fine morning to buy the camera.
The neat little leather-covered box was duly inspected and purchased, together with the pamphlet of instructions that seemed so enticingly mysterious to my uninformed mind.
The camera was just like Lester’s, with the exception of some minor improvements, which had been effected since the time when he had purchased his.
On the way home, Lester and I drew up a compact whereby I was to have the use of his dark-room and chemicals until I felt that I was fairly on my photographic legs. Then I was to fix up one of my own.
The camera had been sold loaded with plates, ready for use, and I lost no time in snapping several views here and there as the fancy seized me.
Lester taught me to develop them, and when the most of them came up under the chemicals clear and sharp, my delight was great.
And when I made prints from them, and the familiar home scenes and my playmates’ faces were there plainly before me, it seemed to me that the universe could hold nothing more entrancing than amateur photography. Of course I had failures, but they were few compared with the successes.
One morning in May, after I had become thoroughly versed in the art of using the camera and had fitted up a dark-room of my own in the attic, Lester and I sallied out with our cameras, for no other purpose than to secure a half-dozen snap-shots whenever desirable ones might present themselves.
It was an ideal day for picture-taking. Rain had fallen the night before and had left the atmosphere clear and brilliant, with none of that dim haze which is the camerist’s Nemesis so often.
We had strolled along the road, perhaps two miles out of the village, and had caught three or four very pretty views.
None had presented themselves, however, for some time, when, by a turn of the road, we came upon a man drinking from a spring at the side of the road. He was but a few feet away, and was stooping down with his back toward us.
“Let’s get him,” said I, in a low tone.
“All right,” replied Lester; “you do it, though. I’ve only got one plate left.”
I had several unexposed plates remaining in my camera, so I pointed the box toward the man and pressed the button. Just at the instant when the shutter must have operated, the man heard us and turned his head, facing us squarely.
He evidently understood what we were about, for he scowled deeply and walked rapidly away through the woods, without, however, offering to molest us. He carried a small black grip with him.
As the man’s retreating figure disappeared through the trees, Lester and I drew a long breath of relief, for we felt like criminals detected in a crime, and we were a trifle afraid of the fellow beside.
We wandered on a little further, snapping a few more wayside pictures, and then turned toward home and retraced our steps.
That afternoon, Lester came over to my father’s house to witness the development of the morning’s pictures.
As, one by one, we put the plates through the developer, a majority came out well. One or two were a trifle under-exposed, and there were minor defects in others; but, on the whole, they were very good.
The star negative of the lot, however, was that of the stranger whom I had photographed drinking, and who had turned his head and caught me in the act. That was perfect. Everything was brilliantly sharp, and the shutter had caught the man’s full face. In the negative, even so small an object as his eyes stood out beautifully.
We made a blue-print of this negative, and both Lester and myself recognized the faithfulness of the likeness, notwithstanding the fact that we had seen the man but a moment.
About the middle of the afternoon, my father returned from the neighboring town, ten miles away, in one of the banks of which he was clerk. He seemed to be much excited and perturbed about something. My mother noticed it also, and immediately inquired as to the cause of his uneasiness.
“The bank was robbed last night,” he answered, “and over fifty thousand dollars stolen. Every cent I had in the world is gone with the rest.”
My mother made an exclamation of dismay.
“And the worst of it is,” went on my father, “that we are almost certain who the thief is, but we haven’t a thing in the world to trace him by—not a vestige of a photograph or anything like it, which we could give to detectives to guide them in the hunt. The man’s gone, and the money with him.”
And my father sank despondently into a chair.
Meanwhile Lester and I stood by, listening silently, the still wet blue-print in my hand. After a minute I went and pressed the print out flat upon the table, on which my father’s arm was leaning. At any other time I would have proudly exhibited it to him, and would have been sure of his interest and appreciation, but I did not feel like intruding upon his present worriment.
As I laid the picture face upward upon the table, my father turned his head and looked at it indifferently. Suddenly he pushed me aside, and bent over the print so closely that his face almost touched it.
I recovered my balance with difficulty, and stared at him in frightened bewilderment. My father had never acted in this manner before, and I was almost afraid he had gone mad.
“Great Scott!” he exclaimed. “The very thing!”
Then, wheeling around, he grasped me by the shoulders, and wanted to know where I got that picture.
I was far too dazed by his strange actions to answer a word; so Lester interposed and told my father, in as few words as possible, of our morning expedition, and of the man whom we had photographed in the act of drinking.
“Bless the camera!” ejaculated my father, excitedly, “that’s Eli Parker, the thief! And the best likeness of him I ever saw, too!”
Then he questioned us closely as to the direction the man had taken when discovered, and ended by confiscating the print and the negative, and rushing out of the house to take the next train back to town. Lester and I talked about it all the afternoon, and felt ourselves quite heroes for having the temerity to stand before a real bank robber.
Fifty prints were immediately struck off from the negative, and these were given to detectives, who scoured the country in every direction. After a two days’ search, those nearest home were successful, and found Parker in the same woods where Lester and I had first surprised him. He had sought to evade capture by avoiding railroads, and hiding himself until the first excitement of the robbery had passed. As the whole amount of stolen funds was discovered in the little black grip which he carried, he was convicted of the crime without difficulty, and sentenced for a term of fifteen years in State prison.
The sequel of the incident was the most agreeable and the most astonishing of all. One day, a month subsequent, when Parker had been safely housed in the penitentiary, my father came home, and, with a mysterious smile upon his face, handed me an envelope. Upon being opened, the discovery was made that “Howard Benton and Lester Drake were authorized to draw upon the First National Bank of C——, for $100 apiece, in slight recognition of their part in apprehending Eli Parker, the perpetrator of the recent robbery upon that institution.”
I am still an ardent disciple of amateur photography. Who wouldn’t be under such circumstances?
—The umbrella is undoubtedly of high antiquity, appearing in various forms upon the sculptured monuments of Egypt, Assyria, Greece and Rome; and in hot countries it has been used since the dawn of history as a sunshade—a use signified by its name, derived from the Latin umbra, a shade.
| [ GOOD RULES.] BY REV. P. B. STRONG. If a mean thing you would do, Always put it off a day; If a noble act and true, Do not e’en a moment stay. Ne’er by proxy do a deed. Would you have it surely done; It you’d never come to need, Wait not wealth from any one. Deem no coin too small to save, Quit not certainty for hope; Good denied, you cease to crave, Neither o’er the future mope. What you can’t by bushels take, Get by spoonfuls, if you can; Never mounts from mole hills make; Ere you leap, the distance scan. Shiver not for last year’s snow, Nor bemoan the milk that’s spilt; When you hasten, slowly go; Keep your conscience clear of guilt. These old rules, which here in verse You behold thus newly set, Well it would be to rehearse, Till not one you could forget. |
[ A Perilous Ride.]
BY W. BERT FOSTER.
“So you boys think you came down here pretty fast, eh?” asked Randy Bronson, crossing one wooden leg over the other and stretching them both out toward the great fire of hickory logs that were roaring in the chimney.
Seven of us academy boys had piled into the only double cutter the village livery stable possessed, and had covered the nine miles between the school and Randy’s place down on the river road in forty-five minutes, and for a pair of farm horses we thought that pretty good time. Randy’s suppers, or rather his wife Maria’s suppers, were famous, and the doctor was always willing to let a party of us off for an evening at their little establishment providing we were back in good season. Randy and his wife were to be trusted to look out for the most harum-scarum boy who ever attended the Edgewood Academy.
While supper was being prepared we gathered about Randy and the wide open fireplace to wait for the repast, with all the patience at our command.
If Maria Bronson’s suppers had gained a reputation among us, so had Randy’s stories. He had been a sailor in his youth, and, indeed, in middle life, until during a naval engagement on the lower Mississippi, in the civil war, he had both legs shot away, and was doomed to “peg about,” as he jocularly called it, on wooden substitutes.
“So you thought you came down here pretty fast?” asked Randy, repeating the remark which opened this narrative. “And well you might, with the roads in the condition they are now. But I’ve been sleighing faster than any of you boys have traveled, unless it was on a railroad train, and over the roughest sort of a track, too.”
We all foresaw a story at once and were eager enough to hear the tale. So with little urging Randy began:
“When I was a boy you know I went to sea,” he said, and we all nodded acquiescence, for about every story Randy told commenced with just that remark. “My parents died when I was young and I was bound out to an old uncle; but farming wasn’t to my taste, and I was always longing so for salt water that finally he told me I wasn’t worth my board and clothes, and to clear out and go to sea if I wanted to.
“I didn’t need any second bidding. I went off that very night, and I never saw my Uncle Eb again.
“After going two or three trips to ‘the banks,’ I shipped aboard the New Bedford whaler Henry Clay, knowing well enough that whaling couldn’t be a great sight worse than fishing off Newfoundland in the dead of winter.
“As luck would have it, though, the Henry Clay joined the North Atlantic fleet and started for the Greenland fishing grounds. We lost the rest of the fleet in a big blow off Cape Farewell and worked northward alone, having the good fortune to fall in with several school of right whales, out of which we
captured three or four ‘balleeners,’[*] the oil and bone together being worth something like eighteen thousand dollars.
“The captain had begun to crow over the fine season we were having, when, early in October, we were caught in a nip in Cumberland Inlet, and the ice piled in so solidly around us that we knew we were good for all winter. There wasn’t any particular danger, for the Henry Clay was a well-built craft, strengthened to withstand just such a squeeze as the ice-pack was giving us.
“Captain Simon Lewis, as kind-hearted a man as ever I sailed under, made all needed preparations for winter at once, and we boys before the mast looked forward to a pretty jolly season.
“We were warmly clad, the fo’castle grub was better than is common with whalers, and there was every prospect for plenty of fresh meat and good hunting, as soon as the ice about us should become firm.
“After everything had been made ship-shape, we were given all the freedom we needed, and the library brought aboard by the officers was open to common use. Several days after this order of things had been established, the mate took half a dozen of us younger fellows out for a long tramp over the ice. There were three guns in the party, and we went along like a parcel of schoolboys out on a frolic.
“We made only about eight miles before noon, for the ice was so uneven that the traveling was rougher than any I had ever experienced, when suddenly, upon rounding an enormous ice hummock, we came in sight of a group of Esquimaux, sledges and dogs, and were discovered before we could retreat behind the hummock again.
“The crowd raised a cry of ‘Kabulenet! Oomeak! Kabulenet! Oomeak!’ which means, ‘White men and ships!’ and a general rush was made in our direction.
“The mate told us there was nothing to fear, as they were quite friendly, and he walked forward to meet them. He had been among them before and knew some of their words, so we were quickly on excellent terms with them.
“They surrounded us, laughing and chattering like so many children, shaking hands, examining our clothes and repeating, like parrots, the words and expressions the white men whom they had met before had taught them.
“One old chap, Kalutunah by name, seemed especially kindly disposed towards us, and, following his example, the entire party, finding the white men’s ship was so near, decided to make their winter quarters near us, knowing
that they would probably get what would be, to them, valuable presents.
“Captain Lewis was glad to have them for neighbors, too, for, if we should happen to run short of fresh meat or should get smashed in the ice—and there is always a possibility of that—the Esquimaux would be of great assistance.
“They built their igloos not far from the ship, and we interchanged frequent visits. Kalutunah and I became very intimate, and I tried to teach him English words and their meaning in his language; but he never got any farther than ees and noe—his pronunciation of ‘yes’ and ‘no.’
“Two months of such an easy life as we led tired me more than cutting up the biggest ‘balleener’ that was ever ‘ironed.’ Parties of the Esquimaux went off hunting every day, and, finding that Kalutunah was making preparations for a two days’ hunt up the inlet, I begged the captain to allow me to go with him, and permission was readily given.
“MY BULLET HAD TAKEN EFFECT ON ONE OF THE DOGS, WHICH HAD IMMEDIATELY TANGLED UP THE REST OF THE TEAM AND BROUGHT THE SLEDGE TO A STANDSTILL.“
“The trip was to be made on Kalutunah’s sledge, and if you have never read about or seen a picture of an Esquimau sledge, you want to look it up at once. It is one of the most ingeniously-built things I ever saw, considering the means at the command of the Esquimaux.
“The runners, which are of bone, are square behind and curved upward in front, usually five feet or more in length, three-fourths of an inch thick, and seven in height. They are not of solid bone, but composed of many pieces of various shapes and sizes, yet all fitting together so perfectly that they are as smooth as glass.
“The shoe is of ivory from the walrus, and is fastened to the runner with seal strings looped through counter-sunk holes, and in the same manner the various bones making up the runner are fastened in place.
“When you take into consideration the fact that all this fitting and smoothing is done with stone implements, you will believe me when I say the Esquimau sledge is a wonderful thing.
“The runners are placed fourteen inches apart and are fastened together by cross-pieces tightly lashed by sealskin strings. Two walrus ribs are lashed to the after end of each runner in an upright position, and these are braced by other bones, forming the back, and, with plenty of skins and robes for cushions, the Esquimau sledge isn’t the most uncomfortable thing in the world to ride upon.
“Kalutunah was going after walrus, and I
borrowed a rifle of the mate, thinking that I might do a little shooting on my own account on the way.
“Seven of the hungriest-looking and ugliest dogs among the large number belonging to the natives drew the sledge. The Esquimau usually hitches seven dogs to his sledge, and never drives them tandem, each dog being attached to the sledge by a single trace fastened to a breast-strap.
“It doesn’t matter how rapidly they are running or what the obstructions are, they will keep their traces clear of one another. The dogs on either side have the most work to do, and, after holding that position for some time, a dog will jump over several of his fellows into the centre of the pack and let some other have his place on the outside.
“Kalutunah got on the sledge, and I sat between his knees, and, amid a great deal of shouting and chaffing from the rest of the crew, the dogs started off at Kalutunah’s cry of ‘Ka! Ka!’ and a touch of the whip.
“By-the-way, boys, that whip was a wonder. The lash was six yards long and the handle but sixteen inches. Learning to throw the lasso isn’t a circumstance to learning the ins and out of that whip.
“Of course, boy like, I wanted to try it before we had gone a mile. While traveling, the lash trails along in the rear, and by a quick motion of the hand and wrist is thrown forward like a great snake, snapping like a gun-shot over the heads of the team.
“The first time I tried it the end of the lash caught me on the arm, and, although the member was thickly covered, I felt the blow unpleasantly.
“Kalutunah laughed immoderately at my failure, but dodged the next instant as I tried it again, the lash this time coming within an ace of taking him across the face.
“The third time I essayed the feat, the end of the whip caught on a jutting piece of ice, and I was ‘snatched’ off the sledge in grand style, nearly wrecking it in my exit.
“That was going a little too far, so Kalutunah thought, and he wouldn’t let me try it again, so I contented myself with nursing the various bruises I had received in my tumble.
“But how those dogs could travel! The frozen inlet was strewn with hummocks and broken ice cakes, and I had to cling to the sledge with both hands sometimes to keep from being thrown off.
“I was profoundly grateful when we reached our stopping place about the middle of the afternoon. A week before Kalutunah had seen a walrus near this place, under some new ice that had formed over a breathing hole.
“The dogs were left fastened to the sledge, so that their presence would not disturb the walrus should one be near. The Esquimau got out his harpoon and line and approached the thin ice, telling me to keep back.
“I wasn’t very eager to stay near the walrus should the old fellow be lucky enough to iron one, for there had been one caught near the Henry Clay, and a more ferocious-looking beast I never saw.
“I stayed back near the sledge with my rifle, on the lookout for something to try a shot at, and in the meantime keeping my eye on old Kalutunah. He went forward carefully, dodging from hummock to hummock, but gradually getting nearer the thin ice. All at once I caught sight of another object on the ice a little to the right of the Esquimau. At first I thought it was a seal, for it lay flat on the ice, and was about to hurry after Kalutunah to tell him about it, when the figure rose up and I saw that it was a man—another Esquimau.
“The stranger walked rapidly toward Kalutunah, and had almost reached his side before the old fellow noticed him. Then he sprang up, and although they were too far away for me to hear them, even if my ears had not been covered with my hood, I saw that they were talking together.
“The stranger continued to advance, holding out his hand as though to shake Kalutunah’s.
“Having arrived quite near, he took a quick stride forward, and instead of offering his hand, as Kalutunah had evidently expected, suddenly raised a short club and struck Kalutunah on the head.
“It was a most brutal act, and so unexpected was it that for an instant I was stupefied.
“Kalutunah threw up his arm, and fell backward without a cry. The treacherous wretch leaned over him to repeat the blow, but I had found my senses by that time, and, raising my rifle, fired at him. The bullet probably flew wide of its mark, but it scared the rascal. Evidently he had not noticed me before, and least of all expected to find a white boy with the old man he had so cruelly attacked.
“With a wild yell, he ran at the top of his speed, expecting no doubt another shot every instant.
“I hurried forward to where Kalutunah was lying senseless on the ice. He was not dead, and, as I reached him, he raised up, with an evident effort, and cried:
“‘See-ne-mee-utes! See-ne-mee-utes!’
“I remembered then what the mate of the Henry Clay had once told me about a tribe of bloodthirsty men in the interior, called by the well-disposed Esquimaux See-ne-mee-utes. These wretches approach a stranger to all appearances in a friendly manner, and, taking him unawares, assault him in the treacherous way that Kalutunah had been attacked.
“The old man was brave if he was an Esquimau, for I could understand by his motions that he wanted me to fly and leave him. But I wouldn’t hear of that.
“From the direction in which the See-ne-mee-ute had fled I saw a dozen figures approaching. Evidently there were plenty of reinforcements at hand, and, even with my rifle, I could not keep them at bay.
“Kalutunah was not a large man—Esquimaux seldom are—and the dog sledge was not far in our rear. I had strong arms and two good legs under me in those days, so, lifting the poor fellow, I carried him to the sledge.
“The dogs were up and excited, I could see by their actions; but I had no time to fool with them. I placed Kalutunah, who had again become unconscious, on the sledge and got on before him. By this time my pursuers were close at hand, and I was horrified to see two dog sledges following in the rear. Unfamiliar as I was with the management of Kalutunah’s team, the See-ne-mee-utes would overtake us in spite of all I could do.
“I raised my rifle and gave them a parting shot, and the dogs, frightened by the report so near them, started off like mad over the ice toward the distant ship.
“Again my bullet must have been badly aimed, for it only brought forth a howl of rage from my pursuers, as they saw me escaping. Hastily boarding their sledges, four of them started after me.
“I had a little start, but my dogs, having had only an hour’s rest, would likely be no match in speed for those attached to the See-ne-mee-ute sledges; but they started nobly, spreading out like a fan before the sledge and tugging at the breast-straps.
“Had Kalutunah been able to drive them, there might be more chance for us, I thought; but Kalutunah remained unconscious, and I had all I could do to hold both him and myself upon the swaying sledge.
“Without Kalutunah’s voice and whip to guide them, the dogs turned aside for very few obstructions, but tore over them all,
nearly wrecking the sledge at every leap. The pursuing sledges, guided by skillful drivers, were therefore able to gradually creep up on us.
“I knew very few Esquimaux words, but I yelled to the dogs at the top of my voice and managed to get ’em infused with some of my own fear, for they sped over the ice-field as I had never seen them travel before.
“On, on we went! The wind cut my face—from which the hood had fallen back—like a knife. I grew dizzy with the rush of air and the swaying of the sledge. It was impossible to get a shot at my pursuers, while the dogs were traveling at this rate; but I determined to make a desperate stand against the four men, should they overtake us.
“For some reason or other, their dogs were not so superior in endurance to Kalutunah’s as I had feared. After first gaining on us a little, they barely kept their pace for the first six miles. Then the speed began to tell on my dogs and skillful driving on my pursuers’. My animals were getting fagged out, and slowly but steadily I was being overhauled.
“Old Kalutunah had all the appearance of a dead man. For one dreadful moment I was tempted to throw him off the sledge. Their burden thus lightened, the dogs might be able to carry me safely back to the ship, still far down the inlet.
“But this cowardly thought possessed me only an instant. I recalled the old Esquimau’s unselfishness in wanting me to escape and leave him when he was wounded, and determined that, if I ever reached the Henry Clay again, he should.
“The See-ne-mee-utes were close behind me now, urging their dogs on with exultant cries. The foremost sledge was within fifty feet, and the other directly behind it.
“Risking a disastrous tumble upon the ice, I rose upon my knees and turned toward them, holding by one hand to the back of the sledge. Kalutunah lay on the bottom, and I held his body from rolling off by the pressure of my knees.
“The wretches saw my head appear above the back of the sledge, and they uttered a loud shout of rage, shaking their spears and urging on their dogs to still greater exertions. An extra heavy lurch of the sledge almost threw me overboard, but I braced myself and raised my rifle to my shoulder.
“As soon as they saw my weapon the two men in the foremost sledge burrowed like rats among the robes. Those in the rear were hidden from me.
“I had but an instant to reflect. We were rapidly approaching a terribly rough piece of ice, and I should be thrown out did I not sink down into the sledge again.
“The dogs were between me and the crouching occupants of the pursuing sledge, and kept me from getting a correct aim at the men.
“Quick as a flash I fired right into the pack, and then dropped into the bottom of my own sledge. The next instant we struck the rough stretch of ice, and I had all I could do to cling on until we had passed it. Then I looked back.
“Judge of my surprise when I saw that, by a fortunate accident, my pursuers had been stopped.
“My bullet had taken effect on one of the dogs, which had immediately tangled up the rest of the team and brought the sledge to a standstill.
“The sledge behind seemed to be completely mixed up in the disaster, and the two sets of dogs were fighting furiously, while the Esquimaux were running about trying to separate them.
“I was safe! Another two miles and the Henry Clay would be in sight, and, unless some accident happened to my own team, my pursuers would not be able to gain the vantage they had lost.
“When I reached the ship, the moon was high and all hands had turned in long before, but they roused out, as did the Esquimaux from their huts, at my halloo.
“Poor old Kalutunah was carried into the cabin, and the captain and mate worked over him a long time before they brought him to. He had been almost frozen in addition to his wound, so that he had a hard fight for life. But when he was finally on his pins again, how thankful he was to me! And the whole tribe was the same way.
“One bad result of my adventure, however, was that Captain Lewis would allow no more extended trips away from the vessel, and although we never saw anymore See-ne-mee-utes, every party that went out for even a short tramp was fully armed and under the command of an officer.
“Now you can’t tell me anything about rapid sledding,” concluded Randy. “I’ve had my day at it, and I must say that it was about as uncomfortable an experience as I ever had.”
[*] All the large whales of the region referred to are called “balleeners” as their mouths are furnished with the balleen or whalebone of commerce.
[ [This Story began in No. 43.]
A FOOT-BALL STORY.
BY A PRINCETON GRADUATE.
CHAPTER XXV.
MR. MACKERLY REVIVES AND GRANT
ATTEMPTS TO SEND ALAN TO COVENTRY.
The sudden collapse of Mr. Mackerly, while in conversation with his son, was a great shock to the latter, who could scarcely believe that the news he had just been relating should have such an extraordinary effect upon his imperious and lofty father. Was it possible that the statements at which he had scoffed had some plausibility, and that there was a grain of hidden truth in the charge brought by his rival, Alan Heathcote? There was no mistaking the fact that something external had caused the magnate’s startling indisposition, and Grant, even though he was badly scared at his father’s plight, drew his own conclusions in regard to the matter. Meanwhile he stood helplessly calling until he collected presence of mind enough to go around to the other side of the table and raise his father’s inanimate form to a more comfortable position.
“Help! Help!” he cried distractedly. “Father’s dying! Aunt Annie! James!”
He was warranted in his belief that his parent was breathing his last, for his face was of a deathly pallor, and to Grant’s inexperienced eye this was a symptom of the gravest import, and he gave his father up for lost immediately.
He did not stand long alone in his helplessness, for in another moment James, the butler, and Grant’s Aunt Annie came hurrying in. They both took in the situation at a glance, and while the first mentioned opened the window, in order to admit the fresh cold air, the latter bathed his temples with water and cologne.
Mr. Mackerly had fallen into a swoon of unusual severity, and the process of reviving him was slow and tedious. It was nearly a half hour before he was strong enough to speak to them.
“Shall I send for a doctor?” inquired his sister anxiously.
“No, by no means,” he feebly replied. “It’s one of my ordinary fainting spells. I’ve had them before. I’ll—I’ll be all right in a few minutes. Lay me on the couch in the library and—let me alone. What time is it?”
“Nearly half-past seven,” answered his sister.
“Where is Grant?” was his next query.
“Here I am, father,” and his son stepped before him. “What’s wanted?”
“Come to the library at eight o’clock. I want to speak to you. I will be much better then. Don’t forget.”
Grant promised, and with the help of the butler and the gardener his father was carried to the library and placed upon a couch, where he was left by himself in spite of his sister’s expostulations.
She was a widow, as Mr. Mackerly was a widower, and they made their home together in that magnificent residence on the hill back of Whipford.
Promptly on the chime of eight, Grant marched into the library, and found his father, pale but steady, seated at the secretary, busily examining a heterogenous mass of papers.
“Are you better, father?” he asked, solicitously.
“Don’t you see I am?” was the cross response. “That spell was only temporary. I am afraid of them, as they are coming on more frequently. Doctor Sedgwick tells me I must take more exercise or I’ll fall sick in earnest.”
“I thought you took plenty,” said Grant, guardedly.
His father did not seem to hear his remark, but went on searching busily among the papers. Grant grew impatient and asked:
“Well, what do you want of me, father?”
“Oh, yes, I did ask you to come in, Grant, didn’t I?” he replied, as if just recollecting the fact. “Why, what were we talking about
when that dizzy feeling came over me? Do you remember the conversation?”
“Why, of course,” replied the son, considerably astonished at his parent’s alleged forgetfulness. “It was about that little affair between Alan Heathcote and myself. Just as I told you he denied his father owed you anything, you fainted, and I hadn’t a chance to finish. You—”
“Oh, I remember!” interrupted Mr. Mackerly. “You told me he stated that he had an envelope containing papers, didn’t you?”
“Not that I know of,” answered Grant. “I never said anything about an envelope, and he didn’t, either. He said he had papers to prove that you owed his father money, and that’s all. There was something more about witnesses—just what it was I don’t recollect.”
“Well, you had quite a wordy quarrel. What else did he say?”
The tone of anxiety with which this was asked was but barely concealed.
“Oh, all sorts of tough things, together with that little imp, Dick Percy!” responded Grant, bluntly. “But I gave them as good as I got, and don’t you mistake. Pretty soon that big chump Teddy Taft came up and put in his say, and, as I couldn’t stand up against three, I took my leave.”
“From what you say, this Heathcote boy is a determined fellow, is he not?” inquired Mr. Mackerly, toying with a paper-cutter.
“Bull-headed, I call him,” was his son’s vindictive reply. “He’s no gentleman, and I’ve told him so. What makes me so mad is that Cole and Mr. Nicholson have put me off the eleven, and put him in my place. Him! He can’t play football, the country jay!”
“It’s favoritism, that’s what it is,” remarked Mr. Mackerly, shortly.
He had heard rumors of the matter in the village, but held his counsel.
“They can do as they please,” asserted his son; “but if I don’t make that fellow sick, my name’s not what it is, that’s all. The idea of him saying he had proof that you were a rascal. It’s a mean, bold lie, and he ought to be drummed out of school.”
“You have my authority for branding it as a malicious falsehood,” said his father, “and if it is repeated, I shall take measures to have young Heathcote punished. But don’t say anything of it, Grant, until some one informs you. You needn’t take the trouble to deny it if he hasn’t told anybody. Perhaps he has been afraid to spread the tale among the boys at Whipford.”
“I guess he was afraid of the licking he knew he’d get from me,” said Grant, vauntingly; “so I don’t think he’s told anything like that.”
It was for another reason unknown to him that Alan had kept silent—because Beniah Evans had cautioned him to that effect—and not that he feared the vain-glorious Grant.
“Well,” remarked the magnate, “that may be. I hope he has kept a close tongue in his head for his own good, if nothing else. It will save him trouble. Go and tell James to pack my grip,” he directed, suddenly, as he scattered the raft of papers with a quick move of his arm and closed and locked the secretary. “Hurry up. I must catch that ten o’clock train.”
“Where are you going this time of night?” asked Grant, who, though used to his father’s absences, and caring little whether he was home or abroad, felt somewhat curious as to this rapid determination to travel.
“I’m going to Philadelphia and then possibly further south to see a man on very important business,” responded Mr. Mackerly. “I am restless and can’t stay at home. I originally did not intend to start until next week, but I’ve changed my mind.”
“But you aren’t well. What will Aunt Annie say?”
“She needn’t know,” was the short reply. Then, hastily, “You run and get the buggy out for me, and I’ll call the butler. I must catch that ten o’clock train at the Junction at all hazards. Stop at O’Brien’s house and
tell him to come and drive me over. If he isn’t there, James will have to try his hand at the reins.”
Grant hastened to obey his father’s directions, and in the space of a few minutes the team was ready, with O’Brien, the stable-man, and Mr. Mackerly as its occupants; and soon they were out of sight in the darkness, speeding for the train.
“There’s something up, that’s dead sure!” soliloquized Grant, as he stood in the doorway. “Father’s never in all that hurry for nothing. I wonder what the racket is? I’ll go a fiver that it has something to do with that Heathcote matter. He’s a perfect nuisance, and I hope father will squelch him this time, once and for all, the booby!”
Soon dismissing his father’s departure from his mind, Grant went up to his room and retired to bed.
The next morning he went over to the Hall very early, considering his past record, and was one of the first to take his seat in the assembly room.
Archer and Shriver, with whom he desired to speak, were somewhat tardy, and he got no chance to address them until the end of the first recitation.
“Hello, Grant!” called the former. “Where’ve you been all the time? Haven’t seen you for an age.”
“Been up at the house,” replied Grant, briefly. “Any practice to-day, George?”
“Yes,” answered Shriver; “at half-past twelve. You’re with Wilcox on the second eleven. Sorry that Heathcote dished you out of half-back, but it can’t be helped. I took Runyon’s place, and he was angry at first, but he came up to-day and shook hands with me like a little man, and said he hoped I would get along first rate, and that he’d try and oust me next year. He’s one of the substitutes this year, and you are to play substitute half-back with Wilcox.”
“I am, am I?” growled Grant, sneeringly. “Who says so?”
“Cole gave it out last night,” put in Lewis Archer, “so it’s settled.”
“It’s not settled as far as I am concerned,” declared the turned-down player, firmly. “I play on the regular team or not at all. That’s my proper place, and no miserable upstart like Alan Heathcote is going to crow over me.”
“Well, what are you going to do about it?” asked Archer, with a careless drawl.
Grant Mackerly was steadily dropping from the high place, he once held in his estimation, and every action now exhibited his selfishness to Archer, who, with all his laziness, was a boy of fine feelings.
“Why, let’s boycott him altogether,” said Grant, eagerly. “Let’s put all the fellows against him and show him up for just what he is. If he sees nobody speaks to him he’ll soon come down from his high horse. What do you say to it, fellows?”
Instead of making any immediate reply in words, his companions at first gave him looks of incredulity and amazement, and then burst into loud peals of laughter. It was some time before they sobered down.
“What?” demanded Shriver. “Boycott Alan Heathcote? Send him to Coventry? Ha! ha! Why, you’d have the heaviest contract on your hands you ever had in your life. It’s all nonsense.”
“There’s not a fellow in the whole school who would be fool enough to join you,” said Archer, plainly and in disgust. “Why, you might as well try that scheme on Cole or Mr. Nicholson. No, no, my dear boy, that plan of yours won’t work. The fellows, as a rule, like Heathcote pretty well. He attends to his own business, stands well in his class, or will when the next exam. takes place, and to add to it all he’s as fleet of foot as a deer on the foot-ball field; so you would be the solitary duck in the puddle if you tried to freeze him out.”
Grant Mackerly listened to these responses of his friends in silence. Then his face assumed a determined look, and without another word to either of them he turned away and walked quickly out of the door to the campus and disappeared among the trees.
“Mad as a hornet,” observed Archer, carelessly.
“He’ll cool down by to-morrow,” remarked Shriver.
And they went into the recitation-room talking it over.
CHAPTER XXVI.
RIPLEY FALLS INVADES THE TOWN.
The story of Grant Mackerly’s attempt to place a boycott on Alan soon leaked out among the boys, and great was the merriment it aroused at the Hall.
In the ridicule and disgust which the incident produced the prestige of the rich man’s son was lost forever. No one pitied him. It was all his own fault, and even his quondam friends deserted him, while his appearance would have been the signal for a universal grin.
Strange to say, he had not been seen at the Hall since he had made that proposition to Archer and Shriver, and now a couple of days had passed and no sign of him.
He did not respond to his name either in
the assembly or recitation-rooms, and Doctor Bostwick began to think something was wrong.
He summoned Lewis Archer one day in passing and asked him if he could call at the Mackerly residence and obtain some news of the missing boy.
“I am afraid that he is ill,” said the good principal, “or something unusual has happened to him. I have never known him to have been absent for so long a time without sending in an excuse or asking for leave.”
Archer called that very afternoon at the house on the hill, and, after repeated ringings, Mrs. Weldon, Grant’s aunt, came to the door.
“What’s become of Grant?” asked Archer. “Doctor Bostwick sent me up to inquire about his absence. He’s been away from the Hall for three days.”
“Yes, I know he has,” answered Mrs. Weldon; “but please tell Doctor Bostwick I don’t know the reason for his absence, except that one day he came home and said he was too ill to stay at school, and the day before yesterday he borrowed some money from me and went to Buffalo, where his uncle lives. I hope Doctor Bostwick will be patient with him. His father is away, too, and won’t return till over a week.”
“Well,” cogitated Lewis, as he carried this information to the doctor, “that’s very satisfactory, I must say. I wonder what Doctor Bostwick will think?”
The principal of Whipford Hall looked puzzled as Archer related to him the account of Mackerly’s whereabouts, but said nothing except, “I will communicate with Grant’s father on his return,” and thanked his schoolmate for the call he had made and bowed him out.
When the examination took place, Grant Mackerly was still absent, and it was understood that no word had been received from either himself or his father.
As a consequence he was dropped to the foot of the class, and a poor report was sent to his home.
Alan was overjoyed to find that he was very near the head, and still more so when he saw the accounts of his progress in study which was to be sent to Beniah Evans. The principal complimented him on his good work, and hoped he would keep it up.
Alan inwardly resolved to do so, and remit no exertion which would cause him to forge to the front at Whipford.
It was now the first week of November, and he had been at the Hall for nearly two months and was getting along famously with both the pupils and teachers.
As far as his intimacy with Cole, Taft and Kimball was concerned, it continued with unabated ardor and remained unbroken. The four of them conned their studies over to each other in their rooms, and Alan got many an idea from the older and more experienced genius of King Cole.
As for football, they were the backbone of the team, and many a new trick in the game was invented by one of them as they sat together in the autumn nights over the sputtering lamp.
By the boys of the school they came to be known as the “Big Four,” and it was to them that every one looked to uphold the honor of the Hall, both in study and athletics.
The team kept on practicing with persistent regularity, and the interest in the championship, which had somewhat abated after the Jamesville game, now began to arouse, for the Ripley Falls contest was at hand.
For three weeks the eleven had had a holiday, and played no heavy games except on two occasions, when a delegation from the Whipford Athletic Club had given them a sample of hard playing, and, sad to say, beaten them on both meetings. It was no wonder, though, for their team was composed of full-grown young men, some of whom had been to college and all of whom were in business or lived in the neighborhood.
It was no disgrace to be defeated by such good material, and while the Hall team went into the fight with no expectation of winning, they came out with a great stock of experience and many new points. It was a good practice to them, and a couple of the Athletic Club players took their eleven in hand and coached them for a whole week. Every boy was developing into a fine all-around player.
One Saturday afternoon in the middle of November, on a dull and chilly day, the team from the High School at Ripley Falls came over with a full complement of players, and the whole school to a boy following on their footsteps.
They were an enthusiastic but orderly crowd, and had the most implicit confidence in their team. In truth, their eleven deserved it, for they had met both Davenport and Jamesville and whipped those teams by good scores—the former by 16 to 4, the latter by 25 to 8, thus rendering their chances for the pennant null.
So far, they had won the same number of games as either the Whipford or Weston, and stood neck to neck with them in the race.
There was more uncertainty about to-day’s game than any the Hall boys had yet played,
but none of them would hear of defeat for an instant.
“What!” exclaimed Ike Smith, who was worked up to the shouting point, and who had heard one of the boys express a doubt as to the team’s ability to win except by a stroke of luck. “What do you say? Our eleven be frozen out? I guess not, young fellow. Look at Cole, just coming out of the gymnasium. Why, he’s cooler than most of us. There comes Heathcote now and Kimball, and there’s Teddy Taft. Hooray for the Big Four! Come, fellows, let’s give them a cheer.”
The group of Hall boys whom Ike headed followed his instructions and gave the four players a rousing yell of encouragement, which was duly appreciated.
As the four made their way to the scene of the conflict, Percy’s field, Ike and his company got together and marched up to the station, with the purpose of meeting the visitors.
When the train rolled in, carrying the High School boys, the latter, on alighting, were both surprised and pleased to see a whole line of Hall boys drawn up with military precision on the other side of the road, and saluting the newcomers with uplifted hands.
The fellows from Ripley Hall formed in twos in short order, and, escorted by their opponents, proceeded down the road to Percy’s field. Ike Smith, who was in his element, led the procession, and his proud strut was something comical to see.
The appearance of the two contending factions in one parade was a surprise to the town’s-people who had gathered to see the game, and they greeted the young collegians with applause.
After a few preliminary movements, the boys of the opposing schools settled in one place of their leaders’ choosing, and waited for the contest to begin.
The grounds were in fair condition, and had been put in good order by a number of the boys the day before. They had been measured off under the supervision of Mr. Nicholson, so that the field was a perfect rectangle of three hundred and thirty feet in length by one hundred and sixty in width, the five-yard lines and bounds being marked with streaks of lime, so that there could be no mistaking them.
Some of the boys had borrowed a roller from Mr. Percy, and by dint of much work had succeeded in leveling the field and pressing down the uneven spots. Although it was a fair place for playing, and, as the small field directly back of the Hall could not be utilized, this was of very good service. Unlike the Davenport grounds there was no stand, and the spectators moved from one end of the field to the other, keeping pace with the players. As the boys would rather stand than sit, it made no difference to them, and the majority of the others had vehicles in which they stood to view the play.
“Oh, if we only had the athletic grounds!” remarked Archer, who was gotten up in the height of fashion and carried a cane on which was a yard or so of blue ribbon. “That’s the place for a game.”
“It costs too much,” replied Ike, “and we can’t very well charge an admission.”
“They’re fine grounds and no mistake,” said another. “But here come the teams. Little Dick Percy is running ahead.”
In another moment the two elevens had vaulted the rails and burst into the grounds amid the cheers of their respective schoolmates.
CHAPTER XXVII.
A CLOSE CONTEST WITH THE HIGH SCHOOL.
The visiting team had changed their clothing in the gymnasium, and in company with some of the Hall eleven had set off for the grounds. Cole and Kimball had been trying for goals for some time, and when the rest came on they ceased practice and joined the eleven. After a few minutes’ preparatory work in kicking and passing, the two teams stopped while the captains tossed up for choice of the ball or position. Cole won and decided to keep the ball. The referee was a member of the Whipford Athletic Club and the umpire was from Davenport. As both were well acquainted with the rules of the game, there was no question of any disputed point remaining unsettled. Time for the play was called.
“Oh, now, fellows,” pleaded Ike Smith, “do your level best and beat ’em.”
“You bet they will,” said Archer, emphatically. “Look at George Shriver getting ready to spring at the ball. George means business and no mistake.”
“And look at little Dick Percy dancing around with his hands ready for service,” added Ike. “Isn’t he a little wonder now?”
The ball was placed in the centre of the field. The rushers of the High School eleven stood leaning forward expectantly, waiting the moment of charging. They were obliged to stand ten yards from the front of the leather sphere, the movements of which decided the fate of the game. It was plain to be seen they knew their business and were of much superior stuff to the members of the
Davenport and Jamesville teams. Their captain held the position of right half-back, and from that place gave his commands to the players, who were well trained and drilled in the intricacies of team work. On the other side the Hall team was the same that had played the game at Jamesville and looked like sure winners to a disinterested outsider. Wilcox and Mackerly were the substitute half-backs, and there were a dozen other players to be put on in case of necessity. But the latter named was still absent, much to the disgust of everybody, and as his non-appearance was unexplained, it was naturally put down to sulkiness and lack of school patriotism.
In the first exciting minutes his absence was not noticed by all, and attention was earnestly concentrated on the opening of the match that was to decide if Ripley Falls or Whipford should have the best chance for the pennant and should battle with the presumably successful Weston.
Teddy Taft, amid a death-like silence, advanced to the middle of the field, followed by all his supporters, and slowly picked up the ball.
He was the apex of a triangle of boys, who were ready to rush down the field the instant the ball was put into play. Dick Percy crouched behind him with extended hands ready to receive it.
The centre-rusher held the ball for a moment, and then passed it to the active quarter-back, who in turn passed it to Harry Kimball, and in the centre of the V, and protected by its side, the latter tore diagonally down the field for a gain of forty feet, until he was held by the rushers of the other side, who had finally broken through.
Quickly the teams lined up in the scrimmage, and Alan ran around the ends for a good gain.
Then, unfortunately, the Hall boys could not advance another yard, owing to the active tackling of the High School players, and on four downs, without a five-yard gain, the ball went to their opponents.
Then ensued a battle royal for the next quarter of an hour. Ripley Falls struggled hard to advance the leather into Whipford’s land, with some small success, but being in danger of losing the ball on downs, it was passed to their full-back, who punted it away up the field close to the blue’s goal-line.
It was caught by Cole, who no sooner clutched it than he was seized and held by the boys of the white and purple—the colors of the High School. He grasped it firmly, and was allowed a fair catch.
This gave Whipford the kick-off, and the ball was punted up the field with the whole eleven on its track.
Upon lining up for the scrimmage, McKenzie, the right end of the Hall team, broke through and was down on the captain of their opponents before the latter could run with the ball.
It was a big loss for Ripley, and when Adams, the left end, did the same thing an instant later, the noise from the Hall boys along the bounds was ear-piercing.
When it looked as if the captain of the High School eleven was good for a run the whole length of the field, with only Heathcote and Cole in front of him, and was very neatly stopped by the former with a gain of a few yards only and the loss of the ball, the racket was tremendous.
Then the blues did some tall playing. They had the ball and meant to keep it, and surely was it forced to within a couple of yards of the goal-line of the purple and white.
The next play of the Hall team settled the question, for when Dick Percy received the ball from Teddy Taft, instead of throwing it to Heathcote, as the enemy expected, it was passed over to Adams, who, with Shriver, Heathcote and Cole pushing him, crossed the line and touched the ball down amid the plaudits of their schoolmates.
As the touch-down was made near the centre of the goal immediately under the cross-bar, Cole had no difficult task to kick a goal.
It had been hard work, but was accomplished nicely, and the boys from Whipford felt highly elated, while the High School fellows looked mournful.
The first half ended without any further scoring, and the contestants threw their sweaters over their shoulders and retired to their benches for a rest, while their supporters talked the game over.
“I don’t see Grant Mackerly,” remarked a boy, looking over all the wearers of football costumes. “What in the world has become of him?”
“Well, he might as well stay away,” declared the ever-ready Ike. “He’s not needed in this game, anyhow. Alan Heathcote is doing the work of two like him. Now look how he stopped that half-back of the Ripley’s! Wasn’t that fine? Just like clock-work!”
“No question about that,” admitted Archer. “I thought for sure that fellow was headed for a touch-down, but Heathcote brought him to grass as neat as a whistle. He certainly is a plucky player.”
The sentiment among all the boys was practically to the same effect.
Meanwhile the conversation among the members of the team was of a decidedly earnest character. None of them shared the confidence of their schoolfellows in regard to winning by a large score, for they knew that the boys of the striped stockings had played a skillful and a bold game—a game that was persistent and wearing, and which might turn the tables the other way in the next half. So they took counsel together as they collected about their captain.
“Play a defensive game next half,” directed the latter. “Don’t try to roll up points, but let them do the struggling. We’re ahead, and we must keep ahead. And, by all means, keep your eyes on those half-backs. I tell you that captain of theirs—Young, I think his name is—is a splendid player. He’s full of tricks, and he hasn’t showed us them yet, and I look for a surprise in the next half.”
“I tell you,” said Shriver, as he wiped the perspiration from his forehead, “that fellow opposite me is giving me all I care to attend to. I’m pretty nearly done up trying to get past him.”
Cole looked alarmed.
“You’re not going to peg out, are you?” he questioned. “I told you, Shriver, that you didn’t pay enough attention to your training and kept too late hours. Now you see the result of it.”
“I’ll stand up against them,” declared Shriver, “if I have to be carried off the field in a wheelbarrow. Never worry for me, Cole.”
“Time!” called the umpire at this point.
“Well, now for the pennant, boys,” said Cole, encouragingly.
And the two elevens walked out for the last effort.
“High School’s ball,” announced the referee.
And on the word that team pounced upon it and carried it ten yards down the field toward Whipford’s goal.
The vim and energy of their playing was certainly phenomenal, and they dashed aside the opposition like charging war horses. Next a most alarming thing occurred, and it was no easy matter to say how it happened. It was one of the tricks of that captain of the High School eleven. His team had gained no ground since the first rush, and, rather than give the ball to his adversaries openly, it was expected that on the eve of the fourth down he would send it to the full-back for a kick. But before any one could realize the trick, the quarter-back threw the oval to the left half-back, and that player dashed through an opening in the rush line between Emmons and Blake, respectively the right guard and right tackle of the Hall, and, before he could be stopped by Kimball and Cole on that side, had made fully thirty yards.
Everybody was dumfounded but the High School boys, who waved their purple and white flags and shrieked themselves hoarse. It was certainly a fine play, and merited all the applause it received.
It brought the ball to within a yard of Whipford’s goal-line. Do all they could, it was an impossibility to stop the next move, which was to force the right-guard of the Ripley Falls team across the line and score a touch-down.
As the goal was kicked from it, a sigh of despair arose from three-score youthful Whipford followers, and three-score hearts felt as heavy as lead.
Their eleven had lost the lead, and the points were even on each side—six to six.
What would the rushing team of the High School do next?
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
[ COLORADO SNOW FLEA.]
The observing Colorado miner cannot furnish you scientific names, yet he will tell you at once that red snow is caused by the snow flea. The snow flea is very small. It would require about fifty of them to equal their larger brother of the East in size.
A person walking upright might think the snow covered by a very fine dust, but if your eyes are good, and you place your face within eighteen or twenty inches of the snow, you can easily discern the snow flea. Although so small as to be almost imperceptible to the naked eye, yet they are most active, jumping from twelve to fifteen inches.
To the naked eye they appear to be dark brown in color, but under a good microscope they would be found to be a reddish brown. During cold weather they stay under the bark of trees, but when it is a nice, warm day, and the sun shines brightly, you can find them on the southern and eastern slopes of the mountains, where they can get the direct rays of the sun.
During the day they will ascend the mountains, sometimes far above the timber line. When the sun disappears and it gets cold, the snow flea freezes to death. During the winter great numbers will be thus frozen, and their dead bodies color the snow.
Foot trails upon the south and east sides of the mountains will, if it be a hard winter,
be colored, for when the snow flea strikes a deep trail through the snow, millions upon millions of them never get out, but perish from the cold dining the night. Besides, a man with a good-sized foot might kill from one thousand to ten thousand of them every step.
The snow flea favors the south and east sides of the mountains, and it is there you will find the red snow. The non-observing will say there is no such thing as snow fleas, because they have never seen them, but you can easily prove to them, if you will look upon the right kind of a day, that they do exist in countless numbers.
[ A QUARREL, AND HOW IT ENDED.]
BY ABBIE M. GANNETT.
Father was mad clear through! He gave Mr. Ridlet one look and walked off without a word.
That broke up everything between Bub Ridlet and me.
Was Bub going to speak to a boy whose father stole from his father? Was I going to speak to Bub, when his father accused mine of stealing?
We’d been great chums, chestnutted, set snares, skated, fished and gone winters to the district school together. Our houses were within a stone’s throw of each other, and no others nearer than a quarter of a mile. Never had an evening come but I was at Bub’s or Bub with us.
The change came hard, and it came hard on our mothers.
Mrs. Ridlet would come over to ask if mother could spare a couple of eggs. Mother would run to the barn and come back with half a dozen, saying:
“Don’t mind about returning them. I’ve so many, I like to get rid of them.”
Mother would go to Mrs. Ridlet’s and say she’d like to borrow a pound or two of butter. Her cream didn’t “come good” these cold days. Bub’s mother would give her a big pat, with a bunch of grapes stamped on it.
“Don’t you fetch it back, Mrs. Pomfrey,” she would say. “I’ve so much that I shall never miss it.”
Now, when they met, they would not look at each other.
Six months passed, and we were lonesome as could be. But we would have bitten our tongues off rather than speak to the Ridlets.
I didn’t have a speck of fun. I’d go swimming, but what’s swimming all to yourself? or tramping, but what’s tramping alone? or setting snares, or anything?
I knew father missed Mr. Ridlet on wet days, when they had used to sit in the barn talking over crops and stock, but he never let on.
Mother would look out of the window as if expecting some one; then she’d turn away and sigh. But she never spoke Bub’s mother’s name—not once.
I saw Bub running toward our house one day, and thought he was coming in. But no. He ran past without looking up.
It didn’t seem much use to do anything—that is, if you wanted to get any fun out of it.
I never knew exactly what Mr. Ridlet accused father of stealing, and it seems mother didn’t know, either, until one day, six months after the quarrel, when father said:
“I’d like to know if Ridlet’s found his wife’s silver dollars.”
“Was it those he lost?” asked mother, speaking quickly.
“Yes.”
“Mrs. Ridlet’s been three years saving them. She said she meant to have a dozen as nice silver forks as could be made. She thought it would take about thirty-six dollars.”
“She had just thirty-six. She’d sent them to town by Ridlet, but the jeweler wouldn’t agree to make the forks for less than forty dollars. Ridlet says he brought them back, but it seems they were gone when he got home.”
“And he accused you of taking Mrs. Ridlet’s money,” said mother. “Now, I’ll never speak to her.”
“It’s odd where the money went,” continued father. “You know I borrowed his wagon to go to town, a few minutes after he came home. He said he put the package on the wagon-seat, and got out to unharness the horse. Before he had done so, Elijah Bangs came in at the south door of the barn, all excitement about his sick cow. He wanted Ridlet to see the animal—he had been so unlucky about curing his own sick cattle. While they were talking, I came in to borrow the wagon. Ridlet, who was going off with Bangs, said ‘Yes,’ hurriedly, forgetting all about the silver dollars, so he says; and he says nobody came into the barn but me and Mr. Bangs, and, as Bangs came in at the south door, he wasn’t near the wagon. Ridlet never thought of the silver till he was
half-way to Mr. Bangs’; but he did not worry, knowing it was safe with me.”
“Did he say, out-and-out, you’d taken it?” asked mother.
“No; but he said it was mighty queer a man could miss seeing a package as big as that. There was no use looking for it, or advertising for it; he knew that it was on that wagon-seat. I fired up and said, ‘Do you think I took it?’ He didn’t answer; and that settled it.”
“Well, if ever he does find it, I’ll never have anything to do with them,” said mother. “Suspect you of keeping her fork-money!”
“It’s very odd where it went,” repeated father.
“I am glad you’ve spoken at last. It’s been on my mind more than anything. I thought you might have misunderstood him, and was over touchy; but—her money!”
Father made no reply; and from that time mother stopped looking down the road.
Finding out just what Mr. Ridlet accused father of, made the estrangement between Bub and me seem worse. Our going together would never be fixed up now. I had hoped our fathers would, some time, settle things. It was tough. I couldn’t put my mind to anything, mother noticed.
“What’s the matter, Seth?” she asked. “Aren’t you well?” she went on, seeing I didn’t answer. “You don’t eat much, and you are moping all the time. How would you like your Cousin Mel to visit you a while?”
I rushed off. Mel was a real softy, with shining shoes, slick hair, and all that. About as ready to go on a tramp as a girl. I couldn’t bear the thought of him.
I went under the grape vine that grows over the trellis between Mr. Ridlet’s garden and ours.
I threw myself down, looking up into the leaves, making a mat overhead, and counting the green bunches, as if that was great fun.
It was a hot day—such a day as one likes to creep along barefooted in the wet grass by the brooks, fishing-pole in hand.
I thought of Bub, and how, if things had been all right, we’d been ready to start off, and, well—
Then I heard some one pulling apart the vines against the fence, and the next minute I sprung up as if I was shot, for Bub’s voice, rather shaky, called:
“Seth!”
I turned my back on him.
“Please, Seth!”
I wouldn’t speak.
“Say, father will give me a licking, and if you’ll only speak to your father—say, Seth! Seth!”
I was half-way to the house.
His voice ought to have made anybody turn back, but I wouldn’t stop. He hadn’t spoken to me for over six months and his father was to blame, and now he spoke because he was going to get a licking. I didn’t think any boy would be such a coward. It didn’t seem like Bub.
Once I felt like running over to his house—I had seen him sneak back—then I was mad at myself for wanting to go there.
What wouldn’t I have given afterwards if I had gone?
After supper, as father and I were passing the Ridlets’, we heard Bub’s howls. They came from the barn.
Father had been almost as fond of Bub as of me. When he heard the cries, he stopped short. For a minute we didn’t hear any more, only Mr. Ridlet scolding hot and heavy, and Bub trying to put in a word or two.
He was a dreadful quick-tempered man, and, when angry, hardly knew what he did.
Bub’s howls began again. Father couldn’t stand it. He made for the barn.
“What’s this?” said he.
There stood Bub, with his jacket off, and his father, with a big, tough switch in his hand.
“This?” responded Mr. Ridlet, his teeth fairly chattering in his wrath. “This? It’s that this boy deserves the confoundedest whipping a boy ever had—and I’m giving it to him!”
He lifted the switch, and Bub yelled before it touched him. I knew he had been hurt pretty bad.
“Oh, now, neighbor,” said father, putting out his hand to prevent the switch from coming down, “your boy can’t have done anything so terribly bad. I’ve always thought a lot of your boy. Haven’t you punished him about enough?”
“Hasn’t done anything bad, hasn’t he? Oh, no! He hasn’t been the one to know about his mother’s fork money, and not say a word, and let the mischief be to play between two families? Take that!”
Down came the switch. Poor Bub’s screams made my ears ring. I would not have got that crack for twice the money in question.
“There, neighbor,” interposed father, taking hold of the rod. “I insist on your telling me all about Bub and the money, since I was accused of having it. Bub didn’t steal it?”
“No, no, no!” protested Bub. “I forgot,
that’s all. I took it and forgot it. That’s all, Mr. Pomfrey. Father knows that’s all.”
He took on awfully, but it was the pain. I could see he’d done no wrong.
“How did you take it? Come, Bub, tell me all about it,” coaxed father.
“It’s a pretty story,” burst out Mr. Ridlet. “A boy old enough to know something takes a package of silver dollars for nails! Nails! Takes it and tosses it into the old carriage room, where it gets covered up, and never comes to sight till to-day. And our two families set together by the ears in consequence, and not speaking for half a year. Tell me a boy doing such a senseless thing as that doesn’t deserve a whipping?”
“But I forgot it, father,” pleaded poor Bub.
“Has your wife’s money been found?” said father, looking real pleased. “Why, that’s the best news I’ve heard this long while. You and your wife must be glad. I would hear Bub’s story through before giving him such a whipping. Found it in the old carriage room? He put it there by mistake?”
“Mistake!” roared Mr. Ridlet. “If it was by mistake, why didn’t he remember it? It’s a likely story! I asked him over and over again where he was that morning.”
“You see I clean forgot it, Mr. Pomfrey,” sobbed Bub, not daring to speak to his father, “for I just ran in to see if father had got the nails I wanted, when I heard Seth outside. He’d come to get me to go out in his new boat. We had agreed to go that day. You see I asked father to get the nails for Seth to finish up the boat with; but Seth had found some. The good time I had that day just put everything else out of my mind. Then, not having anything more to do with Seth kinder mixed me up afterwards,” explained Bub; “made me forget worse, I suppose.”
“How happened it to turn up at last?” asked father.
“Why, Bub was rummaging round this morning, and he lighted on it, he says,” replied Mr. Ridlet. “Says he was so scared, he didn’t dare to tell me till to-night.”
Here Bub looked at me, and I understood how he wanted me to tell father when he had spoken to me under the grape vine. That would make it easier with his father.
I felt mighty mean then, I can tell you.
“Throw down your switch, neighbor,” said father. “You’ve got an honest boy, and that’s a fact. When I found you whipping him, I was dreadfully afraid of something bad. Why, neighbor, we’re all liable to forget; it’s human nature.”
Mr. Ridlet looked down.
“Your boy’s an honest boy,” repeated father. (How thankfully Bub looked at him!) “You yourself, Mr. Ridlet, forgot the silver, when you started for Mr. Bangs’,” continued father, with a laugh.
Mr. Ridlet looked foolish. He drew a step nearer father, dropping the switch.
“There’s one thing I’m not likely to forget,” said he, “and that is, my wronging you as I did. But I wish you’d forget it, neighbor. I offer my apologies.”
He held out his hand. Father took it, smilingly.
“Perhaps we’d both better forget the whole thing,” rejoined he.
“Bub,” said Mr. Ridlet, “run into the house and tell your mother that I’ve asked Mr. and Mrs. Pomfrey to spend the evening with us. Tell her to set out her best cake and that basket of blackhearts.”
Bub and I looked at each other, and then we ran in together.
“Why, Seth! Why, Seth!” exclaimed his mother.
When my mother came over, the two women hugged each other and cried a little.
Father and Mr. Ridlet sat side by side the whole evening long, talking stock.
Mother and Mrs. Ridlet sewed industriously, now and then looking up at each other and laughing.
After Bub and I had filled up on cake and cherries, we made molasses candy and planned for a tramp up Wachuset next morning.
Getting put out with folks is bad, but isn’t making up about O.K?
[ UNLUCKY DAYS FOR ROYALTY.]
Thursday, the day upon which the late Prince Albert Edward died, is an unlucky day for English royalty, four sovereigns—Henry VIII, Edward VI, Queen Mary and Queen Elizabeth—having died on that day, but a far more fatal day is Saturday.
During the past two hundred years, for instance, William III died on Saturday, March 18, 1702; Queen Anne died on Saturday, March 14, 1714; George I died on Saturday, June 10, 1727; George II died on Saturday, October 25, 1760; George III died on Saturday, January 29, 1820; George IV died on Saturday, June 26, 1830; the Duchess of Kent, the present queen’s mother, died on Saturday, March 16, 1861; the Prince Consort, Queen Victoria’s husband, died on Saturday, December 14, 1861, and the Princess Alice, her daughter, died on Saturday, December, 14, 1878.
[ DROLL AND DELIGHTFUL.]
—Now is the time to kick. The football season is here.
—Any loafer will tell you that half a loaf is better than none.
—“A little of this will go a grate weigh,” said the man who was preparing a load of coal.
—Bertha breaks her doll, and it is sent out to be repaired. A few days later, Bertha goes to the store after it, but it cannot be found.
“Her name is Marguerite,” she explains, to facilitate the search.
—“Well, Tommy,” said the visitor, “how do you like your baby brother?”
“Oh, lots and lots—only I don’t think he’s very bright!”
“Why not?”
“We’ve had him nearly two weeks now, and he hasn’t said a word to anybody.”
—The letter S, we must confess.
Was never made in vain,
For, take it from your “stars and stripes,”
But tar and tripe remain.
—“Is that really a glass eye?” said Maude to the optician.
“Yes, miss.”
“How strange! it is not transparent. How does the wearer see through it?”
—A little girl, aged nine, called her father to her bedside the other evening.
“Papa,” said the little diplomat, “I want to ask your advice.”
“Well, my little dear, what is it about?”
“What do you think would be best to give me on my birthday?”
—Little Girl: “I wish I was an angel.”
Little Boy: “Why?”
Little Girl: “Then I wouldn’t be ’fraid of ghosts.”
—Small boy: “Been fishing, mister?”
Man: “Yes.”
Small boy: “Can’t I sell you some fish?”
—Perry has a very musical father and mother, and the little lad knows good music from bad. His parents live in a city flat, and in the flat just above it one afternoon a young lady was trying to sing and not succeeding at all. Perry listened with a frowning brow for some time, and then said to his grandmother:
“If this keeps up much longer, grandma, I shall die. And what do you think you’ll do?”
—Little Harold, out walking with his mamma, saw some men lifting a square piano from which the legs had been taken, as usual, for convenience in removal, and a happy thought struck him.
“Mamma, didn’t you tell me the other day that our piano was an upright?”
“Yes, dear. Why?”
“Well, if ours is an upright, this must be a downright.”
—The small boy taunts the teacher new,
And she in vain may fret,
She knows, whatever he may do,
He’s “mommer’s little pet.”
—Mamma lay on the lounge, with her face toward the ceiling, when Jamie, who lay beside her, asked her to “look.” Mamma turned her eyes and looked at him, without moving her head.
“No, no, mamma!” burst out the little fellow. “I want you to look at me with your nose.”
—“Did you ever take a bicycle trip, Smithers?”
“Once.”
“Where did you go?”
“Straight over on my neck.”
—“Cousin Edith, you can’t send money in a letter.”
“Why, Bessie, what ever made you think that? I’ve sent it that way lots of times.”
“Well, I’m sure it’s wrong, because I’ve seen it printed on the fences to ‘post no bills.’”
—Contentment makes pudding of cold potatoes.
—“That wall-paper has a very cold look,” said a customer to a dealer.
“Well, you see, it is intended for a frieze,” was the dealer’s reply.
—“I have a notion to break your face,” said the boy to his watch.
“You may even do that,” said the watch, bravely, “but you can never make me run.”
—A copper trust—Giving a policeman credit for peanuts.
—Lady: “A ticket for me and two halves for my sons.”
Ticket seller: “Excuse me, madam, but one of your sons is much older than twelve years.”
Lady: “What of that? The other is as much under twelve years as the older is over twelve, so they only aggregate twelve years.”
Ticket-seller: “Excuse me; not to-day.”
CIVIL ENGINEERING IN THE TROPICS—BRIDGING THE RAPIDS.
[ OUR LETTER BOX.]
The postal laws requite all manuscripts to be prepaid at letter rates—two cents for each ounce or fraction thereof—and manuscripts, sent in rolls or open wrappers, are not exempt from this provision. The large number of manuscripts reaching this office every day, on which postage is due, compels us in future to allow such matter to remain in the post office, unclaimed.
Declined.—October—A Talk With Santa Claus—Nina—A Hallowe’en Night—Sleep On—Who?—Blue-Eyed Nell—Mama, Sew the Pieces In.
Bert E.—Postage-stamp mucilage is prepared as follows: Gum dextrine, 2 parts; acetic acid, 1 part; water, 5 parts. Dissolve in a water-bath and add 1 part of alcohol.
Alan Heathcote.—A. A. Zimmerman made a mile on a Safety bicycle in 2 min. 6 4-5 secs. at Springfield, Mass., September 9, 1892. W. Windle, on September 29, 1892, at the same place, made 3 miles in 7 min. 4 3-5 secs; 4 miles in 9 min. 26 3-5 secs., and 5 miles in 11 min. 41 secs.
Camden.—1. His Royal Highness Albert Edward, Prince of Wales, is alive and hearty, at the age of fifty-one. 2. A silver dollar of 1827 has no premium value. 3. See “The Average Boy,” No. 50, Vol. 12, Golden Days. 4. There are a number of dealers in printers’ supplies in Philadelphia, and your best plan would be to go to them for a list of prices.
A. W. Ouldbe.—1. See answer to “Doc,” No. 41, Vol. 13. 2. The salary of an electrical engineer varies with his knowledge, position and scope of his duties. There are always positions for experts, but, as in every other profession, the beginner must commence at the foot and work his way up. Colleges do not secure situations for their graduates; they must do that for themselves.
A. G. M. and Others.—Golden Days is pleased to receive letters of commendation of the excellent serials which are a feature of the paper, but for obvious reasons we cannot remove the disguises which the authors choose to throw around their characters. It frequently happens that living characters are portrayed, who, though they do not object to having their adventures described, might not like the publication of their real names, residence or other personal particulars.
A. T. Reynolds.—The largest bell in the world is the “Czar Kolokol,” or King of Bells, cast in Moscow in 1734, during the reign of the Empress Anna. It is 21 feet high and the same in diameter, and weighs 193 tons. During a fire in 1737 it fell to the ground, a large piece being broken out in the fall and remained sunk in the earth until 1837. In that year it was raised and now forms the dome of a small chapel made by excavating the space below it. The worshipers enter through the opening where the bell was broken by the fall. It is very unlikely that any attempt will ever be made to restore it to its former use.
H. O. A.—In light oak graining, the ground coat is yellow ochre and the graining coat raw umber. House painters are not thoroughly agreed on graining for oak and walnut, so that they do not always mix the same shades; in fact, since there is no school of house painting, it is largely a matter of individual taste and skill.
T. P.—The first and second volumes of Golden Days, being out of print, are not for sale at this office, and naturally command a premium when sold by other parties. Bound volumes are usually quoted at ten dollars, and higher prices may have been given. They may be had, however, occasionally through the medium of our exchange columns.
A Subscriber.—1. The U.S. navy now has 116 vessels of all kinds, of which 44 are building or not in commission. 2. The greatest war ship of the English navy, and also the greatest in the world, is the Royal Sovereign, 380 feet in length, 75 feet in breadth, and of a displacement of 14,150 tons. The armament consists of four 13½-inch guns, ten 6-inch quick-firing guns, and twenty-five 6-pounder and 3-pounder machine guns.
Don’t Know.—Upon meeting a young married woman, upon her return from her wedding journey, it would be proper to congratulate her and wish her happiness in her new relation; but, if you had not previously known her in a single state, a simple acknowledgment of the introduction is all that would be necessary.
Archy Tect.—A knowledge of geometry is essential to a successful architect; in fact, he should be expert in all branches of mathematics, as well as a good draughtsman. See answer to “Arch-I-Tect,” in No. 42, Vol. 13, for your other questions, to which it is only necessary to add that architects are paid according to contract only.
J. B. McF.—A tun is a certain measure for liquids, as for wine, and its capacity equals two pipes, or four hogsheads, or 252 gallons. Being a measure, a tun may be made of any shape, so that the capacity is neither increased or diminished. Any school arithmetic treats of this subject under the head of “measures.”
An Old Reader.—We do not think it would serve any good purpose to publish a list of the serial stories which have appeared in Golden Days since the first issue. They average more than twenty complete serials to the volume, and the titles are included in the annual index. If you, who have read the paper since the first volume, wish to refresh your memory, indexes will be sent you free, on receipt of your real name and address.
D. Embe.—Rotting tree-stumps may be easily removed in this way: With a one-and-a-quarter-inch auger, bore a hole in the centre of the stump, eighteen inches deep, and put in twenty ounces of saltpetre; fill the hole with water and plug it tight. In the spring, take out the plug, pour into the hole a half-pint of crude petroleum and set it on fire. The stump will burn and smolder to the end of the roots, leaving nothing but ashes.
H. H. P. L.—From No. 1, of Vol. 13, up to No. 33, of the same volume, the following-named serials were begun. The Young Engineer, The Hermit’s Protege, Little Miss Muffet, An Unpremeditated Journey, Johnny Henry’s Cruise on the Spanish Main, The Mystery of Valentine Stanlock, Lost In a Ceylon Jungle, Adrift From Home, Crowded Out, In Hostile Hands, In the Homes of the Cliff Dwellers, Una, Lost in the Slave Land, Smack Boys and Judge Dockett’s Grandson.
No Name.—1. When tinware is worn until the iron shows, it can be retinned by dipping it again; but the process would be too expensive, except as an experiment. It would first have to be washed in a chemical bath, and then dipped the same as tin plates. 2. Poultry raising is undoubtedly a profitable business, if followed intelligently, and is best done on an extensive scale, with the benefit of modern appliances. In Eastern cities, eggs and poultry bring very high prices during nine months of the year, and the demand is always in excess of the supply. You may gain some valuable hints on this subject by reading “Practicable and Profitable Poultry Keeping,” Nos. 13 and 14, and “Nell’s Chicken Farm,” No. 18, Vol. 13, Golden Days.
Detective.—If you have any serious notion of being a detective, the best thing for you to do is disabuse your mind of the idea. A boy who can speak three languages and writes shorthand should secure a situation in the office of a steamship company or a large importing house which has foreign correspondents. Such talents would be thrown away in the detective business, which is not the lucrative profession you imagine. The best detectives are now in the employ of the national government or city authorities, and the supply at all times exceeds the demand. At the beginning you could not expect more than three or four dollars a day, and only during the time you were employed, and the rewards of which you have read so much would go to the agency, and not to the men who do the work.
C. O. P.—1. The famous liberty bell still hangs in the corridor of Independence Hall, in Philadelphia, although it is proposed to take it to Chicago to exhibit during the Columbian Exposition. No proposition has ever been made to melt it and recast the metal into two smaller bells, as such a proceeding would justly be regarded as little short of sacrilege. 2. There are many kinds of pigeons, but only two kinds—the common pigeon and the turtle dove—have been tamed. All the fancy breeds now raised come from the common pigeon, which is descended from the wild rock pigeon or rock dove. The carrier pigeon is a special breed, larger than the common pigeon, with a long, slim neck, with a piece of naked skin across its bill and hanging down on each side. Carrier pigeons have been known from the most ancient times, especially in the East.
F. C.—1. By the census of 1890, the Indian population of the United States, exclusive of Alaska, is set down at 249,273. Of these, 133,382 are at schools or on reservations, under the control of the Indian Bureau; 66,289 are included in the five civilized tribes of Cherokees, Chickasaws, Choctaws, Creeks and Seminoles; the pueblos of New Mexico contain 8278; the Cherokees of North Carolina and the Six Nations of New York number 6189; Indians taxed or taxable, 32,567; and the remainder are prisoners of war or in jail for state offenses. 2. Admission to the Columbian Exposition has been fixed at fifty cents, for young and old. 3. The London-Paris telephone is open to the public on week days from 8 A.M. to 8 P.M., and the charge is two dollars for three minutes’ conversation. The distance by wire is nearly 170 miles. 4. The nearest telephone office in your city will give you distances and rates. 5. Your handwriting is plain and legible.
Napoleon I.—1. Although Napoleon Bonaparte is still idolized by the French nation and has elsewhere many ardent admirers it is now generally conceded that all his deeds sprung from personal ambition and that he had little of that love of country which characterized Washington. No one can call him a patriot; he was a soldier imbued with the love of conquest, and as such was merciless and even cruel. In his private life he was by no means a model, and his divorcing Josephine for State reasons has been generally condemned. He was perhaps the greatest soldier that ever lived, at any rate dividing the honors with Julius Cæsar, but many greater men have lived, if we may define greatness as that which confers the most good upon mankind. 2. If a boy could have the personal tuition of an expert civil engineer he could learn the profession, but the easiest and quickest way is to take a college course and then go to work as an assistant.
An Old Subscriber.—When training for a bicycle race, the rider should first get his stomach in good condition. He should begin the exercise easily, and work up day by day as his strength and agility increases. He must indulge in plenty of wholesome food, but never touch pastry or tobacco in any shape. Having got into good condition, he should decide what distance he proposes to race, and turn his whole attention to it, never striving to become a long and a short-distance rider at one and the same time. Two or three trials of speed, at forty or fifty yards distances, should be made every day, after getting in fair form, slowing up gradually each time. Then he should finish up the day with a run of from one hundred and fifty to two hundred yards at three-quarter speed, and so on, day after day, until the stipulated distance is covered at full speed. The same method should be pursued in training for a foot race, boat race or swimming contest. On the day of the race, if the contest occurs in the afternoon, the only exercise should be a gentle ride for a mile or two.
Darkey.—1. Architects’ assistants are paid salaries in accordance with their experience and skill, which varies greatly. 2. Government postage-stamp mucilage is not for sale, but can be easily made as follows: Gum dextrine, 2 parts; acetic acid, 1 part; water, 5 parts. Dissolve in a water bath and add 1 part alcohol. 3. William H. McKinley is an American. 4. We do not advertise periodicals of any kind in this department. 5. Detective agencies are private affairs, except those connected with the police department of various cities. The salaries are not by any means munificent, and are earned by a vast amount of privation, exposure and hard work. 6. There are now built or in commission 24 armored vessels, 11 unarmored vessels, 4 gunboats and 4 special class vessels of the new navy, and 59 iron and wooden vessels of the old navy, of which 30 are in commission. 7. Major Andre, on August 1, 1780, wrote “The Battle of Cow Chace.” It was in three cantos, and was a parody on the English ballad of “Chevy Chace.” 8. On the 1st of June, 1785, John Adams was introduced by the Marquis of Carmathen to the King of Great Britain as first ambassador extraordinary from the United States of America to the Court of London. 9. A considerable portion of the United States yet remains to be surveyed, but no portion remains unexplored. There are doubtless large tracts of forest and mountain land which are in primeval wildness, but the general topography is known. In Alaska, however, there are thousands of square miles which have never been visited by a white man, mainly in the interior; in fact, with the exception of a strip of sea-coast and the lands bordering on the Yukon River, all Alaska is terra incognito.
Louis Granat.—Read “Some Points About West Point,” No. 12, Vol. 7 Golden Days.—C. B. Golden Days has never published directions how to make a star puzzle out of wood.—Curiosity Shop. See “Leaf Skeletonizing” in No. 39 Vol. 13.—S. W. Sir Moses Montefiore died July 28, 1885.—F. P. B. Electro-plating was described in No. 23, Vol. 11, and in answer to “Gualy Dids,” No. 38, Vol. 13, a method is explained of electro-plating without a battery.—A Reader. The ever-recurring question as to which goes faster, the top or the bottom of a wheel, was answered in Our Letter Box, No. 31, Vol. 13, in reply to “Three Boys.”
Several communications have been received which will be answered next week.
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| Mr. L. B. Hamlen. Of Augusta, Me., says “I do not remember when I began to take Hood’s Sarsaparilla; it was several years ago and I find it does me a great deal of good in my declining years. I Am 91 Years 2 months and 26 days old, and my health is perfectly good. I have no aches or pains. Hood’s Sarsaparilla regulates my bowels, stimulates my appetite, and helps me to sleep well. I doubt if a preparation was ever made so well suited to the wants of old people.” L. B. Hamlen, Elm St., Augusta, Me. N.B.—Be sure to get Hood’s. HOOD’S PILLS cure sick headache, biliousness, assist digestion, the best after-dinner pills. [Notices of Exchange.] The publisher will positively take no responsibility concerning exchanges effected by means of this department, neither will the reliability of exchangers be guaranteed. To avoid any misunderstanding in the matter, it would be advisable for those contemplating exchanging, to write for particulars to the addresses, before sending the articles desired. Exchange notices, containing offers of or for shot guns, air guns, pistols, poisons, rifles, dangerous chemicals, animals, odd numbers of papers, valueless coins and curiosities, birds’ eggs, or “offers” will not be inserted. Exchange Notices, conforming with the above rules, are inserted free of charge. R. Pier, West Hill, Dubuque, Iowa, hair-clippers, tent, U.S. and foreign stamps and $30 worth of other articles for boxing gloves or Indian clubs. H. A. Cutting, Wakefield, Mass., books, papers or a piccolo for a Simplex or World or other good small typewriter. F. L. Bebont, Addison, N.Y., Vol. 2 Golden Days for a Safety bicycle head-lamp or an Ordinary bicycle hub lamp. W. G. Crease, 2043 Ridge Ave, Pa., Vols. 7, 8 and 9 Golden Days and a pair of mahogany drum-sticks for a piccolo. H. C. Head, 185 Oakwood Boulevard, Chicago, Ill., a 4¼x6½ portrait and view camera and outfit for a self-inking printing press, a mandolin or a cornet (vicinity offers preferred). W. T. Fuller, care of Davis Bros. Co., Henderson, N.C., $15 worth of complete volumes of story papers for a watch with gold-filled case. E. P. Huff, Box 38, Aida, Ohio, about $65 worth of goods, including telegraph instruments, electrical goods books, etc., for a Safety bicycle, 30 inch, ball bearing. C. Boyce, Troy, Pa., a hand-inking printing press (chase, 3x5), 6 fonts of type and outfit for a B flat or E flat cornet or viola. B. Cornell, 427 Main St., Owego, N.Y., Vol. 65 of “Youth’s Companion” for a Harvard or a Glen camera and outfit in good order. J. Havens, Box 212, Tom’s River, N.J., a New Rogers scroll saw with saw blades, or a bracket saw with saw-blades and a base-ball bat, for a New England Hawk camera and outfit or other 4x5 camera and outfit. J. A. Bollinger, 1001 Dickinson St., Phila., Pa., a self-winding electric clock (value, $45), a C. & C. motor, ? H.P. and 4 cells Mason battery (value, $28), a telegraph key and sounder, 3 cells blue stone battery, lightning arrester and ground-switch, 3 box bells and 6-cells open circuit battery for a High Grade Safety bicycle or an improved Remington typewriter and stand. A. J. Smith, Jr., 99 Mercer St., Jersey City, N.J., 4 batteries, a push button, a book on electricity and a pair of American club skates for Vols. 11 and 12 of Golden Days. C. B. Gilliland, 114 Fifth St., Renovo, Pa., novels valued at $1, a pair of ice skates, 100 stamps and 25 cards for any vol. of Golden Days, in good condition, prior to the 9th. C. S. Bontecou, 80 Broadway, New York, a cushion tire Credenta bicycle, 1892 model, with double chime bell (Harrison) and Orient lamp, in perfect condition, for a one-horse-power boat engine or a 5x7 photo camera of equal value. R. W. McMichael, Rockland, Maine, set of chessmen, Vol. 12 Golden Days and a bound book, all valued at $4.50, for a set of boxing gloves. C. Whitney, 825 Jefferson Ave., Detroit, Mich., a pair of Indian clubs for a Rugby football, or self-inking Baltimorean press, chase 2½x3½, with type, quads, cuts, joints, ink and 300 cards, for 22 inch Rugby football. C. Renfert, 456 E. Madison Ave., Cleveland, Ohio, a 6½x8½ camera with rising front, a fine lens, 3 double plate holders, tripod and carrying case, for a Kodack, Hawk Eye or Premier camera. J. C. Baxter, 2207 Memphis St., Philada., Pa., a 4x5 photograph camera, tripod, carrying case and complete outfit, and a set of boxing gloves for a B flat cornet (city offers preferred). E. W. Putnam, 118 N. Terrace Ave., Chattanooga, Tenn., a dark lantern for books. W. G. Holboron, 634 8th Ave., N.Y. city, Vols. 6 and 7 Golden Days and 40 Nos. of Vol. 8 for a banjo. J. Neubauer, 407 E. 87th St., N.Y. city, a lot of boys weekly papers and other reading matter, for some musical instrument in good condition (zither preferred). F. F. Cooke, 218 Menlo Ave., Sioux Falls, S.D., a magic lantern with 12 slides, a fountain pen, $3 worth of job type and a flute, for a 20-ohm telegraph key and sounder, any vol. of Golden Days prior to the 9th, a telescope or a collection of stamps. E. A. Fellingham, West Side, Crawford Co., Iowa, 12 numbers Frank Leslie’s “Pleasant Hours,” a book called “Plain Facts,” a Domestic Encyclopedia and 2 story books for a telescope or field glass. H. L. Maitland, Bordentown, N.J., a No. 3 catcher’s mask (A. J. Reach) for a Rugby football. C. E. Proctor, 223 Ford St., Ogdensburg. N.Y., a bound book by Jas. Otis for “Looking Backward,” by Edward Bellamy. G. J. Frick, 2093 Fairhill St., Phila., Pa., a cornet, clarionet, pair of opera glasses, 10 vols. of Journal Franklin Institute, 3 vols. of Golden Days, 1 vol. “Leisure Hours,” and sporting goods to the value of $15, for a Safety Bicycle, tuck-up boat, camera or typewriter. M. Hulings, Mt. Pleasant, Henry Co., Iowa, 6 mos. of Vol. 13 Golden Days, a pair of ice skates and a fountain pen for a 14 inch (or larger) snare drum, with sticks. |
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CONSUMPTION RELIEVED BY SCOTT’S EMULSION J. McKeough, 1621 Ave. B, New York city, “Tom Brown’s School Days At Rugby” and “Perils By Land and Sea” for any vol. of Golden Days up to the 11th. (City offers only.) W. Troutman, 121 18th St., S.S., Pittsburgh Pa., a set of draughting tools for a guitar. J. A. Brearley, 306 10th St., S.E., Washington D.C., Vol. 11 Golden Days (bound) for any other vol. (bound) prior to the 11th, except vol. 6 or 7. L. P. Addison, Box 699, Saginaw, Mich., 5 fonts of type, 1 set of numbers and a foot-power scroll-saw, with patterns, saw blades, and a set of 6 finishing files, for a World typewriter or one of equal value. F. Bennett, 202 West 134th St., New York city, a small typewriter, a magic lantern with slides and 2 games for a rugby football (city offers preferred). L. C. Hamlin, Grand Junction, Mich., a U.S. flag 5 feet by 3 feet and a pair of extension, nickel-plated ice-skates for a watch. A. McLean, Jr., 88 Highland Ave., Jersey City, N.J., a book of games and sports, 200 varieties rare stamps, 2 fonts short type and a fishing reel with line for a vol. of the Golden Days prior to Vol. 10. H. S. Dunning, 314 Brodhead Ave., South Bethlehem, Pa., a 50-inch Columbia Volunteer bicycle, with all the tools, almost as good as new, for books, telescope, typewriter or camera. F. A. Newcomb, Jr., 97 Cross St., Somerville, Mass., a printing press and outfit for a guitar or mandolin (guitar preferred). W. P. Shaw, cor. 7th Ave. and Garfield Place, Brooklyn, N.Y., 10 books, an electric bell, a picture, 50 feet of copper wire, a solid rubber ball, a camera worth $15, a thermometer, 2 vols. Golden Days and 2 vols. “Youths’ Companion” for a tintype camera and outfit, making 4 pictures on an 8x4 plate. A. Garrigues, 155 Lex’n Ave., N.Y. city, a foot-power scroll saw, a guitar, a set of boxing gloves and a stamp album containing 900 varieties of postage stamps for a bicycle. (Safety preferred). W. Rieder 500½ East 80th St., N.Y. city, a magic pocket-lamp outfit, a Star Safety razor, a small pocket printing outfit with 3 fonts of rubber type, a gold scarf pin and some sporting goods for a small motor and battery, or telegraph key and sounder, or small steam engine or propeller. C. A. Hayn, box 268 Manitowac, Wis., Vol. 12 or 13 Golden Days for any previous vol. of same paper. W. F. Slusser, Rochester, Ind., a scroll saw and outfit, a collection of stamps worth $200, a pair of Indian clubs, a sketching camera, a collection of 500 covered stamp papers, an anchor puzzle, 1000 old postal cards, 40,000 mixed U.S. stamps, 1 vol. “Youth’s Companion,” a solid gold pencil, a steel engraver’s outfit, a silk watch chain, a pair of solid gold cuff buttons, a rubber printing outfit and dating stamp, 2 pocket banks and 5 games for U.S. stamps (rare), a 1 horsepower engine (marine), a printing press and outfit or a photographer’s outfit. C. Wass, Kansas, Edgar Co., Ill., Golden Days from No. 33, Vol. 10, to No. 46, Vol. 13, a scroll saw and an electric motor of sewing-machine power for No. 18 or 20 magnet wire. C. J. Deibert, 2009 N. 8th St., Phila., Pa., a foot power scroll saw for a set of boxing gloves. A. Gross, 24 Stanton St., N.Y. city, a small hand printing press, complete, a few types missing, for any volume of Golden Days. J. W. Neveil, 2317 Sepviva St., Phila., Pa., a rare collection of U.S. and foreign stamps, a collection of minerals and an actor’s make-up book for a nickel plated rim banjo. M. Ross, 41 Maiden Lane, N.Y. city, a collection of 106 different U.S. and foreign stamps in Challenge Album, “Winter Evening Tales” (bound), “Stories About Animals” (bound), and Vere Foster’s “Animal Drawing Book” for a zither of 15 strings. R. C. Morris, Box 473, Greenville, Bond Co., Ill., 4 vols. Golden Days for a banjo, guitar or B flat clarionet. J. W. M. Schmitt, 1112 E. Monroe St., Springfield, Ill., a 4x5 view camera and complete outfit and some books for a good self inking printing press and outfit. L. C. Hamlin, Grand Junction, Mich., a pair of extension ice skates and 2 vols. of “Youth’s Companion” for a watch or a small steam engine and boiler. L. D. Brace, Nunda, N.Y., a silver Elgin watch, 1 vol. “Youth,” 23 books by Optic and Alger and 12 magazines for a self-inking printing press. H. M. Emerick, 633 Putnam St., Brooklyn, N.Y., a $40 26-inch Safety bicycle for any 4x5 hand camera and outfit worth $15 or more. W. Kolle, 438 First St., Brooklyn, N.Y., a 4x5 camera and outfit, a set of boxing gloves, a printing press and stage costumes for a camera worth at least $30. G. B. Bissell, 306 W. 137th St., N.Y. city, a magic lantern and slides, 2 games and 5 books for a Rugby football (city offers preferred). R. A. Epperson, 344 Hudson Av., Chicago, Ill., a catcher’s mask, a league ball and 2 cloth-bound books for a Rugby football. C. E. Rice, Sardinia, N.Y., vols. of “N.Y. Weekly,” “N.Y. Ledger” and “Family Story Paper” for vols. of Golden Days or “Saturday Night.” All who use Dobbins’ Electric Soap praise it as the best, cheapest and most economical family soap made; but if you will try it once it will tell a still stronger tale of its merits itself. Please try it. Your grocer will supply you. |
| “GOLDEN DAYS.” The title of Golden Days was an inspiration, and the paper itself has been a revelation. Our golden days are childhood and youth, when all nature is bright and the future shows no cloud. It is the period when the mind is formed for good or evil, and, in many respects, is the most important period of life. There was a time when anything was good enough for young people—cast-off clothing, second place at table and the poorest sleeping-room, with snubbing at every hand. As for literature, it made no difference how dull or prosy were the books, young people had to read them or none at all. But the world moves, and Golden Days was the pioneer in recognizing that young people have tastes that must be consulted, if it is sought to interest and amuse them. They will absorb knowledge, as a sponge does water; but they will discriminate, as a sponge does not. A scientific article can be as interesting as a novel, and yet be as full of instruction as an egg is of meat; stories may point a moral unerringly and yet thrill with romantic adventure, like Robinson Crusoe; natural history teems with wonders far surpassing the Arabian Nights, and they are all true! These are the principles upon which Golden Days is founded, and from which it has never deviated; and that is why it is to-day the most popular juvenile paper in the world. Do you wonder why? There is no mystery about its popularity. Its broad and generous pages, coming every week all the year round, contain more reading than any other periodical in America. That is one reason; but the other and better reason is, that all the reading is just what the boys and girls want. To keep Golden Days up to this standard, to make it bright, breezy and abreast with the times, requires writers who understand boy-and-girl nature; and it has them. Every regular number of Golden Days contains liberal instalments of Four Serials, together with Stories of Adventure, Articles on Science and Natural History, Our Letter Box, Puzzles, Humorous Miscellany, Illustrated Sketches, and other interesting matter, and there is not a dull or common-place line from the first page to the last. | ||
Children Cry for Pitcher’s Castoria.
[From the West Philadelphia Press.] Golden Days is far ahead of any weeklypaper published in the United States having for its object the cultureand amusement of the youthful mind. Now, in its Twelfth Volume, itexhibits every sign of strength, permanency and progression. Mr.Elverson, the proprietor and editor, is one of those men who believe ita duty to do what they can for their race, and wisely he is doing forthe “rising generation” a work which, for him, is “a work of love.”Aiming to benefit our youth, through history, science, philosophy,geography, mechanics, etc., in a manner easily comprehended, he has madehis journal the efficient instrument of his noble purpose. Could he seethe anxiety on the faces of his young friends awaiting the arrival ofGolden Days by the mail or the newsagent, he would feel that his efforts to please them were not in vain,and that the running of his great presses, day and night, at Ninth andSpruce Streets, was indeed to them a gratification and blessing. From the Christian Advocate. Richmond, Va Any boy’s or girl’s days must be golden who reads that charming paper,published in Philadelphia, styled GoldenDays. The day it comes, and every day after, while its contentsare not exhausted, will be golden with the charming adventures,incidents of travel and thrilling stories of childhood and youth. Thechildren of every family should have it. Parents cannot make a betterinvestment than to subscribe for GoldenDays for their young folks. It is sent to any address for $3 peryear. James Elverson, Publisher, Philadelphia, Pa. From the Albany Evening Post. Golden Days is one of the very bestpublications for boys and girls in this country. Every number contains avaluable amount of information on athletic sports, fishing, hunting, andshort stories on all kinds of interesting subjects. The best writers areengaged, and they give their best work to Golden Days. James Elverson has produced a weeklypaper for young people that finds a warm welcome in every city, town andvillage from Maine to California. GoldenDays can be found at all our bookstores and news rooms throughoutthe United States. From Uncle Sam, El Dorado Springs, Mo. Our opinion of Golden Days is veryplain and straight, as follows: It is one of the purest publications tobe found in the hands of the reading young people of the present day. Itis full of short sketches that are interesting and instructive to theyoung and the old as well. The serial stories are all perfectly pure andare very interesting, besides setting good examples and morals for allwho read them. I have read GoldenDays more or less for seven or eight years, and I unhesitatinglypronounce it pure and instructive enough to be in the home circle ofevery family in the reading world. From the Southern World. Mr. James Elverson, of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, deserves the thanksof parents who desire to see the minds of their children fed on healthyreading matter. His Golden Days, forboys and girls, is one of the handsomest and best weekly publications ofthe kind in the country, and should supplant the vile, sensational trashwith which the country is flooded. The hope of our republic is in heryouth, and if their moral characters are not elevated and made noble bya pure and lofty type of literature for boys and girls, we may expectserious trouble in the future of our race. | From the Advocate of Peace, Boston. Golden Days.—“To merit is toinsure success,” is certainly verified in the publication of Golden Days, by James Elverson, Philadelphia. Thisadmirable weekly for the youth of this great land is now wellestablished, and has an increasingly large and well-deserved patronage.Its readers are not treated with trashy matter, but with pictures andpuzzles and stories of thrilling adventure and useful knowledge. Golden Days is supplanting a poisonousliterature, and performing a wholesome mission in this day, when toomuch good seed cannot be sown by the friends of humanity. From the News, Bloomfield, Ind. Golden Days.—“To merit is toinsure success” is certainly verified in the publication of Golden Days, by James Elverson, Philadelphia. Thisadmirable weekly for the youth of this great land is now wellestablished and has a large and well-deserved patronage. It issupplanting a poisonous literature, and performing a wholesome missionin this day when too much good seed cannot be sown by the friends ofhumanity. Parents wishing to put valuable reading matter into the handsof their children should subscribe. It is only $3 per annum, and can behad weekly or monthly as may be desired. From the Journal, Philipsburg, Pa. James Elverson, corner Ninth and Spruce Streets, Philadelphia, publishesa handsome illustrated and interesting youth’s paper called Golden Days, only $3 per year. It should find awelcome in every home for the young folks, for the reading is wholesome,and such literature should be encouraged by prompt subscriptions. If theyoungsters catch a glimpse of it they will find they need it as arecreation after study hours. Send for sample copy. From the Gazette, Charlotte Court-House Virginia. Golden Days.—Of all thepublications for little boys and girls, GoldenDays stands most conspicuous to the front, while its columnsabound with stories and tales well calculated to entertain, amuse andplease the youthful reader. There is a moral in its articles wellcalculated to make the young reader better for having read its columns.The subscription price is $3 per year, two copies for $5. Send forspecimen copy, and you will be sure to take it. From the Philadelphia Times. Of all illustrated juvenile periodicals published in this country, noneis more deservedly popular than GoldenDays, published by James Elverson, this city. It strikes thathappy medium which appeals to the masses of school children whose tasteshave not been spoiled by overstrained appeals to their fancy, and whileit is bright and varied, it aims to be instructive in a pleasant,homelike way. The monthly part, made up of the four weekly parts, isquite a treasury of short stories, pictures and puzzles. From the Buckeye Vidette, Salem, Ohio. Golden Days.—This deservedlypopular paper begins the autumn ripe with golden fruit. Its stories andmiscellany are rare gems of interest, being instructive and pure, and itcompletely accomplishes the delicate task of satisfying a boy’s tastefor adventure without being sensational. The pictures are handsomelyexecuted. Its articles on scientific subjects are of the best, its shortstories good, and, in fact, it is a masterly combination of useful andfascinating literature. | ||||
OUR PREMIUM KNIFE!
 We will make this Knife a Present toany one who sends us THREE DOLLARS For One Year’s Subscription to “GoldenDays.” The money must be sent direct to thisoffice. Address JAMES ELVERSON, Publisher “GoldenDays,” Phila., Pa. Special Notice.—WHEN TEN CENTS FOR REGISTERING IS SENT, weconsider ourselves responsible for the safe delivery, though we havesent several thousand Knives without one in a thousand beinglost. | |||||
From the Standard, Belvidere, Ill. James Elverson, Philadelphia, publishes a handsomely illustrated andinteresting youth’s paper called GoldenDays. It should find a welcome in every home for the young folks,for the reading is wholesome, and such literature should be encouragedby prompt subscriptions. If the youngsters catch a glimpse of it theywill find they need it as a recreation after study hours. From the Pipe of Peace, Genoa, Neb. Golden Days fills a want that no othermagazine attempts to supply. Pure, clean, instructive and amusing, itfurnishes reading matter, both for young and old, which is not surpassedby any other publication. Published in attractive form, beautifully illustrated and in cleartype, the mechanical work is in keeping with the reading matter itcontains. Address for sample copies, James Elverson, Philadelphia,Pa. From the Methodist, New York. James Elverson, Philadelphia, publishes a handsome, illustrated andinteresting youth’s paper, called GoldenDays. It should find a welcome in every Christian home for theyoung folks, for the reading is wholesome, and such literature should beencouraged by prompt subscriptions. If the youngsters catch a glimpse ofit, they will find they need it as a recreation after study-hours. From the Record, Union, Mo. Golden Days, published by JamesElverson, Philadelphia, is a weekly journal of literature and fictionfor the rising generation. The paper is not of dime novel order, but itsserials and short stories are instructive, moral and entertaining. Theyouths of this land must have reading, and Mr. Elverson, in printingsuch an exalted and high-toned paper, is winning the support and thanksof the people. Binding “Golden Days” Covers for Binding Stamped in gilt and black lines, will be sent by mail postage paid, toany address, on receipt of SIXTY CENTS.
With the cover will be sent a handsome title-page and complete index.Address. JAMES ELVERSON, Publisher. | From the Republican Journal, Belfast, Me. Golden Days, the leading juvenileweekly (and monthly) continues to grow in interest and circulation, andis a welcome visitor to homes over all this broad land. The publisher’sclaim that it is “pure, instructive and entertaining” will be concededby all who read it. James Elverson, publisher, Philadelphia. SOMETHING THAT YOU WANT! Thousands have asked for it. A HANDY BINDER!
That will hold 52 “Golden Days.”
Heavy, embossed cloth covers, with flexible back. Golden Days stamped in gold letters on the outside.Full directions for inserting papers go with each Binder. We will sendthe HANDY BINDER and a package of Binder Pins to any address on receiptof 50 cents. Every reader should have one. Address JAMES ELVERSON, THIS BINDER is light, strong and handsome, and the weekly issuesof Golden Days are held together by itin the convenient form of a book, which can be kept lying on thereading-table. It is made of two white wires joined together in thecentre, with slides on either end for pressing the wires together, thusholding the papers together by pressure without mutilating them. We willfurnish the Binders at Ten Cents apiece, postage prepaid.
Address JAMES ELVERSON, | |||
“Golden Days” Vol. XII
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A few illustrations were cut into two pieces to interlock withsurrounding text. Links below lead to the complete versions. | |
Off Shore | |
A Plucky Girl | |
A Perilous Ride | |
![[“Then came a sudden breaker, rolling outward, that lifted the cart andoxen from the road-bed and swept them out into the sound.”]](#4554030206424388379_pic03.jpg.id-3489440710065613648.wrap-0.html.html){kind=link}
![[Mr. Highton shifted in his seat, and said, in an insinuating tone, “Youseem to hev a very poor opinion of me, Miss.”]](#4554030206424388379_pic07.jpg.id-1599827436823483209.wrap-0.html.html){kind=link}
![[“My bullet had taken effect on one of the dogs, which had immediatelytangled up the rest of the team and brought the sledge to astandstill.“]](#4554030206424388379_pic14.jpg.id-8916219102227180003.wrap-0.html.html){kind=link}