A Story of the Revolution.

BY JAMES BARNES.

CHAPTER XIX.

THE TWO LIEUTENANTS.

As the little boat, with the two fishermen rowing and the silent figure sitting in the stern-sheets, dipped and tossed through the racing tide, which was at the flood, the wind began to blow up cold and nipping from the north. The spray froze as it splashed now and then over the gunwales of the boat.

It was quite midnight before they reached the New Jersey shore and pulled in beneath the shelter of a point of rocks that rose steeply out of the water. Here for the first time words were spoken.

"You have done well, my men, and here is a 'bright yellow' for each of you," said the young man in the cloak.

As he extended his hand, Roger, the younger, grasped it in a friendly way.

"I remember you, sir. I was one of the boatmen who rowed you across after the battle of Long Island. We are both good patriots."

The older man at this allusion respectfully touched his oil-skin cap. Then the boat was shoved out once more into the current.

The young man on the shore watched until it had disappeared.

"Now for a horse!" he exclaimed aloud.

Climbing up the rocks, and following closely a road which ran through a wide meadow, he saw a farm-house to the right. A light in one of the windows had first attracted his attention. He walked up the little lane, and stopped for a moment before knocking at the door.

"Tory or patriot, I wonder?" he queried. He had hesitated before pronouncing the last word.

In response to the tapping of his cold knuckles, the door was opened.

Before him stood a tall woman, and back of her a boy of thirteen or fourteen. The latter had a large bell-mouthed blunderbuss in the hollow of his arm.

"What is it at this time of night?" the woman inquired, in a deep voice like a man's.

"A word of direction," was the answer. "Could you tell me where I can find a horse? I will pay well for him."

"Where are you from?" asked the woman.

"From New York, but I would go on to the westward, and must hurry or I will be caught."

"Oh!" said the woman. "Come in by the fire. You are alone?"

"Yes," was the response.

The boy, who at first had looked suspiciously from the stranger to the tall figure of his mother, placed the blunderbuss in the corner, and the three walked into the kitchen.

"Are you going to join the army?" inquired the woman at length.

"I am in the army," was the reply; "but I must hasten. I have just been rowed across the river, and should I be captured it might go hard with me."

"I understand," said the woman, "and I will assist you if I can."

"You will be well paid," rejoined the young officer.

"Do not think of it," answered the woman. "I have given one son; and my husband and brother are with Washington. We must give our all. I can see what you have been afraid to tell. You have escaped. One has to be careful. Might I ask you your name?"

"Frothingham."

"I know that name well," said she. "I have heard my brother speak of a young Mr. Frothingham who was employed with him. He was at Mr. Wyeth's, the merchant's."

"Ah, indeed!" was the answer.

The young soldier drew forth a bag of gold. As he did so the light from the fireplace shone clearly upon his left hand. Across the back of it ran a scar.

"Eugene," said the woman, turning to the boy, "make haste to the stable and put the saddle on the colt. 'Tis all we have left, sir, but you are welcome. When you reach Morristown you may be able to send him back again. Perhaps you know my husband. My name is Ralston, and my brother's name is Samuel Thomas. You must remember him. My son was killed on Long Island. Were you there?"

"No, madam," was the thoughtful answer; "I was not."

The woman left the room, and the young man gazed into the fire.

He had had no idea of the devotion of these people to this cause. In far-away England he had suspected nothing of the intensity of feeling or the self-sacrifice and patriotism that animated the country.

A qualm of misgiving came over him. Was it not rather an uncomfortable part to play—taking his brother's place, as it were, and accepting the help and hospitality of these brave folk, who would give "their all," as the woman had said, for what they considered their rights and liberties! A feeling akin to pride had swept over him when the woman had spoken of his brother George; it could have been no other.

He struck his knee a blow with his closed fist.

"It is for the King," he said, beneath his breath.

At this moment the trampling of hoofs on the crisp earth outside attracted his attention.

The woman came to the door.

The lad was holding a small horse at the stone step.

"You have done me a great service, and I pray you will accept—" began the supposed fugitive.

Mrs. Ralston interrupted him.

"Think you, sir, that I would take one penny? 'Twould burn my fingers. It is for our country."

"Thank you, good friend, then," he said, and the tears came to his eyes despite himself.

The lad gave him a leg-up into the saddle. "I wish I were old enough to fight, sir," he said. "Good-by. Take the first road to the left and you are on the highway."

William mumbled a confused sentence of thanks and rode away.

This endeavor of his to prove his loyalty did not appear so glorious an undertaking as he had at first supposed. His thoughts ran back to his brother George in that cramped prison cell, where he supposed him still to be.

But the latter, a free man again, was at this moment seated before a fireplace in a large wainscoted room in a large house not far from Fraunce's Tavern.

On the opposite side was sitting the burly figure of Rivington!

When George had found that no boat was waiting for him at Striker's wharf, he had bethought himself at once of two places where he might hide—Mrs. Mack's and School-master Anderson's. How stupid he had been that he had not discovered the latter's character before! Putting the incidents together, he could read all plain enough.

Anderson was the one to see.

As he was about to sound the knocker gently on the schoolmaster's door, some one spoke to him and called softly,

"Number Four, I say!"

There was a touch on his elbow (he still carried his right hand in a sling), and Rivington was standing beside him.

"Do not fear, my son," he said; "I am one of the seven." There was the sound of laughing coming from within the house. "Some of our friends from across the water are in there," said the printer. "It was lucky I was in time to stop you. We must entertain them, you know. I have been following you for some time to make sure. Come with me."

He had piloted George to the street, and opened the door of his own house with a huge key, ushering him into the large room in which they were now seated.

It was odd, George kept thinking to himself, and hard to believe, that Rivington, the hated Tory, had turned patriot.

"Now, young Frothingham," said Rivington, after a pause, "this is an extraordinary occasion. You are the first one with whom I have held conversation upon any such dangerous subjects. But you must know two or three things that I believe most thoroughly. I have no faith in hopeless ventures, but, mark me, though this war lasts six months or six years, America will never again belong to England. I am so fully convinced of this that I have risked my safety to help end the struggle. Peace will come sooner or later, but the sooner the better, of course. Some day when my fellow-citizens learn what I have done they will not hang me in effigy or sink my presses in the bay. But enough of that. I have forgiven them.—To something of greater moment.—You cannot remain another day in this city. I doubt your being able to cross the river to-night. To-morrow morning early I go to Paulus Hook, and will take you with me as my servant. 'Tis a risk, perhaps, but it is the safest thing I can think of. I am supposed to go there on some business for General Howe. I am afraid that I shall muddle it, but I may learn something. Sleep here behind this heavy screen. We start early." Without another word he left the room.

At daybreak the next morning Rivington and George, in a small sail-boat, were making for the New Jersey shore.

George was dressed in a groom's livery, and carried a large despatch-box on his knees.

Almost all the dwellers in the country surrounding the Hook had found it to their best interests to hide any desire that they might have to show their leaning toward patriotism, and, to tell the truth, most of them were advanced Tories.

It was to visit one of these men, a dealer in live-stock, that Mr. Rivington was making the trip.

They had ridden but a short distance in the lurching one-horse chaise that had met them at the ferry, when Rivington pulled up.

"Here I say good-by," he said. "At the fifth house along this path from here stop and ask for the owner. He is a very aged man. His name has slipped me; but tell him frankly who you are, and that you have escaped from a British prison, and he will do his best to send you on your way. Do not fear that he will betray you. He hates me well, and would rejoice to see me hanged, but some day he may think better thoughts. Of course, do not mention my name to him. Good-by, lad. There is one person to whom you can present my best respects—General Washington. Success to him!"

George shook his benefactor's enormous hand, and took the path through a thicket of scrub-oaks.

Rivington had driven on but a short distance, when he thumped the bottom of the chaise with both feet. "You may shoot me for a lunkhead," he exclaimed, "if I did not forget to tell him of his brother's being in this country. I wonder if he knows it? He made no mention. It would have been best for him to know it."

But it was too late to call George's notice now, and he cut the horse a sharp flick with the whip.

CHAPTER XX.

MISGIVINGS.

It was two days later a small brown horse crunched his way through the deep fall of snow that lay upon the hills to the westward of the Passaic River.

His rider drew up at the foot of a hill, and slapped his thigh, to start the circulation in his half-frozen fingers. "I know the country hereabouts," he said. "Seven miles further on lies the Hewes estate, and beyond that Stanham Manor. From the crest of yonder hill I can look down upon the dear old place. And what if they should recognize me?" he went on. "What foolishness it was to undertake a trip like this! All the information I have obtained so far I could put into a thimble." He was sickening of the adventure. If it were not for the Frothingham stamina he would have backed out and tried his best to retrace his steps. "I will be surely able to pick up something worth hearing at the Hewes place," he went on, half aloud. "If I could only find out the number of the American forces at Princeton or Morristown it would pay me well for my trouble."

The horse, with its flanks steaming, had halted knee-deep in the snow during this soliloquy. William drew his cloak about him and dug his heels into the ribs of his steed. After plunging for half an hour through the heavy unbroken road he reached the top of the hill. Below him stretched the land that had belonged to the old rival company. His eye first sought the country further on. Above the little hill he could see the tall chimney that his own father had built in the old colony days. The smoke was pouring upward, and floated out in the higher air in a thin cloud much in the shape of an open mushroom; not a breeze was stirring; and further to the south another column of smoke marked the position of the Hewes foundries in the hollow.

Yes, and there it was, the old Manor House. He could see the dark patches of the pines about it, and almost imagine he could hear the roar of the water-fall. His eyes traversed the woods and the hill-side nearer. To the right should be the large mansion of Colonel Hewes. The panting horse was again reined in suddenly. There was nothing there where the Hewes house had stood but blackened walls and some stark timbers, whose outlines were softened by the new-fallen snow.

William felt a sense of sorrow besides one of fear and astonishment. He had intended to make his first venture of obtaining news at the house of Colonel Hewes. Now there was nothing to do but to press on and make a bold stroke. He would have to go to Stanham Mills. It would be impossible, weary as he was, to turn back. It would soon be dusk.

Once more he struck the colt with his heels, and descended the hill-side. At the bottom a small stream had to be forded. The tired horse plunged in, and had gone but a little way through the shallow when he stumbled and pitched forward. William flew over his head amongst the rocks and ice. Angry and stunned, he rose to his feet. There was a numb feeling at the elbow-joint of his right arm.

"Fortune is not smiling on me," he said, grimly, feeling the joint with his fingers. "Here is a nice mess if I have broken anything."

It was merely a serious dislocation, but by placing his hand between his knees he pulled the joint back into place. It caused him great agony, and if he had not been above the average in strength it would have been impossible for him to straighten it. His head hurt him also from its contact with a stone, and he felt sore and miserable as he managed to clamber back into the saddle. He had ridden but a little way when the pain in his arm necessitated another stop. With his handkerchief he made a sling, and hooked it about his neck.

"I would give a great deal for some of Aunt Clarissa's liniment," he murmured, grimly.

Just as he came across the well-travelled road that led to the Hewes foundries a man on horseback came toward him from out of the hollow. The snow flew from his horse's heels, and as soon as he caught sight of William he waved his hand.

"Hilloa!" he shouted. "Welcome back!" It was Colonel Hewes's cousin, the renowned rifleshot. When he was quite near he pulled his horse down to a walk. "George, dear boy," he said, "Lord knows I am glad to see you safe."

There was nothing else for him to do, although William's face flushed hotly at the idea of the deception he would have to practise.

"Are they all well?" he asked.

"Yes, marvellously so," was the rejoinder; "and there is much to tell about."

William controlled himself with an effort.

"Did you notice that our house was burned?" Mr. Hewes went on. "It caught fire at night. We narrowly escaped with our lives. Now we are guests at Stanham Manor, and are having very pleasant times. What a royal welcome you will have! But tell me, how did you escape? What news do you bring? What is Howe going to do with his army, and do our good friends in the city prosper?"

William smiled. "You are asking more questions than I can answer all at once," he said. "Now, one at a time. I escaped with little difficulty."

"But you are wounded!"

"It is nothing. It will be all right in a few days. There is little news, for I was placed in a position to gather nothing worth relating, as you may know. What Howe is going to do with his army is more than I can conjecture. In fact, I do not think he has made up his mind. There are comfortable quarters in New York."

"They are living on the fat of the land, I hear," said Mr. Hewes.

"Yes, and our friends are prospering."

"Well, it is good to have you home again," said the tall man. "My cousin, the Colonel, is away at Morristown, but we will have as a guest to-night—your guest, I might better say—a young officer, who is on his way from the army of the north to General Washington. He is carrying despatches of great moment."

William's heart leaped. Luck might be changing. Here at last would be an opportunity to gain reliable information that would help the royal forces.

"You are looking tired and worn, my boy, and I will promise to ask you no more until you have had a rest and something cheering," said Mr. Hewes. "That nag of yours is about done for, I should say."

"The roads are very bad," returned William, who, to tell the truth, was feeling the effects of his fall, and was dizzy and uncomfortable. "You are hard at work, I see," he added, turning the subject, and nodding in the direction of the smoking furnaces.

"Yes, yes, indeed," was the rejoinder. "Making good Yankee cannon-balls, and even your own foundry has been turning them out every day. We have pleased the Commander-in-chief mightily, I can tell you."

They had entered the familiar lane. The water was roaring under the ice at the edge of the dam. A group of workmen caught sight of the two riders from the doorway of the mill, and set up a cheer. They had been sighted from the house also, and a cluster of figures was waiting at the foot of the big white wooden pillars. Aunt Clarissa was there, and his sister Grace, and a broad-shouldered young man in a uniform of blue and buff. The servants ran out from the big wing and clustered about the roadway. Old Cato, hatless, came running down the road. When he approached within a few feet he stopped and faltered.

"Wy, Mas'r William! you, you—"

"CATO," SAID MR. HEWES, "WHAT'S THE MATTER?"

"Cato," said Mr. Hewes, "what's the matter?"

"Wy, it's Mas'r George, ob course; dis ol' nigger's goin' plumb crazy." Cato laughed.

Still something had happened to dampen the old colored man's effusion, and he grasped the hand extended to him with an assumption of being too much overcome for words.

As William slid from the saddle his dizziness had increased. He had had nothing to eat all that day, and the fall had been heavier than he had at first supposed. The sight of his little sister Grace, grown to this tall beautiful young creature, unnerved him, and when she turned her face up to his and put her arms around his neck, tears came into his eyes and he sobbed weakly.

"Poor boy!" said Aunt Clarissa, coming up, as he rested his head on Grace's shoulder and walked towards the door. "He has suffered much. Oh, those prisons! The stories I have heard. Dear George, forgive me. I have been both hard and wrong."

It was evident that Aunt Clarissa had suffered also, and her face had softened in a wonderful degree. William was almost tempted to make a clean breast of everything there and then, when the horror of his real position struck him forcibly. Words would not come; he felt a strange sinking at his heart; he stumbled, and would have fallen but for Mr. Hewes's extended arm. For the first time in his life he fainted.

He awoke, he knew not how long afterwards, feeling warm and comfortable, in a great high bed in what had been his uncle Nathan's room. A candle was burning dimly at his side, and faithful Aunt Polly was sitting fast asleep in a great rocking-chair. Well he knew how soundly Aunt Polly slept. Again he almost sickened at his false position. He could not stand it. What meant Aunt Clarissa's welcome? And how things had changed! One thing was left to him, and but one—flight. Anything rather than to sail under wrong colors and to deceive those who loved and trusted him.

He arose, and taking his clothes from the chair, stepped softly into the hallway and dressed quickly. Then he stole down stairs. The moonlight from the outside flooded the great hall. With a frightening start he saw hanging over the back of a great chair a pair of heavy saddle-bags. They belonged to the transient guest—the young American officer, most probably. He lifted the flap. Heavy papers tied and sealed with great blotches of red wax were there.

Was it dishonest? His hands fairly trembled. "'Tis for the King," he said, beneath his breath; but he stopped suddenly and slipped the papers back into the pouch. "I could not touch them if they contained secrets worth all kingdoms," he said. "I will go back empty-handed. I had rather fail."

There was a stir over in the direction of the fireplace, and to his surprise he saw old Cato shuffling noiselessly toward him. The old man picked up the saddle-bags without a word.

"Where are you going with that, Cato?" said William, astonished that the latter had not spoken.

"Jes goin' to take care ob dem, sah," was the reply.

"Leave them here. They are safe enough," said William, feeling half ashamed of himself, as he spoke the words.

"No, sah; scuse me," was the old man's reply. "If Mas'r William Frothingham asks dis ol' nigger fur his head he ken have it, but old Cato ain't goin' to give dese 'spatches to no British officer."

William leaned back against the mantel-piece. Had the others found out also?

[to be continued.]

[IF WE COULD MOVE TO MARS.]

BY GARRETT P. SERVISS.

THE FIRST ELECTRIC LINER SENT OUT BY THE U. C. T. AND S. D. CO., MARS DIVISION.

It is not necessary to consider the various reasons that would impel many inhabitants of the earth to go to Mars if they had the opportunity. But no one can doubt that the first train for Mars, or the first balloon, or the first electric liner sent out by the Universal Celestial Transportation and Safe-Delivery Company, Mars Division, would be booked to its utmost capacity. Curiosity alone would suffice to crowd it, and it is certain that the Anglo-Saxon race, which has furnished most of the great travellers, would be fully represented in the throng of adventurers bound for another world.

When Mars is nearest to the earth its distance is no less than 36,000,000 miles. But if we set our speed to match that of an electric impulse flying through the Atlantic cable—say 15,000 miles per second—we should be there in just forty minutes. Good enough for time, but how about guide-books?

Well, as to that, explorers must expect to find their own way about. Marco Polo had no Baedeker. And, besides, we are not altogether left without guidance, such as it is. We have to thank Signor Schiaparelli for some very beautiful charts of Mars, which he has made with the aid of his telescope at Milan; and other astronomers have drawn charts of Mars also. It is true that all these are filled with glittering generalities, and in some respects are contradictory; yet upon the whole they really form a more complete map of the entire surface of Mars than anybody had of the earth in the time of Columbus.

MARS AS YOU APPROACH IT, SHOWING THE CANALS.

On approaching Mars we should behold a world looking in some respects remarkably like the earth, having seasons resembling ours, with torrid, temperate, and frigid zones; turning on its axis like our globe, and in nearly the same time; showing in winter broad white caps, as of snow, covering its polar regions, and presenting many appearances suggestive of continents, oceans, islands, and peninsulas. As we watched it slowly turning under our eyes, we should see on one side, south of its equator, a huge, staring eyelike-spot, which Schiaparelli has named the "Lake of the Sun," and on the opposite side, reaching from the southern hemisphere into the northern, a great, dark, crooked area, somewhat resembling North America in shape, and known to astronomers as the "Hour-glass Sea." And then all the globe beneath us would appear to be mapped with delicate reds and yellows and grays and blues; long waving curves and sharper indentations would make their appearance in what look like coast-lines; and presently, running east and west and south and north, and passing "beyond the horizon's utmost rim," a network of dark-colored lines, like a vast web covering the planet, would be seen. These are the famous "canals."

But while we were wondering what this could mean, we should be struck by another unearthlike thing. Being accustomed to dwell on a globe three-fourths of whose surface is covered with water, it could not escape our notice that the world we were approaching had far more land than water. Indeed, it is likely that we should find that the "Hour-glass Sea," and many of the other so-called seas of Mars, are only part of the time filled with water, and that even then they are not like terrestrial oceans, but rather vast swamps, choked with rank vegetation suddenly awakened to life by periodical inundations supplying moisture to their roots. Visiting them at another time, we should find only deserts with cracked soil baking in the sun. At any rate, some of the discoveries made with great telescopes in 1894 suggest these things.

In the equatorial regions, where the earth is richest in all forms of life, it is not improbable that we should find Mars covered with one vast Sahara. We should have to go to the poles to discover anything like seas. When the snow-fields around the south pole began to melt away with the on-coming of summer, an opportunity would be given us to behold a spectacle that the earth cannot match. As the snow melted, the water thus formed would collect into a shallow sea, which would constantly tend to empty itself by flowing off toward the equator. Very likely Mars is a remarkably flat world, and the water from the pole would encounter little opposition to its movement.

Then would come a sight that would open our eyes with amazement. Looking toward the equator, we should see only barren red lands and the dry and dusty basins of ancient seas; but the wave of snow-water from the antarctic circle, running through ready channels and percolating the thirsty soil, would be like the spirit of life moving upon the face of a dying world. At its touch vegetation would sprout and spring and wax great, with the magic rapidity that we sometimes see exhibited on the earth; the hard soil at its roots would fall apart and dissolve with moisture, and in a few weeks, where only the naked bones of the planet had been visible before, we should be able to wade neck-deep in seas of verdure, with long grasses waving softly in the vernal wind, and sweet flowers stroking our faces.

The observations made by Mr. Percival Lowell and Professor W. H. Pickering during the last opposition of Mars seem to lend probability not only to such conjectures, but to others which are now to follow.

We have imagined ourselves watching on Mars the progress of the life-giving water spreading from the south pole during the spring and early summer of that hemisphere of the planet. But we have noticed its effects only in the great depressed regions that may once have been actual seas. How about the still greater regions which nobody has ever supposed to be seas, and which appear on the charts of Schiaparelli and others under the name of continents? If Mars has not water enough to keep its sea-beds permanently covered, its dry lands must thirst indeed! Let us go, then, to that strange region where lies the so-called "Lake of the Sun."

As we cross the red continents, hot and blazing in the merciless sunshine, we begin to meet the "canals," but, behold! they are not canals! They are broad streaks or belts of vegetation, intersected with numerous tiny water-channels, like the valley of the river Po or the flat meadows of Holland, and the water comes from the vast swamps formed, as we saw, by the polar inundation.

Now our interest rises to the dramatic pitch, for here is the work of hands, here are evidences of intelligent design, and here, if anywhere on this distant world, we must expect to meet its inhabitants. I shall not undertake at this point to describe the appearance that those inhabitants might present. But let us imagine that we put ourselves under their guidance.

It is probable, for a reason which I shall mention presently, that our Martian friends would turn out to be exceptionally intelligent. They might guess, then, that we would have a rather poor opinion of their world of floods and deserts, and for that reason they would lead us at once to its finest scenes. Through the corn-land and the vine-land of their irrigated belts, traversing the sandy wastes with strips of green, they would doubtless conduct us along magnificent shady roads to one of the numerous crossing-places where two or more of the fertile bands meet, and where our astronomers on the earth have noticed that there is always an oval dark spot, which some of them have thought must mark the site of a lake.

But as we approach one of these spots the spires and roofs (or what answer on Mars for spires and roofs) of a town make their appearance. And quickly we find ourselves in strange streets and avenues, surrounded by throngs of such people as the wildest traveller's tale has never pictured on the earth. We are led to a lofty outlook, from which we can see far across the level country, and behold the radiating belts, along which alone the land is fruitful, stretching away in every direction, and at each crossing-place widening into an island of green dotted with the dwellings of a town or city. The red glare of the leafless and waterless wilderness, contrasting with the emerald lines that intersect it, makes a scene of overwhelming strangeness. In the remote distance our guides point out to us the metropolis of this part of Mars, placed in the broadest of the verdant spots, where our charts show the "Lake of the Sun," and surrounded by an immense system of irrigated belts, running out across the desert to the distant sea-swamps on all sides like the spokes of an enormous wheel, and so conspicuous that the Lick telescope and other telescopes have shown them from the earth. Every one of those lines is sucking moisture from the polar overflow, and storing up subsistence for the great city and all the inhabitants of the land.

For this is not merely the harvest season on Mars; it is the time when every thought is on the future, and every energy is bent to the preservation of life upon the planet. Did we think that we had learned how to make the earth yield to us the full measure of its fertility? Bah! We had to come to Mars to find out that science. If we should return to this scene in a few months the story would be plain. Then the desert would have resumed its sway uninterrupted; the swamp oceans, half water and half leaves, would have returned to dust; the irrigating ditches would have dried up, and the productive belts would be like so many narrow bands of prairie that had been swept with fire. At such a time the "canals" of the planet Mars disappear from the sight of terrestrial astronomers, and the so-called "oceans" turn pale.

Then we may imagine the inhabitants of that most singular planet reaping the fruit of their foresight and industry; then is the season of social joys in the Martian metropolis on the site of the "Lake of the Sun"; then men go no longer forth to the fields to toil for the future, because that future for which they worked has come, and there is to be no more toil, until once again, with the slow swing of the seasons, the southern pole, burdened under its accumulated winter snows, beholds the sun, and at its touch dissolves into life-giving water.

So much for some of the broad features of life on Mars as recent discoveries permit us to picture them, although it should be borne in mind that astronomy, as a science, does not assert—though it does not deny—that there is life at all on Mars. It allows us to draw our own conclusions. Now, then, continuing the supposition that there may be inhabitants on Mars, let us consider some other queer things that we should probably behold and experience on paying them a visit.

Mars is small compared with our world, its diameter being only about 4200 miles, and its surface between one-third and one-fourth as extensive as the earth's. Knowing its size and density, we can calculate how great its gravitation is—in other words, how much bodies weigh on its surface. If we tip the scales at 150 pounds on the earth, we should find that our weight had been reduced, in going to Mars, to about 67 pounds. It is hardly possible to tell exactly how we should behave in such circumstances. Doubtless we should feel as if we were walking on air, or as if we could jump over a house, for our muscular strength would remain the same. Imagine the feelings of an elephant suddenly removed to Mars!

But the most singular effect that we should behold of this comparative lack of weight on Mars might be upon its own inhabitants. The chances are not small that we should find ourselves amid a lot of giants there, averaging about fifteen feet tall. It is easy to prove that on Mars a man of that height would, in proportion to his muscular strength, be no heavier or clumsier than our average descendant of Adam is. Yet he would be absolutely stronger and able to perform harder work. Then, too, the things he had to lift would be far lighter, bulk for bulk, than similar things on the earth. Accordingly, during our visit to one of those "irrigation belts" that Mr. Lowell has imagined, we might behold feats of strength in the digging of ditches and the garnering of the fruits of the soil that would fill us with astonishment.

And that leads us to something else rather queer. There are reasons for thinking that a small globe like Mars might, because it would cool faster, get into a habitable condition sooner than the earth. If so, the people of Mars may have family trees that would put our longest genealogies completely into the shade, and their history as a race may exceed ours by an enormous length of time.

[HOW MAGIC IS MADE.]

BY HENRY HATTON.

II.

Another trick with handkerchiefs is that known as "Easily seen Through," from the transparent box which plays an important part in it.

As this box is of glass, top, bottom, and sides, it hardly seems possible that anything could be concealed in it, and yet— But let me describe the trick in full.

The box, which is about four inches square, is held up so that it may be seen, and is then placed on a table and covered with a large handkerchief. Taking a piece of newspaper of the size of a sheet of foolscap, the performer twists it into a cornucopia, or paper cone, such as the grocer wraps sugar in for his customers, and gives it to one of the audience, who has volunteered to assist on the stage, to hold. Seated on a chair, the assistant holds the cornucopia at arm's length. The performer drops into its open mouth three small squares of silk—red, white, and blue, respectively—and with a borrowed cane or umbrella pushes them well down; he then closes the paper horn by folding over the mouth. To do this necessitates taking it from the assistant for an instant, and when it is returned, the larger end is given to him. With the injunction to keep it well away from his body lest he be suspected of collusion, the performer announces: "I shall now pass the handkerchiefs invisibly from the paper horn, which the gentleman holds, to the little glass box." Here he stops abruptly, and pretending to have heard a remark from the audience, continues, "Oh no, they are not there yet," and removes the handkerchiefs from the box to show it is still empty, and almost immediately covers it again. A moment later, however, when he whisks off the handkerchief, the three squares of colored silk are seen in the box, while the cornucopia, on being opened, is found to be empty.

Although some address on the part of the performer is necessary in order to give brilliancy to the trick, the secret lies in the box and the cornucopia.

"EASILY SEEN THROUGH."

The box is made with a double bottom of glass, and between this and the real bottom are duplicate squares of silk. This silk—and this remark applies to most of the "handkerchiefs" used in conjuring—is of a very light, flimsy character, either marcelline or a thin quality of Japanese, and takes up but little room. A catch at the back of the box, worked from the outside, which the performer touches when covering the box, releases the false bottom, and this, impelled by a spiral spring attached to the hinge, instantly flies up, and lies flat against one side, while the elasticity of the silk squares causes them to fly up and partly fill the box.

The cornucopia is made of two sheets folded in the centre, as shown by the dotted lines in the diagram, and glued together at three sides, A, B, and C. Picking up the paper with his left hand, so that the bottom part B comes between the thumb and fingers, the performer catches the corner F with his right hand, and brings it over to the point D. Then the half, E, A, F, is drawn over till the corner E touches G, as in Fig. 2, and finally the corner H is thrown round the other parts; the point is given a twist, and the cornucopia is complete, as in Fig. 3.

fig. 1.

fig. 2.

fig. 3.

Placing his hand inside, the performer opens the space between the inner and the outer paper, smoothing it down so as to appear like the proper opening. It is in this opening (between the papers) the silk squares are placed and pushed down. The performer folds the top once over, and gives it to the assistant to hold, with his fingers over the fold. When the time arrives, the performer unrolls the cornucopia from the bottom point, and spreading out the paper, it appears to be empty, the thin texture of the silks concealed between the paper making them inconspicuous.

There are two pretty variations of this trick. In one, the last handkerchief of the three is passed from the hands to the box; in the second, two cornucopias are used, dispensing with the box.

As in the first there is no resort either to the short cord used in the "Evanescent Handkerchief," or the hand-bag of the "Mission of a Plate," it may prove of interest to the amateur.

The handkerchief—preferably the red one—is first gathered into both hands, and then, to allow of the performer turning up his sleeves, is transferred to the left hand. All this time an end is seen protruding, yet when the hand is opened it is empty, and the handkerchief has vanished.

The solution is simple: a small loose piece of silk about two inches square is picked up with the handkerchief; the latter is carried off with the right hand in the act of apparently transferring it to the left, into which only the little piece is put. In turning up the left sleeve the handkerchief is wrapped in the fold, and finally the piece of silk is rolled into a tiny ball and concealed between the fingers, and dropped on the table at the first opportunity. The trick is not generally known, and is useful as a change from older methods.

In the second variation the cornucopia into which the handkerchiefs are passed is made by pasting together two sheets of paper at all four sides. Between these papers are hidden the duplicate handkerchiefs. Instead of opening this cornucopia at the conclusion of the trick, the performer merely tears it in two and pulls out the handkerchiefs. As I have known a performer of long experience to be puzzled by this trick, I can conscientiously recommend it. It has the advantage, too, of doing away with the glass box, which, when properly made, costs four or five dollars.

Guibal generally follows the trick just described with "The Transit of the Cards." In this he is assisted by two of the audience, one of whom he dubs "the glass box," and the other "the paper horn," claiming that the trick, though done with cards instead of handkerchiefs, is virtually the same as the preceding one.

To one of these assistants, who must not be confounded with confederates, he hands a pack of cards to be counted aloud. This operation concluded, he asks: "How many cards did you say there are—thirty-two? I knew it, but I want my audience to know it too."

He gathers up the cards, and as he takes them in his hands he passes the little finger of his left hand between the five top ones and the rest of the pack.

"Now, sir," addressing the glass box, that is the assistant on his right, "be good enough to empty the outer breast pocket of your coat. Good. Cut this pack."

As he says this he palms the five top cards, and lays the rest of the pack on the table, which is between him and the audience.

When the pack is cut, the performer requests the assistant to put the cut in his breast pocket, to cover the pocket with his hand, and on no account to remove it.

Pointing to the remainder of the pack lying on the table, he requests the paper horn, the assistant on his left, to count it. Let us suppose there proves to be nineteen cards. "Good," he exclaims. "You, sir, will please put these in your pocket." At these words he bunches the cards together with the right hand, adding the five palmed ones.

When the paper horn has emptied his pocket, and placed the cards therein, the performer continues: "You, the paper horn, have nineteen cards, and you, the glass box, necessarily have thirteen, since the sum of nineteen and thirteen equals thirty-two. Now, gentlemen, keep your hands on your pockets, and see that not a card enters or leaves without your knowing it."

"Will you, madam," addressing a lady, "select one of the three mystic numbers, 4, 5, or 6?"

Should 5 be the number chosen, the trick is done, for the performer has only to command five cards to pass from the pocket of the glass box to that of the paper horn.

But if 4 or 6 is selected a little subterfuge is necessary. Let us suppose 4 is chosen.

Turning to the lady, the performer says: "You take number 4? You are sure you would not prefer 5 or 6? No? Be it so. See what I shall do. I shall cause four of the cards which are in the pocket of the glass box to pass invisibly into the pocket of the paper horn. To do this, however, I must ask this gentleman on my left to give me one card from his pocket that the others may learn the road they are to follow."

Taking this card, he gives it to the assistant on his right to put into his pocket. "Now," he proceeds, "one, two, three, four, pass! Count your cards, sir"—to the paper horn—"and see if you have not twenty-three, as you certainly ought to have, since nineteen which you had and the four which have passed make exactly that number."

Of course this proves to be right. Then the glass box is asked to count his cards, and he is found to have nine, since, as the performer explains, four of his original thirteen have left his pocket and gone over to the majority.

Had number 6 been chosen instead of 4, one card would have been taken from the glass box and given to the paper horn "to show the others the way."

Here is a clever little trick which will pass very well for "Thought-Reading" and is quite puzzling. I believe it has also the advantage of never having been explained in print.

Before beginning, the performer gives three sealed envelopes to one of the audience to hold. He then borrows a watch, a ring, and a knife. Three of the audience are asked to act as a committee, and to them are given the borrowed articles, with a request that they leave the room, when each is to select one of the articles and hide it in his pocket. Before they go, however, the performer takes a number of cards from a pack, gives one card to one of the committee, two to a second, and none to the third. These they are to put in their pockets, each remembering how many cards have been handed to him.

When they return to the room, the performer, without asking a question, collects the sealed envelopes, and hands one to each of the committee. On opening them, each finds inside his envelope a card bearing the name of the article he has selected.

With careful attention and a fair memory any one can do this trick—provided he knows how.

In the first place, he must be able to distinguish in which of the envelopes is each of the three cards; this may be done by pricking with a pin one corner of one envelope for the watch, two corners of a second for the ring, and leaving the third envelope intact. The advantage of this system is that the marks are not noticeable, and may be recognized by the touch.

In taking the cards from the pack, the performer, although apparently choosing at haphazard, is really careful to take exactly twelve. These are placed on top of the pack before beginning the trick, and the thirteenth card has a tiny corner clipped off, so that there may be no mistake about the number, as the success of the trick depends upon having it exact. The committee-men are numbered, mentally, 1, 2, and 3 by the performer, who must remember their respective numbers.

To No. 1 he gives one card, to No. 2, two cards, and to No. 3, none. Over the remaining nine cards he slips a rubber band, so that they may not get mixed with the others, and hands them to No. 1 to keep.

When the committee-men have retired and selected the articles, the performer calls to them: "From the cards secured by the elastic let him who has the watch take as many as I gave him originally; let the one who has selected the ring take twice as many as I gave him, but the one who has the knife is to take none."

When the committee returns the performer collects the cards bound together by the elastic, and sees at a glance just how many are left.

Then he refers—mentally again—to the following, which, though it means nothing, in this case means much.

123567
AnteDiemDeaIstaEstinArmis
1 23 22 13 12 31 3

The upper row of numbers refer to the cards left in the elastic; the lower row shows the borrowed articles according to their value, that is, 1=watch, 2=ring, 3=knife. The words show the numerical value of the vowels, a, e, i.

If one card is left, the performer knows that the watch has been chosen by committee-man 1, the ring by No. 2, and the knife, consequently, by No. 3. Should there be five cards left, the knife has gone to No. 1, the watch to No. 2, the ring to No. 3.

Having found out just how the articles are distributed, the performer gives out the sealed envelopes, makes his bow, and gracefully retires.

BY GASTON V. DRAKE.

IV.—FROM BOB TO JACK.

DEAR JACK,—I guess this letter will reach you about the same time as the other. We did pass the Paris but it was after dark and I couldn't catch the Captain's eye, so the other letter won't be mailed to you a bit earlier. This will be just a P.S. to that. I've had a fearfully exciting time since I wrote to you last. I didn't see Chesterfield for two whole days after that morning and I began to get kind of worried about him, but this morning, which is very rough he turned up again dripping wet. I thought it was one of the waves that have been breaking over us all the time that had wet him, but he said no, it was falling overboard. He was fixing one of the ropes down by the stern yesterday morning when the ship gave a fearful lurch and sent him flying head over heels into the ocean, but he fortunately had enough presence of mind to grab hold of the lead line that runs astern in connection with a little dial to show how many knots an hour the boat goes. It's a funny sort of machine. It's so fixed that being pulled through the water makes the rope revolve, and the faster the boat goes the faster the rope goes around, and every time it goes around it registers a point on the dial on the stern-rail. It was this bit of rope that Chesterfield caught when he fell, but it was an awful prediggerment for him to be placed in because he had to revolve with it, and he got so dizzy that he nearly had to let go, but when he realized that if he let go he'd be drowned he held on and gradually hauled himself up the rope until he got himself aboard again. Of course when he got on board again he'd been whizzed about so much that he couldn't stand up or walk straight, and when the Captain saw him staggering up the deck he falsely accused him of having had too much brandy in his mince pie and ordered him below for twenty-four hours in irons, which is an awful disgrace, and Chesterfield is too much of a gentleman to stand unjust disgrace, so this morning when he was allowed to go free again he felt so badly that he went up into the bow and jumped overboard, preferring to die. But just as he jumped another big wave came along and washed him back on board again, and he has decided to live, which I am glad of because he is a very fine fellow.

He says this is his last trip on this boat. As soon as we land he's going down to Venezuela where he has ten millions of hoarded treasure buried in a swamp. He's going to dig it up and buy the whole of some Island out in the Pacific Ocean and settle down as a King and he's promised if I ever visit him to give me a reception worthy of an Emperor. There is only one trouble, he says, about it all. With all his millions buried in Venezuela he hasn't got enough money with him to pay his fare, but I fixed that. I've lent him the two gold pounds papa gave me, which he says, will help him out with what he hopes to get for looking after the chairs—most people give him fifty dollars, he says, for doing that, and there are six hundred passengers on board, which makes $30,000. I think that's a good deal of money, but he says it's only a bagatelle for a man who wants to go to Venezuela. He's going to pay me back my two pounds after he's dug up his money in Venezuela, and he told me not to say anything to dad about it but surprise him next winter when I get the money back with a thousand pounds interest besides.

There's one nice thing about travelling at sea. Coming this way we gain a half an hour everyday. That is, at this time to-morrow morning it will be half an hour later and that's first rate when you wake up on a rough morning at eight o'clock and find out that it isn't eight o'clock at all, but half past, and you can get your breakfast right away. The idea of it is that travelling East the sun goes down earlier every night and of course it always sets on time wherever you are and you've got to fix your watch according to it. Chesterfield knows a man who kept on going around and around the world until he'd shoved Christmas forward six months, and didn't realize what had happened until he was wakened up by the boys celebrating the Fourth of July. It sounds like a queer story, but Chesterfield says it's true, and the way ships' time is arranged it seems to prove it. It takes a trip all the way round the world to knock off a day though, so it's not as easy a thing to upset the calendar as you'd think. Chesterfield says that if a man could live long enough to go around the world three thousand six hundred and fifty times going west he'd be ten years younger than his own twin brother at the end of that time. I asked dad if that was so and he said he guessed it was, but he really didn't know and to find out he put the question to a very extinguished editor of a Brooklyn paper who is on board and he said of course it was, that he knew a man who had done it. He said that the man was an editor of a Philadelphia paper and that that was why that particular paper was ten years behind the times. Dad laughed at this, and so did I, though I don't know why. Maybe it was a joke—though the extinguished Brooklyn editor said it very solemnly.

We expect to come in sight of land to-morrow and I must say I'm glad of it. The sea is all very fine, but the rough weather you're apt to get makes what you eat disagree with you and I want to get some place where you can eat a dinner and enjoy thinking about it afterwards.

As soon as we get to London I'll write again and tell you all about everything.

Yours ever,
Bob.

P.S. Chesterfield says he thinks Sandboys would make a good Prime Minister for his new Kingdom in the Pacific. He says he'll give him ten dollars a week and Saturdays off if he'll do his Prime Ministering for him. You might speak to Sandboys about it.

[THE SOAPY SEA.]

When first beside the turquoise sea
Stood Mabel, fair and sweet,
And saw the billows breaking free
Like snow-drifts at her feet,
She murmured, "Do these soapsuds leap
And roll from morn till night,
Way up the shore, to wash and keep,
It always silver white?"

3. The Finish. 2. The Stride. 1. The Start.
From instantaneous Photographs of B. J. Wefers, Amateur Champion of the World.

The Start of a Handicap 100-yard dash.
SHORT-DISTANCE RUNNING.

Of all track-athletic events the sprints are the hardest to train for, yet the easiest to perform. Being the easiest, there are consequently many more athletes running the 100 and the 220 than there are competing in any other single event; but of all the competitors there are comparatively few really first-class men. To become such requires long and patient and careful training, and a greater mastery of form than in almost anything else.

It is a difficult task to tell on paper just what a man should do who wishes to make a specialty of sprinting. There are so many small points of importance that vary with individuals, that only a general description and a few broad suggestions can be given here. At the same time, whoever accepts these suggestions and heeds them may feel confident that he is working along the right lines, and that if he will follow the advice here set down he will put himself into condition to make rapid strides of progress as soon as he comes under the management of a trainer.

It has already been said in this Department that no one ought to begin to train for any athletic event much under the age of sixteen. Until that time few boys are sufficiently developed physically to be able to stand the strain of regular athletic work. At that age and afterward, however, the muscles become firm, and are amenable to development and capable of continuous careful exercise. You will hear a great deal of talk about "wind" and "breathing" and "lungs" and kindred subjects when you first begin to train as a runner. Pay no attention to these "wind" advisers. Your wind and lungs will take care of themselves. In the first place, the lungs are not at all the organs that you want to think of in this connection; it is the heart. The heart is the organ that is affected by running. Run a hundred yards, and you will find your heart beating faster than when you started. The exertion of sending the blood more rapidly through the body is the cause of this. Therefore a sprinter should first feel confident that he has a strong heart, and then he may set to work with no misgivings about his wind.

It is not the lungs that are affected by cigarette-smoking. It is the heart. Take any smoker, and you will find that his heart beats to a different measure from that of an abstainer. For this reason sprinters should avoid tobacco. Another old-fashioned and exploded theory is that the athlete should run with his mouth shut. That is not necessary at all. In fact, sprinters are taught nowadays to run with their mouths open, and every first-class man in the event does so. It must be plain to every one that a man can get more air into his lungs, and thus facilitate the working of the heart, by inhaling through his mouth than through his nostrils. Of late all the best long-distance runners have adopted this breathing method, and find it best, and in the illustrations of long-distance runners to be published in an early issue of the Round Table these men will all be seen to have their mouths open as they run.

The training for the 100 yards and that for the 220 are almost identical, for an athlete who runs one of these events almost invariably becomes proficient in the other. In fact, the 220 is a long sprint—the word sprint meaning to run at full speed the entire distance of a race. The most important feature of sprinting, of course, is the start, and no runner can become too proficient in this. Up to within five or six years the standing start was universal, but in 1889 or 1890 Lee of the New York Athletic Club introduced the crouching start, and since then that has become the standard in America. In England some of the professionals use it, but not until the London Athletic Club men came over here last fall did British amateurs recognize the value of the crouch and adopt it. But they did adopt it after the international games, and no doubt the crouching start will soon become general among English amateurs.

The position for this start is somewhat difficult to acquire and master, but once this is accomplished an athlete is certain to knock off one-fifth of a second from his best previous record. The first thing of importance is to fall into an easy position, with the hands on the scratch-line and the starting foot from six to nine inches back. The other foot should be from 2 ft. 6 in. to 2 ft. 9 in. further back. The runner should be raised up on his toes in an easy, springy attitude. The first illustration shows exactly how that position is taken. Many runners lean on their knuckles, but a better way is to have the hands open, and to rest on the extended fingers. This gives more spring. In order to do this and to keep hold of the running corks, fasten a rubber band at each end of these, and slip this over the back of the hands.

When the starter gives the word to "set," the runner should lean forward as far as he can without losing his balance, his head lifted so that he can get a full and clear view of the track ahead of him. When the pistol sounds he shoots ahead with all the force of both legs, but his first two strides are taken in a crouching position. Do not attempt to stand erect at the very start. Let the head and shoulders rise along a slanting line to their proper altitude, or there will be an infinitesimal but still noticeable loss of time. As soon as the runner has got into an erect position, however, and into his pace, he should run with only the very slightest forward inclination of the body, but with the chin thrust well out. The second illustration shows this well. The arms should be swung across the body rather than alongside of it. This gives better form and makes an easier stride.

Never look backward while running. Many a race has been lost by that very act. Pay no attention at all to the other competitors, but go it for all you are worth, regardless of your rivals. Breathe naturally. Do not begin to stop until you have passed the finish-line, but, this done, throw up your hands and try to run up into the air. The third illustration demonstrates that idea. The man who naturally has a long stride has an advantage over his fellows, but the man who has not a long stride need not attempt to increase his spread of pace. An athlete can run much better with his natural stride than with an adopted gait. Of course, when jogging for practice, it is best to lift the legs as well up as possible, and thus develop whatever capabilities for a long stride you may have, but do not strain yourself by trying to overdo the thing. The foot should always come down straight upon the ground—that is, flat. I do not mean by this that the heel should touch, for it must not by any means. Yet a man does not run on his toes; he runs on the ball of his foot; and in order that the spikes of his shoes may enter the track to the best advantage the sole should strike flat, that the nails may dig well in and secure a firm hold.

For a beginner who has never undertaken any systematic training in sprinting, and who desires to become proficient in it, I should recommend the following schedule, to be carefully carried out for three weeks:

Monday.—Practise the start six times, running at speed only about twenty yards from the scratch. Rest between each attempt, and end up by jogging fifty yards, finishing up the hundred at speed.

Tuesday.—Jog a quarter of a mile for the purpose of developing the stride.

Wednesday.—Run seventy-five yards at speed; rest, and then run fifty yards at speed.

Thursday.—Practise the start ten times, running as before, not further than twenty yards each time; jog 220 yards slowly for stride.

Friday.—Run fifty yards at speed twice, with a rest between.

Saturday.—Run a trial 100 yards on time, and, after a rest, jog around the track for 220 yards.

To an ambitious young athlete who feels he is a future record-holder this schedule may seem altogether too light. There are no words strong enough, however, with which I can urge him not to attempt to do a bit more at the beginning. What is more, at the slightest sign of fatigue at this work, quit for the day.

For practising starts, where a pistol is unavailable, get some one to snap two boards together. Don't start by oral command. Get in the habit of getting off the mark at the crack of a pistol, or to a sound as nearly similar as possible. The jogging around the track should be taken very slowly, and is intended purely as a leg exercise and to develop the muscles of the calves and thighs. A long loose jog will lengthen the stride. When preparing for a contest lay off altogether the day immediately preceding it, and don't run your distance against time for three or four days previously. Run only fifty yards at those times if you are going into the 100, and try 150 if you intend entering the 220. In a 220 race you will find that you can make a stronger finish if you ease up a trifle for 5 or 10 yards at the 200-yard mark—although this is merely comparatively speaking, for this race is a dash from start to finish. It will be better not to experiment with this suggestion until you become a pretty good judge of your pace.

The proper costume for a runner is a light jersey shirt with no sleeves, and china-silk running trousers that barely reach to the knees. If china silk is unavailable, cambric or cotton will do very well. Corks may be purchased of any dealer in sporting goods. Working shoes should be made of horse-hide, with no heels, and six spikes in the toes. The athlete should also have a pair of calf-skin shoes of the lightest possible make for use only in competition. While at work it is well to wear light socks, as these make the shoe fit more snugly; but in a race wear "pushers"; these are made of chamois, and cover the toes from the instep downward.

The interest in the big in-door games to be held at the Madison Square Garden on March 28th seems to be increasing every day. Not only have most of the prominent athletes of the New York schools already entered or signified their intention of entering, but many sportsmen from a distance will be on hand to try their powers against the home talent. The Hartford High-School will send three representatives to the meeting. Luce, the Captain of their track-athletic team, will enter the half, the quarter, and the 220. He won the quarter in the Connecticut H.-S.A.A. games of 1894, but only took second in the event last year on account of having gone stale. His best time is 51-2/5 seconds; his records for the half-mile and the 220 are 2 minutes 7 seconds, and 23-2/5 seconds. These, of course, are out-door records. F. R. Sturtevant will enter the pole vault and the running high jump. He has an in-door record of 9 feet 8 inches in the former event, and can clear 5 feet 7 inches in the jump. He has held the championship of the Connecticut H.-S.A.A. in these events for the past two years. J. W. Bradin, the third Hartford man, has not made a very strong showing in athletics as yet, but he is full of promise. He took third in the quarter at the Connecticut H.-S.A.A. games last year, and will enter that event in the Madison Square Garden games.

The baseball schedule of the New York Interscholastic League has been formulated, and was announced at the last regular meeting of the association. As was the case last year, the competing teams will play in two sections, and the games will be held on the following dates: