[to be continued.]
[IN THE TOWER OF MANY STORIES.]
LADY ARABELLA STUART.
BY MRS. LEW. WALLACE.
ne of the most familiar names to the student of English history is that of Lady Arabella Stuart, who was long a constant source of alarm to James I., because she was born near the throne. She never urged her claim nor appeared to covet the crown; daughter of Charles, Earl of Lennox, and cousin to the King, she inherited a full share of the beauty and misfortunes of her race. A lovely girl, full of wit and grace, gifted with the gentle art of making friends, she was the life of a lifeless court.
Many matches were proposed to the sovereign, who had power to make or break a marriage for her. Suitors of various rank and countries knelt at her feet, and it was told that even Henri the Great of France had dreams of seating the blue-eyed Countess with the wavy tresses on the throne of Charlemagne.
So passed her youth; and in her thirty-fifth year James, by way of banter, told the maiden she had remained fancy free to suit him long enough; she might now wed whom she would. Poets, adventurers, courtiers, and knights of high lineage kissed her white hand, but came no nearer the heart, which beat faster for none but William Seymour, afterward Marquis of Hertford, a youth of twenty-three years. Only the stars were witness as they sealed their vows and oath, and the secret kept well for a season. But a bird in the air carried the matter to Windsor, and Seymour was arrested and brought before the Council to answer for the outrage—betrothal in secrecy.
He denied everything; swore he had not thought of anything but pastime. What did he want with a wife ten years older than himself? And so the rumor was forgotten with other court gossip.
They thought the King would give up his nonsense, for Seymour was from one of the proudest families of Europe, and there was no reason in this opposition; besides, he had consented to a wedding. But no relenting was admitted by James, and in July, 1610, a poor priest was found and bribed to risk his neck by going through the marriage ceremony for the lovers.
ST. THOMAS'S TOWER, WHERE SEYMOUR WAS CONFINED.
After a year of concealment the news reached the King's ear. He was enraged; the priest was thrown into prison, the two witnesses present were arrested, and the offending pair parted in the first sweetness of the honeymoon. Seymour was sent to St. Thomas's Tower on the river. He was furnished handsome apartments, with plates, hangings, books, luxurious belongings; and the Countess was lodged in a fine house on the Thames, with attendance and surroundings as became her rank; allowed every freedom—except freedom.
Indifferent to the elegancies about her, the bride wrote tender and passionate letters to her bridegroom, but he answered never a word. Sweet William made no sign, sent no love-gift. He wrote only to the Lords of the Council, praying to be restored to liberty, that his health would be lost if he were not freed, and busied his days making himself comfortable in the chambers over the Traitors' Gate of London Tower, his wife's money paying the bills.
One dull, foggy day she quietly stepped into a common barge and floated down the river to the barred window on the wharf, where she might make signs to him who did not appear bold enough to plan an escape, and returned safely to her castle. The brave movement could not be concealed, and in his wrath the King ordered a dozen counties to be put between his cousin and the defiant prisoner looking with despair at the water-gates.
Sadly did the tearful blue eyes turn to the bleak and frozen North, while sentinels doubled their watch on the square tower built over the moat.
Such was his Majesty's pleasure.
Lady Arabella's attendants were devoted, ready to brave death itself for their mistress; her soft, kind manner never failed to win where self-love had not taken too deep a hold. Day and night, while she sighed her soul away, they schemed and planned to open a path to reunion in the pleasant land of France, where they might be at peace in banishment. At last she slipped off, well provided by her aunt, the Countess of Shrewsbury, with costly jewels current in any country, and with good English gold to lavish on any who might espouse her cause. She glided down the Thames, reached the Channel, by arrangement was taken on a light French bark; but the open water in front of Calais was not for the hapless bride. Captain Corvè did his best; his little craft was no match for the swift war-ship Adventure in pursuit. Gallantly he fought wind and wave, but Admiral Monson outsped him, and after thirteen shots were fired, he struck his flag, and the crew of the victorious vessel boarded the bark which carried the royal lady.
She gracefully yielded herself prisoner to James, King of England, consoled by the thought that he whom she loved better than life was so well disguised, and his plot so well laid, that he was safe in French port.
"Where is William, Earl of Seymour?" demanded Monson, Admiral in command of the chase.
Lady Arabella smiled.
"I cannot tell, but I believe he is beyond the reach of his enemies and mine."
LONDON TOWER FROM THE RIVER.
So she was marched to the Tower, into rooms once occupied by Margaret Douglas, the common grandmother of the King and herself.
When brought before the Lords she was mild and patient, yet asked with becoming spirit why she, a free woman of royal blood, should be held a criminal and separated from her lawful husband.
The furious King seized her jewels and money; and her two companions in the flight, gentlemen by birth, were dragged to the torture-chamber of the Tower, and forced to confess what they knew of the perilous attempt.
The tale of Seymour's changes of wig and cloak, in various disguises and places, is too long to tell here. Delighted with liberty and with France, he seemed to mourn the loss of his bride less than the loss of her jewels and money, for William dearly loved to loiter in the delicate plain called Ease, and lie in the soft places gold can buy. The calculating fellow found his high name a passport in Paris, which city was vastly amusing, and so was the staid but not less delightful capital of the Belgians.
In the damp old rooms of her grandmother Lady Arabella languished five years. The third year an escape was arranged, and when the time was ripe and success appeared assured she was betrayed, and the venture ended in nothing but harsher treatment. While "William, dearest," danced the night away, she wore out the dark hours writing prayers to the King, who deigned no answer.
Like other high-born dames, she was skilled in cunning needle-work, and many a doleful day was spent stitching gay silks into canvas, making a bright broidery, offered as a souvenir to the man who imprisoned her; but the King would not touch the pretty gift. The courtesy did not move him any more than her demand to be tried by her peers, according to law, in open-court, instead of by a Committee of the Council sitting with closed doors.
When the tapestry came back rejected the blue eyes grew dimmer, and her cheek paled with the heart-sickness of hope deferred, or rather of despair, and it was rumored that the daughter of the House of Stuart had met her doom in madness. Sorriest of all the history is that the youthful husband forgot his too-loving wife. The letters full of tenderness reached the trifler at European courts, and lay unanswered. The low-browed villain Wood, who had her in charge, knew the death of his captive would please King James and the courtiers who lived on his smiles. His small mind lent itself to all sorts of petty annoyances and means to make imprisonment unwholesome. She must not walk, nor have her own attendants, nor food and dress befitting the near kinswoman of queens, though the offended monarch generously had the ceiling of her room "mended to keep out wind and rain."
The forlorn lady passed from deep melancholy to spasms that touched her brain. Even in such pitiful condition she was closely watched and guarded by the nervous coward, who pretended to believe there was an Arabella plot, with Raleigh at its head, secreted in the Tower.
For a year the insane Countess lived, gentle and harmless, chattering like a little child. Her one amusement was singing songs of love and longing, learned in happy days, with the lute, whose trembling strings made the saddest strains ear ever heard. The heart-breaking music softened even her jailer; he grew compassionate, and she wandered at will through the doleful halls and the garden. But the wan face never brightened; she faded slowly, drooped, and died.
In the chill midnight of autumn her wornout body was brought by the black-flowing river to Westminster Abbey, in a miserable coffin without a plate, and laid away in that sanctuary with no ceremony, not even a prayer. "For," says a loyal courtier, "to have had a great funeral for one dying out of favor with the King would reflect on the King's honor."
After a troubled life she sleeps well in the tomb of her ill-starred family, close beside the dust of her grandmother, Margaret Douglas. Her coffin lies across and flattens the leaden casket which holds the headless corpse of her great-aunt Mary, unhappy Queen of Scots. Neither name nor date is above her breast, and the skull and bones were plainly seen below the rotten wood in 1868 (a ghastly sight!) when the vaults were searched for the remains of James I.
Her persecutor rests near his victim. The enemies are at one now. The strange peace of death which ends all feuds has brought them together, and their restless hearts lie still, awaiting the coming of the Angel of the Resurrection.
The period of which I write is sometimes called the good old times. I call it the bad old times.
[A FLASH IN THE DARK.]
BY R. M. FULLER.
The Whitonville Camera Club was to meet at Will Vaughan's house Wednesday evening. Whitonville is a town of some size in the western part of New York. Mr. Vaughan, Will's father, one of its earliest residents, lives in a large old-fashioned house on the main street, opposite the Whitonville Bank, of which he is president. All day the overcast sky had given promise of a downpour, and the sultry atmosphere, charged with electricity, presaged plenty of thunder and lightning before midnight.
"It's too bad!" exclaimed Will Vaughan to his friend and visitor Tom Wetherby, as they stood on the front porch looking at the angry sky. "If the storm breaks before the fellows get here the meeting falls through; but here comes Frank Wentworth."
The young men exchanged cordial greetings, and followed Will to the library, where the meeting was to be held. One after another the members arrived, until the whole club was seated around the table. Tom Wetherby belonged to a large club in the city, and was recognized as an authority by the members of this small country organization. He was a bright young fellow of nineteen, always on the lookout for some novel subject for his camera, which accompanied him on all his wanderings. He listened to the debate, offering a word now and then as his opinion was requested, until his ear caught the swish of rain hurled violently against the window-panes by the wind. Presently this was followed by heavy peals of thunder, and flash after flash of lightning.
"If you don't mind, Will, I will try to catch a flash or two of the lightning; I have been waiting for a chance like this for a long time," said Tom.
"All right, old fellow; we'll excuse you. Look out your camera isn't blown away."
Tom was soon busy setting up his camera on the front porch, with the lens pointed at the sky at an angle which just cleared the tops of the opposite houses. The rain poured down, while crash upon crash of thunder followed each successive flash of lightning. Nearer and nearer came the force and violence of the storm, until the centre of electrical activity was directly over the village. Tom exposed several plates, and had put the last plate-holder in position when his foot struck one leg of the tripod, almost capsizing the camera. A quick grab at the instrument prevented the catastrophe; but before he could get the camera in position, again, a blinding flash came, followed simultaneously by a crash which shook the building to its very foundation. For a moment Tom was dazed with the vivid light. Every object was illuminated with a brightness exceeding daylight, and then all became intensely dark. Tom capped his lens, seized his camera, and re-entered the house, where he found the club still discussing the topic of the evening.
"Well, what luck?" they exclaimed.
Tom shook the water from his clothes, wiped the moisture carefully from the camera, and replied: "Oh, so so! the last plate must be a dead failure, though. I knocked the camera half over just before that terrible crash."
The following morning the Vaughans were at breakfast when a quick ring at the door-bell was heard, and Mr. Vaughan recognized the voice of one of his clerks, saying, "I must see Mr. Vaughan without delay, if you please."
Mr. Vaughan surmised from the tones of the speaker that something had happened, and hastened to the door.
"Mr. Vaughan," exclaimed the excited clerk, "please come over to the bank at once. We have been robbed, sir."
"Robbed?"
"Yes, sir; everything is in confusion. The vault is open, and papers and securities litter the floor."
It took but a moment to recognize the truth of the clerk's statement. The vault door was wide open, but the lock had not been injured. The robbery had been committed by some person who knew the combination of the lock, or the vault had not been fastened the night before.
Mr. Vaughan discarded the latter idea, for he had tried the vault door before leaving the bank, and knew that it was locked. There were three besides himself in the employ of the bank—James Hendrix, the cashier; Frank Wentworth, bookkeeper and assistant cashier; and John Salters, general utility clerk, the man who had notified him of the robbery.
Neither Hendrix nor Wentworth had arrived, and Mr. Vaughan requested the clerk to gather up the papers which were still lying scattered over the floor, while he endeavored to find a clew to the robbery.
While they were thus engaged the cashier entered, and appeared surprised to find the president already there.
Mr. Vaughan immediately informed him of the robbery, and noted the look of indignation and astonishment with which the news was received.
"Hendrix, what was your cash balance last evening?"
The cashier, after consulting the books, replied, "Twenty-eight thousand five hundred and twenty dollars, fifty-eight cents, of which six thousand four hundred was in bills, twenty thousand in government bonds, and the balance in securities and currency."
Mr. Vaughan stepped to the cashier's desk, glanced over the book, verifying the figures, and was about turning away, when his eye caught the edge of a paper protruding from the right-hand drawer of Wentworth's desk, which adjoined that of the cashier.
Without saying a word or attracting attention to his movements, the president quietly drew the paper from the drawer and gave it a glance as he put it in his coat pocket.
It was a thousand-dollar government bond.
At this moment Frank Wentworth entered the bank with a pleasant "Good-morning." As he passed behind the rail which separated the customers' side from the working office he noticed the eyes of the president fixed upon him with a stern expression entirely new to him.
"Wentworth, I would like to see you in my office immediately," said the president.
When they had entered the little room, Mr. Vaughan closed the door, and, looking Wentworth in the eye, said:
"Frank, the bank has been robbed of a large sum of money, exactly how much we do not know until these securities have been examined and counted."
Wentworth's face became crimson, for the president's manner implied more than the mere words conveyed.
"You were the last one to leave, were you not?"
"Yes, sir; but everything was safe and sound when I left. I tried the vault door after putting on my hat and coat, and I am positive it was securely locked."
"Are you equally positive in regard to the front door after you had passed out?"
"Yes, sir; I turned the knob repeatedly; the door was closed and locked."
"You have no theory to offer as to how the robbery was accomplished?"
"Why, Mr. Vaughan! how should I know anything more about it than yourself? Was the vault door open?"
Without replying, the president said, "Step to the door and call Mr. Hendrix and Mr. Salters."
Frank did as he was bidden.
"Each of you has a private drawer in your desk of which you retain the key. The bank has lost a large sum of money, and we must be willing to clear ourselves of the suspicion which might attach, in view of the fact that the vault combination is unknown to any person outside this room. You will hand me your keys, and come with me to the outer office while I perform a most unpleasant duty."
Hendrix's desk was first inspected; then Salters's; but nothing found to implicate them.
Mr. Vaughan next opened Frank's private drawer, and there, directly in front, lay two of the government bonds and a number of bills of different denominations.
Wentworth's face became ashen, his knees trembled, and he gasped for breath. Presently, however, he looked Mr. Vaughan squarely in the eye, and exclaimed, "Mr. Vaughan, in spite of what we see, and what you doubtless think, I do not know how the bonds came there."
The president did not reply. He tried the keys of the others' desks in Wentworth's lock, and neither would fit.
"Mr. Hendrix, you will call an officer; my duty is plain; I cannot evade it."
As the cashier went out of the door, Mr. Vaughan turned to Wentworth, who had sunk into a chair, covering his face with his hands, and said:
"Frank, I could not feel much worse if this had been against my own boy Will. Your father was a director of this bank, and my friend for years. It is a mercy that he did not live to see this day."
Wentworth made no answer; the power of speech appeared to have forsaken him. He did not lift his head nor utter a sound until Hendrix appeared with an officer.
Mr. Vaughan explained the situation, and Frank was led away in custody.
Consternation fell upon Frank's friends and acquaintances, for the evidence was so overwhelming that his simple denial of any knowledge of the matter had no weight with the majority. His mother and sister, together with the members of the camera club, formed a small minority who believed him innocent.
Will Vaughan was untiring in his efforts to console Mrs. Wentworth and her daughter Alice, and did his best to keep Frank's spirits up. What could he do, however, to stem the tide of public opinion? Again and again he besought Frank to discover some tangible clew to the robbery. Frank had racked his brain in the effort to do so, without avail.
Tom Wetherby returned to his home in New York early on the morning of the day following the storm. He knew nothing of the robbery until weeks afterwards, when a long letter from Will Vaughan arrived, detailing the terrible plight of Wentworth, and rehearsing all the circumstances.
"Too bad! too bad!" muttered Tom, as he finished the letter. "I don't believe Wentworth guilty any more than Will does. His face is as honest and open as the day."
Will's letter called the lightning plates taken at Whitonville to mind, and he determined to do so now; accordingly he went up to his dark-room and was soon as busy as a bee. One after another the plates were developed, fixed, and washed, until plate-holder No. 7 was reached. Tom hesitated as he drew the slide and removed the plate from the holder.
"Oh, pshaw!" he exclaimed, "what's the use of bothering with this one?" for he remembered with a smile the wild grab for the camera and the dazzling flash that came before he could straighten the tripod.
"I don't suppose there's anything on it—but here goes, for fun, anyway!"
He popped it into the tray, poured the developer over it, and awaited results. After a while the image began to show, and little by little the detail came out.
"Hello! what's that?" Tom's eyes fastened on the negative with astonishment. His face assumed an expression of intense interest, for moment by moment the image grew stronger and stronger. With the utmost care he completed the process, and then, opening the dark-room door, flew down the stairs two steps at a time, tore into his bedroom, grabbed Will's letter from the desk, and read the concluding paragraph as follows:
"My heart aches for Frank and his mother and Alice. I don't believe one word of the charge against him; but, like all the rest of his friends, am powerless to help him. The trial comes off on the 18th."
"The 18th, and to-day is the 17th! It's a close call, but it's got to be done, and I'll do it," cried Tom, in a whirl of excitement.
He hurried to the telephone in the library, called up his father's office in the lower part of the city, and while waiting for the connection looked at his watch. It was quarter of three o'clock. Then the customary "Hello!" came over the wire.
"Please tell Mr. Wetherby to come to the 'phone."
"Who are you?"
"His son Tom; I want to speak to father."
Presently Mr. Wetherby called back, "Well, Tom, what is it? Hurry up; I'm busy!"
"Father," shouted Tom, his voice betraying the excitement he was under. "I must go to Whitonville to-night. I think I've got something which will help Will Vaughan's friend who is accused of robbing the bank."
"My son, hadn't you better wait until I get home and talk the matter over with you?"
"Can't wait, father; to-day is the 17th; Wentworth's trial takes place to-morrow. The only train which would get me there by noon to-morrow leaves at four o'clock this afternoon—about an hour from now."
Buzz-z-z went the 'phone.
Mr. Wetherby was probably thinking about it. He knew Tom was a pretty level headed young man, and felt convinced that his son had something of material importance to the case.
The break seemed an age to Tom, and he called over the 'phone impatiently,
"Well, father, can I go?"
"Yes, Tom. I think I can rely on your judgment. If you haven't money enough for the journey, explain matters to your mother, who will supply you. Be sure and write me full particulars, and come home as soon as practical."
When the four-o'clock express rolled out of the Grand Central Depot that afternoon, Tom Wetherby was aboard, and in his grip was the plate that came out of holder No. 7, and a bromide print therefrom.
The court-room at Whitonville was crowded to suffocation. Never before had such widespread interest been manifested in a criminal case in that town.
Frank Wentworth was known and liked by everybody, and the astonishment and grief at his predicament were universal.
Hendrix testified to quitting the bank about five o'clock in the afternoon, leaving the president and Wentworth still there.
Mr. Vaughan testified to his departure a few minutes after the cashier, and that Wentworth was still at his desk.
Frank, in his own defence, accounted for every moment from the time he left the bank until he entered it next morning; but the fact that he was the last to leave the building after remaining there alone half an hour weighed heavily against him.
No one but the Almighty and Frank himself could know what took place in the interim, and the lawyers sought in vain to bridge over the fatal half-hour which succeeded Mr. Vaughan's departure.
The case finally went to the jury, and a verdict of guilty was reluctantly rendered in accordance with the facts.
The District Attorney moved for sentence, and Frank was directed to take his place before the bar, when a commotion occurred at the door of the court-room.
Some one was evidently trying to force his way through the crowd.
For a moment all was confusion, and the judge rapped savagely for order.
All this time a young man was making the best of his way towards the bench. It was Tom Wetherby. Without looking to the right or left he kept his eye fixed upon the judge, and raised his hand in token of a desire to be heard.
Judge Dalton, recognizing that something of import must be responsible for this unprecedented proceeding, calmly awaited Tom's approach.
At length he reached Wentworth's side before the bar, and speaking earnestly, said: "I believe, your honor, I have in my possession evidence which will clearly establish the innocence of the prisoner. I have travelled all the way from New York to bring it to you, and reached Whitonville less than half an hour ago. If you will let me give the evidence to the prisoner's counsel before you take further action, I think you will be satisfied with the truth of my statement."
The required permission was given, and every eye in the room was fixed on Tom while he hurriedly told his story to the lawyer and produced his negative and print.
A consultation followed between Frank's lawyer, the District Attorney, and Judge Dalton.
Presently the judge turned to the jury and said, "In view of the fact that new evidence of importance has been presented to me, the District Attorney recommends the reopening of the case; I therefore set aside the verdict rendered, and ask your further consideration of the matter."
The excitement of the spectators was intense. Frank's lawyer promptly called Tom to the stand.
Tom testified to the facts we already know, and took his seat.
"Mr. Hendrix," said the lawyer, turning to the cashier, who occupied a seat among the witnesses for the people, "will you take the witness chair for a few moments?"
Hendrix started as though he had been shot, but rose and made his way to the stand.
"Will you tell us, Mr. Hendrix, where you were between the hours of nine and ten o'clock on the night of the robbery?"
"I was at home."
"Did you not leave the house at all that evening?"
"No, sir; it was a very stormy night, and I did not go out."
"You are perfectly sure of this?"
"Certainly. I did not leave my house."
"Mr. Hendrix, will you look at this picture and tell me if you recognize the person it represents?"
Hendrix took the bromide print from the lawyer's hand, and saw—the entrance of the Whitonville Bank; a man was just issuing from the door; one hand was on the knob in the act of closing the door, while the other hand was holding his hat firmly on his head to prevent its being blown away; the man's face was clearly distinguishable; it was himself!
THE EFFECT UPON THE GUILTY MAN WAS PITIFUL.
The effect upon the guilty man was pitiful. He shook with fear; his head dropped upon his breast, and the picture fell from his nerveless grasp to the floor.
The lawyer quickly handed the print to the jury, and then turning to the judge, said: "Your honor, our side of the case has been presented. We have finished."
The jury promptly acquitted Frank, who was surrounded by friends eager to congratulate him on his wonderful escape.
Tom was the hero of the hour, and received compliments enough to turn the head of any fellow less modest and unassuming.
Hendrix's story is quickly told. Speculation, losses, peculation in small sums to make good the losses, and finally robbery to cover the petty thievings. He made a full confession—told how he put the bonds in Frank's drawer to avert suspicion from himself, using a duplicate key to open the drawer. He is now undergoing a long term of imprisonment in Auburn.
Frank Wentworth is the new cashier of the Whitonville Bank, and enjoys the friendship and regard of the entire community.
[RICK DALE.]
BY KIRK MUNROE.
CHAPTER V.
FIRST MATE BONNY BROOKS.
Alaric Todd's sensations as he sat on that log and watched the ship in which he was supposed to be a passenger steam away without him were probably as curious as any ever experienced by a boy. He had deliberately abandoned a life of luxury, as well as a position that most people are striving with all their energies to obtain, and accepted in its place—what? He did not know, and for the moment he did not care. He only knew that the Sonntaggs were gone beyond a chance of return, at least for some weeks, and that during that time there was no possible way in which they could reach him or communicate with his family.
He realized that he was in a strange city, not one of whose busy population either knew or cared to know a thing about him. But what of that? If they did not know him they could never call him by the hated name of "Allie." If he succeeded in making friends, it would be because of himself, and not on account of his father's wealth. Above all, those now about him did not know and should never know, if he could help it, that he was thought to be possessed of a weak heart. Certainly if excitement could injure his heart, it ought to be completely ruined at the present moment, for he had never been so excited in his life, and doubted if he ever should be again.
With it all the lad was filled with such an exulting sense of liberty that he wanted to jump and shout and share with every passer-by the glorious news that at length he was free—free to be a boy among boys, and to learn how to become a man among men. He did not shout, nor did he confide his happiness to any of those who were coming up from the wharf, where they had just witnessed the departure of the great ship; but he did jump from the log on which he had been sitting and fling his baseball high in the air. As it descended and he caught it with practised skill, he was greeted by the approving remark: "Good catch! Couldn't do it better myself!" and looking round he saw the lad with whom he had passed ball a short time before.
"It seems mighty good," continued the stranger, "to see a baseball again, and meet a fellow who knows how to catch one. These chaps over here don't know anything about it, and I've hardly seen a ball since I left Massachusetts. You don't throw, though, half as well as you catch."
"No," replied Alaric, "I haven't learned that yet. You see, I've only just begun."
"That so? Wish I had a chance to show you something about it, then, for I used to play on the nine at home."
"I wish you could, for I want awfully to learn. Why can't you?"
"Because I don't live here, and, do you know, I didn't think you did, either. When I saw you awhile ago, I had a sort of idea that you belonged aboard the Empress, and were going in her to China, and I've been more than half envying you ever since. Funny, wasn't it?"
"Awfully!" responded Alaric. "And I'm glad it isn't true, for I don't know of anything I should hate more than to be going to China in the Empress. But I say, let's stop in here and get something lo eat, for I'm hungry—aren't you?"
"Of course I am," laughed the other; and with this the two boys, who were already strolling toward the city together, turned into the little road-side bake-shop that had just attracted Alaric's attention. Here he ordered half a sheet of buns, two tarts, and two glasses of milk. These being served on a small table, Alaric paid for them, and the newly made acquaintances sat down to enjoy their feast at leisure.
"What I want to do," said Alaric, continuing their interrupted conversation, "is to get back to the States as quickly as possible."
"That's easy enough," replied the other, holding his tart in both hands and devouring it with infinite relish. "There's a steamer leaves here at eight o'clock this evening for Seattle and Tacoma. But you don't live here then, after all?"
"No, I don't live here, nor do I know any one who does, and I want to get away as quickly as I can; for I am looking for work, and should think the chances for finding it were better in the States than here."
"You looking for work?" said the other, slowly, and as though doubting whether he had heard aright. At the same time he glanced curiously at Alaric's white hands and neatly fitting coat. "You don't look like a fellow who is looking for work."
"I am, though," laughed Alaric: "and as I have just spent the last cent of money I had in the world, I must find something to do right away. That's the reason I want to get back to the States; but I don't know about that steamer. I suppose they'd charge something to take me, wouldn't they?"
"Well, rather," responded the other. "But I say, Mister—By-the-way, what is your name?"
"Dale—Rick Dale," replied Alaric, promptly, for he had anticipated this question, and was determined to drop the Todd part of his name, at least for the present. "But there isn't any Mr. about it. It's just plain Rick Dale."
"Well, then, plain Rick Dale," said the other, "my name is Bonny Brooks—short for Bonnicastle, you know; and I must say that you are the most cheerful appearing fellow to be in the fix you say you are that I ever met. When I get strapped and out of a job I sometimes don't laugh for a whole day, especially if I don't have anything to eat in that time."
"That's something I never tried, and I didn't know any one ever did for a whole day," remarked Alaric. "How queer it must seem!"
"Lots of people try it; but they don't unless they have to, and it don't seem queer at all," replied Bonny, soberly. "But what kind of work are you looking for, and what pay do you expect?"
"I am looking for anything I can find to do, and will work for any pay that is offered."
"It would seem as if a fellow ought to get plenty to do on those terms," said Bonny, "though it isn't so easy as you might think, for I've tried it. How do you happen to be looking for work, anyway? Where is your home, and where are your folks?"
"My mother is dead," replied Alaric, "and I suppose my father is in France, though just where he is I don't know. Our home was in San Francisco, and before he left he tried to fix things all right for me; but they turned out all wrong, and so I am here looking for something to do."
"If that don't beat anything I ever heard of!" cried Bonny Brooks, in a tone of genuine amazement. "If I didn't know better, I should think you were telling my story, or that we were twins; for my mother is dead, and my father, when last heard from, was on his way to France. You see, he was a ship Captain, and we lived in Sandport on Cape Cod, where, after my mother died, he fixed up a home for me with an aunt, and left money enough to keep me at school until he came back from a voyage to South America and France. We heard of his reaching Brazil and leaving there, but never anything more, and when a year passed Aunt Nancy said she couldn't support me any longer. So she got me a berth as cabin-boy on a barque bound to San Francisco, and then to the Sound for lumber to China. I wanted to go to China fast enough, but the Captain treated me so badly that I couldn't stand it any longer, and so skipped just before the ship sailed from Port Blakely. The meanest part of it all was that I had to forfeit my pay, leave my dunnage on board, and light out with only what I had on my back."
"That's my fix exactly," cried Alaric, delightedly. "I mean," he added, recollecting himself, "that my baggage got carried off, and as I haven't heard from it since, I don't own a thing in the world except the clothing I have on."
"And a baseball," interposed Bonny.
"Oh yes, a baseball of course," replied Alaric, soberly, as though that were a most matter-of-fact possession for a boy in search of employment. "But what did you do after your ship sailed away without you?"
"Starved for a couple of days, and then did odd jobs about the river for my grub, until I got a chance to ship as one of the crew of the sloop Fancy, that runs freight and passengers between here and the Sound. That was only about a month ago, and now I'm first mate."
"You are?" cried Alaric, at the same time regarding his young companion with a profound admiration and vastly increased respect. "Seems to me that is the most rapid promotion I ever heard of. What a splendid sailor you must be!"
Although the speaker was so ignorant of nautical matters that he did not know a sloop from a schooner, or from a full-rigged ship, for that matter, he had read enough sea stories to realize that the first mate of any vessel was often the most important character on board.
"Yes," said Bonny, modestly, "I do know a good deal about boats; for, you see, I was brought up in a boating town, and have handled them one way and another ever since I can remember. I haven't been first mate very long, though, because the man who was that only left to-day."
"What made him?" asked Alaric, who could not understand how any one, having once attained to such an enviable position, could willingly give it up.
"Oh, he had some trouble with the Captain, and seemed to think it was time he got paid something on account of his wages, so that he could buy a shirt and a pair of boots."
"Why didn't the Captain pay him?"
"I suppose he didn't have the money."
"Then why didn't the man get the things he wanted, and have them charged?"
"That's a good one," laughed Bonny. "Because the storekeeper wouldn't trust him, of course."
"I never heard of such a thing," declared Alaric, indignantly. "I thought people could always have things charged if they wanted to. I'm sure I never found any trouble in doing it."
"Didn't you?" said Bonny. "Well, I have, then," and he spoke so queerly that Alaric realized in a moment that he had very nearly betrayed his secret. Hastening to change the subject, he asked:
"If you took the mate's place, who took yours?"
"Nobody has taken it yet, and that's what I'm after now—hunting for a new hand. The Captain couldn't come himself, because he's got rheumatism so bad that it's all he can do to crawl out on deck and back again. Besides, it's the first mate's place to ship the crew, anyhow."
"Then," asked Alaric, excitedly, "why don't you take me? I'll work hard, and do anything you say."
"You?" cried Bonny, regarding his companion with amazement. "Have you ever sailed a boat or helped work a vessel?"
"No," replied Alaric, humbly; "but I am sure I can learn, and I shouldn't expect any pay until I did."
"I should say not," remarked the first mate of the Fancy, "though most greenhorns do. Still, that is one thing in your favor. Another is that you can catch a ball as well as any fellow I ever knew, and a chap who can do that can learn to do most anything. So I really have a great mind to take you on trial."
"Do you think the Captain will agree to it?" asked Alaric, anxiously.
"Of course he will, if I say so," said Bonny Brooks, confidently; "for, as I just told you, the first mate always hires the crew."
CHAPTER VI.
PREPARING TO BE A SAILOR.
During the conversation just recorded the boys by no means neglected their luncheon, for both of them had been very hungry, and by the time they arrived at an understanding in regard to Alaric's engagement not a crumb of food nor a drop of milk was left before them. While to Bonny Brooks this had proved a most welcome and enjoyable repast, to Alaric it marked a most important era of his life. To begin with, it was the first meal he had ever paid for out of his own pocket, and this alone was sufficient to give it a flavor that he had never discovered in the rich food by which his appetite had heretofore been tempted.
Then during this simple meal he had entered upon his first friendship with a boy of his own age, for the liking that he had already taken for Bonny Brooks was evidently returned. Above all, during that brief lunch hour he had conducted his first independent business operation, and now found himself engaged to fill a responsible position in active life. To be sure, he was only taken on trial, but if good intentions and a determination to do his very best could command success, then was his position assured. How fortunate he was, after all! An opening, a chance to prove what he could do, was all that he wanted, and behold! it was his within the first hour of his independent life. How queer that it had come through his baseball too, and how strangely one thing seemed to lead to another!
Now Alaric was impatient for a sight of the vessel that was to be the scene of his future labors, and anxious to begin them. He had so little idea of what a sloop was that he even wondered if it would be propelled by sails or steam. He was inclined to think that it must be the latter, for Bonny had spoken of his craft as carrying passengers, and Alaric had never known any passenger boats except such as were driven by steam. So he pictured the Fancy as a steamer, not so large as the Empress, of course, but fairly good-sized, manned by engineers, stokers, stewards, and a crew of sailors. With this image in his mind, he regarded his companion as one who had indeed attained a lofty position.
So busy was our hero with these thoughts that for a full minute after the lads left the bake-shop he did not utter a word. Bonny Brooks was also occupied with a line of thought that caused him to glance reflectively at his companion several times before he spoke. Finally he broke out with:
"I say, Rick Dale, I don't know about taking you for a sailor, after all. You see, you are dressed altogether too fine. Any one would take you for the captain or maybe the owner if you were to go aboard in those togs."
"Would they?" asked Alaric, gazing dubiously down at his low-cut patent-leather shoes, black silk socks, and light trousers accurately creased and unbagged at the knees. Besides these he wore a vest and sack-coat of fine black serge, an immaculate collar, about which was knotted a silk neck-scarf, and a narrow-striped cheviot shirt, the cuffs of which were fastened by gold sleeve-links. Across the front of his vest, from pocket to pocket, extended a slender chain of twisted gold and platinum, at one end of which was his watch, and at the other a gold and platinum pencil-case.
"Yes, they would," answered Bonny, with decision; "and you've got to make a change somehow, or else our bargain must be called off, for you could never become a sailor in that rig."
Here was a difficulty on which Alaric had not counted, and it filled him with dismay. "Couldn't I change suits with you?" he asked, anxiously. "I shouldn't think mine would be too fine for a first mate."
"Not if I know it," laughed Bonny. "They'd fit me too much one way and not enough another. Besides, they are shore togs any way you look at 'em, and not at all the things to go to sea in. The Cap'n would have a fit sure if you should go aboard dressed as you are. So if you want to ship with us, I'm afraid you'll have to buy a new outfit."
"But I haven't any money, and you say they won't charge things in this town."
"Of course they won't if they don't know you; but you might spout your ticker and make a raise that way."
"Might what?"
"Shove up your watch. Leave it with your uncle, you know, until you earned enough to buy it back."
"Do you mean sell it?"
"No. They'd ask too many questions if you tried to sell it, and wouldn't give much more, anyway. I mean pawn it."
"All right," replied. Alaric. "I'm willing, only I don't know how."
"Oh, I'll show you quick enough, if you really want to do it."
As Alaric insisted that he was willing to do almost anything to procure that coveted sailor's outfit, Bonny led him to a mean-looking shop, above the door of which hung three golden balls. The dingy windows were filled with a dusty miscellany of watches, pistols, and all sorts of personal property, while the opening of the door set loose a musty odor of old clothing. As this came pouring forth Alaric instinctively drew back in disgust; but with a sudden thought that he could not afford to be too fastidious in the new life he had chosen, he conquered his repugnance to the place, and followed Bonny inside.
A gaunt old Hebrew in a soiled dressing-gown stood behind a small counter. As Alaric glanced at him hesitatingly, Bonny opened their business by saying briskly:
"Hello, uncle! How are you to-day? My friend here wants to make a raise on his watch."
"Led's see dot vatch," replied Mr. Isaacs, and Alaric handed it to him, together with the chain and pencil-case. It was a fine Swiss chronometer, with the monogram A.D.T. engraved on its back; and as the pawnbroker tested the quality of its case and peered at the works, Alaric noted his deliberate movements with nervous anxiety. Finally the man said,
"I gifs you den tollars on dot vatch mit der chain und pencil trown in."
Alaric would have accepted this offer at once, but Bonny knew better.
"Ten nothings!" he cried. "You'll give us fifty dollars, uncle, or we'll take it down to Levi's."
"Feefty tollar! So hellup me grashus! I vould be alretty bankrupted of I gif feefty tollars on effery vatch. Vat you dake me for?"
"Take you for an old fraud," replied the unabashed first mate of the Fancy. "Of course you would be bankrupted, as you ought to have been long ago, if you gave fifty dollars on every turnip that is brought in; but you could well afford to advance a hundred on this watch, and you know it."
"VELL, I TELL YOU. I GIFS YOU TVENTY-FIFE."
"Vell, I tell you. I gifs t'venty-fife."
"Fifty," said Bonny, firmly.
"Dirty, und not von cent more, so hellup me."
"Fifty."
"Dirty-fife?"
"We'll split the difference, and call it forty-five."
"I gifs you fordy oud of charity, seeing you is so hart up."
"It's a bargain," cried Bonny. "Hand over your cash."
"How could you talk to him that way?" asked Alaric, admiringly, as the boys left the shop, he minus his watch and chain, but with forty dollars and a pawn-ticket in his pocket.
"I couldn't once," laughed Bonny, "but it's one of the things poor folks have to learn. If you are willing to let people impose on you they'll be mighty quick to do it, and the only way is to bluff 'em from the start."
The next place they entered was a sailors' slop-shop, in which were kept all sorts of seafaring garments and accessories. Here, advised by Bonny, Alaric invested fourteen dollars and seventy-five cents in a blue knit jersey, or sweater, a pair of stout woollen trousers, two flannel shirts, two suits of heavy underclothing, several pairs of cotton socks, and a pair of canvas shoes.
Expressing a desire to make a change of clothing at once, he was shown a retired corner where he might do so, and from which he emerged a few minutes later so altered in appearance that it is doubtful if his own father would have recognized him.
"That's something like it!" cried Bonny.
"Isn't it?" replied Alaric, surveying himself with great satisfaction in a mirror, and fully convinced that he now looked so like a sailor that no one could possibly mistake him for anything else. "Don't you think, though, that I ought to have the name of the sloop embroidered across the front of this sweater? All the sailors I have ever seen had theirs fixed that way."
"I suppose it would be a good idea," replied Bonny, soberly, though filled with inward laughter at the suggestion. "But perhaps you'd better wait until you see if the ship suits you, and whether you stay with us or not."
"Oh, I'll stay," asserted Alaric. "There's no fear but what I will, if you'll only keep me."
"Going yachting, sir?" asked the shopkeeper, politely, as he carefully folded Alaric's discarded suit of fine clothing.
"No, indeed," replied the boy, scornfully. "I'm going to be a sailor on the sloop Fancy, and I wish you would send these things down to her at once."
Ere the man could recover from his astonishment at this request sufficiently to reply, Bonny interrupted hastily:
"Oh no, Rick! we'll take them with us. There isn't time to have 'em sent."
"I should guess not," remarked the shopkeeper, in a very different tone from the one he had used before. "But, say, young feller, if you're going to be a sailor you'll want a bag, and I've got a second-hand one here almost as good as new that I'll sell cheap. It come to me with a lot of truck from the sale of a confiscated sealer; and seeing that it's got another chap's name painted on it, I'll let you have it for one bob tuppence-ha'penny, and that'll make even money between us."
Thus saying, the man produced a stout canvas bag, such as a sailor uses in place of a trunk. The name plainly painted across it, in black letters, was "Philip Ryder"; but Alaric said he didn't mind that, so he took the bag, thrust his belongings, including his cherished baseball, into it, and the two boys left the shop.
"By-the-way," asked Alaric, hesitatingly, "don't I need to get some brushes and things?"
"What for!"
"Why, to brush my hair, and—"
"Oh no," interrupted the other. "There's a comb on board, and, besides, we can't stop for anything more. I've been gone so long now that I expect the old man is madder'n a wet hen by this time."
So Bonny led the way to the wharves, and to a narrow slip between two of them that just then was occupied by but a single craft. She was a small sloop, not over forty feet long, though of good beam, evidently very old, and so dingy that it was hard to believe she had ever been painted. Her sails, hanging unfurled in lazy jacks, were patched and discolored; her running rigging was spliced, the standing rigging was sadly in need of setting up, her iron-work was rusted, and her spars were gray with age.
"There's the old packet," said Bonny, cheerfully.
"Where?" asked Alaric, gazing vaguely down the slip and utterly ignoring the disreputable craft close at hand.
"Why, right here," answered the other, a trifle impatiently. "Don't you see the name Fancy on her stern? She isn't much to look at, I know, but she's a hummer to go, and a mighty good sea-boat. She's awfully comfortable, too. Come aboard and I'll show you."
With this the cheery young fellow, who had actually come to a belief that the shabby old craft was all he claimed for her, tossed his friend's recent purchase to the deck of the sloop, and began to clamber after it down a ricketty ladder.
With all his bright visions of a minute before rudely dispelled, and with a heart so heavy that he could find no words to express his feelings, Alaric followed him.