THE BATTLE OF EASTER MONDAY.
BY W. G. van TASSEL SUTPHEN.
Fred March had an idea. It was even a brilliant idea, and the longer he pondered over it, the more certain he was that it was a practical one. "And that, after all, is the important point," as Jack Howard had sagely observed, after being taken into Fred's confidence. Here it is as it finally resolved itself into tangible form.
"The Twelfth Regiment of the Transylvania State National Guard are to hold a sham fight on Easter Monday. There has been a great deal of talk about the use of the bicycle in war, and here is a chance to test the theories. Let us organize the boys into a bicycle corps, and offer our services to your father, Colonel Howard, who commands the regiment."
Jack reflected, soberly, "How could we be of any use?"
"We could be organized as a body of mounted riflemen, and also do scout and staff service. The fight is going to be somewhere on the Quantico golf course, and the grass on the links is short and smooth enough for riding. Easter comes so late this year that the frost is out of the ground already, and it isn't likely to rain before Monday. And then there are the roads in all directions."
"How many fellows can we muster?"
"Well, you know that all the boys from boarding-school are at home for the Easter holidays, and I've counted up sixty-five single wheels and three tandems; then we have the motor cycle, the 'Happy Thought,' and the people at the Driving Park have promised to lend me the 'quad' that they have there for pacing the circuit riders—an available force altogether of seventy machines and seventy-seven men."
Jack became enthusiastic. "Let's go down to the armory and propose it to my father," he said, briefly.
Colonel Howard was mildly amused when the proposition was first broached to him, but as the boys proceeded to explain the practical details of the plan he grew interested.
"There may be something in it," he said, finally, "and I'll think it over."
Two days later Colonel Howard sent for Fred and Jack, and informed them that their idea had been favorably considered, and that the services of the bicycle corps would be accepted.
"I have arranged," said Colonel Howard, "that the boys on the single wheels and two of the tandems shall be armed with short repeating carbines, and shall act as mounted riflemen, under command of Fred March. I have a friend in the gun-factory at Decatur, and he has promised to lend me two rapid-fire guns, which I will have mounted on the third tandem and on the 'Happy Thought.' Jack will take command of the 'quad,' and will act as a member of my personal staff. You will report with your men at the armory Monday morning at nine o'clock sharp."
The idea had actually materialized, and Fred was naturally pleased to think that his suggestion was to be taken up in earnest. But he was even more anxious that the experiment should be a success and that the military value of the bicycle should be demonstrated.
Now sham fights are generally carried on after a carefully prepared plan, every movement being carefully thought out beforehand, even to the strategy. But on this occasion it had been proposed that an actual problem should be placed before the two commanders, and that they should be allowed to work it out in their own way. Here, then, was a chance for real strategy, and, other things being equal, brains must win. Of course, as only blank cartridges are used, umpires must be appointed to determine the practical results of the various movements, and to finally award the victory to the side which in their judgment has fairly won it.
The field of operations had been decided upon, and Saturday afternoon Fred and Jack jumped on the "Happy Thought" and went down to have a look at it.
The map on the opposite page gives a good idea of the military features of the battle-ground, and if you study it carefully, you will easily understand the conditions of the problem.
PLAN OF THE BATTLE-FIELD.
It is supposed that Colonel Howard with a force of two hundred and fifty men, together with an auxiliary bicycle corps of mounted riflemen, including two machine-guns, are intrenched upon the wooded ridge at the left and locally known as the "Cardinal's Nob." This ridge is the key to the country lying behind it, and must consequently be defended at all hazards. The position is naturally strong, as its steep sides are inaccessible except at the three points marked by the numerals 1, 2, and 3. The open space in front is part of the Quantico golf course, and a putting-green occupies the little knoll at 8. The green is defended by an earth bunker, and from its military appearance it is known to the golfers as "Sebastopol." In the woods immediately behind "Sebastopol" the forces of the enemy, under command of Lieutenant-Colonel Camp, are supposed to be concealed. They number four hundred and fifty, with a battery of two field-pieces, and their object is to obtain possession of the "Cardinal's Nob." It is to be understood that the ground south of the "Cardinal's Nob" and separated from it by "Deadman's Hollow," is practically unfitted for military occupation, and consequently of no strategic importance to either side. The other features of the map explain themselves.
It is furthermore arranged that the two parties shall leave the armory at Fairacre at ten o'clock precisely, and proceed by separate routes to their respective positions. The battle will begin theoretically at eleven o'clock, and will continue until three in the afternoon unless decided earlier.
With these points carefully fixed in mind the two boys made a careful survey of the ground. The "Happy Thought" moved swiftly and easily over the short, firm grass of the golf course, and it was evident that the bicycles would have no difficulty in operating in the open. But how would they ever have a chance to do so with the enemy under cover in the woods? Exposure would mean destruction, and, moreover, they could expect no support from the main body under Colonel Howard. At all risks the "Cardinal's Nob" must be held, and, it was clear that Colonel Howard would act strictly on the defensive. The bicycle corps, it is true, could assist in the defence as an unmounted body, but that was not what Fred wanted. Could not the wheelmen be used as an independent force without materially weakening the defence? Of course the "Cardinal's Nob" must be held, but might it not be strategy to both repel the assault and destroy the attacking force?
"And I think it is possible," thought Fred to himself as the "Happy Thought" rolled slowly back to Fairacre.
Easter Monday dawned clear and warm. The armory was a busy place at nine o'clock, and every effective man was present to answer to his name. Fred's force was complete just as he had counted it up, and the machine-guns, mounted on the "Happy Thought" and Alec Jordan's tandem, looked particularly wicked and fit for work. The ammunition was served out, the general orders read, and at ten o'clock the two forces took up the march. Fred on the front seat of the "Happy Thought," and with forty wheelmen armed with repeating carbines, headed the line, and the rest of the bicycle corps, under command of Acting-Lieutenant Alec Jordan, formed the rear-guard.
The "Cardinal's Nob" was reached at half past ten, and Colonel Howard summoned a council of war. There was still half an hour before hostilities would commence, and it was necessary to consider carefully Colonel Camp's probable line of attack, and to devise an effective checkmate.
Colonel Howard briefly outlined the situation as follows:
1. The "Blacks," or Colonel Camp's force, will occupy "Sebastopol" with their artillery, and a false demonstration will be made against the point 1.
2. A strong flanking force will be sent around by way of the Swamp Road (4) to make an attack in the rear of "White" at the bridge (3).
3. At the moment that the attack on "White's" rear begins, "Black's" main force, under cover of the artillery, will abandon the demonstration against 1, and endeavor to carry the "Cardinal's Nob" by a charge across the open and a general assault at 2, the most practicable scaling-point.
"We may therefore expect, gentlemen," concluded Colonel Howard, "a pretty hot corner at the point 2, and a simultaneous attack at the bridge (3), which, if successful, will place us between two fires. Obviously we must, above all things, protect our rear. Captain Jones will therefore take one hundred men and occupy a position near the bridge (3), to meet and, if possible, ambuscade the expected flanking force. As for the bicycle corps—"
It was Fred's chance, and he improved it. Colonel Howard listened attentively to what he had to say, and turned to his staff for their opinion. The suggestion was a daring one, for it involved a separation of forces in the face of an enemy numerically superior, but it looked feasible, and if there was no hitch it meant defeat to the "Blacks." There was not much time for deliberation, and Colonel Howard acted quickly.
"Your suggestion is accepted, Captain March," said Colonel Howard, "and you will therefore take your corps, including the machine-guns, and occupy the wooded knoll shown on the map at 6. Corporal Wood, with two men, is detailed as signal officer, and will take up a position at the point marked 7. It is expected that Captain Jones will be able to hold 'Black's' flanking force at the bridge (3) in check, but to draw the enemy into the open it will be necessary that we should make a false demonstration in our own rear. If 'Black' takes the bait the bicycle corps will be brought up by signal to the point 7, and finally ordered forward at the proper moment to take 'Black' in the rear, and, if possible, capture the battery. Captain March will remain in strict concealment at 6, and will not advance under any consideration until the signal is given from 7 by the waving of a white flag. Is that clear, gentlemen? It is just eleven o'clock," concluded Colonel Howard, shutting his watch with a snap, "and the game of war is on. Lieutenant Mason, you will determine at once the exact whereabouts and disposition of the enemy's force. Gentlemen, to your posts."
Ten minutes later Fred, at the head of the bicycle corps, was spinning rapidly along the wood road in the direction of the wooded knoll at 6. It was all important that the movement should not be discovered by the enemy, and the greatest care had to be taken in transporting the bicycles down the hill and out upon the road. As Fred glanced back at the shining silent line bowling swiftly along in column of twos, he felt sure that they had been unobserved, and that success was certain.
But he had not reckoned upon the fact that Lieutenant Young of the "Blacks" was a smart young officer who owned a particularly fine pair of binocular glasses. Colonel Camp smiled grimly when Lieutenant Young reported that the bicycle corps had left the "Cardinal's Nob," and were proceeding southward, and that the point 7 had been occupied as a signal station. It had been his original intention to carry out the very plan of operations that Colonel Howard had outlined; but it was now necessary to modify it. Colonel Camp decided upon the following plan:
As before, the artillery would occupy "Sebastopol," and a false demonstration would be made against the point 1. But instead of a large, a very small flanking force would be sent to the bridge (3), and they would be instructed to deceive "White" as long as possible in regard to their real number. In this manner forty "Blacks" might occupy the attention of the hundred "Whites" detailed at 3, and therefore sixty of the defenders would virtually be kept out of the main action.
Secondly, a squad of men under Lieutenant Young would be sent around back of 6 with instructions to capture "White's" signal station at 7, and another squad to ambuscade the wood road at the gate (5).
As Colonel Camp figured it out, it would then be impossible for Colonel Howard to communicate with the bicycle corps either by signal or by a messenger along the road, and with the bicyclers also out of the action, the "Blacks" should be able with their main body of 400 men to carry the "Cardinal's Nob" at 2, the defending force being now reduced to 150 men. It would take just about an hour to capture the signal post and guard the gate on the road, and the same length of time for the small flanking force to engage the attention of "White's" rear guard. The instant that the firing in "White's" rear announced that the skirmish at the bridge (3) had commenced, the main assault at 2 would be made, and, if everything went as Colonel Camp expected, it could not fail. It was indeed a good plan, and reflected much credit upon the strategic ability of the commander of the "Black" forces.
It was twelve o'clock, and nothing in particular had happened to change the situation of affairs. "Black's" artillery had occupied "Sebastopol," and had opened a hot fire on the "Cardinal's Nob," but the "Whites," protected by their intrenchments, had suffered but little. The mythical bullets from the "Black" sharpshooters in the edge of the woods were, according to the plan, directed against 1, and one or two false sorties had been made in that direction without result. Both commanders were waiting for the real development of the struggle.
At ten minutes after twelve the signal officer on the "Nob" reported to Colonel Howard that communication with the signal-station (7) had suddenly been broken off. Colonel Howard looked grave, for he realized at once that with the bicycle corps out of the action he could hardly hope to defend the "Nob" against an attack at 2. There was but one thing to be done, and that was to send a messenger by the wood road to order up the bicycles to the signal-station at 7, with instructions to use their own discretion in making any further advance.
A moment later Jack and his crew of three were pedalling down the wood road on the "quad." Another message was despatched to Captain Jones at the bridge (3), ordering him to send back every man whom he could possibly spare to assist in repelling the expected assault. And then Colonel Howard lit a fresh cigar and waited.
In the mean time Fred and his force had occupied the wooded knoll (6), taking care to keep well under cover. The trees cut off their view of the battle-field, but the signal-station at 7 was plainly visible, and all they had to do was to wait for the waving of the white flag. But would the signal ever come? Fred could hear the booming of Colonel Camp's artillery and the sharp crackle of the rifle-firing. Could it be possible that Colonel Howard had forgotten about them, and that the real fight was already in progress? He was half inclined to steal forward under cover of the woods and see what was going on. And then he remembered that he was a soldier, whose first duty is to obey.
Nearly an hour had gone by, and the boys were beginning to feel the nervous strain. They had examined the breech mechanism of their carbines and counted over the cartridges in their belts a score of times, and they were anxious for active service. A half-suppressed murmur arose.
"Silence in the ranks!" commanded Fred, sternly, as he gazed eagerly over at the signal-station. It was odd, but certainly some kind of a struggle was going on there. Could anything have gone wrong? "Steady!" he said to himself. "Your business, Fred March, is to wait for that white flag, and then we'll see who holds the trumps."
Ten, fifteen, twenty minutes more, and then—surely there was something waving, and it was white. The signal! It was a queer kind of motion, too; the signal-man was acting as though he had suddenly been afflicted with St. Vitus's dance. But it must be the signal. What else could it be?
"By column of fours!" shouted Fred, as he sprang to his saddle. "Attention! Charge!" and as one man the bicycle corps swept down the little hill and out upon the short grass of the golf course.
Fred remembered that his instructions were to regulate his advance by the signal-flag; but surely that frantic waving could mean but one thing, and that was to go on. A moment later and they had swept around the point, and the battle-field was before them. And just in the nick of time, for the "Blacks" were charging across the open, and were already within fifty yards of the "Nob."
"Fire!" shrieked Captain Fred, and a destructive volley was poured in upon the astonished "Blacks," while a cheer went up from the gallant defenders on the "Nob."
The boys could all ride without their hands, and again and again the rifles spoke as the line dashed on. Fred with a squad of twenty of the fastest riders had already made good his position in the rear of "Sebastopol," and before the bewildered artillerymen could turn to meet them the battery had been captured and the guns silenced. The rest of the corps, under command of Alec Jordan, had dismounted, and were firing over their wheels into the broken masses of the "Blacks." In another instant Fred had brought the machine-gun mounted on the "Happy Thought" into action, and the "Blacks," huddled together at the entrance to "Deadman's Hollow," were under three destructive fires.
It was only a question of five minutes, and Colonel Camp's force had been pronounced annihilated by the umpires. The battle was over, and the honors of war rested with Colonel Howard and his gallant "Whites."
Of course they fought the battle all over again at the armory that night, and Lieutenant-Colonel Camp demanded an explanation.
"My dear fellow," said Colonel Howard, soothingly, "it was very clever of you to capture my signal-station; but you forgot that it was possible for me to send a messenger by the wood road."
"But I did think of that," retorted the defeated warrior. "The road was ambuscaded by my men, and the 'quad' was stopped and captured at the gate."
It was Colonel Howard's turn to look mystified. "How, then—" he began, looking at Fred.
"But, indeed Colonel," said that young gentleman, eagerly, "I only obeyed orders. I did get my signal."
"Lieutenant Young," said Colonel Camp, "you captured the signal-station by my orders, and held it to the end. Have you any explanation to offer of this extraordinary affair. And, by-the-way, what is the matter with your face?"
Lieutenant Young blushed and stammered.
"Well, Colonel, if you must know—it—it was the hornets."
"Hornets!"
"You see, while we were waiting, one of the men undertook to explore an old hornets' nest, and, the weather having been rather warm for the last week, why—er—they—er—proceeded to resume business."
"Exactly," said Colonel Camp, grimly. "And I suppose you used your handkerchief to protect yourself, and the boys mistook it for the signal."
"Well, it was something white," said Fred, apologetically, "and it was waving as though it meant business. I thought I'd better go on."
"You did exactly right," said Colonel Howard; "it was the turning-point of the whole affair."
"That fellow Young ought to be court-martialled," growled the irate Camp.
"Never mind, Camp," laughed Colonel Howard; "you out-generalled me fairly enough, and the rest was simply the fortune of war. By-the-way, what became of Jack and the 'quad'?"
Now it happened that there was an interesting answer to Colonel Howard's query about this "quad"; but that is another story.
[THE CARE OF A WHEEL.]
BY DUDLEY D. F. PARKER.
It is astonishing, considering the number of riders of the wheel at present, the comparatively small percentage that know really anything about their "mounts." A visit to any bicycle repair-shop will conclusively dispel all doubts as to the truth of this assertion. Here you will find long lines of wheels awaiting repairs, some of the damages, of course, being serious, but the majority are unruly valves, punctures, and bearings out of adjustment. It is particularly noticeable the number of wheels in which a slight knowledge of their construction would have enabled the repairs to be made at home.
How frequently one sees a rider, wrench in hand, dubiously surveying his wheel at arm's-length, now tightening a nut here or loosening one there, in a vain endeavor to fix in this manner something that is out of order and prevents his wheel from running properly! But beyond the fact that something is wrong, he has not the slightest idea of the nature of the trouble.
Or again, another enthusiast is deluging every visible chink in his bicycle with oil, in the hopes of finding some mysterious squeak, the location of which would be an easy matter if the position of the different bearings were understood. It is conceded without exception by all wheelmen that a fair knowledge of the construction of a wheel is essential to its proper care.
SECTION OF BALL-BEARING.
Perhaps the most important thing to be considered is the care of the bearings. In the advanced stage which bicycle construction has reached to-day there are a large number of ball-bearings in a machine—in fact, there are balls wherever there is friction, however light. These bearings should have careful adjustment. Perhaps a glance at the sketch of a wheel bearing will make the construction clearer. Of course the bearings of different makes of wheels vary, but the principle is the same in all. The little steel balls are the only medium by which the weight on the bearing is transmitted between the rim and the cone (hub and axle). To have the bearing work properly and with least possible friction, the cone must not be screwed in so tightly as to jam the balls in the rim, or the wheel will run hard; at the same time it must not be unscrewed so as to allow too much play of the balls, or the wheel will "wobble." Most bearings have a flattening on the projection of the cone, between the hub of the wheel and the fork, that can be caught by a wrench, enabling the cones to be tightened or loosened by screwing this one only. Some have a thumb-screw in place of the device mentioned, and other makes adjust the cones by screwing the axle.
In the adjustment of a wheel's bearings, whether front or rear, a good test to use against too tight a cone is to raise the wheel clear of the ground, and, turning it so that the valve of the tire is on top or nearly so, see if the weight of the valve will cause the wheel to rotate so that the valve will describe an arc, like a pendulum, each swing gradually diminishing in length. If the cone is properly adjusted, the valve should swing back and forth for some time. Of course the rear wheel will not swing as long as the front, the valve having to impart motion to the sprocket and pedals. If the cones are too loose, by gripping the wheel by the rim you will be able to slide it back and forth on the axle. The most important bearings in the whole wheel are those of the crank-axle. Here the whole strain of the propelling power comes. The adjustment of these cones is on the same principle as those of the wheels; the same test may be used as for the rear wheel. The two bearings in the steering-head may be adjusted by screwing the cone of the top one, and, of course, the wheel may be made hard steering or easy, to suit the taste of the rider. This is not a matter of material importance. The adjustment of the pedal bearings is not of so great importance, but it should be seen that they run evenly and quietly, as it is at this point that the propelling force is applied. This is usually accomplished by tightening or loosening the outside cone, which may be gotten at by removing the dust-cap.
Perhaps it would be as well to speak here about the quite frequent mishaps of a broken ball in the bearings. As soon as one is found broken, waste no time in removing it; a ball less will do no harm; but if the wheel is ridden with a broken one, it will soon cut the cone and rim all to pieces.
A word about oiling. Do not go to the excess of either too little or too much oil. In the first case the cones and rim will wear more quickly and the bearings run hard; and in the latter, the oil will gum, causing hard running, or, if it does not do this, it will ooze out of the joint, and, collecting the dust, will become gritty and mar it. The amount and frequency of the oiling, of course, depend on the use of the bicycle. For a wheel moderately used, a fair oiling once a week I should deem amply sufficient. Most of the bearings have openings in which to apply the oil, and the oil should not be applied at any other place than this. In the case of the head-bearings, unscrewing the cone of the upper one will expose it, and will permit the head to be raised so as to expose the one on the crown for oiling. The pedals may be lubricated by removing the dust-cap and applying the oil on the outside bearing, tilting the machine so as it will run down to the inside one.
PARTS OF THE WHEEL.
A. Crank-axle. B. Front Sprocket. C. Crank. D. Barrel. E. Pedal. F. Head. G. Upper Cone. H. Lower Cone. I. Handle-bars. J. Grips or Handles. K. Front Hub and Axle. L. Handle-bar Clamp. M. Saddle. N. Saddle-post. O. Saddle-post Clamp. P. Rear Sprocket. Q. Rear Hub and Axle. R. Chain. S. Rear Fork. T. Tire. U. Rim. V. Valve. W. Front Forks. X. Crown.
To have the bearings in "tip-top" condition, they should be cleaned every month or six weeks. In cleaning them the cone should be taken out, carefully wiped, the balls put in kerosene oil to remove all possible grit, and the rim wiped clean of all remains of previous oilings. The easiest ones to get at are those of the front wheel and pedals. In the former case, all that is necessary is to undo the nuts and spring the wheel out of the fork, unscrewing the movable cone, and taking out the axle. In the pedals, remove the dust-caps and the outside cone, and slip the pedal off. The rear wheel is a little more troublesome, the chain having to be removed from the rear sprocket before the wheel can be taken out. To remove the chain, unscrew the small screw-bolt that holds two of the links together. The bearings in the head will also be a little troublesome, having to remove the handle-bars and top cone, and take out the front fork. The only remaining bearings to be spoken of—those of the crank-axle—are in some respects the most important to have clean, and at the same time the most difficult to get at, as it is necessary to take off the cranks before the axle can be removed or the bearings exposed. After the cranks are removed, the rest is usually an easy matter.
METHODS OF FASTENING CRANKS TO CRANK-AXLES.
To give any general rule for the cranks removal is impossible, as there are so many manners in use for attaching them to the axle; but, however, the way to remove the several prominent patterns might be useful. We will select four of the general methods, and these will suffice to cover most of the ground. These may be best understood from a study of the accompanying sketches. First, the most common way of putting the cranks on, with a key or pin (No. I). To remove these, unscrew the nut on the pin and drive it out. This might be done at home, but as a rule the pins are put in or become wedged in so tightly that it is frequently advisable to have them driven out at a shop. In the absence of proper punches, there is a great chance of badly mutilating the pin in removal. The second general class is the clamp attachment. There are several patterns in use, but the one described below is most commonly seen (No. II). To free it from the axle the bolt is removed, and it is frequently necessary to insert a wedge to spring the clamps free from it. In the third class the crank fits in a continuation of the axle, usually projecting a little, so as to permit locking with a nut (No. III). Sometimes it passes a little to one side of the centre, and, again, exactly through it. The fourth and last general class is where the axle and cranks are made in two forgings, as shown by No. IV (sketch represents a cross-section of barrel), the part shown being half, and the two sections fitting together by teeth. These cranks are removed by unscrewing in the opposite direction to which they revolve in the propulsion of the machine.
DEVICES FOR TIGHTENING CHAIN BY MOVING REAR AXLE.
The next part of the wheel we will turn our attention to is the chain—the medium through which the motion is imparted from the driving-gear to the rear sprocket. Frequently after a long ride on rough roads, or perhaps a few days of usage, the chain will be found to have slackened up considerably. There are many devices in use for taking up this slack—all of them, however, working on the principle of moving the rear axle back and forth, and being more or less improvements of a few general patterns. In device "x" in the sketch, after loosening the nut, the axle is moved backward or forward by turning the screw in the proper direction. If it is desired to move the axle back in "y" the screw is tightened, or if it is desirable to move it forward (nearer the cranks), the screw is unscrewed, and the axle pushed forward by gentle taps with a wrench. In "z" the whole bar swings with the axle. This adjustment is tightened or loosened in the same manner as the preceding one, with the exception that the nut on the bolt holding the upper end of the bars has to be loosened a trifle. In "w" the axle is adjusted without the aid of a screw. When in the right place, it is held by the tightening of the nuts, teeth in the washer engaging others around the edge of the slot.
No part of the machine collects the dirt more quickly than the chain, it being found liberally sprinkled with grit after every ride. As long as it runs smoothly and quietly it does no harm, though when it gets rather thick it would be best to wipe it lightly with a rag or a stiff brush. When a chain is dry or very dirty it shows a tendency to kink, at the same time producing a rattling noise, joined with sharp snappings. When in this condition, it should have a thorough cleaning. First wipe with a rag, and then remove the chain from the sprockets; put it in kerosene oil to soak, wiping dry with a rag. The only troublesome part of the cleaning operation will be to replace the chain. This is effected by passing one of the ends of it over the rear sprocket, joining them with the screw-bolt, then, catching some of the links on the top teeth of the front sprocket, revolve it, and this will spring the chain on.
The mentioning of a "dry" chain brings up the subject of chain lubricants. There are a great many on the market, and as to their relative values riders differ in opinion. Two facts are clear, however. If a lubricant is too liquid it collects grit very quickly; on the other hand, if too dry, it does not work in the joints of the chain properly. Oil is obviously, from the above, very bad, and should only be used on the road when a chain unexpectedly runs dry or hard. The prominent constituent of most lubricants is graphite, the different makes varying usually in the amount of oil or other dissolving agent contained. Some wheelmen recommend powdered graphite alone, but my experience has found a mixture of graphite and oil having about the constituency of vaseline to be very satisfactory. Whatever the lubricant, they should all be applied in the same manner. Rest the step of the bicycle on a box or anything, so that the rear wheel may revolve freely, and apply lubricant rather sparingly; too much will only serve to collect dirt. Spin the wheel rapidly for a minute so as to permit it to work into the joints, and then, slowly revolving, wipe the waste off the top of the chain.
We have now reached in our discussion of the bicycle a part just as essential to the running ability as anything previously mentioned—the tires. On account of the wear and tear upon the tires, from one cause or another, they require much care. It is the tires that take up the jolts from the inequalities of the road, and upon their proper degree of inflation depends the easy running of the wheel. Quite a study may be made of this, the pressure varying for the different uses the wheel is to be put to. Without exception the rear tire should be harder than the front; if the latter is more tightly inflated than need be, it creates unnecessary jarring, which manifests itself in a numbing of the wrists. For riding over city pavements the softer the tires, without endangering the rims, the less jolting; but on good roads hard tires are best, as there is less friction, due to a smaller surface presented to the ground. From the inflation we will turn to the valve, the most important part of the tire. This is frequently a source of much annoyance from leakage. Whenever in doubt as to the valve's effectiveness, immerse it in water, and the air-bubbles will soon show the size and location of a leak, if there is one.
TIRE VALVE.
In all experiences with pneumatic tires you will find water the greatest enemy of leaks, and in all cases where one is of sufficient size to be an annoyance, water will surely locate it. The weak point in most valves seems to lie in the plunger that closes the opening through which the air is admitted. Most valves work on the principle explained in the sketch. When the air is forced in, the plunger A is pushed down, admitting the air into D, and so into the tire; and when the downward stroke of the pump ceases, the spring B, assisted by the pressure of the air in the tire, is supposed to push A tightly up against the partition E, and so close the opening. Right here the trouble occurs. For various reasons the spring sometimes does not push the plunger up, and if the pressure is not sufficient to do it, when the pump is removed the air forced in with so much labor blows out in a few seconds. In this case, first drop a little benzine in, as perhaps the valve may be dirty or stuck in some manner, and if this has not the desired effect, it will be necessary to remove the valve. The most common cause of the above annoyance is the spring becoming too much compressed, this being remedied by removing and stretching a little. Frequently the plunger becomes jammed against E, and in pushing it in it disappears entirely within the body of the valve. Here also it is often necessary to take the valve apart.
Puncture.—That is a word that makes every wheelman wince. A little hole in the tire makes the bicycle, that a few seconds ago was a means of travelling, a useless encumbrance. But in this case it does not always follow that it is an encumbrance, for if a pocket repair kit is carried, or the rider can make the best use of things at his disposal, some kind of stoppage of the escape of wind can frequently be accomplished. The single tube, or "hose-pipe," is the easiest to patch up on the road. The leakage can usually be stopped by cementing a piece of rubber over the puncture and binding it on securely with tire tape. Perhaps if the rider is skilled he may effect a permanent repair by plugging it. Now a hint to the rider who goes on the road with only a wrench in his pocket; and if he is given to the chewing-gum habit, it may be of use. A very novel and effective repair for a single-tube tire may be made by a little chewing-gum and some bandages. After locating the opening, apply some freshly chewed gum and work it in, leaving a fair-sized piece on the tire, and binding it with a handkerchief if nothing better offers.
Sometimes a difficult part of a puncture on the road is its location. After examining the tire and noting the likely places, apply saliva at these spots, and when the right one is found, bubbles will be noticed.
The permanent repair of a double-tube tire is to patch the inner one. Let the air out, and if the tire is "cemented" pull it off, and, if the "clincher," spring off, being careful in pushing the valve through the hole in the rim. If it is the "clincher" pattern the inner tube may be readily removed, but if a "cemented" tire, it is a trifle more difficult. In the latter there is a slit about eight inches long in the outer tube, where the valve comes through, which is held together with lacing. Cut this lacing, and the two ends of the inner tube will be seen to come together here. Fasten a string to one end, and catching hold of the other end, pull the tube out, being careful to leave the string in the casing. When removed inflate tightly, and grasping firmly a section between your hands about a foot long, immerse in water and stretch to the utmost; and if the puncture is in this section this will sufficiently enlarge it to permit the free escape of bubbles. Continue this way throughout the whole tube, and when the puncture is located, bite a little piece of the rubber out from around it so that it may be more readily found; let the air out, and cut a piece of rubber to fit over the hole, covering the edges of the puncture and this piece with a rubber cement made for this purpose; and when a trifle dry, place the patch on and put a weight on top. Inflate and test in water for leaks, and if all is right let the air out and fasten one end to the string, which was carried into the outer tube on the removal of the inner one, and by this haul it in place again, lacing up the slot with string. Inflate again, and, after covering the rim of the wheel with cement, place it on and let it dry, revolving the wheel with the rim and tire in water so as to make the cement set.
The method of making permanent repairs in a hose-pipe or single-tube tire is simple—namely, by plugging. A rubber plug with a head like a rivet is covered with cement and inserted in the puncture, head within the tire, and when it sets, the projecting part on the exterior is trimmed off evenly.
[RICK DALE.]
BY KIRK MUNROE.
CHAPTER IX.
"CHINKS" AND "DOPE."
The dark passage into which the lads had just been ushered was short, and ended at another door of heavy planking before Alaric found a chance to ask his companion why they had come to such a very queer and mysterious place. The opening of that second door admitted them to another passage equally narrow, but well lighted, and lined with a number of tiny rooms, each containing two bunks arranged like berths one above the other. By the dim light in these rooms Alaric could see that many of these berths were occupied by reclining figures, most of whom were Chinamen, though a few were unmistakably white. Some were smoking tiny metal-bowled pipes with long stems, while others lay in a motionless stupor.
The air was heavy with a peculiarly sickening odor that Alaric recognized at once. He had met it before during his travels among the health resorts of Continental Europe, in which are gathered human wrecks of every kind; of them all none had seemed to the lad so pitiable as the wretched victims of the opium or morphine habit, which is the most degrading and deadly form of intemperance.
This boy, so ignorant of many of the commonest things of life, and yet wise far beyond his years concerning other phases, had often heard the opium habit discussed, and knew that the hateful drug was taken in many forms to banish pain, cause forgetfulness of sorrow, and produce a sleep filled with beautiful dreams. He knew, too, of the sad awakening that followed.
Knowing these things, Alaric was filled with horror at finding himself in a Chinese opium den, and wondered if Bonny realized the true character of the place. In order to find out he gained his comrade's side, and asked, in a low tone, "Do you know, Bonny, what sort of a place this is?"
"Yes, of course. It is Won Lung's joint."
"I mean do you know what the men in those bunks are doing?"
"Certainly," replied Bonny, cheerfully. "They're hitting the pipe."
Perplexed as he was by these answers, Alaric still asked another question.
"But do you know what they are smoking in those pipes?"
"To be sure I do," answered the other, a trifle impatiently. "It's dope. Most any one would know that. Didn't you ever smell it before?"
"Dope!" Once before had Alaric heard the word during that eventful day, and he had even used it himself, without knowing its meaning. Now it flashed across him. Dope was opium, and it was to form the sloop's cargo.
The passage they had been traversing ended in an open court, so foreign in its every detail that it appeared like a bit from some Chinese city lifted bodily and transported to the New World. The dingy buildings surrounding it were liberally provided with balconies, galleries, and odd little projecting windows, all of which were occupied by Chinamen gazing with languid interest at the busy scene below. From most of the galleries hung rows of gayly colored paper lanterns, which gave the place a very quaint and festive aspect.
On the pavement were dozens of other Chinamen, with here and there a demure-looking little woman and a few children. Heaps of queer-looking luggage, each piece done up in matting and fastened with narrow strips of rattan, were piled in the corners. At one side was an immense stove, or rather a huge affair of brick, containing a score or more of little charcoal stoves, each fitted for the cooking of a single kettle of rice or pot of tea. About this were gathered a number of men preparing their evening meal. Many of the others were comparing certificates and photographs, a proceeding that puzzled Alaric more than a little, for he was so ignorant of the affairs of his own country that he knew nothing of its Chinese Exclusion Law.
He began to learn something about it right there, however, and subsequently discovered that while Chinese gentlemen and scholars are as freely admitted to travel, study, or reside in the United States as are similar classes from any other nation, the lower grades of Chinese, rated as laborers, are forbidden by law to set foot on American soil.
Many thousands of Chinese laborers had come to the United States before the exclusion law was passed, and these, by registering and allowing themselves to be photographed for future identification, obtain certificates which, while not permitting them to return if they once leave the country, allow them to remain here undisturbed. Any Chinaman found without such a protection is liable to be arrested and sent back to his own land.
These certificates, therefore, are so valuable that there are plenty of Chinamen who want to buy them, and thus get into the United States.
This, then, is what many of those whom Alaric and Bonny now encountered were doing, for the place into which they had come was a Chinese hotel in which all newly arrived Chinamen found shelter while waiting for work or for a chance to smuggle themselves into the United States, which is what ninety-nine out of every one hundred of them proposed to do if possible.
As the lads stood together on the edge of this novel scene, while their guide went from group to group making a brief announcement, Alaric, seizing this first opportunity for acquiring definite information, asked,
"What on earth are we here for, Bonny?" asked Alaric.
"To find out how many passengers are ticketed for to-night's boat and get them started," was the reply.
"You don't mean that our passengers are to be Chinamen?"
"Yes, of course. I thought I told you so first thing this morning when you asked me what the sloop carried."
"No. You only said passengers and freight."
"I ought to have said 'chinks.' But what's the odds? Chinks are passengers, aren't they?"
"Do you mean Chinamen? Are 'chinks' Chinamen?"
"That's right," replied Bonny.
"Well," said Alaric, who had been on the coast long enough to imbibe all a Californian's contempt for natives of the Flowery Kingdom, "if I'd known that chinks meant Chinamen, and dope meant opium, I should have been too much ashamed of what the Fancy carried ever to tell any one about it."
"I hope you won't," responded Bonny. "There isn't any necessity for you to that I know of."
"But I have already. There was a man on the wharf while I was getting aired who asked me what our cargo was. Just to see what he would say I told him 'chinks and dope,' though I hadn't the slightest idea of what either of them meant."
"My! but that's bad!" cried Bonny, with an anxious look on his face. "I only hope he wasn't a beak. They've been watching us pretty sharp lately, and I know the old man is in a regular tizzy wizzy for fear we'll get nabbed."
Before Alaric could ask why they should be nabbed, Won Lung, the proprietor of the establishment, who also acted as interpreter, came to where they were standing, greeted Bonny as an old acquaintance, looked curiously at Alaric, and announced that thirty-six of his boarders had procured tickets for a passage to the sound on the Fancy.
"We can't take but twenty of 'em on this trip," said the young mate, decidedly. "And with their dunnage we'll have to stow 'em like sardines anyway. The others must wait till next time."
"Mebbe you tlake some man in clabin, some mebbe in fo'c's'le," suggested Won Lung, blandly.
"Mebbe we don't do anything of the kind," replied Bonny. "The trip may last several days, and I know I for one am not going to be crowded out of my sleeping quarters. So, Mr. Lung, if you send down one man more than twenty he goes overboard. You savey that?"
"YEP, ME SABBY. ALLEE SAME, ME NO LIKEE."
"Yep, me sabby. Allee same me no likee."
"Sorry, but I can't help it. And you want to hustle 'em along too, for we are going to sail in half an hour. Got the stuff ready?"
"Yep, all leddy. Two hun'l poun'."
"Good enough. Send it right along with us."
A few minutes later our lads had left Won Lung's queer hotel and were out in the quiet streets accompanied by two Chinese coolies, who bore heavy burdens slung from the ends of stout bamboo poles carried across their shoulders.
As Bonny seemed disinclined to talk, Alaric refrained from asking questions, and the little party proceeded in silence through unfrequented streets to the place where their sloop lay. Here the burdens borne by the coolies were transferred to the cabin, where this part of the cargo was left with Captain Duff, and Alaric had no knowledge of where it was stowed.
While the Captain was thus busy below, Bonny was giving the crew his first lesson in seamanship by pointing out three ropes that he called jib, throat, and peak halyards, showing him how to make them fast about their respective belaying-pins, and impressing upon him the importance of remembering them.
Shortly after this the score of long-queued passengers arrived with their odd-looking packages of personal belongings, were taken aboard in silence, and stowed in the hold until Alaric wondered if they were piled on top of one another like sticks of cord-wood.
Then the mooring-lines were cast off, and the Fancy drifted noiselessly out of the slip with the ebbing tide. Once clear of it the jib was hoisted, and she began to glide out of the harbor before a gentle off-shore breeze.
CHAPTER X.
PUGET SOUND SMUGGLERS.
The great landlocked body of salt water known as Puget Sound, penetrating for nearly one hundred miles the northwestern corner of Washington, the Northwest State, is justly termed a smuggler's paradise. It pierces the land in every direction with a perfect net-work of inlets, channels, and bays lined with endless miles of forest, frowning cliffs, and snugly hidden harbors. The upper end of the sound, where its width entitles it to be called a gulf, is filled with an archipelago of rugged islands of all sizes and shapes, thinly settled, and offering innumerable secure hiding-places for small boats. Here and there along the shores of the sound are Indian reservations uncleared and unoccupied save by dwindling remnants of the once populous coast tribes. These Indians, though retaining their tribal names among themselves, are all known to the whites under the one designation of "Siwash," a corruption of the French sauvage.
On the eastern side of the sound are the important American cities of Seattle and Tacoma; while at its extreme southern end stands Olympia, Washington's capital. On its western side, and just north of the Strait of Juan de Fuca that connects the sound with the ocean, is located the Canadian city of Victoria, from which all the smuggling operations of these waters are conducted.
From Victoria to the American island of San Juan on the east, the largest of the archipelago already mentioned, the distance is only twelve miles, while it is but twenty miles across the Strait of Fuca to the American mainland on the south. These two points being so near at hand, it is easy enough to run a boat-load of opium or Chinamen over to either of them in a night. For such a passage each Chinaman is compelled to pay from $15 to $20, while opium yields a profit of four or five dollars a pound. Smuggling from Victoria is thus such a lucrative business that many men of easy conscience are engaged in it.
Both the island route and that by way of the strait present the serious drawbacks of having their landing-places so remote from railroads and cities, that though the frontier has been passed, there is still a dangerous stretch of territory to be crossed before either of these can be reached. In view of this fact it occurred to one of the more enterprising among the Victoria smugglers to undertake a greater risk for the sake of greater profits, and run a boat nearly one hundred miles up the sound to some point in near vicinity to one of its large cities.
He had just the craft for the purpose, and finally secured a captain who, having recently lost a schooner through seizure by the American authorities for unlawful sealing in Bering Sea, was reckless and desperate enough for the new venture. As this man undertook the run for a share of the profits, he was inclined to reduce all expenses to their very lowest limits, and had already made a number of highly successful trips. Although the fare to each Chinaman by this new line was $25, it offered such superior advantages as to be liberally patronized, and the boat was always crowded.
In the mean time the American authorities had discovered that much illegal opium and many illegal Chinamen were entering their country through a new channel that seemed to lead to the vicinity of Tacoma. The recently appointed commander of a United States revenue-cutter determined to break up this route, and capture, if possible, these boldest of all the sound smugglers. For some weeks he watched in vain, overhauled and examined a number of innocent vessels, and with each failure became the more anxious to succeed. At length he sent his third Lieutenant to Victoria, of course out of uniform, to gain what information he could concerning any vessel that seemed likely to be engaged in smuggling.
This officer, after spending several days in the city without learning anything definite, was beginning to feel discouraged, when one afternoon, as he was strolling near the docks, he noticed two lads walking ahead of him who looked something like sailors. One of them had evidently just purchased a new outfit of clothing, and carried a canvas bag on which his name was painted in black letters. Making a mental note of this name, the officer followed the lads out of curiosity to see what kind of a craft they would board.
When he saw the Fancy he said to himself: "Tough-looking old packet. I wonder if that young chap with the bag can be one of her crew?"
Without approaching the sloop so closely as to attract attention, he lingered in her vicinity until Alaric went uptown to procure supplies, when the officer still kept him in sight. He even entered the store in which the lad was dealing, and here his curiosity was stimulated by the young sailor's varied and costly order.
"That sloop must make an extraordinary amount of money somehow," he reflected.
So interested had he now become that he even followed Alaric while the lad made his subsequent purchases. Finally he found himself again near the sloop just as the lad who had excited his curiosity was ordered to the wharf to air himself after his unfortunate experience with the bottle of cologne. At length the officer addressed him, and by dint of persistent questions became confirmed in his suspicions that the dingy old sloop cruised to the sound with Chinamen and opium.
Having gained the information he wanted thus easily and unexpectedly, the officer returned to his hotel for supper and to write a despatch that should go by that night's boat. After delivering this on board the steamer he determined to take one more look at the suspected sloop; and strolling leisurely in that direction, reached the wharf just in time to see her glide out from the slip and head for the open sea.
Here was an emergency that called for prompt action, and running back to the hotel, the young man paid his bill, secured his bag, and gained the steamer just as that fine American-built vessel was about to take her departure for ports of the upper sound. Shortly afterwards, a little beyond the harbor mouth, the big brilliantly lighted steamer swept past a small dimly outlined craft, on whose deck somebody was waving a lantern so that she might not be run down.
Of course it has been understood long ere this that the sloop Fancy was a smuggler. She was not only that, but was also the boldest, most successful, and most troublesome smuggler on Puget Sound. The one person at all acquainted with the shabby old craft and as yet unaware of her true character was Alaric Todd. His slight knowledge of smugglers having been gained through books, he thought of them as being only a sort of half pirates, either Spanish or French, who flourished during the last century. Thus, although he did not approve of either the sloop's passengers or cargo, it did not occur to him that they were being carried in defiance of law until about the time that steamer's lights were disappearing in the distance.
The boy's hands were still smarting from an unaccustomed hauling on ropes that had resulted in hoisting the big mainsail, and now he lay on deck well forward, where he had been told to keep a sharp lookout and report instantly any vessel coming within his range of vision. Before a fresh beam wind the Fancy was slipping rapidly through the water, with Captain Duff steering, Bonny doing odd jobs about deck, and the passengers confining themselves closely to the hold. After the young mate had waved his signal lantern to the steamer, he extinguished both it and the side lights that had been burning until now, leaving the binnacle lamp carefully shaded as the only light on board. With nothing more to do at present, he threw himself down beside Alaric, and the boys began a low-voiced conversation.
"What made you put out those lights?" asked the latter. "I thought all ships carried lights at night."
"We don't," laughed Bonny. "They'd give us away to the cutters, and we'd be picked up in less'n no time. I'm mighty glad that steamer isn't a revenue-boat."
"Why?"
"Because she's so fast. There's only one craft in the sound can beat her, and that's the Flyer, running between Tacoma and Seattle. The City of Kingston is a good one, though. She used to be a crack Hudson River boat, and came out here around the Horn; or rather not exactly that, but through the Strait of Magellan. That's a tough place, I can tell you."
"I suppose it is," replied Alaric. "But, Bonny, tell me something more about those cutters. Why should they want to catch us?"
"For running 'chinks' and 'dope.'"
"What harm is there in that? Is it against the law?"
"I should rather say it was. There's a duty of ten dollars a pound on one, and the others aren't allowed in at any price."
"Then I don't see how we are any different from regular smugglers."
"That's what some folks call us," replied Bonny, with a grin. "They are mostly on the other side, though. In Victoria they call us free-traders."
"It doesn't make any difference what anybody calls us," retorted Alaric, vehemently, "so long as we ourselves know what we are. It was a mean thing, Bonny Brooks, that you didn't tell me this before we started."
"Look here, Rick Dale! do you pretend you didn't know after seeing the 'chinks' and the 'dope' and all that was going on? Oh, come, that's too thin!"
"I don't care whether it's thin or thick," rejoined Alaric, stoutly. "I didn't know that I was shipping to become a pirate, or you may be very certain I'd have sat on that log till I starved before going one step with you."
"What do you mean by calling me a pirate?" demanded Bonny, indignantly. "I'm no more a pirate than you are, for all your fine airs."
In his excitement Bonny had so raised his voice that it reached the ears of Captain Duff, who growled out fiercely, "Stow yer jaw, ye young swabs, and keep a sharp lookout for'ard—d'ye hear?"
"Ay, ay, sir!" responded the young mate, rising as though to end the conversation, and peering keenly into the gloom.
But Alaric was not inclined to let the subject drop; and, with an idea of continuing their talk in so low a tone that it could not reach the Captain's ears, he too started to rise.
At that moment the sloop gave a quick lurch that caused him to plunge awkwardly forward. He was only saved from going overboard by striking squarely against Bonny, who was balancing himself easily in the very eyes of the vessel, with one foot on the rail. The force of the blow was too great for him to withstand. With a gasping cry he pitched headlong over the bows and disappeared from his comrade's horrified gaze.
[to be continued.]
[BICYCLE-TOURING DURING SUMMER VACATIONS.]
Wheeling has become such a universal matter now that it may prove of interest to give some practical hints to riders who have not yet realized what health and enjoyment, as well as experience, may be gained by taking something more than a day's ride in the vicinity of home and daily work. By far the greater number of those who own wheels are, or rather have been up to the present, satisfied to take afternoon runs of from ten to fifty miles in length, or, at most, to ride out of town to some friend's house, returning the next day. In those cities and towns of the United States which admit of it hundreds of men, young and old, ride every day to school or college or business, but until this year there has been comparatively little of the two weeks' or two months' touring—that is the best use to which a wheel can be put. Naturally one of the reasons for this has been that but few people have time to go off on fortnightly trips. The chief reason probably has been the difficulty of getting good accommodations, good roads, and good opportunity for repairs in case of accidents. It has become the custom to ride through England or France, and thus combine a sight-seeing tour with a long bicycle ride, rather than make similar runs at home, and why not here?
If a tour is possible in Europe, it certainly is possible in America, and to him who has eyes to see there is much to see and learn about his own country, if he goes on a wheel, that never can be seen in any other way. Now, too, the facilities for such a trip are greatly improved over anything in the past. There is not a village of any size, to say nothing of towns and cities, that has not one repair shop at least, and in New England and the Middle States, and all along the northern part of the United States, out beyond Chicago, a wheelman can get to one within an hour, except, perhaps, in some isolated instances where there are long stretches of woodland. A five or ten mile walk with a badly broken wheel is an unpleasant job; but if you are on any reasonably important thoroughfare you are sure to get a chance to ride on some passing wagon, and then, once the repair shop is reached, the wheel can either be repaired, or another one hired until your own is in good order again.
Hotels are now accustomed to bicyclists. There was a time when many a hotel had a regulation that no one in bicycle costume was permitted to enter the dining-room, but such inns are fast getting behind the times. All hostelries are in existence to make money, and the moment—which is now arrived—that a sufficiently large number of men and women ride to them on bicycles they will open dining-rooms and the whole hotel to them. Then, again, the League of American Wheelmen is doing a great deal for this touring of the bicyclist. The League is not a money-making affair in any way; most of its officials give their services free, and the endeavor is merely to pay expenses, while the object is to unite wheelmen and make them a sufficiently strong body to urge the different governments of the States, cities, etc., to build good roads and pass reasonable laws for the bicyclist. If you join this L.A.W. you secure for your initiation a ticket which in most large towns and cities admits you to at least one hotel for a somewhat reduced price. At any rate, on a two weeks' tour the wheelman will get his initiation fee back again half a dozen times over. Besides his ticket the member also is presented with a road-book of his State, which not only gives the best routes all over the State, but tells him also the hotels which give reduced rates, gives distances from one place to another, and other information of this kind. It also suggests good runs from 50 to 500 miles in length. With the improvement in the strength, durability, and lightness of the bicycle itself, the information of L.A.W. road-books, and the increase in repair shops, the great difficulties of touring have vanished. It turns out, therefore, that the facilities for touring are really better in the United States than in Europe, the one real disadvantage being that English and French roads are in better condition than those in America.
The difficulties to be overcome, then, are those of the bicyclist himself. How shall he fit out? Where shall he go, at what rate, and by what route? These questions, hard to answer as they may seem to any one who has not travelled much, are not difficult if they are taken up in detail. The real objects of such a trip should be amusement, comfort, sight-seeing, and out-door exercise. The speed at which you go should be comfortable to you, and you yourself must therefore settle that. Some men want to do seventy or eighty miles a day. Others are tired if they do more than ten. The distance, however, is or should be absolutely of no importance. If you feel like doing a good bit one day, it is possible. If you feel like staying abed the next day, or taking a walk, that is possible, too. In either case the idea of bicycle-touring does not or should not be concerned with distance at all. One man will have quite as good a time on a two weeks' tour covering a hundred miles as another will in covering a thousand.
In laying out the trip, some general idea of its course ought to be decided upon, such as a run from Boston to New York and return, from New York to Washington, New York to Buffalo and Niagara, Chicago to Buffalo, Chicago to St. Louis, and so on; or a trip to the White Mountains in New Hampshire, or the Berkshire Hills in Massachusetts, from any of the places named. The words "mountains" and "hills" have a dangerous sound to wheelmen, but the beauty of scenery, the visions of long even coasts, and pleasant variations from the continual revolving of wheels to walking up the next slope, all mean a great deal more than mere hilly roads. Once the trip is laid out, however, all idea of the different stages must be forgotten or never figured out. That planning to reach this town on Monday, and another on Tuesday, and the next on Wednesday, is ruinous to pleasure and to the nerves. The constant strain to get there, or the still greater vexation of getting there in the middle of the afternoon and feeling like going on, is bad.
At any rate, there is not much pleasure in running on railroad time. If the week or fortnight at your disposal is up before the journey is done, take a train and go home, with the wheel in a baggage-car; but on no account hurry. You have your road-map with you, and can see at a glance that Johnstown is three miles further on, and Brownstown is ten. If at Johnstown you don't want to stop, make for Brownstown. If you grow weary five miles out, stop at the first decent-looking house and tell the housewife you are on a pleasure tour, that you want to rest, or hope for a glass of milk or a dinner or a bed. She will help you out if you pay, and often if you don't; but should she refuse, try the next house after suggesting to her that she should ride a bicycle; for as sure as there is a wheel resting up against the house anywhere, you will be received and comforted. Some of the pleasantest incidents of a trip, some of the kindest friends, are found in these little unexpected stops. In any case be pleasant, be considerate; take the baby on your knee, show Johnny how the wheels go round, and scratch the cat's back. All these will open the spare bedroom and the larder, to say nothing of the hostess's heart, and they will even save money.
Suppose, for instance, the trip is to be from New York city to Boston along the Connecticut coast, and back through Massachusetts, over the Berkshire Hills, and down the Hudson—a trip that it will be difficult for any one to surpass anywhere else in the United States for variety of scenery, historic interest, and for good roads and accommodations. You leave New York city, run out through Stamford, New Haven, New London, in Connecticut, thence through Providence to Boston, taking a side trip, if there is time, to Newport, Rhode Island. From Boston the run is westward through Worcester and Springfield, and then, winding about through Lenox, Pittsfield, Stockbridge, and all the Berkshire towns, it finally crosses the border into New York State, until the Hudson is reached; thence it extends down the east bank of the river to New York city. The whole trip has a good name for roads, is full of historic interest, combines sea and mountain air, and gives you a glimpse of old New England life as well as of modern country life of the most advanced type. There are towns and repair shops in plenty, and not many hills as such tours go. You can do it in two weeks or less, or you can easily take a month to it, and at any time you can reach New York city in one night by rail.
There are other trips that in some ways would prove more interesting to different men, and any one, wherever he lives, provided it is somewhere in the northern or eastern part of the United States, or on the Pacific or Atlantic coast, can lay out such a tour from his road-books or his own head. Suppose, for the moment, this trip is to be taken, however, how shall a bicyclist fit out? The questions which require solution are how to carry sufficient clothing for exigencies, and to have it weigh as nearly nothing as possible; and how to travel at as near no cost as possible. There is a well-known system for carrying baggage on a walking tour which is eminently suited to bicyclists; this is to have two pieces of baggage. The first is a large valise or small trunk, containing clothing of all kinds needed for an ordinary two weeks' trip by rail, besides toilet articles, and so on. The materials for the other is composed of a similar set of toilet articles, and one or at most two sets of underclothing, besides an extra pair of shoes or slippers—moccasins pack easily and are very serviceable. This last is packed in a leather case set into the diamond frame of the wheel, or into a knapsack carried on the shoulders. If the diamond-shaped portmanteau is properly made it is better. Luggage seems lighter on the wheel than on your back.
The trouble with the average portmanteau is that it is too thick, making it necessary for the wheelman to straddle it instead of giving him the free use of his limbs to press up and down on the pedals perpendicularly. If you will take the trouble to have this portmanteau made to order and carefully measured, so that it will not come outside a line drawn on either side of the bicycle from the sides of the saddle to the inside of each pedal when at its lowest point in a revolution, you will find no trouble with it. This, however, necessitates its being narrower at the top than at the bottom. On arriving at a hotel for the night, it is unstrapped from the wheel and taken up to your room. Then after your bath there is the change of clothing, the slippers, the toilet articles in a little case by themselves, and your repair kit, which may be wanted in the evening for some little repairs on the wheel. The portmanteau will always be full, so take only what is absolutely necessary, otherwise you will find that some important thing has been left behind, and a useless appendage brought only to occupy valuable space, and be thrown away in disgust. Always carry soap and a towel. They are sometimes hard to find, and oftener so bad that one goes dirty rather than use them. Then, too, a good wash by a stream is only satisfactory when soap and towel are at hand. If you have been compelled to repair a puncture by the way, such a wash with soap and towel is everything. If you stop for a bath in some stream, the towel comes in again.
Another good addition is one of the tiny cameras that are sold nowadays for a small amount. For if you cannot sketch well they bring back with you little reminders of a journey which are invaluable, and they do not take the time in preparation that a sketch does. Of course it would be foolish to attempt to state that photographs are better than good sketches. Any one who can draw reasonably well has something of the greatest value with him. For the average mortal a camera must take its place.
All this time nothing has been said as to the use to be made of the large valise or small trunk. It contains several changes of clothing, extra shoes, extra suits, extra everything, and is sent from New York by express to the Narragansett House at Providence, or to Newport, or even to Boston. On the first day's ride you make Stamford, thirty miles away, or New Haven, forty-one miles further on. The next day New London is far enough. Perhaps you want to stay there an extra day, or perhaps you spend two or three days getting to Providence. At any rate, in three or four or five days you are in Providence, and there is the valise awaiting you with a fresh supply of clothing for the portmanteau. Next morning it goes to Boston, and you follow it the same day, or the next, or three or four days later, just as you wish. In Boston all the clothing can be laundered in a day, and a new start made. From this city the valise goes by express to Springfield or Lenox or Stockbridge, and you follow on at your leisure. If at any time you decide not to pass through the city or town holding your valise for the time being, send a letter and order it sent elsewhere, paying the required amount and a little more by money-order enclosed. Such transactions are safe in any good hotel; but always have the valise marked "to be called for by John Brown, expecting to arrive by bicycle about such and such a date."
It is not improbable that you may want the valise at once. In that case the best plan is to get on a train and ride to it. It will never be more than four hours away, and instead of covering the distance you ride in the train on your wheel, you can add some unexpected and therefore interesting detour to your programme.
From Lenox the valise goes to Hudson or Poughkeepsie, or even to New York city again, and the trip is finished, as it was begun, in pleasant irregular stages, with stoppages wherever desirable, and long runs whenever wanted. And this suggests another word as to the regulation of habits on the road. Don't eat and drink in every town you happen to pass through. Eat a hearty breakfast, and then read a paper for an hour. With breakfast, at eight, the start will be at nine. Then run along at any gait that suits you, only remembering that an easy start means a pleasant and a long run. Stop at twelve or thereabouts, as the town appears and the spirit moves, wash up, and eat a big noon dinner. After another hour's rest—sometimes including a nap—start out again, going slowly usually, or rest till four or five o'clock if it is midsummer and very warm.
When a hill is reached, remember that a little walk is a great rest and recreation, and a ride up a short hill is equal to a long stretch of level road. It is really wiser and pleasanter to walk up all hills that are steep. If you see a pretty brook and a shady tree near it, and the spirit again moves, dismount and read a volume out of the portmanteau, or lie quietly, enjoying one of the privileges of a bicycle trip—a little communion with honest nature, far removed from the railroad, the hotel, the guide, and the summer tourist. If it rains, ask the first man to take you in—and so on.
One man can enjoy such a trip hugely. Two, if they are congenial, can, also; but never go with three, and usually not with four or more. Somebody is always getting punctured, or falling ill, or not waking up, or wanting to rest. If you are alone you can usually agree with yourself, though sometimes that is hard work, and even two make the agreeing more difficult.
The best trips in the northern and eastern part of the United States are briefly: 1. The tour already mentioned. 2. The run from New York city, up the east bank of the Hudson, crossing at Albany; thence through the highly interesting and historic valley of the Mohawk, through Utica, Syracuse, Rochester, and so on to Buffalo; thence to Niagara, Detroit, and Chicago. 3. From New York city or Albany or Boston (in the latter cases reaching New York city as described), across Staten Island to Tottenville and Perth Amboy; thence through Princeton, Trenton, Philadelphia, Baltimore, to Washington. 4. From Boston, northward through Lowell, Concord (New Hampshire), Manchester, and on to the White Mountains, or through Portsmouth, Portland, and out along the Maine coast towards Bangor or Bar Harbor or Eastport. Most of these trips have been given in the Round Table Bicycle Department, and can be had by any one from the publishers, by ordering the numbers in the foot-notes accompanying that Department. They can practically all be secured by purchasing the different road-books issued by the L.A.W.
Of course there are hundreds of other tours, and, indeed, each man can make up a good tour for himself by merely studying his road-books. These trips are comprehensive in many ways, and as they are much more ridden, and therefore more accurately described, it is wiser to take one of them for your first tour than to begin exploring on your own account at once.
[THE AMERICAN NIGHTS' ENTERTAINMENTS.]
BY EMMA J. GRAY.
EASTER FROLIC.
s it true that the sun dances Easter morning, and that all the stones turn upside down, and that if I will climb to the top of that hill"—pointing to a high hill that was in the immediate neighborhood—"I can see it all?"
"Sure an' ye can, miss. It's meself that has seen 'em many's the time, only ye must be up airly, for the sun niver dances after five in the mornin'."
The getting up was indeed a difficult task, for I was a regular "lie-a-bed"; but I had never seen the sun dance or stones turn over, and, being a credulous child, I resolved to try. The only question was, "How was I to waken?" for my head, once on the pillow, lay there generally, without even turning over, for a stretch of twelve hours. Bridget suggested that I tie my hand to the bedpost, but not thinking this a very safe precaution, I settled the matter by giving her an order to wake me at half after four o'clock. This she consented to do, provided I would "niver tell me mither." And I did not until breakfast-time, which was my very first opportunity, and at the moment I was so annoyed at the dolt this Irish cook had made of me, that I would have told a dozen mothers, had I only had the chance. Instead of waking me at half past four, she woke me at four o'clock. Oh, how sleepy I was! I remember dreaming of a short red-faced fairy shaking me and saying, "Hurry, child! stones turning, sun dancing! Hurry-scurry, or you'll be too late!" And on opening my eyes there stood our old red-faced Bridget.
I dressed as fast as I could, begging her to button my shoes. I was all in a quiver of excitement for fear of being late, and as soon as it was light enough to see my way, without waiting for hat or jacket, I rushed wildly along and up the lane, unto the hill and so on, never pausing until reaching the very top.
There I sat down on a big stone, so making sure of that one at least, and with an occasional turning of my head to watch all the other stones lying around, and especially one big rock over which the apple boughs swayed, I awaited the sun's rising.
It finally rose, much after the fashion, I suppose, of any other spring morning. I thought maybe it danced, but my mother didn't agree with me; she said I was faint and dizzy because I was unaccustomed to rise so early and go out without breakfast. But the stones never turned, not even the smallest one; of that I was assured. And so at a quarter before eight o'clock a very disappointed, tired child wandered down the hill and along the lane, so reaching home.
That the Irish serving-maid had been making fun of me I did not dream until I heard a loud, hard laugh, accompanying the words, "What a fool that child is!" Therefore it was no strange thing I was angry enough to make full confession.
And now that I have older grown, I have learned how fraught with superstitions the beautiful Easter day is. Not alone in Ireland, but in almost every country some qualities of the miraculous or uncanny may be discovered.
The time for Easter amusement is during the week which follows Easter day, and it would be a pretty idea at such a season to give a short tableau entertainment in connection with music and games, the tableaux indicating the superstitions of various countries.
When the tableau is shown, announce what it is intended to represent; for example, in Russia the Easter festival might almost be termed the "kissing festival," for beginning with the Emperor, who on Easter day kisses various generals and even privates in his army, the singular contagion spreads throughout the empire, apparently affecting both aristocrat and plebeian.
Tableau.—A boy representing the Russian Emperor kissing a member of the army.
In the olden days of France it was the custom for a Christian to give a Jew an Easter box.
Tableau.—Two boys, one representing the Christian, the other the Jew. The Christian must be in the act of boxing the Jew's ear.
Follow this with the France of to-day.
Tableau.—An interior of a church, extravagantly trimmed with flowers, and brilliant with lighted candles. It should be crowded with boys and girls, mothers and fathers, all in brand-new clothes.
Show Spain as a dark-haired girl, with a mantilla over her head, kneeling in a church before a mammoth candle—the Paschal candle, nine feet long. In order to make it seem taller, stand it on a marble pedestal.
Rome, with a procession of gayly attired children, and a boy representing the Pope, in the most elegant of robes, carried in a crimson chair, over which is a canopy. This chair must be preceded by two other boys, each carrying white ostrich-feather fans.
Germany, with a group of dancing girls and boys, the girls wearing small close-fitting white caps, full white aprons over dark gold-braided skirts and white sleeves; the boys with knee-breeches, white stockings, showy vests, and gold buttons. Or show a hare running from a nest filled with colored eggs, before which two little children kneel. The nest should be placed under a bush, and one of the children should wear a laughing face, for she holds up an egg.
England, with a crowd of boys and girls returning from Hampton Court, Kew Garden, or Stoke Pogis, with their arms literally filled with willow-boughs and branches of blossoms—yellow, pink, and white—with which they will decorate the church for Easter Sunday. Switzerland, with a band of musicians carrying guitars, and going from house to house singing some sweet carol, their hats and caps wreathed with flowers.
A very pretty way to amuse children of all ages is to hide eggs in the grass or under bushes, and then have an egg-hunt. All eggs found may, of course, be carried home. Give five minutes for the hunt, and it will prove great sport for lookers-on also.
For another game, raise a tent decorated with flags, cheese-cloth streamers, or ribbons. Opposite the tent in which the guests are to be seated, and ten feet distant, is a post or tree on which to put the prize. At the base of the post put a basket of thin glass balls, and also one at the tent door, only fill this basket with excelsior. The game is to find the person that will throw the largest number of eggs from one of the baskets into the other and not break them. Whoever wins is rewarded by the prize.
For little children, form a ring, and pitch to the centre of the ring a hard-boiled egg, and let them scramble for it. For larger children, let them pair off, a boy and girl; thus alternating, they form a ring. Then start thirteen china or glass eggs, one after the other, from hand to hand, taking the egg in the right hand, passing it to the left, and so on around the ring. If an egg drops it must stay where it falls until the other eggs have gone around the ring three times. It may chance by that time that all the eggs have dropped. When the third time around is complete, immediately a grand chain is formed, and the children dance, and go back to position, picking up the eggs as they dance. If the egg is not picked up, keeping time to the music, which is being played throughout the game, that person cannot retain it, but must give it to the one following. Sometimes no eggs fall, then the game is kept up until all the eggs have passed rapidly around three times. But when dropped and picked up, they must then go around once, and after this final circuit the game is concluded.
Boil a dozen or more eggs in logwood of different strengths of dye; they will then be colored violet or purple. Give these eggs, with a large pin or pen-knife, to young people to decorate. Offer a prize for the best decoration within fifteen minutes.
Still another game is to knock eggs. Hold an egg so that the small end is shown between the forefinger and the thumb. Sit or stand opposite to the person with whom you are playing. Then knock each other's eggs. The knock should be swift and hard, and whosesoever egg is the first to crack must now be given to the opponent. When starting, each should have equal number. Whoever has the most eggs after playing ten minutes has won.
The Game of Cluck.—Perhaps this is the jolliest game of all, and it is essentially for boys. Whoever gives the party should ask each of his friends to bring a chicken—a real live chicken—and if he is sure he would not recognize her when with a barnyard of others, he must tie a ribbon around her neck; he must also bring some hard-boiled eggs. The court used should be surrounded with a high netting, and the centre of the court marked with a cross.
At a signal all the players, each with his fowl in his arms, must enter the court, and the host, going to the centre, now becomes auctioneer, and taking each offered fowl in turn, he loudly calls, "How many eggs am I bid for this chicken?"—two eggs, three, or whatever the number may be; no one must bid what he cannot pay, and the chicken is given to the boy offering the largest number, and the eggs are given to the previous owner of the chicken. He may put them wherever he pleases, only they must be somewhere within the netting.
The sale being over, the "cluck" commences, for it is now each one's aim to recover his chicken, which can only be done by finding the requisite number of eggs given for her. This is much easier said than done, for the boys will have hidden them in their pockets and other peculiar places. Meanwhile, the chickens, running in every direction, are very apt to "cluck" loudly.
The Bird's Nest.—Put a bird's nest in a room; hunt for it as you "Hunt the Slipper," only instead of saying "warm, warmer," and so on, you cluck, cluck, cluck soft or loud as the party goes toward or from the nest. Only one person hunts at a time; everybody else clucks.
Never rob a bird's nest, no matter how much the pretty eggs may tempt you. Think of the sorrow of the mother bird when she returns and sees it empty. Think, too, of the time when these little shells would break, and a blue or yellow bird, or maybe an oriole, would rise out and sing sweetest song to you.
Have you ever seen among the variety of confectioners' eggs those trimmed with roses—the kind that seems near of kin to the Æolian-harp?—for blow on the roses ever so softly, listen, and you'll hear a bird.