ALPHABET.
"Give any letter of the alphabet—for example, S—to the company, also some paper and pencils. In five minutes' time they should write the names of three celebrated men, and also three sensible sentences, one for each man's name, as Shakespeare was born in Stratford on the Avon. Forfeits are required for failures.
"The games may be interspersed or followed by dances, and also by vocal or instrumental music."
"As you describe it, Blanche, I'm afraid the children wouldn't get home until morning."
"I am sure they will not want to. And, besides, it will be such a pretty party."
"That is so; but you haven't suggested any decorations."
"No, nor told you what you are to wear."
"I to wear?" and Mrs. Thayer almost screamed the words.
"Why, the party wouldn't be anywhere without costumes. You must"—and Blanche met Mrs. Thayer's face smilingly—"look over some Dutch portraits or photographs and decide which you will copy. Besides, you must wear a gown of Delft blue, as, indeed, I must also. And all the girls must wear Delft-blue colored frocks, and fashion them as closely as possible after the style of the young Dutch girls. Their hair should be worn flowing, and tied by the same colored ribbon, or worn in braids down their backs; and the boys must get the color in too some way; of course they could all wear Delft scarfs. And all the decorations should be of the same blue shade. That can readily be arranged by draperies and crêpe paper. And don't forget to have the caterer serve all confections and ices in form of dikes, windmills, ships, storks, etc. Indeed, we must have everything as Delft as possible."
When Penelope heard the scheme she could scarcely wait for her birthday night to come. But the days passed rapidly, after all, because everybody was very busy, and the night of all nights arrived at last.
And Uncle Dan, who did not enter the parlor until the games were in progress, exclaimed in amazement, as he turned towards Penelope,
"Well, if it be I, as I suppose it be,
I have a little dog at home, and he knows me."
And drawing his hand across his forehead in a dazed sort of way, he inquired: "Am I dreaming, child? I thought I was in America, but it seems I am in Holland, or perhaps time has gone backward, and it's the old Knickerbocker period."
[A THANKSGIVING GAME.]
BY S. SCOVILLE, JUN.
"It's outrageous!" said the pater, banging his fist down on the breakfast table in a way that made the mater, accustomed as she was to his ways, jump in spite of herself. "So that's the reason the young rascal's not going to be with us to-morrow until late in the evening. Listen to this;" and the pater began indignantly to read an extract from the morning paper:
"'An important change has been effected in the makeup of the Yale eleven. Teddie Larned, '99, has recently made such a fine showing at full-back that he will fill that position in the championship game against Princeton on Thanksgiving day. His punting and line-breaking are phenomenally good.'
"That's what I was afraid of when I sent him to college," continued the pater, solemnly, as he folded up the paper. "Football's a rough, brutal game, and those that play it become rough and brutal, when they don't injure themselves for life, as most of 'em do. I wouldn't have one of those young savages in my house. I'll just go up to that game early to-morrow afternoon," he went on, "and bring Teddie home with me. They'll have to get somebody else to fill his place in spite of his being such a phenomenal—er—line-smasher—whatever that is."
"Don't be too hasty," advised the mater, in whom Teddie, knowing his father's violent aversion to athletics, had confided. "This game means a great deal to our boy."
"Nonsense!" snorted Mr. Larned, indignantly; "it's nothing but a silly school-boy affair anyway. I'm astonished that grown men waste their time encouraging such things by going."
Long before the elevated train had reached Harlem it was packed and jammed to the doors with lusty college boys, pretty girls, and sedate heads of families, among whom Mr. Larned saw with astonishment many men of note. All were wearing college colors, all were filled with a delightful, suppressed excitement. Involuntarily the pater began to feel the contagion. But everybody was talking football, and their language sounded strangely to his ears.
"They say that Larned's a regular find for Yale," remarked a chrysanthemum-headed youth to his friend hanging to a strap beside him. "He kicked a goal from the field last week, when he was playing on the scrub, from the forty-five-yard line. You ought to see him buck a line!"
Teddie's name was on every one's lips, and the pater began, in spite of himself, to feel proud of his son, and to have a sneaking desire to see some of those accomplishments of his that other people seemed to know so much about.
Fighting his way through the crush at the gate, Mr. Larned finally found himself inside, albeit in a decidedly dishevelled condition. An official with a long flowing badge directed him to the training-quarters where the Yale team was reposing during the last hour before the game. At the door the pater was confronted by Mike, the grizzled old trainer.
"Of course Mr. Larned's here," he responded, surprisedly, to the former's inquiry, "but he can't see anybody just now."
"Tell him that his father wishes to speak with him at once," said the pater, authoritatively.
The trainer's manner became more respectful. "I'm very sorry, Mr. Larned," he said, firmly, "but the team can see no one before the game. The coachers are giving them a last talk now."
"Do you mean to tell me," the pater demanded, hotly, "that I can't see my own son?"
"Exactly, sir," replied the trainer, inexorably. "Just at present he's the full-back on the Yale eleven, and nothing else goes. And now, Mr. Larned, I'll write you out a pass to the grand stand, and then I must run back to the boys. After the game you can see your son aplenty—if there's anything left of him." And with this cheering suggestion, Mike scribbled a few words on a card, which he handed to Mr. Larned, and retired.
The latter stood speechless for a moment. That a power on the Street, a man whose name was among the great ones of Manhattan, should be treated thus cavalierly, and that by a hired trainer—
"Why, it's preposterous!" exclaimed the pater to himself; nor was his ruffled self-esteem soothed when he read the scrawl on the card: "This is Teddie Larned's father. He wants to see the game. Mike."
But then it proved an "open sesame," and the ushers, after reading the magic words, received him with the most marked attention, passed him along through the crowds of ordinary people who were not fathers to famous full-backs, and finally seated him in a front box which was specially reserved for the parents of the players—though Mr. Larned did not know this.
Next to him was seated a tall, ruddy-faced man, wearing the slouch hat which the old generation of Westerners still cling to. He was beaming with jollity, and joined a deep bass to some of the college songs that Yale voices were chanting all around him.
"Well, to-day's the day we watch the youngsters distinguish themselves," he remarked, cheerily, to Mr. Larned, during a lull in the cheering that was surging up and down the grand stand.
But before the pater could rebuff this friendly overture, as in his present state of mind he felt inclined to, a roar of cheers swept up and down the field, and the speaker sprang to his feet, waving his slouch hat frantically. Out on the brownish-green field trotted eleven shock-headed youths clad in dirty, heavily padded mole-skins, cleated shoes, and canvas jackets, frayed and torn, but each with the great varsity "Y" on its breast. An oval brown ball was hurled and caught with, what seemed to the pater's inexperienced eye, wonderful swiftness, and then as the ball rolled along the ground each man took his turn, as it came near, in sprawling down on it in a most comical manner. Suddenly it was passed nearly thirty yards, straight as an arrow into the arms of a short, chunky youngster, with an extremely dirty face, who seemed carved out of a solid block. With almost a single movement—so deftly was it done—the ball was caught and poised in both hands for the tiniest fraction of a second. Then came a hollow thump as the dropped oval was punted. Up, and up, and out in a tremendous parabola, almost the length of the field it soared. "AA! AA!" howled the Yale tiers. "Get on to that punt! What's the matter with Teddie Larned?"
The pater stared, at first incredulously, but sure enough that marvellous kicker was his own son Teddie, though disguised by the grime, the pads, and the tangled hair.
It must have been the excitement around him which made the pater stand up and watch with all his eyes every sky-scraping punt that the dirty-faced boy continued to make, and by a mere accident all at once he found himself saying "AA!" as loudly as any one before he had been on his feet a minute.
His companion was wild with excitement. "See that big chap?" he exclaimed, pointing out a young giant whose face looked like some monstrous mask, with its huge rubber nose-guard. "That's Bright, the centre rush. Ain't he a corker?"
"Looks too fat," said the pater, critically.
"Too fat, eh?" replied the other, excitedly. "Well, you just watch him play, and see if he's too fat. That little Larned's the one that's too fat. He punts all right, but a full-back ought not to be so round."
"Not at all! Not at all!" hotly responded the pater, who, though he did not know a full-back from a goal-post, was not going to sit by and hear his only son maligned. "A pull-back should always be thickset! They—er—pull better when they're like that. And—that's my son sir!"
The Westerner choked until he was nearly black in the face. "Well, shake, old man, and we'll call it square," he said, finally, when he had recovered breath enough to speak. "Bright happens to be my son, and in spite of their fat I think our two boys won't disgrace us this day—eh?"
And again it must have been the excitement of the game, for the dignified and somewhat exclusive Mr. Larned found himself shaking hands with a total stranger as if he had been a life-long friend. All his bad temper had disappeared. He was aglow with excitement; the most delightful little thrills ran up and down his back, while an irresistible impulse to shout had taken possession of him.
"This is your first game, isn't it?" Mr. Bright questioned. But just then came another punt, and the pater found it much easier to stand up and yell "AA!" than to answer any such searching questions. Then all further conversation was made impossible by a torrent of cheers from the Princeton tiers, and eleven other men, with the same grimy, weather-beaten costumes, and the same businesslike air of deadly earnestness, spread across the field and went through similar preliminaries. Only their stockings were of a barber-pole pattern, with alternate rings of orange and black instead of a uniform blue, while a large orange "P" blazed on every breast in place of the Y.
And now there was no controlling the audience. Orange and black banners were confronted by yards of Yale blue. Yellow chrysanthemums glared at bunches of violets and bachelor's-buttons, while the wearers—men, women, and children—sent out volleys of cheers that made the grand stand shake. The pater and his newly found friend were on their feet with the rest. Near by was a crowd of Yale "rooters," as Mr. Bright graphically termed them, shouting a rhythmic cheer containing too many x's and other bewildering Greek consonants for the pater, while he invariably added an extra "Rah!" to the regulation cheer. But to his satisfaction he found that not even the deep-voiced Bright could shout "AA!" with more earnest emphasis and volume, and he fell back on that as his strong point.
Suddenly there is silence, a warning whistle blows. Yale has the ball, and the forwards group themselves in a curious zigzag formation, awaiting the kick off.
The short and chunky Teddie takes a run, his foot swings and strikes the ball with what seems hardly more than a gentle touch, but the oval is spinning clear down to the other end of the field, followed by the terrible rush of the whole Yale team. It is caught by a running Princeton man, who, with a swerve of his body, avoids the spring of one runner, hurls another aside with the "straight-arm," and comes tearing down the field like a deer. A tremendous shout from the wearers of the orange and black masses is bitten off with surprising abruptness. For Teddie smashes straight through the interference, and with a lightning-like dive, which there is no evading, tackles the runner just about the knees and hurls him headlong. In a flash the lined-up elevens are facing each other, and the fight is on.
"Too fat, eh? Just look at that!" chuckles Mr. Bright, slapping the erstwhile dignified Mr. Larned ecstatically on the back, as Yale's centre catches his opponent napping, hurls him aside, and downs a runner in his tracks.
Back and forth surges the tide of battle. The elevens are almost evenly matched, and though the ball has been dangerously close to either goal, it has always been kicked or rushed back in time. The pater marvels at Teddie. Where had his boy learned the daring, the coolness, and the self-reliance that characterize him that day? Time after time the Yale backs smash at the Princeton line and fail to make the necessary ground, and the ball is close to the goal, with only the swing of Teddie's right leg to ward off a touch-down. But the boy never falters. Unerringly he catches the ball, and just at the right moment when the rush of the opposing backs is almost upon him, the ball spins far out of danger, and a long-drawn breath of relief comes from the Yale seats. And once when Teddie dives into the line with the ball, and the great seething mass of arms and legs untangles itself, there is one that fails to rise with the rest. The little full-back lies very limp and still, and there is a cry for water, while old Mike rushes from the side-lines with a great blanket flapping in the breeze. The pater's face becomes all of a sudden drawn and white, and he trembles so that the great Westerner drops his arm across his shoulders.
"Steady, old man," he says, soothingly; "the boy's only had the wind pounded out of him. He'll be up and playing in a second." And maybe the two fathers don't join in the tremendous cheer that arises when Teddie trots back to his place—a little unsteadily, to be sure—and the game goes on.
"They're saving him," says Mr. Bright, after watching the play carefully for some time. "He's only been sent against the line three times this half, and now the other backs are doing most of the punting. They'll send him in to save the game in the last ten minutes."
The ball is back almost in the middle of the field again, when suddenly the warning whistle sounds shrilly, and the first half is over. A great buzz goes up from thousands of seats as the spectators discuss the details of the game, and, long before one expects them, the players are trooping back. Hair all adrip from the hurried sponging that the rubbers have given their grimy faces, bodies still atingle from the stinging alcohol rub-downs, with the hoarse, earnest, words of the graduate coachers still ringing in their ears, they line up for the bitter second half. From the start the advantage lies with the orange and black. The weight of their tremendous rush-line begins to make itself felt. Back and forth goes the ball, but—significant fact to the knowing ones—it stays constantly in Yale's territory. For the first time during the afternoon there is a dead silence, and the thud of the players' bodies as a back strikes the rush-line or tries to smash through the interference can be heard, and their sobbing breathing as again and again the confused heap untangles itself. The shrill voices of the quarter-backs as they call out the signal for the next play punctuates every struggle, and now and then one or the other of the Captains claps his muddy hands sharply together with a "Play hard, boys! Hit it up! Now show your sand!"
Above the struggling, changing mass hangs a thin white steam—truly a battle-mist. Finally, towards the end of the half, by a series of short, hard rushes, Princeton is on Yale's 20-yard line. But here the wearers of the blue stand like a stone wall, and, after three vain attempts, the ball goes to Yale on downs. Instantly it is passed back for a punt, and then—no one knows how it happened, perhaps the Yale guard was napping, perhaps the tackle was to blame—straight through the line, between tackle and guard, smashes the great right guard of Princeton and blocks the kick. The ball bounds from his broad chest clear across the line. In a flash one of the Princeton ends has followed, fallen on it, and the score is 4-0 in favor of Princeton. A crumb of comfort is it, but only a crumb to the Yale adherents, who sit gloomy and despondent amid a roaring storm of Princeton cheers, that no goal is kicked.
"Only seven minutes left," exclaims Mr. Bright, despairingly, "and that's not time to do anything against a rush-line like that. But the boys'll die a-trying, anyhow!"
Grim and unyielding the Yale men line up for these last stern minutes. They have failed. No matter the reason, the audience may call it a fluke, a piece of hard luck; but up on the Yale campus it is results that count—not excuses. In their hands is the honor of the college, and but seven minutes remain to wipe off the stain of defeat before thrice ten thousand people. Like a flash the eleven lines up. The battle opens with a last-resort flying-wedge play, too risky to try except at such a desperate time when every chance must be taken. When it is over the blue line is twelve yards nearer the Princeton goal; but two of the precious minutes are gone.
"Five, seven, twenty-nine!" shouts the quarter-back, hoarsely, and the ball goes back to Teddie, and smash he goes into the line. Like a flash the tangled mass dissolves, with the ball six yards nearer the goal. Nothing is harder to stand than the dumb furious rush of a despairing eleven, nerved by the sting of defeat, and seeing a chance to retrieve itself. No end plays now, but straight through the centre they go, and even Princeton's mighty rush-line wavers. Mr. Bright's prediction as to Teddie's having been held in reserve proves a true one. Back into his hands goes the ball for nearly every play, and gallantly that day does he sustain his reputation as the best line-breaker that has ever worn a Y. Sometimes it is a "turtle-back," or one of the huge guards makes a hole for him at the centre, or again, in a tandem play, Teddie follows the smashing rush of the heaviest back. But, whatever the play, crashing through or even leaping over the opposing line, as they crouch for his approach, pushing, boring, squirming, with the weight of half a dozen men crushing the breath out of him, Teddie always gains ground. Sometimes the gains are small, to be sure, but always enough for Yale to keep the ball. Once there is a line-up by the side-line close to where the two fathers sit, and Mr. Larned looks down into Teddie's face scarce ten yards away. It shows very white now underneath the grime and sweat, while the blood, oozing from a cut in the forehead, clots blackly in little streams down the side of his face. But, strangely enough, the pater forgets to characterize the whole thing as brutal. In fact, his teeth are clinched as grimly as his son's as he leans far forward to see every move of the game, and his heart goes out to those "young savages" who are making such a dogged up-hill fight of it.
And now the ball is on the twenty-yard line, diagonally from the goal.
"Thirty seconds to play," shouts the umpire, poring over his stop-watch. "Thirty seconds to make one last attempt for Yale, and every man on the eleven nerves himself to hold against the Princeton rush-line as against death himself. As the quarter-back cries the signal, the right and left half-backs, from mere force of habit, crouch ostentatiously, as if prepared for a run round the end. But the feint is unnecessary. Every man on the Princeton eleven, every coacher on the side-lines, every football-player on the crowded grand stands, knows that a goal from the field is Yale's only chance, knows that on Teddie's coolness depends the fate of the day. Back goes the ball on a long, low, accurate pass from the wiry little quarter-back. And before it has reached Teddie's outstretched hands the crash comes, and against the sternly waiting line comes the full force of the Princeton rushers bent on breaking through and blocking the kick.
"Hold 'em, Yale!" gasps the Captain from his place at tackle, as he braces against the hard-pressed right-guard. And for a second Yale holds. Then the line wavers, and straight for Teddie, from as many different points, spring three men. But that second had been enough. Deftly and slowly, as if in practice, the ball is poised and dropped. Struck on the rebound by Teddie's foot, it spins up and out just above the outstretched fingers of the Princeton rushers, who leap high in the air to intercept it. The goal is a difficult, diagonal one to make, and every player forgets to breathe as the ball sails slowly on, until it just clears the cross-bar, making the score stand 5-4 in favor of Yale; the game has been won in the last quarter of a minute.
THE GAME HAS BEEN WON IN THE LAST QUARTER OF A MINUTE.
In such an indescribable turmoil as the one that followed, with every Yale sympathizer swarming out on the field to embrace the eleven which had so gallantly snatched a victory from the jaws of defeat, it was impossible to chronicle events with perfect accuracy; but it has been reported, on reliable authority, that shortly after the goal was kicked, a hatless and much dishevelled individual, bearing some faint resemblance to the dignified Mr. Larned, the well-known financier of New York, was seen enthusiastically hugging a muddy Yale player, supposed to be the full-back, pouring forth divers fragments of cheers the while, and at intervals embracing a tall man in a slouch hat who was performing a vigorous war-dance with variations. Both of these parties mentioned were also said to have been members of the group that carried the aforesaid full-back around the field on their shoulders in triumph. Undoubtedly the facts in the case have been much exaggerated, but it is certainly true that Mrs. Larned, to her unbounded amazement, received the following telegram from her husband late that evening:
"Teddie, my friend Bright, and four of the Yale eleven will eat Thanksgiving dinner with us to-night."
[A LOYAL TRAITOR.]
A STORY OF THE WAR OF 1812 BETWEEN AMERICA AND ENGLAND.
BY JAMES BARNES.
CHAPTER V.
THE LION'S GREED.
So we ran on with the wind holding fair until late in the evening, steering northeast by east. I had overcome a great deal of my timidity already, and had asked so many questions and paid such close attention to the way the brig was being handled, that by nightfall I thought I knew not a little about the working of a ship.
Captain Morrison, seeing my interest was so real, and put in a good-humor, as I have said, by the escape from the 74, explained to me something about steering by compass, and the wherefore of several orders.
The planter's wife had so far recovered from her indisposition as to take a seat at the swinging-table in the cabin, and we made a very jolly party at supper.
The skipper, warmed by a bottle of port which Mr. Chaffee had set upon the table, began to tell tales of the sea. I have heard many stories in my life, but I do not think that I have ever been thrilled or excited by any in the way that I was that evening.
Mrs. Chaffee must have noticed it, for she closed her hand over mine (that were tightly gripping the edge of the table), and stroked them gently in a motherly way. I resented this (although I am glad I did not show it), for was not I at that very time employed with the Captain in repelling an attack of a Barbary corsair? and Mrs. Chaffee's kindly touch recalled me to myself, and reminded me that I was but a boy, after all, who a few hours before had been almost in tears for the lack of what she had shown me—a little sympathy and the comfort of a kindly glance and touch.
The Captain had not finished his yarn-spinning—in fact, he was but in the middle of it—when the first mate thrust his head down the companionway.
"Will you come on deck, sir, and take a look at the glass on the way up?" he asked.
To my surprise, the Captain cast his tale adrift without an apology and hurried out, pausing for an instant only for a hasty glance at the barometer, which hung against the bulkhead at the foot of the ladder.
"It's evidently fallen calm," said Mr. Chaffee.
"And very glad am I that it has," answered his wife. "I think any more of that pitch and toss and I should have died."
For the last three-quarters of an hour, indeed, the Minetta had been stationary, heaving a little now and then, but in such a small way and keeping on such an even keel as scarcely to move the coffee in our cups. The Captain had been gone but a few minutes when we all went up on deck. The seas were round and oily, and the brown sails hung in lazy folds against the masts. The man at the wheel now and again gave the spokes a whirl this way and that, and he was forever casting his eye aloft as if by some motion of his he might catch a stray breath of wind.
It was past sundown, and there was a strange, suffused glow everywhere, more like dawn than the twilight of evening. But off to the northwest towered a black tumble of clouds that were edged with a fringe of lighter color. They were stretching upwards and peering grandly above the horizon-line like a range of growing mountains.
Suddenly a quiver of light flashed all around, and then a streak of forked lightning ripped horizontally, like a tear in a heavy curtain, against the pit of the cloud. The Captain went below at this, to look at the barometer again.
"It's falling, Mr. Norcross," he said, raising his head. "Shorten sail, sir, and be lively!"
The men tumbled out from the deck-house. The top-sails which we had carried all the afternoon were taken in, and a reef put in the foresail and mainsail.
I watched all this bustling about with much delight, and then my attention was drawn to the sky. The clouds had now spread so that they were almost over us; a few big rain-drops fell and made little splotches on the surface of the water and spattered the deck in spots as big as dollars. They could be heard falling in the stillness against the dry sails overhead. Then, without a warning, there came another flash of lightning and a deafening thunder-roll. A slight puff of wind trailed the heavy blocks on the main boom rattling across the deck. The yards swung about with a complaining, creaking noise.
The Captain seized the glass and pointed to the westward; then he jumped to the wheel, jammed it over, and immediately began shouting orders to close the hatches, haul in the main-sheet, and make all snug. Every eye had followed the aiming of the telescope—a line of white below a wall of gray was coming toward us on the rush! A few more drops of rain fell softly, and then the thunder began to crash and roar on every hand.
Warned by the Captain, Mr. Chaffee and his wife went down to the cabin, both pale with fright. I, however, kept the deck, and in some way (I cannot account for it) was overlooked. And here nearly comes an ending to my story.
So suddenly and so fair abeam did the wind strike us that it was almost a knockdown then and there, and the first thing I knew I slid across the deck over against the lee bulwarks. The scuppers were running so full that I went under from head to foot; I thought surely I was going to be drowned—in fact, I think I took a few strokes and imagined myself overboard. The masts were extending over the water so far that the yard-arms almost dipped, the crew were hanging on by anything they could lay hand to, and the wind raised such a screeching in the rigging that the Captain, who was bawling at the top of his lungs, might as well have held silence; his voice apparently blew down his throat. Nevertheless, some of the crew must have understood him, for they clambered into the shrouds. This I noticed as I tried to crawl up the slope of the deck. Then there came a loud report; the foresail blew out into tatters, and the brig righted. A turn of the wheel, and she was put before it, crashing down into the sea (that came tumbling under her quarters), and now and then lifting her stern as if she would roll over like a ball—any which way.
I managed with difficulty to make the head of the after-ladder, and stumbled down it head first, some one slamming the sliding-hatch with a bang almost on my heels as they went over the combing. Looking about me, I found Mr. Chaffee and his wife engaged in prayer. They were much bruised from having been flung about the cabin, and were in great fear that we were about to founder.
But the Minetta was going so much steadier now that we all three sought our bunks, and managed to stay in them, and I had so much confidence in the Captain and crew, and was so unfamiliar with terror, that probably I did not recognize the nearness we had come to disaster, so after an hour or so I went to sleep.
When I awakened the sunlight was pouring in at the transoms, and we were gently heaving up and down. There was nothing to give me an idea of the time of day, but I could smell the brewing of coffee, and dressed hastily. No one was in the cabin, and the breakfast was untasted on the table; so, hearing the sounds of conversation, I went on deck. We were hove to, and within an eighth of a mile of us another vessel was coming up into the wind. She was very trim to look at, and I saw that a boat was being lowered over her side, and that she had the weather-gage of us.
The Captain was walking up and down with his arms folded, and our crew were gathered in the waist, muttering in surly and half-frightened voices.
"We are in for it this time, Master Hurdiss," said Mr. Chaffee, casting a bitter look over the taffrail at the stranger, from whose peak was flying the British Jack. "We are under the lion's paw, and no mistaking it."
Norcross, the mate, leaned over the rail and spoke to one of the men on the deck below him.
"Dash, do you know that vessel, my man?"
"Indeed I do, sir," was the reply from the light-haired seaman who had appeared so elated at the escape of the previous day. "It's his Majesty's sloop-of-war Little Belt, if I'm not mistaken, and she is a little floating hell, sir; that's what she is!"
Nevertheless, as I have said, she was a trim-looking craft, and I could not but admire the way the men tumbled into the boat and the long, well-timed sweep of the oars as they pulled toward us. When alongside, within a few yards, a young man in a huge cocked hat stood up in the stern-sheets.
"What brig is that?" he asked, brusquely.
Captain Morrison answered, giving our name and destination.
"I will board you," was the short reply of the cocked-hatted one, and he gave orders to the bowman, who was ready with his boat-hook, to make fast to the fore-chains.
The English seamen, a sturdy-looking set, were all armed with cutlasses, and four or five of them followed their officer over the bulwarks.
The young Britisher's insolence must have been hard to stand.
"Muster your crew and let me see your papers," he ordered, with a toss of his head; "I would have a look at both of them."
Our Captain's politeness in replying, however, was quite as insulting.
"You have only to mention your wish, my courteous gentleman," he sneered. "Here are my papers and there are my crew. Will you help yourself to the cargo also? And pardon my not firing a salute, but we have a lady with us who objects to noise."
At this the English Lieutenant lifted his great hat, but he glared at the Captain as if he would have liked to lay hands on him; then he ordered two of the crew to rout out the forecastle (in a lower tone of voice), and two of them to give a look into the cabin and deck-house. He waited until they had returned, and then taking the papers that had been extended to him, he called off the names of the American seamen. Each one stepped forward in turn, but without saluting, and replied to the Lieutenant's questioning; apparently they all hailed from New England. Two of them, however, he told to stand over to the larboard side.
The men obeyed, and I have never seen such hate on any faces as they had on theirs.
But the scene, which was tragic enough in all conscience, despite the grinning of the armed man-o'-war's men who stood behind their leader, was to be broken by a climax as unexpected as a bolt from a clear sky.
"John Dash," read the officer. There was no answer, and he called it louder again, without result. "Where is this man?" he asked, impatiently.
The Captain made a low bow. "Thanks to your honor for your kind inquiry," he replied. "But the man failed to report on the morning of sailing."
It might have gone well had it not been for the interference of a low-visaged petty officer, who, with his fingers to his cap, here spoke.
"I saw a man go over the bow as we came up, sir," he said.
Two of the men hurried forward and leaned over the side. I, being near the rail, looked over also.
There was John Dash, holding on to the bobstay, his frightened face just above the surface of the water. In an instant he was hauled on board.
"Ah, there's where you've been all the time, Mr. Dash!" said Captain Morrison, sarcastically. "And how strange I not knowing it! This gentleman has been asking for you very kindly."
The poor man, dripping wet, was standing erect before the boarding-officer.
The titter that had run through the English sailors ceased as they saw the look on his face. He was drawing quick breaths, half-snarling like a dog, but he was trembling from head to foot.
"Oho!" said the servant of the King, lifting his eyebrows, "and here we are, eh? I think you know me, as I remember you, Charles Rice! You left us at the Port of Spain and forgot to return, you may remember. You owe his Majesty an accounting."
"I AM AN AMERICAN CITIZEN," RETURNED THE SAILOR, HOARSELY.
"I am an American citizen," returned the sailor, hoarsely, "born at Barnstable, Massachusetts! I was impressed from the ship Martha on the high seas, and owe accounting to no one."
"None of your insolence," cried the Englishman, drawing back his closed hand. "We'll see about that. You'll come with me, and these other two fine fellows also."
Dash, or Rice (I understood afterwards the latter was his real name), gave a leap backward and ran into the deck-house. The officer turned.
"Bring that man out," he said to two of his bullies.
Before they had crossed the deck something happened, and no one who witnessed it can ever shake it from his memory. The tall sailor appeared at the doorway. His hands were behind his back, and his blue eyes were absolutely rolling in his head.
"No, by the God of Heaven, you shall not be served!" he cried. "There is something you cannot command, at least, to do your bidding!" With a swift motion he drew his left arm from behind his back and flung something on the deck. It was his right hand, severed at the wrist!
Such a horror possessed us all that not a word was said. The planter's wife went in a heap to the deck, and as for myself, I went sick with the misery of it, and reeled to the side of the ship. The Lieutenant fell back as if struck a blow over the heart, and without a word, followed by his men, he clambered weakly down to his boat and shoved off. Dash lifted the bloody stump above his head; a curse broke from him, and then he fell into the arms of one of the black seamen. They carried him into the deck-house, and all hands followed, even the wheel being left deserted. As for myself, I crawled below into my bunk and wound the blankets about my head—Mrs. Chaffee was screaming in hysterics. Then and there was born in my heart such a hatred for the sight of the cross of St. George that I have never confounded my prejudice with patriotism, and this may account for some of my actions subsequently.
No one referred to the happening in our talk after this—it might not have occurred.
However, in such ways as we could we made the poor fellow comfortable; but John Dash, seaman, existed no longer; a poor, maimed, half-crazed hulk of a man was left of a gallant, noble fellow. But he had lived to teach a lesson.
A day later we sighted Sandy Hook, and beating up the bay, anchored in New York Harbor, where the planter and his wife and the heroic seaman were put on shore.
As the wind and tide were ripe to take us up the East River and through the narrows of Hell Gate into the Sound, we tarried but long enough to drop anchor and get it in again, and I caught only a panorama of houses and spires and the crowded wharfs of the city.
The voyage up the Sound was uneventful, and my landing in Connecticut and what followed I shall make another chapter.
But we passed many coasting-vessels and towns (whose number seemed past counting on both shores), and at last we entered the narrow sound of Fisher's Island and crept up close to the wharfs of Stonington. I made up my mind not to go ashore until the following morning, as it was after sunset before we had found a berth that suited the skipper.
Oh, I have forgotten to add that when I returned to my bunk, after being boarded by the party from the Little Belt, I had missed the miniature which I had left hanging by a nail driven into one of the stanchions. That one of the British sailors, on the hurried search of the cabin, had helped himself to it was beyond doubting.
[to be continued.]
[THE SONG IN THE NIGHT.]
BY JAMES BUCKHAM.
Bleak, barren hills and cheerless plain,
All soaked and sodden with the rain;
No wood to bid the camp-fire glow,
No forest roof against the snow;—
Drear was the dying winter day
When the troops halted at Luray.
Not ev'n the draggled tents went up,
No chance to sleep, no chance to sup!
A few hours' rest upon their arms,
Then—who could tell what wild alarms?
"Halt until midnight," orders read;
"Then, if the storm holds, march ahead."
Tired and disheartened, faint and chill,
The soldiers, scattered o'er the hill,
Lay in their blankets. Scarce a word
In all the width of camp was heard.
Out of heart was the great blue host—
Out of that which they needed most,—
And the General's heart was a heavy load,
For well he knew what that hush must bode.
Forth from the town, as if heaven-sent,
Passed a child; and as on he went
Something moved him to sing a song
His mother taught him, while waiting long
For the loyal husband, who could not stay
When the first blue regiment passed that way!
Sweet, and flutelike, and childish clear,
The boy's voice rang through the valley drear:—
Tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys are marching;
Cheer up, comrades, they will come!
Every soldier along the hill
Felt his heart with the music thrill!
All forgotten the dreary night,
Hunger, and pillow frosted white.
One by one, as the child-voice sang,
Others joined, till the chorus rang
Deep as a mighty organ tone,
By the bellows of the storm-wind blown.
At midnight the order passed along:—
"March!" And they marched with their heart of song!
Needless to say how they fought, that day,
When the sun rose up over far Luray.
And the little singer—the loyal lad
Who gave, unconsciously, all he had
For his country's welfare—let none deny
His sovereign share in the victory!
If not from his song in the dreary night,
Whence came the courage to win the fight?
