Chapter I.
It is a very easy thing for four boys to make up their minds to get four canoes and to go on a canoe cruise, but it is not always so easy to carry out such a project, as Charley Smith, Tom Schuyler, Harry Wilson, and Joe Sharpe discovered.
Canoes cost money; and though some canoes cost more than others, it is impossible to buy a new wooden canoe of an approved model for less than seventy-five dollars. Four canoes, at seventy-five dollars each, would cost altogether three hundred dollars. As the entire amount of pocket-money in the possession of the boys was only seven dollars and thirteen cents, it was clear that they were not precisely in a position to buy canoes.
There was Harry's uncle, who had already furnished his nephew and his young comrades first with a row-boat, and then with a sail-boat. Even a benevolent uncle deserves some mercy, and the boys agreed that it would never do to ask Uncle John to spend three hundred dollars in canoes for them. "The most we can ask of him," said Charley Smith, "is to let us sell the Ghost and use the money to help pay for canoes."
Now the Ghost, in which the boys had made a cruise along the south shore of Long Island, was a very nice sail-boat, but it was improbable that any one would be found who would be willing to give more than two hundred dollars for her. There would still be a hundred dollars wanting, and the prospect of finding that sum seemed very small.
"If we could only have staid on that water-logged brig and brought her into port, we should have made lots of money," said Tom. "The Captain of the schooner that towed us home went back with a steamer and brought the brig in yesterday. Suppose we go and look at her once more?"
While cruising in the Ghost the boys had found an abandoned brig, which they had tried to sail into New York Harbor, but they had been compelled to give up the task, and to hand her over to the Captain of a schooner which towed the partly disabled Ghost into port. They all thought they would like to see the brig again, so they went down to Burling Slip, where she was lying, and went on board her.
The Captain of the schooner met the boys on the dock. He was in excellent spirits, for the brig was loaded with valuable South American timber, and he was sure of receiving as much as ten thousand dollars from her owners. He knew very well that while the boys had no legal right to any of the money, they had worked hard in trying to save the brig, and had been the means of putting her in his way. He happened to be an honest, generous man, and he felt very rich; so he insisted on making each of the boys a present.
The present was sealed up in an envelope, which he gave to Charley Smith, telling him not to look at its contents until after dinner—the boys having mentioned that they were all to take dinner together at Uncle John's house. Charley put the envelope rather carelessly in his pocket; but when it was opened it was found to contain four new one-hundred-dollar bills.
It need hardly be said that the boys were delighted. They showed the money to Uncle John, who told them that they had fairly earned it, and need feel no hesitation about accepting it. They had now money enough to buy canoes and to pay the expenses of a canoe cruise. Mr. Schuyler, Mr. Sharpe, and Charley's guardian were consulted, and at Uncle John's request gave their consent to the canoeing scheme. The first great difficulty in the way was thus entirely removed.
"I don't know much about canoes," remarked Uncle John, when the boys asked his advice as to what kind of canoes they should get, "but I know the Commodore of a canoe club. You had better go and see him, and follow his advice. I'll give you a letter of introduction to him."
No time was lost in finding the Commodore, and Charley Smith explained to him that four young canoeists would like to know what was the very best kind of canoe for them to get.
The Commodore, who, in spite of his magnificent title, wasn't in the least alarming, laughed, and said: "That is a question that I've made up my mind never to try to answer. But I'll give you the names of four canoeists, each of whom uses a different variety of canoe. You go and see them, listen to what they say, believe it all, and then come back and see me, and we'll come to a decision." He then wrote four notes of introduction, gave them to the boys, and sent them away.
The first canoeist to whom the boys were referred received them with great kindness, and told them that it was fortunate they had come to him. "The canoe that you want," said he, "is the 'Rice Lake' canoe, and if you had gone to somebody else, and he had persuaded you to buy 'Rob Roy' canoes or 'Shadows,' you would have made a great mistake. The 'Rice Lake' canoe is nearly flat-bottomed, and so stiff that there is no danger that you will capsize her. She paddles easily, and sails faster than any other canoe. She is roomy, and you can carry about twice as much in her as you can carry in a 'Rob Roy.' She has no keel, so that you can run rapids easily in her, and she is built in a peculiar way that makes it impossible for her to leak. Don't think for a moment of getting any other canoe, for if you do you will never cease to regret it."
He was such a pleasant, frank gentleman, and was so evidently earnest in what he said, that the boys at once decided to get "Rice Lake" canoes. They did not think it worth while to make any farther inquiries; but, as they had three other notes of introduction with them, Tom Schuyler said that it would hardly do to throw them away. So they went to see the next canoeist, though without the least expectation that he would say anything that would alter their decision.
Canoeist No. 2 was as polite and enthusiastic as canoeist No. 1. "So you boys want to get canoes, do you?" said he. "Well, there is only one canoe for you to get, and that is the 'Shadow.' She paddles easily, and sails faster than any other canoe. She's not a flat-bottomed skiff, like the 'Rice Laker,' that will spill you whenever a squall strikes her, but she has good bearings, and you can't capsize her unless you try hard. Then, she is decked all over, and you can sleep in her at night, and keep dry even in a thunder-storm; her water-tight compartments have hatches in them, so that you can stow blankets and things in them that you want to keep dry; and she has a keel, so that when you run rapids, and she strikes on a rock, she will strike on her keel instead of her planks. It isn't worth while for you to look at any other canoe, for there is no canoe except the 'Shadow' that is worth having."
"You don't think much of the 'Rice Lake' canoe, then?" asked Harry.
"Why, she isn't a civilized canoe at all," replied the canoeist. "She is nothing but a heavy, wooden copy of the Indian birch. She hasn't any deck, she hasn't any water-tight compartments, and she hasn't any keel. Whatever else you do, don't get a 'Rice Laker.'"
The boys thanked the advocate of the "Shadow," and when they found themselves in the street again they wondered which of the two canoeists could be right, for each directly contradicted the other, and each seemed to be perfectly sincere. They reconsidered their decision to buy "Rice Lake" canoes, and looked forward with interest to their meeting with canoeist No. 3.
That gentleman was just as pleasant as the other two, but he did not agree with a single thing that they had said. "There are several different models of canoes," he remarked, "but that is simply because there are ignorant people in the world. Mr. Macgregor, the father of canoeing, always uses a 'Rob Roy' canoe, and no man who has once been in a good 'Rob Roy' will ever get into any other canoe. The 'Rob Roy' paddles like a feather, and will outsail any other canoe. She weighs twenty pounds less than those great, lumbering canal-boats, the 'Shadow' and the 'Rice Laker,' and it don't break your back to paddle her or to carry her round a dam. She is decked over, but her deck isn't all cut up with hatches. There's plenty of room to sleep in her, and her water-tight compartments are what they pretend to be—not a couple of leaky boxes stuffed full of blankets."
"We have been advised," began Charley, "to get 'Shadows' or 'Rice—'"
"Don't you do it," interrupted the canoeist. "It's lucky for you that you came to see me. It's a perfect shame for people to try to induce you to waste your money on worthless canoes. Mind you get 'Rob Roys,' and nothing else. Other canoes don't deserve the name. They are schooners, or scows, or canal-boats, but the 'Rob Roy' is a genuine canoe."
"Now for the last canoeist on the list!" exclaimed Harry, as the boys left the office of canoeist No. 3. "I wonder What sort of a canoe he uses?"
"I'm glad there is only one more of them for us to see," said Joe. "The Commodore told us to believe all they said, and I'm trying my best to do it, but it's the hardest job I ever tried."
The fourth canoeist was, on the whole, the most courteous and amiable of the four. He begged his young friends to pay no attention to those who recommended wooden canoes, no matter what model they might be. "Canvas," said he, "is the only thing that a canoe should be built of. It is light and strong, and if you knock a hole in it, you can mend it in five minutes. If you want to spend a great deal of money and own a yacht that is too small to sail in with comfort and too clumsy to be paddled, buy a wooden canoe; but if you really want to cruise, you will, of course, get canvas canoes."
"We have been advised to get 'Rice Lakers,' 'Shadows,' and 'Rob Roys,'" said Tom, "and we did not know until now that there was such a thing as a canvas canoe."
"It is very sad," replied the canoeist, "that people should take pleasure in giving such advice. They must know better. Take my advice, my dear boys, and get canvas canoes. All the really good canoeists in the country would say the same thing to you."
"We must try," said Joe, as the boys walked back to the Commodore's office, "to believe that the 'Rice Laker,' the 'Shadow,' the 'Rob Roy,' and the canvas canoe is the best one ever built. It seems to me something like believing that four and one are just the same. Perhaps you fellows can do it, but I'm not strong enough to believe as much as that all at one time."
The Commodore smiled when the boys entered his office for the second time, and said, "Well, of course you've found out what is the best canoe, and know just what you want to buy?"
"We've seen four men," replied Harry, "and each one says that the canoe that he recommends is the only good one, and that all the others are good for nothing."
"I might have sent you to four other men, and they would have told you of four other canoes, each of which is the best in existence. But perhaps you have already heard enough to make up your minds."
"We're farther from making up our minds than ever," said Harry. "I do wish you would tell us what kind of canoe is really the best."
"The truth is," said the Commodore, "that there isn't much to choose among the different models of canoes, and you'll find that every canoeist is honestly certain that he has the best one. Now I won't undertake to select canoes for you, though I will suggest that a light 'Rob Roy' would probably be a good choice for the smallest of you boys. Why don't you try all four of the canoes that have just been recommended to you? Then, if you cruise together, you can perhaps find out if any one of them is really better than the others. I will give you the names of three or four builders, all of whom build good strong boats."
This advice pleased the boys, and they resolved to accept it. That evening they all met at Harry's home, and decided what canoes they would get. Harry determined to get a "Shadow," Tom a "Rice Laker," Charley a canvas canoe, and Joe a "Rob Roy"; and the next morning orders for the four canoes were mailed to the builders whom the Commodore had recommended.
[to be continued.]
[GRAN'MA'S STITCHES.]
BY MRS. A. E. THOMAS.
"Hush, dear," said mamma, while busy at play
Were three little mischievous witches;
Little Charley and Lulu, and sweet baby May,
"Hush! Gran'ma is counting her stitches.
"Don't chatter so loud. Ah, see her lips move,
To wreathe in that smile which enriches
Your own lives and mine, my dear little elves;
Ah, hear her now counting her stitches.
"See her pearly white ball, and her soft bordered cap,
With little blue bows in the niches,
And the sheath for her glasses that lie on her lap,
While she's busily counting her stitches."
The bright summer sped, and the beautiful snow
Came falling, and filling the ditches,
When warm little toes, wrapped in soft woollen hose,
Showed that grandma had counted her stitches.
[GLUCK.]
BY MRS. JOHN LILLIE.
When I was a child I used to be very fond of a faded little picture which hung in my grandmother's house. It was on a staircase, and going up and down we liked to stop and look at it, and make up stories about it.
THE OLD PICTURE ON THE STAIRWAY.
The picture represented a fine room, evidently in a palace, and a very splendidly dressed lady, with a tremendous coiffure and a brocaded gown, sitting before a spinet, or old-fashioned piano.
Near her was seated a gentleman, also dressed in the fashion of 1770. He seemed to be teaching her to play. The young lady was charmingly pretty, we thought. The gentleman had a strong, rather stern face, high cheek-bones, and a big forehead; but the look of his eyes was by no means unkindly. Underneath the picture was engraved in script, with any number of flourishes, "Gluck and Marie Antoinette."
The little picture was of no particular merit as a work of art, yet it possessed such an extraordinary fascination for my childish eyes that the other day, when at a concert I listened to some of Gluck's grand music, the strains seemed to bring it back in a flash to my mind's eye. In imagination I saw again clearly the little ebony frame, the faded tints, the pretty smiling young Dauphiness, and the stern, kind-hearted master.
Christoph Willibald, Ritter von Gluck, was born at Weidenwang on July 2, 1714. His destiny was to improve the form and style of operatic music, and to leave behind him some of the most enchanting compositions the world has ever listened to.
Gluck's father was in the service of a Prince, and Christoph had all the musical advantages of the period. He learned the violin, the organ, and the harpsichord, and early tried his hand at composition. His ideas were mainly dramatic, but the opera of that day was very unsatisfactory, and Gluck's first operas were not a great advance on those of other writers. However, he felt quite sure that something much better could be done, and when in 1736 he went to England, he visited Handel, who was then prosperous and busy in the court of George II.
Gluck was only twenty-two, an eager, restless young man, with his head full of ideas and his pockets full of manuscripts. To old Handel he came, and showed him his music, and begging for criticism, but Handel would only admit that it "promised well." Off went Gluck to Paris, and there met with much encouragement from the poets and writers of the day, as well as from the King and Queen. I do not think that, with all his work and his success, his life could have been very happy during those years. He was easily excited, easily depressed. He hated the wickedness of the people about him, their light ways, their frivolous ideas, even their splendor and riches. Paris in those days was a place in which it was hard for a young man to fear God and himself, and that Gluck lived free from the sins of those about him ought to make us less severe in judging the weakness of his later years. He began to use stimulants for his health, and gradually became addicted to drinking to drown thought and fire him for his work.
Fashion governed art and music very curiously in those days. It was in 1746 that there was a rage in England for what was called the "glasses." This was in reality a harmonica—an instrument made of glasses, and which, by applying a finger moistened with water, produced what were considered agreeable concords. It is odd to think of the great composer Gluck making his bow before the public at the Haymarket Theatre as a performer on the musical glasses. In one of Horace Walpole's famous letters he writes of this event as stirring the fashionable world. The instrument later became very popular, and Mozart and Beethoven did not disdain to write music for it.
Gluck's work went on very steadily in spite of the controversies of his friends and enemies and his personal annoyances. Final success came with his grand opera founded on the mythological story of Orpheus and Eurydice.
I have told you that Gluck reformed the style of the opera. He modelled his work upon the old Greek ideas of dramatic art. He felt that so far the opera had been more like a concert—a mere collection of melodies and ballets. He bent all his energies to making a lyric drama of opera, and he succeeded. To Gluck we owe the best that we have had in opera since his day.
In Vienna much of his time and his work had to be given to the princes and princesses who were his patrons. On one occasion the royal family performed his opera of Il Parnasso. It was about this time he taught the Archduchess Marie Antoinette, and later she wrote from Paris to her sister speaking of him as "notre cher Gluck" (our dear Gluck).
It was Gluck who first introduced cymbals and the big drum into the orchestra. He fought hard over this innovation. His enemies got out satirical pamphlets, in which his "big noises" were ridiculed, but Gluck went his own way, determined to carry his point and prove himself right.
Gluck's last opera was Echo et Narcisse. This was produced in 1779, and soon after he retired to Vienna, where he passed his last years among the kindest friends. In 1787 he died suddenly.
The great object of Gluck's life was thoroughly attained. He made himself felt in every branch of operatic performance. He improved the method, arrangement, and especially its dramatic power. He made it a drama, and its music classical.
This word classical, as applied to music, I am sure many of our young people do not fully understand. To define it completely would be difficult, but I will try and give you some idea of what it means.
Strictly speaking, then, classical music is that which is written according to rule and law: with an intention of producing the most complete harmonies. Bach, Handel, Haydn, Mozart, Gluck, and countless other composers wrote strictly classical music, although Gluck was not remarkable for his counterpoint.
Counterpoint is the "art of combining melodies." The name had a very natural origin. In old times, when notes were designated by little points or pricks, and several of these were joined together to produce a harmony, it was called "point against point," or counterpoint. If the rules of counterpoint are strictly observed, the piece is said to be composed "in perfect counterpoint."
Sometimes you will find a fragment of simple old music with various parts added. This would be "adding counterpoint to a subject."
Handel, when Gluck went to him first, said "he knew no more of counterpoint than his cook," but the master of modern opera had many other strong points, and the music of Orpheus and of Iphigenia will endure while there are hearts to listen.
[HURRAH! FOUR KINGS!]
FREDERICK WILLIAM AUGUST VICTOR ERNEST.
No less than five long names belong to the little baby Prince who nestles so cozily here on his great-grandfather's lap. The soldierly looking old gentleman is the Emperor William of Germany. The babe is also the great-grandson of the good Queen Victoria, but the little fellow is too young to know to what honors he is born. His father, who stands on the right, is himself the son of the Crown Prince, who will be the successor of the sturdy old Emperor William when he shall have passed away.
"Hurrah! Four Kings!" was the joyous cry with which the royal babe was greeted when he was first presented to the Emperor. You may look at the four in our artist's beautiful picture, and then, perhaps, you will be interested to hear about the christening, which took place in a gallery of the Marble Palace at Potsdam, on the afternoon of June 11, 1882.
This was the anniversary of the Emperor's wedding. Himself and the Empress Augusta, his wife, the Crown Prince and Princess, and the youthful father and mother, stood together before the clergyman, the Emperor receiving and holding the babe in his own arms. Around this group were clustered a great number of stately royal personages, brilliantly dressed, and blazing with jewels and decorations. Among the godfathers and godmothers were included not only Kings, Queens, and Princes, but, to their delight no doubt, the youthful uncles and aunts of the pretty baby.
The minister preached a sermon suitable to the occasion, from the text, "And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity."
Three years ago, when the Emperor's golden wedding was celebrated, the same preacher spoke from the same text, which is certainly a very beautiful one, especially when we remember that charity as here used means love.
Very likely some of you are wondering how the baby Prince behaved during the ceremony. For a while he was very good and patient, but by-and-by he grew very restless, and presently screamed as loud and cried as heartily as though he had been some little peasant Fritz, and not a royal little Frederick William. All the same, the baptismal water was sprinkled on his brow, and he received the blessing from the lips of the good minister. He was called Frederick William August Victor Ernest. These names have long been borne by the Kings of Prussia. May he wear them worthily! After the christening there was a magnificent musical service by the choir, and then the great people sat down together to an imperial dinner. The tired little Prince was taken to his nursery, and put to sleep with many a kiss.
[LEO.]
BY EDWARD I. STEVENSON.
Ford Bonner may live to be a very old man—he is "going on" fifteen now—but it is likely that he will always recollect what occurred upon a certain dark evening in August two years ago. Ford's father and mother were travelling in Europe that summer; hence Ford, who was all the rest of the year a boarding-school-boy of the first water, spent his vacation at his Uncle Pepper's country place.
Ford's chief companion from day to day, as he scrambled among the rocky spurs, was Leo. Leo was a Scotch grayhound, Major Pepper's particular pet. Now one curious trait of his did equal honor to his head and heart. He had been bought at Black's Hollow, a village—if a store, which also was a Post-office, and six or seven dwellings, can be called a village—about two miles further up the road, among the mountains. Regularly once or twice a week would Leo slip innocently off in the morning for a whole day's visiting with any four-legged playmates whose society he had formerly relished at Black's Hollow. On such occasions Ford had to ramble on the heights alone.
Now Amzi Spinner, Major Pepper's hired man, had a brother who kept the Post-office and store at the Hollow. As soon as Amzi discovered Leo's trick of going so frequently thither of his own will, it seemed good to him to teach the dog to carry a letter there with safety and dispatch whenever told to do so. Amzi would tie his missives securely about the bright-eyed, lithe dog's neck, and say in his Yankee drawl:
"Naow, Leo, you jest make tracks for the village, double-quick. Do you understand? That letter'd ought to git to the store. Be off!"
Leo would leap away, barking joyfully, and in an hour return to seek Amzi in field or barn, collared with an answer from Lot Spinner. In this way the dog became, in a limited sense, the messenger and postman of the family when occasion prompted, and a very quick and faithful one.
It was the last Thursday in August when Major Pepper, finishing his second cup of coffee at breakfast, exclaimed to his wife, "There, Helen. I forgot to tell you last night that if you want to go down to the town in the phaeton with me to-day and give this afternoon to picking out those carpets, it'll suit me capitally."
Aunt Pepper laughed. "Why does a man always choose just the wrong day of all others?" she said, merrily. "Amzi and Mira" (Mira was Amzi's wife and Aunt Pepper's cook) "wanted to go to New York to-day to attend that wedding—her sister's, you recollect. They started early (at four o'clock) for the station, and I don't expect them back until long after we're in bed to-night. I can't leave the house and Ford to take care of themselves."
"Oh yes, you can," laughed Uncle Pepper. "Ford might go along if it wouldn't be a hot and stupid day in town for him—we shall be so busy. Leave him a good luncheon, and let him keep house by himself for once. Leo will help him. You wouldn't mind it, eh, Ford?"
Ford laughed too, and said that he rather guessed not.
"We'll not be later in getting back home than six o'clock, I suppose," said Aunt Pepper, reluctantly consenting.
"Oh dear no," replied the Major, "and Ford will just have a fine appetite for a late dinner."
A half-hour later Ford and Leo, the one with his hand and the other with his active if unimportant tail, waved Major and Mrs. Pepper good-by from the broad piazza, and then turned themselves about to begin the work of passing a jolly day together. Ford did not like to leave the house for any length of time.
A wooden swing he was contriving in the garden, the arrangement of his collection of Indian relics, and a letter to his room-mate at the school—one Harry North—took up all the forenoon.
This latter, or letter business, was still on hand, and Ford was scratching away at it in the summer-house, when Leo suddenly growled. Then he sprang up, barking violently. A strange gentleman was leisurely drawing near the pair of friends. Ford rose and stepped out of his retreat.
"I beg pardon for interrupting you, sir," began the stranger, very pleasantly, "but are your father and mother at home to-day?"
"My father and mother are in Europe, sir," replied Ford, "but—"
"Ah—oh—I see," continued the civil stranger. "I had forgotten that my old friends Major and Mrs. Pepper had no children. Is your uncle at home?"
"I'm sorry, sir," replied Ford, "but they have both driven to town this morning, and will not be back till evening. Be quiet, Leo!" for Leo persisted in showing his teeth, and making sundry impolite noises, not to say growls, while he eyed the polite new-comer very much as if he had been a snake.
"A fine dog that," remarked the stranger, carelessly. "Well, since I am unlucky enough to miss your uncle, could I see that excellent man he employs here, Amzi—-Amzi—dear me, I can not just recall his name." The strange gentleman had a clear, rich voice. He was, by-the-way, a stout, well-made young man, with a dark blue cravat.
"Sorry again, sir," returned Ford, "but Amzi and Mira are away too until quite late this evening. It just happens so. Couldn't I take your message for uncle? Leo, be still, I tell you!"
"You're very kind, my dear boy," said the unknown gentleman, looking at his watch, and backing out from the summer-house gracefully, "but I won't trouble you. I should prefer riding over from my place to-morrow evening. Please tell your good uncle that Mr. Alexander Kingbolt—he will remember my name—called on business, and will see him to-morrow evening if possible, at eight. Good-by." And Mr. Alexander Kingbolt, whistling sweetly "There's one more River to Cross," stepped into a light buggy standing without the gate. Another gentleman sat in it, and the two rode away talking rapidly.
The afternoon shadows grew long; twilight closed in; Ford and Leo sat together, the boy with his hand upon the dog's head. Both began to feel somewhat lonely—at least Ford did. Why in the world did not the phaeton come toiling up the steep mountain road? Halloa! a white owl fluttered across the lawn into an acacia.
Ford had long desired to ascertain that particular owl's private address. He dashed after it, and Leo bore him company. Up through the dark garden bird, boy, and dog sped. Presently Ford slipped and fell. He uttered a cry when he rose, and found that he could put his left foot to the ground only with a pain that sickened him, so severely had his fall strained it.
Very slowly and painfully Ford limped into the garden again, his unlucky foot feeling more miserable with each step. All at once he looked through the trees, and saw lights in the dining-room of his uncle's house.
Major Pepper and Aunt Helen were back, doubtless much disturbed to know where in the world Ford and Leo had gone, or since what hour of the day.
As he drew nearer the closed shutters, he caught the sound of low strange voices, the faint clink of a hammer. Could it be possible anything was amiss? Ford was frightened, but prudent. "Leo," said he, very softly, but almost sternly, to the dog, whose ears were on the alert too, "lie down."
Leo obeyed.
Forgetting his painful foot in his breathless excitement, Ford crept down along the back of the house. The strange voices came clearly from within. "And we'd better be quick about it," somebody was saying.
A robbery it surely was. Ford turned the blind and looked within the dining-room. A lamp was lit. The small safe wherein Major Pepper usually kept his papers and any large sum of money he happened to have in the house for a day or so was rolled out to the middle of the room. Over it leaned a tall well-dressed man, impatiently directing another man who knelt before it, and was working at the old-fashioned lock with some tools he had evidently brought for the purpose.
Ford caught sight of a profile, and the sound of "One more River to Cross," whistled very gently. The man working at the safe door was Mr. Alexander Kingbolt. An exceedingly frightened boy was Ford Bonner.
"So then they can't possibly get over the bridge?" said Mr. Kingbolt, plying his chisel.
"All the planks are up, and hid away till we go down, I tell you," replied the other, "and a red lantern hung across it."
"The bridge," Ford knew at once, must mean a narrow rough structure across a stream just before the road from town wound up the mountain.
"They're likely on their way around by the other one. It'll take them till midnight."
There was a pause. Then said Mr. Kingbolt, out of breath, "Where do you suppose that boy and the dog are?"
"Lost on the mountain, I dare say. But if they come back before we get through, we can fix them somehow."
Ford slipped from below the window. The boy understood all. Many houses in the town had been robbed lately. The "gang" had in some way learned that Major Pepper was occasionally obliged to keep large amounts of money in his lonely country house. They had chosen their day carefully, made or else altered their plans that very morning, thanks to Ford's own politeness in answering Mr. Kingbolt's questions. By a trick they had sent Major and Mrs. Pepper around by their longest route for home. The whole thing was a hastily but cleverly planned scheme. And Ford could do nothing—alone; the nearest houses in the village two miles up the mountain; his swollen foot!
Had he forgotten Leo? The thought darted into his confused mind like a flash. He leaned forward into a ray of light, and drew out gently his pencil, and the envelope, still undirected, in which was his letter to Harry North. He managed to control his excitement and terror enough to scrawl upon it: "There are burglars in our house. Come quick, somebody. Ford Bonner."
The envelope was secured by Ford's shoestring to the greyhound's neck. "Be very quiet, Leo," he kept whispering, almost beseechingly, as he led the dog as well as he could down the far side of the garden, along the fence, and some distance up the road, lest Leo should bark.
"Quick, Leo! To the Post-office—to the Post-office!" he cried, tremblingly, pushing and pointing the dog off.
Leo refused to go. He did not understand all this mystery. Ford felt for a stick, and shook it at him. Leo bounded away silently up the steep. Ford half fell, half sat down, in the darkness on the grass.
He never knew how long it was before he was startled from his stupor by hearing stealthy steps approach down the road. He strained his young eyes to make out a dozen tall figures moving noiselessly toward his hiding-place. They were the astonished men from the village, roused from their circle of gossip around the stoop of the store by Leo's advent and extraordinary excitement.
The letter had been discovered at once by Amzi's brother himself, who, like the rest, with stockings drawn over his boots, headed the party. Ford intercepted them, and made his hurried explanation.
"Stay here," said Lot Spinner, "till we call you."
They leaped the garden wall. A few minutes later Ford heard shouts, and the sound of a gun or two, and a struggle on the house piazza.
"They've got 'em!" he exclaimed, delight and relief getting the best of his long fright and pain.
And so they had; for when Lot Spinner came up and carried the boy down to the house, "Mr. Alexander Kingbolt"—afterward put into jail as Dennis Leary—his comrades, and their tools were all secured under rude guardianship together.
Just as Ford was helped into the house, Leo darted up. The dog had been left behind, lest he should warn the burglars of the party coming from the village, but he had contrived to make his escape.
Ford joined in the cheers for him when at eleven o'clock Major and Mrs. Pepper rode hurriedly up to the brightly lit house to hear the end of the story which the village people up the mountain had stopped them hurrying toward home to tell. Soon after arrived Amzi and Mira; more explanations, and much more ado made over Ford and Leo than either of them relished.
"The scamps would have got away with a couple of thousand dollars, Ford," exclaimed the Major again and again. "It was some money that a man was to call here and get to-morrow morning."
Leo wagged his tail complacently.
So much for a brave boy's coolness, and an obedient dog's intelligence.