Part Second.
Ben Buttles was a real mother boy; that is, he was in his sixteenth year, yet did not think himself too old to love and obey his mother, or care for her comfort. It is always a bad sign when a boy begins to outgrow one or both of his parents.
So, immediately after his arrival in Savannah, Ben borrowed the mate's writing materials, and wrote to Mrs. Buttles, to relieve the anxiety he knew she must be feeling, despite his telegram.
Ben's educational advantages had been limited, though I am glad to say he made the most of such as he had had. Hence I trust that better-educated boys will excuse the mistakes they may see in his letter. Poor Ben had never seen such a book as The Polite Letter-Writer in his whole life. But he had read the late Captain Buttles's old log-books over and over again, and looking upon them admiringly as specimens of high literary art, he had, perhaps without knowing it, imitated their short and pithy sentences in this almost the first letter he had ever written. And I am not sure that most business men, particularly editors, would object if some of their correspondents could tell their story as clearly in as few words. This is a copy of the epistle:
"Savanar, October 29, 187-.
"My Dear Mother,—I take My pen in hand To ashure you I am safe, et ceterer. tell Jim Studley i cort a hollibut nigh the braking shole I gess would way 200. Then got under way for Home about 6 pm with Thretning wether. It come on to Blow with hevy sqwalls from n,n,w to n. a terble cross sea Runnin. carried away my Starbord ore and had to lay to a Drag. at 11 pm Colided with brig calipso laying to Making a complete reck Of the Dory. got Abord the Brig by the Main chanils Arriving at savanar Oct 28. Thay are verry Kind. Capn adams who cent the Tellygraft says there is nothing Bound north and to stay abord til We are loded for boston. he will pay me saylor wages when i Go back. The mate has gave Me a starch shirt, a hat Shoose and socks. And the sekond mate a soot of Blue close wich Is a little wore. And flanils. i was never Drest so Nice. I am Looking for a good paing job Ashore while i am hear. perhaps i can Make a Big strik and Bring home the munny to pay up the Morgige. I must Now close with love to All inquiring frends Yore duttifle sun
"Ben B."
Having mailed this remarkable document, Ben strolled through the streets, enjoying the novelty as only a boy can who has never been ten miles from home in his whole life.
"Why, what a high steeple!" said Ben to himself, as he stopped below the Cotton Exchange, and gazed admiringly at the lofty but slender spire of the handsome church directly opposite.
Now it is a curious fact that if you stand still in the street, and begin to look intently at anything, some one else is sure to stop and stare in the same direction, as though people generally had an interrogation point for a sort of mental birth-mark. And Ben had hardly fixed his gaze on the tall spire, when two gentlemen came to a halt and began to look the same way.
"I thought you took the contract to regild the ball and arrow up there, Miles," Ben finally heard one of them say, with a nod of his head toward the weather-vane.
"So I did," returned Mr. Miles, who was a "boss" painter, "and a nice fix I'm in about it, too."
"How so?" asked the other, as, bringing his gaze earthward, he leaned up against the iron fence, and lit a cigar.
"Well," answered Mr. Miles, following his friend's example, "it's this way: I contracted to have the thing done for so much. I supposed, of course, that the vane could be sent down, like any other, and gilded, and had my best man go up to see to it. He worked at the nuts and bolts that hold it for 'most half a day; then he came down all of a shake, and says the thing can't be done, everything has rusted so, and that if it can't be regilded where it is, it can't be done at all. He won't be hired to go up there again, and I can't find any one hereabouts that will try it for love or money. I even telegraphed to New York for Ferguson, the steeple-climber, offered to pay expenses, and give him seventy-five dollars to boot; but he is engaged two months ahead. I'd give a hundred and fifty dollars to-day," said Mr. Miles, smoking vigorously, "to any one who would shin up there and do the job; for though it isn't an easy thing, I know it can be done."
"Say two hundred, and I'm your man," suddenly exclaimed Ben, who had been listening, carelessly at first, then eagerly. Two hundred dollars would clear the incumbrance from the little brown house. Once he had climbed the pole of the signal-staff on Covert Point, and rove off the halyards almost a hundred and fifty feet from the ground, and was glad to get five dollars for doing it. But then, as Mrs. Buttles said, "Ben was a dretful ventur'some creetur."
Mr. Miles was a man of few words. He eagerly grasped at this unexpected straw.
"If you mean business," he said, eying Ben's self-reliant face approvingly, "come to the church to-morrow morning early, and I will show you what is to be done."
Ben nodded, and made his way back to the Calypso.
"I want to borrow a piece of spare running gear, sir," he said to the mate on the following morning.
"Take all you want," was the answer.
Long before Mr. Miles had made his appearance at the church, Ben was in the church tower, with the running gear coiled over his shoulder, and a coil of spun yarn in the bosom of his blue shirt. Climbing upward over cobwebbed cross-beams and girders, he found himself under the four narrow skylights of heavy ground glass that dimly lighted the narrow interior of the spire. Through one of these, which was partly open, Ben thrust his neck and shoulders. About twenty feet above him the tapering spire ended in a great ball, through which rose the tall iron "spindle," surmounted by the vane in the shape of an arrow. Two parts of a knotted rope were twisted around the spindle above the ball, and brought down through the skylight. This had served Mr. Miles's workman in lieu of ladder. Ben's head and heart failed for one brief moment, as he looked upward, and for the first time began to realize the magnitude of his task. Only for a moment, though.
"It's for mother's sake," he said, softly, to himself, and the thought strengthened his heart and steadied his nerves.
By this time Mr. Miles had clambered up to a rude scaffolding under the open skylight with a basket containing a can of oil size and some large "books" of gold-leaf. He then showed Ben how to apply the leaf to the size, and cautioned him not to fall, which Ben gravely assured him he should try very hard not to do.
In one end of his coil of light but strong gear Ben had tied a running bowline. This he threw over his shoulder, and taking off his shoes, began his perilous ascent.
It was easy enough to reach the spindle by the knotted rope-ladder. Then came the tug of war. Up the spindle, which shook and swayed, the courageous boy crept, until, breathless and almost exhausted, he threw his arms over the vane itself, and for the first time ventured to look out and downward.
A toy-city, with Lilliputian people moving through the little streets, lay beneath him. Beyond, the Savannah River like a narrow ribbon wound through the low-lying rice fields until it reached the distant sea, which lay hazily indistinct against the horizon. The view was sublimely beautiful, but Ben's head began to swim, and he bethought himself of his task.
BEN AT WORK.
Casting a few feet of the coil around the spindle and over the vane, so that the bowline should hang properly, Ben called to Mr. Miles to make the end well fast. Then lifting himself by his arms, he slipped his legs through the loop and sat suspended between earth and sky. Lowering his piece of spun yarn to Mr. Miles, he received a bit of stout ratlin stuff, with which he rigged a foot-rope (as you see them under the yards of a ship) on the vane, which was about nine feet long. Mr. Miles then sent him up a basket with the gilding material, which Ben made fast to the vane. Then, with great difficulty, getting on to the foot-rope, upon which he could only sit—for he dared not stand—he "squirmed" himself out to its extreme limit, and began his work.
Ah me! what a terrible task it was! The sun beat down on his head with terrible force as it rose higher in the heavens. He could only use one hand to work with, the other being employed in holding on. An occasional breath of air would set the arrow in motion, and send his heart into his mouth at the same time. Every bone in him ached, his head was confused and dizzy—he dared not look directly down for his life. But he kept doggedly at his work all day long, with the one thought uppermost in his mind, "It's for mother's sake," and as the watchman in the neighboring church tower called out, "Six o'clock, 'n' all's well" (for this is one of the old usages of the city), Ben put the last touch of gilding on the point of the arrow.
Changing back to the bowline, Ben then cast off the ends of the foot-rope, while a cheer came faintly up to his ears from the great crowd which had gathered in the square beneath, as they knew the little Yankee—as they called him—had completed his work. Hugging the spindle tightly, Ben drew himself out of the bowline, threw it off from the vane, and slid rapidly down the swaying rod. Down the knotted rope he sped, past Mr. Miles, who began to congratulate him, down by beam and ladder and winding stair, until he reached the solid earth. And then, as a great shout went up from the lookers-on, Ben for the first and only time in his whole life fainted away. But a little cold water, and the touch of the roll of crisp greenbacks which were counted out by the enthusiastic Mr. Miles, quickly restored Ben to himself, and he returned to the Calypso a hero.
The city papers made honorable mention of the "gallant young New-Englander," and one lady, if I remember rightly, immortalized the daring feat in a poem called "The Arrow and the Ball."
The passage back to Boston was a quick one, and Ben was once more clasped in his mother's arms, narrating the story of his adventures.
"But I wouldn't undertake such a climb again," said Ben, as he carefully folded away the cancelled mortgage, with its indorsement of paid-up principal and interest, "for all the money in Savannah."
"I hope not, Benny dear," returned Mrs. Buttles, with a tearful shake of her head; "but I should be most afraid to resk it—you're sech a dretful ventur'some creetur."
[AN ENGLISH PUG.]
BY JOSEPHINE POLLARD.
An English Pug only six weeks old
To a wealthy lady one day was sold
For sixty-five dollars. Bless me! no!
Yes, yes, my dears, it was really so.
To learn good manners this Pug was sent
To an excellent school on the Continent,
Where the price per quarter you'd never guess
Was twenty dollars! No more nor less.
And when the lady made up her mind
To cross the ocean, nor leave behind
Her pug-nosed pet, on the famous ship
She paid twelve dollars for doggy's trip.
Arrived at New York, she went straightway
To the "Windsor," paying a dollar a day
For the pup that needed especial care,
And must be fed on the choicest fare.
But this terrible climate soon began
To tell on the pug-nosed Englishman,
Who had to be sent with haste emphatic
To an M. D., whose patients are all dog-matic.
But he died, alas! and the doctor's bill
Was thirty dollars. And if you will
Take the trouble to count these figures up,
You'll find 'twas a pretty expensive pup.
A GAME OF LACROSSE AT THE POLO -GROUND, NEW YORK CITY, OCTOBER 24, 1881.—Drawn by W. St. John Harper.