Chapter IX.
It was an easy matter to help Joe out of the old well. He had fallen into it while running after the wild-cat, but a heap of decayed leaves at the bottom broke the fall, and saved him from any serious injury. Nevertheless, he must have been a little stunned at first, for he made no outcry for some time, and it was his first call for help that was heard by Charley.
The boys returned to their canoes, and as it was not yet midnight, prepared to resume the sleep from which they had been so unceremoniously awakened. They had little fear that the wild-cat would pay them another visit, for it had undoubtedly been badly frightened. Still, it was not pleasant to think that there was a wild beast within a few rods of them, and the thought kept the canoeists awake for a long time.
The wild-cat did not pay them a second visit, and when they awoke the next morning they were half inclined to think that their night's adventure had been only a dream. There were, however, the marks made by its claws on the varnished deck of Joe's canoe, and Joe's clothing was torn and stained by his fall. With the daylight they became very courageous, and decided that they had never been in the least afraid of the animal. The so-called wild-cat of Canada, which is really a lynx, is, however, a fierce and vicious animal, and is sometimes more than a match for an unarmed man.
There was a strong west wind blowing when the fleet started, and Chambly Basin was covered with white-caps. As the canoes were sailing in the trough of the sea, they took in considerable water while skirting the east shore of the Basin, but once in the narrow river, they found the water perfectly smooth. This day the fleet made better progress than on any previous day. Nothing could be more delightful than the scenery, and the quaint little French towns along the river, every one of which was named after some saint, were very interesting. The boys landed at one of them, and got their dinner at a little tavern where no one spoke English, and where Charley, who had studied French at Annapolis, won the admiration of his comrades by the success with which he ordered the dinner.
SAILING DOWN THE RICHELIEU RIVER.
With the exception of the hour spent at dinner, the canoeists sailed, from six o'clock in the morning until seven at night, at the rate of nearly six miles an hour. The clocks of Sorel, the town at the mouth of the Richelieu, were striking six as the canoes glided into the broad St. Lawrence, and steered for a group of islands distant about a mile from the south shore. It was while crossing the St. Lawrence that they first made the acquaintance of screw-steamers, and learned how dangerous they are to the careless canoeist. A big steamship, on her way to Montreal, came up the river so noiselessly that the boys did not notice her until they heard her hoarse whistle warning them to keep out of her way. A paddle-wheel steamer can be heard while she is a long way off, but screw-steamers glide along so stealthily that the English canoeists, who constantly meet them on the Mersey, the Clyde, and the lower Thames, have nicknamed them "sudden death."
Cramped and tired were the canoeists when they reached the nearest island and went ashore to prepare a camp, but they were proud of having sailed sixty miles in one day. As they sat around the fire after supper, Harry said:
"Boys, we've had experience enough by this time to test our different rigs. Let's talk about them a little."
"All right," said Joe. "I want it understood, however, that my lateen is by all odds the best rig in the fleet."
"Charley," remarked Tom, "you said the other day that you liked Joe's rig better than any other. Do you think so still?"
"Of course I do," answered Charley. "Joe's sails set flatter than any lug-sail; he can set them and take them in quicker than we can handle ours, and as they are triangular he has the most of his canvas at the foot of the sail instead of at the head. But they're going to spill him before the cruise is over, or I'm mistaken."
"In what way?" asked Joe.
"You are going to get yourself into a scrape some day by trying to take in your sail when you are running before a stiff breeze. If you try to get the sail down without coming up into the wind it will get overboard, and either you will lose it or it will capsize you; you tried it yesterday when a squall came up, and you very nearly came to grief."
"But you can say the same about any other rig," exclaimed Joe.
"Of course you can't very well get any sail down while the wind is in it; but Tom can take in his sharpie-sail without much danger even when he's running directly before the wind, and Harry and I can let go our halyards and get our lugs down, after a fashion, if it is necessary. Still, your lateen is the best cruising rig I've ever seen, though for racing Harry's big, square-headed balance-lug is better."
"You may say what you will," said Tom, "but give me my sharpie-sails. They set as flat as a board, and I can handle them easily enough to suit me."
"The trouble with your rig," said Charley, "is that you have a mast nearly fifteen feet high. Now, when Joe takes in his mainsail, he has only two feet of mast left standing."
"How do you like your own rig?" asked Harry.
"Oh, it is good enough. I'm not sure that it isn't better than either yours or Tom's; but it certainly isn't as handy as Joe's lateen."
"Now that you've settled that I've the best rig," said Joe, "you'd better admit that I've the best canoe, and then turn in for the night. After the work we've done to-day, and the fun we had last night, I'm sleepy."
"Do you call sitting still in a canoe hard work?" inquired Tom.
"Is falling down a well your idea of fun?" asked Harry.
"It's too soon," said Charley, "to decide who has the best canoe. We'll find that out by the time the cruise is over."
The island where the boys camped during their first night on the St. Lawrence was situated at the head of Lake St. Peter. This lake is simply an expansion of the St. Lawrence, and though it is thirty miles long, and about ten miles wide at its widest part, it is so shallow that steamboats can only pass through it by following an artificial channel dredged out by the government at a vast expense. Its shores are lined with a thick growth of reeds, which extend in many places fully a mile into the lake, and are absolutely impassable, except where streams flowing into the lake have kept channels open through the reeds.
On leaving the island in the morning the canoeists paddled down the lake, for there was not a breath of wind. The sun was intensely hot, and the heat reflected from the surface of the water and the varnished decks of the canoes assisted in making the boys feel as if they were roasting before a fire. Toward noon the heat became really intolerable, and the Commodore gave the order to paddle over to the north shore in search of shade.
It was disappointing to find instead of a shady shore an impenetrable barrier of reeds. After resting a little while in the canoes, the boys started to skirt the reeds, in hope of finding an opening; and the sun, apparently taking pity on them, went under a cloud, so that they paddled a mile or two in comparative comfort.
The friendly cloud was followed before long by a mass of thick black clouds coming up from the south. Soon the thunder was heard in the distance, and it dawned upon the tired boys that they were about to have a thunder-storm without any opportunity of obtaining shelter.
They paddled steadily on, looking in vain for a path through the reeds, and making up their minds to a good wetting. They found, however, that the rain did not come alone. With it came a fierce gust of wind, which quickly raised white-caps on the lake. Instead of dying out as soon as the rain fell, the wind blew harder and harder, and in the course of half an hour there was a heavy sea running.
The wind and sea coming from the south, while the canoes were steering east, placed the boys in a very dangerous position. The seas struck the canoes on the side and broke over them, and in spite of the aprons, which to some extent protected the cockpits of all except the Twilight, the water found its way below. It was soon no longer possible to continue in the trough of the sea, and the canoes were compelled to turn their bows to the wind and sea, the boys paddling just sufficiently to keep themselves from drifting back into the reeds.
The Sunshine and the Midnight behaved admirably, taking very little water over their decks. The Twilight "slapped" heavily, and threw showers of spray over herself, while the Dawn showed a tendency to dive bodily into the seas, and several times the whole of her forward of the cockpit was under the water.
"What had we better do?" asked Harry, who, although Commodore, had the good sense always to consult Charley in matters of seamanship.
"It's going to blow hard, and we can't sit here and paddle against it all day without getting exhausted."
"But how are we going to help ourselves?" continued Harry.
"Your canoe and mine," replied Charley, "can live out the gale well enough under sail. If we set our main-sails close-reefed, and keep the canoes close to the wind, we shall be all right. It's the two other canoes that I'm troubled about."
"My canoe suits me well enough," said Joe, "so long as she keeps on the top of the water, but she seems to have made up her mind to dive under it."
"Mine would be all right if I could stop paddling long enough to bail her out, but I can't," remarked Tom. "She's nearly half full of water now."
"We can't leave the other fellows," said Harry, "so what's the use of our talking about getting sail on our canoes?"
"It's just possible that Tom's canoe would live under sail," resumed Charley; "but it's certain that Joe's won't. What do you think about those reeds, Tom? Can you get your canoe into them?"
"Of course I can, and that's what we'd better all do," exclaimed Tom. "The reeds will break the force of the seas, and we can stay among them till the wind goes down."
"Suppose you try it," suggested Charley, "and let us see how far you can get into the reeds? I think they're going to help us out of a very bad scrape."
Tom did not dare to turn his canoe around, so he backed water, and went at the reeds stern first. They parted readily, and his canoe penetrated without much difficulty some half-dozen yards into the reeds, where the water was almost quiet. Unfortunately he shipped one heavy sea just as he entered the reeds, which filled his canoe so full that another such sea would certainly have sunk her, had she not been provided with the bladders bought at Chambly.
Joe followed Tom's example, but the Dawn perversely stuck in the reeds just as she was entering them, and sea after sea broke over her before Joe could drive her far enough into the reeds to be protected by them.
Joe and Tom were now perfectly safe, though miserably wet; but as the rain had ceased, there was nothing to prevent them from getting dry clothes out of their water-proof bags, and putting them on as soon as they could bail the water out of their canoes. Harry and Charley, seeing their comrades in safety, made haste to get up sail, and to stand out into the lake, partly because they did not want to run the risk of being swamped when entering the reeds, and partly because they wanted the excitement of sailing in a gale of wind.
When the masts were stepped, the sails hoisted, and the sheets trimmed, the two canoes, sailing close to the wind, began to creep away from the reeds. They behaved wonderfully well. The boys had to watch them closely, and to lean out to windward from time to time to hold them right side up. The rudders were occasionally thrown out of the water, but the boys took the precaution to steer with their paddles. The excitement of sailing was so great that Charley and Harry forgot all about the time, and sailed on for hours. Suddenly they discovered that it was three o'clock, that they had had no lunch, and that the two canoeists who had sought refuge in the reeds had absolutely nothing to eat with them. Filled with pity, they resolved to return to them without a moment's delay. It was then that it occurred to them that in order to sail back they must turn their canoes around, bringing them while so doing in the trough of the sea. Could they possibly do this without being swamped? The question was a serious one, for they were fully four miles from the shore, and the wind and sea were as high as ever.
[to be continued.]
"BESIEGED."
[THE STEAMBOAT.—ROBERT FULTON.]
Robert Fulton, the inventor of steamboats, was born on a farm in Pennsylvania. His parents were Irish Protestants—a strong, laborious race. Robert was a delicate, handsome boy, with a fine forehead and brilliant eyes. Almost as a child he became a mechanic, inventing machines and lingering around workshops. He was thought dull at school, and made slow progress in the usual studies. But he was always inventing.
One day, when Robert was about nine years old, he came late to school, and when his teacher reproved him, produced a new lead-pencil which he had been making while playing truant. The boys were all anxious to have one of Fulton's pencils—they were better than any they had seen. In his school days he made rockets to celebrate the Fourth of July, and in 1778, in the midst of the war, set them off in his native town. About this time he made an air-gun and a boat moved by wheels. He had a strong taste for drawing. His mother, who was now a widow and poor, wanted his help.
Fulton was only seventeen, but he went up to Philadelphia, made money, became acquainted with Dr. Franklin, and when he was twenty-one came back to his mother with his earnings, and bought her a farm. Here she lived happily for some years, watching and enjoying the rising prosperity of her son. The deed by which Fulton at twenty-one gave the farm to his mother is still preserved.
There are persons living who might have seen the first steamboat that sailed on the Hudson. Many remember when the famous De Witt Clinton and North America were thought the wonders of navigation; when they sailed over the tranquil river at the rate of sixteen miles an hour, and left behind them thick clouds of black smoke that hung over the landscape for miles. The North America was long the pride of the river navigation, the swiftest vessel in the world. The Hudson has always been the favorite scene of steam navigation and enterprise. It is the birth-place of the steamboat.
Here, in 1807, Robert Fulton, on board of the Clermont, his first vessel, sailed in a day and a half from New York to Albany. He stopped for a few hours at Clermont, and then in four more finished his voyage. It was the signal for an entire change in the whole art of navigation. From that time the steamboat has been slowly advancing, its size has increased to immense proportions, its engines have become animated giants, and Fulton's little vessel of one hundred and sixty tons is converted into the Furnessia, the Alaska, and the Great Eastern.
Fulton, a fair, delicate, thoughtful young man, had gone to England, to France, had become acquainted with many eminent inventors, and had already planned a steamboat. He was the first to make one successful. He came back to New York, and, aided by his friend Livingston, in 1806 began to build his boat. It was only a small vessel, rudely built; in it he placed an engine made by James Watt, the English inventor; the paddle-wheels he planned himself, and the imperfect machinery. It seems now a very easy thing to build a steamboat, but it was then thought impossible. Men called the boat Fulton's Folly. Hardly any one supposed that a new era in navigation was about to begin, and that Fulton's machine would at last cover the world with its discoveries. At last the boat was finished.
The fires were lighted, the boilers hissed, the crank turned, the wheels began to move, and the Clermont made its way, at about five miles an hour, from Charles Brown's dock-yard on the East River to Jersey City. Once she stopped, and men cried, "There, it has failed!" But it was only because Fulton was anxious to alter some part of his machine. The great voyage was successful. The steamer reached Jersey City, and Fulton's victory was won.
Soon the Hudson began to abound with Fulton's steamboats, the wonders of the world. There was the famous Paragon, a vessel of the enormous size of three hundred tons. One built for the Czar was called the Emperor of Russia. A ferry-boat ran from New York to Jersey City. In the midst of the war with England Fulton built the first war steamer. It was two thousand tons burden, a fine shot-proof vessel, and sailed at the rate of three miles an hour as far as Sandy Hook. Its size seemed immense, its power irresistible, and it was told with alarm in London that Fulton and New York had produced the most dangerous of warlike machines. America now abounded in steamboats, but they were only slowly adopted in Europe. London, Carlyle relates, was long without them.
The fair, pale, delicate inventor did not live long to enjoy his success. His lungs were always weak. He was always at work. His patents were infringed, and his invention only involved him in endless lawsuits. At last he caught cold crossing the Hudson on a chill February day, and died 1815, a good son, an inventor who has been useful to every one. He has founded nations, and opened the distant seas to trade.
[THE MAGIC SACK.]
BY HENRY HATTON, MAGICIAN AND VENTRILOQUIST.
Yes, boys, real Simon-pure "magic." Just such tricks as you have seen the "magician" do; just such tricks as some of you may have seen your humble servant do. Many of these you can do yourselves—when you know how; others require more practice than you ought to give to such nonsense, and others again are too expensive. But there are some that any boy—or girl, for that matter—can do with little rehearsing and at slight expense. The magic sack trick, which I had the honor of introducing to America in 1873, is as clever as it is simple.
A muslin sack large enough to contain a boy of fourteen is handed out for examination, and after the audience are satisfied that the seams are not only secure and perfect, but that its only opening is at the mouth, the performer's assistant gets inside. The sack is gathered over his head, and the mouth tied fast with a silk handkerchief, and then with a tape, the knots of the latter being not only sealed in any way that seems best to the audience, but the ends, which are left long, given to some one to hold.
A screen is now placed between the audience and the boy in the sack, the ends of the tape passing either over the top of the screen or through holes in its side.
It would seem impossible for the person thus securely enveloped to get out of the sack without cutting or untying the tape and handkerchief; and yet, O mystery of mysteries! in a few seconds the screen is thrown open, and the late occupant of the sack walks out, while the sack is found still tied up, the knots not tampered with, and the seals unbroken.
Surprising as this appears, there are needed but three requisites for its successful accomplishment: first, an assistant upon whose secrecy and faithfulness the young conjurer can rely, for he will require his help in very many tricks; second, two sacks, exactly alike, made of very light material, so that they will fold into small compass; and third, unlimited impudence, assurance, or whatever you may be pleased to call it.
When about to exhibit the trick, the performer comes forward, holding a silk handkerchief in one hand, and sack No. 1 in the other. The assistant, who is to be tied up, has the duplicate, or sack No. 2, concealed about him, say, inside his vest, or in some such suitable place.
As soon as he gets fairly into No. 1, he whips out the duplicate, and puts the mouth of it inside the mouth of No. 1. The exhibitor, who is fumbling about as if to gather No. 1 over the assistant's head, seizes No. 2, and drawing out about nine inches of it, at once wraps the silk handkerchief over the two so as to cover the point where they meet. This he does deliberately, as an appearance of haste would give rise to suspicion among the audience. As it is now impossible for any one to distinguish between the parts of the two sacks, the exhibitor turns to his audience with the remark: "I have now tied up the mouth of the sack in such a way as to make it next to impossible for the young man to get out. But to make assurance doubly sure, I should like one of the audience to tie it again; this time with a piece of tape." As he says this, he produces the tape and ties it once around the part between the handkerchief and the mouth of No. 2. The person selected from the audience then draws the knots tight, seals them, and retains the ends of the tape in his hand.
When the screen is placed in position—for home exhibition a clothes-horse with a sheet over it makes an excellent substitute for a screen—the assistant gently pulls on the mouth of No. 1, which is readily drawn out from under the handkerchief, and steps out, leaving the tape and handkerchief still closely wound around No. 2. It takes but a second to fold up No. 1, conceal it, and then to walk out from behind the screen to receive the applause of the audience.
This brief, but I trust clear, description can give but little idea of the effect produced by this really surprising trick. I first saw it exhibited by a performer calling himself Le Duc, at Stockholm, Sweden, some twenty-five years ago, and at that time, though I knew considerable about magic, I was completely mystified.
["THEIR GIRL."]
A STORY IN THREE CHAPTERS.
BY JAMES OTIS,
Author of "Toby Tyler," "Tim and Tip," "Mr. Stubbs's Brother," etc.