Copyright, 1897, by Harper & Brothers. All Rights Reserved.

CRYING TOMMY.

BY MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL.

Jenks, the master-at-arms, otherwise known as Jimmylegs, was the best Jimmylegs in the naval service of the United States. His countenance was usually as stolid as a mummy's, and his voice as steady as the Sphinx's might have been. He would have announced "The magazine is on fire, sir," in precisely the same tone as "John Smith has broken his liberty, sir." Therefore when Mr. Belton, First Lieutenant of the training-ship Spitfire, in his first interview after coming aboard, detected a rudimentary grin upon Jimmylegs's usually impassive face, he stopped short in the perilous operation of shaving while the ship had a sharp roll on, and asked:

"What is it, master-at-arms? Out with it!"

"Just this, sir," replied old Jenks, crossing his arms and tugging at his left whisker with his right hand. "Along o' that 'prentice boy, Hopkins—the other boys call him Crying Tommy, because he's always blubbering about something or 'nother. That boy'd be worth good money to a undertaker, he's got such a distressful countenance. Well, sir, I brought him down, with a batch o' other boys from the training-station, and he didn't half seem to like going aboard ship. Howsomedever, I never misdoubted as how he'd jump the ship. But after them boys was landed at the dock, I looked around, and there wasn't no Crying Tommy. I brought the rest of 'em along, and reported on board ship, and then I started out on a quiet hunt for that there boy. I didn't have no luck, though; but about dark that evening there come over the for'ard gangway a great strappin' red-headed girl about fifteen, holdin' on to Crying Tommy like grim death, and he scared half out of his wits. She marches him up to me, and she says, 'Here's that dratted boy'—dratted was the very word she used, sir—and she kep' on, 'He won't run away no more, I think—not if my name is Mary Jane Griggs.' And I says to her, bowin' and tryin' to keep from grinnin', for the girl had as honest a face, sir, as I ever clapped eyes on, 'Miss Griggs, may I ask what relation you are to Mr. Hopkins here?' And she snapped out: 'Not a bit; only after his mother died we took him in our house, and he paid his way—when he could. Then one day I read in the paper about naval apprentices, and I said to Tommy, "That's the place for you." So he went and signed the articles. That was six months ago. And this afternoon, when I come home from the box factory where I works, there was this great lummux.' Well! how her eyes did flash! Mr. Belton, I'm afraid o' red-headed women and girls, sir—that I am—and Crying Tommy, I saw, was in mortal fear of Mary Jane Griggs. And she says, 'I marched him straight back; he bellowed like a calf—he's the greatest crier I ever see; but I want you to take him and make him behave himself.' 'I will endeavor to do so, Miss Griggs,' says I, and then she gave her flipper to the boy, and went off home, I suppose, and we sailed that night."

"Well, what sort of a boy is he?" asked the Lieutenant.

Jimmylegs tugged at his whiskers harder than ever.

"Well, sir," he said, presently, "the boy ain't no shirk. He's a foretopman, and the captain of the foretop says he's the smartest boy he's got aloft. But he keeps on crying, and I'm mightily afraid he'll start some of the other boys to crying, and they'll think the ship is a penitentiary. Low spirits is ketchin','specially in the foc's'l', and I wish that blessed brat would stop his bawling. I'd like you to speak to him, sir; you've got such a fine way with boys, sir." Which was true enough.

"Send him here," said the Lieutenant, wiping his face after his shave.

Presently there came a timid knock at the door, and Crying Tommy appeared. He was a sandy-haired boy of sixteen, ill-grown for his age, and of a most doleful countenance.

"Well, my lad," said the Lieutenant, cheerily, "I hear that you are always piping your eye. What's that for?"

Crying Tommy shook his head helplessly, but said nothing.

"Do the men run you?"

"Yes, sir; but—'taint that."

"Do you get enough to eat?"

"Yes, sir—never had such good grub in my life before."

"Then what in the name of sense are you always howling for?"

Crying Tommy looked about him more helplessly than ever, and then burst out suddenly and desperately:

"I don't know, sir, except that I've always had—somebody to look out for me. Mary Jane Griggs done that—she's a corker, sir—and she made me go and be a 'prentice—and I didn't want to; she made me go—that she did, sir!"

"I'm not surprised that Mary Jane wanted to get rid of you if this is the way you acted. Now mind; do you stop this boo-hooing, and do your duty cheerfully. Do you understand me? For I hear that you do your duty. And if you don't, why"—here the Lieutenant quickly assumed his "quarter-deck" voice and roared out, "I'll give you something to cry for!"

Crying Tommy fled down the gangway. Half an hour afterwards the Lieutenant was on the bridge, the anchor was picked up, the Spitfire was spreading her white wings to the freshening breeze. Mr. Belton, watch in hand, was keenly observing the young bluejackets, and when he saw that all plain sail was made within ten minutes, he put his watch back with a feeling of satisfaction. He had sailor-boys to count on, not farmers and haymakers, aloft. Especially had he noticed one boy, who, laying out with cat-like swiftness on the very end of the topsail-yard, did his work with a quickness and steadiness that many an old man-o'-war's man might have envied. When this smart youngster landed on deck Mr. Belton was surprised to see that it was Crying Tommy, looking, as usual when he was not crying, as if he were just ready to begin.

But Mr. Belton had something else to study besides the boys, and this was the ship. The Spitfire was a fine old-fashioned, tall-masted, big-sparred frigate, which could leg it considerably faster under her great sails than under her small engines. She had the spacious quarters for officers and the roomy airy spaces between decks for the men of the ships of her class, and was altogether a much more comfortable ship for cruising than the modern floating forts that could have blown her out of the water with a single round. Stanch and weatherly, Mr. Belton had but one fault to find with her, and that was her powder-magazine was exactly where it ought not to have been; the breech of one of her guns was directly over the chute by which the ammunition was handed up. Whenever that gun was fired, Mr. Belton would go up to the gun captain and give him a look of warning, and the man would respond to this silent caution by touching his cap. Nevertheless, the Lieutenant said to himself sometimes, "If we finish this cruise without some trouble with the magazine, the Spitfire will deserve her name of a lucky ship."

They had sailed in April, and six very satisfactory weeks had been passed at sea. Homesickness and seasickness had disappeared after the first week, and the whole ship's company from the Captain down—who rejoiced in such a First Lieutenant as Mr. Belton—was happy and satisfied, with the possible exception of Crying Tommy. The master-at-arms never had so little disagreeable work to do, and so he told Mr. Belton one Sunday morning after inspection.

"By-the-way," asked the Lieutenant, "I see that Hopkins boy is doing well. He has never had a report against him. Has he stopped that habit of howling for nothing?"

"Well, sir," replied old Jimmylegs, "he has, partly. The other boys laughed at him, and that done him good. They've caught on to Mary Jane, and they asks him if he has to report to Mary Jane twicet a day when he is ashore, and such like pullin' of his legs as boys delights in. The other day, sir, he got to cryin' about something or 'nother, and they run him too hard. I saw 'em and heard 'em, but they didn't know it. Fust thing Crying Tommy lights out from the shoulder, and laid the biggest of 'em sprawlin', and they shoved off pretty quick, sir. I didn't think as 'twas my duty to report him for fightin', and I 'ain't never had occasion to report him for nothin' else. A better boy nor a smarter at his duty I 'ain't never seen, sir."

One lovely May morning a few days after this found the Spitfire off the glorious bay of Naples. The sun shone from a sapphire sky upon a sapphire sea, while in the distance rose the darker blue cone of Vesuvius, crowned with fire and flame. Across the rippling water swept innumerable sail-boats, while tall-masted merchantmen and steamships with inky smoke pouring out of their black funnels ploughed their way in and out the harbor. Near a huge government mole half a dozen majestic war-ships, strung out in a semicircle, rode at anchor. A great British battle-ship, all black and yellow, towered over the smart little cruiser near by, which also flew a British ensign from her peak. Not far away lay a French ship with remarkably handsome masts and spars and a wicked-looking ram as sharp as a knife, that could cut an armored ship in half like a cheese if ever she got the chance. Farther off still lay three Italian men-of-war, from one of which flew the blue flag of an Admiral. The Captain of the Spitfire was with Mr. Belton on the bridge as they came in, with a fair wind, and a mountain of canvas piled on the ship. The Captain, knowing that no man could handle a sailing-ship more beautifully than his First Lieutenant, was quite willing that he should show his expertness before the thousands of sailors watching the Spitfire. On she rushed, the water bellowing against her sides as her keen bows cut her way through the blue waves. Mr. Belton, with a seaman's eye, selected an admirable anchorage, and just as the on-lookers were wondering where the Spitfire meant to bring up, she made a beautiful flying move. Her yards were squared like magic, and her sails furled with almost incredible swiftness. With a gleam like lightning and a rattle like thunder her cable rushed out of the hawse-hole, and scarcely had the splash of her anchor resounded when the Italian colors were broken at the mast-head and the first gun of the salute boomed over the bright water.

"Well done, Spitfire!" cried the Captain; and well done it was.

Twenty guns roared out, with scarcely a second's difference in their steady boom!—boom!—boom!—and then there was a sudden break before the twenty-first gun was fired. Mr. Belton turned, and his eye instinctively flashed upon the starboard gun over the magazine. Yes, there it was—that accident he had been looking for ever since he set foot on the ship. The shreds of a blazing cartridge-bag dropped under the breech, and a faint puff of wind blew them over the edge of the open chute, and down they went into the powder-magazine.

The Lieutenant hardly knew how he reached the deck and sped along it, but in a moment he had leaped down the ladder toward the open door of the magazine, where an ominous crackling was heard. And instead of half a dozen men at work flooding the magazine, there were half a dozen pale, wild-eyed, and panic-stricken creatures, as the bravest will be sometimes, crowding out into the passage, and quite dazed with fear.

"Return to your duty!" shouted Mr. Belton, feeling for his pistol, and not finding it, seizing a bucket of water that was handy and dashing it in the men's faces. The shock brought them to their senses; they stopped in their mad flight and turned toward the magazine. Mr. Belton rushed like a catapult among them, wedged together in the narrow passage, and right behind was old Jimmylegs with a bucket of water. They could see a boyish figure on hands and knees in the magazine with a wet swab, crawling about and putting out the sparks that flashed from all over the floor. The next moment the whole floor was awash; the danger was over, and Mr. Belton and the master-at-arms had time to observe that the boy who had stood to his post when men fled was Crying Tommy, and he was crying vigorously. When he saw that the fire was out, he sat down on the wet floor and began to howl louder than ever. Old Jimmylegs seized him by the shoulder, and giving him a shake that made his teeth rattle in his head, bawled,

"Choke a luff, and tell the orficer about the fire!"

Crying Tommy was so scared at this that he actually stopped weeping, and wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his jacket.

"I see the loose powder on the floor burning, and the men saw it, and then one of em called out, 'Oh Lord! we're dead men!' and they all ran away." Here Crying Tommy piped up again.

"And you didn't run away. Go on," said Mr. Belton.

"And I reached out for the swab and the water-bucket, and I swabbed the floor the best I could."

"A-cryin' all the time, no doubt," put in old Jimmylegs.

"I couldn't help it, sir," whimpered Crying Tommy.

"Well," said Mr. Belton, "you had something to cry for this time. Now get out of here. You've saved the ship."

Not long after this, one Sunday morning, the boatswain was directed to pipe all hands up and aft. And when all the officers and men were assembled, the Captain read out the appointment of Thomas Hopkins, apprentice boy, as acting gunner's mate for his gallantry in putting out the fire in the magazine on that May morning. Then Mr. Belton handed Tommy a handsome watch as a gift from the officers, at which the men cheered, and Tommy bowed and bowed again, and presently put up his ever-ready jacket sleeve to his eye; and the officers roared with laughing and the men grinned, and Tommy went below, weeping but very happy.

One day, some years after this, Mr. Belton and old Jimmylegs, who were then on different ships, met at the navy-yard gate, and, being old shipmates, they exchanged very warm greetings. Presently there passed them a smart-looking young gunner, and holding his arm was a tall fine-looking young woman in a red gown, with a red feather in her hat, red cheeks, and a brilliant red head, and she looked very proud and smiling. Her companion, on the contrary, seemed overcome with bashfulness on seeing the Lieutenant and the old master-at-arms, and hurriedly saluting, made off in the opposite direction, looking uncommonly sheepish.

"That, sir," said Jimmylegs, with a sly grin, "is Gunner Hopkins, and that is Mrs. Hopkins. They're just married. He used to be called Crying Tommy, and she was Mary Jane Griggs, sir."

"I remember," answered the Lieutenant, smiling.

[A BOY'S APPEAL.]

I wonder if grown people who have all their growing done
Remember, as they sit at ease, that growing isn't fun.
One's legs and arms have separate aches, one's head feels half asleep,
But every day, let come what may, at school one has to keep.
And there the teachers never say, "Just study as you please,"
When shooting pains are flying round about a fellow's knees.
Reports say, "Tommy's progress is not what is desired,"
And fathers call you lazy when you're only deadly tired.
You have to learn the things you hate; it almost makes you sick,
There's such a lot of grammar, there's so much arithmetic,
The maps and boundaries to draw, the text to get by heart,
And all the while those growing pains to pull your joints apart!
Now skating, and snowballing, and managing a wheel,
Are very, very different things; though tired you may feel,
You manage not to mind it; the time goes rushing so
That you are interested and forget you have to grow.
Dear mothers and grandmothers, they seem to understand;
All boys should always meet them, bowing deeply, cap in hand,
For they have sense, and don't expect what fellows cannot do,
Though other people laugh and say, it's all the point of view.
But, oh! if grown-up gentlemen with growing safely done,
Would just remember now and then that growing isn't fun,
Perhaps they'd make it easier for boys who'd like to be
A trifle brighter, if they could, but are growing just like me.
Tommy Traddles.

[GOLF ON SHIPBOARD.]

Marine golf is the very latest aberration of golfing genius, and though the new game is but a distant relative of the "Royal and Ancient," its novelty may commend it to those who want amusement on long sea-voyages, and who have wearied of "shuffleboard" and "deck quoits."

It is evident that a ball is out of the question, and in its place is employed a disk of wood about four and a half inches in diameter. A rather heavy walking-stick, with a right-angled, flat-crooked head, is the "club," and serves every purpose from driving to holing out. The holes are circles about six inches in diameter chalked upon the deck, and the links are only bounded by the available deck space, the good nature of the Captain, and the rights of the non-golfing passengers.

Hatches, companionways, and the deck furniture in general serve as bunkers, and the ship's roll is an omnipresent and all-pervading hazard.

As the disk is propelled over the deck and not sent into the air, hitting is useless, and the proper stroke is something between a push and a drag, with the club laid close behind the disk. The player, in driving, stands with both feet slightly in advance of the disk, the shuffleboard push from behind being barred. As the club is virtually in contact with the disk, or "puck," keeping one's "e'e on the ba'" is not necessary—in fact, the best results will be obtained by aiming as in billiards and kindred games. A good drive will propel the disk for forty yards along the deck—that is, if the wind does not interfere by getting under the disk and sending it wildly gyrating into the scuppers. The carrom is permissible, and furnishes occasion for scientific play, but the great sport of the game lies in the skilful utilization of the pitching and rolling of the ship. The disk takes a bias from the angle of the deck, and some impossible shots may be triumphantly brought off—round the corner, for instance. Even in putting, marine golf may lay just claim to the variety which is the spice of (sporting) life. On a gray day the boards will be half as slow again as when the sun is shining, while with any spray coming aboard it is impossible to tell whether the disk will drag or slide.

[BOYS IN WALL STREET.]

BY COL. THOMAS W. KNOX,

Author of the "Boy Travellers" Series.

The visitor to Wall Street in business hours will see many active, bright, pleasant-looking boys moving more or less rapidly in all directions, and evidently absorbed in work. Some are in blue or gray uniforms, but the majority are in plain clothes, and almost invariably neatly dressed. The uniformed are employed by telegraph and messenger companies, the others by bankers, brokers, and other men of affairs.

Their chances of rising are about as many as boys ever have—the really able, honest, and pushing boys go up as they grow older. As a dignified-looking gentleman passes along the sidewalk we are told: "That is the president of the —— Bank. He knows Wall Street and all its ins and outs. Been here all his life. Began as an office-boy in a brokerage house; became partner; got elected a member of the Stock Exchange; now he is near the top of the heap. I could name several bank presidents who began as brokers' boys at two or three dollars a week."

Our informant went on, "Yes, and there are lots of cashiers of banks and other banking officials who began life in the same way. The partners in a great many banking and brokerage firms began as Wall Street boys."

Boys have begun in Wall Street at one dollar a week. Employers can generally tell in a week or two whether the boy is likely to "amount to anything." If the boy is faithful and energetic his wages are advanced so that he gets three dollars a week in two or three months from the start. Boys usually get not far from one hundred and fifty or two hundred dollars for the first year, and from three hundred upwards the second year. A prominent banker of New York once told me:

"My father died when I was sixteen years old, and that threw my mother and myself on our own resources. We had so little money or property that it was necessary for me to leave school and go to work. As the late Thurlow Weed had been a warm friend of my father, I came to New York to ask for his influence in getting a clerkship in the Custom-house, or something of the sort. I knew Mr. Weed as a boy of my age would know a man of his, and he greeted me cordially. When I had told him my story he said:

"'Now, Charley, find a cheap boarding-place and send your address to me. Don't come to me again, but as soon as I have anything for you I will write to you. Meantime look around and see what you can find for yourself.'

"I did as he told me, and a week went by without my hearing from him. One day I found a place in a broker's office where they would pay me two hundred dollars a year, and that very day I received a letter from Mr. Weed saying he had a place for me in the Custom-house at seven hundred dollars a year. I went to him, thanked him for his kindness, and declined his offer, telling him I preferred the broker's office, although the salary was much smaller. He patted me on the shoulder and said,

"'Charley, you have decided rightly, and you'll never regret it.'

"And I never have. I think it was pretty smart for a boy of sixteen."

Many Wall Street boys lose their places by loitering on errands. Employers know perfectly well how long it takes on the average to reach a certain point, transact the necessary business, and return. There are delays now and then, but if a boy returns late to the office several times in a day with excuses for delay his employers understand the situation perfectly, and he is soon "bounced."

A Wall Street boy is expected to be at the office at nine o'clock in the morning, and remain there as long as his services are needed, though he usually gets away about four o'clock. He has an allowance of half an hour at noon for luncheon, but the rest of the time belongs to his employer. He is expected to be neat in appearance, clean as to hands and face, well mannered, truthful at all times, prompt in obedience, and faithful in guarding the secrets of his employers.

The duties first assigned to him are to carry messages, deliver stocks at other brokerage offices, and obtain checks for them. After a while he is advanced to making comparisons of sales of stocks and taking the checks received from other brokers to be certified at the banks.

Of late years the Stock Exchange Clearing-house has done away with so much of the stock delivery by boys that the number of them on the Street is not more than half what it used to be. Formerly it was not uncommon to see from twenty-five to one hundred boys waiting in line at each of the prominent banks to get checks certified, and nearly every bank employed a private policeman to keep the boys in line and in order.

A story is told of a new boy on the Street who once went to make a delivery of stock. When the bookkeeper made up the accounts at the close of the day he found himself eighty thousand dollars short, and an examination of the books showed that one of the boys had failed to bring back a check in return for some stock he had delivered.

He was perfectly innocent about the matter, and said that he had handed the papers in at the office where he was sent to make the delivery, and as they gave him nothing he supposed there was nothing for him to get. His employer treated him kindly, and told him to be careful not to make the same mistake again. He never did. That boy is now at the head of one of the largest brokerage houses on Broad Street.

As the Wall Street boy advances in proficiency he is put upon the purchase and sale books. Then he takes charge of the comparison tickets, and then of the stock ledgers. Then he becomes a bookkeeper or cashier, and if he shows himself valuable enough he receives a junior partnership, and later on rises to a higher one.

WALL STREET BOYS.

It is proper to say, however, that only a small proportion of the boys who begin life in Wall Street work their way upward to positions of consequence. Fully fifty per cent. of them go wrong, or, at all events, leave the Street, and are not heard of afterward. Not less than half of the others remain in subordinate places. Either they lack the intelligence, energy, and fidelity necessary to secure advancement, or they have vicious tendencies which lead them into trouble.

There is a class of speculating establishments in the neighborhood of Wall Street which are known among the brokers as "bucket-shops," where any one can go and risk one dollar, or as much more as he likes in speculation in stocks. Suppose he has but one dollar; he places it upon a certain stock, and watches the indicator till it goes up or down. If it rises a point, he makes a dollar, but if it goes down he loses, and the dollar he risked is wiped out.

Men with very limited capital are the chief patrons of these bucket-shops, but a good many of the boys slip around to them, and risk anywhere from one dollar to five dollars in speculation. Sooner or later they come to grief. A knowledge of their conduct reaches the ears of their employers, they lose their situations, and have great difficulty in getting others.

Boys are taken into brokerage offices only upon good recommendations, and it is almost invariably required that a boy shall live with his parents and not by himself. Employers well know that a boy not living at home is far more likely to fall into evil ways than one who has a home and is under the eyes of father and mother.

In addition to their regular wages the boys in Wall Street offices receive presents in money at Christmas-time, the amount depending partly upon the good conduct of the boy himself, and partly on the condition of business in the year just closing. If times have been hard, speculation light, and incomes small, the broker's gratuities to his employees are much smaller than if the reverse is the case. In the one instance, he feels poor and forced to economize; in the other, he feels prosperous and is liberal.

There are other kinds of boys on Wall Street than the ones just described. In the Stock Exchange about one hundred and fifty boys are employed as pages to run with messages for members in the Board Room, not outside. They receive from three to five dollars a week, with a gratuity at Christmas.

There is no prospect of these pages rising to higher positions while in the employ of the Exchange, and when they grow too large for employment there they drift away to other places. Many are the applicants for these positions, and in order to secure one there a boy must be well recommended. The pages wear gray uniforms with brass buttons, and are generally bright little fellows who soon learn to know every member of the Stock Exchange by name.

Perhaps two hundred members of the Stock Exchange have private telephones in the building, and there is a squad of some fifty or more boys in blue uniforms who look after these telephones. The Stock Exchange has its own messenger service, each boy wearing a gray uniform with a military cap. The duties of these messengers is to run from the Exchange to the offices of the members.

All these boys are remembered at Christmas-time. The members of the Exchange subscribe from five to twenty-five dollars each to make up the gratuity fund, which is divided among the boys according to their time of service. Those who have been there two or three years obtain quite a handsome little present during the holiday season.

Then there are boys connected with the American District Messenger service; there are Western Union Telegraph boys; Cable Telegraph boys; boys in the offices of lawyers, corporations, and the like. But the principal and most important boy of all is the one who starts in an office at a small salary, determined to win his way to fame and fortune, and possessing the ability and intelligence to do so.

THE MIDDLETON BOWL.[1]

BY ELLEN DOUGLAS DELAND.

CHAPTER IV.

"Boys," said Mrs. Hoyt, "the Misses Middleton have met with a great loss. Their beautiful bowl is broken. You have seen it, and you have heard of its value, and you can imagine how badly they feel about it, and now they are trying to find out who broke it. You were at their house this morning, I believe. Do you know anything about it?"

Raymond and Clement were unmistakably very much surprised. They had not heard of the accident before, it was plainly to be seen, and they eagerly disclaimed all knowledge of the affair.

"Was that the broken china you found in the currant-bushes?" exclaimed Raymond. "How on earth did it get there?"

"Oh, I say!" cried Clement, in the same breath. "Teddy, what were you and Arthur doing by the currant-bushes before the kitten's funeral? Don't you remember, Ray?" And then he stopped abruptly. He did not want to "give them away," he said to himself.

"And what do you know about it, Arthur?" asked his mother.

Arthur said nothing.

"Did you go into Miss Middleton's parlor this morning?"

Still there was no answer.

"Arthur, come here to me. Now tell me, darling, did you go into Miss Middleton's parlor this morning?"

"Yes, mother," he said, in a very low voice.

"Did you break the bowl?"

The silk gowns of the three visitors rustled audibly as they leaned forward to listen. Teddy drew a step nearer and waited eagerly for his reply, and the other boys gathered about their mother and brother, as though to sustain the family honor through this terrible emergency. But Arthur remained silent.

"Did you break the bowl, Arthur?"

"No, mother, I didn't."

And then, boy of eleven though he was, and with his older brothers looking on, he began to cry.

"Pshaw!" exclaimed Raymond, "don't be a baby, Art! If you did it, why don't you own up?"

"Because I didn't do it," said Arthur. "I didn't do it, and I wish I'd never seen the old bowl!"

"Why, Arthur," said Theodora, "I thought— Are you sure you didn't do it?"

"Of course I'm sure; just as sure as you are, or anybody else."

"Do you know anything about it?" asked Mrs. Hoyt. "Do you know who did do it?"

To this there was no reply whatever.

"It is very strange," said Miss Joanna, grimly. "Theodora and Arthur both had something to do with the calamity, for Arthur acknowledges that he was there, and Theodora carried away the fragments. One of them must be guilty of it. Is your boy truthful, Mrs. Hoyt?"

Before his mother could speak, Raymond stepped forward and stood in front of the Misses Middleton.

"Look here," said he. "I guess you'd better understand that we Hoyts aren't cowards and we aren't liars. If my brother Arthur broke that bowl, you bet he'd say so!"

"Hush, Ray!" said his mother. "That is not the proper way to speak to ladies. But I think, Miss Middleton, that what Raymond says is the case. If Arthur had done it he would acknowledge it."

"But, Arthur," cried Teddy, whose face expressed her complete mystification, "I thought—I don't understand!"

"Hush up!" said Arthur, between his sobs.

"Suppose we ask Teddy to give an account of what transpired this morning," said Mrs. Hoyt. "Did you find Arthur in the parlor?"

"Yes, Mrs. Hoyt," said Theodora. "I wasn't going to tell this, on Arthur's account, but I suppose I'll have to as long as you ask me. When I went down to wait for Aunt Tom to go to the garden I went to the parlor, and there I met Arthur coming out. He was crying, and he seemed terribly frightened, and was saying, 'Hide it! hide it!' and he ran away. When I went in, there was the bowl on the floor, broken. And then I heard Aunt Tom coming down stairs, and I didn't stop to think, but just picked up the pieces and carried them out under my apron."

"And is that all you know?"

"Yes, Mrs. Hoyt, it is all I know."

No one could doubt the truthfulness of this statement, and the three Misses Middleton rose to go, satisfied, if only for the moment, that their niece was guiltless. They drove off, Theodora occupying the fourth seat in the old barouche, and Mrs. Hoyt was left alone with her boys.

A week passed away, and the mystery of the broken bowl was as far from being solved as it had been at the beginning. It was carefully carried by three of the ladies to the old china-mender in the town of Alden, who skilfully cemented the pieces together in such a manner that the uninitiated would never discover that it had been broken; but its owners knew only too well that this treasure was no longer what it had once been, and their feelings had received a shock from which they could not soon recover.

As Miss Joanna remarked, when she examined the bowl upon its return, "Mr. Jones has done it very well; but he cannot mend our hearts, which were broken when the Middleton bowl was broken, and even if the cracks are well hidden, they will always stare us in the face!"

Though her aunts no longer thought that Theodora was actually responsible for the accident, they were quite sure that she knew who was, and they censured her severely for her silence. Even Miss Thomasine felt that she might tell them more if she would. But Teddy had already given her version of the affair, and there was nothing more to be said. She had supposed from the beginning that Arthur was the author of the misfortune, and though she did not like to doubt his word, she greatly feared that he was not speaking the truth when he denied this.

His brothers stoutly maintained his innocence when talking to Theodora, or to any one outside of the family, but with one another they acknowledged having some misgivings.

"You see, Art has been sick such a lot that I guess he is afraid to own up," said they among themselves. "He isn't just like the rest of us. Look how afraid he is in the dark, and in that spooky place in the woods, and of lots of other things. I suppose he is afraid father will punish him if he owns up, and so he's going to keep it dark as long as he can."

Mr. and Mrs. Hoyt were both greatly troubled by the affair. They knew the value of the bowl, a value which could not be made good by any amount of money, and they knew that such a rare work of art could never be replaced; and, besides, the fact that if Arthur had broken it he lacked sufficient moral courage to confess was a bitter grief to them. But the "if" was a large one, and Arthur's mother could not bring herself to believe that her boy was not speaking the truth.

Arthur himself showed plainly that he was suffering. He grew pale and lost his appetite; he started at every sound, and when he was out-of-doors he would stop constantly in his play to look about apprehensively, to peer behind bushes or trees, and to take refuge in the house did he see any one coming.

He and Teddy discussed the subject more than once, but never with any satisfactory result. It usually ended in his running to his mother to declare, with tears and sobs, that he did not break the old bowl, and he wished that he had never seen it.

In the mean time Teddy continued to ride the bicycle. Her aunts seemed to have completely forgotten having seen her in the very act. They did not mention the subject again, being absorbed in conjectures and grief about the bowl, and Theodora, apparently believing that silence gave consent, did not recall it to their minds.

The boys were all perfectly willing now that she should use their wheels, for she soon rode as well as they did, and as there were so many bicycles in the family, there was usually one that she could take.

One afternoon Teddy had been off on quite a little excursion by herself. She was on Arthur's wheel, and she had gone "around the square," as they called it, coming home by a back way. Just as she drew near her aunts' house a heavy shower which had been gathering for some time, unnoticed by Theodora, came pattering down.

There was hail as well as rain, and Teddy rode quickly to the house and went in by the kitchen door. She took the wheel in with her and placed it in the back hall, in an out-of-the-way corner, intending to return it to Arthur as soon as the storm should be over.

But it lasted longer than she expected, and by the time it had ceased to rain supper was ready. It was quite dark now by six o'clock, and Theodora knew that her aunts would not allow her to go out alone so late, so she determined to get up early the next morning, and take the wheel back then. She said nothing of this plan, however, and did not mention to her aunts that a hated bicycle was in the house.

In fact she was not at all sure that she was doing right to ride without their permission, and she made up her mind that she would tell them to-morrow. Now that she had attained her object, and had learned how, she would not mind so much if she were forbidden by them to ride, for she was sure that when her father and mother returned to this country in the spring they would buy her a wheel, and until then she could wait. Indeed, she hoped, from what she had heard her mother say, that Mrs. Middleton would learn to ride herself, in spite of the sentiments of her sisters-in-law upon the subject.

Eight o'clock was Teddy's bedtime, and she bade her aunts good-night at that hour as usual. She had been asleep but a short time when she was awakened by a commotion in the hall, most unusual in that quiet household. There were hurried footsteps and half-smothered exclamations, and presently she was quite sure that she heard moans of pain.

Springing out of bed, she ran to the door and opened it just in time to see Miss Thomasine hurry through the hall with a mustard plaster in her hand, while in the distance appeared Miss Melissa with a hot-water bag, and from another room emerged Miss Dorcas with a bottle of medicine.

"What is the matter, Aunt Tom?" asked Teddy. "Is any one sick?"

"Your aunt Joanna is very ill," whispered Miss Thomasine, as she passed.

Much startled, Teddy went back to her room and waited. Then she concluded to dress herself and go to her aunt's door to see if she could be of any help. This did not take long, but when she knocked at the door it was opened by Miss Dorcas, who told her that she had better not come in.

Theodora was sadly frightened, and the groans which she heard did not tend to reassure her. Her aunt must be very ill; perhaps she was even dying.

"Have you sent for the doctor?" she asked.

"There is no one to send," said Miss Dorcas, "for John is in bed with a bad attack of rheumatism; so your aunt Melissa is going with Catherine, the cook. They are getting ready now, but I am afraid it will take them a long time to get to Dr. Morton's house; and it is so very late for women to be out alone—after ten o'clock!"

And then she shut the door again, and her niece was left alone in the hall, with the sound of her aunt Joanna's moans in her ears.

She went to look for her aunt Melissa, and found that she was just rousing Catherine from her first heavy slumber. Though ten o'clock was not late in the eyes of the world, the Middleton household had been in bed for an hour, and to them it seemed like the middle of the night.

It would take Catherine a long time to get awake, to say nothing of dressing. Miss Melissa herself was in her wrapper, and Theodora supposed that she would not go forth even upon an errand of life and death without arraying herself as if for a round of calls, down to the very last pin in the shoulder of her camel's-hair shawl—and in the mean time Aunt Joanna might die!

How dreadful it was! Teddy wished that she could do something. She did not love Aunt Joanna as she did either of her other aunts, but she would do anything to save her life. She could run to Dr. Morton's in half the time that it would take Aunt Melissa and old Catherine to get there.

Suddenly she bethought herself of Arthur's wheel down in the back entry. She would go on that!

ANOTHER MOMENT SHE MOUNTED AND WAS OFF.

No sooner said than done. She did not tell her aunts of her inspiration, knowing that valuable time would be lost in the discussion that would ensue, and she would probably be back before Aunt Melissa had left their own gates. She flew down stairs, picking up her worsted cap as she ran through the hall. It took but a moment to unfasten the back door and lift the wheel down the short flight of steps. Another moment and she was mounted and off.

The storm clouds had rolled away, and the sky was now perfectly clear. The moon had risen an hour since, making the night as bright as day with its strange, weird light, the light that transforms the world into such a different place from that which the sun reveals. Teddy had seldom been out at night, and now to go alone on such an errand and in such a manner filled her with excitement.

To be fleeing away on a bicycle at dead of night to save her aunt's life was something which she had never dreamed it would be her fate to do.

Puddles of rain-water stood here and there in her path, but the Alden roads were noted for their excellence, and even after the heavy shower they were hard as boards, and the pools were easily avoided. The moonlight cast strange shadows over the lawn, and as she flew past the gate-post it almost seemed as if some one were standing there and had moved; but of course that was only her imagination, Teddy told herself. The child had not a thought of fear.

Her aunts' house was on the outskirts of the town, and at this hour the street was but little frequented, and she met no one as she skimmed over the broad white road. Dr. Morton's house was about a mile from that of the Misses Middleton, and it did not take long to get there. The doctor's buggy was at the door, and he himself was just in the act of alighting, when there was the whiz of a wheel on the gravelled driveway and the sharp, sudden ring of a bicycle-bell.

The doctor turned in time to see a small girlish figure swing herself to the ground.

"Bless my soul!" exclaimed he, much startled. "Who is this?"

"It's Teddy Middleton, and Aunt Joanna is very ill. Please come just as quick as you can, Dr. Morton."

"Bless my soul!" repeated the Doctor. "You don't mean to tell me the good ladies have allowed you to come out at this hour of the night, and on a bicycle?"

He knew them well, and had heard them discourse more than once on the subject of their pet aversion.

"No, they don't know anything about it," said Teddy. "And Aunt Melissa and old Catherine are getting ready to walk here, so I must hurry back and stop them; and I think Aunt Joanna is dying, Dr. Morton, so please hurry."

Before the doctor could reply she had mounted her wheel and had disappeared in the shadow of the trees at the gate. Without waiting another moment he stepped into his buggy, and turning his tired horse once more away from home, he drove after her as quickly as possible.

Teddy reached the house just as her aunt, clothed with the care which she had suspected, and accompanied by the still half-asleep Catherine, emerged from the front door. The sight of some one at the foot of the steps nearly caused Miss Melissa to faint with horror upon the spot.

"Oh!" she gasped. "Burglars! Murder!"

"No, it isn't, Aunt Melissa. It's only Teddy. You needn't go for the doctor; he is coming."

"Child, what do you— Catherine, your arm, please! Surely you haven't been—and on that!"

The unwonted excitement under which Miss Melissa was laboring caused her to be more incoherent even than usual.

"Yes, I have been for him," said Teddy, coolly, as she lifted the bicycle up the steps and stood it on the piazza, "and here he comes now."

The roll of wheels and the quick tread of a horse's hoofs were heard upon the avenue, and in another moment the doctor had alighted. Miss Melissa, incapable of further speech, turned and followed him into the house.

He found Miss Joanna indeed very ill with a sharp attack of the heart trouble to which she was subject. It was some time before she was relieved, but at length the pain passed by, and she was at least out of danger; but it had been a narrow escape.

"If I had been five minutes later I doubt if I could have saved her," said the doctor, "and it is all owing to that niece of yours that I got here in time."

"May I ask what you mean, doctor?" said Miss Middleton. "I thought that my sister Melissa went to you."

"Miss Melissa was just about to leave the house when I drove up. That bright little Teddy came for me on a wheel. Where she got it I don't know, unless you have relented and given her one. If you haven't, it is high time you did, for she deserves it for her presence of mind. And it is high time, too, that you changed your minds about bicycles, for it is all owing to one that Miss Joanna is alive now. I tell you that if I had been five minutes later she wouldn't be living now."

"Oh, doctor!" exclaimed the three ladies who were with him in the room next to Miss Joanna's, while the fourth watched by the invalid's bed.

"It is the truth," continued Dr. Morton, who was in the habit of speaking his mind plainly to the awe-inspiring Misses Middleton as well as to every one else; "and that bright little Teddy deserves a wheel of her own—if you haven't given her one already."

In the mean time Teddy had been wandering about the big house, not knowing quite what to do with herself. She went to her own room at first, but she could not stay there. It was just near enough to her aunt Joanna for her to hear muffled sounds from her room without knowing what they meant. She could not go in there, and her aunts were all too much occupied in obeying the doctor's commands and in waiting upon their sister to speak to her.

The servants had collected in the back part of the hall, very much frightened at the state of affairs, weeping and exclaiming with one another. Theodora, after trying each unoccupied room in turn, at last found herself in the parlor. It was very dark at first, but she pulled up the Venetian-blinds at the front windows, and let in a flood of moonlight.

Teddy had never before seen the room look so attractive. It was not often so brilliantly illuminated, for the shades were always carefully drawn. She moved restlessly about for a time, not daring to touch any of the treasures, but looking at them with interest and curiosity.

The mended bowl was again in its place upon the Chinese table, the beautiful yellow porcelain shining in the silvery light.

"I wonder if Arthur really didn't do it?" thought Teddy. "It is the queerest, strangest thing that ever happened. I wish we could find out about it."

She thought about this for some time, and then spying a Chinese puzzle which hung from a corner of a cabinet, she took it down and began to play with it. It was composed of a number of slender sticks of carved ivory which were strung horizontally upon silken cords of various colors. Theodora had seen it before, and she never wearied of slipping the sticks up and down the silk, first disclosing a dozen cords, then but two or three, sometimes more, sometimes less, the mechanism of which constituted the puzzle. She worked at it for ten minutes, sitting in the full glory of the moonlight; and then suddenly she became conscious that she was not alone in the room.

A slight, almost imperceptible noise behind her, the faintest of movements in the back of the room, told her that unquestionably some one was there!

[to be continued.]

[A LOYAL TRAITOR.]

A STORY OF THE WAR OF 1812 BETWEEN AMERICA AND ENGLAND.

BY JAMES BARNES.

CHAPTER XV.

A GENTLEMAN VALET.

I breakfasted next morning with my three titled friends, and during the discussion we held it was agreed that the best way to keep suspicion from me—for they were apparently quite as apprehensive of my being taken by the authorities as an escaped prisoner as I was myself—was for me to assume the position of private servant for the nonce to my patron and kind friend Monsieur de Brissac.

We started about nine o'clock in the morning along the post-road to the eastward, with a ride of some hundred and ten miles and over before us, I was informed.

The two gentlemen drove ahead in a high-wheeled chaise, while I and the servant of Monsieur le Marquis de Senez followed by the coach within a few minutes of their starting. It was our intention to pass the night at Oxford, and we expected to reach London on the afternoon of the following day.

They had spoken very openly before me, and although they had not indulged in any explanations, I garnered from the earnestness of their talk, and from the substance of it, that they had not given up all ideas of dwelling once more in France, and returning to the grandeur they had been accustomed to. Their bitterness against Napoleon was extreme, but with him out of it, I do not see how they ever expected to live in a country whose inhabitants they hated as a nation; for if the common and middle class of people do not compose a nation's blood and body, I miss my reckoning.

The view from the coach-top as we descended the hill from the inn was extremely fine. The river below took a bend almost in the shape of the crook of a man's elbow, and enclosed an island covered with houses, connected with the shore by a large bridge. But soon we had shut the view of the water behind us, and as we progressed inland the smell of the sea disappeared entirely.

The man Baptiste, alongside of whom I was sitting on the second seat, had the impassive, expressionless face of the trained servant. As he was not disposed to be communicative, and had evidently been told to treat me with respect, I grew reserved, and out of caution I kept silent; but nevertheless my enjoyment was not prevented from being of the very keenest.

I could crowd these pages by detailing my sensations. I could have sung or shouted, so high were my spirits. And I had to keep all this to myself; and being but a lad, as I say, it was far from easy. Two or three times I got down to stretch my legs, and thus I found myself walking behind the coach as we entered the little hamlet of Witney. In fact I did not know that we were so close to a village until I saw the guard get out his horn to toot it, as was his custom when approaching one.

Running after the coach, I swung myself on board just as we rolled across a bridge over a small clear stream. We had taken on fresh horses at a place called Burford, if I remember rightly, some short time back, and we would not have stopped at the little place we were entering at all (the driver was pleased with himself and proud of the rate at which we had been travelling), but as we went by the gate of a private park we were hailed, and looking over the side, I saw two officers in regimentals waiting to be taken up on the coach. One of them had the uniform of the Somersetshire regiment that had been stationed at the Stapleton prison. In fact I recognized the man before he had seated himself as one of my former guardians. But he glanced carelessly at us, and stared rather insolently into the face of a young country lass who was evidently leaving home, as she had had her handkerchief to her eyes for the past hour or more.

I need not have feared recognition if I had thought for a minute, for I was something of a dandy in my way. My legs were encased in gray breeches buttoned tightly from the knee to the ankle. My coat, with its long tails, was of blue cloth, with brass buttons, and the large velvet collar reached up behind, almost swamping my ears. My waist-coat had wide lapels (pulled outside the coat), and was made of cream-colored satin. My stock was of clean white linen, and my hat, that was a trifle too small, would persist in getting rakishly over my left eye, as if it understood that I was careless, happy, and defiant of bad fortune.

I believe I could write pages of descriptions of all I saw and felt on this journey, but I am really most anxious myself to reach the more interesting part of it, and so resist temptation. We arrived at Oxford in the late afternoon. I was delighted at the glimpses of the old college buildings and the students playing at cricket in the fields, while through the trees I could see that we were near a river, as now and then the water would flash into sight.

When we reached the inn at which we intended to stop, Monsieur de Brissac, who had arrived already, sent for me to come to his room. I was fully prepared to carry up his box or to tend him in any way, as befitted my supposed position; but as soon as I entered the apartment he greeted me with a smile.

"Monsieur le Marquis," he said, "be seated."

A queer tingling thrilled me as he called me by that title.

"I will explain to you," Monsieur de Brissac went on, "that in London there are a large number of us who have been forced to take up residence outside of France. Your own story is so remarkable that although, believe me, I myself do not doubt it, it would not be best to tell it to every one who might listen. Therefore, believe me, forget, as you have said, that you were an American, put outside from you the idea, above all things, that you have escaped from a prison of the English, and indeed, if possible, show little knowledge of the tongue. It is a frightful speech at the best, and racks the throat and ears. To people whom you meet you are Jean Amédée de Brienne, son of le Marquis Henri Amédée Lovalle de Brienne; your story is that you have come to England from America" (he lowered his voice and looked over his shoulder) "to join us. Ah, we need young blood and swords."

"But, Monsieur le Marquis," I interrupted, intending to blurt out the truth and abide by the consequences, "there is just one thing I—"

Monsieur de Brissac playfully touched me on the shoulder. "Never mind about that now," he said; "you will understand everything in a short time. Perhaps some day your grandfather's great estates shall belong to you, as they must in the sight of God and the saints, and as the blessed Church allows it to be true. Then," he exclaimed—"then we will whip this canaille, lash these dogs into shape, or drown them as they drowned us, eh? Ah, yes, that we will do. The bubble will soon burst, and they will be glad to take our crumbs. But no more for to-day. To-morrow you shall be informed. I know that you are to be trusted, monsieur. Say nothing. It is my pleasure to serve you. Be cautious with others."

Of course this touched me, and I do not doubt I showed it as I bowed myself out of Monsieur de Brissac's apartments, that were the best the place afforded. Our conversation had been held in French, of course, and in setting this down I have condensed it somewhat, but the gist of what he said is here.

I had begun to grow very much attached to my kind patron, for such I call him in this recounting; and I also was much taken with the elder man, the Marquis de Senez; but he was not so frank or, if I may say it, so simple as the other.

Well! I have taken a leap over two weeks of time as the very best way to avoid falling into the error of becoming verbose.

It is a great shift of scene. Here I was, seated in a low-backed soft-cushioned chair, with my feet on another, a linen napkin tucked in about my throat, and over me was bending a strange little old man who addressed me as "monsieur le marquis," as he curled my hair with a pair of hot irons. Now truly this was a change from being a prisoner at Stapleten, a scarecrow-clad figure doddering along the highway, or even from the position of a gentleman's gentleman riding outside of a coach on the post-road. Yet all these three had I been almost within the fortnight, and what was I now? Why, "le Marquis de Brienne," who dined with noblemen, and had learned in these few short days to make pretty speeches to ladies of quality in silks and satins. What is more, I was fairly launched as a conspirator.

I hope that none who reads this will suppose that I was not sailing a proper course, or that I was living a life of deceit for the purpose of gain, for the reason that it is evident that I am gifted with an adaptable temperament. Oh no! I hope I can say that what money I had I came by honestly, for it had been given to me with the intention that I should pay it back at some future time (I have paid it long since, to the last penny), and I was imposing on no one, unless it was my friend Monsieur de Brissac, whose pleasure it was to do anything for me, and lastly there is nothing in all this that is intended as an apology of my position.

It cannot be said that I was luxuriously surrounded, despite that I was lolling in an easy-chair and having my hair curled by my own private servant. I was living in lodgings on the top floor of a house not far from Orchard Street, off Piccadilly, a house that had more the dignity of age in its appearance than an air of prosperity. I was the possessor of a suite of four rooms under the roof.

The click of the irons ceased for a minute.

"Ah, Monsieur le Marquis, I remember well your grandfather when I was a young man, and he not much older! He wore his own hair, monsieur. I never remember seeing him in anything else. It was much handsomer than a wig. You resemble him much, monsieur."

"IF MARY COULD ONLY SEE ME NOW."

This speech had called me back to myself, for at that moment I had been thinking of Mary Tanner and the old days on the hill-side at Belair. Yes, there was no doubt about it, she was much prettier than the Comtesse de Navarreins, with whom I had danced a quadrille the previous evening. What a strange career I had had! Oh, if Mary could see me now! How fine it was to be the nobleman! How Mary's eyes would open!

But the old servant was waiting for me to speak.

"Ah, Gustave," I replied, making a wry face at myself in the glass, for the old man had given my hair a tremendous twist with the tongs, "I doubt that we shall see the old days again. From what I hear, France seems to be getting ahead fairly well without such men as my grandfather. The people seem to be able to look out for themselves and struggle on."

I glanced at the reflection of the old man's face. On it was a compound of expressions.

"Monsieur le Marquis," he said, quietly, "had they not killed the kindest master in the world I should be one of them to-day. It is that alone that made me leave my country. Could I but forget the guillotine and the days of horror, and that I really loved my King, I could rejoice in France's every victory."

It rather surprised me to hear the old man speak thus, for his language was better than one might expect to hear from the lips of one who had been born and bred a lackey. But they set me to thinking, and his next question chimed in well with my thoughts.

"You have seen France, Monsieur le Marquis?" he asked.

"No, Gustave, I have never been there," I replied. "I have lived my life in far-off America."

Now with this word a surge of pride came over me. What was this France that I had never seen to me? What were the plottings of the little band of nobles who had been despoiled of what they called their rights? Why, I was an American! There was my heart! Could I ever truly enter in with all my will and spirit for the cause or the factions of another exiled government? What reward was there for me? Ay, what reward? I remembered those brave men whom I had left in prison. (Ah, one can learn patriotism in a prison!) Sutton, the boatswain's mate, with the stars and stripes as big as your two hands tatooed across his broad chest, came in my mind's eye. His country's flag was mine! The watchword of Lawrence, that had been brought to us by the prisoners from the Chesapeake, rang in my ears as it had rung through the crowded prison, "Don't give up the ship!" Of a truth I was no Frenchman, though I could pass as such, and had done so.

Wondering what my messmates had been saying about my strange disappearance, I fell into a reverie of retrospection. Where were Captain Temple and the Young Eagle? Where was Cy Plummer, who had loaned me his belongings, and who, in my mind's eye, I could see with his bundle over his shoulder, chanting his song as he went over the hill? Where was the brave sailor who had thrown his severed hand at the feet of the English officer, and what was I but a person who was allowing himself to become deeper embroiled in a cause in which he had no heart, and becoming committed deeper and deeper every day to plots and conspiracies for whose methods he had no stomach (yes, I may set it down—assassination, dagger, and pistol, were spoken of). Truly I had no place here, and a great wish came over me that I could exchange this borrowed finery, and this assumption of being what I was not, for a sailor's toggery, the wide sweep of the sea, and take up again my life on a vessel to whose peak I might look up and see the flag for whose sake my countrymen were dying, for whose sake I should and would be fighting as soon as God would let me.

The door of the little room opened. Gustave had long since had my hair arranged to his satisfaction, and I had been sitting in silence I know not how long. But with the draught of air from the hallway I turned my head and saw a small dwarf of a man, who was a sort of a servant and boots in the house, standing there with the morning paper. I took it—the London Times—and read the head-lines in the first column, "England's Disgrace," in big black letters. And below it, "Has Another Vessel Been Lost in Single Action to the United States?" Hastily I read the reported rumor (pity 'twas nothing else) of the capture of another forty-four-gun frigate by the Constitution. I laughed aloud at the Times's expressions of astonishment that such things should be, and then I threw the paper down and burst into a loud huzza.

Gustave had been watching me as if he thought I had suddenly turned madman.

"Is Napoleon defeated?" he inquired.

"No, no; not that," I answered, smiling to myself, and I think truly that the old man gave a sigh of relief. At this moment there was a tap on the door, and the old servant laid down the fine plum-colored coat that he had been preparing for my wearing, and Monsieur de Brissac was ushered in by him with a low bow. The nobleman closed the door behind him. "Mon ami," he said, hurriedly, "I would speak to you alone." Gustave (he had been "loaned" to me by De Senez) was too old a servant to be told. He picked up a pair of boots and went out into the hallway.

"It is arranged!" cried Monsieur de Brissac, speaking quickly and excitedly. "Three of us must leave for Paris. A cipher letter has been received. The time is most opportune, my dear Blondin."

He gave me an embrace, to which I confess I replied, because he was my friend, and then he continued. "You are the one to go with us," he said. "De Senez and you and myself. We can face the danger bravely, mon ami. Consider the reward!"

Ay, there it was again, "the reward." What did I really care for it?

"I have an invitation for you to be one of a little partie carrée this evening," Monsieur de Brissac went on. "I judge it is best that you attend. Eh, what's the matter?"

I was standing with my back to him looking out of the window, when he approached and placed his hand upon my shoulder. I turned, and his eyes met mine. I was constrained to speak at once of what was uppermost in my thoughts. It required some courage.

"Monsieur de Brissac," I asked, "what do you really think of me?"

"I think you are one who can be trusted," he replied. "In fact, on that I would stake my life; but—" He hesitated.

"But what?" I inquired.

"I pray you not to take offence," my kind friend went on; "but why should I not tell you? The manner of your joining us was certainly most strange, and in some minds has excited a suspicion. That there have been spies among us, I know well; but you—"

I interrupted him. "Believe me, my dear friend, I would rather die than betray a single word of what I have heard or know by being told. But listen"—I spoke earnestly and slowly—"one can be honest with a friend. I truly doubt the ultimate success of any scheming to restore the old French régime. I have thought everything over carefully, and have come to a decision, my first statement put aside."

Monsieur de Brissac said nothing, but stood there listening, with one elbow on the mantel-piece, whilst I continued speaking. It was some minutes before I had finished, but I told him frankly of my position, and what I considered right for me to do. He was most attentive, and although once or twice I saw that he felt like making some interruption, he restrained himself.

"I shall not ask," he said at last, "why you did not tell me this thing before; but, believe me, even at this late hour, monsieur, I appreciate the confidence that you have placed in me. As to your misgivings in regard to our attempts to restore the better things, I shall say nothing. If you have weighed carefully the matter, I shall not attempt to dissuade you. But one thing, spoken as a friend, I must tell you: Do not, for your life, breathe a word of this to De Senez or to any of the others."

"Tell me, what am I to do?" I asked. "I am in your power—your hands."

"It would be wrong," the Marquis replied, musingly, but with a sad tone in his words, "not to help you, aside from the requirements of friendship. So do not fear."

"I do not fear; I do not fear," I reiterated. "But what shall I do?"

"You must come with us to France," Monsieur de Brissac answered, speaking in the same low tone of voice. "Despite the embargo laid on trade and importations by the usurper, money works corruption, corruption means many things. It is a known fact that licenses to enter French ports have been sold to both American and English vessels. You are not safe in this country. Come with us to where danger will be no less, but chances to follow your own ideas the better. I can explain that you have left for some French port when you leave us, and if you do not return, I shall join in the mourning, that is all. We will increase our party by one in order to keep up the original number. I shall let you know to-night how we intend to leave England. Good-by, until this evening. Au revoir, monsieur."

When he had gone I began to think and ponder over what had passed. Had I been foolish in being so frank and clear spoken? A word from the Marquis, and I might be returned to the hulks or the prison-yard. Yet in getting out of England lay my only chance. From what had gone before, I understood that it was intended to make a voyage across the Channel in one of the small smuggling vessels that plied an adventurous and remunerative trade along the coast of England, despite the careful watching of the coast-guard vessels and the war-ships. But Monsieur de Brissac's manner had chilled towards me—I felt that. My words had killed the enthusiasm with which he had always addressed me. I half feared that I had been rash.

Notwithstanding this, we made rather a merry party at the gathering that evening. To all intents, nothing had occurred, and not until it came to the breaking up of the little poverty-stricken court, which was held at the mansion of the Comtesse de Navarreins, was there anything said of the approaching departure; but as we left, De Brissac ran his arm through mine, at the same time saying, "I shall walk home with you, if you will permit me, Monsieur de Brienne." We strolled in silence, I waiting for my friend to speak. At last he did so, at my door. "At twelve o'clock to-night you and I will start northwards in a chaise, and to-morrow evening," he whispered, softly, "we will find ourselves in the neighborhood of N——, where we will meet the others, and debark, if the weather permits, in one of the little luggers that cut deeply into the King's revenue. If we land safely on the other side, you had best leave us at once. Leave it all to me. In an hour I call for you."

Before daylight of the next morning Monsieur de Brissac and myself were some thirty miles north of London, driving through the county of Essex. At about ten o'clock we breakfasted at a way-side tavern, where we exchanged our tired horse for two saddle beasts, I having quite a tussle with mine as I mounted, and then we pressed ahead all the afternoon, expecting to be near the little village of N—— some time in the evening. It was damp and chilly for this time of the year; the prospect was not fine in the way of scenery, and my companion was in no talkative frame of mind. It was strange; I was, so to speak, a blind man in the power of his guide, for if I should lose Monsieur de Brissac, I should be in a bad way. At last I knew we were near the sea, for I could smell it in the air long before it burst in view.

I wondered greatly at my patron's knowledge of the road and the by-ways by which we reached this particular bit of the coast. For hours we had ridden across a wind-swept plateau, seamed by many deep-worn paths running in all directions. In the earlier part of the afternoon gibbetlike sign-posts had helped to point us to the right direction, but as it grew toward dusk we saw none of them, and yet never once had Monsieur de Brissac faltered; turning and twisting and yet keeping the same general direction, until he had brought us to the edge of the narrow height along which we were riding. Finally we sighted a little cluster of huts, whose roofs we looked down upon from the top of a great, high sand cliff, and then Monsieur de Brissac pointed.

"Your eyes are good," he said. "Can you see whether there is anything hanging from the window of the house nearest yonder small dock?"

I gazed intently. In the growing darkness I could make out a white rag or something fluttering from the window-sill, and so I reported.

"The signal," was the response to my information. "They are ahead of us, and all is well."

It was no easy job to urge our tired nags down the steep runway, and had my mount backed and filled the way he had when I first put my leg over him, we might both of us have pitched headlong upon the roofs of some of the outlying huts, for they were scarcely more.

I suppose that this little village was considered of too small importance to be watched closely by the government, but it must have been apparent that it was not fishing or net-mending that kept so many stalwart sailor-men there.

[to be continued.]

[CAPTAIN LEARY'S SAMOAN EXPERIENCE.]

SOME STIRRING INCIDENTS IN RECENT AMERICAN NAVAL HISTORY.

BY FRANKLIN MATTHEWS.

CAPTAIN LEARY AT SAMOA.

No man can deny that there are times when war, with all its horrors, is necessary and honorable. One of these times is when war is waged for the rights of common humanity. Some of the most stirring episodes in our history have been associated with this kind of noble effort. Many a time have the decks of our men-of-war been cleared for action in such a cause. Many a time has some one of our naval officers, thousands of miles away from home, with no means of asking for instructions, taken action which meant warfare, with its loss of life and great expenditure of money, simply because he knew he was doing what was right, and really was acting for the civilized nations of the world. We thundered at the gates of Japan. We have fired on and punished pirates. Only recently we cleared our ships for action in the harbor of Rio de Janeiro. More than fifty years ago one of the bravest men that ever wore the naval uniform of the United States defied the power of Austria in her own waters because she would not give up an American citizen confined on one of her war-ships, and the roar of "Old Ingraham," as he ordered his ship cleared for action when he knew that in a fight he would probably be beaten, was heard around the world.

Most of these "minor episodes" of our navy have been associated with the misdeeds of half-civilized nations. Occasionally one has had to do with a nation of first rank. One of these was the stand of Ingraham in Austria. I want to tell of another deed which, in my judgment, was as important as that of Ingraham, and which came within a hair's-breadth of involving us, in 1889, in war with Germany, then, as now, a nation of great military prowess. It is a story the full details of which have never been made known, and one that should make American blood tingle with pride. The story reveals the heroism of one of our naval officers who has always refused to exalt his part of the work, saying he merely did his duty; he did not hesitate, even if war with Germany should result, to uphold the honor of our flag, and to protect women and children and the sick and infirm in the name of humanity.

That man was Commander Richard P. Leary of our navy, and the incidents that led up to his action happened at and near the harbor of Apia in the beautiful Samoan Islands. Time and again have I and other writers asked Leary to tell about it, and time and again has he resolutely refused, saying that the sense of having done his duty was all the reward he wanted. Consequently I have been forced to go to the public records and to some of the men who were in Samoa at the time to get the details of a long series of acts which resulted one day in an American man-of-war and a German man-of-war lying side by side a short distance outside of Apia Harbor, each cleared for action, and war between our country and Germany depending upon whether the Captain of the German ship should fire upon some native forts on the mainland. Such shots would have gone over the deck of the Adams, which Leary commanded, and he practically, although not literally, sent word to the German commander that the first shot on the native forts would be answered by a broadside from American guns. After almost an entire day of intense excitement on board both ships and on the mainland, the German commander yielded—went back into port—and a grave crisis in our history was safely passed—because of the patriotism and pluck of one of our naval officers who to this day refuses to talk about it.

To understand the story fully we must go into the causes of the trouble. The Samoan, or Navigator Islands, have always been an object of envy by nations which are known as "land-grabbers." The desire of the Germans to secure control of those islands had caused most of the troubles of the Samoans in recent years. It was the old desire for money and property over again. The United States had long recognized the Samoans as a civilized people, and had made a treaty with them. In time Germany and England united with us in a joint treaty with the Samoans for their protection and development. German residents there wanted control of trade, and stirred up a rebellion against the High Chief, or King, Malietoa. They took the side of Tamasese, a pretender to the throne. On a pretext that property belonging to Germans—some pigs and some cocoanuts—had been stolen by Malietoa's men, they declared war against him, and finally made him give himself up to them to save his people from slaughter. He was deported to Africa, and later to Germany. The Samoans would not have Tamasese for King, and practically the entire nation rallied around Mataafa, who succeeded Malietoa.

There was now a civil war between the two factions. The Americans did not take sides, except to refuse to acknowledge Tamasese as King. The Germans did take sides, notwithstanding the treaty of neutrality. They bombarded villages on this and that excuse; they fired on unarmed natives in boats; they gave aid openly to Tamasese; they assumed an air of possession of the islands. Now it must not be supposed that all this was done with the full approval of the German government, because the Germans in time brought back Malietoa, and since then they have recalled the one man who stirred up most of the trouble. In speaking, therefore, of the matter, let it be understood that we have strict reference to those Germans alone who were in Samoa.

THE GERMAN WAR-SHIP "ADLER."

There was constant friction between the Americans and Germans in Apia, and many letters passed between Captain Leary and the Captain of the German war-ship Adler, stationed there at the time. This being a story of Captain Leary's patriotic acts, we need go no further into the details of Samoan history. One of the first of Leary's notable acts was to send a letter, on September 6, 1888, to the Captain of the Adler. The Adler, on the day before, had gone to the island of Manono to burn the houses and villages of the natives who would not support Tamasese. The war-ship took some of Tamasese's boats in tow, and soon the guns of the war-ship were heard bombarding houses known to have been occupied by defenceless women and children. The Adler came back the next day, and at once Captain Leary sent the German Captain a letter of protest. He recited what he knew of the bombardment and what he had been told, and then he added, with a firmness that does one good to read:

"Such action, especially after the Tamasese party having been represented as a strong government, not needing the armed support of a foreign power, appears to be a violation of the principles of international law as well as a violation of the generally recognized laws of humanity. Being the only other representative of a naval power now represented in this harbor, for the sake of humanity I hereby respectfully and solemnly protest in the name of the United States of America and of the civilized world in general against the use of a war-vessel for such service as was yesterday rendered by the German corvette Adler."

THE UNITED STATES WAR-SHIP "ADAMS."

This was the first open breach between the commanders of the two war-ships. Leary based his action simply on the ground of humanity. One of his next conspicuous acts was to uphold the honor of the American flag. A body of Tamasese's men were encamped on Mulinuu Point, which the Germans claimed was under the jurisdiction of their government because Germans owned property there. Some of these natives saw an American flag floating at the top of a tree not far away. It was placed there by a half-breed who was an American citizen. It floated above his own property. The Tamasese men tore it down and into strips. Then they partly wrecked his house and threatened to kill him. Captain Leary soon heard of it, and he sent a letter to the Adler's Captain asking if the natives were under the protection of the German war-ship. He wanted to fix the responsibility for the insult to the American flag, because, as he said, he was "obliged to furnish necessary protection to Americans in jeopardy."

The German Captain made a non-committal reply, and the next day Leary repeated his request, saying that the question at issue was not one of diplomacy, but of military policy. He then showed his American spirit in these utterances:

"Under the shadow of the German fort at Mulinuu atrocities have been committed on American property, and the lives of the American owners have been threatened and jeopardized by armed natives, who appear to be sheltered by the naval force belonging to the vessel under your command. My official obligations do not permit me to negotiate with diplomatic or political representatives of foreign powers, but with military or naval commanders interested in official acts; and as the naval commander charged with the protection of American citizens, I again have the honor respectfully to request to be informed 'whether the armed natives at Mulinuu Point are under the protection of the Imperial Naval Guard belonging to the vessel under your command or are they not under that protection.'"

Leary received an evasive reply to this, and the relations between the two commanders became more strained. Leary did not stop with this. He sent a letter to Tamasese demanding restitution. The Germans, who had control of the local post-office, would not forward the letter, and later Leary sent another, in which he said:

"I have the honor to inform your Highness that the articles forcibly taken from the house of Mr. Scanlan by your people have not yet been returned, and that they must be restored to Mr. Scanlan without unnecessary delay, for which purpose I shall wait until sunset, Wednesday the 14th, and if it be not reported to me by that time that my demand has been complied with, I shall be at liberty to take such action as will in future enforce a wholesome respect for the American flag and the laws and property under its protection.

"A red flag hoisted at the foremast of an American war-vessel simultaneously with the discharge of a blank charge will be the signal for you to remove from your fort and vicinity to a place of safety all women, children, sick, and wounded, for which purpose a liberal time will be allowed before resorting to more serious measures."

No second notice was required from Leary. Tamasese restored the property to Mr. Scanlan, including the American flag, which floated secure from insult on his property afterward.

[to be continued.]

[THE WRONG TRAIN.]

BY SOPHIE SWETT.