Copyright, 1896, by Harper & Brothers. All Rights Reserved.

A VIRGINIA CAVALIER.

BY MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL.

CHAPTER II.

he full flood of the sun, now low in the heavens, poured through the western windows upon the figure of the boy standing in the doorway. The room was beginning to darken, and the ruddy firelight, too, fell glowingly upon him.

The Earl was instantly roused, and could scarcely persuade himself that the boy before him was only fifteen; seventeen, or even eighteen, would have seemed nearer the mark, so tall and well-developed was he. Like all creatures of the highest breeding, George looked handsomer the handsomer his dress; and although his costume was really simple enough, he had the splendid air that made him always appear to be in the highest fashion. His coat and knee-breeches were of dark blue cloth, spun, woven, and dyed at home. His waistcoat, however, was of white brocade, and was made of his mother's wedding-gown, Madam Washington having indulged her pride so far as to lay this treasured garment aside for waistcoats for her sons, while Mistress Betty was to inherit the lace veil and the string of pearls which had gone with the gown.

George's shoebuckles and knee-buckles were much finer than the Earl's, being of paste, and having been once worn by his father. His blond hair was made into a club and tied with a black ribbon, while under his arm he carried a smart three-cornered hat—for the hat made a great figure in the ceremonious bows of the period. His dog; a beautiful creature, stood beside him.

Never in all his life had the Earl of Fairfax seen so noble a boy. The sight of him smote the older man's heart; it flashed through him how easy it would be to exchange all his honors and titles for such a son. He rose and saluted him, as Madam Washington said, in a tone that had pride in every accent,

"My lord, this is my son, Mr. Washington."

George responded with one of those graceful inclinations which, years after, made the entrance of Colonel Washington at the Earl of Dunmore's levee at Williamsburg a lesson in grace and good-breeding. Being "Mr. Washington" and the head of the house, it became his duty to speak first:

"I am most happy to welcome you, my lord, to our home."

"And I am most happy," said the Earl, "to meet once more my old friend Madam Washington, and the goodly sons and sweet daughter with which she has been blessed."

"My mother has often told us of you, sir, in speaking of her life during the years she spent in England."

"Ah, my lord," said Madam Washington, "I perceive I am no longer young, for I love to dwell upon those times, and to tell my children of the great men I met in England, chiefly through your lordship's kindness."

"It was my good fortune," said the Earl, "to be a humble member of the Spectator Club, and through the ever-lasting goodness of Mr. Joseph Addison I had the advantage of knowing men so great of soul and so luminous of mind that I think I can never forget them."

"I had not the honor of knowing Mr. Addison. He died before I ever saw England," replied Madam Washington.

"Unfortunately, yes, madam. But of those you knew, Mr. Pope, poor Captain Steele, and even Dean Swift, with all his ferocious wit, his tremendous invective, his savage thirst for place and power, respected Mr. Addison. He was a man of great dignity—not odd and misshapen, like little Mr. Pope, not frowsy like poor Dick Steele, nor rude and overbearing like the fierce Dean—but ever gentle, mild, and of a most manly bearing. For all Mr. Addison's mildness, I think there was no man that Dean Swift feared so much. When we would all meet at the club, and the Dean would begin his railing at persons of quality—for he always chose that subject when I was present—Mr. Addison would listen with a smile to the Dean as he lolled over the table in his huge periwig and roared out in his great rich voice all the sins of all the people, always beginning and ending with Sir Robert Walpole, whom he hated most malignantly. Once, a pause coming in the Dean's talk, Mr. Addison, calmly taking out his snuff-box and helping himself to a pinch, remarked that he had always thought Dean Swift's chiefest weakness, until he had been assured to the contrary, was his love for people of quality. We each held our breath. Dick Steele quietly removed a pewter mug from the Dean's elbow; Mr. Pope, who sat next Mr. Addison, turned pale and slipped out of his chair; the Dean turned red and breathed hard, glaring at Mr. Addison, who only smiled a little; and then he—the great Dean Swift, the man who could make governments tremble and Parliaments afraid; who made duchesses weep from his rude sneers, and great ladies almost go down on their knees to him—sneaked out of the room at this little thrust from Mr. Addison. For 'twas the man, madam—the honest soul of him—that could cow that great swashbuckler of a genius. Mr. Addison abused no one, and he was exactly what he appeared to be."

"That, indeed, is the highest praise, as it shows the highest wisdom," answered Madam Washington.

George listened with all his mind to this. He had read the Spectator, and Mr. Addison's tragedy of Cato had been read to him by Mr. Hobby, the Scotch schoolmaster who taught him, and he loved to hear of these great men. The Earl, although deep in talk with Madam Washington, was by no means unmindful of the boy, but, without seeming to notice him, watched every expression of his earnest face.

"I once saw Dean Swift," continued Madam Washington. "It was at a London rout, where I went with my brother's wife, Madam Joseph Ball, when we were visiting in London. He had great dark eyes, and sat in a huge chair, and called ladies of quality 'my dear,' as if they were dairy-maids. And the ladies seemed half to like it and half to hate it. They told me that two ladies had died of broken hearts for him."

"I believe it to be true," replied the Earl. "That was the last time the Dean ever saw England. He went to Ireland, and, as he said, 'commenced Irishman in earnest,' and died very miserably. He could not be bought for money, but he could very easily be bribed with power."

"And that poor Captain Steele?"

The Earl's grave face was suddenly illuminated with a smile.

"Dear Dick Steele—the softest-hearted, bravest, gentlest fellow—always drunk, and always repenting. There never was so great a sermon preached on drunkenness as Dick Steele himself was. But for drink he would have been one of the happiest, as he was by nature one of the best and truest gentlemen in the world; but he was weak, and he was in consequence forever miserable. Drink brought him to debts and duns and prison and rags and infamy. Ah, madam, 'twould have made your heart bleed, as it made mine, to see poor Dick reeling along the street, dirty, unkempt, his sword bent, and he scarce knowing what he was doing; and next day, at home, where his wife and children were in hunger and cold and poverty, behold him, lying in agony on his wretched bed, weeping, groaning, reproaching himself, and suffering tortures for one hour's wicked indulgence! Then would he turn gentleman again, and for a long time be our own dear Dick Steele—his wife smiling, his children happy. I love to think on honest Dick at these times. It was then he wrote that beautiful little book, which should be in every soldier's hands, The Christian Hero. We could always tell at the club whether Dick Steele were drunk or sober by Mr. Addison's face. When Steele was acting the beast, Mr. Addison sighed often and looked melancholy all the time, and spent his money in taking such care as he could of the poor wife and children. Poor Dick! The end came at last in drunkenness and beastliness; but before he died, for a little while, he was the Dick Steele we loved, and shall ever love."

"And Mr. Pope—the queer little gentleman—who lived at Twickenham, and was so kind to his old mother?"

"Mr. Pope was a very great genius, madam, and had he not been born crooked he would have been an admirable man; but the crook in his body seemed to make a crook in his mind. He died but last year, outliving many strong men who pitied his puny frame. But let me not disparage Mr. Pope. My Lord Chesterfield, who was a very good judge of men, as well as the first gentleman of his time, entertained a high esteem for Mr. Pope."

"I also had the honor of meeting the Earl of Chesterfield," continued Madam Washington, with animation, "and he well sustained the reputation for politeness that I had heard of him, for he made as much of me as if I had been a great lady instead of a young girl from the colonies, whom chance and the kindness of a brother had brought to England, and your lordship's goodness had introduced to many people of note. 'Tis true I saw them but for a glimpse or two, but that was enough to make me remember them forever. I have tried to teach my son Lord Chesterfield's manner of saluting ladies, in which he not only implied the deepest respect for the individual, but the greatest reverence for all women."

"That is true of my Lord Chesterfield," replied the Earl, who found it enchanting to recall these friends of his youth with whom he had lived in close intimacy, "and his manners revealed the man. He had also a monstrous pretty wit. There is a great lumbering fellow of prodigious learning, one Samuel Johnson, with whom my Lord Chesterfield has become most friendly. I never saw this Johnson myself, for he is much younger than the men of whom we are speaking; but I hear from London that he is a wonder of learning, and although almost indigent, will not accept aid from his friends, but works manfully for the booksellers. He has described my Lord Chesterfield as 'a wit among lords, and a lord among wits.' I heard something of this Dr. Johnson, in a late letter from London, that I think most praiseworthy, and affording a good example to the young. His father, it seems, was a bookseller at Lichfield, where on market-days he would hire a stall in the market for the sale of his wares. One market-day, when Samuel was a youth, his father, being ill and unable to go himself, directed him to fit up the book-stall in the market and attend to it during the day. The boy, who was otherwise a dutiful son, refused to do this. Many years afterwards, his father being dead, Johnson, being as he is in great repute for learning, was so preyed upon by remorse for his undutiful conduct that he went to Lichfield and stood bareheaded in the market-place, before his father's old stall, for one whole market-day, as an evidence of his sincere penitence. I hear that some of the thoughtless jeered at him, but the better class of people respected his open acknowledgment of his fault—the more so as he was in a higher worldly position than his father had ever occupied, and it showed that he was not ashamed of an honest parent because he was of a humble class. I cannot think, madam, of that great scholar, standing all day with bare, bowed head, bearing with silent dignity the remarks of the curious, the jeers of the scoffers, without in spirit taking off my hat to him."

During this story Madam Washington fixed her eyes on George, who colored slightly, but remarked, as the Earl paused:

"It was the act of a brave man and a gentleman. There are not many of us who could do it."

Just then the door opened, and Uncle Jasper, bearing a huge tray, entered. He placed it on a round mahogany table, and Madam Washington proceeded to make tea, and offered it to the Earl with her own hands.

The Earl, while drinking his tea, glanced first at George and then at pretty little Betty, who, feeling embarrassed at the notice she received, produced her sampler from her pocket and began to work demurely in cross stitch on it. Presently Lord Fairfax noticed the open harpsichord.

"I remember, madam," he said to Madam Washington, as they gravely sipped their tea together, "that you had a light hand on the harpsichord."

"I have never touched it since my husband's death," answered she, "but my daughter Betty can perform with some skill."'

Mistress Betty, obeying a look from her mother, rose at once and went to the harpsichord, never thinking of the ungraceful and disobliging protest of more modern days. She seated herself, and struck boldly into "The Marquis of Huntley's Rigadoon." She had, indeed, a skilful little hand, and as the touch of her small fingers filled the room with quaint music the Earl sat tapping with his foot to mark the time, and smiling at the little maid's grave air while she played. When her performance was over she rose, and, making a reverence to her mother and her guest, returned to her sampler.

The Earl had now spent nearly two hours with his old friend, and the sun was near setting, but he could scarcely make up his mind to leave. The interest he felt in her seemed transferred to her children, especially the two elder, and the resolve entered his mind that he would see more of that splendid boy. He turned to George and said to him:

"Will you be so good, Mr. Washington, as to order my people to put to my horses, as I find that time has flown surprisingly fast?"

"Will you not stay the night, my lord?" asked Madam Washington. "We can amply accommodate you and your servants."

"Nothing would please me more, madam, but it is my duty to reach Fredericksburg to-night, where I have business, and I am now seeking a ferry where I can be moved across."

"Then you have not to seek far, sir, for this place is called Ferry Farm; and we have several small boats, and a large one that will easily hold your coach; and, with the assistance of your servants, all of them, as well as your horses, can be ferried over at once."

The Earl thanked her, and George left the room promptly to make the necessary arrangements. In a few moments the horses were put to the coach, as the ferry was half a mile from the house; and George, ordering his saddle clapped on his horse, that was just then being brought from the pasture, galloped down to the ferry to superintend the undertaking—not a light one—of getting a coach, eight horses, and eight persons across the river.

The coach being announced as ready, Madam Washington and the Earl rose and walked together to the front porch, accompanied by little Mistress Betty, who hung fondly to her mother's hand. Outside stood the three younger boys, absorbed in contemplation of the grandeur of the equipage. They came forward promptly to say good-by to their mother's guest, and then slipped around into the chimney-corner, that they might see the very last of the sight so new to them. Little Betty also disappeared in the house after the Earl had gallantly kissed her hand, and predicted that her bright eyes would yet make many a heart ache. Left alone on the porch in the twilight with Madam Washington, he said to her, very earnestly:

"Madam, I do not speak the language of compliment when I say that you may well be the envy of persons less fortunate than you when they see your children. Of your eldest boy I can truly say I never saw a nobler youth, and I hope you will place no obstacle in the way of my seeing him again. Greenway Court is but a few days' journey from here, and if I could have him there it would be one of the greatest pleasures I could possibly enjoy."

"Thank you, my lord," answered Madam Washington, simply. "My son George has, so far, never caused me a moment's uneasiness, and I can very well trust him with persons less improving to him than your lordship. It is my wish that he should have the advantage of the society of learned and polished men, and your kind invitation shall some day be accepted."

"You could not pay me a greater compliment, madam, than to trust your boy with me, and I shall claim the fulfilment of your promise," replied Lord Fairfax. "Farewell, madam; the sincere regard I have cherished during nearly twenty years for you will be extended to your children, and your son shall never want a friend while I live. I do not know that I shall ever travel three days' journey from Greenway again, so this may be our last meeting."

"Whether it be or not, my lord," said Madam Washington, "I can only assure you of my friendship and gratitude for your good-will towards my son."

The Earl then respectfully kissed her hand, as he had done little Betty's, and stepped into the coach. With a great smacking of whips and rattle and clatter and bang the equipage rolled down the road in the dark towards the ferry.

A faint moon trembled in the heavens, and it was so dark that torches were necessary on the river-bank. George had dismounted from his horse, and with quiet command had got everything in readiness to transport the cavalcade. The Earl, sitting calmly back in the chariot, watched the proceedings keenly. He knew that it required good judgment in a boy of fifteen to take charge of the ferriage of so many animals and men without haste or confusion. He observed that in the short time George had preceded him everything was exactly as it should be—the large boat drawn up ready for the coach, and two smaller boats and six stalwart negro ferrymen to do the work.

"I have arranged, my lord, with your permission," he said, "to ferry the coach and horses, with your own servants, over first, as it is not worth while taking any risks in crowding the boats; then, when the boats return, the outriders and their horses may return in the large boat."

"Quite right, Mr. Washington," answered the Earl, briskly; "your dispositions do credit to you, and I believe you could transport a regiment with equal ease and precision."

George's face colored with pleasure at this. "I shall go on with you myself," he said, "if you will allow me."

The boat was drawn up, a rude but substantial raft was run from the shore to the boat, the horses were taken from the coach, and it was rolled on board by the strong arms of a dozen men. The horses were disposed to balk at getting in the boat, but, after a little coaxing, trotted quietly aboard; the ferrymen, re-enforced by two of Lord Fairfax's servants, took the oars, and the boat, followed by two smaller ones, was pulled rapidly across the river. After a few minutes, seeing that everything was going right, George entered the coach and sat by the Earl's side. The Earl lighted his travelling-lamp, and the two sat in earnest conversation. Lord Fairfax wished to find out something more about the boy who had made so strong an impression on him. He found that George had been well taught, and although not remarkable in general literature, he knew more mathematics than most persons of twice his age and opportunities. He had been under the care of the old Scotchman, Mr. Hobby, who was, in a way, a mathematical genius, and George had profited by it.

"And what, may I ask, Mr. Washington, is your plan for the future?"

"I hope, sir," answered George, modestly, "that I shall be able to get a commission in his Majesty's army or navy. As you know, although I am my mother's eldest son, my brother Laurence, of Mount Vernon, is my father's eldest son, and the head of our family. My younger brothers and I have small fortunes, and I would like to see something of the world and some service in arms before I set myself to increasing my part."

"Very creditable to you, and you may count upon whatever influence I have towards getting you a commission in either branch of the military service. I myself served in the Low Countries under the Duke of Marlborough in my youth, and although I have long since given up the profession of arms, I can never lose my interest in it. Your honored mother has promised me the pleasure of your company for a visit at Greenway Court, when we may discuss the matter of your commission at length. I am not far from an old man, Mr. Washington, but I retain my interest in youth, and I like to see young faces about me at Greenway."

"Thank you, my lord," answered George, with secret delight. "I shall not let my mother forget her promise—but she never does that."

"There is excellent sport at Greenway, and I have kept a choice breed of deer-hounds, as well as fox-hounds. I brought with me from England a considerable library, and you can, I hope, amuse yourself with a book; but if you cannot amuse yourself with a book, you will always be dependent upon others for your entertainment."

"I am fond of reading—on rainy days," said George; at which candid acknowledgment the Earl smiled.

What a delightful vista this opened before George, who was, like other healthy-minded boys, devoted to reading and hearing of battles, and fencing, and all manly sports! He glanced at Lance, standing erect and soldierly, as the boat moved through the water. He meant to hear all about the siege of Bouchain from Lance before the year was out, and blushed when he was obliged to acknowledge to himself that he had never heard of the siege of Bouchain.

[to be continued.]

[HOW MAGIC IS MADE.]

BY HENRY HATTON.

V.

About the year 1864 Carl Herrmann introduced at the old Academy of Music, New York, a trick never seen here before, which he called "The Miser." It has since become common, and, under the more prosaic title of "Catching Money in the Air," is exhibited more or less skilfully by many of the present-day conjurers. None, however, has presented it so artistically as the originator, for in his hands it was a very clever bit of melodramatic acting.

Borrowing a hat from the audience, he crept about the dimly lighted stage to the accompaniment of weird music, and with eager eyes and avaricious clutch seemingly plucked from the air half-dollars innumerable, which he deposited in the hat, until he had accumulated twenty-five or thirty.

FIG. 1.

More modern conjurers have tried to improve on Herrmann's method by using apparatus of one kind or another in the trick, but he relied exclusively on his ability to palm a coin.

As it will be necessary for my readers first to master this important element of conjuring, I shall try to teach it before explaining the other details of the trick. To palm a coin, hold it lightly between the tips of the second and third fingers and the thumb of either hand, as shown in Fig. 1. Balancing it on the finger-tips, let the thumb resume its normal position, and at the same moment let the two fingers press the coin into the hollow of the palm. See Fig. 2. Now contract the thumb so that the coin will be held by the ball on one side, and on the other by the opposite fleshy part of the hand, as in Fig. 3. Though at first it may be difficult to press the coin into the exact position, practice will soon make it easy.

FIG. 2.

The beginner is apt to try to have his hand appear perfectly flat when seen from the back; but let him notice the open hand of a friend as it hangs in a normal condition, and he will find that it is slightly arched. Supposing that my reader is now an adept at palming, let us proceed with "The Miser" as Herrmann did it.

When he came on the stage he held twenty-five or thirty coins in his left hand and one coin in his right. As an excuse for keeping the left hand closed it grasped the lower part of the lapel of his coat. In the right hand he carried his wand, or badge of office, a round ebony stick about eighteen inches long, fitted at the ends with ivory ferrules.

FIG. 3.

Approaching some man in the audience, he asked for a high hat, and as it was handed to him he thrust the left hand inside of it, the thumb only remaining outside to grasp the rim. Extending his arms, he struck the left arm with his wand and the closed right hand, asking the nearest person to feel his arms and body so as to assure himself that nothing was concealed there. This examination over, he turned to go back to the stage, throwing his wand ahead of him, and letting the coin in the right hand slip into his sleeve.

Now began his search for the money. As he moved about the stage the audience was allowed to see that the right hand was empty. Suddenly he grasped at the air, and then peering into his hand, he struck his forehead as if in despair at finding nothing. Then as the right hand fell to his side the sleeved half-dollar slipped into it.

Now began the money hunt in earnest. With his right side toward the audience, he again clutched at the air, and this time, letting the coin drop to his finger-tips, showed it. Then he tossed it visibly, so that all might see it, into the hat, where it was heard to fall. The next moment, as if with the instinct of the miser, he took it out again and pressed it to his lips, and once more threw it into the hat. This time, however, he only apparently did so, for as the hand went inside the hat he palmed the coin, and let drop one of the coins from the left hand instead.

Round and round the stage he went, catching the coin, palming it, and apparently adding it to the store in the hat, which was each time supplied from the left hand.

When only four or five coins were left in the hand, he actually threw the coin which he "caught" into the hat, turned the empty hand toward the audience—without speaking, however, for the whole trick was carried out in pantomime—and then placing it inside the hat, as if to hold it, took the remaining coins from the left hand. Withdrawing that hand, he turned it, palm outward, toward the audience, and then took the hat with it again, this time keeping the fingers outside. In the mean time he had palmed the four or five remaining coins, for it is as easy for the practised conjurer to palm six as one. These coins he proceeded to "catch," one at a time—which requires considerable practice—and threw each visibly into the hat. This last move set at rest any suspicions which might exist that he had been using one coin throughout the trick.

During the course of the trick, Herrmann at times pretended to pass the coin through the bottom or side of the hat. To do this he merely showed the coin, which he palmed as his hand approached the hat, and let the tips of his fingers touch the plush, as if pushing the coin through. At the same time he dropped a coin from the left hand, and the chink as it came in contact with the others heightened the illusion.

Herrmann played to very large audiences, and this trick proved so popular that Robert Heller decided to reproduce it; but he varied it as follows: Besides the lot of half-dollars in his left hand, he had six or eight in his right. Making a grab at the air, he thus "caught" a number of coins, which he appeared to throw into the hat. In fact, he merely closed his hand over the captured coins without any palming, and let six or eight drop from his left hand. Of course his stock was soon exhausted; but when that happened he threw the coins from his right hand bodily into the hat. Then for the next two or three times when he grabbed at the air he kept the right hand closed, and putting the empty hand over the hat, shook up the coins already in, thus giving the impression that he had thrown a number of coins in. Finally he went among his audience, and taking a heaping handful of coins out of the hat, poured them back, retaining six or seven in his hand. These latter he then shook from a lady's handkerchief or her muff, or pretended to take them from the long whiskers of some man.

FIG. 4.

Two or three years later Hartz did the trick, and as he could not palm a coin, he used a flat tin tube which held about six coins. This tube hung by a hook inside the right breast of his vest; the lower end just reached the bottom of the vest. By putting the tips of the fingers under the vest and pressing a lever, a coin dropped into the hand, and the performer was thus enabled, from time to time, to show a half-dollar and throw it into the hat. The other times he merely pretended to catch a coin, and put his closed empty hand over the mouth of the hat, and "made believe," as the children say, to drop the money in.

Another mechanical arrangement that is used by some performers is strapped just above the wrist, inside the sleeve, and is so constructed that by extending the arm suddenly a coin is shot out by means of a spring to about the tips of the fingers, and the performer really catches it. Still another coin-holder is used, but the pump-handle movement necessary to release the coins is inartistic. There is one little wrinkle, however, in connection with this trick which is worth describing and worth using. It is a coin with a tiny hole drilled through it near its edge. A human hair or a bit of fine sewing silk is run through this hole and formed into a loop. In this way the coin is hung from the thumb. When the performer wishes to "catch" it, a slight jerk brings it to the front of the hand, where he seizes it; and as he puts it into the hat he lets it swing to the back of the hand, which can then be shown empty.

FIG. 5.

A very good trick, somewhat akin to palming, is done with five half-dollars. In palming proper, a new coin with a sharp, milled edge is the best to use, as the milling helps to hold it in place, but for this trick well-worn pieces of money which have become quite smooth are necessary.

FIG. 6.

Begin by rolling up the sleeves so that the arms are bared. Hold the left-hand extended, palm upwards, and on the tip of each finger and thumb balance a coin. Place the right hand on top of the left, so that the money is held between the tips of the fingers of the two hands. Now turn the hands until the back of the right hand is towards the audience, as in Fig. 4. Fix your eyes on the ceiling, as if that had something to do with the trick; move the hands rapidly upward and downward twice, and while doing so bring the tips of the fingers together, causing the coins to lap one over another. Then surround them, as it were, with the tips of the left hand fingers and thumb, and quickly slide them down into the right palm, where they are to be held by pressing on them with the tip of the left thumb; finally, at almost the same moment make a third upward move, keeping the hands together and the eyes fixed above; the hands will appear to be empty and the coins to have vanished. Figs. 5 and 6 show the fronts and backs of the hands. During the applause which always follows this trick, quietly withdraw your thumb, close the right hand over the money, and put it noiselessly away, either in your pocket or other receptacle.

The mere learning of a move like palming is hardly interesting unless it avails for some trick. As "The Miser" is not suitable for all occasions, here is a little trick which will answer to show my amateur friend's proficiency:

Place two half-dollar's on a table. Pick up one with the right hand, palm it, and pretend to place it in the left hand. To do this naturally let the tips of the right-hand fingers touch the left hand, and at the same time close that hand and draw the other away. To the general spectator it will appear as if the coin really remained in the left hand. Turn the left wrist, so that the back of the hand will be toward your audience.

Now pick up the second coin with the tips of the right-hand fingers and thumb, cry, "Pass!" Clink the two coins together, and it will seem as if the left-hand coin had at that moment passed to the right.

Besides the method of palming described, which may be called the orthodox, there are several other methods, one of which I will briefly describe.

FIG. 7.

FIG. 8.

With the palm upward, hold the coin between the thumb and second finger of the left hand, the tip of the forefinger touching it from below, as in Fig. 7. Let the right thumb go under and the other fingers over it, as if taking it. If at the same time you withdraw the right forefinger and release the grasp of the thumb and second finger, the coin will fall into the left palm, as in Fig. 8. Close the right hand and hold it aloft, letting the left hand drop to the side or rest on the hip. The effect is exactly as if the coin had been taken away by the right hand.

The coin may be made to appear as if taken from the leg by merely dropping it to the tips of the left-hand fingers, which must then be laid on the spot it is desired to have it appear.

If, instead of a coin, a small ball is used, a very laughable effect may be produced by appearing to swallow it. To do this show the ball, throw it into the air once or twice, and at last palm it. Place the gathered-up tips of the fingers and thumb to the lips, and at that moment thrust the tongue into the left cheek, which will give it the appearance of having the ball there. Point to the cheek with the right forefinger; then let the right hand drop to the side, holding the ball palmed. To reproduce it lift the lower front of the vest with the left hand, and thrusting the right hand under, let the ball find its way to the finger-tips; leave it under the vest a second, and then withdraw it slowly.

[THE HIDDEN TREASURE OF KING OBANI.]

BY RICHARD BARRY.

This is the story of an American boy in far-off Africa. He was sixteen years of age—very near seventeen, in fact—at the time of this tale; but he had led such a strange life and had been in so many places that he had probably seen more of the world than many grown men who consider themselves great travellers.

The boy's name did not have an American sound; it was Malcolm McFee, and that is Scotch, as any one can tell at half a glance, and the only reason he was an American was because he happened to be born in the United States, on the slopes of the Sierra Nevada.

In his early youth Malcolm's father had been a sailor, and after that a soldier of the Queen in India, where, after serving bravely, and being wounded in one of the campaigns against the mountain tribes, he had taken it into his head to leave before his time was up, and start on the peculiar crusade which filled the next thirty years or so of his life, and which, at the end of that time found him in the far-away diamond and gold country of the dark continent.

One day Malcolm McFee was sitting in front of the little sheet-iron house in which he and his father lived off in the interior of one of the British Colonies in South Africa, when he saw the latter coming rapidly towards him with his arms swinging. Mr. McFee was a small wiry man, all thews and sinews. He had never abused himself in any way, and he could strike a trot and hold it open-mouthed all day like a dog. He was loping along through the dust, and Malcolm saw that he was evidently laboring under some excitement. Now his father was never despondent or cast down, but he was sometimes more enthusiastic than at others, that was all, and never had the boy seen his father so wrought up as at this very moment. He entered the house and closed the door behind him. Then, not even breathing hard from his running, he put both hands on Malcolm's shoulders, and exclaimed, "Laddie, laddie, but we are going to strike it rich!"

Now Malcolm had heard this before, so he waited for further developments. But the strange tale that was told him succeeded at last in arousing even his calmer nature.

A year previously the British government had conducted a campaign way to the northwest of the South African Dutch republic. They had humbled the little black native King and made him pay tribute, but the loot and treasure that they expected to find (for he had been reputed to be wealthy) were not forth-coming. This is the key to this story, and there is no use of going into the details of the conversation between Malcolm and his father. It is what they did that is interesting—and what took place afterwards.

That night an Englishman named Gifford, a tall, gaunt, fanatical-looking being, entered their hut. He was accompanied by a gray-headed, wizened negro, whose ribs and joints showed plainly beneath his shrivelled, dusty skin. A rather remarkable council was held—the Englishman translating as the negro talked.

"He says he knows exactly the place," Gifford said. "He saw them burying it, and after they had walked away from the spot old Obani had every one of the men who digged for him killed—heads chopped off, you know. That's the reason Tommy Atkins didn't find anything up there, eh? Listen, man! We can get it—gold and sparklers! old Grumpah here says—handfuls of them. Are you game, man, to try it? I tell you frankly why I come to you," Gifford continued. "I know you can be trusted, and we will need some money for the outfit. I say, old Juggins, come, are you with me?"

"How did you get such a hold over the old boy?" asked Mr. McFee, nodding towards the squatting black figure.

"That's a short story," answered the Englishman, laughing. "I have had my eye on him for a long time. He let something slip once, and I tell you, man, I worked with my hands to keep that old nig in idleness—for three years I've worked for him. I arranged it so that he thinks I saved his life, too; and that was easy. And now the point—will you join me?"

This question was superfluous, as any one who had known Malcolm's father would have testified.

Three weeks later two large ox-carts, with four blacks to drive them, and three white men—at least two white men and a boy—were treaking across the flat plains, equipped apparently for a hunting excursion into the game-abounding country where beasts with strange horns and names are found in plenty, and where the lion's roar often breaks the stillness of the night.

Privation and hardship, death and disease they faced, and at last, a month later, with only one wagon left, and the loss of one of the negro drivers (by drowning at a river ford) they arrived at the great fertile border-land that edges the deep forest of the outermost possessions of King Obani, chief of the Bangwalis. Here they rested for a week, regaining strength, for they had made the trip in the unhealthy season of the year. They had traded their way peaceably, so far, with what natives they had met, and had encountered no hostile resistance. But the hardest work was yet to come.

Leaving the cattle in charge of one of the natives in a little hidden valley, the four men and Malcolm entered the shadows of the forest. For ten days they struggled on, cutting their way slowly through the massive undergrowth. Each one was laden down with a heavy pack, pickaxes, and long-handled shovels, not forgetting a few coils of rope, and iron bolts which came in handy afterwards. Besides, the three white men (I can speak of Malcolm as a man) carried rifles and well-filled cartridge-boxes.

On the tenth day old Grumpah, who was leading, stopped and made a strange clucking sound, the sound that the African used universally to attract attention. He pointed with his long bony arm. Half hidden by the vines and weeds lay a white rain-washed skeleton, and only a few feet away lay another. They counted thirty of them in all. It was here that the sharers of King Obani's secret had been put past the revealing of it. Grumpah was talking excitedly now, using long words, but Malcolm had picked up a little of the language, and he caught the gist of it even before Gifford turned and spoke.

"Old 'Grumpah' says it is only five miles further on," he whispered.

For some time they had been following quite a distinct path, and now it was better going. In a little over an hour, Gifford, who had forged ahead, uttered a shout that startled some great billed birds squawking out of the tree-tops.

"By George," the Englishman exclaimed, "the old fellow has not lied! Here is the place."

It was evident that a clearing had been made, and at the foot of a great white-trunked tree a mound could be seen covered and grown with underbrush, but hanging from the branch of a tall bush was a strange object. It was an ordinary gin bottle with a label blown into the glass, and on another branch hung a dinner-bell with the clapper removed. Gifford struck the bell with the point of his rifle—it tinkled musically in the silence, and he said, "Come in," jocosely. Mr. McFee's eyes, however, were shining like coals; he removed his coat and laid about him with an axe, cutting away the shrubbery and clearing up the ground. Evidently the mound had been made by hands—no mistaking that.

"Ask him how deep it is," Mr. McFee said, eagerly, driving the point of a pickaxe into the earth.

"The depth of four men!" returned Gifford—"less than thirty feet. How long will it take us?"

McFee looked about him.

"Four days at the most," he said, "if it is easy digging. But now let us go at it right and dig it well fashion. We must make a windlass."

Even before dark—and it grows dark very suddenly in the African forest—a rough winch had been constructed from the trunk of a tree; with the aid of the iron bolts it was strongly held together, and handles were placed on each end, so they could be worked the way a bucket is lowered and raised in a mine shaft. By noon the next day all this was completed and the digging fairly commenced. When they had gone down some ten feet or more, and it became difficult to throw up the spadefuls of the black rich earth, the windlass was placed in position, a basket constructed with the aid of twigs and vines, and the two negroes were set to work hauling the earth to the surface as the white men below filled the improvised carrier. Malcolm's back ached from the constant bending and lifting, but his father labored as might a fireman in a burning house, and Gifford, stripped to the waist and dripping with perspiration like a stoker, delved with the strength of two men. Twenty feet, twenty-five feet, thirty feet were reached, and the only encouraging thing about it was that there were signs that the earth had been disturbed before them.

At noon of the third day they had all gone to the surface except Sandy McFee, when the latter gave utterance to a shout from the shaft,

"Here's something," he called; "look out!"

A shining object thrown from his hand sailed up from out the shaft. It was another gin bottle. (Alas! the mark of on-sweeping civilization.)

It struck against the handle of the windlass and shivered into a hundred sparkling bits. One of them fell at Malcolm's feet.

"Look out, McFee, you idiot!" cried Gifford, springing up. "You came near braining us."

"I have struck a layer of tree trunks," came the answer from below. "The treasure must be underneath."

But Malcolm was sitting there gazing at something that he held between his thumb and forefinger.

"What's the matter, lad?" asked Gifford, turning.

Malcolm handed the shining thing up to him.

"Diamonds!" exclaimed the older man, with a gasp; "the bottle was filled with 'em!"

Most of its contents had fallen back into the shaft. Gifford slipped the stone into his mouth and made a spring for the rope. He slid down it sailor fashion, and one of the blacks followed him. Malcolm hastened to the edge. There they were, on their hands and knees, searching the loose earth, beneath which showed clearly the heavy beams that protected the rest of King Obani's treasure.

They were picking things up, objects to right and left, as children do scattered sugar-plums.

Malcolm had about made up his mind to go down also, when suddenly he heard a weird call off in the woods. It reminded him of the "coo-ee" of the Australian bushmen. It was evidently the sound of a human voice. Another answered it. The black man who had staid on the surface with old Grumpah and himself gave a startled look around, and without a word put off into the woods.

"Some one is coming," shouted Malcolm down the shaft.

Again the call was heard. This time those below heard it also.

"Hurry up! get us out!" shouted Gifford. "It's the Bangwalis. I know the cry."

Hurriedly he emptied the earth out of the basket, and, with Mr. McFee, stepped inside, holding fast to the rope. Malcolm took one handle and Grumpah the other. Slowly they turned the windlass that was supporting more than its usual weight. They had raised it perhaps ten feet or so when there was a sharp crack, and old Grumpah gave a groan. The handle on his side had broken. The old man, who had been straining forward with all his strength, slipped his footing and plunged headlong into the pit.

The weight now was more than Malcolm's arms could stand, and do his best he could not help the windlass slipping from his grasp. Down went the basket.

"Are you hurt?" he shouted.

"Steady, Mal, my boy," came his father's voice in reply. "Keep cool. Now try again. One at a time!"

Malcolm put forth all the might of his strong young back, and slowly the bucket came to the surface, this time with his father alone.

"The old nig broke his neck," were the first words he said. "Come, get the others out."

McFEE AND MALCOLM GRASPED THE WINCH HANDLE.

At this moment, nearer than before, sounded the strange cry. McFee grasped the winch handle with his son, and they had wound Gifford nearly to the top, when Malcolm heard a noise and looked up. Not thirty feet away, parting the bushes, stood a strange figure. Over the top of a long shield peered an excited black face, and behind it another. The gleam of a broad spear-head and the tossing of a headdress farther back showed that there were more to come.

So paralyzed were the natives by astonishment at what they saw that they stood there for a moment like ebony statues. McFee saw his opportunity.

"Pull hard, boy," he said. "This affair has gone past treating;" and he stooped quickly and picked up the Martini rifle from the ground. The shot rang out at once, and the nearest two figures lunged forward, for the ball had passed through both of them.

Gifford was now swarming up the rope faster than Malcolm could raise the bucket. A wild cry rang through the woods, but dismayed by the death of the foremost two, the rest of the Bangwalis had taken to their heels.

"Get your guns," cried Gifford. "We must make for the high ground down the path."

The black man down at the bottom of the pit set up a piteous howl.

"We can't leave him," cried Malcolm, letting the bucket go by the run.

The negro seized the rope and came up it like a monkey, leaving the body of poor old Grumpah where he fell. All four now struck off through the woods to the northward. The cries and the pounding of a tomtom were heard from the south, and then a wild scream, as it was evident the blacks had determined on a charge across the open.

"They'll be on us in about five minutes," panted Gifford, looking back over his shoulder. "What in the world are we to do? We must leave the path."

They crushed their way through the thickets a dozen yards or so, each man fighting as if the leaves would drown him, when Malcolm pointed with his finger. There, towering straight up to the sky, was the trunk of a huge tree. At the roots was a small opening, large enough to all appearances for a man to squeeze his way in. No sooner had he seen it than the black darted toward it on hands and knees like a rabbit, and before the others could tell what he was going to do, nothing but his heels were to be seen. Gifford turned and reached up overhead. With the stroke of his knife he clipped off the top of one of the overhanging bushes.

"In with you!" he cried—"in with you! That tree trunk is nothing but a chimney. It will hold us all."

Malcolm and his father and lastly the lanky Englishman crawled into the damp-smelling interior, and Gifford pulled the ends of the branch in after him, so that the spreading leaves would hide the opening. Now the cries sounded all about. On the path not forty feet away a crowd of natives went by on the rush, the ornaments on their knees jingling as they ran. Crouching in the crowded space the fugitives waited breathlessly. They heard more cries, and once some one had passed through the bushes so close to them that they could hear the swishing of the leaves. It had grown so dark that perhaps their footprints could not be seen; their hiding-place was not discovered.

Now a consultation was held.

"I wish old Grumpah was here," said Clifford. "He knows the country."

The black whose teeth were chattering was mumbling something.

"What's that?" asked Gifford, turning to him.

"Ribber not far off," the man replied.

Gifford spoke to him in his own language, and then he addressed the others in a whisper.

"This boy was a slave to the Bangwalis," he said. "He tells me there is a stream to the northward. We might make it and find a canoe at the banks. It's our only chance for life."

"Will we have to leave the treasure behind?" asked Mr. McFee, hoarsely.

"Confound the treasure!" responded Gifford. "It may be the death of us yet. We have enough white stones to make us rich."

It was midnight, judging as well as they could, when they crawled from their hiding-place, and there was nothing for it but to take the path again and go cautiously, as it was impossible in the darkness to travel through the forest. But after following the path for half an hour it lightened suddenly, and they perceived that it was only the thick foliage that had kept the moonlight from reaching them. A few rods further on they went, and a broad stream lay spread before them. On the opposite shore lights could be seen, and the sound of wailing voices and the beating of drums proclaimed the fact that some negro rite was there in progress. The black man pointed with his finger, and Gifford held up his hand as an order to halt.

"King Obani, he home," said the negro boy, nodding across the river. "Three year ago English too 'm. No find gold."

"I know where I am now," whispered Gifford, excitedly. "This river is the Mmymbi; that is Obani's chief town. Willoughby and the rangers took it three years ago, and were fooled in getting the loot, don't you remember. Eh? the idiots!"

"Well, what are we to do?" asked Mr. McFee.

"Thirty-five miles below is an English trading-station," Gifford said, eagerly. "We must get a boat of some kind."

Tho black had waded knee-deep into the stream. He bent over with his face close to the water, and then struck out silently.

"Come back here, you black rascal," hissed Gifford, raising his rifle.

But the boy's reply caused him to lower it.

"He says there's a boat tied to the branches of yonder tree," he murmured.

Now by bending over all could see it plainly. The negro slid over the side, and soon came back paddling it silently along the shore; the others crawled in, and now, keeping well in the deep shadow of the trees, they drifted down the stream; the cries and lights of the Bangwali village grew fainter and fainter in the distance. When around the bend of the river Gifford picked up a paddle, and they struck out at full speed. Three hours' paddling and they were beyond King Obani's jurisdiction, and by daylight they saw the clearing of the English trader.

For some reason they chose not to tell their story, and the next morning as they sat at breakfast a canoe shot down the stream. Some natives landed.

"Hullo, here's news," said the trader's clerk as he approached the house after meeting the native boat. "King Obani is dead."

"Then the mystery of his treasure dies with him," said the trader, for the story was well known.

"Humph," observed Gifford, lighting his pipe.

"Mal, my boy, we'll return for the rest of it some day," whispered Mr. McFee.

But he never did. Adventure seemed to be killed within him, and he and Malcolm composed the firm McFee & Son, general merchants, at K——. And here is where the story comes from.

[RICK DALE.]

BY KIRK MUNROE,

Author of "Snow-shoes and Sledges," "The Fur-Seal's Tooth," "The 'Mate' Series," "Flamingo Feather," etc.

CHAPTER XXXV.

A GANG OF FRIENDLY LOGGERS.

he month of September was drawing to its close, and the gang of loggers belonging to Camp No. 10 of the Northwest Lumber Company, which operated in the vast timber belt clothing the northern flanks of Mount Rainier, were about to knock off work. From earliest morning the stately forest, sweet-scented with the odors of resin, freshly cut cedar, and crushed ferns, had resounded with their shouts and laughter, the ring of their axes, the steady swish of saws, and the crash of falling trees. To one familiar only with Eastern logging, where summer is a time of idleness, and everything depends on the snows of winter, followed by the high waters of spring, the different methods of these Northwestern woodsmen would be matters of constant surprise. Their work goes on without a pause from year's end to year's end. There is no hauling on sleds, no vast accumulations of logs on the ice of rivers or lakes, no river driving, no mighty jams to be cleared at imminent risk of life and limb—nothing that is customary in the East. Even the mode of cutting down trees is different.

The choppers—or "fallers," as they are called in the Northwest—do not work, as do their brethren of Maine or Wisconsin, from the ground, wielding their axes first on one side and then on the other until the tree falls. The girth of the mighty firs and cedars of that country is so great at ordinary chopping height that two men working in that way would not bring down more than two trees in a day, instead of the ten or a dozen required of them. So, by means of what are known as "spring-boards," they gain a height of eight or ten feet, and there begin operations.

The ingenious contrivances that enable them to do this are narrow boards of tough vine maple, five or six feet long, and about one foot wide. Each is armed at its inner end with a sharp steel spur affixed to its upper side. This end being thrust into a notch opened in the tree some four feet below where the cut is to be made, the weight of a man on its outer end causes the spur to bite deep into the wood, and to hold the board firmly in place.

Having determined the direction in which the tree shall fall, and fixed their spring-boards accordingly, two "fallers" mount them, and chop out a deep under cut on the side that is to lie undermost. They work with double-bitted or two-edged axes, and can so truly guide the fall by means of the under cut that they are willing to set a stake one hundred feet away and guarantee that the descending trunk shall drive it into the ground. With the under cut chopped out to their satisfaction, they remove their spring-boards to the opposite side, and finish the task with a long, two-handed, coarse-toothed saw.

As the mighty tree yields up its life and comes to the ground with a grand far-echoing crash, it is set upon by "buckers" (who saw its great trunk into thirty-foot lengths), barkers, rigging-slingers, hand-skidders and teamsters, whose splendid horses, aided by tackle of iron blocks and length of wire-rope, drag it out to the "skid-road." This is a cleared and rudely graded track, set with heavy cross-ties, over which the logs may slide, and it is provided with wire cables, whose half-mile lengths are operated by stationary engines. By this means "turns" of five or six of the huge logs, chained one behind the other, are hauled down the winding skid-road through gulch and valley, to a distant railway landing. There they are loaded on a long train of heavy flat cars that departs every night for the mills on Puget Sound. Here the sawed lumber is run aboard waiting ships, and sent in them to all ports on both shores of the Pacific.

The light-hearted loggers were laughing and joking, lighting their pipes, picking up tools, and beginning to straggle toward the road that led to camp, when suddenly big Buck Raulet, the head "faller," who was keener of hearing than any of his mates, called out:

"Hush up, fellows, and listen! I thought I heard a yell off there in the timber."

In the silence that followed they all heard a cry, faint and distant, but so filled with distress that there was no mistaking its import.

"There's surely somebody in trouble!" cried Raulet. "Lost like as not. Anyway, they are calling to us for help, and we can't go back on 'em. So come on, men. You teamsters stay here with your horses, and give us a yell every now and then, so we can come straight back; for even we don't want to fool round much in these woods after dark. Hello, you out there! Locate yourselves!"

So the calling and answering was continued for nearly ten minutes, while the rescuing party, full of curiosity and good-will, plunged through the gathering gloom, over logs and rocks, through beds of tall ferns and banks of moss, in which they sank above their ankles, until they came at length to those whom they were seeking—two lads, one standing and calling to them, the other lying motionless, where he had fallen in a dead faint from utter exhaustion.

"You see," explained Alaric, apologetically, half sobbing with joy at finding himself once more surrounded by friendly faces, "he has been very ill, and we've had a hard day, with nothing to eat. So he gave out. I should have too, but just then I heard the sound of chopping, and knew the light was shining, and—and—" Here the poor tired lad broke down, sobbing hysterically, and trying to laugh at the same time.

"There! there, son!" exclaimed Buck Raulet, soothingly, but with a suspicious huskiness in his voice. "Brace up, and forget your troubles as quick as you can; for they're all over now, and you sha'n't go hungry much longer. But where did you say you came from?"

"The top of the mountain."

"Not down the north side?"

"Yes."

"Great Scott! you are the first that ever did it, then. How long have you been on the way?"

"I don't know exactly, but something over a month."

"The poor chap's mind is wandering," said the big man to one of his companions; "for no one ever came down the north side alive, and no one could spend a whole month doing it, anyway. I've often heard, though, that folks went crazy when they got lost in the woods."

The men took turns, two at a time, in carrying Bonny, and Buck Raulet himself assisted Alaric, until, guided by the shouts of the teamsters, they reached the point from which they had started.

By this time Bonny had regained consciousness, and was wondering, in a dazed fashion, what had happened. "Is it all right, Rick?" he asked, as his comrade bent anxiously over him.

"Yes, old man, it's all right; and the light I told you of is shining bright and clear at last."

"Queer, isn't it, how the poor lad's mind wanders?" remarked Raulet to one of the men. "He thinks he sees a bright light, while I'll swear no one has so much as struck a match. We must hustle, now, and get 'em to camp. Do you think you feel strong enough to set straddle of a horse, son?" he asked of Alaric.

"Yes, indeed," answered the boy, cheerfully. "I feel strong enough for anything now."

"Good for you! That's the talk! Give us a foot and let me h'ist you up. Why, lad, you're mighty nigh bare-footed! No wonder you didn't find the walking good. Here, Dick, you lead this horse, while I ride Sal-lal and carry the little chap."

BONNY WAS CARRIED DOWN THE SKID-ROAD TO THE CAMP.

Thus saying, the big man vaulted to the back of the other horse, and reaching down, lifted Bonny up in front of him as though he had been a child.

Camp was a mile or more away, and as the brawny loggers escorted their unexpected guests to it down the winding skid-road, they eagerly discussed the strange event that had so suddenly broken the monotony of their lives, though, with a kindly consideration, they refrained from asking Alaric any more questions just then.

"Hurry on, some of you fellows," shouted Raulet, "and light up my shack, for these chaps are going to bunk in with me to-night. I claim 'em on account of being the first to hear 'em, you know. Start a fire in the square, too, so's the place will look cheerful."

No one will ever know how cheerful and homelike and altogether delightful that logging camp did look to our poor lads after their long and terrible experience of the wilderness, for they could never afterwards find words to express what they felt on coming out of the darkness into its glowing firelight and hearty welcome.

"Stand back, men, and give us a show," shouted Raulet, as they drew up before his own little "shack," built of split cedar boards. "This isn't any funeral; same time it ain't no circus parade, and we want to get in out of the cold."

The entire population of the camp, including the cook and his assistants, the blacksmith with his helper, and the stable-boys, as well as the logging gang, were gathered, full of curiosity to witness the strange arrival. Besides these there was Linton, the boss, with his wife, who was the only woman in that section of country. Her pity was instantly aroused for Bonny, and when he had been tenderly placed in Buck Raulet's own bunk, she insisted on being allowed to feed and care for him. She would gladly have done the same for Alaric, but he protested that he was perfectly well able to feed himself, and was only longing for the chance.

"Of course you are, lad!" cried the big "faller," heartily, "and you sha'n't go hungry a minute longer. So just you come on with me and the rest of the gang over to Delmonico's."

The place thus designated was a low but spacious building of logs, containing the camp kitchen and mess-room. Raulet sat at the head of the long table, built of hewn cedar slabs, and laden with smoking dishes. Alaric was given the place of honor at his right hand.

The plates and bowls were of tin; the knives, forks, and spoons were iron; but how luxurious it all seemed to the guest of the occasion! How wonderfully good everything tasted, and how the big man beside him heaped his plate with pork and beans, potatoes swimming in gravy, boiled cabbage, fresh bread cut in slices two inches thick, and actually butter to spread on it! After these came a huge pan of crullers and dozens of dried-apple pies.

How anxiously the men watched him eat, how often they pushed the tin can of brown sugar toward him to make sure that his bowl of milkless tea should be sufficiently sweetened, and how pleased they were when he passed his plate for a second helping of pie!

"You'll do, lad; you'll do!" shouted Buck Raulet, delighted at this evidence that the camp cookery was appreciated. "You've been brought up right, and taught to know a good thing when you see it. I can tell by the way you eat."

After supper Alaric was conducted to a blanket-covered bench near the big fire outside, and allowed to relate the outline of his story to an audience that listened with intense interest, and then he was put to bed beside Bonny, who was already fast asleep. When Buck Raulet picked up his guest's coat, that had fallen to the floor, and a baseball rolled from one of its pockets, the big logger exclaimed, softly:

"Bless the lad! He's a genuine out-and-out boy, after all! To think of his travelling through the mountains with no outfit but a baseball! If that isn't boy all over, then I don't know!"

CHAPTER XXXVI.

IN A NORTHWEST LOGGING CAMP.

The next day being Sunday, the camp lay abed so late that when Alaric awoke from his long night of dreamless sleep the sun was more than an hour high, and streaming full into the open doorway of Buck Raulet's shack. For nearly a minute the boy lay motionless, striving to recall what had happened and where he was. Then, as it all came to him, and he realized that he had escaped from the mountain, with its terrors, its cold, and its hunger, and had reached a place of safety, good-will, and plenty, he heaved a deep sigh of content. His sigh was echoed by another close beside him, and then Bonny's voice said:

"I'm so glad you are awake, Rick, for I want you to tell me all about it. I've been trying to puzzle it out for myself, but can't be really sure whether I know anything about last night or only dreamed it all. Didn't somebody give us something to eat?"

"I should say they did!" rejoined Alaric. "And not only something to eat, but one of the finest suppers I ever sat down to. Don't you remember the baked beans, and the apple pie, and— Oh no, I forgot; you weren't there; and, by-the-way, how do you feel this morning?"

"Fine as a fiddle," replied Bonny, briskly; "and all ready for those baked beans and pie; for somehow I don't seem to remember having anything so good as those."

"I don't believe you did," laughed Alaric, springing from the bunk as he spoke; "for I'm afraid they only gave you gruel and soup, or tea and toast."

"Then no wonder I'm hungry," said Bonny, indignantly, as he too began to dress, "and no wonder I want beans and things. But, I say, Rick, what a tough-looking specimen you are, anyway!"

"I hope I'm not so tough-looking as you," retorted the other, "for you'd scare a scarecrow."

Then the boys scanned each other's appearance with dismay. How could they ever venture outside and among people in the tattered, soiled, and fluttering garments which were their sole possessions in the way of clothing? Even their boots had worn away, until there was little left of them but the uppers. Their hats had been lost during their flight through the forest, their hair was long and unkempt, while their coats and trousers were so rent and torn that the wonder was how they ever held together. As they realized how utterly disreputable they did look, both boys began to laugh; for they were too light-hearted that morning to remain long cast down over trifles like personal appearance. At this sound of merriment Buck Raulet's good-humored face, covered with lather, appeared in the doorway, and at sight of the ragged lads he too joined in their laughter.

"You are tramps, that's a fact!" he cried. "Toughest kind, too; such as I'd never dared take in if I'd seen you by a good light. Never mind, though," he added, consolingly; "looks are mighty easy altered, and after breakfast we'll fix you up in such style that you won't recognize yourselves."

Bonny had baked beans and pie that morning as well as Alaric, for the fare at that logger's mess-table, bountiful as it was, never varied. After breakfast the boys found their first chance to take a good look at the camp, which consisted of nearly twenty buildings, set in the form of a square beside the skid-road, in a clearing filled with tall stumps of giant firs and mammoth cedars. The two largest buildings were the combined mess-hall and kitchen and the sleeping-quarters, containing tiers of bunks, one for each man employed. Then came the store, which held a small stock of clothing, boots, tobacco, pipes, knives, and other miscellaneous articles. All the others were little single-room shacks, built in leisure moments by such of the men as preferred having something in the shape of a home to sleeping in the public dormitory.

These tiny dwellings were constructed of sweet-smelling cedar boards, split from splendid great logs, absolutely straight-grained and free from knots. Walls, roof, floor, and rude furniture were all made of the same beautiful wood. Some of the shacks had stone chimneys roughly plastered with clay, others boasted small porches, and one or two had both. Buck Raulet's had the largest porch of any, with the added adornment of climbing vines. This porch also contained seats, and was considered very elegant; but every one knew that the head "faller" was engaged to be married to a girl "back East," and said that was the reason he had built so fine a house. Having little else to amuse them, the men who put up these shacks labored over them with as much pleasure as so many boys with their cubby-houses.

Many of the men were anxious to hear a more detailed account of our lads' recent adventures, but Buck Raulet said:

"Call round this afternoon. We've got something else on hand just now."

When they returned to his picturesque little dwelling the big man led the way inside, closed the door, and said: "Now, lads, sit down and let's talk business. What do you propose to do next?"

"I don't think we know," responded Alaric.

"Do you want to go to Tacoma or Seattle?"

"I don't know why we should. We haven't any friends in either place, nor any money to live on while we look for work."

"None at all?"

"Not one cent. There's a month's wages due us from the Frenchman who hired us to go up the mountain, but I suppose he has left this part of the country long ago."

"I suppose he has; and you certainly are playing to such hard luck that I don't see as you can do any better than stay right here. If you are willing to work at whatever offers, I shouldn't wonder if the boss could find something for you to do. At any rate, he might give you a chance to earn a suit of clothes, and feed you while you were doing it."

"I think we'd be only too glad to stay here and work," replied Alaric—"wouldn't we, Bonny?"

"Yes, I think we would, only I hope we can earn some money. I've worked without wages so long now that it is growing very monotonous."

"Well, I'll tell you what," said Raulet: "you two stay right here, while I go over and see the boss."

A few minutes later the big man returned with beaming face, and announced that Mr. Linton had consented to take them both on trial, and had promised to find something for them to do in the morning. Moreover, they were to go down to the store at once, pick out the things they needed, and have them charged to their account.

All this Buck Raulet told them; but he did not add that he had been obliged to pledge his own wages for whatever bill they should run up at the store, in case they should fail to work it out. The big-hearted "faller" was willing to do this, for he had taken a great fancy to the lads, and especially to Alaric. "That chap may be poor," he said, "and I reckon he is; but he's honest—so are they both, for that matter; and when a boy is honest, he can't help showing it in his face." These preliminaries being happily settled, he said, "Now let's get right down to business; and the first thing to be done is to let me cut your hair before you buy any hats."

The boys agreeing that this was necessary, the operation was performed with neatness and despatch; for the big "faller" was equally expert at cutting hair or trees.

Then they went to the store, where Alaric and Bonny selected complete outfits of coarse but serviceable clothing, including hats and boots, to the amount of fifteen dollars each.

"Now for a scrub," suggested Raulet; "and I reckon I need one as much as you do." With this he led his protégés to a quiet pool in the creek just back of the camp.

When at noon the boys presented themselves at the mess-room, so magical was the transformation effected by shears, soap, and water, and their new clothing, that not a man in the place recognized them, and they had to be reintroduced to the whole jovial crowd, greatly to Buck Raulet's delight. By a very natural mistake, he introduced Alaric, whom he had only heard called "Rick," as Mr. Richard Dale, and the boy did not find an opportunity for correcting the error just then.

Later in the day, however, when most of the camp population were gathered in front of Raulet's shack listening with great interest to the lads' account of their recent experiences, one of them addressed him as "Richard," whereupon he explained that his name was not Richard, but Alaric.

"Alaric?" quoth Buck Raulet; "that's a queer name, and one I never heard before. It's a strong-sounding name too, and one that just fits such a hearty, active young fellow as you. I should pick out an Alaric every time for the kind of a chap to come tumbling down a mountain-side where no one had ever been before. But where did your folks find the name, son?"

"I'll tell you," replied Alaric, flushing with pleasure at hearing that said of him; "but first I want to say that it was Bonny Brooks who showed me how to come down the mountain, and but for him I should certainly have perished up there in the snow."

"Hold on!" cried Bonny. "Gentlemen, I assure you that but for Rick Dale I should have had the perishing contract all in my own hands."

"I expect you are a well-mated team," laughed Raulet, "and I am willing to admit that for whatever comes tumbling down a mountain there couldn't be a better name than Bonny Brooks. But now let's have the yarn."

So Alaric told them all he could remember of the mighty Visigoth who invaded Italy at the head of his barbarian host, became master of the world by conquering Rome when the eternal city was at the height of its magnificence, and whose tomb was built in the bed of a river temporarily turned aside for the purpose.

The rough audience grouped about him listened to the tale of a long-ago hero with flattering interest, and when it was ended declared it to be a rattling good yarn, at the same time begging for more of the same kind. Alaric's head was crammed with such stories, for he had always delighted in them, and now he was only too glad of an opportunity to repay in some measure the kindly hospitality of the camp. So for an hour or more he related legends of Old World history, and still older mythology, all of which were as new to his hearers as though now told for the first time. Finally he paused, covered with confusion at finding Mr. and Mrs. Linton standing among his auditors, and waiting for a chance to invite him and Bonny to tea.

From that time forth Alaric's position as story-teller was established, and there was rarely an evening during his stay in the camp, where books were almost unknown, that he was not called upon to entertain an interested group gathered about its after-supper open-air fire.

Mr. Linton questioned the boys closely as to their capacity for work while they were at tea with him, and finally said: "I think I can find places for both of you, if you are willing to work for one dollar a day. You, Brooks, I shall let tend store and help me with my accounts until your arm gets stronger, while I think I shall place your friend in charge of one of the hump-durgins."

"What is that, sir?" asked Alaric.

"What's what?"

"A hump-durgin."

"Oh! Don't you know? Well, you'll find out to-morrow."

[to be continued.]

[BLIND-MAN'S-BUFF AT SEA.]

PROBLEMS OF NAVIGATING IN THICK WEATHER.

BY W. J. HENDERSON.

"What do you think about the weather?"