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

HOW TOM RODMAN JOINED THE GERMAN ARMY.

BY POULTNEY BIGELOW.

"Thomas," said Professor Schinkel, as they were in the midst of supper, "run down and see what all the noise is about."

Tom Rodman was only fifteen years old; but like most Yankee boys of his age, he was pretty quick at getting news. He knew that the French Emperor had declared war against the Germans; he knew that soldiers were being marched from every village of the father-land, and he knew also that the Rhine was near to the frontier of France. He was just then—this was in 1870—living in the family of Professor Schinkel, at Slaugenstein on the Rhine, and quickly made up his mind that the noise he heard in the street was made by troops marching to the war. So, with a big piece of brown-bread in his hand and another in his mouth, he sprang down stairs two steps at a time, and opened the front door. The street was full of soldiers who wore helmets of black leather on their heads, and who looked very brown and strong. They all seemed to be looking for something; they had been marching all day, and each soldier carried a knapsack that weighed quite as much as a very heavy child.

As Tom Rodman was wondering what these soldiers wanted, a big corporal with a straw-colored beard and blue eyes came up, measured the house with his eyes, counted the windows, then pulled out a piece of chalk, and wrote on the door,

"One corporal and seven men!"

Tom now noticed that other doors in the street were being treated in the same way, and quickly learned why; the whole town was to become night quarters for the troops marching to the war.

"Is the Herr Professor at home?" asked the corporal.

"Yes; come this way," said Tom, now very much excited.

The corporal knocked at the professor's door, and walked in with a sharp military tread. He then stood bolt-upright, put one hand to the side of his helmet, after the soldier fashion, and said, in a voice that could be heard all over the house,

"I beg to tell you most respectfully, Herr Professor Schinkel, that it is my duty to bring here for this night one corporal and seven men!"

"You are heartily welcome, Herr Corporal," said the professor. "I am glad that I am able to do a little good at this time for the brave men who are going to war for the sake of our common country."

All was now bustle in the Schinkel family. The seven soldiers came tramping up stairs, and were made as comfortable as was possible. Tom ran out to the baker's and the butcher's, and came running back with bread and meat. The soldiers had laid aside their guns, knapsacks, and coats, and each did his share in getting supper ready.

Corporal Kutchke was invited to eat at the professor's table; and he made the evening pass rapidly by telling stories about life in the army. Tom liked the corporal, for he was a big, healthy, strong man, full of enterprise. The professor found that Kutchke had been in the same university as himself, and they had many friends in common. Tom thought he would give anything if he could only be a soldier like Kutchke, and go to the war. The corporal noticed Tom's excitement, and said, "Herr Professor, why don't you send your son there to fight for his country?"

The professor laughed. "My son? Why, he's not my son. He's not German. Tom is an American boy. His name is Tom Rodman. His mother is the widow of a distinguished American artillery officer, and she has sent him here to learn German in my family."

"Well," said Corporal Kutchke, "you do surprise me! The boy speaks such good German that I never thought he could be a foreigner. But of course foreigners don't care about fighting for us!"

II.

The door was pushed open with much force, and one of the soldiers marched into the room, knocked his heels together, stood very stiff and still, then said, with a very clear but yet rather sad voice,

"Private Rothmann has been taken very ill."

"Hulloo!" thought Tom, "that is a funny name for a German; it sounds like mine."

Corporal Kutchke ordered the private to run and inform the army surgeon, while he himself went up stairs to learn what he could. Rothmann was very pale and weak. The heat of the day had affected him on the march, and he was now tossing about in a feverish manner. The surgeon came and said that Rothmann was wholly unfit to march, and must be left behind. He was at once taken to the hospital. As soon as Rothmann was gone, Tom Rodman went up to help the corporal about getting bedding for his men. He found Kutchke seated on a drum rubbing his nose with a drum-stick.

"Million Schock Donnerwetter!" said Kutchke. "What will my Captain say? I shall be blamed because he fell ill. And it's not my fault. It's the fault of all the people along the road, who keep giving the soldiers cigars and sausage, and make them useless for hard work."

III.

When Tom went up to his room that night he felt very sore at not being allowed to go and fight with Corporal Kutchke, and he feared lest people might think him a coward. He sat down on the edge of his bed, and began to make plans for running away and joining the army in spite of the professor. Just then he noticed the uniform which Rothmann had left behind when they had so hastily taken him to the hospital. He jumped up, quickly stripped off his coat and trousers, and dressed himself in the uniform of a Prussian foot-soldier. The fit was not perfect, but as he looked at himself in the glass he felt his shoulders straighten up and his chest swell out with pride, and when he had finally put on the knapsack and the cartridge-belt, and the warlike helmet with the brass spike on top, he looked as though he had been made for this particular uniform. He was just about reaching for Rothmann's gun, which had been hung against the wall, when the door was thrown open, and Corporal Kutchke stood facing him, looking as though he had seen a ghost.

"What is it? Who are you? Are you Rothmann?"

Tom burst into a hearty laugh, and the corporal was so delighted at finding that Tom was not the ghost of Rothmann that he too joined.

Suddenly Corporal Kutchke slapped Tom on the back and said: "I have a grand idea. Do you want to be a soldier?"

"Yes, indeed," said Tom.

"Will you march with us to-morrow at daybreak?"

"Certainly," said Tom.

"Then," said Kutchke, "I will take good care of you. It is against the regulations, but in war-time we cannot be so strict. Your name is Rodman, and you must make believe that you are the man Rothmann whom we have left behind. You are both about the same size, and the Captain is not likely to notice anything amiss, for I will drill you so that you will soon be as good as any of the recruits. You are very big for your age, and you will have splendid stories to tell when you come back from the war."

"But what about the professor?" said Tom.

"Oh, that is simple enough," said the corporal. "Just write him a few lines telling him that you have gone to defend the father-land against the French, and he will forgive you in the end, even if he is angry for the moment."

IV.

There was hard marching for poor Tom, and his knapsack weighed very heavily on his young shoulders, and now and then he would gladly have gone back to his comfortable bed at the professor's, had he not been anxious to show his German comrades that an American could make a good soldier—for Tom was a very patriotic boy. One night, as they were cooking their supper at the camp-fire, Kutchke whispered in Tom's ear that some of their scouts had seen French uniforms in the distance, and that there would soon be a fight.

At about two o'clock in the morning his company was drawn up ready to march, although it was pitch-dark. The Captain made them a short speech, telling them they must make no noise, for they hoped to get very near to the enemy before being seen, and if they fought well, many of them might hope to get the Iron Cross, which is the most highly prized war medal in the German army.

Then each soldier held his hand carefully against his side so as to prevent the rattling of his tin water-bottle against his bayonet-scabbard, and thus they marched for about an hour in silence, keeping a sharp lookout to right and left.

Suddenly was heard ping-ping-ping, the sound of rifle-bullets whizzing over their heads, and soon commenced a clatter of infantry fire, for the French had discovered the movements of this company in the faint light of the dawning day. But it was too late for effective resistance on the part of the enemy, who were taken by surprise, and had to retreat up the slopes of a gentle hill, on the top of which stood six cannon in a row; but, curiously enough, they were pointing in the opposite direction from Tom. As soon as the noise of the firing was heard, Tom heard the bugles blowing, and knew from this that the French would soon be firing off their big guns at them. Then the Captain roared out to them to run as hard as they could and capture these six pieces of cannon before they could be turned round and fired off; so they all started with a great hurrah, and arrived at the guns just as the French artillerymen were trying to move them into proper positions. Tom could not tell exactly what happened, excepting that there seemed to be hundreds of swords waving in the air and a constant rattling of infantry fire. Now and then a man dropped, but Tom was too excited to notice why he dropped. His blood was aroused, and he thought only of keeping near Kutchke and winning the Iron Cross. There was one cannon which was just about to be fired, when Kutchke sprang at the man in charge and knocked him down with the butt of his rifle; but no sooner was this done than another man sprang forward to fire the gun, and three Frenchmen attacked Kutchke at once. Then Tom sprang forward like a wild-cat and smashed the gun of a Frenchman who was just about sticking his bayonet through Kutchke's back, and at this the other two ran away. Then the Captain, who was fighting close to them, shouted out, "Well done, Rodman; you have saved Kutchke's life!" And the soldiers near by shouted "Hurrah!" still more vigorously, and looked at Rodman as though they were proud of him.

But now the Captain commenced to be anxious for the safety of his company, and ordered the men to harness up the horses to the French cannon so as to get them back as trophies, for there were signs in the distance that large forces of French were coming up. They had no sooner brought the horses up to be harnessed, than a regiment of French cavalry was seen galloping towards them in a cloud of dust. On they came with loud shouts, and there was no time to waste. Tom's company was ordered to lie down beneath the guns and not to fire until the horses were close to them, and then to give them a volley all together. This plan worked splendidly, for the French were so surprised by this sudden response that there was much confusion amongst them, and they hesitated. Tom noticed a French officer carrying a flag, which in war is considered a very precious trophy. When that Frenchman saw the effect of the first volley, he looked about him as though ready to run away, and when a second volley was fired, which killed more Frenchmen, he wheeled round with the flag in his hand and put spurs to his horse. But Tom did not wait for orders in the presence of such an opportunity. He seized the nearest artillery horse, jumped into the saddle in the twinkling of an eye, and made straight for the flying French officer. The race was an exciting one, and Tom soon discovered that it was likely to be a dangerous one; for they soon left the battle-field behind them, and he had before him the prospect of fighting a desperate man. Tom had no weapons, for he had thrown away his gun, and at the same time he had cast off his knapsack and cartridge-belt. Tom shouted to the Frenchman that he must surrender, but the Frenchman paid no attention to it; so Tom took off the stirrup leathers from the saddle while his horse kept up his furious pace. He hung the two stirrups on to one leather, and joined the two leathers together so that they would stretch a long distance. Then he swung this around his head as though it had been a long sling, and waited for a time to use it. The Frenchman was not a very good rider, and the country over which he rode was rather rough, so that he did not dare to turn round in the saddle, excepting just enough to point his pistol at Tom, and fire it off without hitting anything. Tom was gaining inch by inch, and at last was ready for a blow. A narrow and rapid river was close ahead of them, and the Frenchman no doubt felt that escape was hopeless without a struggle; so he drew his sword, wheeled his horse, and attacked Tom for the purpose of running him through the body. Tom kept cool, swung his long leather gently around his head, and just at the moment when the Frenchman was ready to make his lunge he gave all his strength to a final swing that brought the stirrups together against the left cheek of the Frenchman, who fell to the ground stunned and bleeding. One blow was enough, and Tom sprang from his horse, seized the flag and sword from the enemy and then fetched water from the river and bandaged up the Frenchman's wound. Tom would have staid longer with this French officer had it not been that French troops made their appearance over the tops of the ridges.

V.

With the sabre of a French cavalry officer in one hand, and the standard of a French cavalry regiment in the other, Tom ran as hard as his legs could carry him towards the rapid stream which was not more than fifty yards from where he had had the short fight. It was no use trying to escape on horseback, for his retreat was cut off by French cavalry; indeed, it seemed to Tom as though Frenchmen had started up out of the ground all around him, and he realized that he was now cut off entirely from his comrades, and must make good use of his wits if he wished to avoid being killed or made prisoner. Along the edges of this stream were clumps of overhanging bushes, and into the thickest of them he sprang, where he lay effectually concealed. Pretty soon a detachment of Frenchmen passed close to him, and he heard one of them say:

"Oh, that sacré Prussien! How I should like to catch him and get back the standard of our regiment! But I don't see how he could have knocked our Captain off his horse; it is most mysterious. However, I suppose he has drowned himself in the river, and so I ought to be satisfied."

Tom did not know the name of this river, or where it led to, but he knew enough of geography to know that if he kept on it long enough he should arrive at the Rhine. He was an expert swimmer, and made up his mind that the only way open to him was to travel by water and avoid the land. Of course he did not dare move by daylight, but as soon as the sun was set he launched himself upon the stream and struck out with the current. The sabre and standard he had wrapped round and round with small branches cut from the bushes, and this served him not only as a means of concealing his trophies, but also as a help, for it supported him when he was tired. His uniform he had to leave behind, for it would have been in his way, and he wore nothing but his shirt and a sort of bathing-drawers, which he made by cutting off the lower part of his uniform trousers. The water was, fortunately, warm, and Tom was prepared for a good long swim. He had gone about an hour, and already he had begun to feel that he could not stand very much more of this kind of work, when he noticed ahead of him something black. He struck out for it, and found that it was a massive door, which had been broken off from some peasant's barn and probably thrown into the river out of mischief by some prowling band of soldiers. To the great delight of Tom this barn door was so big that he could lie upon it and find most welcome rest as he floated on down stream at the rate of five or six miles an hour. Tom had nothing to eat with him, but he tightened his belt and tried to think of other things, and soon he fell asleep, with his head resting in the water on one side of the raft, and his legs in the water on the other side.

As he lay sweetly dreaming, he was suddenly awakened by a sound of voices and by the fierce light of a huge camp-fire on the bank. The voices were French, and Tom could understand this much.

"Look out there! I see something suspicious on the river."

"It is a corpse," said another Frenchman, and then Tom heard a laugh.

"Be careful there," cried another, "or he will float down upon us and poison our soup;" and then Tom heard foot-steps coming down to the water's edge; then he felt a push against his raft and the scraping of a bayonet-point against one of his legs. So near was he that he could smell the fragrant supper—the onions, the beef, and the smoke of the wood fire.

About half an hour from where he had left the Frenchmen cooking their soup he rounded a bend in the river, and saw ahead of him another camp-fire, with soldiers about it wearing German forage-caps. He recognized the big straw-colored beard of Kutchke, and knew at once that he was amongst friends. He floated close to the bank where the corporal stood, and pretended to be a corpse. No one noticed him until he was at their very feet, and then he heard some one say: "Ach, there is a corpse! Push it away quickly!" And then he heard Kutchke call out: "No; wait until I see it. Perhaps it is Tom Rodman." Then he heard the heavy tread of Kutchke, and presently the corporal's voice could be heard breaking out into loud lamentation.

"Ah, yes," said he, "it is poor Rodman who saved my life from the Frenchmen! How dreadful that I should have brought him to the war! What can I do?"

"Why, you can give me something to eat!" came from the raft; and with these words Tom Rodman sat bolt-upright and laughed in Kutchke's face. Then there was a loud hurrah in the camp, and all the soldiers flocked down to see the miracle of Rodman coming to life and asking for something to eat. Kutchke embraced him, and kissed him several times, and called him his savior. All the men shook hands with him, and he was at once put into a good warm uniform, and given the most comfortable seat by the fire, where he was provided with a big tin full of well-cooked cabbage, sausage, and bread, which tasted exceedingly well after the hardships of the last twenty-four hours.

In the midst of it arrived the Captain, who wanted also to hear the story of Tom's escape, and why he had chased after the French officer. Tom told his adventures, and then produced the French cavalry standard, and the sabre of the officer whom he had knocked from his horse with the pair of stirrups.

All were delighted at the result of Tom's courage, and Kutchke said that Tom deserved three Iron Crosses—one for saving his life, another for capturing the standard, and another for bringing home the sabre. Tom was very popular with his comrades, and the news of his adventures soon reached the ears of the Colonel of his regiment, and he was soon afterwards informed that he was to receive the Iron Cross. The whole regiment was formed into three sides of a square, and the Colonel called out the name of Tom Rodman, who stepped forward, and stood very stiff while the Colonel asked after him and his family. Tom could not any longer conceal the fact that he was not a German, but an American boy, and the Colonel promised to say nothing about it, in order that Kutchke should not be punished. So this is how Tom Rodman joined the German army, and was the first American to wear the famous Iron Cross. The Colonel cabled to his mother in America, so that she might not be alarmed, and the Professor easily forgave his pupil for all the anxiety that Tom had caused him.

[A JAPANESE PICTURE-STORY.]

BY BARNET PHILLIPS.

he stories that have been written about pictures are to be divided into two general categories—those indicating the skill of the artist, and those relating to the performances of the pictures themselves. Both of these merge, since they attest the ability of the artist. There is a third kind of story, dwelling on the mishaps of painters, which accidents, however, in the long-run, invariably aid the artist.

The supernatural must have been called into play at the dawn of civilization, when the first artist scratched with splinter of flint an animal form on a bone. Pygmalion, who carved a woman so lifelike that he prayed to Venus to give Galatea flesh, blood, and a soul, must in an earlier form have been a story of the most remote antiquity. We find traces of this myth in Egyptian worship. To a South Sea Islander carved idols are not stocks nor stones, but living gods. The most acute Hindostanee does not separate his brazen images from the personalities of his deities.

Nothing is older than the stories of the supreme skill of the artist which the old Greek repeated. The common type of this legend is the picture with the figs painted on it, which were so natural that the birds pecked at them. The modern Orientals have embellished this story in many ways. The Persians will tell you that the birds actually carried a pomegranate out of a picture and fought over the fruit. One of the pomegranates slipped from the beak of a bird and tumbled down to a garden below. The over-ripe fruit broke, the seeds were scattered, and where they fell a pomegranate-tree grew, which will be shown you to-day in a court-yard in Ispahan.

We have the very old joke about the slab of stone painted so exactly like a log of wood that it floated. The Japanese have worked up the idea in many ingenious ways. They had a painter of the tenth century who drew a crystal ball so perfectly that when the sun shone on it, it behaved as would a lens, and would light tinder.

The Greeks tell of an artist who was dissatisfied with the flecks of foam in the mouth of the dog he was painting, and in anger threw a sponge at his picture, and, lo! where the sponge had struck the painting there was the froth required.

THE BRONZE WAS HURLED TO THE GROUND.

This is told of a bronze artificer who never could be satisfied with the ocean he was making up, into which his hero was wading. He set his work on a window. A storm arose, there was a blinding flash of lightning, and the bronze was hurled to the ground. When the artist picked up the bronze a portion of the metal representing the water had been fused, and there was the rolling, undulating sea, such as no mortal hand could ever have produced.

Another story is about a second bronze-worker, who was a great artist, but an intemperate one, for he drank too much saki. The man had fashioned a deity in bronze which did not satisfy him, though he had worked on it for ten years. Do what he would, the figure showed traces of the long toil he had lavished on it. Though given to his cups, he was apparently a conscientious artist. Putting his bronze in his pocket or up his sleeve, the artist determined to commit suicide, and so plunged into a great tub of fermenting rice, from which saki is distilled. When the saki-maker emptied his tubs there was the artist dead, and his bronze, but the work had been perfected. The fermenting rice had smoothed down the hard lines. The bronze was admirable, and so the artist's death conferred on him a certain amount of heroism—that is, according to Japanese ideas of heroism.

The neatest story of artistic performance and of higher criticism is Japanese, and for the lesson it conveys has its value. There was a Shogun of the fourteenth century who was the art critic of his time, because he never saw a screen or a bronze or a china decoration without finding some fault. In his court all his retainers followed the Shogun in deprecating whatsoever was shown to them.

In the court of the great man was a painter, the most distinguished of his time, and this artist became very tired of the adverse criticisms passed on his work. The Shogun ordered a screen, leaving the choice of the subject to the artist.

"As you are very slow," said the Shogun, "you may take a year to paint your screen. Time enough, I think, to assure us that there will be nothing careless in your work."

The artist accepted the commission, and asked for leave of absence, which was granted to him. He was away for eleven months, and it was within three days of the end of the year when he paid his respects to the Shogun.

"Exhibit at once your so-called work of art," said the Shogun.

"I have not yet commenced it, may it please your Dignity," answered the artist.

"And in three days do you expect to show me a picture worth my looking at?" inquired the Shogun.

"I have travelled all over the country for that work which it has pleased you to commit to my care, and it will be ready on time," replied the artist, humbly.

When the last day had come the artist said his screen was ready, and that it was hanging in a particular room in the Shogun's palace. The high dignitary and his court were present, and examined the picture.

What was painted was simplicity itself. There was a river, and in the stream a boat was moored, with a furled sail. The banks of the river were lined with rushes. There were a few trees, with a bird here and there perched on the boughs. A rabbit was nibbling the grass. In the distance was a high mountain.

"That is supposably water, if I am not mistaken," said the Shogun.

"It's very sluggish," remarked the pipe-bearer.

"Those rushes—ahem!" interposed a courtier—"are they not absurdly stiff?"

"And, dear me," chimed in the secretary, "what birds! Stuffed birds on boughs are too preposterous!"

"The boat—such a boat as that never could float! Is it meant for a boat or a rock?" inquired the master of the robes.

"The fact is," said the Shogun, "it is an idiotic performance. It wants life, go, dash, imagination. It is dulness personified. It is nothing but 'prentice work, and entirely unfitted to grace our elegant abode. Treasurer, pay this man for his trouble. A full year's wages, such as you would give to a weeder of rice."

"Your Highness always was a liberal patron of the arts," said the treasurer.

"And though generous, most discriminating, for really the picture is overpaid," said the courtiers.

THE ARTIST PLUNGED HEAD FOREMOST INTO HIS WORK.

The painter smiled, slowly walked to where the screen was hung, and plunged head foremost into his work. Then, to the great amazement of the Shogun and his court, a splash was heard. Now the water rippled and the boat began to rock. The rushes on the bank of the stream nodded and bent and swayed, as if with a passing breeze. The birds flew from bough to bough. The rabbit scampered away. There was a figure in the boat, and presently the anchor was hauled up and the sail was set, and the little craft, heeling over with the wind, sped up the stream, and now a landing was made at the foot of the mountain.

Next a little man was seen slowly climbing up the mountain, and when the mountain-top was reached the figure bowed respectfully to the Shogun and the court and disappeared, as if descending on the other side of the mountain.

Then a loon came to the immediate foreground of the screen, and flapped his wings, and said, in very courtly Japanese, these words, which may be rather carelessly translated into English in this way:

"You are all a set of ninnies, for you don't know a good thing when you see it. Ta, ta!"

The courtiers were so enraged that they drew their two swords and wanted to hack the loon and the screen to pieces. But when they looked at the screen, they saw a big tear in it, with falling flaps of silk, on which the work had been painted. It was where the artist had made his exit. This is the Japanese fable for critics.

A LOYAL TRAITOR.[1]

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

BY JAMES BARNES.

CHAPTER XX.

AN EXCHANGE AND A ROBBERY.

ome, lads," I said at last, "don't give up. Give way together. We'll make for that old castle rock, and go ashore."

In a few minutes we had beached both boats in a little cove hardly twenty feet across. I had an idea in my mind of leading the crew to the top of the rock, for it appeared to me that five or six men from the summit could hold a score or more at bay with nothing but stones for weapons.

But to my astonishment I saw that the spit of land which ran out to the tall rock was not more than thirty feet in width, and that it was rounded, as if at some time the sea washed over it. Dugan and Chips had followed me up the slope. When we reached the top, which was not more than ten feet above the beach, we could see the cutter plainly. Through the glass I made out she had come to anchor, and that they were loading some casks into a boat alongside of her:

I handed the glass to the carpenter, who was next to me, and asked him to take a look through it.

"Halloa!" cried Dugan, suddenly, "there are the prisoners on the beach. Now let's see what they're going to do. I wonder if they'll think it is a Yankee trick," he added, with a half chuckle, "scuttling that rotten old junk?"

I took the glass from him without answering, for I saw no humor in the situation. A boat put off from the cutter and brought back two of the men from shore, and now, hidden behind a rock, we watched the proceedings in turn. The idea of getting water was apparently abandoned.

The boat rowed to shore again, picked up the rest of the Englishmen, and then I saw that they were getting out the quarter-boat from the other side.

In a few minutes both were loaded. I caught the glint of steel as they handed muskets and cutlasses into them, and then they pulled off to the northward to go around the farther end of the island.

But an idea had seized me that set my blood tingling!

"How many men does such a craft as that carry?" I croaked, hoarsely.

"Twenty-five to thirty," responded Chips, sullenly.

I had counted twenty men besides the prisoners in the two boats that had put off from the cutter. It would take probably two hours to row around to the north shore of the island.

It would do no harm to broach the subject in my mind to the others, and I did so in a few short words, speaking in hoarse whispers.

"Why not roll one of our boats across the neck of land, and then row down and take the cutter by surprise?"

I did not know how this plan would be received by the others, but when I finished they were looking at me eagerly.

"Captain, I admire ye!" said Dugan, with a trace of Irish in his tone.

Chips grasped my hand.

"By Solomon! we can do it, sir!" he said, and we hurried across to where the men were seated, a dejected-looking group, on the sand.

In twenty minutes the boats from the cutter were out of sight around the north shore cape, and we set to work getting the largest of our own over the barrier.

We broke the oars from the boat we had discarded into rollers, and in five minutes, or a little over, we had made a launching on the western shore.

The men muffled their oars with their shirts, and with a sensation of hunters stalking some dangerous animal, we rowed slowly along against the tide. Truly it was as if the quarry were asleep, and we feared awakening it before we got within striking distance.

Now we were right under her stern, and I read the name, Bat, in gold letters.

She was a tidy little craft, more like a gentleman's yacht than a vessel of war, and from two small ports on her sides poked the muzzles of brass six-pounders.

It was but the hoist of a foot to get on board; and, behold! there was no one there to receive us! But we had no arms; and, picking up a hand-spike and handing it to the carpenter, I led the way down the little hatch, followed by the other eight men, with their closed fists for weapons.

Now if any two people were surprised it was the two Irish sailors who sat there eating with their knives from tin plates they held on their knees.

"SURRENDER!" I CRIED, POINTING THE TELESCOPE AT THEM.

"Surrender!" I cried, pointing the telescope at them as if I had but to touch a trigger to blow out their brains. Before they knew what had happened, or could raise their voices, two of the privateersmen had them pinioned by their wrists.

"Cut that cable; make all sail and get out of this!" I roared, pushing up again.

The jib and foresail went chock-a-block with one heave. Never did men leap to their work so quickly.

Now as it was but a stone's-throw to the shore, I ordered the two sailors overboard into the water, and gave them one of the empty casks to help them make it safely. They were glad of the chance to go.

The mainsail was up by this time, the rope hawser had been severed by the blow of an axe, and we were making out to sea. The crew, all on deck, burst into three hearty cheers, and I led them.

But if they were surprised, and truly they must have been, a greater surprise was in store for me, and I would that I could dwell on my sensations, which I shall but outline. I did not leave the deck to make any investigations of the little sloop until we had covered some five miles, and I had found out that she sailed like a witch, and that there was no sail after us.

The cabin was very handsomely furnished, with a long couch down one side, a handsome table under a fine swinging lamp in the centre, and a desk with many drawers off in a corner, lighted by a handsome sconce. A number of books were thrown about on the couch, and suspended from hooks against the white panels were a half-dozen beautifully executed miniatures; the door to a little cupboard was open, and I saw, hanging up inside, a number of uniforms.

I walked over to the desk and picked up a leather-covered volume that had "Log-book of the Bat" on the cover in red letters, very beautifully done. I turned to the first page, and here is where I got my surprise.

"A journal kept on board H. M. Revenue Cutter Bat, of four guns, commanded by Lieutenant John Hurdis, R.N."

There was my own name staring me in the face. I did not know that Hurdiss was a name well known in the English navy. But I recovered my wits at last, and regarded the coincidence of names as a very lucky omen. I had to take but one step up the little ladder to have my head above the level of the deck. Standing there I called Chips to me, and showed him the entry in the book.

"It's witchcraft," he said, "and nothing less."

The cutter was a little bit larger than our single-gun boats, and perfectly able to go across the Atlantic, or to sail anywhere, provided her provisions held out. We found by an inspection of the hold that there was more than enough to last ten men for a month and a few days over, although we would have to go light in the drinking line.

At once Chips and I set about preparing a routine. The crew were divided into three watches, and I laid out a course that would fetch us somewhere in the vicinity of Boston. On we sailed; everything was fine. For three days I had a most delightful experience, reading the well-chosen books in the cabin, and seeing that the men were kept employed polishing the brass-work and overhauling the forward hold, and so forth.

On the fourth day the fine breeze, that had held from the same direction almost continually, stopped as suddenly as if it had been shut off by the intervention of a great wall.

Before dawn a slight wind came out of the west, dead against us; and at five bells a large ship was seen coming down before the wind with all sail set. I got upon the opposite tack to that I had been holding, and at this the large vessel changed her course, evidently intending to speak me. There was no way of my escaping, for if I had started to run she would soon have overhauled us in two hours. I could see her ports and make out she was a 44-gun frigate, and was not surprised when she displayed the English flag.

I answered in the same manner, and at Chips's suggestion I got out the signal-book that I had found, and the little flags also, hoping that this would be all that it would amount to.

But she did not signalize us, and in a quarter of an hour we were near enough to see the faces of a group of officers leaning over the rail, and to notice that one of them held a trumpet in his hand.

Soon the hail came, "What cutter is that?"

I answered.

"What are you doing out here?"

For an instant I was nonplussed. "Chasing a Yankee privateer," I answered, with an air of bravado.

"Where is she?"

"Got away to the south'ard."

"I'll send a boat on board of you."

This was exactly what I did not wish to happen. "Don't trouble, sir. I'll come on board of you myself," I replied, at the same time ordering out the only boat we had left, a little dingy swung over the stern.

"Now, Chips," said I, "this is a case of must obey. We are edging up to windward, and it's going to thicken. If you can get away, do so; but be cautious. You know the cost. I leave it all to you. Get up to windward without exciting suspicion, and if you don't hear from me in two hours, clear away for home."

This conversation was held under the lee of the frigate; in fact we were so close to her that she shadowed us completely, and although we were both hove to, I knew that we could swing off before she could get the weather-gage. I feared doing this myself, but I knew that my coming on board would disarm all suspicion, and that Chips might be able to carry out the plan.

From the southwest a fog-bank was approaching—I had made note of it—and the air was filled already with fine particles of moisture. It was no easy job to bring the little dingy alongside. But at last we were able to do so, thanks to the good oarsmanship of Caldwell, and at last I grasped the rope-ladder that had been lowered from the gangway, and came on deck. The boatswain shrilled his whistle, and the side-boys touched their caps. A fine-looking officer stepped forward to meet me, saluting and extending his hand.

"Your name, sir?" he inquired.

It would not do to hesitate. I was running risks, of course, but no half-way measures would suffice.

"John Hurdiss, Lieutenant, commanding the cutter Bat," I replied.

"Will you come with me to my cabin, Mr. Hurdiss? I'm Mallet, of the Cæsar."

I followed him at once.

"Isn't it rather a strange thing for you to be in this latitude and longitude, when your station is on the coast?" he continued, severely.

"Not when you understand the circumstances, Captain Mallet," I replied. And forthwith I began a story of how I had chased a small Yankee privateer for the last three days, and that she had given me the slip but the night before.

"I shall make a report of this affair, and it shall be looked into," he said. "Go back on board your vessel, and return to your cruising-grounds."

I was sorely tempted to ask what business all this was of his, but I held my tongue, and we went on deck together. The fog-bank was all about us. The Bat was nowhere to be seen. I could not help showing my impatience. A gun was fired, and then another, and a third, but there was no response.

All eyes were upon me, and in the group of officers I noticed an old man in civilian's dress. He was a distinguished-looking figure, and I overheard some one address him as Mr. Middleton.

"Middleton?" I repeated to myself. "Where have I heard that name before?" I could not place it, but somehow it had staid in my recollection.

"What's the explanation of this, Mr. Hurdiss?" asked Captain Mallet, folding his arms and stepping in front of me.

"That's more than I can tell you," I replied.

As I spoke there came the sound of a shot off to windward.

"There's my vessel," I replied. "Might I ask you to set me on board of her, or shall I consider myself under arrest, sir?"

"You shall consider yourself ordered on board your vessel, with instructions to report to your superior at Dublin at once, to whom you will give this letter."

Scarcely had the boatswain finished shrilling the call for the cutter when the old gentleman in citizen's dress spoke up.

"As Dublin is my destination, Sir John, would it be possible for us to be transferred to this young gentleman's vessel? It would save us much time and trouble."

"I cannot order him to take you," replied the Captain, "but if he chooses—"

The old man looked at me.

"My granddaughter and I," he began, "are very anxious to reach Ireland. If you would do us the favor—"

I was anxious to get away without more parleying, as the boat was now rocking at the foot of the ladder.

"Our quarters are not so large as those of the frigate," I began.

"I hope that this is not asking too much," went on Mr. Middleton, earnestly, interrupting before I had finished.

I glanced over my shoulder, and I saw standing there the figure of a tall young girl dressed in deep mourning.

I went hot and cold from my heart to my finger-tips. The shock came near to paralyzing me.

"I think I can make you comfortable," I said, "if you will allow me to row off and bring my vessel up while you are getting your luggage."

"Thank you very much," said Mr. Middleton; "we'll set about it."

I descended the ladder, jumped into the boat, and gave the orders to pull out into the fog. When we had gone some four or five hundred yards, I made a trumpet of my hands, and shouted:

"Oh, Mr. Chips! Where are you?"

"Here we are, sir!" came the reply close to us.

In another moment we were alongside, and the carpenter, in the uniform of a British quartermaster, helped me on board.

"Mr. Chips," I said, hurriedly, "there will soon be some passengers come off from the frigate. It is supposed that we are bound for Dublin."

"It is a roundabout way we'll take to get there, sir," he said, grinning. "Who are they?"

"Never mind as to that," I answered. "Treat them with all courtesy, and show them to my cabin."

When Mr. Middleton and his granddaughter, whose name the reader has guessed by this time, were put on board of us, I made myself very scarce, hiding in the fore-castle luckily, I thought it better to start to the eastward and sail down to the frigate to allay any suspicion that might still linger in Captain Mallet's mind. It was the best thing I could have done, for we came up to her, finding her yet hove-to.

"Follow in our wake," came the order through the trumpet, as she rounded off on the same course we were holding.

"Ay, ay, sir," I replied; and as soon as she had passed us and was out of sight, I came about and headed to the west through the rain, with the wind bearing the little cutter on, with (to me) the most precious cargo in the world.

The passengers did not come on deck that afternoon; but late in the evening the fog cleared away, and so far as we could see by searching the horizon with a glass not a sail was in sight. I was leaning with my back to the companionway, talking to Mr. Chips, who was at the tiller (the Bat had no wheel), when I heard the sound of a voice that thrilled me through and through. My own talking apparatus was almost normal by this time, I should have stated, although I now could sing bass instead of tenor.

"Give the order to haul up that flag," I said to the carpenter, in an undertone.

It was still bright light, and the sun had not dipped full below the edge of the sea, and clear and bright in all its beautiful colors up went to the peak the stars and stripes.

Mary had seen it first. "What does this mean, grandfather?" she said.

The old man could not reply.

"It means," said I, turning, "that Captain John Hurdiss has come in his own vessel to get you, Mistress Tanner."

I did not know exactly what would be the result of this speech, but if I had had any idea that it was to produce a sensation, the result certainly proved the correctness of my surmisings. Mary gave a gasp and stamped her foot upon the deck. The flash of her eye had more kinds of feeling in it than one can describe.

"Traitor and coward!" she hissed, extending her clinched hands at her sides with the knuckles upward in a rigid gesture. Then she gave a half-inarticulate cry of rage, and turning, stepped down the companionway into the cabin.

Before me was standing Mr. Middleton; his arms were folded, and his fingers clasping and unclasping nervously.

"What in the name of Satan have we here?" he said. "What does this mean? Who are you, and what are you?"

"I am John Hurdiss, the commander of this vessel," I answered in return, folding my arms also, but keeping as quiet as I could. "I am a plain American seaman. You are my guest, sir, and believe me that no harm will come to you."

"You addressed my granddaughter just now as though you had some claim on her. We are in your power, but—"

"Stay," I cried, lifting my hand. "My words may have been ill chosen, but mark this—I would put a pistol to the man's head whose touch might look to harm her, as I would to my own if my thoughts could threaten treachery. Both you and she are safe, I pledge my honor!"

This speech, which really came from the depths of my heart, had the effect of causing the old gentleman to relax his features somewhat.

"Thank you for this assurance," he said. "Will you tell me whither we are bound, and why you inveigled us, pray, to come on board this skipjack? What plot is this?"

"Oh, pardon me," I laughed; "it was your suggestion, and not mine. Every moment that I spent on board that frigate I was in great danger, and not only I, but these brave fellows who have stood by me so nobly. Besides I had hoped, or at least supposed, that affairs might have turned out differently."

"How so?" inquired Mr. Middleton, raising his eyebrows.

"The necessity for explaining my thoughts, sir, has passed," I answered, tersely. "I was mistaken."

[to be continued.]

[THE PAINTED DESERT.]

A STORY OF NORTHERN ARIZONA.

BY KIRK MUNROE,

Author of "Rick Dale," "The Fur-Seal's Tooth," "Snow-Shoes and Sledges," "The Mate Series," etc.

CHAPTER V.

A ROBINSON CRUSOE SITUATION.

hen Todd reached the curtained doorway of the hut and looked out, he could not have told whether he was more disappointed or relieved by the sight that greeted him. He had fully expected to see human beings who would either prove friends or foes. He hoped they would give him something to eat, and at the same time feared they might kill him. But a single glance showed him that for the moment both his fears and his hopes were groundless. Instead of people he saw half a dozen goats grouped in front of the doorway, and gazing at him expectantly. A little kid among them bleated plaintively, and Todd knew in a moment that its voice was the one he had mistaken for that of a child.

He looked eagerly about for a herdsman or a shepherd boy, for even the tiniest Indian lad would have been welcomed just then; but none was to be seen. In his keen disappointment he became filled with wrath at the unoffending goats, and stepping forward with an angry gesture he bade them begone. For an instant they seemed bewildered at such unaccustomed treatment, and stood irresolute; but as Todd took another step towards them they recognized him for an enemy; and scampering away, were quickly lost to sight amid the surrounding trees.

Even before they disappeared the hungry boy regretted his hasty action. "For," he said to himself, "I might have captured one of them, and so have laid in a supply of food; or I might have milked the mother of that kid. What a chump I am, anyway. Seems to me I am always acting first and reflecting afterwards. I wonder if I can't overtake and make friends with them even now?"

Thus thinking, he started in pursuit of the goats; but though he saw them several times as they skipped among the trees, they easily eluded his feeble efforts to catch them, for he was too weak to run, and they were too well assured of his unfriendly intentions to allow him to approach them.

"If I only had my rifle," sighed the lad. "Though what would be the good of it anyway, for I haven't a fire nor any means of making one, and hungry as I am I don't believe I could eat raw-goat. How do people obtain fire under such circumstances anyhow? Matches? I haven't any. A burning-glass? I don't suppose there is such a thing within five hundred miles of this place. Rubbing two dry sticks together? That's all nonsense, and I don't believe it can be done, for I've tried it, and never succeeded in getting so much as a curl of smoke, let alone fire. I remember reading about some fellow up in Alaska doing it. Serge Belcofsky—yes, that was his name; but I don't believe he ever really did. That same Serge made a fire another time with brimstone and feathers, or at least the book said so; but as I haven't either of those things, I don't see that it does me any good to remember it.

"Then there was Phil Ryder, who made a fire by cutting open one of his cartridges, rubbing powder on his handkerchief, and shooting into it with his rifle. I have plenty of cartridges, and so could get the powder, but haven't any rifle—so that plan won't work. Flint and steel? That's a way you hear a good deal about, though I never saw any one really try it. Still, I suppose it can be done, and my knife will furnish the steel if I can only find a flint. I wonder what a flint looks like, anyway?"

By this time Todd had returned wearily to the hut and was sitting on the stone that formed its doorstep. Now he began striking at this with the back of his sheath-knife, and finally thought he saw a spark fly from the point of contact; but it was such a fleeting thing, and disappeared so instantly, that he could not be certain.

"Even if it was a spark," he said to himself, "how could anybody make a fire from it? I should want one as big as those that fly from red-hot horseshoes when the blacksmith pounds them, though I doubt if I could get a blaze even then, they go out so quickly. So, Todd Chalmers, you might as well make up your mind to go without a fire, and eat your food raw—that is, if you get any at all, which looks very doubtful just now.

"Oh dear! What do people do when they are cast away on desert islands? Not that this is one, but it's a desert valley, which is a great deal worse, for the others are always in the tropics, and have bread-fruit and things. And then the people always have wrecks to get supplies from, the same as Robinson Crusoe did. If I only had such a snap as he had I wouldn't say a word. Plenty of provisions, muskets, cutlasses, clothing, turtles, grapes, and pieces of eight, besides the knowledge of how to start a fire and make all sorts of things. No wonder he was grateful and contented. He ought to have been. And the Swiss Family Robinson. There's another cheerful crowd who had everything they wanted, and more than they knew what to do with. I just wish I knew what any of those chaps would do right here in my place at this very minute. I guess they'd find out what soft times they had in being wrecked where they were and as they were instead of the way I am. I suppose, though, they would start right off into the woods, where they would run across all sorts of fruits to eat and animals waiting to be cooked, besides everything they needed to make houses and clothing of, so that inside of two weeks they'd be living as comfortably and happily as though they were right alongside a Baltimore market. They'd know how to make a fire without matches too in at least a dozen different ways. That's what would happen if they were book people; but if they were real live folks like I am I don't believe they'd know any more how to get a square meal than I do at this minute.

"Going into the woods, though, and hunting for something to eat isn't a bad idea. There must be nuts or berries, or at least roots that would keep a fellow from starving. I suppose some of them will be poisonous and others won't, and the only way to find out which is which will be to eat them. The poisonous ones will kill you and the others won't. At the same time I shall surely die of hunger if I stay here doing nothing, and so here goes for a breakfast."

Up to this time Todd had been so certain of finding people who would supply him with food, that while fully realizing how faint and weak he was growing for want of it, he had not regarded his situation as perilous. From the moment of discovering the beautiful valley with its abundant water, he had felt that all real danger was over. He had imagined that the natives, after feeding him and allowing him a day's rest in which to regain strength, would willingly guide him to the river in return for the handsome reward that he knew he could safely promise them in his brother's name. Now that there did not appear to be any natives nor any food, it suddenly dawned upon our lad that he was very little better off in this beautiful place than he had been amid all the horrors of the Painted Desert, and it was with a decided feeling of uneasiness that he set forth on his search for food.

He first examined two small structures that he discovered back of the hut. One of these was evidently a fowl-house, and as soon as Todd recognized its character he had visions of fresh eggs. "They will be fine," he said to himself, "even if I can't cook them; for eggs are almost as good raw as cooked, anyway." So, though he had not as yet seen nor heard any hens, he entered the place hopefully. Yes, there were several nests, and an egg in each one. But, alas! they were only nest eggs that had done duty as such for so long a time that after breaking a couple of them poor Todd was glad to make a speedy escape from their vicinity. He was bitterly disappointed, and began to think that the inhabitants of the valley had recently emigrated from it, taking everything eatable, including their fowls, with them.

The other structure proved to be a corral or pen in which goats had been confined, but now it was empty and its gate stood wide open.

Continuing his search for food wearily and despondently, our lad soon came to several small fields, all showing traces of careful cultivation, and all enclosed by stout fences of wattle. In these he found oats, beans, squashes, and corn, of which the last named was the only one that seemed edible in its raw state. So Todd began to gnaw hungrily at an ear that had long since passed its green stage without becoming quite ripe enough to be hard. It was merely tough and toothless. Still it could be eaten, and served to fill, after a fashion, the aching void of which he had long been painfully conscious.

Beyond the fields he found a small grove of peach-trees; but they had been stripped of their fruit some time since, and what of it had fallen to the ground had evidently been devoured by goats, so that not a single peach rewarded his careful search.

By this time the sun stood directly overhead, and was pouring down a heat so intense as to make him feel giddy. So the boy gathered up his spoils, consisting of a sheaf of ripened oats, a dozen pods of beans, a green squash, and two ears of tough corn, with which he returned to the hut. There, after refreshing himself with a copious drink of water, he attempted to eat in turn each of the things he had brought with him. The green squash and raw beans were so unpalatable that he threw them out of the door in disgust. The oats were fairly good; but extracting the kernel from each separate grain was such slow work that he decided the attempt to sustain life in that manner would prove only another form of starvation.

"Oh, for a big dish of oatmeal and cream!" he exclaimed. "But I don't suppose I shall ever see one again."

He also thought of squash pies and baked beans with regretful longings, while the tough corn at which he gnawed with aching jaws suggested muffins, hot cakes, corn bread, hominy, and all the other attractive forms in which maize can be prepared, until he groaned aloud to think how very far beyond his present reach all such things were.

CHAPTER VI.

TODD'S FAILURE AS A HUNTER AND A FIRE-MAKER.

"If this wretched corn was only hard enough to pound into meal," reflected Todd, "I might mix it with water and make a sort of chicken feed that would at least keep me alive until I could find something better. As it is, I believe I am using up more strength in eating it than it will ever pay back. Oh, if I only had a fire in which to roast it, what a difference it would make!

"Hello! what's that? A rabbit, sure's I'm sitting here. And there's another! Why, the woods are full of them! I don't wonder the natives have to protect their fields with tight fences. If I could catch one, what a fine stew he'd make! I wonder how other fellows catch rabbits? They are all the time doing it in books. Seems to me trapping is one of the things that ought to be taught in school. My! how saucy these chaps are!"

One of the rabbits had indeed ventured to within a dozen feet of where the boy stood, attracted by the bits of green squash that he had thrown from the door a few minutes earlier. Instinctively Todd picked up a stone, while the rabbit, alarmed by the movement, ran off a short distance and looked at him inquiringly. As no further movement was made he presently returned to the bits of squash, where he was quickly joined by a companion.

Trembling with eagerness, Todd let drive his missile. To his astonishment it reached its destined mark, and one of the little creatures rolled over with a sharp squeak, kicked convulsively, and then lay quiet, while its companion scampered to a place of hiding.

"I hit him!" cried the young stone-thrower in a tone of mingled amazement and delight, as he hastened to pick up his prize. "Who would have thought that killing rabbits was so easy!"

No hunter of big game was ever prouder or more excited over his first trophy than was our city-bred lad over this proof of his skill. "I certainly can't starve," he said to himself, "so long as the supply of rabbits and rocks holds out, and there seems to be plenty of both. Isn't he fat, though!"

He had already carried his rabbit to the hut, stroking and admiring it as he went. From the job of skinning and cleaning it he shrank with repugnance, nor had he an idea of how to set to work. Still he knew these things must be done, and drawing his hunting-knife from its sheath he prepared to make a beginning. With the very first touch of the knife the rabbit drew a gasping breath, and began to struggle so violently that Todd dropped it in horror. In another moment the little creature, which had only been stunned, had darted away and vanished, leaving one of the most amazed boys in the world to gaze after it with an air of utter bewilderment.

"If that don't beat anything I ever heard of!" he muttered. "I wonder if they always have to be killed twice? That fellow would have jumped out of his skin if I'd only held on tight enough. Never mind; it's a lesson I won't forget in a hurry, and the next time I'll make sure that my game is dead before I begin to skin it."

It did not seem, however, that there was to be any next time; for though Todd filled his pockets with stones and hunted for more than an hour, he did not see another rabbit until he again returned to the hut, and was nearly tripped up by one that darted from the open doorway. It had been attracted by a portion of the squash left on the floor, and noting this, the lad threw out what remained, with the hope that it might cause others to come within range of his missiles. Several were thus tempted during the afternoon, but though the hungry lad threw stones at them until he was weary, he did not succeed in hitting another. Finally, pretty well convinced that the success of his first shot was an accident not likely to be repeated, he gave up this method of obtaining rabbits, and began to think of traps. As he had never made nor even seen one, the only thing in the shape of a trap that suggested itself was a box, one edge of which should rest on a short stick. He would use green squash for bait, fasten one end of a long string to the stick, hold the other in his hand, and when a rabbit was safely under the box jerk away the support.

"It wouldn't do me any good if I did catch them," he reflected, "since I have no fire with which to cook them. At the same time I don't see that I am going to do much with raw vegetables, either, and so a fire does appear to be one of the most necessary things. Seems to me I ought to make one with a cartridge, the same as Phil Ryder did, even if I haven't a rifle."

As a result of much thinking on this subject, Todd finally spread his pocket-handkerchief on the table, laid one of the brass cartridges that still filled his belt on it, and after a while succeeded in cutting it in two close to its rear end. Emptying out the black powder, he threw away the shell with its bullet still attached, and kept only that portion containing the percussion-powder. The next thing was to lay the handkerchief on the stone doorstep, spread the powder over it, and place the firing portion of the shell in the middle. Then he hunted up a stone that came to a point, and holding this firmly in his hand, struck the percussion-shell a violent blow.

The result was instantaneous, and in a certain sense satisfactory. There were a sharp explosion and a quick flash of flame that burned Todd's right hand so severely that he ran to plunge it in the cooling waters of the stream. When he returned to the hut, some five minutes later, ruefully nursing his wounded hand, the only trace remaining of his handkerchief was a film of ashes on the doorstep.

"I don't care," he remarked, stoutly. "I did make a fire, anyhow, and I would do it again if I only had another handkerchief. As I haven't, I suppose I must give up the idea for the present, and live on that beastly raw corn until I can find some other kind of tinder. If I only had some cotton, that would be the very thing. I might as well wish for matches, though, and done with it, as to hope for cotton in a place like this. It was a good scheme, all the same; every bit as good as Serge Belcofsky's brimstone and feathers, and I would have had an elegant fire by this time if I only hadn't burned my hand."

After Todd had again visited the field and brought back two more ears of the much-despised corn, from which he expected to make a frugal supper that night, and an equally unsatisfactory breakfast on the following morning, the sun was so low in the western sky that the shadows of the cliffs on that side extended clear across the valley. Night was close at hand, and the lad dreaded its loneliness in that strange place, without fire, or means of defence against its unknown dangers. For all that he knew, both wild men and wild beasts might only be awaiting the coming of darkness to attack him.

"I wonder if I hadn't better climb a tree," he reflected, "or shut myself up in that hen-house? It at least has a stout door, which is more than this hut possesses."

While he sat on the doorstep thinking of these things, and watching the shadows pursue the waning sunlight up the face of the eastern cliffs, his eye fell on something that caused him to start to his feet with an exclamation. From some unseen source high up on the rocky wall a slender column of blue smoke, curling gracefully towards the summit of the mesa, was plainly visible. Nor was that all; for even as the lad gazed wonderingly at it, a human figure clad in white appeared near the place from which the smoke ascended, and after standing for a moment as though looking expectantly down the valley, again moved out of sight.

HE MADE A MISSTEP AND FELL HEAVILY.

"That explains everything," cried Todd. "The natives are cliff-dwellers, and live somewhere up there among the rocks. From all accounts of such people, although they are filthy and degraded, they are not half a bad lot. So I'm going to hunt them out before it grows dark. Of course they won't be able to understand a word I say, but I'll make that all right somehow."

The excited boy had already set off in the direction indicated by the smoke, and before long he came across a plainly marked trail leading among the trees directly toward the cliffs. As it reached them it bent sharply upward, becoming steeper and more rugged with every step.

Until now Todd had not realized how very weak he had grown through long fasting and from his recent terrible experience on the desert. Every few steps he was obliged to pause for breath, and several times he was so overcome by giddiness that he was compelled to sit down. Thus his upward progress was very slow, and the sun had set before he reached a point at which the trail ended. Above him was a sheer face of rock some fifteen feet high, in which were cut rude steps and handholds. It was like a perpendicular rock ladder, and in his weakness Todd regarded it with dismay. He was afraid, too, of his wounded hand, and wondered if he could hold on by it.

"It's got to be tried, though," he said, resolutely, "for it would never do to spend the night here, and I hate the thought of that lonely hut; so here goes."

With this the boy began to climb slowly and unsteadily. If he had had two sound hands and his normal strength, it would have been easy enough; but weak, giddy, and wounded as he was, it seemed very doubtful if he could gain the top. Now, too, he began to fear concerning the reception that he might meet even if he succeeded. Suppose the natives should take him for an enemy, how easy it would be for them to push him from his precarious footing?

Filled with such thoughts, he had only ascended a few feet when suddenly there came a loud shout from close behind him. So startling was it that he made a misstep, clutched vainly at the smooth rock to save himself, and with a despairing cry, fell heavily to the steep pathway, where he lay stunned and motionless.

[to be continued.]

"Times bein' so hard, I can't see my way clear to keep that little Portergee through the winter," said Cap'n 'Siah Doane, with a solemn shake of his gray head.

And three hearts seemed to stand still; they were sixteen-year-old Caddy's, who was the Hausmutter, and had knit the little "Portergee's" winter supply of stockings and mittens as carefully as she had knit her own boys', and young Josiah's and little Israel's, who had only truly enjoyed life since they had had a companion who knew as much of the great world as the geography and a fairy-book put together. For the little "Portergee," Manuel Silva, had been tossed upon the Cape Cod sands by a wreck, after cruising about in all the seas, and picking up sixteen years' worth of knowledge in many lands.

It was almost into the door-yard of Cap'n 'Siah Doane's weather-beaten cottage at the Point that he had been carried by a discriminating wave; and with a dislocated shoulder, and a wound on the head which, as Cap'n 'Siah declared, would have killed anything but a "pesky little Portergee," he staid.

There were summer visitors to Tooraloo, and he had done errands for them, and shared young Josiah's jobs of fishing and clamming for the boarding-houses, and generally been "worth his keep," as Cap'n 'Siah carefully figured out, being a thrifty and prudent soul. In fact, Tooraloo people generally thought that Cap'n 'Siah would have been better off if he had been less prudent and cautious. He wouldn't take the least risk for fear of losing; he would scarcely go fishing with a fair wind lest it should become a foul one before he came back, and he wouldn't raise cranberries lest the market should be over-supplied when he came to sell.

"Now God made things chancy to develop folks, and he made 'em chancier than common on Cape Cod," Uncle Saul Nickerson, of Tooraloo, was always saying as a hint to Cap'n 'Siah. And little Israel had heard so much about his grandfather's bump of caution that he thought it must mean the wen on the top of his bald head.

In the winter there were no jobs in Tooraloo. Manuel had talked of going to Kingstown, where there were many of his race, to try to get a chance to sail with a Portuguese captain; but they had all protested earnestly against his leaving, and little Israel had raised a mighty wail. Manuel said he never had struck a home port before, and it was evident that he longed with all his heart to stay. But with a hard winter before them Cap'n 'Siah's bump of caution had got into working order, and he had made the dreadful announcement with which this story begins.

They all looked at each other in consternation; and even Caddy, who had grown very sensible by having to look out for them all, felt a rush of tears to her eyes.

At that very moment the little "Portergee" was digging his heels into the sand—which he did when he had on his thinking-cap as naturally as a Yankee boy whistles—and saying to himself that he should immediately go away, it was so dull, if he didn't feel as if he must stay and take care of these people who had been so kind to him. He meditatively tapped the top of his own thickly thatched head where the wen was on the Cap'n's, and shook his head with sad significance. He, like little Israel, thought that wen was the bump of caution which kept Cap'n 'Siah from everything that was enterprising.

"If I do not stay and take care of them they are los'!" said the little "Portergee" to himself.

But how? For a brave and enterprising spirit what opportunities had Tooraloo? There was a shadow of discouragement upon even Manuel's stout heart; but just then Hiram Tinker called to him from the dory in which he was putting in to shore.

"Seen the herrin'? Kingstown Harbor is chockfull of 'em! Greatest sight anybody ever see! All the traps and seines and nets are full a'ready, and they're gettin' the cold-storage plants ready to take 'em in. Seems as if all the herrin' in creation had drifted into Kingstown Harbor!"

Manuel didn't hear the last words; he was running around to the cove where Michael Fretas lived. Michael was Portuguese. He owned a small fishing-boat, and Manuel had helped him to paint and letter her in the summer. Manuel could paint straight letters—that is, nearly straight. Michael's daughter, who taught school farther up the cape, had wished to name the vessel the Daylight; but Manuel's spelling of English was a little uncertain, and he made her the Delight instead. And Michael said he would not have it changed because Manuel was his friend and countryman.

Michael was an old man, and his daughters sent him money, and he now never used his fishing-boat in the winter, but no one had ever been able to hire it, and Manuel's eager face was clouded with doubt as he ran around to Michael's house in the Cove.

They were still talking about sending him away, Cap'n 'Siah insisting, and Caddy and the others remonstrating with tears, when Manuel burst into the living-room and poured out the story of the great catch of herring in Kingstown Harbor. The doubt was all gone from his face now, and the eagerness was like a flame.

"You don't say! Seems as if we'd ought to get a couple of barrels to salt; or, if they're so plenty as you say, some to manure the garden. But there! we hain't got anything but a row-boat, and we can't. Such chances ain't for poor folks," and Cap'n 'Siah sighed heavily.

"I am going—in the Delight. We want barrels, empty barrels, and all must go—all!" cried Manuel, breathlessly.

"The Delight! How come he to let you have her?" demanded Cap'n 'Siah; but Manuel and young Josiah were already rolling empty barrels down to the slip, and Caddy was putting up a basket of provisions, and essaying at the same time the difficult task of buttoning little Israel into his thick jacket while he turned a somersault.

They were on board the Delight, with nets and barrels, and Jo Fretas, Michael's nephew, slightly infirm of wit but strong of body, to help, and the sails were spread to a favoring breeze, when Cap'n 'Siah was discovered, hurrying as fast as he could, and shouting to them to wait.

"I expect it won't cost me nothin' to see what's goin' on. Anyhow, I sha'n't pay for the boat!" he said, as he came on board. "How come he to let you have her?"

But now Manuel was running back to the house. When he returned he offered no explanation, but Caddy caught sight of the rough little checker-board that he had made tucked under his pea-jacket, and heard the rattle of the wooden checker-men in his pocket.

Cap'n 'Siah was extremely fond of a game of checkers; but it was only a short sail to Kingstown, and there was no danger of being becalmed, and on a trip that promised so much excitement who would think of checkers?

Caddy even remembered the blow on the head which it had once been feared would injure Manuel's reasoning faculties. If Manuel should prove to be foolish, her grandfather must not send him away! They would take care of him always! So thought Caddy, with a dry sob in her throat.