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

A WILD-OLIVE WREATH

BY S. SCOVILLE, JUN.

Thronged to the gates is the little town of Elis on this the night before the Olympic Games. Here are present not only men of every Grecian city and province, but strange wanderers from the uttermost corners of the world have assembled to view the games that honor the Ruler of the Gods.

Far away across the plain—so far that the many-voiced tumult of the crowded city is but an echo—in dark silence stand the sacred olive groves. Against the grayish-green foliage gleam the white tents of the athletes, chosen from all Greece, who are to compete on the morrow. Close to where towers the vast temple of Olympian Zeus, the world-wonder that Lidon made, is a little group of tents that shelter the men of Croton, famed for the might of her athletes. One of all the competitors lies wakeful. Dion, the son of Glaucus, gazes from his couch with wide-open eyes out into the night, sees the glimmer of the stars through the flickering leaves, listens to the whisper of the boughs overhead, and sleeps not. On the morrow he, a youth of eighteen, is to run in the dolichos, the hardest race of the games. His breath comes in gasps and the blood drums in the boy's ears as for the hundredth time in fancy he runs his race. The horrible waiting, the strain of suspense, have unnerved many an athlete more seasoned than Dion. A short hour before, Hippomaches, the grizzled old trainer of Croton, had made a final visit to see that all was well with his charges. Close on his departure came Glaucus, the boy's father, a man well past three score, yet with massive frame seemingly untouched by time as when, forty-four years ago, the mighty Milo of Syracuse had fallen before him under such a deadly cestus-stroke that the "blow of Glaucus" passed into a proverb. Dion, who had inherited the slighter frame and almost girlish beauty of a Thessalian mother, has always felt more of awe than affection for his silent Lacedæmonian father, little knowing what a wealth of love for his latest-born the grim old Spartan concealed under his impassive coldness.

To-night Glaucus stands for long without speaking, gazing down at his son, while the stern, unflinching eyes become very soft. Then, to the amazement of Dion, the hand that for nine Olympiads had won the wreath from the world's mightiest rests on his yellow hair, tenderly as a woman's.

"Dion, my son," and the deep voice trembles a little, "thou knowest how that our blood has ever brought glory to Croton. That the statues of thy grandfather, thy father, and thy two brothers all stand in this grove among the winners of Olympiads. Now thy turn hath come. Oh, my son, my son, for the love thy father bears thee, for the honor of city and blood, win the wreath to-morrow!"—and Glaucus is gone.

Through the black tree-trunks steals a wavering glow from where the lone priestess of Hestia tends the eternal flame that forever burns on the Prytaneum. From either side of Dion's tent he hears the deep, regular breathing of his twin brothers, men of tremendous strength and stature like to their father, who have won fame almost equal to his—one as a wrestler, the other as a boxer. Veterans are they in many a hard-fought contest at the great games—Olympic, Pythian, Nemean, and Isthmian—and, certain of success, rest untroubled by any feverish imaginings.

Dion's thoughts go back to that Olympiad in which his brothers scored a double victory for Croton. Before the silent multitude that day Glaucus blessed his sons for the glory they had brought him.

Every honor was heaped on the winners that Greece had to bestow. World poets and singers gave of their genius to adorn the names of the sons of Glaucus. Phidias himself made them immortal in snowy marble. The journey homeward was one long series of triumphs; and when at last the Olympiad-winners reached distant Croton, a breach was made through the solid masonry of the city wall for their entry, no mere gateway sufficing. Met by the assembled Council of Croton, they were formally installed in the Prytaneum as guests of the city for life.

And Dion, still thrilling at the remembrance of that day, falls asleep.

In the gray hour just before dawn Hippomaches rouses the boy from an uneasy slumber, and then with the clear oil rubs out every trace of stiffness from the lithe polished limbs of his charge. The nude youth stands in his manly beauty like a statue to Speed carved in ivory, his white skin crimson-tinged where the friction has brought the warm blood to the surface, while the coiling muscles ripple with every movement across the slim sinewy frame, from which years of training have taken away every ounce of useless fat.

"Ah, my lad," exclaims the old trainer, admiringly, as he gives the white back a farewell pat, "you are fit to-day to run a brave race for old Croton; and forget not all I have taught you!"

Dion dresses, and after a hurried meal proceeds to the temple, there to take the oath of the games—that he is qualified to run, and will use no guile in his race. Thence they go to the Metroön, rich with its treasures of art, to await the triple trumpet-note that shall announce the dolichos. For there are three races to be run this day—two short ones, the aulos and diaulos, and lastly the terrible dolichos, in which the runner covers the course twenty times. During the weary waiting Hippomaches heartens the boy by stories of the performances of his grandfather and father in Olympiads long past. The sun is well up before the first races are over, and the shrill trumpet-tones give the signal for the last of the running events.

At the northwestern corner of the Altis, by the station-entrance that only judges and competitors are privileged to use, the two separate, and Hippomaches hastens away to take his place among the men of Croton, who have their station near the base of the hill Kronion. Dion, with a crowd of other competitors, passes through the vaulted tunnel between long lines of brazen Zanes, and finds himself on the stadion in the full glare of the early sunlight. The heights around are thronged far as the eye can see with a vast crowd. To-day Dion runs before an assembled world. The long straight expanse of the stadion stretches before him. At either end are sunken slabs of white marble. Ten times must a runner touch each block to cover the full twenty courses. High above the stone which marks both start and finish are ranged the ten Hellenodikæ, the judges, while on the opposite side the white-faced priestess of Demeter Chamyrne sits alone—the only woman whose eyes may behold the games.

A great hush has fallen on the multitude as the competitors take the places assigned them by lot. It is broken by the voice of the herald.

"Let him that knows of any stain on the life or blood of a competitor speak now!" it thunders. A moment of tense silence, and then——"Let every runner place his feet on the mark!" echoes along the hill-side.

Each nude figure bends forward; a clear trumpet-note, and they are away, a rushing mass of bodies that gleam in the sunlight.

A little apart from the crowd in the seats of honor sit Glaucus, his twin sons—whose events do not come until late afternoon—and Hippomaches, the trainer.

"'Tis an easy game, this running," remarks one of the twins, the boxer, a little disdainfully.

"I say to you, oh winner with the cestus," Hippomaches responds, sternly, "that the most grievous blows on the palæstra are not to be compared with the suffering of the last five courses of the dolichos!"

But Glaucus hears nothing of this, nothing of the ejaculations and murmurs of excitement, pleasure, and disappointment that sound from all the throng. But for one thing has he eyes—a slim lithe figure far in the rear of the others, yet which moves with a smooth effortless gait like the swoop of a swallow. His iron grip tightens like a vise on the trainer's shoulder. "I know little of contests wherein men trust to their feet," he mutters. "Why lags the boy so far behind? He—he is not losing heart?"

"Watch the first turning, O Glaucus, and thou wilt see why Dion holds back," Hippomaches answers, grimly. "'Tis the bitter stadia that comes last by which thy son's courage will be proven."

Now the crowd of runners are at the end of the first course. The madness of the race is upon most of the novices. Forgetting the long stadia that come after, they strain every muscle to be the first to touch the white stone, and, instantly turning, retrace their course. In the wild jostle that results, Polymnestor, the Platæan runner, is thrown headlong, and though he rises instantly, and limpingly follows the others, never is the lost ground regained. A little group of the older runners, including Dion, who races with all the judgment of a veteran, have held back, and now, avoiding the returning rush, complete the course with no danger of interference, and are soon close upon the heels of the leaders.

It is to this little group that the knowing ones look for the winner. There is Philoctetes, the Spartan, a grim, black-bearded man in the prime of life, who won the dolichos at the last Olympiad. Near him are formidable rivals—Listhenes, Athens's speediest runner, who defeated Philoctetes by a desperate effort at the recent Nemean Games, and Antenor of Corinth, the winner of the event at the Pythian Games, is just at his shoulder. Then come two runners from distant provinces in Asia, who are rumored to have done marvellous racing over their native stadia. Back of them all is Dion, with the smouldering flame in his eyes and the long graceful stride. At the end of the second course the same scene of confusion is repeated, and two more runners go down. Stadion after stadion are traversed, and slowly the leaders drop back. By the end of the tenth the six that had brought up the rear are now in the van. Another course, and they begin to draw away from those who have exhausted their strength during the first half of the race. At last there are but five stadia more—the stadia in which the real race is run, the stadia that are the supreme test of a runner's courage and endurance.

Hippomaches tugs at his grizzled beard excitedly. "Fourteen Olympian dolichoi have I seen run in my day," he exclaims to Glaucus, "but never a faster than this. Flesh and blood cannot stand that pace much longer; some one will drop soon, and—the gods send it be not our Dion!"

Philoctetes is in the lead. His teeth are clinched, and the foam lies white on his black beard. A fit embodiment is he of the grim Lacedæmonian spirit which is yet to dominate all Greece. Faster and faster he runs, hoping to exhaust his rival from hated Athens—none other does he fear. A deep-throated roar of encouragement rises from the tiers of stern-faced, impassive Spartans as their champion flashes past them. Shrill cries come from the excitable Greeks of the Asiatic provinces as they cheer on their representatives, who are beginning to waver. But it is vain. Very different is an Olympic dolichos from any race of the provinces, and though struggling desperately, they drop back, unable longer to stand the tremendous strain. One stadion, two stadia, are passed, and the third begun, nor does Philoctetes falter aught in his even, rapid gait. Right at his shoulder glare the eyes of Listhenes, who would gladly give his life this day that Athens might win. There is a great hush as the runners traverse the third course. The supreme moment of the race is drawing nigh. All in a moment Antenor the Corinthian, who has held the third place just ahead of Dion, plunges forward in the very midst of a stride, and falls to the ground with the bright blood gushing from his mouth—his last dolichos run.

"Dion! Dion! See our Dion!" roar the men of Croton; for the boy is gaining. Inch by inch the gap between him and the leaders lessens, and soon Listhenes hears a sobbing breath at his ear, and knows that there is another to dispute the victory with Athens and Sparta.

"'Tis thine own son, O Glaucus!" cried Hippomaches, clinching his hands. And indeed the boy's features have changed. On the white drawn face appears that same intense look of deadly earnestness that made the fiercest boxer fear to stand before Glaucus in the old days. Fatigue, pain, danger, death itself count for naught; the race! the race! and his city's honor! are all that Dion knows. They touch the white stone, and turn back for the last course almost in line.

Back and forth among the hills roll the waves of sound, "Athens!" "Athens!" "Philoctetes for Sparta!" But high over all echoes the cry of, "Croton! Croton! Speed thee, O Croton!" Unhearingly Dion runs. There is a sickening pain in his breast, a taste of blood in his mouth; but the boy's will yet upholds the overtaxed body, dead from the waist downwards, and the gap between him and the leaders widens not.

Far, oh, so terribly far, in the distance is the white stone, the goal of all his life. Above it are the calm uneager faces of the ten Hellenodikæ and the pale priestess, who gazes down at the struggling trio with unseeing eyes from which a thousand sacrifices have seared all of human tenderness. Nearer and nearer the snowy gleam approaches, and still the three runners are almost in line, with Dion a little behind. Suddenly from out of the misty cloud of faces that wavers before the boy's hot unwinking eyes Dion sees his father's, the stern features all convulsed, hears a voice cry brokenly, with a world of anguished pleading in its tone,

"On, Dion! on! Oh, my son—for your city!"

"Dion! Dion! for your city!" echoes the mighty voice of thrice ten thousand men—and at the cry the boy's face comes up even with the black beard of Philoctetes, the tense countenance of the Athenian.

Neck by neck, stride for stride the three stagger on, and the finish is but a few steps away. The multitude is mad with excitement. Even the Hellenodikæ forget their stoicism, and lean forward, for who touches the stone first, if by only a hair's-breadth, is the winner. Then above the deep roar of the crowd sounds a voice like a trumpet-peal, the tremendous voice of Hippomaches, wisest of the sons of men in every wile of the stadion.

"The finish! Dion, the finish! Remember!—Now!"

Through the dimness that is slowly clouding Dion's senses the voice pierces. Almost in the last stride of the race the boy, with arms extended, throws himself forward like a diver, and the hands, outstretched, are on the goal-stone a fraction of a second before the feet of the others. And with the feeling of the smooth coolness of the marble at his finger-tips comes a great darkness, and Dion knows nothing more until he finds himself standing in the temple of Zeus on the chryselephantine table that Zeuxis made—the most beautiful in the world. Around him are the strong arms of his father. He hears the pealing chant, "Tenella! Tenella!" "Hail to the victor!" and on his forehead feels the light pressure of the hardly won olive wreath that crowns him before the world the winner of the dolichos.

[GRANDFATHER'S ADVENTURES.]

BY CAPTAIN HOWARD PATTERSON.

"Grandpop," said Ralph Pell, "a little while ago I asked Sam if he had seen many sharks in his lifetime, and he said that he saw more sharks the night he first joined your vessel than he ever saw before or since. When I asked him to tell me the story he shut up as tight as a clam. Do you know what he means?"

"Yes, Ralph, I know what he refers to, and I'll tell you the yarn. It is a good many years ago since I was made proud by receiving as my first command a fine, tight little bark called the Northern Light. I carried out a general cargo to Matanzas, on the north side of Cuba, and loaded sugar for my return voyage.

"The day that I received my clearance papers and was ready to sail, our agent, a Spanish gentleman of the name of Gonzales, invited me to take a farewell dinner.

"The time spent at the table was exceedingly pleasant, and after the dessert had been served we adjourned with the ladies to the veranda for our coffee, which was served by a powerfully built negro who answered to the name of Antonio. I have often thought how different that poor slave's life would have been had I not asked for a second cup.

"As Antonio extended the tray toward me he struck its edge against my chair, and emptied the hot black liquid over my white duck coat and trousers.

"My host jumped to his feet in a passion.

"'You worthless black scoundrel!' he cried, 'I'll cure you of your carelessness." Then he turned to me, and with an air of great politeness said, 'I ask you pardon, Señor Capitan, for my slave's miserable clumsiness.

"Immediately following, two of the plantation overseers, whom he had called, dragged the negro on to the lawn before us, stripped off his jacket and shirt, and produced short cruel-looking whips.

"'Señor,' I said, 'I beg of you to pardon him this time; it was purely an accident, for which I excuse him.'

"'I cannot allow your generosity to be taken advantage of, Señor Capitan,' replied my host. 'You have received an indignity under my roof, and I must render you ample proof of my regret.'

"At a sign from the master, the two plantation hands were about to ply their whips upon the back of the house slave, when, jumping over the railing to the lawn, I interposed between the negro and the overseers, bidding them to hold. My interference angered our agent, for he approached me, and said, haughtily:

"'The Señor Capitan will remember that he is not master here, that this is my slave, and he will oblige me by not concerning himself in the management of my affairs.' Then he added, sneeringly, 'Besides, I understand that Yankee shipmasters are not so humane in the treatment of their crews as to be shocked because a clumsy slave receives a sample of what American captains enjoy to inflict on their own men for little or no provocation!'

"'Señor Gonzales,' I answered, hotly, 'your brutality is only equalled by the discourtesy and contempt that you show to me as your guest. I demand an immediate apology for your language in the presence of these overseers and this slave, before whom you have insulted me!'

"As I ended he snatched a whip from one of the men, and raised it as though to strike me, but changing his mind, he half turned and slashed it across the naked shoulders of the negro.

"Before they could seize him, Antonio lurched forward, struck his master a stinging blow with his fist, and the next instant had scaled the garden wall and plunged into the cane-fields close by.

"Disgusted with the way in which my visit had ended, and scorning, under the circumstances, to make use of a conveyance belonging to the plantation, I left the grounds without seeing the señora and her daughters, and made my way to the plaza in the city. Later on I made my way to the wharf where I had ordered the bark's boat to meet me.

"Several times, as the men pulled easily toward the ship through the hot night, I thought I heard, between the intervals of the strokes, a sound like that of labored breathing and the noise of broken water just astern; but in the darkness that prevailed I could see nothing, and thinking perhaps that it was caused by the sharks which abounded in the harbor, I paid no further heed to it.

"We had run alongside the bark, and I had stood up in the stern-sheets to leave the boat, when a black hand reached out of the water and seized the gunwale of the boat; then as one of the sailors uttered a note of alarm and raised his oar threateningly, an agonized negro's face was lifted above the rail, and a pitiful voice cried in Spanish, 'Save Antonio, master!'

"I didn't like the idea of stealing another man's property, but I trembled to think of his fate should he be caught, so I took the poor fellow on board the Northern Light, and when morning came I lifted anchor and carried him away from cruelty and slavery forever. To cut him adrift from the past I rechristened him 'Sam.'"

[PRACTICAL GOLF.]

BY W. G. van TASSEL SUTPHEN.

(In Five Papers.)

III.—THROUGH THE GREEN, AND BUNKER PLAY.

THE WAGGLE.

The "green" is used generically to designate the whole course, specifically it is the putting green. Now we know that after the tee-shot we must "address" and play the ball as we find it. We are not permitted to tee it again, nor must we touch it with anything except a club, under penalty of one stroke. The choice of club naturally depends upon the distance from the hole, but more especially upon the "lie" of the ball. Should it be resting cleanly on close firm turf, we may be able to use the driver again; but, generally speaking, our American courses are too rough and cuppy to permit the employment of so fragile an instrument as the wooden driver. On some of the English "greens," and notably Westward Ho, the lies are so good that one's ball seems to be always teed, and proficiency with the wooden club is consequently at a premium. But on ordinary courses the "lie" is pretty sure to be more or less bad, and the play-club, as the driver is sometimes called, must be laid aside in favor of a coarser and more effective weapon. Speaking roughly, the brassy is first choice, followed by cleek, medium iron, lofter, mashie, and niblick, the last being used only in the most desperate of straits, and where nothing more is expected than to get the ball upon the course again.

The fascination of golf lies in its variety and difficulty. If it were only a question of holing balls, one long hole laid out over a smooth meadow would be all that would be necessary. But it would be very monotonous and uninteresting kind of work, and certainly not golf. Given six or nine or eighteen holes of different lengths, and the task at once becomes interesting through the introduction of the element of variety.

GETTING OUT OF A BUNKER.

But a simple variation in distance is not enough; the game is still too easy. We must have difficulties to avoid or overcome, and these difficulties, lumped under the general name of "hazards," may be either natural or artificial. The idea is that these hazards should be so placed as to punish only poor strokes, and that with perfect play we may avoid them altogether. But for present purposes we may ignore their existence, and assume that the way is clear, and that our only difficulty is the particular position, or "lie," of the ball.

Now there are many kinds of bad lies, but the one oftenest encountered is the "cupped" ball. Here the ball is lying in a shallow hole or depression, making it very difficult to get the club well under it. If the cup be not too deep we may take a brassy, but the stroke will differ slightly from the regular full drive. It should be what is called a "jerked" shot, although the "jerk" has nothing to do with the swing proper. That must be as smooth and regular as possible, but it may be permissible to keep the arms in a trifle, and thereby bring the club up straighter. The principal difference is that the club head cuts into the ground instead of sweeping cleanly over it. The ball is struck in precisely the same manner, and the jerk is simply the after impact of the club head upon the turf. This stroke is particularly effective with the iron clubs, and indeed many players use it for all their iron shots. It certainly drives the ball almost if not quite so far as the clean swing; but the author of the Art of Golf thinks that its constant use tends to unsteadiness at the tee. Nevertheless, it is the only effective treatment for a cupped ball, and it must be learned. When playing the stroke do not think about the jerk. Swing down so as to nip in between the lip of the cup and the ball, and let the club head make its own explanations to the ground. Should the ball be badly cupped you may have to take the mashie or even the niblick to get it out; but the cleek will generally do the work if you hit accurately.

BEGINNING OF HALF-IRON SHOT.

A hanging ball is one that is lying upon a slope that runs down in the direction of the proposed drive. It looks hard to handle, but the difficulty is purely imaginary. The brassy, or any other club whose face is laid back, will easily raise it into the air if you swing properly and trust to the club to do the work. The beginner is apt to think that he must make an extra turn with his wrists to get the ball up, but he is mistaken. Place the club so that it rests naturally on the slope behind the ball, and swing precisely as though you were at the tee, and the "spoon" of the club will do the rest.

Balls lying on a side hill, whether above or below you, are best played with an easy swing, and with the grip of the right hand comparatively loose. Long grass is very annoying because it interferes with the swing. You will have to take the lofter or mashie, and play with a firm grip. But do not "press" or try to strike extra hard. Generally speaking, the worse the lie the more particular you should be to swing and not to hit. Accuracy and not strength is the essential thing. And get well under the ball.

Coming now to hazards and bunkers, it may be said that bunkers are, properly speaking, sand-pits; while a hazard is any permanent feature of the course, such as briar-islands, roads, water, trees, or fences. Of course you will try to avoid these difficulties, but to be successful in doing so you must be reasonably sure of always getting your ball well into the air. A ball trundling along the ground may often make more yards of distance than a nicety lofted one, but then the "green" must be comparatively smooth and clear. If there is a brook or a fence in the way, it must be cleared on the fly, or you will find yourself in trouble. Now the lofter and mashie, from their shape of head, tend to raise the ball higher in the air than the straighter-faced clubs, and the novice should especially cultivate the use of the first-named. If the ball be struck clean and true, it may be lofted higher than is absolutely necessary, but that is better than too low. There is a particular stroke, called the high loft, but that need not concern us now. Use the regular driving swing, and get well under the ball.

Being fairly in a bunker or hazard is a painful situation, and the one thing to do is to get out with all possible expedition. If you are in a bunker proper, or sand-pit, you will have to take the niblick or mashie, and you must remember that you are not allowed to "sole" the club—that is, rest it on the ground as in the ordinary address. The idea is that the mark made on the sand by the club head is an unfair guide for the eye, and therefore if you touch sand you lose a stroke. It is often effective in a sand-bunker to aim at a point a little behind the ball, rather than at the "gutty" itself. The club cuts into the yielding sand, and, as it were, explodes the ball into the air and out of danger. An experiment or two will make this clear to you.

With the ball in an ordinary hazard, play to get it back on the course, rather than to make any extra distance by a little extra effort. If you "press," you will probably leave yourself worse off than before. In a "score" game a player has the option of lifting his ball out of a difficulty of any description and teeing it behind the same, the penalty being two strokes. Of course you must use your judgment as to when this course is the part of wisdom.

In match play, where the scoring is by holes, a lost ball means the loss of the hole. In medal or score play the player must return as nearly as possible to the point where the ball was struck, and tee a new one, the penalty being one stroke.

There are several other contingencies noted in the rules of the game; it is worth while to procure a copy of these and study them carefully.

A HAZARD.

It is to be remembered that all of the foregoing refers to play through the green when the hole is at an indefinite distance away, and we are simply trying to drive the ball the greatest distance possible. But in playing out of a hazard it is often advisable to use what is called, in approaching the hole, a half or a three-quarter swing. Roughly speaking, if the full distance covered by your regular drive be not desirable, make the length of your swing shorter in proportion, but do not try to hit a little more easily. Distance is measured by the length of the swing and not by the force applied. Let the left wrist be taut; and, finally, Keep your eye on the ball.

[UNDER THE GREEN-WOOD TREE.]

BY EMMA J. GRAY.

"Not going to the country, did you say, mamma?" and sorrowing faces accompanied the words.

"Not this summer, my dears."

"Then if we are not going, I know just what to do."

"What's your plan, my son?"

"Simply to make country for ourselves here at home."

"How, Jack? I don't quite understand," said his sister.

"Divide our big yard. You take both the side beds, and plant in them whichever flowers you would most miss by staying home, and I will take the back bed and surprise you with it."

"Oh, that will be fun! I'll plant one side full of daisies, and the other just as full of buttercups. Then I can make all the daisy wreaths I please, and find out who loves butter and who don't, just the same as when we are up in the mountains."

John was a tree lover. It was his greatest joy to lie off with a favorite book under wide-spreading branches. So he instantly began devising what could be arranged to take a tree's place. He measured his plot, and then set about collecting old brooms. When he had eighteen he cut off the handles close to the brush, and then he sank them one foot in the ground. From the top of each handle he drew stout cord to the back fence, where, having driven some nails, he firmly fastened each cord.

Then he raked the earth down about half a foot, and sowed in a straight line from base to base of the handles a package of Japanese hops. His mother had told him this had most luxuriant foliage and was fine for trellises. Nothing hurt it—neither heat, drought, nor insects. However, John carefully watched the seeds' growth and watered the tender shoots frequently.

While the vines were growing, as he was somewhat of a carpenter, he made a low divan on which to throw a rug and pine pillows for the use of visitors who did not care to lie on the soft tan-bark, which served as carpet for his cool restful greenroom, and which throughout all the hot sultry summer gave thorough satisfaction.

Entrance was made at the extreme right, space for which was allowed at time of building. This part was kept well sodded, as the effect was prettier when viewed from the house. It also was in pleasing contrast to the dark brown of the tan-bark, and made the whole more effective in every way.

As for John's sister, she rarely missed the country, for she so very much enjoyed the freedom of gardening on her own account—weeding, watering, making wreaths and bouquets for her friends and herself.

But, as often happens to older gardeners, she met with disappointment in regard to her buttercup bed. Beyond the first few weeks they refused to bloom, so one day they were all dug up and verbena roots planted instead. These fairly ran riot, and the fantastic gay coloring had the veriest kaleidoscopic effect until frost came and out-of-door gardening was over.

[THREE OF US KNOW.]

BY MARIE L. VAN VORST.

Who are my playfellows?
Wait, you shall see;
Sometimes a little bird,
Sometimes a bee.
All through the summer world
Gayly we go.
Where is the greenest close,
Where is the sweetest rose,
Three of us know.
Bee seeks the rose's heart,
Bird seeks the tree,
I seek a little brook
Clear as can be.
It singeth all day long
Sweetly and low,
Ballad of sun and star.
What its song-secrets are
Three of us know.
Bee takes the honey home
To the Queen bee;
Bird seeks a nest that hides
High in the tree;
I seek a little house
Where sweet vines grow.
What in God's world is best—
Trees, flowers, home and rest—
Three of us know.

AN "OLD-FIELD" SCHOOL-GIRL.[1]

BY MARION HARLAND

CHAPTER VIII.

"Running for her life" is not too strong an expression to describe Flea's flight. She had had experience of the temper of the man she had injured to the extent of her ability. She believed that he would kill her, in his fury, if he overtook her. With the instinct of a hunted hare she made for the thickest part of the woods, tearing through matted jungles of cat-briers and saplings, redoubling her speed as she heard a shout behind her. She had run a mile when she stopped for breath. Her hat was gone, and the muslin spencer worn under a sleeveless jacket, because of the late warm weather, was torn into ribbons. Her arms and face were bleeding; her heart beat so loudly that she could hear nothing else distinctly; but she fancied, presently, that she distinguished from afar off the noise of somebody crashing through the undergrowth. She bethought herself instantly that her flight must have left a wide trail in the forest. Winged by terror, she dashed on, but she no longer ran straight. With an undefined idea, gained from reading Cooper's novels, of losing trail in the water, she directed her course toward the swamp lying on both sides of the creek near where it emptied into the river. She could wade for a mile there, if necessary. Once in the depths of the swamp, she could defy anybody to find her unless he had a blood-hound to guide him. She had read and heard of blood-hounds, but had never seen one.

In her blind haste she miscalculated distances and direction, becoming aware of the blunder as the woods grew lighter. Long level lines of light from the early sunsetting hit her like arrows shot from behind the leafless trees. Where was she going? If she kept on, where would she come out?

A new sound smote her ears. It was not the shout of the pursuer or the bay of the hound which her imagination had conjured up. As it arose and wailed upon the still air, she fancied something familiar in it. Creeping cautiously nearer the road, which she espied through the brushwood, she saw first the white top of a "tumbler-cart" crossing a bridge laid over an arm of the creek, then the long ears of a mule, lastly her father's one man-servant, Dick, walking alongside of the mule, his hand on the thill of the cart. As he walked he uplifted voice and soul in sacred song:

"An' mus' dis body die?
Dis martial frame de-cay?
An' mus' dese actyve lim's o' mine—"

"Min' yo' eye dar, y'u ole buzzard!" as the mule touched the driver's cowhide boots with his hoof—

"Lie mould-ing in de clay?"

The truth flashed upon Flea. Chaney's sister, who had belonged to a planter living ten miles further down the river, had died a week ago, and word had been sent to Chaney that "a right smart chance o' clo'es an' blankets an' things" had been left to her by the deceased. Mrs. Grigsby had asked her husband that morning at breakfast if Dick could have a mule and a cart and a day's holiday, in order to fetch home his wife's legacy. The master had given his consent readily, and Dick was now on his way home, bearing his goods with him. He was, likewise, charged with all the particulars of his sister-in-law's sickness and death, with which he had it in his mind to regale his faithful Chaney. Behind him were the fertile low grounds; before him the road stretched straight into the heart of swamp and forest.

"I'm goin' home!"

wailed the chorus.

"I'm going home! I'm goin' ho-o-me!
I'm goin' ho-o-oome, to die no mo'!"

FLEA CREPT IN OVER THE BACKBOARD.

Crouching low, and treading as lightly as a panther, Flea quitted the bushes, stole up behind the cart as Dick threw up his head, to open his mouth back to the ears in the final howl of "ho-o-o-ome," and crept in over the backboard, unseen and unsuspected by the musician.

A feather bed filled the body of the cart, and into this the fugitive sank, pulling the "things" over her. How soft and how safe it felt! and how tired! tired! tired! she was, now that she had stopped running and need not fear pursuit. She had eaten nothing since breakfast, and was giddy and faint. She was very wet, too. In emptying the bucket upon her tormentor she had drenched herself to the skin.

Flea had not thought of going home when she ran out of the school-house. She would have said that she dared not meet her father and mother after what she had done. Maddened by her wrongs, she was conscious of but two impulses—to revenge herself upon the guilty party, and then to get out of sight of everybody. The best thing that could happen to her, she told herself, would be to die in the woods, of starvation and exposure, and to be found there by a search party sent out by her parents. Everybody would cry over her lifeless remains, and the wicked cause of her death would be driven out of the county. Perhaps he might be hanged for her murder. He would certainly be the victim of remorse all the rest of his days.

These thoughts had shot through her mind in little bits at a time while she pushed through the thickets. There had been no time for connected plans or expectations. But now, lying secure in her dark and downy nest, she concluded that, after all, home was the only refuge for her. Her shoulders and arms were naked, her skirts were wringing wet, her shoes heavy with swamp mud, her legs were torn by briers and thorns, and her head began to feel queer. Her brain swam and swung; her skull seemed to be filled with boiling water which was trying to get out at her ears. They were deafened by the sound of the boiling, and the steam pressed on the back of her eyes. Her mouth was so dry that the surface of her tongue "crazed," as crockery goes into tiny cracks when overheated.

Yes, home was the place for her. She would meet with punishment there. In a strange half-sleep she heard herself whispering, "Not knowing the things that shall befall me there, save that bonds and afflictions await me." Rest and comfort could never be hers again. But home was better than the wide, wide, wicked world.

Awaking herself with an effort, she set in order what she should say when she got home. Her father would not believe that she had lied and cheated. But what would he say to the revenge that began to taste less sweet than at first? He would have to pay for Mr. Tayloe's spoiled clothes. She might even have to go to court to answer for her misdeed. Her spirit leaped up again at the thought. She would tell her story boldly to judge and jury, and show what had been done by "the wretch who was a disgrace to his cloth."

That sounded fine; but did "cloth" always mean a broadcloth coat? She had a notion that it was only "cloth" when black and on a clergyman's back. At any rate, she would defy the little monster. The memory of his grinning face and insulting tone stirred up the mire and dirt anew.

The cart had no springs. It jolted and bumped over the rough road, and rocked up and down: but she was used to the ways of the tumbler-cart, and Dick's singing was making her drowsy again. She would put off thinking until she got rested. Perhaps by then her ears would roar less and her head stop aching.

Creak and rumble! Seesaw! and fainter and further away sounded Dick's monotonous wail—

"We'll pass over Jerdan!
How happy we shall be!
We'll pass over Jerdan,
And shout de jubilee."

Snail Snead was singing that tune yesterday to what the girls said were "wicked words." They got into Flea's head now, and would not get out:

"We'll pass over Jerdan,
An' drink sweeten'd tea;
We'll passa over Jerdan,
An' climb the 'simmon-tree."

She smiled foolishly in saying them over.

Cart and song had come to a halt. Flea put her eye to a crevice in the cover. It was Miss Em'ly on horseback, a mounted groom leading a third horse. Dick pulled off his whity-brown wool hat, and scraped his foot.

"Howdy, Uncle Dick!" called the sweet, shrill voice. "Have you seen Mr. Tayloe anywhere?"

"Naw, my mistis, I 'ain' see him nowhar. Is you los' him? I moughty sorry."

His eyes twinkled, and Miss Em'ly snapped her whip at him, blushing and laughing.

"Shut your mouth, Uncle Dick! He was to go riding with me, and he isn't at the school-house. If you should see him, tell him I couldn't wait for him. Good-by."

She gave her horse a smart cut and galloped down the road.

"He is looking for me all this time!" thought Flea, fearfully. Her teeth chattered, and she pulled a blanket up over her.

Another adventure was in store for her at the next turn of the highway. Mr. Tayloe stepped out of the edge of the woods and hailed Dick. Flea could have thought his eye met hers as she peeped through the hole in the cover. He stood within six feet of the cart. His hat was the only dry thing he had on. His blue coat, buff waistcoat, and gray trousers were discolored and streaked with wet. "Beggars' ticks" and "Spanish needles," sticking to his clothes, told of a tramp through marsh and field. He looked cross and ugly and fierce.

"Aren't you Grigsby's man?" he asked, harshly.

Dick touched his hat, but did not take it off. "Yas, suh. I has de honor for to be Mister Grigsby's body-sarvant! At yo' sarvice, suh!"

The superior quality of his manners did not impress the white man. His tone was more offensive than before.

"You tell him he must come up to the house to-night. I want to see him on particular business. Do you hear?"

"Yas, suh!" Dick's roving gaze took in all the details of the forlorn figure, and he grew exasperatingly polite. "You been fall in de creek, 'ain' you, suh? Carn't I give you a lif' home, suh? You mought happen to meet somebody 'long de road. Miss Em'ly Duncombe, she done parss 'long hyur, jes now, a-lookin' fur you. It's more'n likely she'll tu'n back at de cross-roads. Lordy! dar's a moughty big dus' down yonder," arching his hand over his eyes to make sure they did not deceive him. "Hit looks mightily like dat's her now."

Flea had never heard the teacher swear until he flung a round and abusive oath at the negro and plunged back into the woods. Sly Dick had been morally certain that the fine gentleman would never in any circumstances demean himself to become a passenger in a tumbler-cart. He had not risked dampening his Chaney's "things" by the invitation, or it would never have been given. Flea, half dead with dread lest it might be accepted, felt the blood rush wildly from her heart to her head in the relief of the escape, sank back upon the feather bed, and fainted away.

Dick plodded along the highway too full of wicked glee to sing any more hymns. Twice he stopped in the middle of the road to laugh—a regular darky "Ki-yi!" enjoyed by every atom of his being. Mr. Tayloe was very unpopular with the Greenfield servants, and tales of his "high-handed, low-down ways," had been repeated throughout the colored community. The fall moon was high above the horizon when the tumbler-cart was driven up to the kitchen door. Chaney bustled out with importance, becoming an heiress in her own right, but with a decent show of indifference to her own interests where those of her employers were concerned.

"'Ain' no time fur to tech dem things now!" she declared. "Marster's sister done come from Philadelphy or Pennsylvany, or wharever 'tis. De big pot's got to be put in de little one, you better b'lieve. Did you git de baid [bed]?"

"Yas, an' a pyar o' blankets, an' a counterpin, an' a shawl, an' two linsey-woolsey coats Dorkis never had on her back—an' I don' know what else beside. Dars a chaney tea-pot an' sugar-dish. Jes you take a peep in dar!"—leading the way to the back of the cart. "Put yo' han' inter dat 'ar baid. Dem's fedders as is fedders!"

"The chamber" of the Grigsby house was ablaze with three candles and a great fire upon the hearth. To escape from the heat of this last the visitor, Mrs. McLaren, had drawn her chair to an open window. She was two years older than her brother, and had worn black for ten years for her only child, who had borne her name—Jean. Her husband, who had been an invalid for fifteen years, had died only six months before this, her first visit to Virginia. Her brother, of whom she was very fond, had been to Philadelphia for a few days every summer since her marriage. Against his wife's wish he had slipped "Jean" in after the high-sounding name bestowed by her upon their second child. Mrs. Grigsby considered her sister-in-law "right down hard favored," and indeed her reddish hair, high cheek-bones, and prominent mouth robbed her of all claim to beauty. She had, however, a sensible, kindly face, and looked and spoke like a refined lady. She had arrived from Norfolk at three o'clock that afternoon, and had seen all the children except her namesake.

"She had to stay for a while after school to do a sum, poor thing!" Bea explained, with amiable unwillingness.

Mrs. Grigsby heaved her usual sigh over Flea's shortcomings. Good woman and good mother though she was, she would not have been sorry to see Bea in high favor with her rich aunt, even at the expense of her less attractive sister. Bea would do her mother's training credit anywhere. "Poor Flea," as her mother often lamented, "was nobody's pretty child, and too odd for anything."

"Is she often out as late as this?" asked Mrs. McLaren. "Is it quite safe for her to come home alone from school after sunset?"

Mrs. Grigsby repeated her sigh. "Flea takes after her father in headiness," she remarked, in sickly jest.

Her husband paid no heed to the fling.

"If she is not in soon, I shall go to look after her," he said, peering through the window at the darkening landscape. "Mr. Tayloe is an excellent teacher, but, as you say, Jean, it is not right to keep a girl out after dark. She wasn't kept in over the sum she did last night, was she?"—looking at Bea. "I know that was right."

Bea was discreet and mysterious. "I didn't ask any questions, sir. I only heard Mr. Tayloe say she must stay in for an hour after school."

Mrs. McLaren glanced at Dee. He sat upon a cricket in a corner near her, apparently asleep; but at Bea's reply he unclosed his eyes in languid surprise upon his sister.

"The laddie knows something he could tell, if he would," said his aunt, laying her hand upon the bullet head.

"'Twould be tellin' tales out o' school," muttered the boy, reddening bashfully. "If 'twouldn't, I could tell a heap o' things."

Mrs. McLaren's hand, passing gently over his head, was checked by something she felt there.

"How came this big bump here?" she inquired. "Have you had a fall?"

"Naw,'m."

"A fight, perhaps, then?"

"Naw,'m."

She raised his chin to search his eyes.

"Would it be telling tales out of school to answer that question?"

Dee nodded, got redder and more bashful.

"Ef you had a tole me, I'd 'a' rubbed it with operdildoc," said the mother. "Boys that won't steddy mus' look for hard knocks."

"Does Felicia study?" pursued the visitor.

"I can't exac'ly say she don't steddy," returned the mother. "But she is the greatest one fur gittin' inter scrapes—"

Her husband interrupted her again, as if he had not heard what she said.

"Study! She's the best scholar of her age I or you or anybody else ever saw. She has more brains than all the rest of them put together. You'll be proud of your name-child some of these days, Jean."

"How happens it then that she was kept in?" was the next and natural question. "Perhaps she is not industrious?"

"She works like a horse!" came from Dee, who had laid his head back against the wall, and sighed and turned white behind his freckles. The boy looked ill.

Mr. Grigsby was troubled.

"I have had thoughts," he said, more hesitatingly than he was accustomed to speak, "about Mr. Tayloe's management of that child. She's high-strung and sensitive, and so little like most girls of her age, that an ordinary teacher would not know how to get on with her. But she learns so fast under him, and is so eager about her lessons, that it doesn't seem wise for me—"

A piercing yell from without broke the sentence in the middle. Another and another, with never a breath between, drew the whole party to the back door, from which direction the screams had come.

The moonlight showed the cart and mule at the door of the kitchen, which was built twenty yards or so from the house. The moon also showed Chaney jumping up and down like a crazy thing at the back of the cart, and screeching at the top of her lungs. Two children clutched her skirts and screeched in sympathy.

"What is to pay out there?" shouted the master, angrily. "Stop that noise!"

"Dar's somefin' 'live in dar, suh!" Dick called back in trembling accents.

Mr. Grigsby stepped back into the house for a candle; his sister followed him with another. He pulled aside the cover of the cart. Mrs. McLaren held the light above his head, and leaned forward with him to look in.

When Chaney had thought to thrust her hand into her feather bed, it had encountered something that moved and moaned. That something now sat upright and stretched out two naked arms encrusted with dried blood. A voice nobody there would have known cried out: "Father! father! don't let that man get me! He wants to kill me."

Such was Mrs. McLaren's introduction to the namesake of whom she would some day be proud.

[to be continued.]

[RICK DALE.]

BY KIRK MUNROE.

CHAPTER XXIII.

ALARIC TODD'S DARKEST HOUR.

"Hello, Rick Dale! Hold on!" was the hail that caused Alaric to halt in his flight from the most recent of the chasings that were becoming so common a feature of his life.

It was Bonny who called, and who now came running up to him. "Where have you been all this time?" he asked. "I've waited and watched for you ever since we got in, a good two hours ago, and was getting mighty uneasy for fear you'd fallen overboard or got left at Seattle, or something. You see, I feel in a way responsible for you, seeing that I got you into all this mess."

"That's queer," said Alaric, with a faint smile, and sitting down wearily on a huge anchor that lay beside one of the warehouses, "for I've been thinking that all your troubles were owing to me. I'm awfully sorry, though, I kept you waiting, but I suppose I must have been asleep."

"You had better luck than I did, then," growled Bonny, seating himself beside his friend, "for I haven't had a wink of sleep since we left Seattle. I was just getting into a doze when a miserable deck-hand swashed a bucket of water over me. Then they found me out, and set me to work cleaning decks and polishing brass. They kept me at it every minute until we got here, and then fired me ashore."

"Did they give you any breakfast?" inquired Alaric, with an interest that betrayed the tendency of his thoughts.

"Not much, they didn't. Have you had anything to eat?"

"Not a bite; and do you know, Bonny, I think I am beginning to realize what starving means?"

"I know I am, and what being entirely worn out means as well. Do you suppose it's just hunger that makes a fellow feel sick and light-headed and weak as a cat, the way I do now, or is it that he is really in for something serious, like a fever or whooping-cough or one of the things with big names?"

"I expect it's hunger, and nothing else," replied Alaric, "for I feel just that way myself, and I've been really ill times enough to know the difference."

"Then it must be starvation, and something has got to be done about it," exclaimed Bonny, starting to his feet with a resolute air, "for I don't believe any two fellows are going to be allowed to starve to death in this city of Tacoma. So I'm going to get something for us to eat, even if I have to steal it."

"Oh no, Bonny! don't steal. We haven't quite come to that," objected Alaric. "Did you say this was Tacoma, though?"

"Yes, of course. Didn't you recognize it?"

"No, I didn't, for I wasn't given much chance to get acquainted with it last evening, you know. But if this is Tacoma, I've an idea that I believe will bring us some money. So suppose we separate for a while? You can go one way looking for something to eat, and I'll go another in search of that which will mean the same thing. When the whistles blow for noon we'll both come back here and compare notes."

"All right," agreed Bonny. "I'll do it, and if I don't bring back something to eat, it will be because the whole city is starving, that's all."

So the two set forth in opposite directions, Bonny taking a course that would lead him among the shipping, and Alaric walking up the long easy grade of Pacific Avenue toward the city proper. His pride, which no personal suffering nor discomfort could overthrow, had given way at last before the wretchedness of his friend. "It is I who am the cause of it," he said to himself, "and so I am bound to help him out by the only way I can think of. I hate to do it, for it will be owning up that I am not fit to care for myself or able to fight my own way in the world. I know, too, just how John and the others will laugh at me, but I've got to do something at once, and there doesn't seem to be anything else."

The scheme that Alaric so dreaded to undertake, and was yet determined to undertake, was the telegraphing to his brother John for funds. Of course John would report the matter to their father, who had probably been already notified of his younger son's disappearance, and our lad would be ordered to return home immediately. Or perhaps John would come to fetch him back, like a runaway child. It would all be dreadfully humiliating, and on his own account he would have undergone much greater trials than those of the present rather than place himself in such a position. But for the sake of the lad who had befriended him and suffered with him, it must be done.

The only telegraph office in the city of which Alaric knew was in the Hotel Tacoma, where he had passed a day on his northward journey, and thither he bent his steps. As he entered its open portal and crossed the spacious hall in which was located the telegraph station, the well dressed who paced leisurely to and fro or lounged in easy-chairs stared at him curiously. And well they might, for a more tattered, begrimed, unkempt, and generally woe-begone youth had never been seen in that place of luxurious entertainment. Had Alaric encountered a mirror, he would have stared at himself and passed by without recognition; but for the moment his mind was too busy with other thoughts to allow him to consider his appearance.

The boxlike telegraph office was occupied by a fashionably attired young woman, who was just then absorbed in an exciting novel. After keeping Alaric waiting for several minutes, or until after she had finished a chapter, she took the despatch he had written, and read it aloud:

"To Mr. John Todd, Amos Todd Bank, San Francisco:

"Dear John,—Please send me by wire one hundred dollars. Will write and explain why I need it.

"Alaric."

"Dollar and a half," said the young woman, tersely, and without looking up.

Although many telegrams had been forwarded at various times and from distant parts of the world in Alaric Todd's name, he had never before attempted to send one in person. Now, therefore, although somewhat startled by the request for a dollar and a half, he replied, calmly:

"Send it collect, please. It will be paid for at the other end."

"Can't do it; 'gainst the rules," retorted the young woman, sharply, now glancing at the lad before her, and contemptuously scanning him from head to foot.

"But," pleaded poor Alaric, "this is so very important. The money that I ask for is sure to come, and then I will pay for it a dozen times over, if you like. It will certainly be paid for, though, in San Francisco, at the Amos Todd bank, for my name is Todd, Alaric Todd."

"It wouldn't make any difference," remarked the young woman, "if your name were George Washington or John Jacob Astor; you couldn't send a despatch through this office without paying for it. So if you haven't any money you might as well make up your mind not to waste any more of my time."

With this she resumed the reading of her novel, while Alaric moved slowly away, stunned and despairing. Now was he indeed cut off from his home, his people, and from all hope of assistance. He hadn't even money enough to pay for a postage-stamp with which to send a letter. As he realized these things, the reaction from his confidence of a few moments before, that his present trouble would be speedily ended, was so great that he grew faint, and mechanically sank into a leather-cushioned chair that stood close at hand.

He had hardly done so when an alert porter stepped up, touched him on the shoulder, and pointed significantly to the door.

The boy understood, and obeyed the gesture without remonstrance. Thus it came to pass that a son of Amos Todd, the richest man on the Pacific coast, was driven from a hotel of which his father was one of the principal owners, and in spite of the fact that he had just acknowledged his own identity.

Once outside, Alaric walked irresolutely, and as though unconscious of what he was doing, for a short distance, and then found himself seated on an iron bench at the edge of a broad asphalted driveway. Here he tried to think, and could not. He closed his eyes and wondered vaguely if he were going to die, or, if not, how much longer he could live without food. It wasn't worth worrying about, though, one way or the other. He had made such a complete failure of life that no one would care if he did die. Of course Bonny might feel badly about it for a little while, but even he would get along much better alone.

From such terrible thoughts as these the lad was aroused by the sound of cheery voices: and glancing listlessly in their direction, he saw a well-dressed young fellow, apparently not much older than himself, a little boy in his first suit of tiny knickerbockers, and a big dog. They had just come from the hotel and were playing with a ball. It was Phil Ryder with little Nel-te, an orphan whom he had rescued from the Yukon wilderness, and big Amook, one of his Eskimo sledge dogs that he was carrying back to New London as a curiosity.

While Alaric watched them, wondering how it must seem to be as free from both hunger and anxiety as that happy-looking chap evidently was, the ball tossed to Nel-te escaped him and rolled under the iron bench. As the child came running up, the lad recovered it and handed it to him.

"Fank you, man," said the little chap, and then ran away.

After a while the ball again came in the same direction, and, as the child did not follow it, Alaric picked it up and tossed it to Phil.

"Hello!" cried the latter. "It seems mighty good to be catching a baseball again. Give us another, will you?" With this he threw the ball to Alaric, who caught it deftly and flung it back.

The ball was one that had been found in a certain canvas dunnage-bag the evening before, and begged by Phil Ryder as a souvenir of his experience as a smuggler. After a few passes back and forth Alaric became so dizzy from weakness that, with a very pale face, he was again forced to sit down.

"WHAT'S THE MATTER?" ASKED PHIL, ANXIOUSLY.

"What's the matter?" asked Phil, anxiously, coming up to the trembling lad. "Not ill, I hope?"

"No; I'm not ill. It's only a little faintness."

"Do you know," said Phil, as he noted closely the lad's mean dress and hollow cheeks, "that you look to me as though you were hungry. Tell me honestly if you have had any breakfast this morning."

"No," replied Alaric, in a low tone.

"Or any supper last night?"

"No."

"Did you have any dinner yesterday?"

"I can't exactly remember, but I don't think I did."

"Why, man," cried tender-hearted Phil, horror-stricken at this revelation, "you are starving! And I've been keeping you here playing ball! What a heedless brute I am! Never mind; just you wait until I can carry this little chap inside, and don't you stir from that seat until I come back." With this Phil, picking up Nel-te and bidding Amook follow him, hurried away, leaving Alaric still holding the baseball, and filled with a very queer mixture of conflicting emotions.

CHAPTER XXIV.

PHIL RYDER PAYS A DEBT.

In a very few minutes Phil Ryder hastened back to where Alaric awaited him. "Now you come with me," he said, cheerily, "and we'll end this starvation business in a hurry. I won't take you to the hotel, for those swell waiters are too slow about serving things, and when a fellow is hungry he don't care so much about style as he does about prompt attention to his wants. I know, for I've been there myself. There's a little restaurant just around the corner on the avenue that looks as though it would exactly fill the bill. Here we are."

Almost before he realized what was happening Alaric found himself seated before the first regular breakfast table that he had seen in weeks, while the young stranger facing him, who had so unexpectedly become his host, was ordering a meal that seemed to embrace pretty nearly the whole bill of fare.

"Bring the coffee and oatmeal first," he said to the waiter, "and see that there is plenty of cream. If they burn your fingers, so much the better, for you never saw any one in quite so much of a hurry as we are. After that you may rush along the other things as fast as you please."

Alaric attempted a feeble protest against the munificence of the order just given, but Phil silenced him with:

"Now, my friend, don't you fret; I know what you need and what you can get away with better than you do, for I've experimented considerably with starving during the past year. As for obligation, there isn't any. I am only paying a debt that I've owed for a long time."

"I don't remember ever meeting you before," said Alaric, looking up in surprise from a dish of oatmeal and cream that seemed the very best thing he had ever tasted.

"No, of course not, and I don't suppose we have ever been within a thousand miles of each other until now; but I have been in your debt, all the same. Just about a year ago I was in Victoria without a cent in my pocket, no friend or even acquaintance that I knew of in the whole city, and so hungry that it didn't seem as though I had ever eaten anything in my life. Just as I was most desperate and things were looking their very blackest, an angel travelling under the name of Serge Belcofsky came along, and spent his last dollar in feeding me. I vowed then that I'd get even with him by feeding some other hungry fellow, and this is the first chance I've run across since. You needn't be afraid, though, that I am spending my last dollar on you, glad as I would be to do so if it were necessary. That it isn't is owing to one of the best fathers in the world, who hasn't had a chance to keep me in funds for so long a time that he is now trying to make up for lost opportunities."

"You must be very fond of him," said Alaric, who was now at work on beefsteak and fried potatoes.

"Well, rather," replied Phil, earnestly, "though I never knew how much a good father was to a boy until I lost him, and had to fight my way alone through a whole year before I found him again. It's a wonder my hair didn't turn gray with anxiety while I was hunting him up in the interior of Alaska; but it's all over now, and I have him safe at last right here in Tacoma, along with my aunt Ruth and little Nel-te and Jalap—"

"Is he the dog?" asked Alaric, beginning an attack on the omelette.

"Who?"

"Jalap."

"Not much he isn't a dog," laughed Phil. "He is one of the dearest of sailormen. He's one of the wisest, too, only he lays all of his wisdom to his old friend Kite Roberson. Besides all that, he is one of the most comical chaps that ever lived, though he doesn't mean to be, and it's better than a circus to see him on snow-shoes driving a sledge team of dogs. I should have brought him over here to cheer you up, only he's off somewhere among the ships this morning. He says he got the salt-water habit so badly that he can't keep away from them. Are you ready now for the buckwheats? Here are half a dozen hot ones to top off with, and maple-syrup too. Don't they look good, though! I say, waiter, you may as well bring me a plate of those buckwheats. I forgot to have any at breakfast."

So Phil rattled on, talking of all sorts of things to keep his guest amused, and allow him ample opportunity to attend strictly to the business of eating, without feeling obliged to answer questions or sustain any part of the conversation.

And how poor, heartsick, hungry Alaric was cheered by the thoughtful kindness of this strange lad who had so befriended him in his hour of sorest need! How grateful he was, and how, with each mouthful of food, strength and courage and hope came back to him, until, when the wonderful meal was finished, he was ready once more to face the world with a brave confidence that it should never again get the better of him! He tried to put some of his gratitude into words, but was promptly interrupted by his host, who said:

"Nonsense! You've nothing to thank me for. I told you I owed you this breakfast, and besides, though I haven't eaten very much myself, I have certainly enjoyed it as much as any meal of my life. Now we have a few minutes left before I must go, and I want you to tell me something of yourself. What is your name? Where is your home? And how did you happen to get into this fix?"

"My name is Rick Dale," began Alaric, who did not feel that he could disclose his real identity under the circumstances, "and my home is in San Francisco; but it is closed now. My mother is dead. I don't know just where my father is, and I was left with some people whom I disliked so much that I just"— Here he hesitated, and Phil, noting his embarrassment, hastened to say,

"Never mind the particulars; I had no business to ask such questions anyway."

"Well," continued Alaric, "the result of it all is that I am here looking for work. I had a job, but it didn't pay anything, and I lost it about two weeks ago. Now I am trying to find another."

"What kind of a job do you want?"

"Anything, so long as it is honest work that will provide food, clothing, and a place to sleep."

"In that case," said Phil, thoughtfully, "I don't know but what I can put you in the way of one, though—"

"It must be a job for two of us," interposed Alaric, "for I have a friend who is in the same fix as myself."

"I only wish I had known that in time to have him breakfast with us," said Phil; "but the job I am thinking of, if it can be had at all, will serve for two of you as well as for one. You see, it is this way. There is a Frenchman over at the hotel whose name is Filbert, and who—"

Just here both lads started at the sound of a shrill whistle announcing the hour of noon.

"I had no idea it was so late," exclaimed Phil, "and I must run; for we leave here on the one-o'clock train."

"I must hurry too, for I promised to meet Bonny at noon," said Alaric.

"Who is Bonny?"

"The friend I told you of."

"Then I want you to give this to him from me, for fear he may not have found any breakfast." So saying Phil slipped something hard and round into Alaric's hand. "Now good-by, Rick Dale," he said. "I hope we may meet again sometime. At any rate, be sure to call on Monsieur Filbert at the hotel this afternoon. I guess you can get a job from him; but even if you don't, always remember that, as my friend Jalap Coombs says, 'It's never so dark but what there's a light somewhere.'"

Then the lads parted, one filled with the happiness that results from an act of kindness, and the other cheered and encouraged to renewed effort.

With grateful and loving glances Alaric watched Phil Ryder until he disappeared in the direction of the hotel, and then hastened to keep his appointment with Bonny. On the road leading to the wharves he passed a tall, lank figure, whose whole appearance was that of a sailor. His shrewd face was weather-beaten and wrinkled, but so kindly and smiling that Alaric could not help but smile from sympathy as they met.

He found Bonny impatiently awaiting him, and in such cheerful spirits as to be hardly recognizable for the despondent, half-starved lad of two hours before.

"Hello, Rick!" he shouted, as his friend approached. "I know you've had good luck, for I see it in your face."

"Indeed I have!" replied Alaric; "and, what's more, I've had the best breakfast I ever ate in my life."

"That's what I meant by luck; and I've had the same."

"What's more," continued Alaric, "I have brought something that was sent especially to you, for fear you hadn't found anything to eat."

Thus saying, he handed over a big bright silver dollar.

"Well, if that don't beat the owls!" exclaimed Bonny at sight of the shining coin, "for here is his twin-brother that was handed to me to give to you, or rather to the first fellow I met who needed it more than I did."

"I must be the one then," said Alaric, joyously, "for I haven't a cent to my name, and as you now have two dollars, I'm willing to divide with you. But who gave it to you, and how did he happen to?"

"The queerest and dearest old chap I ever saw. You know how badly I was feeling when we separated. Well, that was nothing to what came afterwards. I set out to board every ship in port until I should find a cook or steward who would fill me up and let me have something extra to bring to you. On the first half-dozen or so I was treated worse than a dog, and fired ashore almost before I opened my mouth. It made me feel meaner than dirt, and but for thinking of how disappointed you would be if I came back as miserable as I went, I should have given up in despair. I must say, though, that all the fellows who treated me that way were Dagoes, Dutch, or Chinamen.

"At length I boarded a Yankee bark that carried an Irish steward, and the minute I said I was hungry he cried out:

"'Don't spake a wurrud, lad, for ye couldn't do yer looks justice. Jist be aisy, and come wid me.'

"With that he led me to a sort of a cuddy at the forward end of the after deck-house, and set me down to such a spread as I haven't seen since I left Cape Cod. There was cold roast beef, corned beef, potatoes, bread and butter, pie, pickles, coffee, and—well, it would be no use to tell all the things that steward gave me to eat, for you just wouldn't believe it. He laid 'em all out, told me to pitch in, and then went off, so, as he said, I'd be free to act according to nature.

"I sat there and ate until I hadn't room for as much as a huckleberry. As I was looking at the last piece of squash pie, and thinking what a pity it was that it must be left, I heard a chuckle behind me, and turned around in a hurry. There stood one of the mates and the dear old chap I was just telling you about.

"'Why don't you eat it, son?' says the mate.

"'Reason enough,' says I; 'because I can't; but if you don't mind, sir, I'd like awfully to take it to my partner in starvation,' meaning you.

"'Who is he? And how does he happen to be starved?' says the dear old chap. Then I up and told them the whole story of our experience on the Fancy, being chased by the revenue-men, and all, and it tickled 'em most to death.

"When I got through, the stranger, who was just down visiting the vessel, slipped a dollar into my hand, and told me to give it to the first chap I met who needed it more than I did. He said he used to know Cap'n Duff, and told me a lot of yarns about him as we walked back here together."

"Was his name Jalap Coombs?" asked Alaric.