THE PURSUIT OF THE BRANDT
There was a warm welcome for Harvey aboard the sloop, although Arthur and
Joe Warren could hardly believe their eyes at first, when they saw him
step over the rail on deck. When they did recognize, in the
weather-beaten, bronzed and rough-looking figure, their comrade of
Benton, they fell upon him and dragged him below into the cabin, followed
by Tom Edwards and Will Adams.
And as they sailed across the Chesapeake a little later, on their long
course, east by north in the direction of Hooper strait, Harvey recounted
his adventures—assisted by Tom Edwards, who filled in the parts which
Harvey omitted, recounting in glowing terms how Harvey had stood by him
through thick and thin, refusing to desert his friend when the
opportunity had offered for him to escape, alone.
Edward Warren looked serious, as Harvey described the life aboard the
Brandt, and the treatment of the men at Haley’s hands.
“I wouldn’t have had young Burns taken off on that craft for all the
money in Maryland,” he said, gravely. “I feel somehow to blame for it,
too,” he added, “though I hadn’t the least idea he would attempt to leave
the house at night. Give her all the sail she’ll stand, Will,” he called
to Will Adams, who, with George Warren, had returned on deck; “let’s get
across as quick as we can.”
“She’s making good time,” replied George Warren, hurrying down below
again, to hear the story; “we’ll be in the strait by early afternoon.”
The old Mollie was, indeed, doing her prettiest, and carrying a “bone in
her teeth” under a fresh westerly breeze.
George Warren vowed vengeance on Haley, for his hard treatment of Harvey
and Tom Edwards. Young Joe groaned in sympathy as Harvey told of the food
served to the crew of the Brandt.
“There’s a big chicken pie, over in that locker, Jack,” he said, with a
longing look in the direction indicated.
“No, thanks, Joe,” laughed Harvey; “we had a good, square meal before we
set out this morning; and we’ve been making up for what we lost, these
last few days.”
“No use, Joe, you’ll have to wait till dinner time before you get any
more of that pie,” said Arthur Warren, slyly.
Young Joe scowled in high indignation.
“I didn’t want any,” he declared.
“Well, I’ve done all I can,” said Edward Warren. “I’ve put the
authorities on the track, and a police boat will pick up Haley, I expect,
before we do. We’ll have some news as soon as we get over among the
dredging fleet.”
“I’m not so sure about Haley’s being caught right off,” returned Will
Adams. “It all depends upon whether he thinks he’s being hunted or not.
This bay is a mighty big sheet of water, and there are a thousand and one
places to run to for hiding. And as I say, these fellows have a way of
warning one another. We may get word of him soon, or we may not. We’ll
have to wait and see.”
They ran in through Hooper strait that afternoon, in company with quite a
fleet of oyster fishermen; a score of bug-eyes, picturesque and spirited
under full sail; several sharp-stern punjies; and, in Tangier Sound,
other smaller craft. Harvey, on deck, as lookout, watched eagerly, using
Will Adams’s telescope now and then, for the familiar rig of the Brandt.
Will Adams, at the wheel, rejoiced in the acquisition of one who would
know the craft at a distance, instead of their having to trust to chance
report of the vessel from some passing skipper.
But there was no Brandt to be seen that afternoon. They came to anchor in
Tangier Sound at dusk, and made ready for the night, impatient to resume
the search upon the morrow.
“Not much like the Brandt, old fellow, is it?” remarked Harvey to Tom
Edwards, as they turned in on some blankets on the cabin floor.
Tom Edwards gave a yawn and a murmur of satisfaction.
“It’s fine and comfortable,” he said—“but I won’t be sorry to be back in
old Boston once more—if we ever get there. I wasn’t cut out for a
sailor.”
They started out again in good time, the following morning, following the
track of the dredging fleet, cruising in and out among the vessels.
Perhaps their appearance cruising thus, apparently idle, with no fishing
equipment, may have excited some suspicion. Certain it is, they got
little assistance from the captains they hailed, as Will Adams had
feared.
“Hello, ahoy there!” Will Adams would call, through a big megaphone.
“Ahoy, the Mollie!”
“Seen anything of the Z. B. Brandt?”
“No.”
The answer would come short and sharp.
Sometimes they would sail along with a dredger, as it heaved and wound in
its dredges, making inquiries; but, despite the fact that someone in
these waters, of whom they asked, must, it would seem, have known a craft
that was a regular dredger thereabouts, no one could, or would, enlighten
them.
That evening, however, as they sought a berth for the night, in company
with some dozen other craft, in a cove at the upper end of Bloodsworth
Island, they got a hint of what seemed like a clue. They had come to
anchor and night had fallen. Smoke was pouring out of the funnels of a
cluster of oystermen some few rods away, and light shone cheerily from
cabin companions. Will Adams lifted his megaphone to his lips and called
out his inquiry if anyone had seen the Brandt. The reply came “Who are
you?” Will Adams answered. The response to this was vague and
unintelligible, but the tone was one of contempt. Yet, amid a confusion
of voices, Will Adams caught this remark:
“Reckon Haley’s gone up the Nanticoke again, where it’s easy dredging.”
This was followed by a chorus of rough laughter.
By the light of the cabin lamp, that night, the yachtsmen aboard the
Mollie studied the Nanticoke river on their chart. Edward Warren and Will
Adams looked at Harvey, inquiringly.
“We never went up there while I was aboard,” said Harvey. “Haley did most
of his poaching in the Patuxent and Tangier Sound; but it’s not an
unlikely place. We might get word of him there.”
They sailed northeast from Bloodsworth island next day, and started up
the Nanticoke river, running by the buoys half-way to Roaring Point. Some
tong-men in their canoes were at work in the chilling water, on the east
bank at a bend of the river, and the Mollie was swung into the wind for a
word with them.
The occupant of one of the canoes straightened up, at their inquiry, and
eyed them shrewdly.
“You needn’t look fer no Brandt up this river,” he replied, in a drawling
tone; “they do say as she was one of them as had the fight up above here,
with the patrol; but if she was, she got away, all right. At any rate,
she was going south, by Deal Island, the last I heard of her. If you’re
after her, I hope you get her—and bad luck to the skipper that runs her,
being as he’s a poacher by reputation in these parts.”
The Mollie headed back down the river, almost due south into Tangier
Sound. They had struck the trail at last. But the trail was a winding
one. It led some nine miles southward, and then through a great stretch
of bay off to the eastward, skirting countless acres of salt marshes,
whither they were directed by a passing vessel. The captain knew Hamilton
Haley, and added gratuitously that he knew no good of him; by which it
seemed Haley had his enemies in the bay, as well as friends.
Then the trail led away in a great sweep, some ten miles to the
southwest, toward Smith Island, where the bug-eye had been seen heading.
They made this island on the forenoon of the next day. There they got
trace again of a bug-eye answering the description of the Brandt; but it
had made sail that morning to the eastward. They followed, in turn,
across six miles of Tangier Sound to the shore of another broad extent of
salt marsh, called Janes Island. They sailed southward along that, about
dusk. Below them, by the chart, lay a good anchorage for the night,
Somers Cove, at the mouth of a river. Already, in the gathering darkness,
a mile ahead, there gleamed the rays of Janes Island lighthouse, marking
the entrance to the harbour.
A half-mile ahead of them, making for this same light, sailed a vessel.
They had had a glimpse of it before dusk set in, but not clear enough to
make it out.
Then, as they sailed, the faint cry of someone in distress came to their
ears—a startling, puzzling cry, that seemed to come up from the very
depths of the dark waters.
Hamilton Haley, running his vessel out of the mouth of the Nanticoke, on
the night of the disastrous fight with the police steamer, was at first
about equally divided in mind between exultation and anger. He smiled
grimly as he thought of the battle that had been waged with the owners of
the oyster beds, and of the several score bushels of oysters plundered
before the arrival of the steamer. He chuckled as he pictured again the
escape in the fog, from the victorious steamer. But he muttered
maledictions on the head of the skipper that had sunk the bug-eye, and
who might have surmised, or might now be able to discover who the
confederates of the unfortunate captain had been. He crowded on sail,
once clear of the river, and went flying southward, in the early morning
hours, along the shores of Deal Island.
The bug-eye turned the southern point of Deal Island and passed in
through a narrow stretch of water called the Lower Thoroughfare, which
ran between Deal Island and a smaller one, known as Little Island.
Threading this thoroughfare, Haley sailed east and then northward, into a
harbour called Fishing Creek. Here he dropped sail, came to anchor and
prepared to lie snug, to rest and reflect upon what course to take.
In spite of his successful escape, Haley was worried—almost alarmed; and,
as he considered the situation, throughout the day, his anxiety
increased. There were several things that worried him; and, now that
troubles began to press, he thought of them all at once, as impending and
immediate dangers. Perhaps, unconsciously, he had lost nerve. He thought
of possible pursuit from the steamer. He thought of a hunt that might
have been set on foot for Henry Burns, the youth he had carried off from
the Patuxent. He thought of Harvey and his companion, safely ashore, and
perhaps long ere this having set on foot a search of reprisal.
Several times during the day, as Haley encountered Henry Burns about the
deck, he stopped abruptly and seemed to be lost in thought. It would have
disturbed the calmness of even that youth, could he have read Haley’s
mind; could he have known that, of all his troubles, Captain Hamilton
Haley regarded Henry Burns as the one that most menaced his safety. But
it was so. Other things might be denied. The evidence would be hard to
gather; but here was the stolen youth, evidence in himself of Haley’s
act.
What Haley decided as best for his safety was expressed by Haley,
himself, in answer to a question by Jim Adams, that afternoon.
“I’m going south—farther south,” he said, “down into Virginia waters,
across the line. The police tubs won’t follow below that. We’ll stay for
a while. I don’t know how long—till the trouble has had time to blow
over, anyway.”
Nevertheless, when sail was made again, that afternoon on the bug-eye,
the course was not southward, but off to the east, following the shore
line of the great sweep of bay leading into a wide river; and Jim Adams,
mate, wondered. He was free with Haley, for he had come to be well-nigh
indispensable to him; and he made bold to ask the reason for Haley’s
change of mind. Haley’s eyes flashed with a hard light.
“That’s my business,” he answered, shortly.
Twilight came early; they had run in past St. Pierre island, rounded a
point on the eastern bank of the river, and come to, in a small cove.
Haley gave the wheel to Jim Adams.
“Hold her where she is,” he said. He went to the stem, and drew the skiff
down alongside. “Come here,” he called to Henry Burns and the sailor
Jeff. They came aft, in surprise.
“Get in there!” Haley commanded, roughly. “We’re short of wood. I want
you two to come with me and get some.”
It was a strange hour for wood gathering; it was already beginning to
grow heavy with the dusk. Furthermore, there was no wood-land in sight.
The shore seemed lined with marshes, and barren. But the two started to
obey, and Haley prepared to enter the skiff with them. A most unexpected
thing happened, however. Jim Adams left the wheel and stepped to the side
of the bug-eye.
“Come here, Mister Haley, if you please,” he said, still simulating a
politeness of address and manner, but with an insolent expression on his
face. “Come back here, Mister Haley, I want to speak with you.”
Haley, glaring at him, ignored his words and started to cast off the
line. Jim Adams sprang and caught it. “You jes’ got to come back here a
moment, Mister Haley,” he said.
With an exclamation of wrath, Haley sprang back on deck and advanced upon
Jim Adams.
“What do you mean, interfering with me, you nigger?” he cried.
Jim Adams, mysteriously beckoning him to follow, retreated across the
deck, to the side of the after-house.
“Mister Haley,” he said, softly, “I got something to say to you. I know
what you come in here for now. There don’t no wood grow hereabouts. You
thinks this would be a mighty fine place to leave that youngster that
came from the Patuxent. But I ain’t goin’ to let you do it, Mister
Haley—leastways not yet. I reckon Jim Adams wouldn’t be here now if it
wasn’t for that youngster hauling him back aboard when he came out of the
Nanticoke.”
Haley, taken utterly by surprise, glared at the mate for one moment
without being able to find words to reply. Then he cried out that he
would knock him overboard, and raised his fist for a blow. The agile mate
caught his wrist and held it in a grip that Haley could not shake off.
They struggled for a moment, and then Haley, breaking loose, stood,
trembling with rage.
“Jim Adams,” he said, huskily, “what ails you—have you gone crazy? You’ve
always been a good mate. Don’t be a fool now. Don’t you know the boy’s a
danger to us, here? Do you want to go to jail on account of him?”
“Sho’ no, I don’t at all, Cap’n Haley,” answered the mate, with
assurance. “See here,”—and he assumed a more civil, urgent tone,—“I want
to get clear of that young chap just as bad as you do, Mister Haley; but
I jes’ don’t like to see him go ashore now, cause there ain’t nothin’ but
ma’sh land hereabouts, and I know he’d starve to death, or drown. And I
reckon Jim Adams owes him that much, to see as he’s put ashore where he
can get away, somehow. That’s all I want. Wait till we get down into
Virginny, Mister Haley, and I won’t make no trouble—but I guess you and I
will fight pretty bad if he has to go here.”
The mate’s manner was both threatening and wheedling. Clearly, he had no
fear of Haley. It was man against man. Haley waited some moments, eying
the mate as if to read his mind. Evidently what he saw, in the snapping
eyes that returned his gaze, convinced him that Jim Adams was not to be
turned aside without a struggle.
“All right,” he said, “but I’ll get square for it. Let your anchor go.
Come aboard here, you men. We’ll get our wood down yonder. Drop those
sails and turn in.”
Sullenly, leaving the mate to make all snug, Haley went below. Jim Adams,
turning his eyes upon Henry Burns as the boy slipped down into the
forecastle, muttered softly to himself. He had a queer kind of
cold-blooded logic, had Jim Adams.
“There,” he said, “you and I am square, young fellow. You saved my life,
and now I’ve saved yours. That makes us even, I reckon. The next time, I
guess you’ll have to go ashore.”
Into this bay and out again, the course of the Brandt now continued, as
the sloop Mollie traced it later. A vessel that passed here and there,
despite Haley’s precautions, sufficed to give the clues he fain would
have hid. There is fate in all things, and it was Haley’s now to leave an
open trail where he sought concealment. He ran to Smith Island, and the
Mollie got trace of him there. He sailed southward, and the Virginia line
was not so many miles away. Of an evening, as darkness was shutting down,
he perceived far astern a sloop coming in his wake. He noticed it, but
gave it little thought. He had one other idea in his mind, and that
overshadowed all else. The boy that was a peril to him must be gotten rid
of.
The Brandt was running free, with the wind directly astern—a fresh
evening breeze that was sending her along at a fair clip. Hamilton Haley
had the wheel. Jim Adams was below. Sam Black was on deck, forward. Henry
Burns was on deck. Wallace Brooks was on deck. Haley watched and waited.
By and by, Brooks stepped to the companion and went below. Haley called
to Henry Burns. There was a tangle of gear near the after-house.
“Here you, youngster, straighten out that line and coil it up neat,”
ordered Haley. Henry Burns went to work. Haley stood silently by the
wheel. The minutes passed, and Henry Burns worked on. His back was toward
the captain.
The booms were out on the starboard side. Watching the boy sharply, Haley
stooped and grasped the main-sheet, and drew it in a little. The
main-sail shivered, as the breeze caught it slightly aback. Cautiously,
Haley put the helm up a trifle; the bug-eye headed more to the starboard,
and the sail shivered still more. Henry Burns, intent upon his work,
however, failed to notice the manœuvre.
Then the main-sheet slackened suddenly in Haley’s hand, as the boom
started to swing inboard. Haley dropped the sheet and put the helm hard
up. Swiftly the heavy boom jibed across the stern. Haley ducked his head
as it swung past. The change of motion in the vessel was now apparent to
Henry Burns. One glance, and he saw the shadow of the sail as the boom
crashed upon him, with a swiftness he could not evade. He had barely time
to dodge when the boom caught him, grazing the top of his head and
hurling him overboard into the icy water. He had saved his life, but he
was momentarily stunned—and the bug-eye, Brandt, was disappearing in the
darkness when he came to his senses, choking, and stinging with the slap
of the winter seas.
The bug-eye swerved and laid over, with the jibing of the booms. But the
wind was not heavy; the sheets held, and Haley had her on her course in
another moment.
Henry Burns’s smothered cry was unheard save by Haley. It was not until
another hour, when the Brandt rounded to in Somers cove, that the boy’s
loss was discovered. Jim Adams, hardened as he was, faced Haley solemnly.
“Mister Haley,” he said, “I’ve seen you pay two men the wages that was
due them, with that ere main-boom, since I’ve been aboard this craft, and
they was not much account; but sure I think we’ll have bad luck now,
’cause we could have got rid of that youngster without that.”
For better or worse luck, however, the bug-eye Brandt made snug for the
night. There was a good berth to lie in; it was a quiet night, with only
a gentle breeze blowing. A lantern was set in the shrouds, and all hands
turned.
Henry Burns, knocked overboard by the blow of the boom, sank in the
chilling water, then rose again. He was not badly injured, but was
choking with the water he had swallowed. He had strength enough to cry
out only feebly. There was no salvation in that. He husbanded his
strength and struck out, to keep himself afloat. Fortunately, he was not
encumbered with oil skins, or he would have sunk.
Terror seized him; there seemed to be no chance for life in the darkness.
Yet he struggled to keep afloat. Then the shadow of some object came
before his eyes. It was a small cask, rolled off the deck of the Brandt
as she had heeled with the jibing of the boom. Henry Burns grasped it, as
it floated close, and clasped his arms over it. It sufficed to float him,
with the most of his body under water. It was a forlorn hope, yet he
clung with desperation.
Minutes that seemed like hours passed. His hold slipped, as his fingers
became numbed. He gave a cry of despair, struggled with all his strength
and regained his hold. Again he clung for what seemed to him hours. But
his strength was waning. The cold was robbing him of strength—of life. In
despair, he cried aloud again and again, over the waste of waters. He
could not hold out longer.
Then, out of the blackness there came a rushing sound, as of some large
body moving through the waves—and then—an answering call.
A cry from the blackness of the sea! Will Adams, at the wheel of the
Mollie, felt his hair rise on end. Jack Harvey, forward, on watch, felt
the cold perspiration stand out all over him. It seemed something
unearthly—impossible.
But the cry came again, and again. The sloop headed in the direction of
the sound, and there came into view the vague figure, floating, clinging
to the cask. They drew the castaway aboard presently—and then Jack Harvey
set up a shout that almost reached to Haley’s bug-eye.
“Henry Burns!”
They had him down in the warm cabin in a twinkling, and between blankets,
with hot drink to restore his strength. Edward Warren fairly wept for joy
and relief from anxiety. The Warrens and Jack Harvey tried hard to keep
the tears from their eyes, but didn’t all succeed. Will Adams stood by
the wheel, but called for news every moment from the rescued one, and
fairly shouted with exultation when Henry Burns gave the tidings that the
Brandt was just ahead, making for Somers Cove.
They turned the point and stood into the harbour. The sight that greeted
their eyes made their blood tingle. Under the lee of Long Point, there
lay a vessel at anchor, betrayed by its harbour light.
“It’s the Brandt,” exclaimed Harvey, as they neared it.
But, even as they spilled the wind from their sails, luffing, to consider
their plan of attack, there came voices from the Brandt, and two men
appeared on deck. So, to avoid suspicion, the Mollie ran in past the
Brandt for some rods, and came to anchor ahead of her. Quickly, sails
were made snug and lights doused in the cabin, a single small lantern
being set for a harbour light. Then the crew of the Mollie gathered for a
conference in the cabin.
Jack Harvey, eager to be avenged for his wrongs, was for standing over
boldly and attacking the bug-eye then and there; but Will Adams and
Edward Warren, older and wiser, were for waiting.
“We’ll never let him sail away,” said Will Adams, reassuringly; “depend
on that. But every minute we wait, saves a blow. They may be suspicious
for a while, but they’ll not watch all night.”
“But how can we reach them without giving warning?” asked Tom Edwards.
“They’ll hear us if we try to make sail, and one small skiff won’t hold
us all.”
Will Adams pulled out his watch and noted the time. “In two hours it will
be easy,” he answered. “In two hours the tide will begin to ebb out of
the river. We’re above the Brandt. When the tide turns, we’ll just start
the anchor off bottom and drop back on her. Get out the guns and make
ready—but be quiet.”
They worked silently, and watched the hands of Will Adams’s watch move
slowly around the dial. It seemed as though an hour would never go. Sixty
more long minutes, and, as Will Adams had foretold, the vessels were
swinging. Now their bows were no longer pointing out of the cove, but
up-river.
Will Adams, in stocking feet, crept cautiously out on deck and
extinguished the harbour light in the shrouds.
“We’ll see if they take notice of that,” he whispered, as he crept back
again.
There was no sound of life aboard the Brandt, which swung idly at its
mooring.
Gathering his force now, Will Adams instructed them in the parts each
should play. He sent Jack Harvey astern to the wheel.
“You know how to steer her when she’s going astern?” he asked—“Just the
reverse of the usual way.”
“Sure, I know,” replied Harvey, and crept to his post.
Edward Warren, armed with a rifle, and the others, carrying the equipment
of shot-guns, took up their positions on the companion stairs, ready to
rush out at the word. At the top, a dangerous post, crouched George
Warren, holding a coil of rope, one end of which had been made fast to
the foremast. Will Adams stole forward and slowly hauled in on the
anchor-rode. The Mollie went ahead, leaving a greater distance between
herself and the Brandt.
All at once, however, she began to drift slowly back again. Will Adams
had the anchor off bottom. Harvey turned the wheel slightly, this way and
that. The Mollie was dropping down upon the Brandt.
Gently the stern of the sloop grazed along the side of the bug-eye.
George Warren leaped upon the deck of the Brandt and made fast the line
about its foremast. Will Adams, running aft, snatched up a boat-hook,
and, with that in his right hand and holding a revolver in his left,
stepped aboard the Brandt. The boys, under orders, ranged themselves
quickly on the deck of the sloop, crouching low, holding the shot-guns.
Almost at the moment, there came darting from the cabin of the Brandt a
lithe, powerful figure, while the voice of Jim Adams called to Haley to
follow him. But he was a moment too late. Will Adams, swinging the
boat-hook, felled the negro with a single blow, stunning him.
Capt. Hamilton Haley, tumbling up from the cabin, half dressed, found
himself staring into the muzzle of Edward Warren’s rifle. He dropped the
weapon he carried, at the sharp command, seeing himself covered.
The crew of the Brandt, not over-loyal to Haley at best, showed no
inclination to fight, under the range of fire from a battery of
shot-guns. They called out, in fear, that they would give up.
They came forward, one by one, and submitted to being bound by Jack
Harvey, who performed that function in good sailor fashion.
But when it came to Hamilton Haley, Harvey found himself pushed aside.
Tom Edwards stood before him.
“Jack, old fellow,” said Tom Edwards, blithely, “let me have the
satisfaction of tying up that brute that made me slave at the dredges.”
“But you don’t know how,” protested Harvey.
“Don’t I, though!” exclaimed Tom Edwards, smiling. “Why, I used to tie up
a hundred bundles a day when I worked in a dry-goods store in Boston. Put
out your wrist, captain, I’ll show you what a counter-jumper can do.”
And Tom Edwards, with vast satisfaction, did up Hamilton Haley like a
package for the express.
They had not fired a shot—and the bug-eye was theirs. The cruise of the
Brandt was at an end.
Next day, with Henry Burns recovered sufficiently to be about and on
deck, the two craft started northward, keeping close in touch with each
other. The skipper of the Z. B. Brandt was Jack Harvey; and he had a
mixed crew, made up of one or two of the Brandt’s men that could be
trusted, and Edward and George Warren. The Mollie still obeyed her helm
directed by stalwart Will Adams. Back they went over the waters they had
travelled, running by daylight only, until they reached the upper waters
of Tangier Sound. There a welcome police-boat relieved them alike of the
Brandt and her former skipper and mate and crew.
A week later, there filed into a court-room in Baltimore a sun-burned,
weather-beaten looking party, conspicuous among which were Jack Harvey
and Henry Burns and Tom Edwards, and consisting otherwise of the Warrens
and Will Adams. They confronted two men there, long notorious for
wrong-doing among the dredging fleet. It was the beginning of the end for
Captain Haley and for Jim Adams, mate. They were held for trial. That
trial, months later, had its natural conclusion. The doors of the state
prison closed upon the pair for a long term of years.
And, in the meantime, two days following the preliminary hearing in
court, a train rolled into Benton, bearing a party of youths at once
joyous and serious. One of these, Jack Harvey, had parted for the time
being from a friend whom he had met in adversity and whom he had come to
love as an elder brother. That friend was Tom Edwards, no longer clad in
oil-skins and weary of life, but well dressed and well fed, and eager to
be back to the world of business from which he had been so rudely
spirited away. And it may be truly said that there were tears in the eyes
of Tom Edwards, as Jack Harvey, grasping his hand to say good-bye, gave
it a grip as though he were turning the handle of Haley’s winch.
There was someone at the train to meet Henry Burns, as well as the
parents of the Warrens. It was a slender spinster, Miss Matilda Burns,
who had the care of the youth. She wiped her eyes with a lace-trimmed
handkerchief, as she tried to look sternly at her nephew.
“Henry Burns,” she said, “where on earth have you been all this time? You
haven’t written me those two letters a week that you promised. I believe
you’ve been off somewhere, away from that farmhouse of Mr. Warren’s,
where you were going.”
“Yes’m, I have,” responded Henry Burns.
THE END.
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(Trade Mark)
The Little Colonel at Boarding School.
(Trade Mark)
The Little Colonel in Arizona.
(Trade Mark)
The Little Colonel’s Christmas Vacation.
(Trade Mark)
The Little Colonel, Maid of Honour.
(Trade Mark)
The Little Colonel’s Knight Comes Riding.
(Trade Mark)
These nine volumes, boxed as a nine-volume set $3.50
The Little Colonel.
(Trade Mark)
Two Little Knights of Kentucky.
The Giant Scissors.
Big Brother.
Special Holiday Editions
Each one volume, cloth decorative, small quarto, $1.25.
New plates, handsomely illustrated with eight full-page drawings in
color, and many marginal sketches.
In the Desert of Waiting: The Legend of Camelback Mountain.
The Three Weavers: A Fairy Tale for Fathers and Mothers as Well as for
Their Daughters.
Keeping Tryst.
The Legend of the Bleeding Heart.
The Rescue of Princess Winsome. A Fairy Play for Old and Young.
Each one volume, tall 16mo, cloth decorative. $0.50
Paper boards .35
There has been a constant demand for publication in separate form of
these five stories, which were originally included in five of the “Little
Colonel” books.
Joel: A Boy of Galilee. By Annie Fellows Johnston. Illustrated by L. J.
Bridgman.
New illustrated edition, uniform with the Little Colonel Books, 1 vol.,
large 12mo, cloth decorative. $1.50
A story of the time of Christ, which is one of the author’s best-known
books.
Asa Holmes; or, At the Cross-Roads. A sketch of Country Life and
Country Humor. By Annie Fellows Johnston. With a frontispiece
by Ernest Fosbery.
Large 16mo, cloth, gilt top $1.00
“‘Asa Holmes; or, At the Cross-Roads’ is the most delightful, most
sympathetic and wholesome book that has been published in a long
while.”—Boston Times.
The Rival Campers; or, The Adventures of Henry Burns. By Ruel Perley
Smith.
Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated $1.50
Here is a book which will grip and enthuse every boy reader. It is the
story of a party of typical American lads, courageous, alert, and
athletic, who spend a summer camping on an island off the Maine coast.
The Rival Campers Afloat; or, The Prize Yacht Viking. By Ruel Perley
Smith.
Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated $1.50
This book is a continuation of the adventures of “The Rival Campers” on
their prize yacht Viking. An accidental collision results in a series of
exciting adventures.
The Rival Campers Ashore. By Ruel Perley Smith.
Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated $1.50
“The Rival Campers Ashore” deals with the adventures of the campers and
their friends in and around the town of Benton.
Jack Harvey’s Adventures; or, The Rival Campers Among the Oyster
Pirates. By Ruel Perley Smith.
Illustrated $1.50
In “Jack Harvey’s Adventures,” Mr. Smith has shifted the scene of his
story from the Maine coast to the shores of Chesapeake Bay; and has
chosen for its main theme the evil deeds of the notorious oyster pirates
of that region.
How Jack Harvey is kidnapped by pirates, and how Henry Burns, the Ellison
Boys, “little Tim” and the others effect his rescue, furnishes plenty of
exciting adventure.
Prisoners of Fortune: A Tale of the Massachusetts Bay Colony. By Ruel
Perley Smith.
Cloth decorative, with a colored frontispiece $1.50
“There is an atmosphere of old New England in the book, the humor of the
born raconteur about the hero, who tells his story with the gravity of a
preacher, but with a solemn humor that is irresistible. The austerity of
life under Cotton Mather is in sharp contrast to the brilliant details of
the pirates’ habits and adventures.”—Louisville Courier-Journal.
Famous Cavalry Leaders. A book for boys. By Charles H. L. Johnston.
Large 12mo. With 24 illustrations $1.50
Biographical sketches, with interesting anecdotes and reminiscences of
the heroes of history who were leaders of cavalry.
From the time of Attala the Hun to the exploits of Stuart, Wheeler,
Custer and Sheridan,—what thrilling stories are uncovered to the eager
eyes of the boy reader in these accounts of forced marches, dashing raids
and glorious charges.
Billy’s Princess. By Helen Eggleston Haskell.
Cloth decorative, illustrated by Helen McCormick Kennedy $1.25
Billy Lewis was a small boy of energy and ambition, so when he was left
alone and unprotected, he simply started out to take care of himself.
“Boy and girl readers will find entertainment in the story which is
cleverly imagined and skilfully written.”—Boston Transcript.
Tenants of the Trees. By Clarence Hawkes.
Cloth decorative, illustrated in colors. $1.50
Mr. Hawkes has made a close study of animal and bird life since his
childhood.
“A book which will appeal to all who care for the hearty, healthy,
outdoor life of the country. The illustrations are particularly
attractive.”—Boston Herald.
Transcriber’s Notes
--Silently corrected a few typos (but left nonstandard spelling and
dialect as is).
--Rearranged front matter (and moved illustrations) to a more-logical
streaming order.
--Replaced one reference to "Tom Adams" with "Tom Edwards"
End of Project Gutenberg's Jack Harvey's Adventures, by Ruel Perley Smith