[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]
Copyright, 1896, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.
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PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, DECEMBER 15, 1896. FIVE CENTS A
COPY.
VOL. XVIII.--NO. 894. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.
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[Illustration]
THE MYSTERY OF THE SWAMP.
BY JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS.
I.
Once upon a time there lived on a large plantation in Middle Georgia a
boy who was known as Little Crotchet. It was a very queer name, to be
sure, but it seemed to fit the lad to a T. When he was a wee bit of a
chap he fell seriously ill, and when, many weeks afterwards, the doctors
said the worst was over, it was found that he had lost the use of his
legs, and that he would never be able to run about and play as other
children do. When he was told about this he laughed, and said he had
known all along that he would never be able to run about on his feet
again; but he had plans of his own, and he told his father that he
wanted a pair of crutches made.
"But you can't use them, my son," said his father.
"Anyhow, I can try," insisted the lad.
The doctors were told of his desire, and these wise men put their heads
together.
"It is a crotchet," they declared, "but it will be no harm for him to
try."
"It is a little crotchet," said his mother, "and he shall have the
crutches."
Thus it came about that the lad got both his name and his crutches, for
his father insisted on calling him Little Crotchet after that, and he
also insisted on sending all the way to Philadelphia for the crutches.
They seemed to be a long time in coming, for in those days they had to
be brought to Charleston in a sailing-vessel, and then sent by way of
Augusta in a stage-coach; but when they came they were very welcome, for
Little Crotchet had been inquiring for them every day in the week, and
Sunday too. And yet when they came, strange to say, he seemed to have
lost his interest in them. His mother brought them in joyously, but
there was not even a glad smile on the lad's face. He looked at them
gravely, weighed them in his hands, laid them across the foot of the
bed, and then turned his head on his pillow, as if he wanted to go to
sleep. His mother was surprised, and not a little hurt, as mothers will
be when they do not understand their children; but she respected his
wishes, darkened the room, kissed the boy, and closed the door gently.
When everything was still, Little Crotchet sat up in bed, seized his
crutches, and proceeded to try them. He did this every day for a week,
and at the end of that time surprised everybody in the house, and on the
place as well, by marching out on his crutches, and going from room to
room without so much as touching his feet to the floor. It seemed to be
a most wonderful feat to perform, and so it was; but Providence, in
depriving the lad of the use of his legs, had correspondingly
strengthened the muscles of his chest and arms, so that within a month
he could use his crutches almost as nimbly and quite as safely as other
boys use their feet. He could go up stairs and down stairs and walk
about the place with as much ease apparently as those not afflicted, and
it was not strange that the negroes regarded the performance with wonder
akin to awe, declaring among themselves that their young master was
upheld and supported by "de sperits."
And indeed it was a queer sight to see the frail lad going boldly about
on crutches, his feet not touching the ground. The sight seemed to make
the pet name of Little Crotchet more appropriate than ever. So his name
stuck to him, even after he got his gray pony, and became a familiar
figure in town and in country, as he went galloping about, his crutches
strapped to the saddle, and dangling as gayly as the sword of some fine
general. Thus it came to pass that no one was surprised when Little
Crotchet went cantering along, his gray pony snorting fiercely, and
seeming never to tire. Early or late, whenever the neighbors heard the
short sharp snort of the gray pony and the rattling of the crutches,
they would turn to one another and say, "Little Crotchet!" and that
would be explanation enough. There seemed to be some sort of
understanding between him and his gray pony.
Anybody could ride the gray pony in the pasture or in the grove around
the house, but when it came to going out by the big gate, that was
another matter. He could neither be led nor driven beyond that boundary
by any one except Little Crotchet. It was the same when it came to
crossing water. The gray pony would not cross over the smallest running
brook for any one but Little Crotchet; but with the lad on his back he
would plunge into the deepest stream, and, if need be, swim across it.
All this deepened and confirmed the idea in the minds of the negroes
that Little Crotchet was upheld and protected by "de sperits." They had
heard him talking to the gray pony, and they had heard the gray pony
whinny in reply. They had seen the gray pony with their little master on
his back go gladly out at the big gate and rush with a snort through the
plantation creek--a bold and at times a dangerous stream. Seeing these
things, and knowing the temper of the pony, they had no trouble in
coming to the conclusion that something supernatural was behind it all.
II.
Thus it happened that Little Crotchet and his gray pony were pretty well
known through all the country-side, for it seemed that he was never
tired of riding, and that the pony was never tired of going. What was
the rider's errand? Nobody knew. Why should he go skimming along the red
road at day dawn? And why should he come whirling back at dusk--a red
cloud of dust rising beneath the gray pony's feet? Nobody could tell.
This was almost as much of a puzzle to some of the whites as it was to
the negroes; but this mystery, if it could be called such, was soon
eclipsed by a phenomenon that worried some of the wisest dwellers in
that region. This phenomenon, apparently very simple, began to manifest
itself in early fall, and continued all through that season and during
the winter and on through the spring, until warm weather set in. It was
in the shape of a thin column of blue smoke that could be seen on any
clear morning or late afternoon rising from the centre of Spivey's
Canebrake. This place was called a canebrake because a thick, almost
impenetrable, growth of canes fringed the edge of a mile-wide basin
lying between the bluffs of the Oconee River and the uplands beyond.
Instead of being a canebrake, it was a vast swamp, the site of cool but
apparently stagnant ponds and of treacherous quagmires, in which cows,
and even horses, had been known to disappear and perish. The cowitch
grew there, and the yellow plumes of the poison-oak vine glittered like
small torches. There, too, the thunderwood tree exuded its poisonous
milk, and long serpentlike vines wound themselves around and through the
trees and helped to shut out the sunlight. It was a swamp, and a very
dismal one. The night birds gathered there to sleep during the day, and
all sorts of creatures that shunned the sunlight or hated man found a
refuge there. If the negroes had made paths through its recesses to
enable them to avoid the patrol, nobody knew it but themselves.
Why, then, should a thin but steady stream of blue smoke be constantly
rising upwards from the centre of Spivey's Canebrake? This was a mystery
to those who first discovered it, and it soon grew to be a neighborhood
mystery. During the summer the smoke could not be seen, but in the fall
and winter its small thin volume went curling upward continually. Little
Crotchet often watched it from the brow of Turner's Hill, the highest
part of the uplands. Early in the morning or late in the afternoon the
vapor would rise from the Oconee; but the vapor was white and heavy, and
was blown about by the wind, while the smoke in the swamp was blue and
thin, and rose straight in the air above the tops of the trees in spite
of the wayward winds.
Once when Little Crotchet was sitting on his pony watching the blue
smoke rise from the swamp he saw two of the neighbor farmers coming
along the highway. They stopped and shook hands with the lad, and then
turned to watch the thin stream of blue smoke. The morning was clear and
still, and the smoke rose straight in the air, until it seemed to mingle
with the upper blue. The two farmers were father and son--Jonathan
Gadsby and his son Ben. They were both very well acquainted with Little
Crotchet--as, indeed, everybody in the county was--and he was so bright
and queer that they stood somewhat in awe of him.
"I reckin if I had a pony that wasn't afeard of nothin' I'd go right
straight and find out where that fire is and what it is," remarked Ben
Gadsby.
This stirred his father's ire apparently. "Why, Benjamin! Why, what on
the face of the earth do you mean? Ride into that swamp! Why, you must
have lost what little sense you had when you was born! I remember, jest
as well as if it was day before yesterday, when Uncle Jimmy Cosby's red
steer got in that swamp, and we couldn't git him out. Git him out, did I
say? We couldn't even git nigh him. We could hear him beller, but we
never got where we could see ha'r nor hide of him. If I was thirty years
younger I'd take my foot in my hand and wade in there and see where the
smoke comes from."
Little Crotchet laughed. "If I had two good legs," said he, "I'd soon
see what the trouble is."
This awoke Ben Gadsby's ambition. "I believe I'll go in there and see
where the fire is."
"Fire!" exclaimed old Mr. Gadsby, with some irritation. "Who said
anything about fire? What living and moving creature could build a fire
in that thicket? I'd like mighty well to lay my eyes on him."
"Well," said Ben Gadsby, "where you see smoke there's obliged to be
fire. I've heard you say that yourself."
"Me?" exclaimed Mr. Jonathan Gadsby, with a show of alarm in the midst
of his indignation. "Did I say that? Well, it was when I wasn't so much
as thinking that my two eyes were my own. What about foxfire? Suppose
that some quagmire or other in that there swamp has gone and got up a
ruction on its own hook? Smoke without fire? Why, I've seed it many a
time. And maybe that smoke comes from an eruption in the ground. What
then? Who's going to know where the fire is?"
Little Crotchet laughed, but Ben Gadsby put on a very bold front.
"Well," said he, "I can find bee-trees, and I'll find where that fire
is."
"Well, sir," remarked Mr. Jonathan Gadsby, looking at his son with an
air of pride, "find out where the smoke comes from, and we'll not expect
you to see the fire."
"I wish I could go with you," said Little Crotchet.
"I don't need any company," replied Ben Gadsby. "I've done made up my
mind, and I'm a-going to show the folks around here that where there's
so much smoke there's obliged to be some fire."
The young man, knowing that he had some warm work before him, pulled off
his coat, and tied the sleeves over his shoulder, sash fashion. Then he
waved his hand to his father and to Little Crotchet, and went rapidly
down the hill. He had undertaken the adventure in a spirit of bravado.
He knew that a number of the neighbors had tried to solve the mystery of
the smoke in the swamp and had failed. He thought, too, that he would
fail; and yet he was urged on by the belief that if he should happen to
succeed, all the boys and all the girls in the neighborhood would regard
him as a wonderful young man. He had the same ambition that animated the
knights of old, but on a smaller scale.
III.
Now it chanced that Little Crotchet himself was on his way to the smoke
in the swamp. He had been watching it, and wondering whether he should
go to it by the path he knew, or whether he should go by the road that
Aaron, the runaway, had told him of. Ben Gadsby interfered with his
plans somewhat; for, quite by accident, young Gadsby, as he went down
the hill, struck into the path that Little Crotchet knew. There was a
chance to gallop along the brow of the hill, turn to the left, plunge
through a shallow lagoon, and strike into the path ahead of Gadsby, and
this chance Little Crotchet took. He waved his hand to Mr. Jonathan
Gadsby, gave the gray pony the rein, and went galloping through the
underbrush, his crutches rattling, and the rings of the bridle-bit
jingling. To Mr. Jonathan Gadsby it seemed that the lad was riding
recklessly, and he groaned and shook his head as he turned and went on
his way.
But Little Crotchet rode on. Turning sharply to the left as soon as he
got out of sight, he went plunging through the lagoon, and was soon
going along the blind path a quarter of a mile ahead of Ben Gadsby. This
is why young Gadsby was so much disturbed that he lost his way. He was
bold enough when he started out, but by the time he had descended the
hill and struck into what he thought was a cattle-path his courage began
to fail him. The tall canes seemed to bend above him in a threatening
manner. The silence oppressed him. Everything was so still that the echo
of his own movements as he brushed along the narrow path seemed to
develop into ominous whispers, as if all the goblins he had ever heard
of had congregated in front of him to bar his way.
The silence, with its strange echoes, was bad enough, but when he heard
the snorting of Little Crotchet's gray pony as it plunged through the
lagoon, the rattle of the crutches and the jingling of the bridle-bit,
he fell into a panic. What great beast could it be that went
helter-skelter through this dark and silent swamp, swimming through the
water and tearing through the quagmires? And yet, when Ben Gadsby would
have turned back, the rank undergrowth and the trailing vines had quite
obscured the track. The fear that impelled him to retrace his steps was
equally powerful in impelling him to go forward. And this seemed the
easiest plan. He felt that it would be just as safe to go on, having
once made the venture, as to turn back. He had a presentiment that he
would never find his way out anyhow, and the panic he was in nerved him
to the point of desperation.
So on he went, not always trying to follow the path, but plunging
forward aimlessly. In half an hour he was calmer, and pretty soon he
found the ground firm under his feet. His instincts as a bee-hunter came
back to him. He had started in from the east side, and he paused to take
his bearings. But it was hard to see the sun, and in the recesses of the
swamp the mosses grew on all sides of the trees. And yet there was a
difference, which Ben Gadsby did not fail to discover and take account
of. They grew thicker and larger on the north side, and remembering
this, he went forward with more confidence.
He found that the middle of the swamp was comparatively dry. Huge
poplar-trees stood ranged about, the largest he had ever seen. In the
midst of a group of trees he found one that was hollow, and in this
hollow he found the smouldering embers of a fire. But for the strange
silence that surrounded him he would have given a whoop of triumph; but
he restrained himself. Bee-hunter that he was, he took his coat from his
shoulders and tied it around a small slim sapling standing near the big
poplar where he had found the fire. It was his way when he found a
bee-tree. It was a sort of guide. In returning he would take the general
direction, and then hunt about until he found his coat; and it was much
easier to find a tree tagged with a coat than it was to find one not
similarly marked.
Thus, instead of whooping triumphantly, Ben Gadsby simply tied his coat
about the nearest sapling, nodding his head significantly as he did so.
He had unearthed the secret and unravelled the mystery, and now he would
go and call in such of the neighbors as were near at hand and show them
what a simple thing the great mystery was. He knew that he had found the
hiding-place of Aaron the runaway. So he fixed his "landmark," and
started out of the swamp with a lighter heart than he had when he came
in.
To make sure of his latitude and longitude, he turned in his tracks when
he had gone a little distance and looked for the tree on which he had
tied his coat. But it was not to be seen. He retraced his steps, trying
to find his coat. Looking about him cautiously, he saw the garment after
a while, but it was in an entirely different direction from what he
supposed it would be. It was tied to a sapling, and the sapling was near
a big poplar. To satisfy himself, he returned to make a closer
examination. Sure enough, there was the coat, but the poplar close by
was not a hollow poplar, nor was it as large as the tree in which Ben
Gadsby had found the smouldering embers of a fire.
He sat on the trunk of a fallen tree and scratched his head, and
discussed the matter in his mind the best he could. Finally he concluded
that it would be a very easy matter, after he found his coat again, to
find the hollow poplar. So he started home again. But he had not gone
far when he turned around to take another view of his coat.
It had disappeared. Ben Gadsby looked carefully around, and then a
feeling of terror crept over his whole body--a feeling that nearly
paralyzed his limbs. He tried to overcome this feeling, and did so to a
certain degree. He plucked up sufficient courage to return and try to
find his coat; but the task was indeed bewildering. He thought he had
never seen so many large poplars with small slim saplings standing near
them, and then he began to wander around almost aimlessly.
IV.
Suddenly he heard a scream that almost paralyzed him--a scream that was
followed by the sound of a struggle going on in the thick undergrowth
close at hand. He could see the muddy water splash above the bushes, and
he could hear fierce growlings and gruntings. Before he could make up
his mind what to do, a gigantic mulatto, with torn clothes and staring
eyes, rushed out of the swamp, and came rushing by, closely pursued by a
big white boar, with open mouth and fierce cries. The white boar was
right at the mulatto's heels, and his yellow tusks gleamed viciously as
he ran with open mouth. Pursuer and pursued disappeared in the bushes
with a splash and a crash, and then all was as still as before. In fact,
the silence seemed profounder for this uncanny and appalling
disturbance. It was so unnatural that half a minute after it occurred
Ben Gadsby was not certain whether it had occurred at all. He was a
pretty bold youth, having been used to the woods and fields all his
life, but he had now beheld a spectacle so out of the ordinary, and of
so startling a character, that he made haste to get out of the swamp as
fast as his legs, weakened by fear, would carry him.
More than once, as he made his way out of the swamp, he paused to
listen; and it seemed that each time he paused an owl, or some other
bird of noiseless wing, made a sudden swoop at his head. Beyond the
exclamation he made when this occurred the silence was unbroken. This
experience was unusual enough to hasten his steps, even if he had no
other motive for haste.
When nearly out of the swamp, he came upon a large poplar, by the side
of which a small slim sapling was growing. Tied around this sapling was
his coat, which he thought he had left in the middle of the swamp. The
sight almost took his breath away.
He examined the coat carefully, and found that the sleeves were tied
around the tree just as he had tied them. He felt in the pockets.
Everything was just as he had left it. He examined the poplar; it was
hollow, and in the hollow was a pile of ashes.
"Well!" exclaimed Ben Gadsby. "I'm the biggest fool that ever walked the
earth. If I 'ain't been asleep and dreamed all this, I'm crazy; and if
I've been asleep, I'm a fool."
His experience had been so queer and so confusing that he promised
himself he'd never tell it where any of the older people could hear it,
for he knew that they would not only treat his tale with scorn and
contempt, but would make him the butt of ridicule among the younger
folks. "I know exactly what they'd say," he remarked to himself. "They'd
declare that a skeer'd hog run across my path, and that I was skeer'der
than the hog."
So Ben Gadsby took his coat from the sapling, and went trudging along
his way toward the big road. When he reached that point he turned and
looked toward the swamp. Much to his surprise, the stream of blue smoke
was still flowing upward. He rubbed his eyes and looked again, but there
was the smoke. His surprise was still greater when he saw Little
Crotchet and the gray pony come ambling up the hill in the path he had
just come over.
"What did you find?" asked Little Crotchet, as he reined in the gray
pony.
"Nothing--nothing at all," replied Ben Gadsby, determined not to commit
himself.
"Nothing?" cried Little Crotchet. "Well, you ought to have been with me!
Why, I saw sights! The birds flew in my face, and when I got in the
middle of the swamp a big white hog came rushing out, and if this gray
pony hadn't have been the nimblest of his kind, you'd have never seen me
any more."
"Is that so?" asked Ben Gadsby, in a dazed way. "Well, I declare! 'Twas
all quiet with me. I just went in and come out again, and that's all
there is to it."
"I wish I'd been with you," said Little Crotchet, with a curious laugh.
"Good-by!"
With that he wheeled the gray pony and rode off home. Ben Gadsby watched
Little Crotchet out of sight, and then, with a gesture of despair,
surprise, or indignation, flung his coat on the ground, crying, "Well,
by jing!"
V.
That night there was so much laughter in the top story of the
Abercrombie house that the old Colonel himself came to the foot of the
stairs and called out to know what the matter was.
"It's nobody but me," replied Little Crotchet. "I was just laughing."
Colonel Abercrombie paused, as if waiting for some further explanation,
but hearing none, said, "Good-night, my son, and God bless you!"
"Good-night, father dear," exclaimed the lad, flinging a kiss at the
shadow his father's candle flung on the wall. Then he turned again into
his own room, where Aaron the Arab (son of Ben Ali) sat leaning against
the wall, as silent and as impassive as a block of tawny marble.
Little Crotchet lay back on his bed, and the two were silent for a time.
Finally Aaron said:
"The white grunter carried his play too far. He nipped a piece from my
leg."
"I never saw anything like it," remarked Little Crotchet. "I thought the
white pig was angry. You did that to frighten Ben Gadsby."
"Yes, little master," responded Aaron, "and I'm thinking the young man
will never hunt for the smoke in the swamp any more."
Little Crotchet laughed again, as he remembered how Ben Gadsby looked as
Aaron and the white pig went careening across the dry place in the
swamp. There was a silence again, and then Aaron said he must be going.
"And when are you going home to your master?" Little Crotchet asked.
"Never!" replied Aaron the runaway, with emphasis. "Never! He is no
master of mine. He is a bad man."
Then he undressed Little Crotchet, tucked the cover about him--for the
nights were growing chilly--whispered good-night, and slipped from the
window, letting down the sash gently as he went out. If any one had been
watching, he would have seen the tall Arab steal along the roof until he
came to the limb of an oak that touched the eaves. Along this he went
nimbly, glided down the trunk to the ground, and disappeared in the
darkness.
A POPULAR SCHOOL.
When Jacky got his new club skates he tried the old Dutch roll,
And in the course of several weeks attained his humble goal.
Then practising three hours a day, when there was ice to skate,
He learned, a fortnight later on, to cut the figure eight.
By this success encouraged, he essayed a loftier flight,
And, in a month, upon the ice his name could fairly write.
When Jacky's teacher heard of this, in truth he marvelled much,
For he had found that Jacky knew but little of the Dutch.
"In half the time you took to learn the figure eight," said he,
"You might in your arithmetic have learned the Rule of Three.
"And though your name you deftly trace with educated feet,
The penmanship you do by hand, alas! is far from neat.
"But since 'tis clear that unrequired tasks you quickest learn,
My school to an athletic club I now propose to turn;
"And then, perhaps, when tired of the stunts I'll make you do,
You'll turn for recreation to the books you now eschew."
H. G. PAINE.
[Illustration: A BUSY DAY IN THE STOCK EXCHANGE.]
THE NEW YORK STOCK EXCHANGE.
BY HUBERT EARL.
A little gathering of men met under a buttonwood-tree in 1792, opposite
what is now No. 60 Wall Street, and formed an association for the
purpose of exchange and more ready current transaction of business. From
this crude organization has grown the present New York Stock Exchange
with its immense capital. Installed in a dignified edifice between Broad
and New streets, with an entrance on Wall Street, its eleven hundred
members transact business daily between 10 A.M. and 3 P.M. No
transactions are allowed before or after these hours, a heavy fine being
the penalty for each offence, and such contracts not being recognized by
the governing committee of the Exchange.
A membership in the Stock Exchange is worth a small fortune, for the
seats have sold as high as $32,500, though at present they do not bring
over $18,000. The brokers are both rich and poor, but adding the value
of the memberships to an estimated average capital of $100,000 for each
member, $150,000,000 is a conservative figure of the capital invested.
To the casual visitor who finds himself leaning over the handsome
balcony rail looking down upon the immense floor of the Board-Room the
howling gesticulating crowd of brokers appears like a mob of lunatics,
and the occasional half-clipped calls that rise to his ears justify the
comparison. Sign-posts are placed about the floor, bearing the names of
the different stocks dealt in, and around these posts the brokers gather
to buy and sell. When a particular stock is what is termed active, the
brokers dealing in it surge madly around the post assigned to it, and
amid deafening yells make their contracts. An ideal broker is one whose
face never betrays any emotion, but remains perfectly passive, whether
his stock transactions net him an enormous gain or lose him a fortune.
Many brokers act as agents for firms, but most firms have their own
representative always on the floor. At times, though, to prevent the
discovery of a big deal or an attempt to corner the market in some
particular stock, it is necessary to call in the service of more
brokers. A percentage is paid for such service, the minimum being $2 for
every hundred shares that are valued at $100 each.
The members know each other, and frequently in the crowd a broker will
stand with his slips in one hand, his eyes glued upon his memoranda, and
with his other hand emphasizing his calls with lunging jerks, as he
sends forth such yells as "One hundred at 84." Again and again he
repeats his yell, and then changes it to 83-3/4 for a hundred. "Take
'em," comes the cry, to which he answers, "Sold"; and then jots down the
transaction, never once looking to see who the buyer was, but relying
upon the voice, which he knows. These transactions are invariably
fulfilled to the letter, and there is no record during the existence of
the Exchange of such a contract being disacknowledged. If this broker
wants the transaction sent to his firm, he jots it down on a slip, and
before he can turn around, one of the fifty-odd gray-uniformed
messengers on the floor takes it, and runs off to the side of the room
to that broker's telephone, and hands the memorandum to the operator,
who telephones his firm.
Should a firm want to talk with their representative over the telephone,
it is necessary to call him off the floor. As none but members are
allowed on the floor, and no voice is strong enough to be heard calling
above the fearful screech of bids and offers, a number system was
devised for this purpose. Each broker has a number, and a rack on one of
the walls has a corresponding number. A call is sent to the boy who
works the annunciator to put up, say, 48. He pulls a knob, and instantly
that number is exposed on the rack. Every now and then each broker
glances at his rack, and when he sees his number he goes out either to
the telephone or to the messenger or person who may want to see him.
This silent call is discontinued after it has served its purpose.
There are a large number of telephones required, and a number of
alleyways are partitioned off at the sides of the floor, in which line
after line of telephones are placed, each one with its operator, who
never leaves it. Then there is the telegraph service. Every transaction
of any importance is sent over the wires. It has hardly taken place
before the anxious watcher at some ticker reads its record on the tape,
whether it be one hundred yards from the floor of the Exchange or a
thousand miles away. If he is holding any particular stock that has
advanced, and wishing to take advantage of the fact, he decides to sell,
he telegraphs his New York brokers to sell for him. They telephone their
representative on the floor of the Exchange, and in a very short time
these shares are being offered, and the owner, probably miles away,
watching the tape of his ticker, notes with a smile of satisfaction the
records unfolding before him: 100 shares at 87-3/8, 300 shares 87-1/4,
200 shares at 87, and so on. These shares may have been purchased by him
around 79 or 80, or possibly much less, and the transaction nets him a
neat profit. It is often the reverse, though, and almost fortunes are
made and lost daily by such speculations.
The stock-brokers do not like long words, as is evidenced in the terms
they have regulated into a dialect of their own. To the uninitiated it
is very confusing to hear such remarks as "long of stocks," "holding for
a raise," "ballooning a stock," "saddling the market," "gunning a
stock," etc., etc. Many of these terms are pithy, and very much to the
point.
The stock-broker is generally a generous, genial, happy sort of person,
well dressed, and, for a life of mental strain, with a reverse of
fortune liable to strike him at any time, he keeps in wonderfully good
spirits.
The Exchange is most interesting during a panic, when prices are
dropping all around, and when stocks that are as solid as
foundation-stones begin to drop below par. It is then that the broker
grows frenzied--sometimes with fear, sometimes with rage. Fiercely he
elbows, jostles, or fights his way through the mad crowd. Shout after
shout ascends to the ceiling as the prices fall, and out on the street
the quiet retired business man who has come down to watch his shares,
only to see them rapidly falling, bites his finger-nails nervously in
the anxious crowd that has gathered, listening to the roar. Messengers
dart here and there, and mad haste prevails. Suddenly a silence comes
over the Exchange, and the crowd on the floor have packed closely around
the chairman's platform. He gravely and sadly announces the failure of
some well-known firm. This will probably drag down into the vortex two
or three smaller houses; and when the full import is realized by the
members a deafening yell is heard, and again they dash into the fray to
make, save, or lose a fortune.
Strongly contrasted to this are the jollity and merrymaking on the floor
of the Exchange before the holidays. High carnival then reigns supreme,
and fun and mirth grow furious. Clothes are torn, hats smashed, all in
good humor. Gray-haired brokers waltz with each other, play leap-frog,
sing, and carry on as wildly as the younger ones. Sometimes, but not
often, the chairman imposes a fine on the members for their fun, but it
is cheerfully paid. After such toil day in and day out through the long
months a little exuberance of spirit is excusable.
THE BOY WRECKERS.
BY W. O. STODDARD.
CHAPTER II.
THE RIDDLE FROM UNDER THE WATER.
The _Elephant_ rocked and pitched a great deal while Captain Kroom was
fishing up that valise with his long boat-hook.
Pete was all the while hard at work with the oars, and he was conducting
himself like a prime seaman. That is, he obeyed with scrupulous
exactness all the orders he received from the veteran commander of his
ship. For him, indeed, Pete evidently had a tremendous amount of
respect. Much of it belonged to his belief that the old sailor knew all
there was to know about whatever might be on the sea or in it.
"Sam," he said, "let that bundle alone a minute, and see if you can
h'ist the sail."
"He can't h'ist a sail," growled the Captain. "He's a landlubber."
Sam's pride was up in an instant, and he caught hold of the ropes. He
did know a little about them already, and he had the good luck to pull
correctly. Up went the sail, just as the valise came over the side. The
bundle already lay on the bottom, and it had taken all the strength Sam
had to get it there.
It was not so large a bundle, to be sure, but lifting it in had been
somewhat like carrying two pails of water, for it was what the Captain
called "waterlogged."
Not so with the valise. It was larger than the bundle, and it must have
been very heavy; but it did not seem to weigh much in the strong hands
of old Kroom.
"Here we go!" he shouted. "I'll just tack around till I get a hitch on
that spar. It's just what I want for a new mast to the _Tiger_!"
"That's his sail-boat," said Pete to Sam. "She isn't so fast as some,
but she can go right out to sea. She's decked over."
"She's as safe as a pilot-boat," added the Captain. "But the feller left
his key in the lock. I won't open it now. This here stuff wasn't any
part of a raft. It was just a tangle. Those knots wasn't ever tied by a
sailor." He seemed to read knots and ropes and sails and spars as if
they carried tokens as clear to him as print. "Sam," he said, "haul that
rope a little. Now I can bring her about. We'll have that spar."
So he did, in a few minutes; but the _Elephant_ was not likely to sail
any too fast with that thing towing astern. Pete had been eying the
bundle curiously, and the moment he was permitted to pull in his oars he
exclaimed:
"Now let's have it open. I say, Captain, it's covered with tarpaulin!"
"That didn't keep it from soaking," replied Kroom. "Cut it. Bless my
soul! What on earth is that?"
The two boys had worked together in untying and opening the bundle, and
now all its contents suddenly sprawled around the bottom of the boat.
"Best lot of fishing-tackle ever I saw," said Pete. "And if it isn't a
full suit of blue!"
"Hope it'll fit you," said the Captain.
"Looks as if it might. Sam's got one on him. But I don't need any more
tackle than I've got at home, unless it is some hooks and sinkers."
"Pete," said Sam, "spread 'em out to dry. Then you can see if they fit."
The fact was that Pete was the only member of the _Elephant_'s crew of
three who stood in need of new clothing. The suit he had on consisted
mainly of a pair of baggy trousers and a tow shirt. It did not keep him
from being a pretty good looking fellow, however, and his own feelings
about it did not hurt him.
"Guess they won't make a dude of me," he remarked, as he spread the
soaked blue suit out forward, where the wind and sun could get at it.
"It's a kind of sailor rig, anyhow."
"It'll shrink to your size," said the Captain. "'Twasn't made for a big
fellow."
The _Elephant_ was now before the wind, and was tugging spitefully
against the rope which bound her to the spar behind her. Now that the
bundle had given up all that was in it, the next point of interest was
the valise.
Once more the Captain remarked, "His key is in it."
Then he hesitated, and stared down at the key as if reading something.
"Rusty," he said. "But it doesn't take long for iron to rust in salt
water. You can't judge by that."
"Captain Kroom," exclaimed Sam, "there used to be a name on this end of
it, but it's kind of washed out."
"No," replied Kroom; "it's just so on this other end. It wasn't washed
out; it was rubbed out. This 'ere thing's been stole."
He said it almost solemnly, and the boys felt a kind of thrill. There
had been excitement enough in the idea of a wreck, and now the Captain
had put in thieves also.
"Pirates?" suggested Pete. "Could they have plundered the ship?"
"No, sir!" roared the Captain. "All the pirates are dead long ago. This
means wrecks and wreckers over on the south beach somewhere. Come on,
boys. I'll cast off the spar. We're going across the bay. I'm no thief.
I'm going to see if I can't find an owner for this valise. Ready!"
The spar was left to drift ashore as best it might, only that the
Captain said he would go after it some time.
The _Elephant_ was once more free, but her nose was pointed now toward
the long low bar of sand, the narrow, tree-less island, which separated
the bay from the ocean.
"He's going to run for the inlet," said Pete to Sam. "There's good
fishing there, whether he finds any wreck or not."
"We're going too fast to troll," said the Captain. "No use. Besides, we
want to get there as soon as we can. If there's anything I hate, it's a
wrecker. I didn't think so once, but the first time I was wrecked myself
I guess I learned something."
Sam had been staring curiously at the valise, and wishing that the
Captain would think it right to open it, but now he turned to look at
the old sailor himself. It was a good deal to be out in a boat with a
man who had been wrecked. He did not really mean to say anything, but a
question came up to his lips, and asked, almost without his help, "Were
you wrecked 'mong savages?"
"Yes, sir, I was," growled the Captain, angrily. "We went ashore on the
coast of Cornwall, in England, and the folks there believe everything
that's stranded belongs to them. They didn't leave us a thing."
"They didn't hurt you, did they?" said Sam.
"I don't know but what they would, some of them, if it hadn't been for
the coast police that came," said Kroom. "They kep' the crowd off, so we
saved what we had on; and then they marched us away and put every man of
us in jail, where the civilized Englishmen could feed us."
"That was awful!" said Pete; but he had already turned over the wet
clothing once, and it was drying fast. He pulled out the wrinkles too.
"'Tisn't rotted," remarked the Captain, "or you'd ha' pulled it to
pieces. I ain't worried about your having of 'em. Nor the tackle. All I
want to get at is if there's been a wreck. Yes, sir, when I was wrecked
in China, we saved all our chists--but then a Chinee can't wear anything
we can. Perhaps they didn't want 'em. They treated us first rate."
He had been fumbling with the rusty key with one hand while he steered
with the other, and now the boys heard a click.
"There!" muttered the Captain. "The lock wasn't sp'iled. I'll unstrap
it."
Sam and Pete leaned forward to watch, but the soaked straps did not pull
out easily, and they had to wait.
"How they do stick!" said Pete. "Captain, I can do it. It takes both
hands."
The _Elephant_ careened just then in a way to compel its sailing-master
to use both of his own hands in bringing it before the wind again.
"Pitch in, Pete," he said. "Just as like as not it'll tell where it came
from."
Sam let his friend work at the wet straps, while he continued to study
the name at his end of the valise.
"'Tisn't a long one," he remarked; but at that moment Captain Kroom
almost let go of the tiller-ropes, for the valise sprang open.
"Packed and jammed!" exclaimed Pete. "Hullo! What's this?"
"Hand me that log!" shouted the Captain, and Sam looked around the boat
for loose timber. Not any kind of log was to be seen; the floating spar
was long since out of sight; but Pete at once picked up and handed to
Kroom a broad, thin, paper-covered blank book which lay in the middle of
the valise.
"Bless my soul!" said Captain Kroom. "This 'ere's the log of the good
ship _Narragansett_, of New Haven, and her captain's name is Pickering.
The last entry in it is only a week old. Yes, sir, boys! He made it
after the gale struck 'em! Before she was wrecked. This 'ere's awful!
She must ha' gone all to pieces! Now for the inlet! Hurrah!"
His voice sounded excited, but he sat as steady as a post, and seemed to
be giving all his attention to the management of the _Elephant_.
"Sam," he said, "you and Pete read some more of that log. Don't you
fetch a thing in the valise. There are his barkers and his chronometer
and lots o' papers. But that there alligator-skin valise was
water-tight. It came across the bar at the inlet with the tide. There's
current enough there then to whisk in a cannon."
Sam was a landsman, but he listened eagerly to all the Captain had to
say about the ways of the coast and about the coming and going of ships.
None of it seemed to be at all new to Pete; but then he had been born
and brought up within sight of salt water, and he had heard Kroom talk
many a time before.
The _Elephant_ put her nose through or over the waves as if she were in
a hurry, and all the while her crew were getting more accustomed to the
presence of the valise. Sam studied its contents, all he could see of
them, and he was learning something.
"That's the chronometer," he thought. "It's a big watch in a mahogany
box. That's a splendid compass. Those pistols are what the Captain calls
'barkers.'"
"You see," remarked Kroom, as if answering him, "as soon as the
commander of a ship knows he's going to be wrecked, it's his duty to
save those things. He must save his log and his papers, if he can't save
anything else. Captain Pickering got 'em together, and then somebody
beat him out of them. Now it's my duty to get 'em to the owner of the
ship. No trouble about that, but we must learn all we can first. Sam, if
you've read anything, read it out. It's the worst kind of writing."
That was what Sam had found, and he had had some doubt as to how much it
was right for him to read. Now, however, he was getting more courageous.
It seemed so much more honest than merely fishing up things and keeping
them. He read, therefore, a line or so at a time, picking it out; but it
required an interpreter, for all the sentences were short and jerky.
"Stop there!" said Captain Kroom. "I'll fix it up. Never mind his
latitudes and longitudes. She was a three-master, and she was in the
China trade, and she was getting near home when the hurricane struck
her. We had the heel of that gale all along shore last week. Blew down
trees and upset things. I'll bet you the _Narragansett_ went to pieces.
Hurrah! There's the inlet. Hand me that log. I'll just shut it up. Now,
boys, I'll show you what a boat of this kind can do."
"Don't you be afraid, Sam," said Pete, encouragingly. "It'll be awful
rough outside the bar, but he knows. We're going right through."
[Illustration: RUNNING OUT OF THE INLET.]
Sam did not exactly feel afraid, but he was disposed to keep a tight
hold upon the gunwale of the _Elephant_. There was really a great deal
of her, he was beginning to see, and pretty soon she was gliding along
over the smooth water of the inlet. It was a channel, not straight by
any means, that was nowhere over a hundred yards wide. On either side
were only long ranges of low sand hills and marshes. The bay was behind
them, and right ahead, Sam could not guess how far away, he could hear a
booming sound, that came, he knew, from the great Atlantic billows
which came rolling in to thunder and die along the shore.
"Bully breeze!" shouted Pete. "Out we go! Hurrah! Look at the surf!"
Sam was staring very earnestly indeed at the long lines of foaming water
that were springing into the air, curling over and tossing to and fro in
shattered masses of froth and blue. He knew that there was danger in
them, and he felt queer concerning what might be coming next.
The Captain, however, was sitting as steadily as usual. Sam had seen him
take something out of the valise before closing it, but he had not dared
to ask any questions. He was almost afraid of Captain Kroom, and even
now, as he looked at him, he was thinking:
"I wish I knew how many times he's been wrecked, and where. He must have
seen the most awful kind of things."
It had been a black leather case, and now the Captain opened it, taking
out a thing that Sam recognized at once.
"It's what they call an opera-glass," he said to himself, but he was
wrong.
It was a binocular marine telescope of the finest kind, very much like
the glasses which generals use on a battlefield to study the battle
with. The Captain was now searching the lines of breakers and the open
sea outside of them, and he suddenly lowered his glass to roar:
"Thereaway, boys! Just a few points southerly. Stuck on the outer bar.
Hull half out of water. Not a stick standing. Two tug-boats there
already, and a steamer. We've got her! Hurrah!"
He kindly held out the glass to Pete, and steadied the boat while the
'longshore boy took a long squint in the direction indicated.
"I've found her!" exclaimed Pete. "But maybe 'tisn't the
_Narragansett_."
"You bet it is," said the Captain. "There didn't two ships o' that kind
come ashore at the same time. There aren't many of 'em left nowadays,
anyhow--more's the pity! The steamers have run 'em out. But I'll tell
you what, boys, there's more real sailin' to be had in an old-fashioned
clipper-ship than there is in all the steamers afloat. If there's
anything I hate, it's a steamer."
Pete passed the glass along to Sam, but it was almost a full minute
before he could find anything but waves to look at. "There she is," he
said at last. "I see her, if that's her. Kind of speck." He was getting
used to the glass now, and pretty quickly he was as excited as either
Pete or the Captain, but he asked, anxiously, "How are we to get there?"
The line of breakers seemed to be in the way, and they looked
impassable. Such a boat as the _Elephant_, or almost any other, would be
a mere cork in the grasp of those tremendous rollers.
"They would jump us twenty feet into the air," thought Sam. "It's awful!
I don't care whether he gets his old valise or not."
Pete, on the other hand, seemed to be thinking mainly of his share in
the management of the _Elephant_, but as she swung away upon another
tack, he remarked to Sam: "See that surf? Well, right in there, if they
can get near enough to throw a line, the sporting fishermen strike the
biggest bass you ever saw. Takes half an hour to pull one in sometimes."
That was a kind of fun of which Sam knew nothing, but he replied: "We'll
come again and try it on. But where are we going now?"
"You'll see in a minute," said Pete.
It was many minutes, instead of only one, before Sam had any clear idea
of what Captain Kroom was up to. The _Elephant_ appeared to be running
along the seaward line of the sand-bar, between that and the breakers.
Then to the left Sam saw a break in the surf--a streak of pretty smooth
water with foaming "boilers" on both sides of it. Into that streak the
old sailor steered the three-cornered boat.
Oh, how she did dance, and how Sam did hold on! But he did not utter a
sound, and the next thing he knew the mere cockle-shell under him was
sailing along well enough, safely enough, over the long regular swells,
not at all boisterous or dangerous, of the great ocean that was three
thousand miles wide.
"I didn't believe he could do it," thought Sam. "We may get to the
_Narragansett_, but how on earth are we to get back again?"
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
[Illustration]
A LOYAL TRAITOR.[1]
[1] Begun in HARPER'S ROUND TABLE No. 888.
A STORY OF THE WAR OF 1812 BETWEEN AMERICA AND ENGLAND.
BY JAMES BARNES.
CHAPTER VIII.
FREEFOOTED.
When I arrived at the flat rock I hurried into the suit of sailor
toggery, damp from the wet of the dew; and making a pile, and a very
small one, of my treasures, I ripped out the back of my embroidered
waistcoat and tied them up in it.
Striking out for the highway, I soon gained it and started on a
dog-trot, headed south. My lungs and legs must have been in good
condition, for I kept it up steadily for an hour or so. (It may seem
imagination, but I believe people can run faster and longer at night;
maybe the distance seems shorter because we observe less clearly.)
Soon I began to recognize the well-known signs of approaching dawn. I
had heard a fox bark up in the hills some time since, and now, as if in
challenge, the crowing of cocks sounded and drowsy songsters fluttered
twittering in the branches of the trees along the road. Before the sun
had risen, round and red, the robins were piping and the thrushes
tinkling their throat-bells on every hand.
I was in a new country, a much richer one than that of a few miles
farther north; the farms were nearer together, and prosperity was plain
on the face of the earth. The damp morning mists that hung over the
brown new-ploughed ground smelled of growing things, and the buds on the
trees, as they opened to the warmth of morning, scattered their scents
lavishly.