[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]
Copyright, 1896, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.
* * * * *
PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, JANUARY 28, 1896. FIVE CENTS A
COPY.
VOL. XVII.--NO. 848. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.
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[Illustration]
A BOX OF GOLD IN VENEZUELA.
BY WILLIAM DRYSDALE.
"I'm going to have a shy at that gold when we get up to Potosi, Jack. I
tell you forty thousand dollars in gold is worth looking for these
days."
Ned Peterson leaned back in one of the great rocking-chairs on the upper
gallery of the Hôtel de France, in Port of Spain, on the island of
Trinidad, and puffed his cigar as complacently as though the gold were
already in his trunk. He was fresh out of the School of Mines of
Columbia College, and so felt at liberty to lay down the law to his
fourteen-year-old brother Jack. They were both on their way into the
heart of Venezuela, to the gold-mines of Naparima, of which their father
was superintendent and part owner.
"Oh, that's just one of your romantic notions," Jack replied, standing
by his brother and looking through the jalousie-blinds at the coolies
squatting in the park across the street. "You want a chance to write to
your chums in New York that you're searching for lost gold in the bottom
of the Orinoco River. It sounds well, but it won't amount to anything."
"You don't know what you're talking about," the young man retorted, with
great dignity. "We know the gold is there, and it will be an easy matter
to find out just about where the canoe was when it capsized and dumped
it into the river. Of course there has been a great deal of searching
for it, but never under as favorable circumstances as we shall find.
Last November, when the gold was lost, the water in the Orinoco was
sixty feet higher than it is now. At this time of year, midwinter, it is
so low that the steamers cannot go further up the river than the City of
Bolivar. At Potosi the water is not more than three or four feet deep
just now, and by sounding in the mud we will have an excellent chance of
finding the box. Anyhow, it's worth trying for. Forty-one thousand three
hundred and forty dollars is the exact value of it."
"You have it down fine!" Jack laughed. "Couldn't you take off a dollar
or two?"
"Not a cent," Ned answered. "They send the gold down from the mines in
bars, two bars in a box, and each bar weighing exactly 1000 ounces. I
suppose you know that gold is worth $20.67 an ounce, always and in all
countries. That price never varies. So it is easy to calculate the
value of the two bars. It was a great setback to father's management,
the loss of those two bars right at the beginning."
"I've heard an awful lot about those two bars of gold," Jack said, "but
I never quite understood the thing. How did they come to be lost?"
Ned was quite willing to show his superior knowledge by telling the
story of the lost gold. "You see, father took charge of the mines at a
very bad time," he began. "It had been a gilt-edged investment for a
long time, and the two-hundred-dollar shares paid ten dollars a month in
dividends. But the veins of ore contracted, and dividends went down to a
dollar a month, and as father stepped in just at that time he got all
the blame for the reduction. Then came the loss of the two bars, and
that made matters worse.
"The mines, you know," he continued, "are on the Urubu River, a branch
of the Orinoco, forty miles above Potosi. Potosi is a little native
settlement at the junction of the two rivers, a hundred miles above
Bolivar, and Bolivar, as you know, is two hundred and fifty miles up the
Orinoco from here. They run the gold into bars at the mines, pack it two
bars in a box, and send the box in a big canoe down to Potosi, with a
guard of three or four armed men. From Potosi it goes in the steamer to
Bolivar, and from Bolivar it is carried, along with other things, by
great teams of forty and sixty bullocks over the mountains to Caracas,
the capital, where it is coined in the mint.
"There was where father met his great misfortune," Ned went on, "in the
shipping. The gold was all right, and the guard was all right, but
father didn't know that it was customary to lash the box to two big
timbers, so that if anything happened to the canoe the gold would float.
The men didn't care, and they came down the Urubu all right into the
Orinoco, and in five minutes more they'd have had the box aboard the
steamer. But the swift current or something else struck the canoe; over
she went, and down went the box like a flash, and it's never been seen
since. The question is how far the current would carry it in that swift
water, sixty feet deep, and how far it would sink in the muddy bottom.
They have spent a good many hundred dollars in searching for it, but not
a trace has ever been found, though that was several months ago, and the
water is low enough now.
"So you see," he concluded, "what a grand thing it would be if we could
find it on our way to join the folks. I wanted to try it sooner, but
they would not let us start till I had finished my course at the School
of Mines."
"It wouldn't belong to us if we did find it," Jack objected.
"No, nor to father either," Ned answered. "But they've offered two
thousand dollars reward for its recovery, and if we could find it, it
would smooth everything out. We've got to go past Potosi in a canoe
anyhow. The steamer that starts to-morrow evening goes only to Bolivar,
and there we are to buy a canoe and do the rest of the journey on our
own hook. Then you'll have a chance to show what you're made of, young
fellow, with a hundred and forty miles to paddle in a canoe."
"Don't brag, Mr. School of Mines," Jack laughed. "I guess when it comes
to paddling you'll find I'm with you."
The young Americans were surprised to find that it was a good American
steamboat that was to carry them up the Orinoco on Saturday evening--a
boat called the _Bolivar_, of about 600 tons. They knew that it was only
one section of the river they would see, for the Orinoco empties into
the sea through a hundred mouths, some flowing into the Gulf of Paria,
others emptying into the ocean as far down the coast as Point Barrima,
230 miles away. There was not much to be seen on Saturday evening, for
the boat had a long sail across the Gulf of Paria before entering the
river, down past San Fernando and the pitchy shores of La Brea, near the
great pitch lake. When Sunday morning dawned they were in one of the
many channels of the mighty Orinoco, and then there was even less to see
than before. The river was nearly a mile wide, but the shores were low
and covered with mangrove bushes, and there was no sign of life or
habitation.
"Say, Ned," Jack exclaimed, after they had gone through scores of miles
of this low wet country, "what do you think of Venezuela? It would be a
funny racket if two great nations should go to war over the boundaries
of a country like this."
"It's a matter of honor with us," Ned replied, still in his dignified
way.
"A matter of chills, I should say, here along the coast," Jack retorted,
"though it's hot enough to cook eggs in the sand. I don't think the
thermometer went below 90° all last night."
All the way up to the City of Bolivar the river was much the same,
except that occasionally they passed a bluff; and wherever there was a
bluff there was a little settlement, the houses having no walls but the
posts that supported the thatched roofs. Nowhere was there a sign of
cultivation or any land that looked as if it could be cultivated, and
the only human beings were the Guaranno Indians, who lived in the huts
on shore. The river water was thick with yellow mud, and well spiced
with alligators and giant lizards five or six feet long.
"It will be different when we reach Bolivar," Ned said, half
apologetically. "You know Bolivar is the fourth city of Venezuela, and
quite a large place."
At daylight on Monday morning the steamboat lay in front of Bolivar, or,
rather, at the feet of Bolivar, for the city is built on a bluff a
hundred feet high, and half-way up the hill is a strong stone wharf. But
the water was so low that the boat lay fifty feet beneath the wharf, and
it was hard to realize that in flood-time the water is almost up to the
top of the hill.
"So this is the great City of Bolivar, is it?" Jack exclaimed, after
they had climbed the steep hill and passed the city wall, and stood
among the yellow-walled, flat-roofed houses. "There's too much grass
growing in the streets to suit a New-Yorker."
There were few wheeled vehicles in the streets, but plenty of donkeys
carrying burdens. The principal buildings were the cathedral, standing
on the summit of a little hill, and the jail, about which some
red-capped soldiers were on guard.
"I did want to see one of those great teams of sixty bullocks starting
out," Jack said; "but now that we've seen the town, the quicker you can
get a canoe and let us be off, the better."
Ned was disappointed too in the appearance of Bolivar, about which he
had heard so much, and before the sun was high he had bought a small
dug-out canoe for eight dollars, about double its value, and the boys
were off for their hundred-mile paddle against the current to Potosi,
with canned provisions enough to last them all the way to the mines.
In the forty-eight hours that this journey consumed they saw just three
men, all half-breed Indians, out in canoes fishing; but they tired of
counting the alligators sunning themselves on mud banks. When at last a
turn of the river brought Potosi into view, they shouted with laughter
at the appearance of the place, though both were tired and disgusted.
The settlement stood on a high bluff, like Bolivar, but it consisted of
four houses or huts, all without walls, and roofed with thatch.
"No matter," Ned laughed. "If there was nothing here but a cave I should
stop, all the same, and find out where that gold was lost. You see there
is hardly any water in the river. We will go up to the settlement and
make inquiries, and it's a mighty good thing we have both studied
Spanish. Even these half-breeds speak Spanish after a fashion."
"I guess they'll speak it better than we do," Jack replied. "I can read
it all right, and I could understand them if they wouldn't talk so fast;
they seem to rattle off about two or three hundred words a minute."
When they climbed the hill they found that, poor as the settlement was,
it commanded a beautiful view of miles of the Orinoco and a long sweep
of the Urubu, a much smaller stream, but more picturesque.
The occupant of the hut nearest the edge of the bluff professed to know
all about the losing of the gold, and he agreed for a small
consideration to give what information he could. He was willing, too, to
take the young Americanos into his house to live during the two or three
days that they thought they might stay in Potosi. There was plenty of
room, for the cooking-place was a fire under the nearest tree, and the
beds were only hammocks swung from the wattles that answered for
rafters. The custom was to turn into the hammocks "all standing," as
Jack called it, without any change in the toilet, so that a large family
could sleep conveniently under the one small roof.
The boy's new landlord, who called himself Felipe, lived alone in the
hut with his daughter, a swarthy but handsome girl of about fifteen.
Maria, the daughter, did all the work of the house, even to cutting the
firewood; but the visitors soon had reason to believe that her father
did not treat her very kindly. She was much interested in the newcomers,
and did some little kindnesses for them. Of course Ned considered her
entirely beneath his notice; but Jack saw that she had the soft brown
eyes of her race, with the smooth copper-colored skin of our own
Indians, though with more red in her cheeks, and a profusion of straight
raven-black hair. He thought her a very pretty and intelligent-looking
girl.
"Now, then, young chap," said Ned, after they had taken a short rest in
the shade of the hut, "we're going to have a hunt for that gold. Felipe
has gone out to cut some poles, and he's going with us in the canoe to
point out the spot. It's a thousand dollars apiece to us, mind you, if
we strike it, and a great help to father. Two thousand ounces of gold is
only 125 pounds, and we can easily handle it if we can find it. Say," he
went on, "I believe you've made a conquest, Jack. I notice that young
Dago girl keeps looking at you and smiling at you half the time. I
suppose she's not used to seeing such handsome kids as you."
"Get out!" Jack answered, blushing. "She wants to be hospitable to us,
that's all. It makes me mad to see the way her father orders her around,
for she's much more intelligent than he is."
"Humph!" Ned grunted, "Always keep on the right side of the cook; that's
the advice of an old traveller."
Felipe was very liberal with his information when they went out in the
canoe. There the steamer lay, here the boat was capsized and the box
went down. The swift current was setting a little off shore at the time,
so he pointed out the likeliest places for sounding the mud. "But think
of sixty feet of water!" he exclaimed. The box might have been carried
half a mile down stream before it touched bottom at all. The only chance
was to make a thorough search over a large space.
"Say, Ned," Jack asked, in English, while they were prodding the mud
with their poles, "if this fellow knows so well where the box went down,
why didn't he get it himself?"
"I suppose because he couldn't find it, like the rest of them," Ned
answered. "He seems to be an honest sort of fellow."
They kept up the search till noon without finding anything more valuable
than a few big stones and water-soaked logs; and when they went up to
the house to dinner the little girl squeezed a lime into a cup of cool
water for each of the strangers, saying that they looked tired and hot.
"It's all on your account, Jack," Ned said, banteringly. "You're the
attraction."
Jack made no reply; but after dinner he ran his hands through his
pockets in search of some trifle that he might give the girl for her
attentions to them. He could find nothing more suitable than his silver
match-box; it made the little Indian's eyes sparkle when he handed it to
her.
The afternoon's search was no more successful than the morning's, and
early in the evening all the occupants of the hut lay down in their
hammocks. Jack found that a small piece of mosquito-netting, large
enough at any rate to cover his face, had been put in his hammock to
help keep off the mosquitoes, and he saw that there was none in any of
the other hammocks; but he made no remarks about it.
Before sunrise in the morning the others were all astir, but Jack felt
sore and stiff, and he lay still.
"I'm afraid that hot sun rather knocked me out yesterday," he said to
Ned. "I think I'll stay here a little while, and try to get another
nap."
Ned anxiously felt his brother's temples and pulse, for such symptoms
have to be watched in tropical countries; but finding no signs of fever,
he went out and down the hill to look after the canoe before breakfast.
Felipe also strolled out, leaving Maria in the hut getting the things
ready for breakfast. In a few minutes, however, Felipe returned, and
said something angrily to the girl. Receiving no reply, he seized her by
the arm and gave her a violent shake, and slapped her on the side of the
head.
Jack could not help seeing it, and his blood began to boil. He lay still
a moment longer, however, till Felipe reached up into the thatching and
drew out a long heavy switch that he had evidently used before. This was
more than Jack could stand, and he sprang out of the hammock.
"Hi, you Greaser!" he cried, in English, for he was too mad to bother
with Spanish, "if you hit that girl again I'll spread you all over the
bluff!"
Felipe did not understand the words, but Jack's attitude was plain
enough to him. The boy stood in front of him with fists clinched, ready
for instant battle.
Although only fourteen, Jack was several sizes larger and much more
muscular than the half-breed, and in a fist fight would have whipped him
in a minute. Besides, he was an American boy defending a helpless girl,
and his blood was up. But Felipe had no fancy for such an encounter. He
let go his hold and retreated a step, and with the instinct of his race
his right hand went up to his bosom, and he drew out a long knife.
For an instant Jack did not know what to do. He was entirely unarmed,
for Ned carried the only revolver they had, and Felipe with a knife was
a dangerous customer. But it was only for an instant, for his eye fell
upon a machete sticking in a leather cleat against one of the posts that
supported the roof.
A machete is a cutlass, a broadsword about two feet long, used by the
South Americans for scratching the ground and felling small trees, and
it makes a terribly effective weapon.
"That's your game, is it?" Jack exclaimed, snatching up the machete.
"Then come on!" and in his excitement he advanced upon the Venezuelan
without further ceremony.
Felipe's knife was a trifle compared with the machete; and with the
young Americano boiling over with rage, and the machete cutting circles
in the air dangerously near his head, it was no wonder that the
half-breed turned and fled ignominiously.
The flight gave the affair a humorous turn that Jack was quick to see,
and he followed the native at a lively pace, more for sport than in
anger, but shouting and waving the cutlass as if he intended to cut him
to pieces.
Down the hill Felipe ran like a deer, looking neither to the right nor
the left till he was by the side of Ned and under his protection.
"Never mind, Felipe," Ned said, with a sly look at Jack, after
explanations had been made; "if he should kill you with the cutlass I'd
give him a good trouncing for it, so you'd be avenged anyhow."
This was quite satisfactory to the Venezuelan, for he knew as little
about a joke as he did about using his fists. But as Jack turned and
went back to the house, Felipe cautiously waited to return with Ned.
This caution of Felipe's meant a great deal to the young Americans,
though they little suspected it. It gave Jack five minutes alone with
Maria in the hut, and that five minutes was of great importance. She
thanked him with her velvety eyes for rescuing her, but said no word
about it; what she did say was of much more account.
"It's no use for you to look in the river where you have been looking,"
she said, keeping a bright lookout for her father's return. "He is
showing you the wrong places."
"Is that so?" Jack exclaimed. "Can you show us the right place?"
"It's no use to look anywhere," she answered, "for the gold is not
there."
"Not there? Then has it been found?"
"Yes," she replied.
"And do you know where it is?"
"It is here," she said, stamping her little bare brown foot upon the
earth floor of the hut near one of the posts.
"Buried!" Jack exclaimed. "Who found it?"
"You must not ask me that," the girl replied. "I suppose they will kill
me for what I have told you already."
"Not if I know myself, they won't!" Jack exclaimed. "Is this fellow your
father?"
"Not exactly," Maria answered. "My father died, and Felipe married my
mother. And he treats me very badly," she added.
"Then, we must get out of here to-night with the gold," Jack hurriedly
said, "and take you along. My mother will be glad to have a girl like
you in the house, and it is only forty miles up the river to the mines.
Is Felipe a sound sleeper?"
"I will see to it that he sleeps well to-night," Maria answered, with
more meaning in her words than Jack understood at the time. "Hush! They
are coming!"
While Felipe slept soundly in his hammock that night under the influence
of an herb that Maria added to his tea, the two Americanos paddled their
canoe rapidly up the Urubu River toward the mines. Maria sat demurely in
the bow; for she was not quite as heavy as the box of gold, so that was
put in the stern. The thousand dollars that was her share of the reward
made Maria one of the richest half-breed girls in Venezuela, and the
boys still delight in counting over the five hundred dollars that fell
to each of them. But Jack's mother says the greatest prize captured in
that expedition was Maria, the copper-colored little Venezuelan.
CIRCUMSTANCES ALTER CASES.
BY PATTY PEMBERTON BERMANN.
_Dramatis Personæ:_
Madge.
Bess.
A Stranger.
A Salesman.
A Cash-boy.
SCENE.--_The Upholstery Department of a fashionable shop. Screens, piles
of rugs, sofa pillows, etc., in confusion. Three or four cane-seated
chairs placed about at irregular distances. Across left end of stage
extends a pole for the display of curtains. Behind these the actors may
retire. There should be a second exit opposite, near back of stage.
Right of centre an upright piano. As curtain rises, enter slowly,_
Cash-boy _bearing check and small change_.
[An impression of space may be produced in two ways, either by hanging a
background canvas, whereon is painted a perspective of counters,
draperies, potteries, etc., or by the use of mirrors. As scene-painters
do not grow on every twig, the better plan is to borrow long mirrors
from a house-furnishing establishment, and arrange them so that they
reflect a section of the stage behind the curtained pole. This section
can be made to look as if sales of small articles were going on at
another end of the shop from that in the foreground of stage. But take
care that no part of the real stage setting is reflected. A pantomimic
repetition of the play would bring down the house, and as certainly
disturb the performers. Do not crowd the stage.]
_Cash-boy_. Now where's 792 gone, I wonder? That's just the way with
'em; always yelling for "check," and when you come racing and tearing,
they ain't there. Glad I ain't down-stairs, to have them girls hollering
"Cosh! Cosh!" (_mimicking_) fit to bust your ears. Guess I better chase
after 792. (_Seats himself, and examines change._) I'll toss up to see
where he is--heads, he's skipped to lunch; tails (_enter_, R., Madge
_and_ Bess _unobserved_), he'll gimme ginger for keeping him waiting.
[_Sees girls, closes his hand over penny, and exits, making wry
face._]
_Bess_ (_sighing_). Poor boy! Evidently he has a cruel step-father who
ill-uses him.
_Madge_. His case is less pitiable than ours, for one can at least
occasionally escape the society of a man. Besides, men never make things
so unpleasant at home.
_Bess_. "Home!" Oh, Madge! I could weep to think how we have looked
forward to a home of our own, after ten years of boarding-school.
(_Enter_, R., Stranger. _She pauses on the threshold, listening._) And
now to have everything spoiled by this hateful step-mother. It is too
bad.
_Madge_. Papa writes that she is lovely, and will be as much a companion
to us as to him.
_Bess_. Nonsense. Who ever heard of a step-mother being a companion? I
am sure she is an ugly old maid who has no sympathy with anything under
fifty years of age.
_Madge_. It was rather nice of her to ask papa to let us furnish our
rooms in the new house, though.
_Bess_. Policy--mere policy. She wants to get rid of the trouble of
doing it herself.
_Madge_. Well, for papa's sake I think we ought to try to like her.
_Bess_. Oh, _you_ will like her fast enough, but I _never, never_ can!
_Stranger_ (_approaching_). There seems to be nobody in this department
to wait on me; or perhaps a clerk is attending to your orders?
_Madge_. No; we were so busy talking that we forgot how much we have to
do, and did not notice the absence of clerks.
_Stranger_. Ah! here is some one coming. Let us hail him at once.
(Cash-boy _loiters from behind curtains_, L.) Boy, please bring a
salesman as quickly as possible.
[Illustration]
_Cash-boy_. 'Ain't 792 come yet? Well, he is taking a corking feed. Wish
I was him.
_Bess_ (_compassionately_). Do not you have enough to eat at home?
_Cash-boy_. Do I look like I'm suffering?
BESS. No; but I thought perhaps your step-father--
_Cash-boy_ (_thrusting his hands in his pockets and laughing_). 'Ain't
got no step-father. The old lady, she's a step, though.
_Stranger_. Don't you think you should speak more respectfully of old
persons?
_Cash-boy_. I'm a jollying you. She ain't much older than you, and she
don't act a bit like a step. She's prime, I tell you.
_Bess_ (_impatiently_). Go call some one to wait on us, and don't stand
talking all day.
[_Exit_ Cash-boy, _calling "Sales! Sales!"_]
_Stranger_ (_rising and looking behind curtains_, L.). It is provoking
to sit idle in this way when one has the furnishing of a house on hand.
_Madge_. I should think so. With only two rooms to fit up, Bess and I
feel our responsibilities weighing on us.
[_Moves about among rolls of carpet, keeping near_ Stranger.]
_Stranger_. How sweet of your mother to allow you to select everything
for yourselves!
_Madge_ (_softly_). We have no mother.
_Stranger_. Poor children!
[_Lays her hand on_ Madge's _shoulder. They return thus to their
seats._ Bess _walks over to_ R., _and leans dejectedly against
piano a moment, then turns impulsively_.]
_Bess_. Have you daughters?
_Stranger_. None of my own; but I'm going to adopt two in a few weeks.
_Madge_. Do you love them so much?
_Stranger_. I shall when we know each other better.
_Bess_. And they?
_Stranger_. I fear they are a trifle prejudiced at present, but love
begets love, and we shall eventually become friends.
_Madge_. It would be difficult not to become friendly with you.
_Stranger_. Thank you, my dear. (_Again goes to curtains_, L.) Here is
our salesman at last, and as we are all on the same errand, we may save
time by looking at carpets and hangings together. (_To_ Bess.) You shall
have first opportunity, however.
_Bess_. No, no; you are entitled to take precedence.
_Stranger_. Age before beauty--eh? Well, then we will collectively
examine rugs for your rooms. (_To_ Salesman.) Something in delicate
tints, please.
[Illustration]
_Salesman_. What size, madam?
_Bess_ (_aghast_). Size?
_Madge_. We did not once dream of measuring the floor.
_Stranger_. Never mind; we will not worry about such trifles as
measurements. Let me see (_reflecting_); twelve feet square--no, twelve
by fifteen will do. (Salesman _unrolls two rugs_.) That one is
charmingly suggestive of spring-time and flowers. Just the thing for a
débutante.
_Bess_. I think I prefer the other. What is the price?
_Salesman_. A hundred and fifty dollars.
_Madge_ (_springing up in surprise_). A hundred and fifty! Goodness
gracious! Why, we expected to furnish a whole room for less! How much is
the other?
_Salesman_. Twenty-five.
_Stranger_. Don't let me influence your choice.
_Bess_. Imagine trampling on a hundred-and-fifty dollar rug.
_Stranger_. People trample on more valuable things every day.
_Bess_ (_aside_). Now why should that speech make me uncomfortable?
(_To_ Madge.) Aren't we inconsiderate in taking the time of a stranger
for our affairs?
_Stranger_. That depends upon the stranger.
_Bess_. Then shall we look at curtains? Those are handsome--aren't they?
_Stranger_. I'm afraid they are more expensive even than the rug. You
might try dotted muslin, perhaps. I shall have them for my room.
_Bess_ (_reluctantly_). Well. What are you giggling about, Madge?
_Madge_. I was thinking that you said this morning nothing could induce
you to have dotted muslin curtains.
_Bess_. People may change their minds--mayn't they?
_Stranger_. I trust you may change yours some time when more is at
stake. (_To_ Salesman.) Will you kindly find some pale blue draperies
that I ordered from the fancy-goods counter down-stairs, and bring them
here?
[_Exit_ Salesman.]
_Bess_ (_going toward piano_). I wonder if we shall have a piano at
home?
_Stranger_ (_absently_). Oh yes!
_Madge_ (_surprised_). Why, how can you know?
_Stranger_ (_recovering herself_). On general principles, my dear. Every
house must need a piano.
_Bess_. Of course you play or sing?
_Stranger_. My repertoire is limited, and not classical. Association
with young people has led me to devote more time than I ought to
dance-music and light opera.
_Madge_. Do play us a two-step now, just for fun.
[Stranger _seats herself at piano and plays with spirit. The girls
hesitate a moment, then push aside rugs and begin to dance._]
_Bess_ (_stopping breathless_). How sweet of you! Such a fascinating
two-step, and played as if you like to take a turn yourself.
_Stranger_. I _was_ quite devoted to it, but now that I am an old maid I
have no sympathy with anything under fifty years of age.
_Madge_ (_aside_). That's what Bess says about our prospective
step-mother.
[_Enter_ Salesman _with draperies_.]
_Stranger_. Thank you. Yes, we have finished our shopping in this
department. (_To girls._) I must say good-by to you, as you probably
wish to purchase bedroom furniture, and I will first look after my
parlor.
_Madge_. I am so sorry we cannot go on as we have begun. We shall miss
having you to advise and consult with.
_Bess_. You have been so very kind to help us.
_Stranger_. Policy, my dear--mere policy.
_Bess_ (_aside_). How strange! She quotes my very words. (_To her._) I
will not believe there was a scrap of policy about it.
_Madge_. Nor I. You were simply lovely to two ignorant girls who thought
they knew everything.
_Stranger_. Well, good-by. Possibly we may meet again some day.
_Girls_ (_in unison_). I'm sure we hope so.
_Salesman_ (_as_ Stranger _starts to leave_). To whom shall I charge
your curtains and rugs, madam?
_Stranger_. To Charles Rockwood.
_Girls_. Why, that is papa's name.
_Stranger_. Yes? Quite a coincidence--isn't it?
_Salesman_. The address, please?
_Stranger_. Thirty-three West Blank Street.
_Girls_ (_in great excitement_). The number of our new house!
_Stranger_. Really?
_Bess_. What does it all mean?
_Madge_. How perfectly exciting!
_Bess_. Is it possible that--
_Madge_. This is our--
_Stranger_. Future step-mother? Who ever heard of a step-mother being a
companion, my dear girls?
_Bess_. Forgive me. I did not know--
_Stranger_. The marplot that was to spoil everything when her daughters
returned from boarding-school.
[_Enter_ Cash-boy.]
_Cash-boy_. Sev--en--nine--ty--two!
_Salesman_. Here, check, take this to the office.
_Madge_. Wait a moment, boy. You see we have gained a "step," too.
_Madge_ (_embracing_ Stranger). I was sure I should like you.
_Bess_. And I--
_Stranger_. Never, _never, never_ can.
_Bess_ (_taking her hand affectionately_). I thought so once, but now I
know that circumstances alter cases.
JIM DANDY.
When I was last in the South, the gentleman at whose house I was
visiting asked a trustworthy old colored man to get him a green boy from
the country to be trained as a house servant. In a day or so the old man
drove up to the door and put out of his wagon a sturdy-looking lad of
fifteen or so, black as the ace of spades, and clad in raiment seemingly
made of selections from a rag-bag. With a small bundle in his hand he
approached the gallery--that is what a porch in some parts of the South
is called--where I was sitting with my host, Mr. Prettyman. The boy took
off his hat and made not a bow exactly but an inclination of his head,
grinning from ear to ear, and displaying as white and useful a set of
teeth as is often seen.
"What is your name?" Mr. Prettyman asked.
"Jim Dandy, sah," the boy answered.
"Whom do you live with?"
"I lives wid Aunty," the boy said, and his manner now showed that he was
getting embarrassed, for he did not giggle, but smiled nervously.
"Where does Aunty live?" Mr. Prettyman inquired.
I suspect that this question made Jim Dandy fear that Mr. Prettyman did
not have as much sense as a gentleman living in a fine house in town
ought to have. He hesitated a moment, and then, moving his head
sideways, said, "Aunty, she live over yonder."
This was most indefinite, but it was evidently the best that Jim Dandy
could do for the moment, so Mr. Prettyman took him round to the kitchen
at the back of the house and put him in charge of the cook, who was also
the old housekeeper. And so Jim Dandy was engaged. In the course of an
hour he was trying to learn his way about the house and feel comfortable
in a suit of blue clothes with many brass buttons. But there was another
ordeal for Jim Dandy. When Mrs. Prettyman reached home later in the day
she decided that the new "buttons" must be called James. And so he was
called on formal occasions, but with the children at least Jim Dandy
stuck.
In a few days the new boy began to feel at home, and then set about
justifying his worthiness of the distinguished name he had assumed. The
first time he was sent down-town he came back in such a hurry that it
seemed incredible that he could have done his errand. The next time he
staid longer, and the third time--that was after he had been in service
a week--he staid half a day. To one of the children he confessed that he
had spent all his time in looking in the shop-windows. Hearing this, I
felt a sympathy for Jim Dandy, for I waste much of my own time in that
same occupation. But the shop-windows of this little Southern city
seemed shabby and sorry to me after New York and Paris, and I felt sorry
for Jim Dandy that such cheap splendors should make him forget his duty.
The fourth time Jim Dandy was sent into town he was told that he must
not loiter on the way, but be back in a hurry. And, sure enough, he did
not stay long. In less than an hour he was back. But he was not the
smart-looking "buttons" who had started out shortly before. His clothes
were muddy, his coat was slit in the back, his cap was gone, and there
was blood on one of his cheeks. In appearance he looked sheepish and
crestfallen. "Jim Dandy has had a licking," I said to myself, for I felt
sure that some of the negro lads in town, envious of his whole clothes,
had given the country boy a beating for revenge and for the fun of the
thing. To inquiries Jim Dandy could make no intelligible reply. He went
to the back of the house and sat on the kitchen steps. Tears rolled down
his cheeks, and his great eyes were filled with trouble. Aunt Mandy, the
cook, evidently diagnosed Jim Dandy's trouble as I had done, and she was
voluble in her abuse of him for not "'tending to his own bizness."
It had not been long, however, before there was an explanation of Jim
Dandy's adventure. The Mayor of the town called at Mr. Prettyman's to
ask for the boy. As the Mayor was also a magistrate, we were afraid Jim
Dandy must have done something very dreadful. This is what the Mayor
said Jim had done:
A pony phaeton with four children in it was driving through Main Street.
A trolley-car was approaching, and the pony took fright and became
unmanageable, backing the phaeton on to the track. Jim was passing on
his errand. Seeing the danger, he got behind the phaeton, and pushed it
and the pony from the track. He was not so fortunate, for the fender of
the car caught him and rolled him over and over in the mud until the car
was stopped. This was how Jim Dandy's first suit of livery came to be
spoiled. We were proud of Jim, and spoke to him as kindly as possible;
but he was rather a sulky youth till his new suit of clothes arrived--a
suit paid for, by-the-way, by the Mayor himself, for it was his children
that Jim had saved from the trolley-car.
The first freshness had not been worn from Jim's new suit before we all
went to a picnic on the banks of the little mountain river that flowed
through the town. Jim was told to keep a sharp lookout on the younger
children, who were fishing from the bank in shallow water. One of the
little girls was a fidgety specimen of humanity, for she could never sit
still two minutes at a time. Before she had been fishing ten minutes she
fell into the river. The water was very shallow, but the current was
swift, and there was surely enough water to drown little Margaret
Prettyman, with a-plenty to spare. But Jim Dandy was there, and the
child had hardly touched the water before he was in after her and had
her in his arms. Not many seconds more had passed before Mrs. Prettyman
had the very wet and much-frightened Margaret in her arms, and was
weeping over that rescued infant.
Jim Dandy's smartness was again dimmed, and he was a sorry and
bedraggled looking darky. Mr. Prettyman looked his "buttons" over
carefully, and Jim was evidently embarrassed by the gaze.
"Well, James," his master said, "you are rightly named, for you are a
Jim Dandy--every inch a Jim Dandy."
This is what the country boy did to justify his name during the two
weeks that I staid at Mr. Prettyman's. It may be that he has gone on and
on from adventure to adventure, so that when I hear about them I will
have to send the record of them to Mr. Kirk Munroe, so that he may have
a biographer worthy of a daring career. When I left I gave some money to
little Margaret, to be divided among the servants. She came to the gate
just as I was going to the carriage, and said, "Aunt Mandy's obliged,
and Hannah's obliged, and Jim Dandy's obliged,' but Jim Dandy's obliged
the most, 'cause he stood on his head."
THE MIDDLE DAUGHTER.[1]
[1] Begun in HARPER'S ROUND TABLE No. 845.
BY MARGARET E. SANGSTER.
CHAPTER IV.
TWO LITTLE SCHOOLMARMS.
"And so you are your papa's good fairy? How happy you must be! How
proud!" Amy's eyes shone as she talked to Grace, and smoothed down a
fold of the pretty white alpaca gown which set off her friend's dainty
beauty. The girls were in my mother's room at the Manse, and Mrs.
Raeburn had left them together to talk over plans, while she went to the
parlor to entertain a visitor who was engaged in getting up an autumn
_fête_ for a charitable purpose. Nothing of this kind was ever done
without mother's aid.
There were few secrets between Wishing-Brae and the Manse, and Mrs.
Wainwright had told our mother how opportunely Grace had been able to
assist her father in his straits. Great was our joy.
"You must remember, dear," said mamma, when she returned from seeing
Miss Gardner off, "that your purse is not exhaustless, though it is a
long one for a girl. Debts have a way of eating up bank accounts; and
what will you do when your money is gone if you still find that the wolf
menaces the door at Wishing-Brae?"
"That is what I want to consult you about, Aunt Dorothy." (I ought to
have said that our mother was Aunt Dorothy to the children at the Brae,
and more beloved than many a real auntie, though one only by courtesy.)
"Frances knows my ambitions," Grace went on, "I mean to be a money-maker
as well as a money-spender; and I have two strings to my bow. First, I'd
like to give interpretations."
The mother looked puzzled. "Interpretations?" she said. "Of what,
pray?--Sanscrit or Egyptian or Greek? Are you a seeress or a witch, dear
child?"
"Neither. In plain English I want to read stories and poems to my
friends and to audiences--Miss Wilkins's and Mrs. Stuart's beautiful
stories, and the poems of Holmes and Longfellow and others who speak to
the heart. Not mere elocutionary reading, but simple reading, bringing
out the author's meaning and giving people pleasure. I would charge an
admission fee, and our dining-room would hold a good many; but I ought
to have read somewhere else first, and to have a little background of
city fame before I ask Highland neighbors to come and hear me. This is
my initial plan. I could branch out."
To the mother the new idea did not at once commend itself. She knew
better than we girls did how many twenty-five-cent tickets must be sold
to make a good round sum in dollars. She knew the thrifty people of
Highland looked long at a quarter before they parted with it for mere
amusement, and still further, she doubted whether Dr. Wainwright would
like the thing. But Amy clapped her hands gleefully. She thought it
fine.
"You must give a studio reading," she said. "I can manage that, mother;
if Miss Antoinette Drury will lend her studio, and we send out
invitations for 'Music and Reading, and Tea at Five,' the prestige part
will be taken care of. The only difficulty that I can see is that Grace
would have to go to a lot of places and travel about uncomfortably; and
then she'd need a manager. Wouldn't she, Frances?"
"I see no trouble," said I, "in her being her own manager. She would go
to a new town with a letter to the pastor of the leading church, or his
wife, call in at the newspaper office and get a puff; puffs are always
easily secured by enterprising young women, and they help to fill up the
paper besides. Then she would hire a hall and pay for it out of her
profits, and the business could be easily carried forward."
"Is this the New Woman breaking her shell?" said mother. "I don't think
I quite like the interpretation scheme either as Amy or as you outline
it, though I am open to persuasion. Here is the doctor. Let us hear what
he says."
It was not Dr. Wainwright, but my father, Dr. Raeburn, except on a
Friday, the most genial of men. Amy perched herself on his knee and ran
her slim fingers through his thick dark hair. To him our plans were
explained, and he at once gave them his approval.
"As I understand you, Gracie," Dr. Raeburn said, "you wish this reading
business as a stepping-stone. You would form classes, would you not? And
your music could also be utilized. You had good instruction, I fancy,
both here and over the water."
"Indeed yes, Dr. Raeburn; and I could give lessons in music, but they
wouldn't bring me in much, here at least."
"Come to my study," said the doctor, rising. "Amy, you have ruffled up
my hair till I look like a cherub before the flood. Come, all of you,
Dorothy and the kids."
"You don't call us kids, do you, papa?"
"Young ladies, then, at your service," said the doctor, with a low bow.
"I've a letter from my old friend Vernon Hastings. I'll read it to you
when I can find it," said the good man, rummaging among the books,
papers, and correspondence with which his great table was littered.
"Judge Hastings," the doctor went on, "lost his wife in Venice a year
ago. He has three little girls in need of special advantages; he cannot
bear to send them away to school, and his mother, who lives with him and
orders the house, won't listen to having a resident governess. All, this
is the letter!" The doctor read:
"I wish you could help me, Charley, in the dilemma in which I find
myself. Lucy and Helen and my little Madge are to be educated, and
the question is how, when, and where? They are delicate, and I
cannot yet make up my mind to the desolate house I would have
should they go to school. Grandmamma has pronounced against a
governess, and I don't like the day-schools of the town. Now is not
one of your daughters musical, and perhaps another sufficiently
mistress of the elementary branches to teach these babies? I will
pay liberally the right person or persons for three hours' work a
day. But I must have well-bred girls, ladies, to be with my trio of
bairns."
"I couldn't teach arithmetic or drawing," said Grace. "I would be glad
to try my hand at music and geography and German and French. I might be
weak on spelling."
"I don't think that of you, Grace," said mother.
"I am ashamed to say it's true," said Grace.
Amy interrupted. "How far away is Judge Hastings's home, papa?"
"An hour's ride, Amy dear. No, forty minutes' ride by rail. I'll go and
see him. I've no doubt he will pay you generously, Grace, for your
services, if you feel that you can take up this work seriously."
"I do; I will," said Grace, "and only too thankful will I be to
undertake it; but what about the multiplication table, and the straight
and the curved lines, and Webster's speller?"
"Papa," said Amy, gravely, "please mention me to the judge. I will teach
those midgets the arithmetic and drawing and other fundamental studies
which my gifted friend fears to touch."
"You?" said papa, in surprise.
"Why not, dear?" interposed mamma. "Amy's youth is against her, but the
fact is she can count and she can draw, and I'm not afraid to recommend
her, though she is only a chit of fifteen, as to her spelling."
"Going on sixteen, mamma, if you please, and nearly there," Amy
remarked, drawing herself up to her fullest height, at which we all
laughed merrily.
"I taught school myself at sixteen," our mother went on, "and though it
made me feel like twenty-six, I had no trouble with thirty boys and
girls of all ages from four to eighteen. You must remember me, my love,
in the old district school at Elmwood."
"Yes," said papa, "and your overpowering dignity was a sight for gods
and men. All the same, you were a darling."
"So she is still." And we pounced upon her in a body and devoured her
with kisses, the sweet little mother.
"Papa," Amy proceeded, when order had been restored, "why not take us
when you go to interview the judge? Then he can behold his future
schoolma'ams, arrange terms, and settle the thing at once. I presume
Grace is anxious as I am to begin her career, now that it looms up
before her. I am in the mood of the youth who bore through snow and ice
the banner with the strange device, 'Excelsior.'"
"In the mean time, good people," said Frances, appearing in the doorway,
"luncheon is served."
We had a pretty new dish--new to us--for luncheon, and as everybody may
not know how nice it is, I'll just mention it in passing.
Take large ripe tomatoes, scoop out the pulp and mix it with finely
minced canned salmon, adding a tiny pinch of salt. Fill the tomatoes
with this mixture, set them in a nest of crisp green lettuce leaves, and
pour a mayonnaise into each ruby cup. The dish is extremely dainty and
inviting, and tastes as good as it looks. It must be very cold.
"But," Doctor Raeburn said, in reply to a remark of mother's that she
was pleased the girls had decided on teaching, it was so womanly and
proper an employment for girls of good family, "I must insist that the
'interpretations' be not entirely dropped. I'll introduce you, my dear,"
he said, "when you give your first recital, and that will make it all
right in the eyes of Highland."
"Thank you, Doctor," said Grace. "I would rather have your sanction than
anything else in the world, except papa's approval."
"Why don't your King's Daughters give Grace a boom? You are always
getting up private theatricals, and this is just the right time."
"Lawrence Raeburn, you are a trump!" said Amy, flying round to her
brother and giving him a hug. "We'll propose it at the first meeting of
the Ten, and it'll be carried by acclamation."
"Now," said Grace, rising and saying good-afternoon to my mother, with a
courtesy to the rest of us, "I'm going straight home to break ground
there and prepare my mother for great events."
Walking over the fields in great haste, for when one has news to
communicate, one's feet are wings, Grace was arrested by a groan as of
somebody in great pain. She looked about cautiously, but it was several
minutes before she found, lying under the hedge, a boy with a broken
pitcher at his side. He was deadly pale, and great drops of sweat rolled
down his face.
"Oh, you poor boy! what is the matter?" she cried, bending over him in
great concern.
"I've broke mother's best china pitcher," said the lad, in a despairing
voice.
"Poof!" replied Grace. "Pitchers can be mended or replaced. What else is
wrong? You're not groaning over a broken pitcher, surely."
"You would, if it came over in the _Mayflower_, and was all of your
ancestors' you had left to show that you could be a Colonial Dame.
Ug-gh!" The boy tried to sit up, gasped, and fell back in a dead faint.
"Goodness!" said Grace; "he's broken his leg as well as his pitcher.
Colonial Dames! What nonsense! Well, I can't leave him here."
She had her smelling-salts in her satchel, but before she could find
them, Grace's satchel being an omnium gatherum of remarkable a
miscellaneous character, the lad came to. A fainting person will usually
regain consciousness soon if laid out flat, with the head a little lower
than the body. I've seen people persist in keeping a fainting friend in
a sitting position, which is very stupid and quite cruel.
"I am Doctor Wainwright's daughter," said Grace, "and I see my father's
gig turning the corner of the road. You shall have help directly. Papa
will know what to do, so lie still where you are."
[Illustration: GRACE'S FLAG OF DISTRESS.]
The lad obeyed, there plainly being nothing else to be done. In a second
Doctor Wainwright, at Grace's flag of distress, a white handkerchief
waving from the top of her parasol, came toward her at the mare's
fastest pace.
"Hello!" he said. "Here's Archie Vanderhoven in a pickle."
"As usual, doctor," said Archie, faintly. "I've broken mother's last
pitcher."