directness. "Well, my boy, you must be taken home. Grace, drive home for
me, and tell the boys to bring a cot here as soon as possible. Meanwhile
I'll set Archie's leg. It's only a simple fracture." And the doctor,
from his black bag, brought out bandages and instruments. No army
surgeon on the field of battle was quicker and gentler than Doctor
Wainwright, whose skill was renowned all over our country-side.
"What is there about the Vanderhovens?" inquired Grace that night as
they sat by the blaze of hickory logs in the cheery parlor of
Wishing-Brae.
"The Vanderhovens are a decayed family," her father answered. "They were
once very well off and lived in state, and from far and near gay parties
were drawn at Easter and Christmas to dance under their roof. Now they
are run out. This boy and his mother are the last of the line. Archie's
father was drowned in the ford when we had the freshet last spring. The
Ramapo, that looks so peaceful now, overflowed its banks then, and ran
like a mill-race. I don't know how they manage, but Archie is kept at
school, and his mother does everything from ironing white frocks for
summer boarders to making jellies and preserves for people in town, who
send her orders."
"Is she an educated woman?" inquired Grace.
"That she is. Mrs. Vanderhoven is not only highly educated, but very
elegant and accomplished. None of her attainments, except those in the
domestic line, are available, unhappily, when earning a living is in
question, and she can win her bread only by these housekeeping efforts."
"Might I go and see her?"
"Why yes, dear, you and the others not only might, but should. She will
need help. I'll call and consult Mrs. Raeburn about her to-morrow. She
isn't a woman one can treat like a pauper--as well born as any one in
the land, and prouder than Lucifer. It's too bad Archie had to meet with
this accident; but boys are fragile creatures."
And the doctor, shaking the ashes from his pipe, went off to sit with
his wife before going to bed.
"I do wonder," said Grace to Eva, "what the boy was doing with the old
Puritan pitcher, and why a Vanderhoven should have boasted of coming
over in the _Mayflower_?"
Eva said: "They're Dutch and English, Grace. The Vanderhovens are from
Holland, but Archie's mother was a Standish, or something of that sort,
and her kinsfolk, of course, belonged to the _Mayflower_ crowd. I
believe Archie meant to sell that pitcher, and if so, no wonder he broke
his leg. By-the-way, what became of the pieces?"
"I picked them up," said Grace.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
FOR KING OR COUNTRY.
A Story of the Revolution.
BY JAMES BARNES.
CHAPTER XV.
A SAFE DISGRACE.
George was so near that the heavy man could have touched him with his
hand, but after scratching about the door, he found the latch at last,
and stumbled sleepily out into the hall. Owing to the darkness within
the room George could now see out of the curtainless window. There was
no one on the roof! However, he could not tarry where he was; he must
take the risk; and slipping the miniature and cipher into his pocket, he
opened the window and slid over the wall to the alley. It was turning
freezing cold; the ground crunched under his feet, and the little gate
to the widow's diminutive front yard creaked shrilly. The young spy
knocked softly on the door.
"Who's there?" came a voice from the second story.
"'Tis I, George Frothingham," he answered. "Mrs. Mack, I pray you let me
in."
The old woman in a minute admitted him into the hallway.
"You will have to hide me somewhere, my good friend," he said, "for I am
in great danger."
"The very place! the little room that you used to have," was the
whispered response. "No one would think of looking for ye there; and if
they did, there's a small attic over-head. Why should they think of my
house?" she added.
Once more George found himself in the little room where he had passed so
many lonely hours reading and writing, recalling pleasant scenes, and
drawing bright pictures of what he hoped might be, before the great
changes had arrived. Thinking that it might attract attention to have a
light burning in the room at such an hour, he refrained from trying to
read the despatches, putting it off until morning. He tumbled into the
little bed that he had slept in so often, and, despite the excitement of
the night, fell fast asleep. When he awoke it was broad daylight--such a
crisp sparkling day! Every twig on the trees shone like a branch of
diamonds. The pools in the road were filled with white brittle ice that
broke and shivered noisily beneath the feet of some school-boys going
down the road.
"Oh, that I was only one of them!" thought George, looking out of the
window. A curtain was tacked across the panes, and he could look out
without being seen.
Suddenly he stopped, half dressed, although the room was intensely cold,
and pulled out the despatch he had found in the hollow limb. There it
was, neatly written in the cipher, and that also was at hand. But where
were the magnifying-glass and the snuff-box? He could not find them, and
strain his eyes to their utmost, he could not make out clearly the
characters on the diminutive sheet of parchment. He hastily finished
dressing, and called through the hallway for Mrs. Mack. There was no
answer. Then he thought of a large round glass bowl that used to hang by
a chain in the window below-stairs. He remembered that when filled with
water it magnified extremely well. Mrs. Mack had evidently gone out, the
house seemed deserted, so he slipped down the stairs, and found the bowl
in its accustomed place. But as he reached it from the hook he paused.
Two persons were softly talking at the back of the hall. He could feel,
from the draught of air, that the door was open.
"'Tis very strange," said a man's voice; "but there's great excitement
at the City Arms. I was there with the milk this morning, and they say
as how a young gentleman from up the river has disappeared--murdered,
maybe, for all they know. They are looking in all directions for him."
"And what might be his name?"
George recognized Mrs. Mack's voice.
"I have forgotten," said the man; "but they say he was a handsome lad,
and scattered his money as if he expected it to grow again."
Then followed some conversation about the milk, and the door was closed.
Mrs. Mack started as she saw her guest approaching.
"You had better stay in your room, Mr. Frothingham," she said. "That is
my neighbor, the milkman, an inquisitive blackguard."
"Mrs. Mack," responded George, "I am the young man who is missing from
the City Arms. They must not find me."
"Shure you're safe here. But what are you doing with the bowl, sir?"
inquired the woman.
"I am going to read with it," said George. "Will you fill it with
water?"
Mrs. Mack looked at him as if she thought he had taken leave of his
senses, but she complied, and brought the bowl up to his room. In a few
minutes more George was easily able to decipher the despatch. It ran as
follows:
"TO YOU,--Your number is four; initial B. Observe. We are glad to
hear from our brother in New Jersey, and that he approves of the
plan. It can be done. We are not suspected, and your arrival is
most opportune. You have been seen by us; you are the young man for
our purpose. It must be done on Friday night. A dinner will be
given at a place to which you will receive an invitation. It is but
a few steps from the river. After the dinner, cards will be
proposed. Tables will be arranged in such a way that _he whom we
wish_ will be seated near the door. A note will arrive requesting
his presence with the fleet. There will be no moon. A man-of-war's
boat will be waiting; once in mid-stream, _he_ will never reach the
ships, for we know who mans the boat. The only difficulty will be
to disarm suspicion of those who accompany him. They must be
detained. You and another, who will be made known to you, will be
playing at the farther table. You back him heavily with gold and
lose your wager. This will keep the officers' attention. They will
endeavor to stay after _he_ is gone. When we have ten minutes'
start pretend to be enraged, upset the table. There will be great
confusion. The party will break up at once. Leave through the alley
behind the house; go to Striker's Wharf. There you will find an
able skiff. New Jersey is to the westward. We leave the rest to
you. If we can keep enough of _his_ friends from following him, it
will be easy to accomplish our end of the undertaking. To-morrow at
five o'clock be walking down the left-hand side of Johnson's Lane.
Some one will pass you who will strike three times on the lid of
his snuff-box. Turn and follow him. We hold no meetings, but he
will give you some instructions. Final orders at the limb. You are
number Four of Seven. Remember."
George read the strange epistle through. It was of little use to him
now; he could not show himself in his assumed character. Richard Blount
and the manner of his disappearance must remain a mystery. So far as he
was concerned, he could lend no assistance in the proposed scheme. He
tore the letter up, burning the scraps; but, after considering, he
determined, however, to keep the appointment with the man with the
snuff-box that evening.
At five o'clock, with a worsted shawl of Mrs. Mack's bound tightly about
his throat and a heavy fur cap drawn around his ears, he was stamping
his heels together like a butcher's apprentice, a basket on his arm, at
the corner of Johnson's Lane. Three or four people passed him, but he
saw no signs of a man with a tendency to tap on his snuff-box. At last,
as he looked down the lane, he perceived a small figure walking toward
him with a quick nervous step. George did not know what to do, for he
recognized at once that it was Mr. Anderson. Strange to say, as he was
approaching he drew a snuff-box from his pocket. Then with a flood of
light it dawned upon the lad that Mr. Anderson was one of the
"Seven," and he understood why he had not been recognized, and also knew
that there was an able hand at the helm.
As the little man approached, a tall figure also appeared about the
corner, and strode after the schoolmaster with long swinging steps.
George saw at once that it was the young officer who had breakfasted
with him the day before. They would soon be within speaking distance.
Taking a few hasty steps he darted about the corner, dropping his basket
as he ran. So quick had been the movement that he was not in time to
dodge a great lanky man who was walking quickly from the opposite
direction, and he ran right into his arms. So great was his impetus that
the man fell back against the wall of a brick house, and his huge watch
flew out of his pocket and was dashed to pieces.
[Illustration: "FROTHINGHAM! FROTHINGHAM!" THE OLD CLERK TRIED TO SAY.]
"You thieving villain! Stop thief--stop!" exclaimed the stranger, making
a grasp for George's shoulder. But now the lad's great strength once
more served him in good stead. He struck down the other's arm, and as he
did so gasped, for the person he had run into was none other than Abel
Norton, his old chief clerk. Abel's other hand had firm hold upon the
woollen comforter, and George caught him by the throat and twisted him
backwards across his knee. "Frothingham! Frothingham!" the old clerk
tried to say.
Here was an added danger. He was recognized! The two men must now be
almost at the corner. With a final effort George tore himself away, and
started down the alley at a run. He knew that farther on there was a big
lumber-yard that opened on the main street. If he could reach there
ahead of the others, he might manage to escape.
Abel's first cries, however, had brought a number of people from the
public-houses, and the young officer and Mr. Anderson came about the
corner of the lane. George's fleeing figure was in plain sight.
"Stop thief!" the officer shouted, and leaped forward with the stride of
a swift runner.
"Stop thief!" echoed Abel Norton, and strange to say, the old man caught
up with the redcoat easily, and, stranger still, appeared to slip and
fall upon his heels. Down they both went.
Schoolmaster Anderson in the mean time was at the head of four or five
other pursuers, who had run from the tap-rooms. Before he reached the
spot where the two leaders were gathering themselves together, he also
tripped, and the two next fell over him. There was a general laugh, and
by this time George had turned through the gateway into the lumber-yard.
Here again he had to adapt himself to circumstances, for at the farther
entrance was standing a group of soldiers throwing horseshoes at a peg
in the frozen ground. He could not go out of that opposite gate without
exciting suspicion. There were only two things left him to do; one to
jump the fence to the left, or try to scale the high wall to the right.
A glance at the latter decided matters. There was a clumsy-looking
ladder leaning against the wall. He hastened up, and threw himself over
the top, kicking the ladder from beneath him as he jumped. He came down
in a little garden. He had doubled on his tracks, and could hear the
pursuit going down the road behind him. Suddenly he glanced up at the
small house; it bore a sign over the front door:
MADAME LUCILLA BONSALL,
DRESSMAKER.
ROBES ET MANTEAUX.
He tried the door, it was unlocked, and he stepped in without knocking.
A strange-looking woman with a long face and pale blue eyes was sitting
there. George knew her at a glance to be Luke Bonsall's mother. She
looked up from her sewing.
"What means this?" she asked, in a deep, hollow voice.
"I am a friend of your son's in the army. I have a message--a message
from him to you," said George, panting. "Take me where we can be alone,
and I will tell you."
The woman got up and slipped the bolt into the door.
"A message from my son!" she repeated. "He is dead."
George started. There would be no necessity to break the news. "I have
a letter here," he said, fumbling in his pocket, "How did you know he
died, might I ask, madam? It is true, and I was sorry to bear the
tidings."
"I dreamed it," said the woman. "See, I am in black."
George handed her the letter. She read it carefully, but did not weep or
show that it had touched her.
"It's good news," she said. "I told him that I could not be the mother
of a coward."
"Indeed he was none such," answered George, quickly. "He died like a
brave soldier, and would have made his mark."
"It was not to be," responded the woman. "The Fates would not have it
so."
"What a strange creature is this!" thought George to himself. But had he
known all, it would have seemed stranger still, for Mrs. Bonsall was a
believer in occult signs, and long ago she had had her son's horoscope
cast. She had been informed that the sickly, pale-eyed youth was to die
in battle. The idea then would have seemed most amusing to any one else,
but to Mrs. Bonsall it had been a reality, and Luke himself had gone to
the front with this cloud about him. He was brave indeed.
George suddenly remembered his own position, and extended his hand.
There had come a confused babble of voices out in the yard.
"Do you hear that, Mrs. Bonsall? They are after me! See," he said, "you
must assist me. I must hide until dark, for if I am found my life is not
worth a pine-tree shilling. They think I am a thief. I am not."
"Come," the woman said; "walk softly." She took him by the hand and led
him back to a small stairway. They went up two flights until they
reached a large empty hall. George stumbled over a heavy pair of boots,
and looking through an open doorway on the right, he could see a cavalry
sabre leaning against a chair.
"Sh! they have quartered them upon me," whispered Mrs. Bonsall. "But
it's not for long, for despair and defeat await them. Ah yes! I know, I
know!" Mrs. Bonsall pushed the fugitive into a little room beyond, and
locked the door behind him.
He sat down on a chair near the window and looked out. He could see over
the top of the wall that he had scaled. There were some soldiers and a
number of men rummaging about the heaps of lumber. Then he heard a thump
of the knocker on the door below. A rumbling sound followed. The strain
was frightful on George's nerves.
"And think you I would shelter a pickpocket?" asked the woman, plainly.
George could not make out the reply, for a loud voice shouted, in a rich
brogue: "Out, you fools! There's no one here. What do you take this
spacious mansion for--a thieves' den? By the powers!"
"Don't let them in, Corporal Shaughnessy," pleaded the widow's voice.
The loud voice was now rumbling from below again. Some one in the crowd
laughed, and George breathed easily as he heard them go out into the
road.
It seemed to him now that it never would grow dark. He realized that he
was very hungry, and he tried the door, but it was firmly locked. He was
in Mrs. Bonsall's power, but he felt somehow that he could trust her. As
he was deliberating whether to try the window or not, he heard the sound
of footsteps.
"By the gun of Athlone!" said Corporal Shaughnessy's voice, "we will be
moving soon, and sorry will I be, for though our landlady is the only
female who ever failed to smile upon me, our quarters here are
comfortable, and I would hate to be losing of them for a bed in the
snows of the wilderness."
"They do be saying," put in another voice, "that it will be decided at
the meeting to-night."
"And where's that to be held?" said the first speaker.
"At the Fraunces House. They always hold them there. I have been upon
guard there."
"Come into me spacious apartment and have a pipe, McCune," said
Shaughnessy.
The tones of the two men talking were familiar to George somehow. But
when he heard the name "McCune," he recalled the whole thing to his
memory. They were the two soldiers he and his brother had talked with
years ago on that memorable day of parting.
The door closed behind them, and it had hardly done so when a soft
grating of the key in the lock was heard. Mrs. Bonsall opened the door.
Once more she took him by the hand and led the way down the stairs.
As they went through the front room the woman picked up a candle and
looked intently at George's palm.
"Tribulations," she said; "but do not despair; success awaits you."
George did not smile, but gravely thanked her for all that she had done,
and slipped out of the house.
It was pitch dark, and he remembered as he went along that he was far
from accomplishing anything that he had made the perilous trip for. All
his fine castles had tumbled about his ears, the smooth pathway that
appeared to stretch before him had vanished, and nothing but obstacles
loomed before his eyes. However, if he could not assist in the wild
scheme of gaining possession of such a powerful hostage as Lord Howe or
his brother, the General, any news that he could bring concerning the
probable destination of the army would be of inestimable value to
General Washington at Morristown. Why not find out as much as he could
and get away?
So intently was he thinking, that he did not notice a figure that had
stepped out of the doorway of a house and was walking, close at his
heels.
"Oh, de ham fat it am good, an' de 'possum it am fine,"
hummed a voice.
George turned. "Cato, you imp of darkness," he said, "where did you come
from?"
"From de State of New Jarsey," responded the old man, his white teeth
gleaming plainly in the darkness. "Well, Mas'r George, I's done followed
you, and it took de best horse on de place. I tink you mought need me."
"Then it was you that dodged over there in the road near West Point?"
"Yes, sah, I 'spect so. You come purty nigh gitting away from me once or
twice, sah."
"How did you cross the river? How in the world?" exclaimed George, his
astonishment driving all other thoughts out of his head.
"On a log raf, youn' mas'r, and it was purty col' work," answered the
old negro.
"Cato," said George, impressively, "you must keep away from me, and you
must get back as soon as you can."
"Can't I stay wid you, sah?" answered the old darky. "I'll be deaf,
dumb, and blind. I knows you are here on some business dat--"
George interrupted him. "I hate to do it, Cato," he said; "but do you
see that corner? You get back and around it as soon as you can, and if
you meet me again, don't appear to know me, for by doing so you may
place a rope around my neck."
The old man did not say another word, but scuttled off.
Now George determined upon a bold line of action. So well had he known
the ins and outs of the town that he knew at once the room in which the
officers were to meet, at Fraunces Tavern. He knew that through a stable
in the rear he might gain a position from which he could hear or see
something of the proceedings. But why not first go to the orchard? He
had no sooner determined upon this plan than he had walked quickly to
the north, and taking several short-cuts, reached the tree.
In the last few hours he had memorized the cipher until it was almost
perfectly imprinted on his mind. There was a paper in the limb addressed
to "No. 4." He drew it out, and finding where a fire had smouldered in
the street, he picked out an ember and blew it into a flame. He made out
the words: "B., Number Four, make your escape. Use all caution. We do
not know you. It is for the best that you should be a stranger to us."
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
[Illustration]
THE PROPOSED TRIP TO THE NORTH POLE.
BY WILFRID DE FOUVIELLE.
Twelve months have scarcely elapsed since Mr. Andrée, the Swedish
balloonist, first published the details of his scheme for reaching the
North Pole by the smooth and easy but crooked paths of cloudland. During
this short period the clever and hardy aeronaut has had his proposals
favorably received by the Swedish and French academies of sciences, and
obtained the $36,000 required for his purpose from King Oscar, Mr.
Nobel, and the Baron Oscar Dickson. Mr. Andrée has travelled all over
Europe to consult the most competent specialists, and has completed all
his preparations for the transportation of his huge balloon from Paris,
where it is being constructed, to Spitzbergen early next May. The start
will be made some time in July or at the beginning of August from
Norskoärna, a small rocky and snowy archipelago situated on the
northwestern coast of Spitzbergen, and the most accessible part of this
famous territory. Norskoärna is almost under the eightieth parallel, and
although sad and even grim in aspect, this remote spot will prove a
convenient station for the departure, as the distance to the North Pole
is only about 600 miles. Mr. Andrée's balloon, which will be called The
Northern Pole, is to be made of triple French varnished silk, having a
resistance of 250 pounds to the linear inch. It contains 130,000 cubic
feet, and has a lifting power of more than 10,000 pounds. Besides the
car and its three occupants--Messrs. Andrée, Ekholm, and Strindberg--the
balloon will be supplied with scientific apparatus and 2000 prepared
photographic plates, in charge of Dr. Strindberg. The Northern Pole will
not carry sand for ballast, but use its large quantity of stores for
throwing out in case of need. At Norskoärna the balloon can be kept
waiting any length of time for a favorable wind. Held in place by
sixteen tackles attached to the rocky soil, and connected by a system of
ropes and pulleys with the whole netting, it can laugh at all the
efforts of the strongest gale, and remain there for weeks ready for
immediate despatch.
[Illustration: GRAPHIC PLAN OF THE NORTH POLE.
1. Spitzbergen 2. Franz Josef Land. 3. Asia. 4. North America. 5.
Greenland. + North Pole.]