CHAPTER XVIII.

Transcriber’s Note

Italic text displayed as: _italic_

Bold text displayed as: =bold=

THE

SKELETON CREW;

OR,

WILDFIRE NED.

ILLUSTRATED WITH NUMEROUS ENGRAVINGS.

LONDON:

NEWSAGENTS’ PUBLISHING COMPANY, 147, FLEET STREET.

1867.

READ

THE

BOY SAILOR;

OR,

LIFE ON BOARD A MAN-OF-WAR.

[Illustration: Decoration]

ONE OF THE MOST THRILLING TALES OF THE DAY.

[Illustration: Decoration]

Nos. 1 & Presented Gratis

TO EVERY PURCHASER OF THIS NUMBER.

PUBLISHED WEEKLY. PRICE ONE PENNY.

READ

“The Boys of England,”

THE

FAVOURITE PUBLICATION OF THE DAY.

SALE 150,000 WEEKLY.

GIFTS CONTINUALLY.

PRIZES OF WATCHES, SCARF PINS, CONCERTINAS, CRICKET BATS,

FISHING RODS, FOWLS, RABBITS, DUCKS, PET DOGS, and

TWO SHETLAND PONIES,

WILL BE DRAWN FOR IN A FEW WEEKS.

NEW TALE OF “WILD CHARLEY,” AND THE PRIZE TICKET

WAS GIVEN WITH No. 13.

[Illustration: Decoration]

Be in Time for the Next Distribution.

THE

SKELETON CREW,

OR,

WILDFIRE NED.

[Illustration: Decoration]

[Illustration: LOOK! LOOK! ’TIS THE CAPTAIN OF THE SKELETON CREW!!]

The most exciting Story for Boys is “THE BOY SOLDIER, OR,

GARIBALDI’S YOUNG CAPTAIN.”

Four Grand Pictures Given Away.

CHAPTER I.

THE MERRY PARTY AT THE “BLACK BULL”—THE STRANGE HORSEMAN AND RAMBLING

BOB.

The incidents of this strange and exciting story occurred more than a

hundred years ago.

* * * * *

It was in the month of December, and all the country was covered with

snow to the depth of more than a foot.

The moon shone brightly over the pure white landscape, and, as far as

the eye could range, nought was to be seen but leafless trees, which

bowed and shook in a stiff north-west breeze, and their melancholy

flutterings seemed to be like gentle moans and sighings at the white

death-like pall which covered nature far and wide.

The pretty and picturesque village of Darlington was near the sea,

and not more than fifty or sixty miles from London, and was situated

in a pleasant valley on the main road, through which mail coaches

were wont to pass both night and day.

The inhabitants had been long a-bed, for the chimes of the village

church had tolled the solemn hour of midnight, and not a light could

be seen anywhere save at the “Black Bull,” for on that memorable

night some few of the villagers were celebrating the Christmas

holidays at the comfortable inn with a merry country dance among

themselves.

The sounds of fiddles and a flute, and the skipping of feet, could be

heard, both in the parlours and tap-room.

Merry laughter and boisterous jollity resounded on all sides, and

the light-hearted shouts of both men and maidens were caught up and

echoed by the passing breeze.

The night, though clear and bright, was bitter, bitter cold, and

every door and window of the “Black Bull” was firmly closed, and many

fires were crackling within.

On a bench outside the tavern, and in part concealed by the deep

shadows of its old, overhanging thatch-covered eaves, sat a

powerful-looking youth with stick and bundle.

He sat there listening to the music inside, and more than once heaved

a deep sigh.

It was almost impossible to see his features, but what little could

be discerned showed that he was a handsome-looking and powerfully

built rustic youth of about eighteen years of age.

He seemed desirous of remaining concealed in the deep shadows of the

house, for he crouched close under the shadow of the overhanging roof.

If any one had been close enough to observe him they would have

perceived that this country-looking youth not only frequently sighed

but that more than once he hastily, and in an angry manner, dashed

away from his eye a stray tell-tale tear-drop that trickled down his

sun-burnt cheek.

He listened to the merriment within, and more than once a faint

sickly smile lit up his handsome features.

The noise of loud laughter continued within, but all at once a

labourer’s voice was heard, who shouted out, in stentorian tones—

“Come, lads and lasses, I’ll give ye all a toast! Fill up yer glasses

to the brim, and do justice to it.”

“Hear! hear!”

“What is it, Mr. Chairman?” said one and another.

“Let’s have it, Hodge.”

“Well,” said Hodge, rising in his chair, glass in hand, whose shadow

the young stranger could see reflected on the parlour blind; “well,

lads and lasses all, here’s long life and good luck to our good, kind

old master, Farmer Bertram! his health with three times three.”

The toast was responded to with a boisterous “three times three,”

which shook the glasses on the table till they jingled, and made the

windows tremble again.

The young man, when he heard this toast proposed, rose from his seat,

and, picking up his bundle and stick, walked hastily away, with

downcast head.

He had not gone far along the beaten snow track in the middle of the

road ere he turned his head, and saw the figure of a single horseman

approaching at a hard gallop!

The horseman rode a splendid coal-black mare, which seemed to fly

over the ground with wonderful grace and ease.

The rider, himself, was elegantly dressed, and muffled up to the chin

in a stylish great-coat, while his three-cornered hat was drawn over

his eyes, and shaded his features so much that no one could scarce

see his face distinctly.

When he approached the “Black Bull,” he stopped for a minute, as if

undecided whether he would dismount or not.

After a time, however, he put spurs to his horse once more, and soon

overtook the youth with his stick and bundle, who was slowly and

thoughtfully walking along.

“Bitter cold night, friend,” said the horseman, checking his steed

into a slow walk.

“Yes, it is,” was the sullen answer of the youth.

“Why are you not at the ‘Black Bull’ to-night?” said the rider, with

a hoarse laugh. “Some of the lads seem to be enjoying themselves

there in fine style. What made you leave so early?”

“Wasn’t there at all, if you _must_ know.”

“Not invited, I suppose?”

“No; nor didn’t want to be.”

“Why not? Are you not fond of singing and dancing?”

“Yes; as much as any one; but still I wouldn’t go there to-night for

any money.”

“Why not?”

“Because they’re keeping up Farmer Bertram’s birthday.”

“Oh, indeed,” said the strange, young-looking horseman. “You don’t

like Farmer Bertram, then, I suppose?”

“Yes I do. But he hates me though, I do believe,” said the youth,

with a sigh.

“He discharged you from the farm, I suppose. What was it for? getting

drunk, or poaching?”

“Neither. I wasn’t discharged at all. I left on my own account. If I

wanted to work about these parts, I could get plenty to do from Sir

Richard Warbeck, at Darlington Hall, that white house yonder on the

hill, among that cluster of old oak trees.”

“You know Sir Richard Warbeck, then?”

“Aye, and have done this many a year; his adopted sons, too—Charley,

as is now in London, and Wildfire Ned, as we call the brave lad, as

lives up the Hall. I know ’em both, well.”

“You seem to know all about the people living around Darlington, I

perceive.”

“I do. Who should know ’em better than _me_?”

“Who are you, then, my friend?” said the horseman, with a quick

glance.

“They call me Rambling Bob, but Bob Bertram is my real name.”

“Bob Bertram?” said the stranger, with a glittering eye. “What, the

only son of Farmer Bertram of Four Ash Farm?”

“Right, sir. Do ye know him?”

“Me? Bless the man, no!” said the horseman. “I don’t know any one

hereabouts. I am on my way to a neighbouring village on urgent

business.”

“More’s the pity then,” said Bob. “You might travel a long way afore

you’d find a nicer or kinder old gentleman than Sir Richard Warbeck,

at Darlington Hall.”

“So I’ve heard; and he’s very rich also, I am told.”

“There’s no mistake about that, sir. He’s a magistrate in the city of

London, and is director of one of the best banks there. He adopted

two orphan boys, and brought ’em up as his own sons. One’s in the

London bank; but young Wildfire Ned, as we call him, won’t do nothing

but go to sea. If they only mind themselves they are sure to fall

into all Sir Richard’s money. If they don’t, though, and should go

astray, they will have the door slammed in their face, as I had

to-day.”

“You? by your father, Farmer Bertram?”

“Yes; and all because some time ago I picked up with a poor village

lass as I loved as dearly as I love my life, and promised for to

marry.”

“And did your father turn you out of house and home on that account?”

“He didn’t turn me out ’zactly,” said Bob. “I left, and went to

sea for a few months. I was wrecked on the coast here a week back,

without money or anything ’cept what I stand up in, and these

leggings were given me this very day by Sir Richard’s gamekeeper as

knows me, so I should go up to the farm and see the old man decent

like.”

“And what did Farmer Bertram say to you?”

“Why, cause I had made up my mind to marry the lass I loved best, and

father the child sleeping at her breast, he slammed the door in my

face, and refused to give me a shilling.”

“That’s rather hard for a father to do,” said the horseman, with a

cunning glance. “And what do you intend to do with yourself to-night?

You can’t sleep in the open air, it would freeze you alive. Why don’t

you try to get a situation of some kind?”

“That’s what I want to do; but my clothes are so shabby I don’t like

to call on any one I knows. I shall creep into the old man’s house,

and sleep there to-night, somehow, when all is quiet; but for an hour

or two I shall stay in yonder old barn beside the road.”

“Oh! it’s a very hard case,” said the stranger; “particularly when

you are the only son, and the old man is rich.”

“Ha, stranger; but better times are coming, I hope.”

“I’m glad you think so. Well, good night. Here’s a piece of silver to

help you along,” said the horseman, offering money to the seedy and

needy farmer’s son.

“No thank you,” said Rambling Bob, with a look of offended pride.

“I’m not come to begging yet. I am strong enough to work for my daily

bread without charity from strangers.”

“What! so poor, and refuse money? Ha! ha! quite a stoic, I perceive.

Well, Mr. Bertram, if you will not take money, I’ve another offer to

make. I have taken a fancy to that heavy, knobby stick you carry.

Will you sell it?”

“I don’t mind that,” said Bob.

A bargain was soon concluded; the bludgeon changed hands for a

guinea, and the stranger went his way.

That pleasant-speaking young horseman, muffled up to the eyes, was _a

deep designing villain_!

He knew well all about Farmer Bertram’s affairs, and his son’s also.

Had Rambling Bob only known him at the moment, and fathomed his deep,

dark designs, he would have been spared much misery in after life,

and others also.

But of this young stranger we shall quickly hear more.

Let us follow him.

He rode direct to see Farmer Bertram at Four Ash Farm.

As he approached the old farm-house, standing some distance from the

road, he stepped under a cluster of trees.

In a very mysterious manner he pulled out of his belt a pair of

pistols and examined them.

“They are all right,” he said, with a bitter smile. “It is best to be

prepared, I may want to use them.”

Having done this, he rode up a lane and in a few moments stood

rapping at the farm-house door with his riding-whip.

“House ho!” he shouted, in a hoarse and unnatural voice.

In a second the door was opened by an aged woman.

The horseman dismounted, and entered the house.

As he did so, the watch dogs began to howl in a most horrible and

hideous manner!

The stranger heard it.

His face turned to an ashy paleness, as he thought——

“That dismal howling, I have been told, is always looked upon by

superstitious country people as an omen of death!”

It _was_ an omen of death!

CHAPTER II.

FARMER BERTRAM RECEIVES A VISIT FROM BOLTON—BOLTON’S TREACHERY.

Farmer Bertram was in bed when the stranger entered, having had a

fall from his horse while hunting.

The horseman said his business was of such pressing importance that

he must see the farmer at once.

Bertram recognized the name, and directed his old servant to admit

the stranger to his chamber at once.

“From Mr. Redgill, I believe?” said the farmer. “Are you his son?

Excuse me not rising to receive you, but I am unwell. I intended to

go to London in a day or two, and settle with Mr. Redgill at once,

for I have collected all my rents, and sold my crops to advantage, so

that I have got a good bit of ready money by me, much more than will

pay off the last instalment of the mortgage he holds against me. Let

me see,” said the farmer, opening a writing-desk near his bedside,

“Let me see, here are the receipts; yes, one signed for £300, a

second for £200, and a third for £1,000, and now I owe him £2,000

more. What a striking likeness there is between you and Mr. Redgill,

though; now I come to look at you in a clear light, I would have

sworn that you were his son.”

“Indeed!” laughed the young stranger, in an uneasy manner. “You have

detected a likeness; most people say the same; but I am _not_ his

son, and, what is more, no relation either. You have heard of young

Bolton, Mr. Redgill’s travelling and collecting clerk? Well, _I_ am

he.”

“And is Redgill in such a hurry for his money that he has sent you to

collect it? Why, he expressly told me to use my own time, and call

myself with it whenever I liked. I’m sure I have always been punctual

with him.”

“I do _not_ come for the money by any means,” said Bolton; “Mr.

Redgill would not so insult you as to distrust your well-known

honesty.”

“Because, if even you _did_ call for the money, I should not have

given it to you,” said the old man, smiling, “£2,000 can’t be trusted

in everybody’s hands, you know, and although you may be as you say,

Mr. Bolton, Redgill’s travelling and collecting clerk, _I_ am not to

know that; _I_ have never seen you before, as I know of.”

“True,” said the stranger, smiling blandly; “I commend your prudence,

Farmer Bertram; but the truth is, I was travelling to Portsmouth on

business for Mr. Redgill, and stopped to bait my horse at the ‘Black

Bull,’ and found some of your labourers enjoying themselves.”

“Yes, I gave them a treat to-night as it’s my birthday. I would have

gone among them myself, only I felt very much upset by the wild

behaviour of my only son Robert.”

“Exactly, and it’s about _him_ that I have come so far out of my way,

in order to inform you of him, and to _warn_ you.”

“_Warn_ me!” said the farmer, suddenly changing colour, and with

looks of distrust at the stranger’s uneasiness of voice and manner.

“You have had a quarrel with him to-day, and slammed the door in his

face.”

“I did. Who told you?” the old man asked. “No one but him and I were

present.”

“I overheard him say as much to another in a whispered conversation.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes; he knows that you have a large sum of money in the house, and

is determined to rob you of it, and then run off with the slut he

calls his sweetheart.”

“Rob me! his own father!”

“It is as true as gospel. That I am correct is plain, or how could I

have learned so much of his and your affairs unless I overheard him?”

“Mr. Bolton, I’m sure you are right, and very kind to come here and

warn me!”

“Oh, no thanks; it is a duty we owe one to another as men and

Christians,” said Bolton, with a very pious air. “I was well armed

myself, and though I am much pressed for time, I thought I would call

and see you; fore-warned is fore-armed.”

“True, sir, true; and what would you have me do?”

“Do? that depends. Have you any servants about you that you can arm?”

“Not one, save an old woman I keep as housekeeper, more out of

charity than anything else; all the rest are at the ‘Black Bull,’

having a dance and supper.”

“I see, I see,” said Bolton, biting his lip. “Well, you don’t want

your son’s guilt exposed before the whole village, do you?”

“No! true, sir, true; he is my son, and, with all his faults, I don’t

want to heap more shame on his head and mine.”

“Then I’ll tell you what to do.”

“What?”

“Send your old servant down to the two village constables with a

private message, telling them all about the intended robbery; they

will then come up and remain with you all night, and all will be

well.”

“But the village is two miles or more by the road, and the old

servant would take an hour or two to go and return. Bob might come in

the meantime, find me all alone, and rob me of every penny I have in

the world.”

“But he doesn’t know where you keep it, surely?” said Bolton, with a

dry, cunning smile.

“Yes, he does; he knows I always keep my gold in that chest yonder by

the window; but no one, save my friend Redgill, has any idea where I

keep my bank notes,” said the farmer, with a sickly smile.

The stranger did.

He had heard Mr. Redgill speak of it as a capital joke that Farmer

Bertram always concealed his bank notes in the inner lining of his

boots!

But of this he said not a word.

“Ah! it’s a sad case,” said Bolton. “I am very sorry I cannot

remain with you until the constables come, but business of pressing

importance calls me away.”

Betty, the old servant, was instantly summoned, and toddled off to

the village in all haste, much amazed at the message she had to tell

to the constables.

Despite all the old farmer’s entreaties Mr. Bolton would not stay,

but left at the same moment old Betsy did.

Both of them went down the lane together.

When they reached the high road Bolton said to the servant,

“If the constables should ask who gave this information, you know my

name, old woman?”

“No, I don’t, kind gentleman,” was the croaking reply.

“You do not think I am Bob Bertram, then?” said the stranger.

“That I cannot say,” answered the old woman, “for you keep your hat

so far over your face.”

“Well, tell them one Mr. Smith, of Portsmouth, called and told Farmer

Bertram all about it.”

“I will, kind gentleman.”

“Make haste. Good night.”

Betsy went towards the village, and Bolton turned his horse’s head in

a contrary direction and galloped away.

He had not gone more than a quarter of a mile when a bend in the road

hid him from Betsy’s view.

Instead of riding onward, however, he spurred his horse, and leaped

hedge after hedge, until he returned to the farm again in less than

ten minutes.

He tied his horse to a tree in the orchard, and quietly approached

the back door of the farm-house again.

All was darkness save a ray of light which issued from the farmer’s

chamber.

Not a sound was heard except the mournful sighing of keen December

night winds among the leafless trees.

Now and then, ’tis true, watch dogs shook their chains, and howled

most dolefully and dismally, in tones unnatural, ominous and

death-like.

Silently and softly did Bolton approach the house.

“He is alone,” he thought, “and too weak to leave his chamber. Now is

my time, while all are away. His treasure must be mine!”

He tried the back door.

It was locked!

“It was not locked when I left,” the villain thought.

He tried it again.

The door chain rattled!

A window above was suddenly and violently slammed too, as if by the

wind.

This startled Bolton.

He crawled round to the parlour window.

It was open!

He got in, and pulled off his boots.

He softly opened the door, and found himself in the large, dark

entrance hall.

The slow and solemn ticking of the old hall clock seemed to strike

his heart with pangs of remorse and horror.

He held his breath, and cold sweat oozed from his brow.

He could distinctly hear the loud pulsation and wild, excited

beatings of his own vile heart as there he stood with wild eyes

peering up the broad dark staircase.

“All is still,” he said, and prepared to ascend to the sick man’s

room.

Each step was taken cautiously, and with cat-like softness.

But the stairs were old, and creaked with a warning sound.

He had reached the first landing, and stood in a dark recess to

recover his breath.

Onward he went.

He could see the light streaming through the keyhole of the old man’s

bed-room.

There remained now but one more flight of stairs.

The first step he took was arrested by an ominous click, which

sounded like the cocking of a gun!

Bolton’s eyes now glared like two burning coals in the darkness

around him.

His hand upon the bannister trembled, and a cold sweat flowed from

every pore.

A sense of deadly horror seized him, but he knew not why.

He felt as if some unnatural and hideous being was watching him, and

dogging his noiseless footsteps.

What could it be?

He knew not.

Some dreadful fear compelled him to crouch down low upon the landing

from sheer exhaustion.

Bang! bang! suddenly burst out upon his astonished ears, and awoke

loud echoes in the old farm-house.

A double-barrelled gun had been discharged at him, loaded with

buck-shot, and by some one concealed at the head of the stairs.

A loud groan followed the flashes and report.

CHAPTER III.

THE MURDER OF FARMER BERTRAM—THE LEGLESS BODY—SUDDEN APPEARANCE OF

THE SKELETON CREW.

“Black-hearted scoundrel!” said a voice, not far off. “Black-hearted

scoundrel! I knew by the wicked twinkle of his eye that he meant me

ill. Cunning as he was I have outwitted him. He is dead! He came here

to rob and murder me! I will go and get a light, and view the body.

Heaven knows, I did it in self-defence. What could an old man like I

do with such a villain as that lying dead on the stairs, if he had

once got into my chamber and found me in bed? Oh! Bolton, you lie a

cold and bloody helpless carcase now, and you deserved it. The story

of my son was a cruel trick, but you have paid dearly for it. I will

go and get a light; I saw him in the orchard, and watched him.”

So saying, the old man walked across the landing into a chamber near

his own where the lamp was.

At that instant Bolton rose quickly and bolt upright.

He was untouched!

The shot had in both instances missed him, for he had lain flat on

the staircase.

He had groaned, it is true.

But this was in order to deceive old Bertram.

In a second he ascended the stairs, looked to his pistols, and, with

Bob’s bludgeon in hand, stood beside the farmer’s chamber door.

He peeped in.

Bertram stood with his back towards the door trimming a lamp.

Bolton creeped up behind him.

In a moment the heavy bludgeon was raised, and descended with

frightful force on the old man’s head!

A fearful crash it was.

In a second afterwards Farmer Bertram lay groaning on the floor.

“Murderer! my footsteps shall follow you wherever you go. When

least you expect me I will appear to you! on land or sea; in your

gay moments, in your sad moments; when alone, or when surrounded by

friends; sleeping or waking, _I_, Bertram, your murdered victim, will

stand by your side in the most horrid form, and follow you wherever

you go!”

While thus cursing, Bertram rose, and, in his death grasp, took

hold of Bolton’s throat, but Bolton, with a loud shriek, dashed the

murdered man from him, and hurried into the next chamber to search

for his gold.

He found several bags of money in an old oak chest.

The sight of the glittering coin ravished his eyes, dancing as they

were with fiendish triumph.

“’Tis well,” said Bolton, “the old man is richer than I thought. Now

for the notes; he has them concealed in the lining of his boots.”

Emptying the gold into his many large capacious pockets he unsheathed

his dirk.

“I will cut his boots open, and secure the notes,” said he.

Lantern in hand, he re-entered the room where the lifeless body lay.

His eyes almost darted from their sockets at the sight he then saw.

Each hair on his head stood on end; he trembled in every limb.

His very marrow was frozen at the awful spectacle before him.

The body was legless!

Each leg had been disjointed just above the knee!

The limbs were gone!

“How could this happen?” mused the guilty man, trembling from head to

foot.

Just at that moment he heard loud laughter outside in the

garden—laughter not like that of men, but of demons.

He rushed to the window, and saw below the hideous forms of a dozen

skeleton men, dancing and shouting in wild delight.

“Some of the Skeleton Crew!” he gasped, placing his hands before his

face to shut out the horrid sight.

On the instant they vanished in the darkness, with loud shouts of

mockery, like things of air!

Almost struck dumb with astonishment, he stood there, as if

transfixed to the spot.

A gust of wind blew out his lamp.

In the dreadful darkness he heard the heavy footfalls of a man

descending the stairs with slow and solemn step, while a voice,

exactly like Farmer Bertram’s, was heard repeating in sepulchral

tones in the hall below—

“My footsteps shall follow you, Phillip Redgill, for ever!”

“Phillip Redgill,” gasped the murderer, “that is _my_ name! Oh, God!

it is the farmer’s voice, and yet he is here, lifeless and legless!

Hark, what steps are those I hear? who could have limbed him thus?”

While Bolton (or Phillip Redgill, as the spirit voice now properly

called him) stood trembling thus, the ghostly voice said loudly again—

“Phillip Redgill, beware! my footsteps shall follow you for ever!”

Dropping the blood-stained bludgeon beside the body, Phillip Redgill

rushed from the room, dashed down stairs, opened the back door, and

ran towards the orchard.

He mounted his horse, and was about to start off at a furious gallop,

when he gave a sharp, horror-stricken shout at something he saw.

The gory legs of the farmer stood bolt upright in the snow beside him!

“Phillip Redgill, I follow you.”

The murderer plunged spurs into his steed, and dashed from the spot

with the swiftness of the wind.

He perceived Bob Bertram at some distance, who was approaching his

father’s house.

It was as much as he could do to control his feelings; but he said to

Bob,

“I have soon returned, you see.”

“Yes, ye haven’t been long.”

“No, and I have been so successful that I wish to be generous to all

I meet to-night, and, if you are not too proud, I’ll begin with you.”

“How so, sir?” said Bob.

“You complained when last we spoke that you wanted good clothes in

order to make a respectable appearance?”

“I did. What of that?”

“Why, I am a rich man and you poor. I’ll exchange clothes with you,

and give you a purse full of money to start you a-fresh in life. What

say you? I have taken a particular fancy to you, and like you.”

“I have not any objections,” said Bob, much amused at the horseman’s

strange freak. “But where can we change?”

“Oh, this old barn will do, but we must be quick,” said the stranger,

dismounting.

Bob soon exchanged clothes with the horseman; but he couldn’t help

but remark that his companion had a very large amount of gold coin

about him.

The stranger told him he had been out collecting for a very large

London firm.

“There,” said Phillip, surveying Bob, “those clothes will make a man

of you.”

“Mine alter _your_ looks very much,” said Bob, laughing.

“Never mind that, my boy. I can afford to play such queer pranks, for

I am rich. It will take my father quite by surprise to see me dressed

in this manner.”

“And so it will mine when I go again.”

“Why not go to-night? Come, cheer up; put this purse in your pocket,

and have a pull at my brandy flask; it will cheer you up. Go to him

at once; he can’t be always angry with you.”

The stranger’s words were so kind and encouraging that, after he had

galloped off, Bob determined to go boldly to his father’s house, and

demand a lodging for the night.

The stranger’s brandy had aroused him, and made him feel rather

flattered with his altered and gentlemanly appearance.

Thinking thus, he walked across the fields towards Four Ash Farm; but

as he approached the dwelling he felt a sense of deep depression from

some unknown cause—a feeling of chilliness and fear took possession

of him.

He walked boldly up to the back door, however, and found it wide open.

Instead of the dogs joyfully yelping when he approached them, they

rushed at him to the full length of their chains, howling most

dismally.

He entered the house.

All was unearthly quiet.

“I will not disturb any one,” thought the prodigal son, “but creep

into the parlour, and sleep on the sofa until morning.”

This he did on tiptoe, for fear of being heard, and was soon fast

asleep.

In less than half-an-hour Betty returned, and with her two village

constables.

They went upstairs to the farmer’s bed-room, conducted by old Betty.

She knocked at her master’s bed-room door three times.

There was no answer.

No light was burning.

She opened the door, and peeped in.

No one was there.

She next looked into Master Robert’s old bed-room.

Next moment she screamed aloud, and fell staggering to the floor.

“Murdered! murdered!” she cried.

The two officers went in, and turned deadly pale, as they beheld the

lifeless body lying ghastly and gory before them.

“Murdered! murdered!” screamed the servant, again and again, in

piercing tones.

The dreadful sounds aroused Robert.

He leaped from the sofa, and rushed upstairs.

“Oh, here is Mr. Bolton; kind good gentleman; oh, tell us who did

this?” said Betty, weeping.

“It is _not_ Mr. Bolton,” said one of the officers; “it is Bob

Bertram.”

“What means this?” gasped Bob, pushing by the officers into his own

old bed-room. “What means all this screaming when my father lies sick

in bed?”

“It means _murder_, Bob,” said one of the men.

“What! murder?”

“Yes; and you did it,” said the other, “if I’m not much mistaken.”

“Me?”

“Aye you, Bob; look at your fine clothes stained with blood!”

And so they were. They had been wiped, but the stains were there upon

them still.

“Oh! heavens! have mercy on me!” said Bob, turning white as a sheet,

and fell into an arm chair, stricken to the heart with surprise and

sorrow.

“We did not think you would do such a horrid thing as this is, Bob,”

said the officers; “but we were warned of your threats, and your

coming here to rob your father, and came to prevent it.”

“Me? Rob my father? Come here to murder? Warned of it beforehand?”

gasped Bob, with staring eyes, “What means this? Is it all a

terrible, horrible dream, or what?”

“No; it is an awful reality, and we must take you in custody, on the

charge of murder.”

In an instant the two officers handcuffed him.

He did not utter a word or move a muscle.

He was pale, and looked wildly about him as if in a dream.

“Poor Nance!” he sighed, thinking of his pretty persecuted sweetheart

and intended wife. “Poor Nance, this news will break thy young

heart!”

Bob hung his head.

The constables were sorrowful and silent.

Betty looked like a crazy woman, as she sat on the floor, sobbing.

Not a word was spoken.

All was still.

The silence was at last broken by the slow, measured tread of some

one coming upstairs.

The footsteps crossed the landing.

All turned anxiously towards the door.

Judge of their looks and shouts of fright and horror!

The bodiless legs walked slowly into the room!

CHAPTER IV.

SIR RICHARD WARBECK AND WILDFIRE NED—THE ONE-LEGGED SAILOR’S

NARRATIVE.

Darlington Hall, the country residence of Sir Richard Warbeck, was

an immense old building, high, strongly built, containing many

galleries, vaults, and mysterious ins and outs, with numerous towers,

effigies of men in armour on landings, corridors, and rooms, the old

baronial edifice covered with ivy for the most part, and stood in a

spacious, well-wooded park, not many miles from the sea.

The knight, from some unknown cause, though immensely wealthy, had

never married, but consoled himself with adopting two friendless

orphan youths, Charles and Edward, or Wildfire Ned, who, in his

honour, took the name of Warbeck.

Charles, the elder of the two, was in London.

“Wildfire Ned,” as he had been christened by the country people, on

account of his mad freaks, loved to live at the Hall, so that he

might have ample opportunities for indulging in shooting, fishing,

hunting, swimming, and particularly sailing in a small bay near by,

a sport of which he was so passionately fond that old salts always

called him “Ned, the Sailor Boy.”

His adopted uncle loved Ned, perhaps more so than Charles, for he was

a handsome, brave, and adventurous youth of about fifteen years old,

the ladies’ pet, and the envy of all young men for miles around.

The old knight had long tried to curb his roving and seafaring

propensities, but all to no purpose.

On the cold December night on which the story opens—the night after

old Bertram’s murder—the knight sat by a huge log fire in his

library, reading.

Ned was pouring over some favourite “tale of the sea,” and sighing

for a chance to distinguish himself against the many bloodthirsty

pirates and buccaneers that then infested the neighbouring seas.

“Oh! isn’t that jolly?” said Ned, striking the table with his fist.

“Oh! I wish I had been there.”

“Where?” said the knight, looking up in surprise.

“Why, in the ship I’m reading about. Didn’t they give the pirates and

smugglers something, that’s all! Why, uncle, a small English sloop of

war with six guns, fought a whole fleet of buccaneers. Wasn’t that

jolly, eh?”

“Still thinking of the sea, eh, Ned?”

“Yes, uncle (for both he and Charles always so called him), and why

not? Our sailors are the bravest and finest fellows in the world.

Wouldn’t _I_ like to be a middy in the king’s navy, that’s all? I’d

lay my life I should be an admiral before I was twenty.”

Sir Richard did not reply; but walked to the window thoughtfully, and

looked out upon the cold, snow-covered landscape, and as the winds

sighed mournfully down the chimney, he tapped Ned affectionately on

the head, as he said,

“Ah, my lad, your brother Charles will make the best man of the two

yet; see, he is not much older than you are, and yet he stands well

in the East Indian house, and will be a rich man one of these days if

he’s industrious and behaves himself.”

“Perhaps so,” said Ned, biting his lip; “but I never did like pen and

ink and figures; that sort of work is too slow for me.”

“I know it. You would rather go hunting and boating; but, believe me,

there are more hardships at sea than boys like you ever dreamed of,

Ned.”

“_I_ shouldn’t mind ’em.”

“And danger, too.”

“That’s just what I should like,” said curly-headed Ned, laughing. “I

wouldn’t give a dump for an English boy without he liked adventures

and danger, and could well beat any foreigner he came across.”

While he spoke the lodge bell rang.

“Who is that?” asked the knight of a footman who entered.

“Tim, the groom boy, sir, as he rode home, picked up a poor

one-legged sailor, for he was afraid, he said, to pass the gibbets on

the wild heath alone.”

“Who, the sailor or Tim?”

“The groom, sir.”

“I thought it wasn’t the sailor,” said Ned. “An English sailor

without legs at all is more than a match for any foreigner with two,

and as to being afraid to pass the gibbets, ha! ha! British tars

ain’t afraid of men dangling in chains.”

“Silence, Ned. What of this poor sailor?”

“Tim said, sir, as how Master Edward were fond of sailors.”

“So I am; Tim was right.”

“He brought him to the Hall to pass the night.”

“Good boy, Tim,” said Ned. “I owe him a shilling for that. Won’t we

pump all the yarns out of him before he goes to-morrow, that’s all?”

“Where is this cripple, then?”

“Tim is stuffing him in the kitchen, sir.”

“Well, when he has done eating, show him up here. Stir up the fire;

put more logs on; that will do. And now, Edward, since you are so

fond of reading trash about the sea, we will hear what this poor

cripple has got to say. I have no doubt when you hear _his_ story of

real life, it will help to cure you of your wild and foolish notions

about the navy. If you want to go to sea for a time, take a trip in a

merchant ship.”

“That is not like the king’s navy, no more than a militia-man at home

is like one of the royal guard who has fought against the French,

uncle.”

“If you wished to take a trip, my old friend Redgill has half a dozen

ships, and will be glad to oblige me.”

“I don’t like the name of Redgill, or his ships either,” said Ned,

with a scornful curl of his lip.

“What is that you say, sir?”

“I can’t help it, uncle; I don’t like any of the Redgills; as to

Phillip, I hate him.”

“Remember, Edward, they are relations of mine, which you are not.”

“I know it, uncle,” said Ned, with a sigh. “Charley and I depend upon

you for everything. We are poor, friendless orphans.”

“And perhaps may remain friendless and moneyless, too, if you do not

do my bidding, young sir; remember that.”

“I know it, uncle; but I hope to gain my own living ere many months

have passed over my head. But whether I am rich or poor, I shall hate

Phil Redgill all the same.”

“Why, sir?”

“He is a rank coward. I despise him.”

“Coward!—despise him! What mean you? Do you know he may one day

inherit my fortune?”

“I do. I don’t hate him for that; but he is a coward and a cunning

knave into the bargain. He is much older than I am; but I could

thrash the very life out of him in ten minutes, if he’d only stand

up like a man. I have told him that more than once, uncle, and have

shoved my fist in his face often and often; he is a sly thief and a

liar, uncle,” said Wildfire Ned, getting red and very passionate.

“Tim and I know what he has done before now. Charley and he are very

thick, I hear, in London; but, if brother took _my_ advice, he would

shun Phil Redgill like a snake in the grass. If he don’t come to

the gallows in time, why, then, he must have more lives than a cat,

that’s all.”

The knight was astounded at this; but while he stood staring at Ned,

the door opened, and in walked the footman and Tim the boy groom,

leading in the one-legged sailor.

Timothy, the groom, or Tiny Tim, as he was called, on account of his

small stature, looked pale and frightened.

His staring eyes, and hair standing on end, told plainly that he had

been frightened by something or somebody on the road from Portsmouth.

“What’s the matter, Tim?” Ned asked, laughing. “Why, you look as if

you had seen a dozen ghosts on the road.”

“So I have, Master Edward, more than a dozen.”

“More than a dozen ghosts, lad?” asked the knight, laughing. “Did you

bring the letters safe?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Tim; “here they are, sir; but I had to ride for

my dear life like the devil.”

“What does the lad mean?” the knight asked. “Surely he is not crazy?

Sit down and compose yourself.”

“Well, sir,” said Tim, “directly I got the letters I started back

home again; but as I was trotting along I saw a man on horseback

waiting for me; he looked like a highway robber, so I turns my horse

down another road to get out of his way.”

“Well, what then?”

“I hadn’t gone far, sir, and was just passing the Red Man’s gibbet,

as they calls it, at the cross roads, when the wind began to howl and

cry like so many living voices.”

“You were not afraid of all that, I hope?”

“No, sir, but the vultures were flying about the gibbet, and their

eyes sparkled in the moonlight like so many coals of fire.”

“Well?”

“I didn’t care much about that, but when I got fairly under the

gibbet, and was about to pass by, I looked up, and I saw the Red

Man’s eyes glaring on me, and he seemed to shake himself, for his

chains rattled awfully.”

“Nonsense! he has been dead this many a-year; it was all fancy, Tim,”

said Wildfire Ned, chuckling.

“No, it wasn’t, sir, all due respect to you, sir; he was alive.”

“Alive?”

“Aye, gentlemen, alive; I could swear it as sure as I live.”

“You were timorous, that is all, and fancied so.”

“No, Sir Richard, I never was so brave in all my life, although I

felt my blood run cold. _It spoke to me._”

“Spoke to you?”

“Yes sir.”

“What did it say?”

“‘Halt!’ it shouted, and on the instant my horse stopped, and would

not budge an inch. ‘Halt!’ it said, in awful tones, glaring down on

me with its fiery eyes. ‘I am one of the Skeleton Crew,’ it said;

‘go, tell your master that Farmer Bertram is murdered!’”

“Dead?” “Murdered?” said several in surprise.

“When did this foul deed take place?” asked the old knight.

“‘Murdered last night,’ said the Red Man from the gibbet, ‘as the

Darlington village clock tolled the hour of one! Ha! ha! the Skeleton

Crew still lives, and rules the seas, and will long defy the power of

man. Fly from this spot, or become one of the dead!’”

“This is a most horrible revelation,” said the old knight.

“I did not stop to hear more, for I shouted with fright, and galloped

madly away, feeling as if frozen to the very marrow, for _I had

spoken with the dead_!”

Tiny Tim looked exhausted, and shivered in every limb.

He could not proceed with his story very quickly, for his teeth

chattered again.

“Give the lad a stiff glass of brandy, Ned,” said the kind-hearted

knight.

Ned did so; a _very_ “stiff” one indeed, it was, which made the

groom’s eyes twinkle again.

The one-legged sailor was treated in like manner, when Tim continued—

“I galloped along till I reached the edge of the wild and barren

heath, but then I felt faint, for I perceived another horrid sight

in the distance! I was compelled to cross the heath, for it was my

only way here to the Hall. Unable to guide my horse, I sat still

shivering in the cold, knowing not what to do, when all of a sudden

the one-legged sailor seemed to spring out of the earth close beside

me.

“The next moment I found him sitting on the horse beside me!

“He took the reins, and the mare dashed onwards like lightning, as if

neither of us were heavier than two straws.

“All I remember is that as we galloped along we came up to three

fires on the roadside which burned with a dark blue flame, and around

them were, shrieking and dancing—the Skeleton Crew!

“I fainted. When I came to my senses again we were at the Lodge gate.”

Sir Richard, Ned, the footman, and other members of the household,

who had now gathered around, listened to Tim’s story with bated

breath.

The footman looked terror-stricken, and trembled so, that, during the

groom’s story, his pig-tail (the fashion in those days) gradually

rose, until at last it stood stiff and erect above his head, a

powdered pillar of horror.

“Is the lad dreaming, or is he turned crazy?” said Sir Richard.

“No; the lad is right, sir,” said the one-legged sailor, making bold

to speak. “My name is Ralph Spray, your honour, late of the king’s

navy; and, if so be as how I’m not intruding, I will tell you all

about it. This ’ere good-natur’d lad, the groom, is almost turned

grey wi’ only havin’ a peep at some on ’em, but how must it be wi’

me, who has fought with the Skeleton Crew?”

“Is it true, then, that there _is_ such a crew?” asked the knight, in

surprise.

“Aye, true, sir, as I sits here, for I lost my other leg among ’em. I

ought not to forget ’em, for they have given me plenty o’ reason to

remember ’em by.”

[Illustration: WILDFIRE NED VISITS THE RED MAN ON THE HEATH.—See No.

3.]

“Do you say, then, that you believe there _is_ such a thing as a

Skeleton Crew?” asked the knight, very slowly, and looking very hard

at Ned’s interested face.

“Do I? why, in course I do,” said the one-legged stranger, in a

huffish manner, “for I’m one on ’em my——”

“What!” gasped every one, rising to their feet.

“I’m one on ’em myself—as suffered by ’em.”

“O-h-h-h!” said one and all, very much relieved, for they thought

that the cripple was going to say that _he_ was one of the Skeleton

Crew.

“Well, as I were about to say, gentlemen,” Ralph Spray continued,

“I served as an able seaman on board His Majesty’s sloop of war

‘Dolphin,’ and we lay in the Sound. We hadn’t been there long afore

the news reached us about the wild doings of the Skeleton Crew. At

first we didn’t believe any o’ the strange tales, but at last we were

ordered off to cruise after the Phantom Ship and Skeleton Crew.”

“And did you ever overhaul them?” asked Ned, impatiently.

“Lor’ bless yer simple heart! overhaul them? No, not us; but they

_very soon overhauled us_, my lad!”

“Is it possible? Overhaul one of the king’s ships?”

“Ha, my God; and massacred every soul on board, save one!”

“And who was he?”

“I myself; Ralph Spray.”

“You?”

“Yes, I.”

“Why, how can that be? You must have had at least 150 men on board

the ‘Dolphin,’” said the knight.

“’Zactly; and the Skeleton Crew couldn’t muster half as many, I

suppose you mean?”

“Just so.”

“Aye, sir, but we on board the ‘Dolphin’ were men.”

“Brave men, too, no doubt.”

“Yes; but them on board the Phantom Ship weren’t men at all.”

“What, then, in heaven’s name?”

“Why, devils!”

The footman, nay, every one of Ralph’s audience, were listening

open-mouthed and with staring eyes.

“Devils?” asked Ned.

“Yes, devils, young man.”

A pause took place, and every one took a long breath, and creeped

closer to the fire as Ralph continued—

“We caught sight of the Phantom Ship once. It was painted red.

We gave chase, and came within two miles of it, when it changed

its colour to blue! We wasn’t going to be taken in, so we fired a

broadside right into her, and——”

“Sunk her,” asked Ned.

“Not a bit on it, it vanished into _mist_.”

Several of the servants and members of the household whom the kind

knight had allowed to listen to the cripple’s tale, now wished

themselves in their bed-rooms, or in the servants’ hall.

They were unable to leave their seats, however, for they felt

fastened down to them, and in some manner fascinated by the charmed

eye of the speaker.

The footman’s pig-tail worked to and fro like the pendulum of a

clock, and, at certain passages, stood bolt upright as its owner

inwardly and sometimes audibly groaned at what he heard.

“Vanished into mist, eh? How extraordinary!” said the knight. “Then

it must be a charmed ship, and a charmed crew.”

“’Zactly, sir, and I’ll tell yer how I proves it. The ‘Dolphin’ often

gave chase to this Phantom Ship, but could never catch it, although

sometimes _we_ caught more than we liked.”

“Indeed! what was that then?”

“Why, a well-aimed broadside.”

“From the Phantom Ship?”

“’Zactly, and a devil of a mess they left us in more nor once, and we

were glad to sheer off.”

“Extraordinary! it sounds like a dream.”

“But it ain’t, though, for one foggy night, when the ‘Dolphin’ lay

anchored in the Sound, me and Tom Robinson were keeping watch on

deck, and never thinking of any harm, for all the crew were snug in

their hammocks, when it almost turned me grey to see three score of

the Skeleton Crew clamber over the ship’s side like shadows, and

begin to cut and hack us about awful. The deck was cleared in a

second.”

“Did you not alarm the ship, and beat to quarters?”

“What was the use? I rushed to go below, but only put one leg down

the hatchway ladder when it was cut off clean as a whistle.”

“Didn’t the crew rush up to assist you?”

“How could they, they were all dead!”

“Dead?”

“Yes, dead as door nails. The only ones to rush up was a gang o’ the

Skeleton Crew who had been below quietly murdering the men in their

hammocks.”

“Horrible!”

“Astounding!”

“But there’s worse to come,” said Ralph.

The footman, with his pig-tail standing on end, made a move towards

the door.

The old housekeeper was almost fainting.

Tim’s hair was like the quills of a porcupine as he listened with

open mouth and distended eyes.

“Well, as soon as they got possession of the ‘Dolphin’ these skeleton

devils weighed anchor in a jiffey and made sail away.

“They pitched the dead overboard, every mother’s son of the crew,

mind ye; but, as well as I could, I bound up my leg tight to keep it

from bleeding, and crawled into an old cask.

“There I stayed for two days and two nights as quiet as a mouse a

watching of these skeleton devils, and I heard and saw as much as

would have killed any ordinary man.”

“Learn any of their secrets, do you mean?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What were they?”

“Why, I learned that they never would and never could be conquered by

all the king’s navy, for every one on ’em, ships and all, had charmed

lives; but, as far as I could understand, they all trembled when they

heard the name of a boy who had been born to destroy ’em.”

“A boy born to conquer and destroy that horrible band?”

“Aye, just so, sir; for they admitted among themselves that he was

charmed more than they were, and would be sent to scourge them from

the sea.”

“Wonderful!”

“I wish _I_ were that boy,” said Ned, with a flushed cheek.

“Do you?” said the cripple.

“Yes, I do,” said Wildfire Ned, proudly. “I don’t believe in charms

or spells, but I do believe if I had a good crew I should soon

annihilate the whole of them.”

“Perhaps you are boasting, young man?”

“No, I’m not.”

“Do you say, then, you could, and that you would, face the whole

Skeleton Crew single-handed?”

“Yes; and trust to heaven for strength to destroy them.”

“You never have seen any of them yet?”

“No; but I much desire to do so.”

“Then behold!” said the one-legged sailor, stamping his foot on the

floor, and pointing towards the window.

In an instant a crash of glass was heard.

Every one, save Ned, screamed aloud at the ghastly sight before them.

There, with his head and half of his body visible at the window and

protruding through it, stood a horrible form!

It was one of the Skeleton Crew!

In an instant Wildfire Ned pulled out a pistol and fired.

The ghastly form moved not!

He thought he heard the ball rattle among the bones of the Skeleton.

He fired again.

With a loud laugh of derision and triumph the Skeleton waved his

plumed hat and vanished.

When Ned turned towards the crippled sailor—

He had disappeared!

CHAPTER V.

CONSTERNATION AT DARLINGTON HALL.

The consternation that ensued among all assembled at this

unlooked-for conclusion of the mariner’s tale was evidently great.

The old knight jumped to his feet in amazement, and with trembling

limbs.

He tried to speak, but could not.

Tim’s eyes rolled in wild excitement, while the footman fell upon his

knees, and began to mumble out his prayers in a very rapid manner,

for he had come to the humble conclusion, in his own mind, that for

once in his life he had been in company with some demon of darkness.

He groaned aloud, and pulled very comical faces, while others made a

sudden rush towards the door!

Among them all there was one who looked on the matter with lightness

and good humour.

That one was Wildfire Ned.

Pistol in hand he dashed towards the window as bold and fearless as a

young lion.

“If ye be mortal, die!” he said, firing his weapon after the retiring

skeleton figure.

With the agility of a cat he jumped on to the window-sill, and looked

out into the darkness.

The ghastly apparition had vanished!

Whither or how had it gone?

“Strange,” muttered Ned, angrily, as he returned to his seat.

“Where’s the cripple?”

All looked around.

He also had vanished.

“There is some strange horrible mystery in all this,” said Ned, “and

I will perish before I give up the search without unravelling it.”

“It all seems to me like a dream,” the knight said at last, with a

great effort. “Some strange and horrible nightmare.”

“I wasn’t frightened, sir,” said Tim, plucking up his courage.

“Nothing could frighten me now, seeing as how I rode home with one on

’em.”

“It’s all a trick, I know,” said the footman. “Some of the villagers

have got it up for a lark, seeing as how it’s Christmas time.”

“Perhaps so, Roger,” the knight replied, with a smile; “but I noticed

you soon fell on your knees, and began to say your prayers.”

“And so did Tim,” Ned laughed; “but now it’s all over, you may

retire,” he said to the servants who were there, “you may retire.

Uncle and I wish to be alone.”

Tim was the first to go to the door, and he opened it with a shaking

hand.

In order to reach the servants’ hall, they had to traverse several

long dark galleries, and descend the main staircase.

Tim wanted his fellow servants to look upon him as a very bold youth,

but he took great care not to be the first to go out into the dark

gallery.

In this way, also, the chief footman thought, but didn’t like to say

so.

“Why don’t you go on?” said he to Tim.

“Why don’t _you_?”

“You were the first at the door.”

“Suppose I was, that don’t matter.”

“You’re afraid?”

“No I ain’t.”

“Yes you are, Tim.”

“If you think so, then follow me,” said the young groom, plucking up

all his spare courage, and flourishing his riding-whip.

The domestics left the room, and proceeded cautiously and slowly down

the stairs towards the servants’ hall, creeping along, one after the

other, in the dark.

They had all got as far as the large, old oak baronial dining-room,

on the ground floor, and were creeping along through the spacious

entrance hall, towards the head of the kitchen stairs, when every one

stopped.

For a moment they stood in the darkness, breathing very hard, when

their ears were startled by the sudden clanking of chains!

The sound proceeded from the baronial hall, where for centuries had

stood wooden figures, clothed in armour!

The clanking noise sounded so horrible, that they all rushed down the

kitchen stairs, one on top of another, in wild confusion.

Roger, the footman, was the first to make the descent, which he did

six stairs at a time.

But directly he and the rest got to the bottom in breathless haste,

they were still more horrified at the sight that confronted them.

For there stood at the foot of the stairs a skeleton form, sword in

hand!

“Ha! ha!” he gruffly laughed, as he flourished his weapon.

The footman shouted in terror, and turned on his heel to flee

upstairs again.

The rest followed him, bellowing and screaming at the top of their

voices.

Upstairs they flew in wild dismay, tearing their clothes, and

knocking each other about in the darkness, making all haste to leave

far behind them the dreadful form they had seen below.

No man, or woman either, ever mounted flights of stairs with such

expedition as did the servants on this memorable occasion.

Coat tails were torn off, wigs were lost, trousers were torn behind

in very unpleasant and uncomfortable places, and more than one

received hard thumps in the ribs from some one they knew not.

But this was nothing, so that they could escape with their lives.

Once in the entrance hall again they ran towards the great

drawing-room.

The door was unexpectedly and very hastily opened for them by a

skeleton!

With a cry of agony and surprise they turned towards the baronial

hall as a place of safety.

They reached the doorway almost fainting with fatigue and fright.

A man in armour strode forth to meet them, lance in hand!

More than one fainted on the spot.

Roger, the footman, like a brave man, trusted to his legs once more,

followed by as many of his fellow servants as had any strength left

in them; he vanished up the great staircase at lightning speed.

It seemed to be a race for life or death with all of them.

Round and round the staircase they manfully ascended, never casting a

single look behind.

They had gained the long, wide corridor which led to Sir Richard’s

library, and all felt safe.

Roger, as may be imagined, was first, and opened the door.

His foot caught in the carpet on the threshold, and down he went on

his face, swelling his nose to the size of a cucumber.

The others, in wild confusion, rushed after him and tumbled, men and

women, head over heels on the prostrate footman, nearly smothering

him with their combined weight.

“What mean all this uproar and fright?” said the old knight, rising

in great anger. “Are ye all turned mad, ye noisy, raving knaves?

Explain, I say, explain!”

But none of the servants could explain anything, for they were all

out of breath, and as pale as death.

After a time, when Roger was dragged out with his nose bleeding, he

looked about him with a wild and frightened gaze, as he stammered out,

“O-h-h-h, s-i-r! we-e-’ve s-e-e-n him!”

“Seen him! Seen who, knave? Speak quickly! or, by my honour, I’ll

whip my sword through your trembling carcase!” said old Sir Richard,

getting red in the face. “Speak, some of you!” he continued, looking

daggers at his alarmed domestics.

“Oh! m-e-r-cy! master, m-e-r-cy!” croaked out Roger, falling on his

knees.

“Speak, rascal! Who have ye seen?”

“The skeleton! ghastly, ghostly, all bones, and sword in hand,

grinning like an angry demon.”

“A skeleton!”

“Aye, sir; two on ’em.”

“Two, do you say?”

“Yes, Sir Richard; one at the bottom of the kitchen stairs, and

t’other opened the drawing-room door! H-o-o! ask ’em all if it ain’t

true, good master!” continued the footman, rolling his eyes and

moaning.

“And another grim rascal in armour rushed at us lance in hand at the

dining-hall door?” whined Tim, the valiant groom. “Oh, lor, the whole

place is full on ’em, I do believe.”

For some moments Sir Richard did not know what to do.

All around him knelt his frightened domestics, groaning and shaking.

“Why, but just now, knave, you said it was all a lark, perhaps, got

up by some of the silly villagers to frighten us. Ghosts and living

skeletons indeed! There, go down and get your suppers at once, and

let’s have no more of such silly nonsense.”

“Nay, good master, we dare not.”

“Stuff and nonsense,” said Ned, laughing; “how can you be geese

enough to believe in such old women’s tales. Get up off your knees

at once, I say, and don’t stick there shivering like leaves. I have

lived in the Hall this many a year, and have never seen anything of

the kind. I only wish I could come across the rascals who are playing

such tricks, that’s all; _I’d_ soon find out whether they were ghosts

or not.”

“Would you? Ha! ha!” said suddenly a voice.

“What was that? Who spoke?” said Ned, colouring with anger.

“Would you? Ha! ha! then you shall soon have a chance, bold youth,”

said the voice again.

“Who or what is that?” said old Sir Richard, starting.

“That’s him, master; that’s him! the ghosts! ho-o-o!” said Roger,

with chattering teeth.

“This is strange,” thought Wildfire Ned, “there cannot be any doubt

but that there is some mystery hanging about the old Hall. I have

long been persuaded of it, but it will not do to let my uncle or his

people know what I think of this mystery.”

“What is that you are saying, Edward?” asked Sir Richard.

“Nothing, uncle,” he replied. “I was only smiling at the foolish

fears of these tremblers here.”

“Come, rouse up all of you,” said old Sir Richard; “and follow me!”

“That’s just what _I_ was about to propose, uncle,” said Ned. “We’ll

soon get to the bottom of this strange affair.”

Arming himself with a sword, Wildfire Ned led the way, lamp in hand.

“I’ll lead the way,” said he; “follow me! Uncle you can remain

behind; there is nothing to fear. I care not for a hundred skeletons,

or ghosts either; follow me.”

CHAPTER VI.

THE SKELETON CREW AT DARLINGTON HALL—THE CONFLICT BETWEEN THE

SERVANTS—DEFEAT OF THE SKELETON CREW BY WILDFIRE NED.

Every one knew what a brave, bold, adventurous boy Wildfire Ned was,

and directly he said “follow me,” each one regained his courage, and

prepared to follow him.

They were all unarmed save Ned; but Roger, very cunning, stole a

short poker from the fire-grate without being perceived, and stuffed

it under his coat.

“I don’t so much fear now,” he thought. “I’ve got the poker, and if

any of ’em come near me I’ll try and smash their ugly skulls in quick

time; that is, if they will let me.”

Bold as a lion, and with an eye like a night hawk, young Wildfire Ned

led the way, followed by the male servants.

They searched in every place that could be imagined, but neither

ghosts nor skeletons could be found.

The rest of the servants were summoned and closely questioned by

Wildfire Ned.

No such thing as ghost or skeleton had been seen in other parts of

the old Hall, and the bare mention of the armed man in armour, who

rushed out upon them, caused great merriment among the majority of

the servants, who laughed outright, and called Roger and Tim “two old

women.”

So there was every prospect of a quarrel among the servants on this

great question.

Roger was very indignant, and when he pulled out the short poker from

under his clothes, he flourished it about in great wrath, threatening

to massacre the coachman, butler, and every one, indeed, who did not

believe him.

Order, however, was soon restored among them, and when the supper

bell rang all repaired in great haste to the servants’ hall to hear

the various odds and ends of the footman’s strange adventure.

They were all seated round the table, playing sad havoc with rounds

of beef and good old ale, when all at once the lamps went out!

Roger would have fled on the instant, but he was afraid of being

afterwards branded as a coward, and, therefore, remained in his seat,

but felt very uneasy.

The French cook, at the head of the table, left his chair to go for

other lamps.

At the moment that lights reappeared the whole assembly were struck

dumb at what they then saw.

Behind the chair of each there stood one of the Skeleton Crew!

They would have shouted out loudly, but one of the Skeletons, who

appeared to be chief of the party, said, sternly, and in a sepulchral

tone, to a gigantic Skeleton,

“The first one that stirs—the first one that speaks above his breath,

despatch him!”

Roger groaned inwardly, and felt more dead than alive.

Tim wriggled on his chair like a half-skinned eel.

The chief cook’s eyes were wildly dancing, and his long working cap

rose up to a prodigious height, while, with open mouth, he stood

shivering and shaking.

The others were in a state of collapse, and almost slipped off their

seats, while they looked about in trembling fear.

The chief of the Skeleton Crew made a sign to some of his grim

attendants to listen to all he had to say.

Turning to the chief cook, butler, and pantryman he said, in a sharp,

hissing tone,

“Wine—the best—quick!”

Roger and Tim rose from their seats like a shot, but were each

slapped on the head by a hard bony hand, which made their jaws rattle

again.

Three grim skeleton guards followed the cook, butler, and pantryman,

to see that their captain’s orders were carefully obeyed.

The wine was soon produced.

“Where are the silver goblets?” the chief asked, sternly.

These were soon found.

Each skeleton filled his goblet to the brim, and raised it aloft.

“Here’s to the Skeleton Crew of the Phantom Ship!” he said;

“confusion to our enemies.”

In a moment the wine was quaffed.

The terrified servants did not know what was coming next, and looked

on gasping like so many stranded fish.

“Remove the table,” said the chief; “let us have plenty of room, we

have much business to do.”

“They are going to murder every mother’s son of us,” groaned Roger.

Tim began to think seriously of saying some short prayer.

But they had to swallow their own feelings and fears, nor did any of

them dare speak, for behind each stood a skeleton, dagger in hand.

The table was removed to one corner of the inner servants’ hall.

The domestics were now sitting in a circle, face to face.

“The rope,” said the Skeleton Chief, hoarsely.

In an instant each of his crew produced a long stout rope, about two

inches round, and flourished it before the eyes of their captain with

a savage grin.

“I thought so,” groaned Roger. “Oh, dear! oh, dear!”

“All U.P. now,” Tim groaned.

“They wouldn’t believe me,” said the footman.

“Good-bye everybody,” said Tim.

Roger and Tim had another sound thwack on the jaws from their

skeleton guardians, which shook every tooth in their heads.

“Sling your ropes,” said the grim Skeleton Chief, quaffing more wine.

In a moment each threw one end of his rope up in the air over the

numerous beams and rafters of the servants’ hall.

“Make each his noose; mind they fit their necks nicely.”

“Oh, the cold-blooded rascals!”

“The merciless villains!”

“Mercy!”

“Have pity on us,” gasped the servants, as the Skeletons were making

the noose in each rope.

“If they speak again despatch them with your daggers,” said the chief.

“Hanging is better than that,” sighed Roger, “so I’ll keep quiet. I

hope my turn will come last, though,” he piously prayed.

“Give the rascals five minutes to say their prayers,” said the chief,

with a gruff laugh.

“It won’t do them any good, great chief,” said one of the Skeletons;

“they are sure to go to the devil.”

“Yes, oh, yes,” gasped Roger, “five minutes—say ten, only make it

ten, or a quarter of an hour, and it will do us a world of—h-o-o! ha!

ho-oh!”

A knife glittered before the footman’s eyes ere he had finished his

sentence, and he sank upon his knees very humbly and meekly.

If any lot of poor wretches ever prayed fervently they did so on this

occasion.

Roger, who seldom had said a prayer in all his life before, fired

away very rapidly.

Each one was endeavouring to pray more than the other, and the most

wicked among them were loudest.

“Be quick,” said the chief, sternly, “be quick with your praying; the

hanging must commence at once. We will begin with the men.”

Many of the servants called down more hearty curses on the Skeleton

Band than they did blessings on their own heads during their prayers;

but it was useless to offer resistance, for each was in the power of

a grim, gaunt enemy.

“Rise!” said the Skeleton Chief.

All the servants did so, except Roger.

“Rise,” said the Skeleton. “Don’t you know we are in a hurry?”

“I haven’t finished my prayers yet,” piously gasped the suddenly

converted footman.

“How long does it take you?” asked one of the Skeletons, chuckling.

“All night sometimes,” said Roger, with a sigh.

“Oh, then, you are pious?”

“Yes, I always was.”

“Then as you are so much, the better prepared than the rest, we’ll

hang you first.”

Roger groaned and rose up like a shot.

“You have heard of the Skeleton Crew, I know,” said the chief aloud,

“and that they neither fear man nor devil?”

“We have,” said several; “quite true.”

“I wish the devil had _him_, though,” groaned poor Tim.

“And,” continued he, “you have heard that the chief is cruel, and has

no mercy to his enemies.”

“I wish I only had the luck to be one of his best friends at this

particular moment,” sighed Roger, trembling.

“But you see,” said the chief, “I am _not_ cruel, or I would have

hanged you all without giving a moment’s warning.”

“Cursed perlite!” said Tim, under his breath.

“And, to show you that I am not as bad as people say I am, I’ll give

you all a chance as to who dies first, provided——”

“What?” gasped several, eagerly.

“You will answer me one question.”

“What is it, oh, most mighty and merciful skeleton?” sighed Roger.

“What is it?”

“Who considers himself to be the greatest rogue among you all?” asked

the chief. “Be careful how you answer.”

A long, solemn and awful pause followed this ominous and

all-important question.

The grim chief need not have warned them to be careful.

They were _very_ careful indeed, and took a long, long time to

consider.

“It won’t do for _me_ to answer,” thought the trembling servants,

“for they will be sure to commence hanging the biggest rogues first.”

“So there is no rogue at all among you, I find, eh? Ha! ha! Well,

then, who thinks himself the most pious among you? Tell me that.”

Roger was about to reply, but the words stuck fast in his throat, as

he thought,

“If _I_ answer, they will do for me first as the best prepared to

die; no, no, he don’t entrap _me_ with his puzzling questions.”

So thought the rest.

“No goodness among ye all, then, eh?” said the chief. “Why, a moment

ago ye were all praying like so many saints. Come, answer me this,

the third time, then I’ll give some of you another chance. Who

considers himself to be brave among you, and don’t fear death? Answer

me!”

No one did so, however.

“How artful this bloodthirsty monster is!” each thought; “for those

who don’t fear death are sure to be hung first!”

“Well, no one answers, I find,” said the chief, laughing. “I’ll give

you a last chance, poor devils; mark me, the only one you’ll have.

Who is the greatest coward among you, and fears most to die?”

“I do.”

“I am.”

“That’s me.”

“Oh, spare us!”

Such were the unanimous answers of all, and in one breath.

“Ha! ha! you have answered at last, eh? Well, then, since there

are no good nor brave men, but plenty of cowards, we’ll hang you

altogether, for none of you deserve to live.”

Groans were now heard on all sides, and many repented not having

answered before.

“If there had been only a few brave men among you I would have

spared——”

“I’m brave! I’m brave!”

“I’ll do any mortal thing.”

“A lion’s courage is nothing to mine!”

“Only just try me—a tiger is nothing compared to me!”

“I’d face the devil, _I_ would!”

Thus gasped out many when they found that brave men only were to be

spared.

“Oh, that’s it, eh?” said the Skeleton Chief. “I now find that all of

you are brave.”

“I’m the bravest,” said Roger, very meekly; “on my word, I am!”

“You are, eh?”

“No, he isn’t,” said the coachman; “_I_ am.”

“Oh, you are; then this footman must be a liar.”

“So he is,” said the coachman, “an awful liar; the biggest as ever

lived!”

“Then we will begin with you two first, and give you a trial,” said

the chief. “How do you best like to fight, with swords, or what?

Daggers are the quickest to do the work with!”

“I’d prefer fists,” said the burly coachman.

“And what do _you_ prefer my brave fellow?” asked the chief of Roger.

Roger much preferred to escape out of the mess altogether, but it

could not be.

“Strip,” said the chief, “you’ve got a fair chance to settle; the one

who gives in first shall be hung, and the conqueror shall have the

choice of poison or a bullet if he refuses to join my crew. We only

have well-tried men alive or dead on board the Phantom Ship.”

Neither Roger nor the coachman saw any very great choice in the terms

offered, but ere many minutes they were pounding each other’s ribs in

gallant style till the sounds of their own blows reached through the

immense hall.

Both combatants fought for ten minutes fiercely and fast, and went at

it like two blacksmiths.

At last, however, Roger began to blow like a grampus, and with a

well-directed smack on the nose the burly coachman knocked him down.

“I give in,” gasped Roger.

“Bring the rope,” said the chief, calmly.

“No, I don’t; stop a bit,” said the footman. “D—n it! I’ll have a few

more rounds; anything’s better than being scragged like a cat.”

At it they went again hammer and tongs, pounding each other, and

puffing at a great rate.

But while this was going on several other “brave” individuals were

engaged, with swords, proving their valour, one against the other.

The doors were all locked, the windows were closed, and the servants’

hall being so far away from the knight’s apartments the noise was not

heard.

Curses, not loud but deep, were heard on every side, and the Skeleton

Crew looked on with delight, as they saw the blood flowing an all

sides, while their chief sat on a high seat, quaffing wine, and

delighted with the bloodthirsty, fiendish work going on around him.

It was a terrible feast of blood!

The Skeleton Band hideously grinned and chuckled at the sight of

blood around them.

Shouts of pain and death groans were like music in their demon ears;

the writhings of several victims, as they hung from the beams above,

thrilled them with joy, as, with bony hands, they pointed to them

twisting and dangling in the air.

This horrible carnival had lasted long.

The best looking of the females were then carried off by several of

the Skeleton Band to some rendezvous near by, with limbs bound and

their mouths gagged; but those left behind were hung to the rafters

quickly, and without mercy.

* * * * *

This was an annual gory banquet, which the chief of the Skeleton Crew

kept up to celebrate his career as the famous Scourge of the Sea!

He and most of his crew had come with the firm resolve to massacre

every one in Darlington Hall.

This was but the commencement of their horrible sport.

Well might the Skeleton Crew and their charmed Phantom Ship have long

been the terror and fright of all the coasts and seas around.

Many a family had been slaughtered in cold blood on shore, and many a

good ship’s company mangled and their vessels plundered and sunk by

these aptly termed Demons of the Deep.

But they had not come to Darlington Hall solely to satisfy their

thirst for blood.

It was the villain and murderer, Redgill, they assisted.

He hated Wildfire Ned with bitter animosity because he could not

supplant the brave youth in the affections of young Alice, the

wealthy daughter of Countess Bluefield, sister to Sir Richard, whose

estates were hard by.

But hitherto Redgill had been successful in his knavery.

Alice had suddenly disappeared.

She had been kidnapped from her home.

And while from home her parents had been slaughtered and the mansion

sacked by the Skeleton Crew.

It was now the aim of these fiends to murder all in Darlington Hall,

and for Redgill to forge a will in his own favour, and to claim the

estate.

But the cleverest villains are caught in traps of their own making,

as will be seen in succeeding chapters of this story.

Suffice it to say that on this occasion the Skeleton Crew were

carrying out their plans to murder all the servants first and the

owners afterwards.

* * * * *

For an hour or more did these demons revel in this horrid spectacle

of cruelty and blood.

Those who did not kill each other were ruthlessly murdered by

the Skeleton Crew, so that the servants’ hall presented a sickly

and revolting sight, with the dead and dying lying around in all

directions.

While the barbarous chief and his demon band were rejoicing at this

human slaughter they drank deep of wine, and were roused up to a

fiery pitch with the bloody work around them.

“Hurrah for the Skeleton Crew! the Scourge of the Seas!” said the

chief, tossing off more wine. “In another hour old Sir Richard, and

his braggart lad, Wildfire Ned, as he is called, will be no more. The

old hag at the gibbet says the boy has a charmed life, but we shall

quickly see. Ha! ha! there is no charm against cold steel, my lads!”

While thus he drank and laughed aloud in mocking tones he suddenly

rose to his feet in alarm.

He drew his ponderous sword, and with fiery eyes listened!

A loud noise was now heard without.

The heavy doors were forced open with a crash!

With a loud and ringing cheer, there dashed in upon them fifty bold

British tars, pistol and sword in hand, led on by Lieutenant Garnet

and Wildfire Ned!

Death-wing (for such the Skeleton Chief was called), with a sudden

bound, leaped from his high seat, sword in hand.

“Treachery!” he cried, and dashed upon Wildfire Ned, with bitter

curses on his lips.

The conflict on all sides was dreadful.

Lieut. Garnet and his men did all that men could do, and performed

prodigies of valour.

But their weapons did not seem to make any impression upon the

Skeleton Crew.

Guns and pistols were fired at them, but all in vain.

The clash of swords and the gleam of daggers was heard and seen on

every hand.

More than one of the gallant sailors was struck down by their ghostly

foes.

“Death to them all, and spare not!” shouted Death-wing, the Skeleton

Chief, with a loud laugh of triumph.

His ponderous sword swept through the air like a lightning flash.

On all sides he cut with unerring aim; but though he assailed

Wildfire Ned with the fury of a demon, he could not slay him.

In rage and disappointment he growled, “This brat must have a charmed

life; on to him, men, on to him, cut him limb from limb!”

With a shout of defiance Wildfire Ned met the onslaught of more of

the Skeleton Crew.

But he handled his sword with such quickness and precision that he

gallantly beat them back.

The tide of battle ebbed and flowed.

Success for a moment attended the Skeleton Crew, and they drove the

sailors to the wall.

In an instant, however, and as if by magic, Wildfire Ned dashed again

to the front.

“They are beaten!” he cried; “they give ground! Down with the demons!

scatter their ghastly bones! Follow me!”

It was quite true.

The Skeleton Band did give way.

They had never met with such a fierce resistance before in all their

lives.

They retreated in dumb terror before Wildfire Ned.

That brave youth rushed here, there and everywhere among his

bloodthirsty foes, as if he courted death itself.

But no harm came to him.

His life was charmed, but he knew it not.

As if he had the strength of a young lion he fought his way to where

Death-wing was, hand to hand with Garnet.

The lieutenant was struck to the ground, and in a moment would have

been despatched.

Ned rushed to the rescue.

He stood over the body of the fallen sailor.

He confronted Death-wing face to face.

The Skeleton Chief retreated a step or two in fear from Wildfire Ned.

“I have tried to avoid you, but cannot,” he gasped; “wherever I go

you are in my way. Retire, boy, or I’ll cleave ye in twain.”

“From you! Never!” said Ned, “never, while I have health left in my

body or strength to wield a sword!”

With these words he rushed at the grim chief, and again their weapons

clashed in deadly conflict.

Sparks flew from their flashing blades.

Ned was getting weaker and weaker.

His legs trembled violently.

He made a last blow at his fierce antagonist and fell prostrate over

Garnet.

Death-wing, with a laugh of triumph, raised his sword high in the

air on the point of cutting Ned in two, when, with a wild shout, he

rushed from the spot!

His sword was knocked from his firm grip!

He and his band looked with terror at the sight which then appeared.

A man in armour, glittering from head to foot in polished steel, rose

out of the stone flooring as if by magic.

With shield and sword he was ready for the fray!

Sir Richard and the sailors were struck dumb at the strange

apparition, and fell back in awe.

Death-wing and his Skeleton Crew hastened from the spot like shadows.

Before Sir Richard and his friends could recover from their

astonishment the spectre of the armed knight in dazzling armour had

vanished.

They were now alone.

With wondering eyes they looked at one another in mute astonishment.

“Is this all a dream?” gasped Sir Richard, breathing with great

difficulty.

No one replied.

At that instant, however, all could hear the heavy tread of a mailed

warrior as he clanked across the stone floor.

They looked about in surprise, for now all was darkness.

Their torches had been lost and extinguished in the heat and fury of

battle.

Again they heard the heavy clanking footsteps, and the jingle of

spurs cross the stone floor, but could see nothing.

They turned towards the door, through which they had found their way.

There stood the spectre knight glittering in steel, and with vizor

down.

A long blue plume waved from his helmet.

His shield was of dazzling brightness.

Over his armour he wore a white tunic with a large red cross on his

breast.

He raised his gauntlet-covered hand on high, and pointed to the

adjacent stone corridor, as he said,

“Cut the victims down! Succour the wounded! Bury the dead!”

And vanished!

But long after these solemn words were uttered, and before any one

could recover from surprise, they heard the heavy, distant footfalls

of the Spectre Knight.

Darlington Hall was haunted!

Cold perspiration oozed from their brows.

They trembled with awe, as, turning to the window, they saw a

strange-like Will-o’-the-Wisp light dancing in the distant gloom.

Another moment, and the casement was dashed open.

Then a sound as of the clanking of chains and bones was heard, and a

hollow voice saying,

“Behold, I am _the Red Man of the Gibbet_!”

The Will-o’-the-Wisp light still danced round about, and in the

centre stood the skeleton of the Red Man.

“What art thou?” said Sir Richard, fear, like an electric shot,

passing through his frame.

The figure remained silent.

“Speak,” said Wildfire Ned, “or my sword shall find out if you are

man or devil!”

Saying so, Ned advanced towards the horrid shape at the casement.

“Back!” said the Skeleton form, stretching out his finger at Ned.

“Your time has not yet come; but know, boy, I am your fate. Yes. Ha!

ha! your fate!”

Ned, for a moment, felt slightly awed at the strange words spoken by

the mysterious figure, who, with the light still playing about his

head, stood regarding all with a terrible look.

“You lie!” replied Ned. “My fate is not in your hands, and I defy

you. The Skeleton Crew shall find I have not gained my name of

Wildfire Ned without being able to keep it.”

“The Red Man,” said the voice, “in the name of the Skeleton Crew,

accept your challenge, and I now throw down my gage in token of

defiance.”

So saying, the figure threw down a hard substance on the floor.

Wildfire Ned picked it up.

It was a glove, and inside a SKELETON HAND!

“Ha! ha! now follow me if you dare!” shouted the Red Man, clanking

his chains.

“I do dare, and will,” said Ned, breaking from his uncle’s hold, and

dashing through the window after the Skeleton.

“Follow, follow quickly!” cried Sir Richard.

At the same moment they all fell back in fear as a shriek of mortal

agony was borne along the wind and resounded throughout the old

building.

“Oh, God!” cried the old man, “I fear the brave boy is slain.”

NOTICE TO OUR READERS.

REMEMBER!—a most valuable present is in preparation, and will be

presented to all our regular Subscribers with an early Number. Full

particulars will be announced in Number 6.

[Illustration: “THE MIDNIGHT DANCE OF THE SKELETON CREW.”]

Sword in hand Wildfire Ned dashed after the dreadful apparition, and

well nigh overtook him as he ran along with wild fantastic leaps

towards a densely-wooded copse.

It was at this moment, when, finding himself pursued, that the Red

Man of the Gibbet gave that wild cry which so much alarmed Sir

Richard Warbeck and his servants.

It was a terrible shriek, truly; more like that of a fiend than

anything else.

What now followed was more horrible still, and caused Wildfire Ned to

pause from sheer astonishment.

As the shriek came from the skeleton there suddenly sprang forward

more than a dozen forms, and dashed in between the Red Man of the

Gibbet and his pursuer.

With wild shrieks and yells the Skeleton Crew formed a circle round

the Red Man, and in a second seemed to vanish into air!

Astounded at what he had seen, Wildfire Ned stood gazing like one

just recovering from a trance, and observed not the approach of Sir

Richard and his friends, who now rushed upon the scene, fearful for

Ned’s fate.

“Return, lad, return!” said Sir Richard, with a tremulous voice.

“This night has been one of horrors; I fear for your safety. Whether

they be men or devils, it matters not; but of this rest assured,

they are bent on your destruction.”

A grim smile played upon Ned’s features as he was reluctantly led

back to the hall by Sir Richard and a large troop of friends.

When left alone to his own thoughts, and in the silence of his

chamber, Wildfire Ned began to ponder on all that he had seen and

heard.

“This is a terrible state of things; but I will not sleep this night

until I learn more of this strange horrible mystery, if it costs me

my life.”

When all was silent in the Hall, Ned buckled on his sword, and slowly

left his chamber.

He traversed the lonely galleries of the Hall like a spirit, with

noiseless step.

He quietly went towards the stables to saddle his favourite horse.

As he approached the stable door he was confronted by Tim, who looked

more dead than alive.

“I could not sleep, master,” said the groom, “the horrid sights as I

have seen this ere night is enough to turn one grey.”

“Nonsense,” said Ned, with a light laugh, “nonsense, lad, you see it

hasn’t turned _me_ grey.”

“No, sir, truly; but then you ain’t made like common folks; they say

Wildfire Ned is all cast iron.”

“Nonsense, Tim; it’s all a delusion to think that this Red Man of the

Gibbet could leave his chains and go prowling about when he likes.”

“No it ain’t, sir, all respect to you, sir. I’ve heard people say

that at some seasons of the year he does leave his chains. If he

could talk to me, as I rode home, he can do anything; that’s _my_

humble opinion.”

“It can’t be true,” said Ned. “And, to prove it, I’ll wager a hundred

gold pieces that if we ride over to the Lonely Heath this very night

we shall find the gibbet tenanted as it always is.”

“Ride over to the gibbet, master?” said Tim, in horror. “Surely, you

can’t think of doing anything so rash, and to-night, too, when we

know that all the country around is alive with that demon gang called

the Skeleton Crew?”

“Yes; but I do though, Tim. I shall mount my brave mare, Starlight,

and go at once.”

“Oh! master, pray don’t,” pleaded Tim; “I’m sure that some harm will

befal you.”

“And I’m equally sure none will. Prepare Starlight at once. Saddle

the brown cob also.”

“The brown cob, sir? You surely don’t want _two_ horses?”

“Yes I do, Tim.”

“What, the brown cob for the Red Man of the Gibbet,” said Tim,

aghast. “You surely ain’t going to take a moonlight ride with such a

horrible devil as he is.”

“True, Tim, I am not,” said Ned, laughing; “the brown cob is for

yourself.”

“For me?” said Tim, rolling his eyes.

“Yes, you. Come, be quick. Let us start off at once.”

With many groans, Tim prepared the horses, and ere many minutes had

elapsed, both master and servant were on their way to the heath.

Tim sadly tried to lag behind, but Wildfire Ned would not allow him

to do so.

“Here, Tim,” said Ned, producing a brandy-flask; “take a good suck

at this; it will drive all the blue-devils out of you. Have courage,

lad, no harm can possibly befal you.”

Tim liked the brandy, but did not much relish his young master’s

stubborn resolution.

Nevertheless he had not got far upon the journey when his spirits

began to rise rapidly, and his head became light and giddy.

He pulled out his sword in a very valorous manner, and made vicious

cuts and slashes at the trees as he passed them, like a man valiantly

fighting imaginary foes.

Ned perceived the effects the brandy had upon his servant, and gave

him some more.

This had the desired effect of fortifying Master Tim with false

courage.

Ere long he began to curse and swear at the Skeleton Crew and the Red

Man of the Gibbet, in very loud tones.

After some time they approached the edge of the heath.

As they did so, the gibbet gradually came into view.

Tim’s courage now began to ooze out of his toes, and he rode very

close to his brave young master, but somewhat behind him.

“There it is, Tim,” said Ned, pointing to the gibbet in the distance.

“Can’t you hear the creaking sound of its rusty iron as it sways to

and fro?”

“Y-e-e-s,” answered Tim, and his teeth began to chatter. “Y-e-e-s,

young master, I do; but if you haven’t any objection, I’ll stay where

I am until you return.”

“But I _have_ objections, Tim, and very grave ones. Haven’t you

promised to go to sea with me, and brave all the dangers and perils

of the ocean?”

“True, sir but I didn’t bargain to go and confront living devils

though,” groaned Tim.

“Very well, then, it is in order to make you accustomed to strange

sights and strengthen your nerves, that I brought you with me

to-night.”

“Very kind of you, sir,” said Tim; “very indeed; but I thinks as how

I’ve seen enough of strange sights to-night to strengthen my nerves

for ever, if it’s all the same to you, sir.”

It was all to no purpose, Ned would not allow Tim to remain behind on

any consideration, but smiled, as he cast a sidelong glance at his

servant’s long, pale face.

They had now approached within a few yards of the gibbet, and stopped

to gaze at it.

“I told you how it was,” said Ned, laughing. “It must have been all

a trick, or delusion. Why here is the Red Man safe and sound in his

iron gibbet; he couldn’t be in two places at once.”

For some time the two horsemen remained motionless, intently gazing

at the horrid gibbet, as it creaked and swayed in the moonlight.

The skeleton’s bones were of unearthly whiteness and stood erect in

their iron cage.

The winds sighed mournfully through the trees.

A feeling of awe took possession of the horsemen as they stood and

gazed at the ghastly object.

Their steeds even trembled with excitement, and snorted and shied at

the gallows and the shadow of its skeleton tenant.

“What are you trembling about?” said Ned. “Be more of a man, Tim; _I_

don’t see anything very strange.”

“No, sir; but _I_ do. Look! look! see the red eyes are rolling about.

I told you it were alive. See! see! Oh, horrors!” said Tim, shivering.

He would have backed his horse away, but Ned seized Tim’s rein with

his right hand firmly.

True enough, however, the skeleton in the gibbet _did_ move.

Its eyes, which before were invisible in their deep-sunk sockets,

now turned a deep, dark, fiery red colour, and rolled about most

alarmingly.

Ned’s horse reared and danced about, and he sat looking on in mute

astonishment, but with bold, firm-set features.

“It is alive! it is alive, master! Let us get away! it is—it _must_

be the devil himself!”

“Hold thy peace,” said Ned, in a petulant whisper.

And, then aloud, he addressed the ghastly, hideous form.

“Be ye devil or mortal, speak!” said Ned, fiercely. “Who and what art

thou?”

The Red Man raised his skeleton arm, and suddenly thrust it through

the grating of his prison-house, as he pointed his long, lean

fingers, and said,

“Edward Warbeck, I am thine enemy! Beware!”[1]

“Mine enemy?” said Ned, with a grim smile.

“Aye, the same you saw this very night. At certain times and seasons

I walk the earth; beware, I say, of the Red Man of the Gibbet and the

Skeleton Crew. I am thy fate! When we meet again thou wilt tremble at

my presence. Until we meet again, adieu!”

The long arm descended again by his grim, bony sides.

His red eyes lost their fiery lustre.

His marrowless bones shook in their iron cage.

All was still, quiet and solitary as the grave.

Nought was heard—nothing was seen but a stray vulture as it circled

in the air near by and pounced on the gibbet.

Wildfire Ned was astonished, but not dismayed.

He laughed aloud in wild derision, as he said,

“Tremble at thy presence? Never!”

The Red Man echoed the laugh in sepulchral tones.

Ned turned his head to look around.

Tim had left him, and was then madly galloping away.

Ned was alone at that awful spot!

CHAPTER VII.

PHILIP REDGILL’S ENCOUNTER WITH WILDFIRE NED.

It was a lucky moment for some of the servants that old Sir Richard

and his party of sailors did so suddenly burst upon the scene, and

thus put an end to the bloody ordeal that was then taking place.

They had hung several to the beam, and some of the maid servants had

been carried off.

Roger and the coachman lay upon the floor, thoroughly exhausted,

bleeding from all parts of the body.

Tim, the groom, like a lively monkey, managed to climb up the rafters

unseen, and hid himself behind a great beam.

But the sudden inroad of Wildfire Ned so exasperated the Skeleton

Crew, that they gave no heed to the domestics, but turned all their

attention to Lieut. Garnet and his sailors.

In the meantime the unfortunate servants stopped the deadly duels

among themselves, and crawled out of the way of further harm.

Tim, however, directly Wildfire Ned appeared upon the scene, gave a

wild shout, which almost cost him his life.

One of the Skeleton Crew perceived that he had got out of the way

among the beams and rafters of the ceiling, and fired at him.

The bullet just grazed his cheek.

An inch more and he would have tumbled down dead.

As it was he merely screened himself safely again.

When he saw a good chance he whipped out his knife, and cut several

of the ropes with which some of the servants had been hung.

They fell to the ground heavily.

But the shock seemed to revive the almost extinct life of several.

Tim then slipped down from his lofty perch, picked up a sword, and

rushed to the side of Wildfire Ned, and capered about, and was such a

thin, wiry young rascal, that the Skeletons always missed their aim.

Tim seemed to them to be made of india-rubber.

They couldn’t touch him, do what they might, for, although his

clothes were tattered, he escaped with a whole skin, much to his

delight.

* * * * *

Several days after the stirring events we have just narrated, the

wounded men were all provided for, and the dead buried.

This strange visit of the Skeleton Crew to Darlington, and the

frightful scenes in the old immense servants’ hall was the talk of

the country far and wide.

It filled every one with amazement, and people began to think that,

perhaps, after all, the mysterious murder of Farmer Bertram might be

traced to the same source, particularly since poor Bob, the farmer’s

son, protested his innocence so loudly and boldly.

But appearances were strongly against the farmer’s son.

His own thick walking-stick was found beside the murdered man.

The old farmer’s purse, one he had but a week before bought in the

village, was found in the pocket of his accused son.

These evidences of guilt were too strong to allow of any doubt but

that the unhappy son had, in a moment of anger and revenge, murdered

his own father.

There was one, however, who _did_ believe in poor Bob’s innocence.

That was Wildfire Ned.

He visited Bob in prison, and spent several hours with him.

When he came away he told old Sir Richard that the prisoner was an

innocent man, and was sure he had been duped by some cunning villain.

“Bob must not suffer,” said Ned; “he _shall_ not suffer, while I’ve

got a hand to help him.”

“_Shall_ not!” said Sir Richard, in amazement; “Who’s to prevent it,

if he’s found guilty?”

“Who? why, _I_ will,” said Wildfire Ned, colouring to the temples.

“You?”

“Yes, _me_, uncle. No rope shall ever go round Bob’s neck while there

is a sword in the village to prevent it.”

“Silly boy,” said the knight, with a smile, “I know that you are

brave, no one can doubt that; but what could _you_ do against so

many?”

“Let them dare attempt to hang him in Darlington, and you would soon

see what Wildfire Ned would do.”

“But they will not hang him here in the village. Most likely they

will take him to the nearest large town, perhaps to London, for all I

know.”

“I wish they _would_ take him to London,” said Ned, with a smile.

“Indeed! And what then, pray?”

“Why, I would arm and lead on a party of gallant youths. We would

soon beat back the soldiers.”

While they were speaking thus, a servant announced that a stranger

had arrived at the Hall.

“His name?”

“Mr. Phillip Redgill, sir.”

“Show him up; _he_ is no stranger; he is a relation. Show him up.”

The knight seemed pleased at the unexpected coming of his nephew.

Phillip soon entered.

He was most elegantly attired, and carried a sword.

His face was rather handsome, but he had a dark, wicked-looking eye.

There was an uneasy twitch about his mouth, and when he smiled he

showed a set of large teeth.

When he entered the room, he cast a quick, vicious look towards Ned.

Immediately after, however, he wore a forced smile, and shook Sir

Richard very cordially with his ungloved hand.

He turned towards Wildfire Ned, and extended his hand towards him

also, in a cold, formal way.

“It is not necessary,” said Ned, with a proud toss of his head; “your

hand is cold and clammy; it gives me the shivers; its feel is fishy,

Phillip Redgill.”

Saying this, he left the room with a flashing eye and proud step.

“Queer youth that, Sir Richard,” said Phillip, with a bitter smile.

“At the same time,” he thought, “I’d give a thousand pounds to know

he was dead; he seems thrown in my path to thwart me.”

“But he is a brave youth,” said Sir Richard, in flattering tones.

“Is he,” laughed Redgill; “I have often thought he was a very rash

one.”

“His best friends say the same; but it will all wear off with age and

experience.”

“Perhaps so, Sir Richard; but it strikes me very forcibly he will

never live to be any very great age,” said Redgill, very slowly and

with great emphasis.

“Why not?” said the old knight, quickly.

“He is too passionate. Had it not been for my own good temper, and

the respect I have for you, I should have publicly horsewhipped him

for his rudeness to me on more than one occasion.”

“But you are older than he is, Phillip,” sternly said Sir Richard;

“you must remember that.”

“True; but no more of that. I have come from London expressly to

inform you that my father, through his influence with the king’s

government, has managed to get a midshipman’s commission for Ned,

this great favourite of yours. If you like to consent, he can join

his ship at once; it lies at Portsmouth, ready to sail.”

“It was very kind of your father, truly; but I have not made up my

mind about it.”

“Not made up your mind? Why, when last I was down here, you said it

would be the very best thing that could be done for him.”

“True; but I have altered my mind since then. I should be very sorry

to part with young Ned, and if any harm were to happen to him, I

think it would kill me, for the more I see of him the more I like the

lad.”

“Ha, ha!” laughed Phillip; “there is no fear of that; the ship he

would join will never sail more than ten miles out of port, so

there’s no fear that your intended heir to the Darlington estates

will come to harm.”

“The intended heir to my estates, Phillip Redgill!” said the old man.

“Ned and his brother are poor orphans, and have no real claim on me.”

At this moment Ned entered the room quietly and heard all that had

been said.

“I was only joking,” Phillip replied, with a dry laugh.

When his eye caught sight of Ned he changed countenance on the

instant.

Ned gazed at him fixedly with a look of proud contempt.

“Phillip Redgill,” said Ned, defiantly, “I have by mere accident

overheard all you have said.”

“What! an eavesdropper in the hall!” said Redgill, with a sneer.

“If you say so, you lie!” said Ned, fiercely; “and, to show you how

little I think of you, how much I despise you, take that!” he said,

slapping Redgill in the face, “and, if you dare, resent it.”

In an instant the colour rose to Redgill’s face.

He drew his sword and darted towards Wildfire Ned.

“Come on,” said Ned, whipping up the old knight’s sword that lay on

the table.

“Put down your swords,” the old man cried, getting between them.

“What is the meaning of all this?”

Redgill looked for a second at the firm, handsome features of

Wildfire Ned, and the eagle-like glance of the brave lad cowed his

own craven heart.

He could not look him in the face.

“Come on,” said Ned. “Nay, turn not so deadly pale, coward.”

“Put up your weapons, I say,” the old man said, sternly.

Redgill did so, and bit his lips until they became bloodless and

white.

“Why carry a sword if afraid to use it?” said Ned, scornfully turning

on his heel.

After a pause Wildfire Ned said, calmly and slowly—

“Redgill, you are not a man; you are a coward, a snake in the grass;

you leave a poisonous slime wherever you go. Bloody deeds follow in

your wake wherever you tread! There is no love lost between us, ’tis

true; but you are a mischief-maker; a deceiver; I could say more

perhaps.”

“Say on,” said Redgill, turning pale.

“Murderer is marked on your face, Phillip Redgill,” said Ned,

sternly. “Nay, do not tremble, for I know nought of what you have

done; but I suspect and despise you, leaving it in the hands of

heaven one day to disclose what you are. You need not fear that _I_

shall stand in your path to wealth or fame. Trust me, I have too much

heart and spirit to eat the bread of charity longer at Sir Richard’s

table; but, ere I leave, remember these my words, Redgill,” he said,

after a solemn pause, “you will one day grace a gibbet; rogue,

vagabond, and murderer is deeply written on your countenance. You

cannot, you dare not look an honest lad openly in the face. Your own

cowardly heart tells you I speak the truth; and, were it not for the

disgrace to good Sir Richard, I could slay you as you sit, and think,

aye, know that I had done right in the sight of man and heaven. Sir

Richard, I now leave the Hall, my everlasting love is yours. Upon the

wide world I go to seek my fortune; but beware of that man’s evil

eye. Sir Richard, shun him like a snake. Phillip Redgill, we shall

meet again.”

“We will,” was the bitter answer.

In an instant Wildfire Ned left the room.

The village clock tolled the hour of midnight.

He left Darlington Hall, and perhaps for ever!

FOOTNOTES:

[1] See Illustration in No. 2.

CHAPTER VIII.

RELEASE OF BOB—CAPTAIN JACK’S BAND—THE UNEXPECTED ARRIVAL—THE

QUARREL—THIRTEEN DEATH WARRANTS—FLIGHT OF THE THIEF-TAKERS.

Bob the outcast, as we have seen, was thrown into prison, and safely

guarded by the village authorities.

As may be supposed, poor Bob was almost turned crazy by the terrible

event, and walked up and down his prison cell looking pale,

thoughtful, and miserable.

He protested his innocence on all occasions.

Many believed that the murderers or murderer would in time be traced

to the far-famed Skeleton Crew, who prowled around the neighbouring

coasts.

The keeper of the village prison was a timid old man, and much feared

that the red-hot zeal on the part of some of Bob’s sympathisers might

lead them on to attack the gaol, perhaps attempt a rescue.

This so weighed upon the chief constable’s mind that he wrote off to

London, begging of the authorities there to take the case in hand.

In accordance with the wishes of the village authorities a party

of men were sent down to Darlington for the purpose of conducting

Rambling Bob to London.

The party consisted of seven mounted men, all armed to the teeth, who

arrived in the village one evening, several days after the commission

of the murder.

They pulled up their horses, and alighted at the “Red Lion”

public-house.

With many loud words, a great deal of bombastic talk and swearing,

they clattered about the inn yard, shouting to the ostlers and

servants in such a grand style that old Hornblower, the publican,

began to think that perhaps his visitors were none other than royal

personages, or nobles, at least.

Old Horn (the “blower” always being left out in common discourse)

was very much mistaken; the new arrivals were none other than six

thief-takers, and as big rogues and rascals as ever straddled horses,

or swaggered about with swords at their heels.

They were dressed in their best, however, and seemed very flush of

money; how they got it will be seen hereafter.

They rang the bells loudly, shouted and swore right and left until

old Horn and his servants were almost driven mad.

“Who be they?” asked the ostler.

“Don’t know, lad; but suppose they’re very great folks.”

“They ride good nags, anyhow.”

“And kick up a darned big fuss, too. Can’t ye hear ’em?”

“They be Londoners,” said the housemaid; “I can tell by their talk,

and they allers do make a noise when they goes in the country.”

“What do they want down here, I wonder?”

“Can’t tell; but they ask for the best beds in the inn, and the best

wine in the cellar, so they mun have plenty of money.”

While the servants were thus talking among themselves the old

landlord and his kitchen domestics were busy in providing supper for

the hungry travellers.

“Boots” was nearly run off his legs, and didn’t know what to do first.

He became confused, and forgot half of what he was told.

“Here, lad,” said one, “bring me some brandy. Quick. Hot, mind!”

“Brandy, sir, yes, sir. Hot sir? With or without? Just so, sir.

Brandy hot without, sir? Thank’ee, sir.”

And off he shot.

But before he had fairly closed the door,

“Here! hi! waiter! quick!” said another. “Mulled port for me. Quick,

for your life! I’m almost frozen to death!”

“Port, sir? Yes, sir. Mulled, sir? Thank’ee, sir.”

Off he went; but the bell was rung violently again.

“Here! hi! waiter!”

“Come here, lad!”

“_I_ want you, do you hear?”

“Serve _me_ first.”

“No; _I_ gave my order first.”

“No you didn’t.”

“Spiced ale.”

“Bring me a chop in less than five minutes, or I’ll cut your head

off!”

“My brandy and water, you idiot!”

“If my hot spiced ale doesn’t appear in three minutes by the clock,

I’ll blow the rascal’s brains out.”

“Will you never let me have my brandy and water, you villain?”

“Cut the rascal’s ear off.”

“How’s my horse getting on?”

“Let my bed be warmed.”

“Not mine, stupid; his, mind.”

“Where’s the landlord?”

“Brandy!” “Ale!” “Rum!” “Bottle of wine!” “Beefsteaks!” “A chop for

me!” “Clean my boots!” “See to my horse!” “Long pipes!” “Stir up this

fire!” “Put more coals on!” “How long’s supper going to be?”

These and such-like orders rung in the bewildered ears of Nat the

boots.

He rushed hither and thither like a wild man all of a sweat.

He forgot half his orders, and so mixed up the others that he was

kicked and cuffed about like a foot-ball by the noisy and by no means

polite strangers.

Take them altogether this half-dozen were as ugly and as

villanous-looking a lot as could be well met with anywhere.

They all had the marks of rogues and cut-throats engraven on their

countenances.

Some were decorated with black patches across the forehead, over the

eye, or on their high cheek bones.

One or two were minus an eye.

One individual’s nose was almost level with his face.

Several had part of their front teeth knocked out; but each had big

thick fists, with which from time to time they struck the table until

they made the glasses dance and ring again.

Loud and coarse was their laughter, and when they smiled at any

passing joke or observation, their countenances were more like those

of hyenas just about feeding time than human beings.

The recognised leader of this desperate half-dozen was called Captain

Jack, an individual of great strength, who delighted in much swearing

and obscene conversation. Jack what, no one knew for certain, not

even those who employed him.

When at last supper was provided for this very select and genteel

party they set to work vigorously with knives and forks, and soon

demolished a huge amount of meat and vegetables, more than would have

sufficed for any ordinary supper party of twenty individuals.

They feasted, and swore, and laughed, and bolted their food in a

heathenish style, as if all of them had been fasting for a month.

Long, copious draughts of various beverages washed the grog down

their capacious throats, and they occasionally enlivened the

proceedings by throwing potatoes at Nat the waiter, and hitting him

in the eye, on the nose, &c., until “Boots’s” face was bumped and

swollen.

When the repast was over these six elegant individuals and their

captain stretched themselves on chairs, and puffed clouds from long

pipes, as if they were the first gentlemen the land instead of the

greatest rascals unhung.

“As I was saying, lads,” Capt. Jack observed, after drinking some

brandy and water, “as I was saying I shouldn’t have taken this pretty

job in hand, you know, only it gave us all a chance to do a little

business on the road on our private account.”

“True,” growled Tom Bates, an oldish, ugly-looking person, with one

eye and a broken nose, “true, captain, and when yer did want anybody,

in course you knowed where to find ’em. Ah! we’ve had some r-a-r-e

old times together, haven’t we, cap’n?” said Bates, with a long-drawn

sigh, which he further suppressed with a flood of spiced ale down his

throat.

“True, Tom; but the idea of the ‘Baker’s Dozen,’ as we are called,

was yours.”

“In course it were,” said Bates. “But I arn’t at all proud; it were

only a lucky thought. When you got your fust job from the justices

what could a-been a neater idea than to have a company o’ twelve or

thirteen good trusty lads about ye, when times were busy, all sworn

to secrecy and fair shares o’ booty?”

[It must be here explained, for the reader’s information, that

Captain Jack had been such a noted thief and rascal in his time that

he had often been, and was now regularly, employed as thief-taker.]

But this position only gave him opportunities of becoming a still

greater scoundrel. With this view, he and Tom Bates formed the idea

of having a band of twelve or thirteen men, who should act under

the captain’s orders, and, under cover of being the thief-taker’s

occasional assistants, would thus have an ample chance of “turning a

dishonest penny to their own account.”

This was agreed upon, and the band formed; the name under which they

were known was the “Baker’s Dozen.”

Each man had a particular talent, one for house-breaking, a second

for counterfeiting, a third for horse-stealing, and so on.

The authorities never dreamed that such a banded company existed, and

placed all faith in Captain Jack, although he was the greatest rogue

in England, as will be seen in this exciting narrative.

“We’ve often heard the whole story before, Tom,” said Faulkner,

another of the company, “so cut it for the present; it’s been many a

good year in existence, and I warrant ye hadn’t as many grog blossoms

on your nose afore it started as ye have now.”

“Stow that, Faulkey,” said Bates. “I’ve got corns as well as grog

blossoms, mind, and you wouldn’t a-been one o’ the dozen at all ’cept

for me—no, that yer wouldn’t; but I know what yer would a been.”

“What?”

“Why, meat for vultures and night carrion birds, as pay their

respects to the gibbets.”

This remark made all laugh, for it was well-known among them that

Faulkner would have been hung on the charge of robbery had not Bates

induced Captain Jack to swear that he was innocent.

“Well, enough of charf,” said Captain Jack; “let’s to business. Is

that door shut?”

“Yes.”

“Well, let one of ye go and stand outside to give the office if any

one comes in.”

This was done.

They all clustered round the table, and dived their hands down into

their capacious pockets.

One produced a purse, another some finger and car-rings; two others

had a bundle of bank-notes, watches, snuff-boxes, the diamond hilts

of broken swords, jewelled shoe and dress buckles; and other things

of value were displayed.

“You haven’t been idle on the road, I see,” said Captain Jack, with

a grin. “This makes up for our unpleasant journey down here for that

silly bumpkin.”

While they were dividing the booty Captain Jack was deep in figures,

and so was Tom Bates, that the entire swag might be apportioned so as

to give themselves the greatest share.

While thus engaged, Bates raised his eyes towards the parlour window.

“Dam’me if there ain’t some one peeping through the round hole in the

shutter!” he stammered.

In an instant he pulled out his pistol, and fired!

The ball smashed the glass, and went right through the hole.

Some one was heard to fall outside.

Tom Bates rushed to the window, and flung the shutter open.

No one was there!

“Well, if I didn’t hit him, I must have shaved him closely,” said

Bates, and closed the window again.

The moment Captain Jack had divided the spoil, a horseman was heard

to halt at the inn door.

“A traveller, and at this late hour. Who can it be?” said the select

party in the parlour. “Who can it be?”

“Here, waiter” said one and another, “don’t let the place be

over-crowded, there are seven of our party here already; you can’t

accommodate any more.”

“I swear I’ll have no half bed to-night.”

“Nor I either.”

“Tell him to seek lodgings elsewhere in the village, landlord!”

“He shan’t sleep with _me_,” growled Bates, “whoever he is.”

“You needn’t put yourself out of temper, friend,” said the stranger,

entering in a free and easy manner. “You needn’t put yourself into

any flurry, for I wouldn’t have such an ugly-looking bed-fellow for

all the gold in England.”

As he said this he cut Bates across the shoulders with his

riding-whip.

“Hillo, what means this?” said Bates, spluttering with rage, “_I_

say, my fine, dandy gentleman, do you know who you’re cutting about

the shoulders with your riding-whip? Take no such liberties, young

man, or you may repent of it.”

“Tut, tut, man, you don’t know how to stand a joke.”

“That’s no joke, as you’ll quickly find, if you’re not very civil,”

growled Bates, puffing his pipe.

“This parlour is engaged,” said Captain Jack.

“I see it is,” the stranger said, coolly.

“The beds are all engaged.”

“You had better go elsewhere.”

“We don’t wish to be disturbed; we are all friends here.”

“So I perceive,” said the stranger, coolly; “and I’m the last man in

the wide world to make you enemies.”

He was cloaked, and wore his hat over his eyes. A strongly-built,

elegant-looking gentleman he was, with pale face, fine eyes, and a

dashing moustache.

His hands were remarkably white, but he seemed to have the strength

of a vice in them.

He took a chair, and drew up to the fire.

“That chair belongs to one of our party, sir,” said Faulkner.

“Then let him get another,” said the new arrival, very coolly.

“Waiter, bring me a bottle of wine, and call the landlord. I wish to

speak to him.”

Nat brought the wine.

The stranger sipped it, threw a sovereign to the waiter in a careless

manner, saying—

“Keep the change. Here, landlord, I want my horse looked after, give

him the best stall in the stable.”

“There is not a stall vacant, sir.”

“Then turn some horse out, and put mine in. I want a bed also, the

best bed in the inn.”

“All my beds are occupied.”

“It matters not; do as I tell you, or you’ll repent it.”

“You are a werry rude bragadocia fellow to speak thus in the presence

of gentlemen,” said Tom Bates to the stranger.

“What do you say, old bilberry nose? Mind your own business.”

“I say, sir, that in the presence of gentlemen—”

“Gentlemen, ha! ha!—that’s good, hang me if it isn’t—you look very

much like a gentleman, certainly; if that large wart was off the tip

of your nose it would much improve your appearance.”

“Sir-r-r!” growled Bates, rising in anger. “What do you mean? Do you

know who _I am_?” said he, slapping his sword hilt.

“Oh, sit down and take it coolly,” the stranger replied, laughing.

“Don’t stand there gaping like a half-stuck pig. Know you, of course

I know you.”

“Then, sir, if you do, you know me to be a gentleman—an administrator

of justice.”

“I know you to be a d—d old thief, the biggest liar, and, at a pinch,

the biggest coward in all London,” the stranger replied.

“Thief! liar! coward!” gasped Bates, whipping out his sword. “If you

are a man, defend yourself.”

“If you are not a fool, sit down; you can’t frighten me. I’m too old

a bird for that.”

This quarrel had now thoroughly aroused Captain Jack’s party, who

were noisy and boisterous; but they did not interfere, for they

imagined that Bates was more than a match for the stranger.

“Draw, I say!” growled Bates, “or I’ll slay ye like a dog! Clear the

way, there, comrades; leave this impudent rascal to me.”

“Sit down, or I’ll knock your head off!” was the cool reply.

Bates, all furious and maddened at the stranger’s calmness, made a

fierce lunge at him.

The instant he did so, however, the stranger fired a pistol, and

knocked the large wart from the tip of Bates’s nose, and next instant

gave him such a smack on the jaw as laid that hero sprawling on the

floor.

Tom Bates was thunderstruck, and sat upon the floor looking at the

stranger with eyes of wonderment.

His friends were equally astonished, and for a moment it looked as if

the whole party were intent on slaying the new comer.

“Stand back,” said he, waving them off; “put up your sword. I fear ye

not, vagabonds, but listen to me; if one dare approach nearer I’ll

scalp him.”

There was so much of determination, and an air of superiority about

him, that all stood still and looked at him as if transfixed to the

spot.

“Listen to me, knaves,” said he, eyeing every one of them with a keen

look. “How many chief high roads are there leading out of London?”

“Thirteen,” Captain Jack answered, after a moment’s thought. “But

what has that got to do with us?”

“Much more than you imagine. Since you left London, a new gibbet has

been erected on each of those thirteen highways, just where they

branch off at the cross roads.”

“Well!” said all in a breath, “and what of that? I don’t understand

what all of this means.”

“But _I_ do! It means this: those gibbets have been raised at the

sole expense of a particular friend of yours.”

“For whom?”

“For each of you.”

“And who is this very particular, very dear, friend of ourn?” growled

Faulkner.

“I am he!” said the stranger.

The rascals were tongue-tied at the stranger’s boldness as he went on.

“You came to conduct Bob Bertram to London?”

“We did! who could have told you?”

“Who told me that each of you went plundering on the way, and divided

the booty just now?”

“Ha!” said Captain Jack; “watched, betrayed!”

“Silence,” said the stranger; “if you do not wish to be gibbeted

before your time. This youth is accused of murder, but he did it not.

He is not in Darlington gaol.”

“Not in gaol?”

“No; he has escaped.”

“How know you this?”

“I just came from the village. All is in an uproar. Wildfire Ned, Sir

Richard Warbeck’s adopted nephew, is the hero who released him.”

The thievish thief-takers were amazed at what they heard.

“And now,” said the stranger; “since your mission here is ended,

return to town; do you hear me? Return this very hour and carry this

strange news to the proper authorities. And mark me, Captain Jack,

every one of you remember that if you do not track and discover the

real murderer of Farmer Bertram in less than two months, I’ll report

you to the king; your death-warrants are now in my pocket. See them,”

said the stranger, exhibiting a bundle of printed forms. “Here is one

for Captain Jack, another for this red-nosed ass on the floor—Bates,

I mean—a third for Faulkner there; in fine, I have been kind enough

to provide each of you with a passport into the other world. As you

may observe, they only require _my_ signature.”

“And who the devil _are_ you?” gasped out one and all.

“I’ll let you see—but I had better write it on one of these

death-warrants, say yours, Captain Jack, it will save me trouble

afterwards. Landlord, pen and ink.”

“Do you know _that_ name?” said the stranger, after writing it.

All the rascals looked at it in astonishment.

“The devil!” said Captain Jack.

“Not the devil, exactly,” said the stranger coolly; “but your very

humble servant, _Colonel Blood_! a gentleman, I can assure you, who

will feel great pleasure in introducing each of you to the common

hangman, unless you produce in two months the real murderer of Farmer

Bertram, and serve me at all times.”

The stranger was in truth no other than Colonel Blood, but what

brought him so far from London was a mystery which we shall have to

clear up shortly.

CHAPTER IX.

THE MILLER’S DAUGHTER—COLONEL BLOOD FALLS INTO ROUGH HANDS—THE

MURDER ON THE BRIDGE.

The reason that Colonel Blood was so far from London is easily

explained by what took place in Darlington the second night of his

visit.

The miller of the village, Hugh Harmer, had a very pretty daughter

named Ellen, who was the pride and the toast of the surrounding

country.

Like a hawk poised in the air, gazing on his intended prey below, did

Colonel Blood hover around Hugh Harmer’s house close by the bubbling

and splashing mill-stream.

He had espied Ellen by chance, and in her saw not the virtuous

village maiden, but a beautiful object for his master, the Merry

Monarch, who, Blood knew, would pay any price to gratify his beastial

passions.

Captain Jack and his rough party had left the inn but half-an-hour,

when a card was brought to Blood by some one old Horn had never seen

before.

“Admit the stranger, landlord,” said Blood.

A sorrowful-looking fellow walked in, hat in hand. He was very wet

from head to foot, and his clothes were in rags around him.

“Have you seen her?”

“Her answer is here,” said the stranger, producing a small note out

of his breast pocket.

Blood tore it open, and read it.

His eye sparkled with fire, and his handsome features twitched as he

perused its contents, which ran as follows:—

“SIR,—Our first meeting, I fear, has caused much uneasiness and

unhappiness to both.

“But, notwithstanding your constant letters and frequent visits to

Darlington, I fear that your intentions cannot be so disinterested

towards me as your eloquent notes would have me believe.

“This thought has often occurred to my mind since I first

imprudently met you, and is more and more confirmed by the

fact that you impress upon me the necessity of keeping our

correspondence a secret from my dear old father, which no person,

having honourable intentions, would ever propose to a simple

country girl.

“As a last favour I beg that you will no more insult me with your

proposals of eloping from my father’s roof, or ever again presume

to throw yourself purposely in my path to pour poisonous councils

into my ears.

“In fine, sir, I fear I have too long been the dupe of your

designs, and until, as a virtuous girl, I can sign my name on the

marriage register of the village church, I will never leave my

father’s home, even should I love the man ever so much who bade me

act otherwise.

“Your humble servant,

“ELLEN HARMER.”

“Clever as she’s pretty; but quick and sharp as a needle,” thought

Blood. “So much the better for King Charles.”

“Did you miss the old man as usual?” asked Blood.

“No, sir; for once he caught me,” said the servant, with a very

rueful face.

“Then you had an adventure. What said he to you?”

“‘Oh! it’s you, is it? Here again, eh, and always when I’m out,’ says

he, flourishing his walking, stick, and then he shouted to the dogs,

‘On to him Rover! give it him, Spot! hold tight, Jip!’ and all the

while he was laying on to me with his thick stick without mercy.

“Quite a pleasant affair,” said Blood, with a smile.

“Yes, sir, to think about; but not very agreeable if you have to go

through it.”

“Well, well, I don’t wonder why old Harmer takes so much care of her,

for she’s one of the daintiest little maidens that ever trod the

earth,” said Blood. “No matter, if he had her locked up in a castle

it would be all the same, she must be the king’s. To-night is the

last time she’ll sleep under her father’s roof. Come, Jonas,” for

such was his shivering servant’s name; “go change your clothes, and

have a stiff glass of brandy, I shall want you about midnight to go

to the miller’s house with me.”

“Again to-night, sir?” gasped Jonas. “Why, only you look here,”

and as he turned round he exhibited to his master the seat of his

trousers, his cloak, and other parts of his attire all in ribands.

“Never mind, Jonas, you always had a reputation for courage; here’s a

guinea for you. Go, prepare yourself.”

Midnight was passed, and at an appointed time Jonas met his master,

and both proceeded towards the miller’s.

Colonel Blood sauntered along in the silence of the night towards

Harmer’s house, as handsome, bold, and cool-handed a knave as ever

lived.

He had just reached the narrow mill bridge, when he perceived the

dark figure of a young man leaning over the hand-rail, and gazing in

the shining water. Directly he heard the approach of footsteps, he

turned, and his eyes sparkled with fierce delight.

“’Tis he!” said the young man, “I cannot be mistaken. I have long

desired this meeting. I came to bury myself beneath these shining

waters, but ere I do, let me crush the skull of this villain, who

has ruined me and blasted all my happiness; for, before his accursed

shadow darkened our village, I was happy: but now, alas! Ellen

Harmer’s heart is another’s.”

Colonel Blood approached, and had reached the centre of the bridge,

when the youth suddenly confronted him with boldness and flashing

eyes.

“What, Andrew Gamble!” said Blood, starting back a step or two in

surprise.

“Aye!” said Andrew, with a quivering lip. “Does that name startle

your wicked heart?”

“Startle _me_, knave!” said Blood, with an air of great contempt.

“Make way, there! why do you cross my path again?”

“Because you’ve crossed mine, and shall die,” said Andrew, advancing.

“Make way, there, I say!” said Blood, drawing his sword. “Let me

pass, I like not your looks—there is murder in your eyes. Make way, I

tell ye, before I cleave ye to the ground.”

NOTICE TO OUR READERS.

REMEMBER!—A most valuable present is in preparation, and will be

presented to all our regular Subscribers with an early Number. Full

particulars will be announced in No. 6.

[Illustration: THE FIGHT BETWEEN WILDFIRE NED AND THE SKELETON CREW.]

“Ha! ha!” laughed Andrew, “you can flourish your toasting-fork, I

see, just as cleverly as I can my father’s flail; but you don’t

frighten me, for all that, fine gentleman as you are.”

“Once, for all, make, way fellow! or I’ll cleave your skull,” said

Blood. “I cannot afford to waste valuable time in parleying with a

country clown.”

He had scarcely spoken the word, when Andrew Gamble rushed suddenly

upon his enemy and disarmed him in an instant.

Colonel Blood was thunderstruck.

The action had been so sudden, and the weapon so cleverly wrenched

from his grasp, that he stood gaping in surprise.

“Make way there,” said Andrew, flourishing the sword in a malicious

manner, much as a rustic would a stout oak cudgel.

Colonel Blood retired a pace or two in evident fear of his brawny

antagonist.

“Villain! you quail,” said Andrew, with a savage laugh; “you quail

and turn pale before the very man you just now threatened; but fear

not, I will not, as you would have done, raise my weapon against a

defenceless man. I could take thy life; for, until the unlucky day

your shadow darkened our village, I was happy. Happy! aye, as happy

as a king. I loved, and was loved in return, but your hellish schemes

and flattery have torn her from me; you have poured poison into my

loved one’s ear, you have taught her to despise the one who would

willingly have laid down his life for her. Listen, villain, your

rascality has long been known to me, but chance has never thrown

me in your way until now, and here upon the mill bridge, in the

stillness of the night, let me tell you that one or both of us must

_die_!”

These words were uttered by Andrew Gamble with a great effort.

His manly breast heaved, and his voice became tremulous as, in a few

words, he disclosed the secret, and the cause of his enmity to the

stranger.

“_Die!_” said Blood, calmly, but with a trembling lip.

He seemed charmed and fixed to the spot by the fierce brilliancy of

Andrew’s eyes.

“_Die!_” he muttered again, half aloud.

“Yes, _die_!” said young Gamble, with a fiery pride. “Think you I

care to live and see Ellen Harmer given to another? Could I, can I

live, now that the only charm life had for me is snatched away?”

“I never harmed you,” said Blood, coolly and collectedly.

“’Tis false, villain!” the youth replied. “Have you not had spies

around her? have you not dazzled her with your dishonest words and

manner? have you not written dozens of letters to her inviting her

to run from her father’s home, and become a lady in London? Why not

show your face at her father’s house like any honest man? Why traduce

me? Am I not as good as you? If you are a man so am I; we are equal;

the tinsel and ribbons of your court-cut coat makes you no better

gentleman than Andrew Gamble, the farmer’s son. Nay, curl not your

lip, but hear me. This meeting: it is our first and last. You see

this sword,” said Andrew, passionately; “there is but one between us,

we will divide it.”

So saying, he placed the weapon across his knee, and snapped it in

twain.

“Choose,” said Andrew, “the hilt or point, whiche’er you will.”

“You are bent upon bloodshed,” said the colonel; “you are rash, wild,

and know not what you do; neither do you know me, if you did you

would tremble at such an encounter. I am the best swordsman in all

England.”

“And I the worst,” said Andrew; “it matters not, come on.”

Colonel Blood took the point half of the broken sword and wrapped his

handkerchief round the thick end for a handle.

Andrew had the thick half.

The two blades met.

Blood was as cool as ice.

There was upon his handsome face a smile of confidence and contempt

for his rustic rival.

Andrew, on the contrary, was all on fire, and trembled with haste and

excitement.

In an encounter between two such swordsmen the result could not for a

moment be doubtful.

Andrew made a lunge that was prettily stopped by Colonel Blood.

His next attempt, however, was more successful.

Andrew rushed to closer distance, and pricked the arm, from which

blood flowed copiously.

“Damnation!” swore the infuriated swordsman. “To be beaten by this

country clown is a lasting disgrace; nevertheless, he shan’t live to

boast of it!”

He gathered himself together for a final stroke, which would have

proved fatal to the brave rustic, but Andrew turned the colonel’s

point.

A desperate struggle now ensued on the narrow bridge.

They seized each other by the throat.

Their weapons were in dead lock.

A single moment would decide all.

The strength of each was about equal, and giant-like were their

struggles.

But a trick saved Blood.

He quickly placed one foot behind Andrew’s leg and back-heeled him.

This was fatal to Andrew.

He fell.

In the act of falling Colonel Blood stabbed him.

The brave rustic threw up his hands with a sharp cry of pain, and

rolled into the shining river.

“Fool!” said Colonel Blood, with a contemptuous oath, as he looked

into the bright waters beneath him, rippling and eddying in the

moonlight. “Fool! How dare the village dolt to cross my path; so be

it with all who dare cross the path of Colonel Blood.”

He threw the red blade into the small narrow river stream, and bound

up his arm with his handkerchief.

“Now for the pretty wench,” said he. “If I succeed in carrying her

forth, my fortune is made. Stop! what was that sound?”

He stood and listened.

“Help! help!” cried a distant voice. “Murder! Help! help!”

CHAPTER X.

JONAS MEETS WITH A STRANGE ADVENTURE.

When Jonas left his master to go to their rendezvous he little dreamt

of what was in store for him.

The horses and carriage were drawn up at the appointed spot, and

Jonas, thinking of the large reward which the colonel had often

promised him, was on the bright look out for the pre-arranged signal.

Now, as we have seen, Miller Harmer had been informed of this

mysterious stranger in Darlington, and had watched him and his

servant, and even heard the pre-arranged signal.

He had long sighed for an opportunity of confronting the bold

stranger, who so slyly had crept into the good graces of his

daughter, but whose name, rank, and intentions he knew not.

The first thing to do was to procure assistance.

He went straightway to the lock-up, and informed the authorities of

his suspicions.

“It may be one of them chaps as came in masks t’other night and

rescued Bob Bertram,” said a burly officer, indignant at the idea of

the disgrace which had thus been cast upon them.

For it must be explained here that Wildfire Ned and his groom had

effected Bob’s rescue in the manner described about one o’clock in

the morning, when all the village was wrapped in sleep, and the two

constables on guard were half tipsy.

“If it only be one o’ _them_ chaps,” said the chief officer, “I’d

give a hundred gold pieces, that I would, for I shall never rest

content till I have cracked one o’ their skulls; the mean devils, to

come when no one expected on ’em, and fight their way in and out of

the lock-up.”

This thought was alike echoed by all.

They felt great annoyance that two youths should have possessed the

nerve and courage to fall upon the lock-up guard, and thrash them as

Wildfire Ned and Tim the groom had done.

If Ned had sent warning that he was coming to rescue Bob, the

constables, of course, would have been there a dozen strong to oppose

him, and this they considered would have been “fair play.”

But now that Miller Harmer brought information that there was more

than one suspicious stranger in the village, the constable made sure

that they were the identical two they so much desired to capture.

From the bustle and preparations made by the half dozen constables

one would suppose that the valiant guardians of the public peace were

bent upon storming some castle or stronghold.

With lanterns and staves and clubs they sallied forth.

“Lead on, Mr. Miller,” said the chief, buttoning up his doublet.

“Lead on, sir, we’ll give the two rascals such a dressing as they

never had before in all their lives.”

Old Harmer conducted the constables to his mill.

He unlocked the huge doors and admitted them.

They hid themselves behind a lowering pile of corn and flour sacks,

and darkened their lanterns.

“Stand firm, my merry men,” said the chief of the party. “Stand firm;

and when the signal is given arrest the rascal as he enters.”

Miller Harmer now went to the half-opened door.

He gave three shrill whistles, each after an interval of about half a

minute.

“Here the villain comes,” said Harmer, hiding himself.

Jonas at that moment was observed approaching in a stealthy, cat-like

manner, crawling along under the shadow of the trees and cottages of

the village.

He was seen to stop once or twice, and look furtively around him.

He did not know why, but a feeling of suspicion assured him that in

some way his master’s scheme for abducting Ellen Harmer would involve

heavy blows, if not broken sconces.

He had armed himself, therefore, with a stout, short club of oak,

which he concealed under his cloak.

As he approached the mill door he was half-inclined to run away again.

“Courage, Jonas, courage,” said he to himself, half aloud. “Remember

the rich reward in store for you. The colonel, my master, is a

bold, brave devil, and I must be so likewise. So I am,” said Jonas,

slapping his chest. “Who knows but what I may be a gentleman one of

these fine days, if all goes on well? Won’t that be grand? Courage,

then, Jonas; none but the brave deserve the fair. Onward! rewards

and honour await you! That whistle, though, didn’t much sound like

master’s,” he thought, “and yet it must be. There it is again. All

is right; the girl is secured. Onward, Jonas; teach these rustic

villagers what brave stuff Londoners are made of.”

He crept towards the mill slowly and very carefully, and it must be

confessed that his legs trembled violently under him, and his teeth

chattered.

“He comes,” said the miller, in a half-whisper. “Make ready to

receive him.”

Jonas crawled up to the half-opened mill-door, and peered into the

darkness before him.

“That you, master?” he whispered.

“Y-e-e-s,” was the soft answer.

“Have you got the maiden safe and sound?”

“Y-e-e-s.”

“Won’t the old miller be surprised in the morning when he finds she’s

gone, ha! ha!” chuckled Jonas.

He passed the threshold, and was much astonished to see the door shut

behind him.

Before he had time to breathe freely a long staff was aimed at his

head.

The stroke was well intended, and a powerful one also; but it missed

the right object, and fell with a hard crack on the head of a

constable by mistake in the darkness.

A loud groan and a curse followed the fall of the oaken staff.

In an instant Jonas comprehended all.

He was entrapped, and escape impossible.

“Oh! the bloodthirsty scoundrels!” he groaned. “That blow was meant

for me.”

He produced his own small cudgel, and laid about him right and left

in the darkness.

He then fell upon his hands and knees, and crawled from the midst of

his enemies.

Total darkness prevented the officers from seeing what they were

doing or ought to do.

But they hit right and left among themselves, and some of them were

tripped up by Jonas.

“I’ve got him! I’ve got him!” roared the chief constable. “He tried

to crawl through my legs, but couldn’t.”

“Give it to him, then!” said another.

And sure enough the chief constable _did_ give it to him.

But he had the wrong man between his legs, and was pounding away on

the back of an unlucky prostrate comrade, like as if he were thumping

a big drum.

Shouts, oaths, and groans were now heard on all sides.

Jonas, as nimble as a monkey, climbed on to the sacks of flour piled

up right and left.

His own weight toppled them over.

They fell among the combatants, and knocked several of them over.

Old Harmer, surprised at the change in the state of things, and,

fearful that Jonas should escape, rushed to a long rope, and pulled

the mill bell, which hung in an old tower.

He tugged away, and alarmed the whole village.

In less than five minutes the male portion of the villagers rushed

forth from their houses, half dressed.

Dogs barked, men shouted, women screamed, and children cried.

All was now a scene of great excitement and confusion.

Some armed with pokers, tongs, old rusty swords, pitchforks, and

oaken clubs, rushed along the village green.

“To the mill! To the mill!” roared some.

“’Tis the Skeleton Crew!” shrieked others.

“They have murdered the miller, and run off with Ellen!”

“The constables are half murdered!”

“On, lads, on!”

These and similar shouts were now heard on every hand.

The rustics looked pale and startled at the bare mention of the

Skeleton Crew, for they had long known what a savage, remorseless

band they were.

Many, at the bare mention of the Skeleton Crew, ran into their

cottages again, and barred their doors.

Not a few fell on their knees, and began to mumble out their prayers

in a very rapid manner.

Some dozen or more stout-hearted, broad-backed fellows, however,

boldly ran towards the mill, and dashed in.

They asked no questions, but commenced to hit right and left in the

darkness, and it was some time ere they discovered their mistake.

When they did, however, they began to swear at each other in a very

violent manner; nor did they heed the sighs and groans of the chief

constable and his unlucky followers, who were half smothered under

the sacks of flour.

They searched the mill in every direction, but, for full

half-an-hour, were unable to discover Master Jonas.

That worthy youth had clambered over the sacks, and made his way up

to the third story of the mill.

He looked in every direction for some means to escape, but found none.

The infuriated rustics, led on by old Harmer himself, now ascended

the stairs in single file, and instituted a vigorous search.

They brought with them several dogs to assist in the affair.

One of these, more diligent in his search than others, scented out

Master Jonas, who was concealed behind a flour-bin.

He might have long remained there, unknown to the searchers, but the

miller’s dog gave Jonas such a quiet nip in the leg, as made that

worthy howl aloud with pain.

“He’s here!”

“We’ve got him!”

“No you haven’t,” said Jonas.

With a sudden bound he rushed from his hiding place, and dashed

towards the two trap-doors through which the sacks were raised from

below.

They stood open; and in front of him dangled a long rope almost to

the ground.

This he seized, and began to slide down with the skill of an acrobat.

But an accident happened to him that he least expected.

The crane was pushed out from the wall, and, to Jonas’s horror, he

found himself dangling right over the mill-dam!

“Oh, the murdering villains! What must I do now?” thought the

luckless servant. “They have shoved out the crane, and here am I

dancing between the sky and a deep mill-dam.”

“Cut the rope! cut the rope!”

“Drown the rascal!”

“He can’t escape!”

“Lower the rope!”

“No, cut it—cut it!” roared old Harmer. “D—n the rope, so we capture

the villain.”

With right good-will, several began to cut and hack the rope.

Jonas felt the rope’s vibration, and shut his eyes.

“It’s all over, now,” he said. “D—n the colonel, and all Darlington

put together. I wish I was safe in London again. If this is the grand

reward the colonel promised me, confusion to him.”

Jonas had a passing desire to say his prayers, but he was such a

thoughtless knave that he had forgotten them long ago.

“That’s it, that’s it,” cried many voices.

“Help! murder! thieves! cut-throats! help—help!” shouted a dozen

voices.

This was the confusion and noise which Colonel Blood had heard when

he took the last glance at Andrew Gamble, who was carried away by the

stream.

But he never for a moment dreamed that all this distant hubbub was

occasioned by the tight rope performance of his man, Jonas.

With a vigorous cut, the rope was at last severed!

Amid the shouts and cheers of the bystanders, Jonas fell from a

height of twenty feet right into the deep mill-dam, with a loud

splash!

“Fish him out, fish him out, lads; we musn’t let the rogue escape us

now. He is one of those who rescued Bob Bertram.”

Poor Jonas rose to the surface, and in desperate despair clung to the

branch of an overhanging tree, some distance from the edge of the dam.

In a moment the villagers were very busy with pitchforks, rakes, and

the like, “fishing him out.”

One fellow, with more vigour than judgment, took aim with his long

fork, but missed his distance, and gave Jonas a painful thrust in his

seat of honour, instead of hooking his clothes, as intended.

“Five gold pieces to any one who secures the villain,” roared the

chief constable, who now rushed upon the scene, puffing and blowing.

The promised reward caused a very great deal of excitement in those

present.

A rope was now procured.

With great dexterity some one present made a noose in it, and very

cleverly threw it over Jonas’s head.

“Pull away, lads,” said the rope-thrower. “Now, then, all together!”

“You’ll choke the varlet,” some one said.

“Small odds,” said the rope-thrower, “small odds, so we get him dead

or alive.”

“Now, then,” said another, “altogether; a strong pull, and a long

pull, mind.”

So vigorously did they haul away at the rope that in less than a

minute Jonas was dragged to the bank, half-strangled and half-drowned.

“Light ho! lights here!” cried a dozen voices, and lamps were

immediately brought to the spot.

“That’s him! that’s one on ’em!” said the chief constable. “I could

tell him out of a hundred; that’s him as has been prowling about

Darlington, and rescued Bob Bertram.”

“He looks a villain every inch of him,” said old Harmer. “I’m sorry

we haven’t got t’other; he’s the worst of the two; and the rascals

ain’t satisfied with what they’ve already done, but must concoct a

scheme for running off with my daughter Ellen.”

“Horrible!”

“Aw-ful!” chimed in one and another.

“Undo the rope,” said the chief constable, “at least, loosen it a

bit; we don’t want to hang him yet.”

“No; that fun has to come,” said another, with a loud laugh.

“Bring him along, lads; I’ll lead the way with the light!” said the

chief constable.

And poor Jonas was dragged forth to prison with a long halter around

his neck.

He was dripping wet, and soaked to the marrow.

His thighs were bruised and wounded by cuffs, the fork-prongs, and

dog-bites.

His legs trembled from under him.

Dogs barked at him, men jeered, and women clapped their hands.

He was cast into gaol by the chief constable with looks of

professional pride and triumph.

“Got one of the scoundrels, any how!” said he.

Wet and exhausted as he was, and presenting a very sorry sight,

Master Jonas was thrust into a cell.

The villagers crowded around him and gazed through the prison

bars, with gaping mouths, as if they were looking at some strange,

half-tamed animal in a travelling menagerie.

But what has become of his master, Colonel Blood?

The next chapter will show.

CHAPTER XI.

THE ABDUCTION—THE SKELETON DANCE—THE PURSUIT—HORRIBLE DOINGS IN THE

VILLAGE.

The sounds which Colonel Blood had heard for a moment aroused his

bold spirit, and as he crossed the mill bridge, slowly and calmly, he

resolved upon arriving at some explanation concerning it.

But the very hubbub and confusion which reigned were of infinite use

to him in regard to his projected scheme with the pretty Ellen Harmer.

Her father, the miller, and the whole of the villagers, as we have

seen, were thoroughly aroused and greatly incensed at the behaviour

of Jonas.

Some began to talk of hanging the unlucky servant on the morrow, and,

dark as it was, they gathered together in groups, discussing the

subject with great animation and many angry gestures.

But this very confusion assisted the bold, conscienceless colonel.

He walked up to the miller’s house, and found it deserted.

Not a soul was in the dwelling, save Ellen herself.

Half stupefied with the strange stories she had heard, Ellen remained

in her own chamber, trembling that the Skeleton Crew were in the

village.

A single lamp burned dimly in the miller’s parlour.

Colonel Blood, as he crept towards the house, felt satisfied that she

was alone.

“Now is my time,” said he; “none but the brave deserve the fair; now

or never.”

He walked boldly into the house, opened the parlour door hastily, and

entered the apartment.

Ellen had been on her knees praying, and her face was deadly pale.

She started suddenly as she saw the handsome stranger enter.

“Fly! fly for your life, fair maid,” said Blood, in accents of alarm.

“What means this intrusion, sir?” said Ellen, drawing herself up to

her full height, and with a proud look. “What means this strange

intrusion?”

“It means this, Miss Harmer, that the village has been set upon by

that desperate gang called the Skeleton Crew, and that they are

intent upon murdering all who oppose them. Fly! I beg of you, do not

delay a single instant, or all may be lost!”

“Sir!” cried Ellen, half aloud, distrustful of her own senses, and

yet knowing not whether to believe or disbelieve the colonel’s words.

“Nay, stop not to parley, dear Ellen,” said Blood, taking her by the

hand; “there is not a single moment to be lost in explanation. Feel

satisfied that what I say is true. Your father has sent me; he begged

of me to conduct you to a place of safety until such times as the

horrible Skeleton Band should have departed again.”

“Sir, all this may be true, but how am I to know it for a certainty?”

“Nay; do not hesitate: Your very life may depend upon it.”

“And my honour also, sir,” said Ellen, with a proud look. “Honour to

me is dearer than life.”

“Great Patience!” said Blood, in a petulant manner. “Would you not

save your father’s life?”

“My father’s life?” said Ellen, suddenly changing colour. “Is he in

danger, then?”

“He is. He is now in the power of the Skeleton Crew, and if you are

found here five minutes longer you will surely be dragged off a

captive by Death-wing, their chief.”

“Whither, then, would you lead me?”

“To Darlington Hall. Sir Richard and his servants are out and armed

against this famous band. It is by old Sir Richard’s desire, coupled

with your father’s, that I now come here.”

“Then you are known to Sir Richard?”

“Yes, fair one. I am a nephew of his. I have used deception with you

up to the present; but the time is now past for all that. I am Sir

Richard’s nephew. Come, fly with me to the Hall, ’tis the only place

of safety. Remember the dreadful scenes which have been enacted round

the coast by this horrible band, and flee on the instant.”

Ellen seemed stupefied by all she heard, and mechanically threw a

light wrapper round her shoulders.

In a few moments she left her father’s house, misled and deceived by

the oily tongue of as great and fearless a scoundrel as ever lived.

“This way!—this way!” said Blood, blandly. “Haste, fair one, haste!”

He placed a rough, strong arm round the maiden’s waist, and helped

her along.

“This way is the nearest,” he said, with a grim smile of

satisfaction, as they both hurriedly approached the mill bridge.

When they were about to cross, several of the planks being old,

loose, and rotten, began to creak ominously, and the winds sighed

dolefully.

Ellen stopped for a moment.

Her eyes enlarged to twice their ordinary size.

She saw something on the bridge that startled her.

“What is that?” she said, half-gasping, pointing to something on the

planks which looked red.

“Oh! nothing, nothing, fair one,” said Blood, grimly smiling.

“But it _is_ something,” said Ellen, turning pale, and gazing

intently. “Look! see here—and here—and here—they are large clots of

gore!”

“Impossible!” said Blood, coolly.

“Yes, they are; and here,” she said, “is part of a broken sword. How

came all this? Nay, do not hurry me onward. I tremble—my feet refuse

to walk, for I fear something horrible may obstruct my path.”

“Nonsense! nonsense, fair creature!” said Blood. “If anything has

happened it is all the doings of that horrible band of Skeletons.

Nothing more. If you wish to escape yourself, follow my advice at

once.”

“I will, I will,” said Ellen Harmer, trembling in every limb.

She and the colonel had crossed half of the bridge when both suddenly

stopped.

“What was that?” said the miller’s daughter, looking pale as death.

“What voice was that?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing, fair one; ’twas only the murmuring of the wind

among the oziers on the river bank, or perhaps the babbling waters.

Come, quickly, I say!”

“Oh, help! murder!” sighed a voice near by among the ozier bushes.

“D—nation!” growled Blood, half to himself, “that lout is still

alive! Would for a thousand crowns he were dead! Come, lassie, think

no more of it; it was your imagination only, nothing else, I assure

you.”

“Oh, help!” sighed the voice again, faintly. “Ellen Harmer, I am

dying! Beware of the courtly villain! Help!”

“’Tis _my_ name that he calls,” said Ellen, turning red. “Unhand me,

sir; and if you are a man help me to discover who and what this poor

creature is!”

“Help!” faintly sighed the voice from among the trees.

“’Tis the voice of Andrew,” said Ellen. “Some foul villany has been

here at work; this blood upon the planks is his!”

“Help!”

“’Tis Andrew Gamble’s voice.”

“D—nation!” growled Blood, and, then, in a persuasive voice, “Come,

fair one, come; ’tis all imagination, believe me! Hark! do you

hear the loud shouts of the villagers? Come, let’s haste away; the

Skeleton Crew are butchering all they fall across. Come, haste!”

Blood put his strong arm round Ellen’s waist, and half by persuasion,

half by force, bore her away, pale, trembling, and more dead than

alive.

“Egad! ’twas well I used mild force with the pretty wench,” said

he, “or she would have discovered all. I must return, if possible,

and give that rustic a finishing touch; it will never do to let him

recover and go babbling over the village, or we may be traced to

London, and then all fun would end. ’Twas lucky she didn’t look in

the right direction as I did, or she would have seen Master Andrew

washed by the river among the bull-rushes on the bank. I just caught

sight of his face in the fitful moonlight; how white and horrible it

looked!”

He was so impatient to bear off Ellen Harmer to his carriage that he

actually took her up in his arms.

This he explained to the struggling maid by saying that they were

pursued.

Faint, weak, pale, and unresisting as she was, Ellen Harmer was so

terrified at all she had heard, that it took but little to convince

her that what all Blood had said was true.

With the soft tongue of a deceiver, then, he consoled her; while,

with the strength of a young ox, he tore off his fair prize with the

greatest ease.

“This is a good night’s work,” thought he, as he hurried forward;

“his majesty will amply reward me for all this trouble, and, who

knows, may raise me to the peerage, for many a man has had that

reward for doing less than I have.”

Thus he mused as he went on his way.

Ere long he approached the spot where Jonas had agreed to place his

carriage and horses.

His own saddle horse was there, truly, but not the carriage.

“How is this?” growled Blood. “Surely that fool, Jonas, could not

have misunderstood me? I told him near this spot.”

He was now approaching the church, and resolved to wait near an old

archway close beside the village green, with its May-pole, until such

time as Jonas should appear with the carriage.

He remained close under the shadow of the old archway, but all was

still.

The village green, with its May-pole, was deserted.

Not a soul was visible.

He threw his cloak around the miller’s daughter, and tried to comfort

her.

All at once, he was astonished at the sight he saw.

His own carriage dashed up, and passed him at a furious rate.

The driver was a skeleton!

Behind the carriage stood, in grim outlines, two skeleton footmen,

cocked-hats and all.

Inside, Colonel Blood could see four or five skeletons, who grinned

and laughed hideously as they looked out of the window and shook

their bony hands in triumph.

In the midst of the inside passengers, Colonel Blood saw two

prisoners.

One was the Colonel’s coachman, the other was the fellow-footman of

poor Jonas!

This unearthly and ghastly apparition was not seen by Ellen Harmer,

for Blood’s cloak had been adroitly thrown over her head and face the

moment the strange and horrible coachman appeared in sight.

It must be confessed that this coach-load of grim skeletons filled

the colonel with wonder, if not with fear.

“I should never have believed it had I not seen it,” mused the bold

colonel.

At that moment his horror even increased tenfold, as was that of the

fair Ellen.

Loud laughter was heard proceeding from the village green.

It sounded not like that of mortal.

He hastily turned his head, as also did Ellen.

They both looked through the old archway towards the May-pole.

The sight they then beheld was appalling.

Round the May-pole danced a circle of skeletons!

On top of it there sat perched a grim-looking skeleton, playing

ear-piercing, diabolical music from some sort of flute made out of

human bones.

One of the dancers had a tambourine, with jingling bells.

As they danced and capered about in most fantastic styles, they shook

their bony hands in a dismal manner, which made Colonel Blood’s flesh

to creep again.

Directly Ellen Harmer caught sight of this dreadful exhibition, she

fell back into Blood’s arms.

She now fully believed all that the colonel had told her, and relied

upon his protection as a man of honour.

She was too much frightened to speak, and trembled violently as the

colonel supported her.

But Blood seemed fastened to the spot.

He looked, and looked again at the terrible dance of the skeletons.

He had never dreamed of ever seeing anything so hideous or horrible.

“Who and what are they?” said Blood, half aloud; “are they men or

devils?”

“Devils!” said a chorus of unseen voices. “Who stabbed Andrew Gamble?

Ha, ha! Who wants to run away with the pretty daughter of Harmer the

miller, eh? Go, tell your master what you have seen—go, tell him; he

may one day expect us. Away, Colonel Blood, away!”

These words were uttered in such fierce tones, and with such a

hissing sound, that they grated on Blood’s ears.

“I fear not man nor devil,” he growled savagely in return.

But the continual sight of the strange, wild, skeleton dance seemed

to discompose him.

He seized Ellen Harmer round the waist, and with the greatest ease

vaulted into his saddle.

“These devils have seized my carriage and servants,” said he, “but

’tis lucky they did not discover my horse here under the gateway, or

all would have been lost.”

While in the act of mounting his splendid animal, the colonel did not

perceive that the skeleton dancers had approached him.

When he looked to the right and left he found himself surrounded by

the grim disciples of Death-wing, the grim skeleton chief.

With a shout, and an oath of surprise and annoyance, he raised his

riding-whip and cut his way from the midst of those around him.

He put spurs to his horse, and plunged forward on the road towards

London, with Ellen Harmer on the saddle before him.

He had not gone two miles when he turned round to ascertain the cause

of a distant rumbling noise.

Not far behind him, he could perceive his own carriage, driven by a

skeleton coachman, in full pursuit!

Skeleton heads were protruding from windows on each side of the

coach, who waved their long arms and shook them in gestures of savage

revenge.

“Pursued!” thought Blood; “and by this terrible band.”

He dug his spurs deeply into the flanks of his gallant steed, and

fled like the wind.

But the Skeleton Band was slowly and surely gaining on him.

It was now a race for life or death!

CHAPTER XII.

WILDFIRE NED, TIM, AND RAMBLING BOB SET OUT UPON THEIR

TRAVELS—STRANGE AND EXCITING ADVENTURES.

The first thing which Wildfire Ned did, when he left his uncle’s

presence, and had publicly insulted Redgill, was to proceed to the

stables, and saddle his own gallant mare “Starlight.”

“What, off again, Master Ned?” said Tim, rubbing his eyes. “Why,

surely you ain’t going anywhere this time of night?”

“Yes, I am, Tim. I am going to leave Darlington altogether.”

“Leave it altogether, sir! Why, you must be joking.”

“No I’m not, Tim. Come, saddle my mare at once. I must leave this

place within half-an-hour. Will you come with me?”

“Why in course I will,” said Tim. “But it did appear to me all so

very strange like. I can’t understand it. What! you leave the Hall,

and all for nothing?” said Tim, in great surprise.

“Never mind being surprised at all about it,” said Wildfire Ned,

biting his lips. “I’m going to leave, so that’s quite sufficient

explanation. I’ve got a good sum of money of my own in my pocket, so

have resolved to go to sea, and chase those Skeleton Pirates we have

heard so much of. Will you come, Tim?”

“Yes, young master, in course I will. I’d go to the devil with you,

thee knows. (But, for all that, thought Tim, I don’t much care about

facing them terrible skeletons led on by that awful wretch called

Death-wing.)”

Few words were passed by Ned. He mounted his famous mare “Starlight,”

and, followed by Tim, galloped away towards the village of Darlington.

“Tim, are you brave?” said Wildfire Ned, grinning, as they rode along

side by side.

“Brave, master Ned, why of course I am. I’d face the very devil if I

had any one to back me. I always feel safe when I’m with you.”

“Well, do you know what I’m going to do?”

“No, master.”

“You know Bob Bertram?”

“The old farmer’s son, sir? Yes, sir; and a fine good-hearted young

fellow he is as ever was born.”

“I’m glad to hear you say so, Tim; and glad also, to think you like

him so much, for he, also, is coming with us.”

“Him, master?” said Tim, in surprise. “Why, how can that be? He’s

in the round-house, and accused of murdering his old father. But he

didn’t do it, I’ll swear,” said Tim to himself. “He _couldn’t_ do it.

Bob Bertram’s heart is too good for any such bloody work as that, or

else I’m no judge of human nature.”

“Right, Tim; you are right, my lad,” said Ned, who had overheard his

servant mumbling to himself. “And I feel proud to think your opinion

about that murder is the same as mine; but, then, you know, he’ll

never suffer; he’s going to escape to-night.”

“Escape, master! Why, I have heard that he’s guarded night and day.

It were even whispered that some officers of the crown were coming

down to take him down to London.”

“I have heard all that, also,” said Ned, laughing; “but when they

_do_ come, the bird will have flown. Do you see these, Tim?” said

Ned, displaying a pair of pistols, “Do you see these?”

“Yes, master.”

“Well, we call these things ‘barking irons,’ and if the two officers

won’t behave themselves, and act civilly towards us when we call, why

then you must blow the brains out of one, while I do the same to the

other.”

Ned said this very coolly, but Tim’s eyes rolled in fright at the

bare idea of bloodshed.

He did not give utterance to his fears, however, but jogged along by

his young master’s side.

Ere long they approached the village, and Wildfire Ned leaped from

his mare.

Tim did likewise, and both nags were tethered to a roadside post.

“Come along, Tim, we must do the rest on foot. You know the ‘Red

Lion?’ Well, go there, and tell the landlord I want a horse for a few

hours; when you come back I shall be here at this post waiting for

you. Be quick, mind, and see that he lends you a good steed, for we

have a long way to gallop.”

Tim went off on foot towards the “Red Lion.”

Wildfire Ned walked rapidly towards that part of the village where

the lock-up or round-house was situated.

All was darkness and profound quietness in the village.

“This is just the time to do the trick,” thought Wildfire Ned.

Saying this, he put on a black velvet mask, and walked up to the

prison door.

It was open.

He walked in quietly.

Two officers lay on benches before the fire, snoring loudly.

They did not hear his footsteps.

Ned looked around quickly to ascertain in which of the several cells

Bob Bertram was confined.

He knew not which.

Presently, however, he saw two eyes peering between the iron bars,

and from the hard breathing of the prisoner he felt sure it was Bob.

Ned made a sign which Bob understood, and then approached the

prisoner.

“Those are the keys hanging up behind the door,” said Bob, in a soft

whisper; “but be careful, Ned, or you will awake them.”

On tiptoe Wildfire Ned took down the keys, and approached Bob’s cell.

He passed them through to Bob, and while he was turning the bolt of

the lock Wildfire Ned stood over the two sleeping officers, pistol in

hand.

“If they should wake up while Bob is getting out, these two little

bulldogs will keep them quiet,” thought Ned.

He had not thus stood guard over the two slumberers many minutes ere

Bob Bertram was free.

“Fly,” said Ned, “towards the Hall; you’ll find the horses waiting

for us on the roadside near the finger posts.”

Young Bertram had scarcely quitted the prison ere the two officers

awoke.

They opened their eyes very slowly, but when they discovered the

young man in the mask standing over them, pistol in hand, they rolled

their eyes, and gaped in astonishment and wonder.

“Oh, lors!”

“Who are you?”

“Put down them pistols.”

“What do you want?”

“Did you not expect some officers from London?”

“We did; but, for the lor’s sake, don’t put the muzzle of that pistol

so near my head, it might go off.”

“I am one of them,” said Ned, scarcely able to keep from laughing,

“and have a very disagreeable duty to perform.”

“What is it?”

“My comrades called here, and found you asleep. We took the prisoner

in our own charge, and my duty here is to lock both of you up.”

“Lock _us_ up?”

“Yes, both of you, and to feed you on bread and water for a month,

for not attending to your duty.”

“It warn’t _my_ fault; it were _his_ watch,” said one.

“No quarrelling,” said Ned, grinning under his mask; “rise, both of

you; Bob Bertram’s cell is now open and empty; go into it, both of

ye, and this instant, knaves, or I’ll drive holes into each of you.”

Ned’s manner was so firm, cool, and determined, that the two

astonished officers were compelled to obey him.

Reluctantly they rose, and hobbled after each other into the cell.

Ned turned the key upon them, and there left them alone in their

glory.

“If either of you make any noise for the next half-hour I’ll clip

your ears off,” said Ned, as he walked coolly away.

He had not gone many yards ere both of the officers began to bawl at

the top of their voices.

Ned returned to them, and just placed the muzzle of his pistol

between the bars, when the two officers fell upon their knees and

sued for mercy in a very humble manner.

“I only asked you to remain quiet for half-an-hour before,” said he,

“but now listen to me; if either of you make the slightest noise for

the next twelve hours I will blow your brains out. Remember, and rest

assured if you do not obey me this time both of you are dead men.”

Ned left them a second time, but did not forget to bolt and bar and

lock every door, so that it was a matter almost of impossibility for

either of them to escape or even be heard by any one passing outside.

In less than half-an-hour Wildfire Ned, Bob Bertram and Tim were on

their way to the sea-coast.

But ere they reached their journey’s end a strange adventure happened

to Wildfire Ned.

Each of them were well mounted, and they galloped along the road at a

merry pace.

Bob Bertram was in ecstacies at his unlooked-for liberation, and

swore eternal friendship and fidelity to Wildfire Ned.

He told Ned all, or at least as much as he knew, about his father’s

murder, and what had happened to him on that eventful night.

He also described the stranger who had exchanged clothes with him

so minutely that Ned could not, or at least did not, for a moment

hesitate to say that Redgill was the man, for he knew that from the

garments Bob was then wearing.

He did not say much to Bob concerning it, however, but bit his lip,

and vowed to have revenge on Redgill the first opportunity that

offered.

The three riders stopped at a roadside inn, and knocked up the

landlord.

The old man opened his door with a trembling hand, and in the course

of conversation informed his guests that they must beware of the

Skeleton Crew, for a party of that terrible band had called there

that very night, ransacked and robbed the place of all it had, and

were well-nigh murdering everybody.

“Was Death-wing, their chief, along with them?” asked Ned.

“He was,” said the old publican, shaking; “but oh! young man, don’t

smile, for if you had been as close to, and seen as much on ’em as I

have to-night, you would tremble in your shoes.”

“_I?_” said Wildfire Ned, laughing boisterously. “Not I, landlord,

you are much mistaken. Nothing in the world would give me greater

pleasure than to meet this same Death-wing to-night.”

“You?” said the publican, aghast. “Rash youth, beware!”

“Nay; you need have no fears for me. It is my resolve to beard the

lion in his very den this very night. Think you they are on the

heath?”

“Without doubt, young master, they are; but take an old man’s advice,

do not go near them. When you catch but a glimpse of their horrid

forms, flee for your lives.”

“Never mind, friend, never mind this Skeleton Crew. Bring us a

bottle or two of your best wine,” said Ned. “If I do not unearth the

hobgoblin devils to-night, my name is not Ned Warbeck.”

“Warbeck?” said the old man, in surprise, “Warbeck?”

“Yes, Warbeck. What makes you look so surprised?”

“They were speaking of you,” said the old man, turning pale.

“Well, what of that?”

“They drank to your death.”

“To my death?” said Ned. “What else, old man?”

* * * * *

NOTICE TO OUR READERS.

REMEMBER!—A most valuable present is in preparation, and will be

presented to all our regular Subscribers with an early Number. Full

particulars will be announced in No. 6.

[Illustration: THE ENCOUNTER BETWEEN WILDFIRE NED AND THE SKELETON

CREW.—SEE PAGE 40.]

“They vowed to hunt you down and slay you.”

“Ah!” said Ned, “and why? What have I done more than any one else to

deserve such kind consideration?”

“I know not, young man. All I heard them say was, that, at the moment

of your birth, some infernal power told them that you were sent to be

their deadliest enemy on land and sea.”

“So be it, then,” said Ned. “If I have any strength or power or will,

I will use it all against these demons, and never rest until I have

exterminated every one of them.”

While Ned spoke thus, the old landlord, who was about to leave the

room, hastily returned.

“What makes you so pale, old man?” asked Ned.

The publican did not reply. He seemed struck dumb with astonishment.

At the door stood two of the Skeleton Crew. They walked slowly into

the room, and looked at Wildfire Ned with a long, steadfast gaze.

Ned jumped to his feet, and, quick as thought, fired both pistols at

them.

The balls could be heard rattling through their bones.

But they stirred not.

With a laugh, loud and mocking, they seized Tim by his arms, and

would have borne him away.

Tim, almost in a jelly with fear, wriggled and writhed like an eel.

The skeletons swung Tim to and fro for a second or two, and then

threw him with great violence into a corner near the coal cellar, and

there he lay very humbly and meekly, and did not dare stir an inch.

“Are such the men, young Warbeck,” said the two skeletons, “you would

gather round ye to slaughter the Death-wing’s band?”

“No, foul fiends,” said Ned, rising and brandishing his sword, “such

are not the men; but here are two. I and young Bertram here defy all

your power.”

“Foolish boy!” said one, in tones of mock compassion. “I would not

harm ye. Yet, when you have arrived at man’s estate, I might meet you

on equal terms.”

“Nay, let not that be your vain excuse,” said Ned; “old or young I

defy you, and in token of my eternal hatred take that,” said he, at

the same moment throwing his glove at the skeleton face.

“Impudent varlet!” was the angry rejoinder. “It seems as if your

footsteps were purposely directed across my path. I know, I feel,

that eternal, unquenchable hatred exists between us, and yet not

now would I cross swords with ye. But think not, bold youth, that I

reject your gauge of battle. No, I accept it. Beneath the old oak, on

the moor, meet me in an hour.”

“I will; and with greater pleasure than e’er I did aught in all my

life.”

“Until the hour, then, adieu! You will, of course, come alone?”

“I will.”

These few angry words were quickly spoken, and before any one could

well realize the fact, the two grim skeletons disappeared.

They mounted two horses that stood outside the inn door, and vanished

like the wind.

“Thank heavens, they are gone!” the publican gasped.

“Amen!” groaned Tim.

“But you surely will not keep your promise with the grim rascals?”

said Bob.

“I most surely shall,” said Ned.

“But they mean you mischief,” said the publican, “you will never

return alive.”

“You need not fear.”

“But, brave youth, I _do_ fear; you know not so much of these awful

creatures as I do.”

“Perhaps not, but I shall very shortly,” said Ned, laughing.

“Why, that old oak tree on the heath is the favourite spot of

Death-wing, their chief.”

“So much the better, the sooner I shall make his acquaintance, then;

that’s all.”

“But there are, at least, a dozen dead men hanging on the leafless

branches; all have fallen victims to Death-wing’s sword, and now hang

rotting in the sun.”

“So I have heard! Will you be kind enough to show me the way thither,

landlord?” asked Ned, smiling.

“_Me!_ lord bless the lad, I wouldn’t go near that tree for all the

gold in England; no one ever comes back alive from that spot.”

“Then I will go alone.”

“Nay, stay!”

“You must not go, Ned,” said Bob. “Why throw yourself in the way of

those bloodthirsty scoundrels? If you do go, I must accompany you,

and so will your groom, eh Tim?”

“Y-e-e-s!” groaned Tim, who was rubbing his sore bones with a very

rueful face. “I don’t mind if I go to the devil, for I’m going there

very fast it seems to me.”

With a face flushed with excitement, and eyes sparkling with delight

at the prospect of encountering some one of the Skeleton Crew in

mortal combat, Wildfire Ned rose from his seat and paced the room.

Before he was perceived Ned left the apartment in a free and easy

manner, as if merely going into the back yard.

Bob Bertram never imagined that Ned had any intentions of going forth

alone.

The old landlord saw him mount his horse, and turned pale as he

thought of the great danger into which the bold, rash youth was about

to plunge.

“For heaven’s sake!” said old Boniface, approaching Ned, “for

heaven’s sake, give up this wild freak. How can you, a mere lad,

think of conquering any one of that desperate gang when so many

valiant men have fallen in the attempt? Take _my_ advice, Ned

Warbeck, steer clear of that murdering crew.”

“Look here, landlord,” said Ned, gaily, “there is one favour I have

to ask of you, and that is, keep a still tongue in your head. I

shall only be absent an hour or two at most. Do not tell my comrades

which way I have gone should they ask, but say you think I have gone

towards the Hall for something I have left behind. Do this, and I

shall well repay you in times to come.”

So speaking, Wildfire Ned dashed away into a neighbouring thicket,

and was soon lost to view.

In a few moments he emerged again into the open country.

Over bridge and ditch he gaily rode, humming a tune. The moon came

out, and shone with unusual splendour.

Ere long he approached the borders of the lonely heath, which, like a

white expanse of silvered scenery, lay open before him.

His brave mare Starlight had carried him nobly, but from pure

instinct began to snort and slacken her pace as she approached the

wilderness-like plain.

In the far distance Wildfire Ned saw ravenous night birds circling in

the sky, and alighting on a huge oak tree.

As he approached still nearer his mare stood still, and cocked her

ears.

Ned now had a full view of the famous old oak tree, and on its wide

spreading branches he distinctly saw dark rows of dead men hanging

against the bright sky.

The sight filled him with horror, but not with fear.

“What inhuman scoundrels!” he sighed. “They must be fiends ever to

act in this manner.”

Nothing daunted, he dismounted from his mare, and tied her to a stump.

As he did so he heard a voice, which said, slowly and solemnly—

“Edward Warbeck, beware! Retrace your steps; no one approaches the

blasted oak and lives!”

“Lying fiends!” said Wildfire Ned, “lying fiends! wherever you be, I

fear not your crazy croakings!”

As he spoke fire flashed from his eyes, and he boldly advanced.

Dry leaves rustled in the wind, the breezes sighed, and as he looked

up at that fearful gibbet with its many human forms dangling in the

air a sudden tremor thrilled his whole frame.

The face of each hapless victim was turned downwards towards him, and

they seemed to smile grimly and savagely at his upturned face.

Beyond this, however, nothing was visible.

“The sight is indeed horrible,” said Ned, half aloud; “but where is

the much-vaunted Skeleton Crew? Where are these savages hidden? and

whence came that voice of warning?”

Wildfire Ned’s position, as must be confessed, was a critical one.

Here was a bold youth, alone and single handed, gazing on the dead,

and standing, as it were, on enchanted ground.

“Come forth, grim demons of the land and deep,” said Ned, with a

ringing defiant tone. “Death-wing, come forth and encounter me!”

He turned his head suddenly.

There stood before him a gaunt, ghastly member of the Skeleton Band,

sword in hand.

“Who calls so bravely on the Skeleton Crew, and defies them?” said

a sepulchral voice, in mocking tones. “Is Death-wing’s band to be

laughed and scoffed at by a babbling boy?”

“Boy!” said Ned, indignantly.

“Yes, _brat_, if that will suit your pride the better; get you gone

from this awful place.”

“I came by appointment. Death-wing and I are to try conclusions to a

deadly issue here,” said Ned, bravely.

“_You_ face Death-wing?” said the skeleton guard, with a mocking

laugh. “He who has braved the land and sea this many a year, ha! ha!

Look above ye, and see there dangling the lifeless bodies of more

than a dozen who have dared intrude upon this deadly spot.”

“Bombastic liar!” said Ned, in tones of scorn. “Death-wing fears me.

But, at all events, I will not be disappointed; these rows of bodies

shall no longer grace these oak branches as tokens of your prowess.

Have at ye! man or fiend, my good battle-axe shall prove to all what

ye are.”

With a desperate rush Wildfire Ned dashed to the fray.

The skeleton guardian of the gibbet, however, was not taken unawares.

He also was armed, and parried Ned’s desperate blows.

The combat was a fearful one.

Sparks flew from their weapons.

Wildfire Ned, with the courage and endurance of a dozen men, stood

his ground.

His blows fell thick and fast upon his grim opponent, and the clash

of marrowless bones resounded upon the night air.

For a moment Wildfire Ned paused in the combat and looked upon his

opponent with wonder.

“He must be a devil,” thought Ned, “or my last blow would have

cleaved him to the earth.”

“Ha! ha!” growled the skeleton, as he rushed at his enemy again, “one

more victim for our gibbet!”

“Never!” said Ned, aloud, and with an angry oath.

The fight was again renewed, and now with still greater bitterness

and fury.

Ned was getting weaker and weaker.

His rival, however, danced around him as nimbly as ever, and every

limb seemed to be acting on springs.

He struck at Ned repeatedly, but could not do more than draw blood.

It seemed impossible to hit Ned Warbeck in any vital part, for he was

so well guarded with his weapon.

He bled, however, as we have said, and the sight of gore seemed to

act like electricity on the skeleton guard, who shrieked aloud with

joy.

He made a terrific dash, a last and final attempt upon Ned, and

shouted aloud,

“Edward Warbeck, die! Down, down! die!”

“Never!” said Ned, as with a well-aimed and powerful blow he struck

his opponent fair on the head, and felled him to the earth.

“Conquered, conquered!” shouted Ned, aloud, in wild triumph.

He turned to look for his smitten foe.

He was nowhere to be seen!

Astonished as he was at this strange occurrence he was much more

astounded at what he then heard.

While looking about in search of some trace of his grim, gaunt

opponent, the sounds of pistol shots and loud shouts reached his ears!

He listened.

Again and again he could distinctly discern quick, successive reports

of fire-arms.

“Help! help!” faintly sighed the breeze.

“What is all this? What new wonder is to happen on this eventful

night?” thought Ned.

At that moment his good mare Starlight neighed and became restive.

“Hillo! what means this? The mare would not neigh without cause.

There is some one in danger; the mare recognizes some old stable

companion. I will away, and quickly return.”

“Help! help!” was borne upon the breeze.

In a moment Wildfire Ned vaulted into the saddle and dashed forward

to the scene of strife and danger.

The report of fire-arms to Wildfire Ned was like the sounds of most

delightful music.

His heart leaped within him as he mounted his brave mare, Starlight.

“Heaven grant it may turn out to be some more of these skeleton

devils,” he said, with a merry laugh.

Over hedge and ditch he galloped in the clear moonlight, and soon

reached the high road.

In the far distance he could perceive a carriage and four, which had

been stopped by a party of roadsmen.

“Egad!” said Ned, “this is another adventure to-night. I must not let

poor travellers be waylaid and robbed by rascally highwayman if I can

help it.”

He rode straight towards the crowd, and as he approached, perceived

the carriage to be that of his uncle.

Old Sir Richard Warbeck, it would seem, had started out after

Wildfire Ned, in hopes of bringing him back to Darlington Hall.

Phillip Redgill, who had professed much friendship “for the wayward

lad, Ned,” volunteered to accompany Sir Richard to town. But they had

not progressed far when the carriage was attacked by Captain Jack’s

party of horsemen, who had resolved not to leave the neighbourhood of

Darlington without spoil of some kind.

Hence, when they sneaked off from the inn in which Colonel Blood

was, they were so enraged at being thus made fools of, that they

determined to have revenge on some of the landed gentry thereabout.

The first person to fall across them was Sir Richard Warbeck and

Phillip Redgill.

Captain Jack’s men masked themselves, and counted upon an easy

conquest.

But they were much mistaken.

Old Sir Richard, the moment he was attacked by the ruffians, fired

his pistols through the coach windows, and wounded one or two of the

rascals, old Bates among the number.

Jumping out of the coach, sword in hand, he kept his assailants at

bay, manfully and bravely.

Phillip Redgill, however, slipped out of the coach by the opposite

door, and soon made his escape unharmed.

As he was fleeing, Captain Jack overtook him.

“A thousand gold guineas if you slay the alderman,” said Redgill, in

a confidential whisper.

“Done!” said Captain Jack.

Redgill gave the robber chief a large purse, and promised the rest at

a certain time and place in London.

In a few moments Redgill mounted one of the robbers’ horses, and

galloped away unperceived by old Sir Richard, who thought Phillip had

been killed or desperately wounded.

“No quarter, lads; no quarter,” said Captain Jack; “the old baronet

fights like a fiend. He has wounded several already. No quarter,

lads; no quarter.”

It was at this moment, when surrounded by Captain Jack’s desperate

men, and each moment in expectation of being killed, that Wildfire

Ned darted upon the spot full speed.

Bang! bang! went his pistols right and left as he approached.

Whipping out his sword, he spurred Starlight into a maddening gallop,

and actually rode down all before him.

Captain Jack was unhorsed in an instant, and rolled into the ditch

with a loud curse.

Old Sir Richard was astonished at the dash and valour of the youth

before him; but from the mask which Ned wore it was impossible for

him to detect his nephew.

Wildfire Ned was too busy with those around him to pass any

compliments or exchange recognition.

The fight now was between the highwaymen on the one side, and Sir

Richard and Wildfire Ned on the other.

Sir Richard, however, was on foot, and could not do so much as Ned,

who pranced and danced around on Starlight, cutting and slashing in

gallant style.

Perceiving that several of the highwaymen were disabled, and had left

the spot, the coachman and footman emerged from their hiding-place

under the hedge, whither they had at first fled.

With thick clubs in hand, they now joined the fight, and laid about

them with such right good-will, so that Captain Jack and his party

were only too glad to escape with their lives.

As soon as the fight was over, and Sir Richard could gain sufficient

strength, he tottered up to Wildfire Ned, and said—

“Gallant youth, whoever you are, how can I sufficiently thank you

for your timely aid? I had a fellow traveller with me, a noble young

man of unstained honour, but I fear he has fallen a victim to these

scoundrels who attacked me. Your name, I beg, young man; your name,

that I may recount your noble deeds this night to the king.”

“Sir Richard Warbeck,” Ned replied, with a forced utterance and a

feigned voice, “no thanks are needed, I have simply done my duty. My

name you cannot—must not—at the present know, for I have not made a

name for fame as yet. When I have done so, however, you will hear of

me at Darlington Hall.”

With a low bow to Sir Richard, Wildfire Ned galloped from the spot,

in pursuit of the fleeing highwaymen.

“Lor’ a mercy me, master,” gasped the coachman, “didn’t thee know

’un? _I_ do.”

“Ah! Sir Richard, it be Wildfire Ned,” said the footman. “He were

disguised, but I could swear to it when I seed him ride.”

“There’s not another lad in all England as can straddle a saddle like

Ned, Sir Richard,” the coachman remarked.

“What! am I blind?” Sir Richard said. “Could that brave lad have been

no other than my own Ned? Am I dreaming? and yet all along through

the fight my heart told me so. Brave boy!” he sighed.

And as he spoke true tears trickled down the old man’s cheeks, for he

dearly loved Ned.

“Harness the horses quick,” he said. “If that be Ned, I must overtake

him. Quick, I say, and harness the horses. Drive for your very lives.

I must, I will, overtake the gallant youth!”

CHAPTER XIII.

CAPTAIN JACK AND REDGILL MISCALCULATE THEIR FORCES—THE

RECOGNITION—THE RESCUE—BOB BERTRAM’S ESCAPE.

Captain Jack and his half-dozen companions were so thoroughly

disappointed and disgusted with their ill-success in and around

Darlington, that they made up their minds to depart for London

forthwith, and seek no other adventures.

Their disabled companion shared the horse of Faulkner, and as they

journeyed slowly along to the nearest public-house, the whole party

were loud in cursing their late bad luck.

“Who the devil could have been that youngster who assailed us so

furiously?” said Captain Jack, with an angry oath. “I tried to wing

him several times, but always missed.”

“Yes, hang him, but he took d—d good care he didn’t miss _me_” old

Bates growled; “he knocked the pistol out of my hand as clean as a

whistle, and just at the moment, too, when I was going to pop at him.”

“As to handling a sword,” said Captain Jack, “he seems the very devil

at that game.”

“I thought that _I_ could do a little in that line,” said Faulkner,

“but, lor’ bless yer, he gave me an awful dig in the left arm, and if

it hadn’t been for a stroke of good luck I should have been killed,

for he was just on the point of having a full cut at me, when I

ducked my head, and—”

“Yes, and that stroke cut down a thick branch much tougher than your

head or neck,” said Bates. “I saw it, so cut it, for I had enough on

it.”

While thus speaking of their inglorious exploit, Jack’s party arrived

at the roadside inn, where, it will be remembered, Wildfire Ned had

left Bob Bertram and Tim.

Believing what the landlord had said to them, namely, that Ned

Warbeck had only ridden back to the Hall for something he had

forgotten, Bob and Tim waited patiently for his return.

When least they expected it, however, and greatly to the surprise of

both, Captain Jack and his rough companions entered the inn, and,

with their old style, swaggered about and talked and cursed very

loudly.

Tim, by instinct, knew who they were, and trembled.

He slunk into the dark corner still farther, so as not to be

perceived, but Bob Bertram remained cool and collected.

Captain Jack called for various refreshments, and, together with a

companion or two, were very busy in binding up the cuts and wounds of

those who were hurt.

“You seem to have fallen into rough hands, gentlemen,” said Bob,

civilly.

“Well, and what if we have,” Bates growled; “is that anything to do

wi’ you? Who are you?”

“Keep your temper, Bates,” said Captain Jack; “let’s have no more

quarrelling to-night. The young man didn’t mean any harm.”

“Quite true, gentlemen, quite true; we are two of the civilest

fellows as ever was,” Tim began.

“And who asked _you_ to speak?” Bates growled, in such a wicked

manner as made Tim stop on the instant.

“Misfortune follows misfortune,” sighed Tim to himself; “it is out

of the frying-pan into the fire. When will all these strange ups and

downs cease?”

“The truth is, young man,” said Captain Jack to Bob Bertram, after

he had bandaged his comrades’ wounds, “the truth is as you say, we

_have_ fallen into rough hands to-night—very rough hands indeed. Did

you ever hear of a person hereabouts called Bob Bertram?”

“Yes, I think I have,” said Bob, coolly. “What of that?”

“Well, it’s all through him that we’ve got all these cuts and wounds.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes,” said Captain Jack, inventing lies as he went on; “we are

officers of the crown, and were sent to escort this Bob Bertram to

London, but he escaped just in time. We got scent of where he was

hiding, and overtook the carriage in which he was escaping. Like

brave men and good officers, we attacked it, but just as we were on

the point of securing the rascal, out pounces a score of villains

upon us from a wood. After a desperate encounter we killed and

wounded a great many, but were at last compelled to fly, for the

whole village was at our heels.”

“Indeed!” said Bob, in wonder; “but are you sure that the person in

the carriage really _was_ Bob Bertram?”

“Not a doubt of it!” said Captain Jack, pleased with his well-told

string of lies.

During this conversation, and while Jack was dilating at great length

upon the bravery of himself and comrades, a stranger entered the room

and took a seat on the dark side of the fire-place.

Bob and Tim exchanged quick looks at one another on the stranger’s

entrance.

It was not Wildfire Ned.

Who, then, could it be?

It was Phillip Redgill.

The place where he sat was shaded from the firelight so completely

that he had a good view of each person’s countenance, but yet no one

saw his own.

“You are mistaken, my friend,” said Redgill, at the conclusion of

Captain Jack’s remarks, “you are mistaken; the murderer, Bob Bertram,

was not in the carriage at all.”

“No!”

“Who dare dispute our word?”

“Who told you so?” said Bates, Faulkner, and Captain Jack in a

breath, and in tones of annoyance.

“_I_ did!” said Redgill, rising, “the murderer was not near the spot.”

“Not near the place?”

“No! he was sitting quietly in the parlour of a roadside inn during

the whole of the fight.”

“Prove it.”

“Do you want to make us all out liars, then?”

“I _can_ prove it!” said Redgill, all the time speaking in a forced

voice, quite unnatural to him; “and if you put me to the test, I can

tell you where the murderer is now at this present moment.”

“Ha!”

“Where?”

“There’s a good reward offered, tell us at once,” said Captain Jack

and others.

“You have not to look far for him,” said Redgill, with a triumphant

laugh.

Bob Bertram’s blood now ran cold.

“I am betrayed,” he thought, “and must fight my way out of this.”

“And who told you?” said Bates.

“A youth called Ned Warbeck. I met him on the road: he has been to

this inn once to-night, has he not landlord?”

“I believe he has,” was the innkeeper’s answer.

“But where is this Bob Bertram, then?” said Captain Jack impatiently.

“_There!_” said Redgill, pointing to where Bob Bertram sat. “I know

him, so does the landlord, and so does that thin-legged groom in the

corner.”

But they held their peace.

“Scoundrel!” said Bob Bertram, rising instantly. “Scoundrel!” he

said, and fired at the informer.

Redgill anticipated something of this sort, and dodged so cleverly

that the shot missed its aim.

In a second, Bob Bertram was surrounded by Captain Jack’s party.

He fought most manfully to get loose from his assailants, but they

were too numerous for him.

Besides that, his confinement and anxiety for the past few days had

weakened him very much, so that he did not at the moment possess

one-third of his ordinary strength.

Old Bates was the first who dared to assail Bob, but a well-directed

blow, clean from the shoulder, knocked the red-nosed rascal off his

legs.

Right manfully did Bob fight, but it was all to no purpose.

He was bound with cords; resistance was hopeless and useless.

He cast a look at Redgill—a glance that was filled with venom and

scorn.

“Villain!” he said. “We have met before, bloodthirsty scoundrel! Do

you remember the night of my father’s murder, red-handed knave? You

shall not always triumph; _my_ day will come.”

“What does the rogue say?” Redgill remarked, coolly.

“Oh, never mind _him_, sir,” said Captain Jack, recognizing in

Redgill the young man who had escaped from the carriage and given

him the purse of gold, “never mind him, _sir_; he’s only raving. All

your great criminals rave and rant when officers lay their hands upon

’em; it’s quite natural, just like pigs when they’re going to be

killed—they always squeal most then. Lor, bless yer, sir, we’ve had

lots of criminals in hand in our time, ain’t we, Bates?”

“I believe yer,” said that worthy.

Turning to Bob, who was bound now with cords he said, “What d’yer

mean by calling this ’ere gentleman names for, eh? Why, we knows him

well,” said Bates, in allusion to Redgill.

“If you do,” said Bob, “take care of him; _he_ is the man who

murdered my father, not me; his name is Bolton.”

“Quite mistaken,” said Captain Jack; “his name ain’t nothing of the

sort—it is Mr. Phillip Redgill.”

“Quite true,” said Phillip, with a smile of contempt. “And, now that

I have assisted you in recapturing this vile murderer, I will mount

and journey to London.”

“Quite right.”

“Many thanks, my noble captain.”

“A pleasant journey.”

“Don’t forget our appointment,” said Redgill to Jack. “I suppose he

is——”

“Dead as a herring,” whispered Captain Jack. “I shot the old ’un

through the head, but we couldn’t do much with the young ’un, though,

so had to hook it.”

“Young ’un?” said Redgill, in surprise. “What young ’un do you allude

to?”

“Why, that young Wildfire devil as came galloping and pistolling and

slashing among us single-handed.”

“Who could it have been?” said Redgill. “Was he near _my_ size?”

“No, less than you; not near so strong; but, lor bless yer, he’s as

active as a cat, and rode a splendid mare he called Starlight.”

“Starlight?” said Redgill. “There is but one mare of that name around

Darlington, and that one belongs to——”

“Wildfire Ned,” said young Warbeck, entering at the moment.

Redgill turned pale as death, and averted his face.

Tim and Bob Bertram were overjoyed at this unlooked for arrival.

Captain Jack and his party were thunderstruck.

“The devil!”

“’Tis he!”

“The very one I spoke of.”

“Edward Warbeck, gentlemen, at your service,” said Wildfire Ned,

bowing.

“Cut the brat in two!” said old Bates, with his eyes glaring in anger

like two live coals. “Cut the brat in two.”

“Blow out his brains—the bastard!” said Phillip Redgill, feeling safe

among so many friends. “Blow out the bastard’s brains!” he said, in a

hissing tone.

“Down with him!”

“Spare him not!”

“H-o-l-d!” said Wildfire Ned, in a loud tone, and waving his hand in

command. “H-o-l-d! I say! The first man that stirs shall fall by my

sword.”

These words were said in such a clear, ringing tone, and with an

air of such cool defiance that Captain Jack and his followers were

astounded.

Without a word of apology, Wildfire Ned cut the rope that bound Bob

Bertram, and then said to Captain Jack—

“You are the leader of this party?”

“I am,” was the gruff reply. “How dare you interfere with our

prisoner, then? We are officers of justice.”

“_In_justice, you should have said,” Ned coolly replied, laughing,

“and if you are not all hung within a week you owe it to _my_

clemency.”

“To _you_?” said Bates, with a curling lip.

“Yes, to me, old man; nay, don’t growl so. I fear you not, you cannot

bite any one. Think yourself very lucky that I do not punish your

insolence on the spot.”

Ned’s manner was so firm, cool, and brave, that it seemed to act

like a spell on all present, for no one moved from where they stood

or sat, but looked on with surprise and curiosity at what then took

place.

Walking up to Redgill, Ned said, calmly, but in tones which all could

hear—

“We have met again.”

“We have,” was the hoarse response of the dark villain, as he curled

his lip in demon-like scorn.

“You called me bastard,” said Wildfire Ned, in a tone of fiery anger,

“this is my answer!”

So speaking, he slapped Redgill in the face, and then spat upon him.

“Hollo! what’s all this?”

“He’s struck our friend.”

“Knock the brat down,” said one and another.

“Keep your places,” said Ned, with a look of scorn; “the first man of

you that dare interfere in this quarrel shall in less than a minute

lie at my feet a bleeding corpse!”

Throwing off his cloak, he stood before Phillip Redgill, sword in

hand.

“Come on!” said he, “I told you we should meet again; draw, I tell

you, draw villain, or I will slay you where you stand, Phillip

Redgill!”

“He shall _not_ fight!” said Captain Jack; “but, if you _will_ kick

up a shindy, and insist upon blood-letting, why, then, _I_ will

accommodate you.”

“Yes, and I!”

“And I!”

“Wait, then,” said Ned. “Trust me, you shall all have your turn, but

I will commence with this one first. Phillip Redgill, draw!”

He did so, but with an air of great reluctance.

Ned stood upon his guard.

On the instant, however, and before he was aware of any treachery,

Redgill fired at him.

The ball grazed Ned’s cheek.

“Cowardly hound!” he cried, and rushed on his foe with the fury of a

fiend.

In an instant, the whole place was in an uproar.

Bob Bertram, Tim, and the landlord were surrounded by Captain Jack’s

followers, and a deadly encounter took place.

The clash of swords, the report of fire-arms, and the shouts and

cries of all in the house, awoke wild echoes in the silent night.

To add to the confusion all the lights were overturned and

extinguished.

At the first opportunity Master Tim crept under the table out of

harm’s way.

But Bob, the publican, and Wildfire Ned, pushed their antagonists so

fiercely that in less than ten minutes Phillip Redgill was carried

out into the yard bleeding and pale.

Captain Jack and his men were thoroughly beaten, but they continued

the fight outside the house, on the spacious green in front of the

doorway.

Here in the moonlight was seen the flash of swords, and heard the

deep guttural curses of the antagonists.

“We must get out of this at all cost,” said Captain Jack to Faulkner;

“all our chaps are wounded; we must beat a retreat once. Get our

horses, Faulkner.”

Captain Jack vaulted upon one animal, Faulkner did so upon another.

Just when about to start off, they were surprised to see a horseman

approaching at a terrific gallop.

In his arms he held a lovely female, whose snow-white garments were

streaming in the wind.

It was Colonel Blood with Ellen Harmer!

In about five minutes Captain Jack and Faulkner were seized with

horror at what they then saw.

Colonel Blood’s carriage, with its skeleton coachman and footman, and

with weird-wild skeleton forms inside, dashed past the inn door in

pursuit, waving their bony arms and shrieking most hideously.

This strange, unearthly spectacle seemed to fill all with horror.

Even Wildfire Ned desisted from the combat and gazed steadfastly upon

the grim cortége as it passed the inn.

Suddenly a piercing and uncommon cry was uttered by Phillip Redgill

as he turned his eyes towards the vehicle.

The coach stopped.

In an instant the skeleton descended from the box.

Those inside alighted with great expedition, and, weapon in hand,

advanced towards the inn door.

Wildfire Ned was astonished, but not dismayed.

He bit his lip, and his eyes flashed fire.

Without a word of warning the Skeleton rushed upon him.

Captain Jack and Faulkner spurred their horses away from the spot as

speedily as possible.

They did not stay a single moment longer to witness what took place.

They only thought of their own safety, and galloped off as if they

had suddenly confronted so many devils.

One of the Skeleton Crew secured Redgill as he lay bleeding under a

tree in the garden, and conveyed him to the coach.

Tim did not much relish any fresh encounter whatever.

Inspired with curiosity, and a keen desire to lay hands upon anything

which the coach contained, he went up to the door, and peeped in.

The suppliant cries of those inside affected Tim’s heart, and he

loosed them from their bondage by cutting the cords with which they

had been bound.

This he did, but only on condition of their promising to help his

master, which the liberated coachman and footman swore most solemnly

to do.

When they stepped out of the carriage, however, they breathed very

hard for a moment or two, and, seeing the fight going on all around

them, took to their heels like lamplighters, nor even turned their

heads.

Up the road they ran, as nimbly as rabbits, until, breathless, and

almost on the point of bursting a blood-vessel, they fell headlong

into a marshy pool, and lay there without attempting to move.

Wildfire Ned, Bob Bertram, and the plucky innkeeper, however, had, up

to this time, been busily engaged with their grim opponents.

The publican had closed with one of them, and, in fast embrace, were

then wrestling on the ground.

Bob Bertram used his sword with both hands, and, much to his delight,

cut off the arm of one and leg of another.

Judge of his astonishment and horror, however, when each of those

grim worthies picked up his severed limb, and hobbled off towards the

coach, perhaps there to reset them, for all he knew, since they never

returned to the combat again.

Ned, however, with his back to a tree, contended with two at once.

With his good sword he hit right and left, first at one and then at

another.

But it seemed as if to no purpose, for as often as they were cleaved

to the earth, they rose again, as nimbly as if they were made of

india-rubber and springs combined.

“There’s only one vulnerable part with these devils, I’m told,” said

Ned to himself, “and that is to fairly pierce them between the eyes

and nose.”

With well-directed thrusts Wildfire Ned attempted this feat

repeatedly, but failed, and his efforts were rewarded by loud

derisive laughter by his enemies.

At last he succeeded.

With a wild, ear-piercing shriek, a grim monster fell to the earth,

and his marrowless bones crashed together with an unearthly sound.

“That’s one of them,” said Ned, in high glee, but, before he could

utter another word, he saw approaching, right and left, a whole

company of skeletons marching in great haste to the spot.

“We shall all be massacred,” said the innkeeper, in horror; “the

whole band are out to-night.”

“Fall back, lads; fall back,” said Wildfire Ned; “get into the house

again, and let us bar the doors.”

This was quickly done, and greatly to Master Tim’s annoyance, for he

was now shut out.

With the nimbleness of a cat he climbed up the water pipe into a

chamber window.

He could not get in very well, and hung outside for some moments,

dangling just above the heads of the Skeleton Crew below.

Ned pulled him in, however, and warded off several vicious blows

aimed at Tim, which, had they struck him, must have killed him on the

spot.

“We are safe now for a time,” said the innkeeper, bravely; “but I

fear they will burn us out. We shall be roasted alive.”

Tim heard this remark, and was seized with a wild frenzy.

He threw chairs and crockery out upon the heads of those below, who,

now very numerous, were clamouring at and endeavouring to burst in

the door.

“Set fire to the house,” said Death-wing, who had now arrived. “Set

fire to the house at once; they will soon cry for quarter, but give

them none; as they rush out, kill them on the spot. We’ll soon make

them surrender.”

“Never,” said Wildfire Ned, at an open window. “Never!”

In a few moments, however, the house and stables were set fire to,

and the Skeleton Crew, sure of consuming their foes, danced round and

round in wild, unearthly joy.

“Oh! heaven protect us!” the innkeeper gasped. “We shall all be blown

up.”

“What!” said Ned, never for a moment losing either coolness or

courage.

“Blown up, Mr. Warbeck,” said the host. “I have a hundred pounds of

powder in a cellar which is situated a few yards before the front

door.”

“One hundred pounds of powder?” said Bob.

“Yes.”

“How came it here?”

“Lieutenant Garnet and a party of sailors found it on the beach not

many weeks ago. It was destined for the Skeleton Crew, but Lieutenant

Garnet placed it here, saying he would call and remove it soon.”

“That’s just the thing we want,” said Ned, in high glee.

In a few moments, Bob and Wildfire Ned descended into the cellar

described, and, after putting a slow match to the barrel, firmly

closed the cellar-door, and returned again to the room above.

Ned threw a rope out of window as if about to escape.

This was noticed by those below, who hailed Ned’s appearance at the

window with derisive cheers as they brandished their weapons, and

flung about their long white arms in a ghostly dance.

“The fire is doing its work,” said Death-wing, in high glee. “We’ll

have revenge on the publican, he has always been an enemy of our

crew, and a friend to Garnet. Look out, they will be burnt out like

rats in less than five minutes. Stand by, every one of you, ready to

receive them as they jump out of the window. Let them fall on the

points of your sword.”

When least they expected it, however, the powder exploded!

The earth about ten yards in front of the main doorway suddenly

upheaved.

An awful rush of fire succeeded.

Many of the skeletons were blown into the air.

This concussion was very great, and for a moment the house trembled

as if it would crumble into dust.

It did not, however.

All in the house who had not laid themselves down on their faces were

thrown off their legs.

The windows were smashed.

The doors flew open as if by magic.

“Now’s our time,” said Ned, and, followed by the innkeeper, Bob

Bertram, and Tim, rushed out sword in hand.

By the light of the burning dwelling and stables the fight was

continued, and now more desperately than ever.

Tim, in his hurry to rush out and get away, stumbled into the deep

hole made by the explosion.

He had scarcely reached the bottom, however, when one of Death-wing’s

band seized him, and almost squeezed him to death.

Tim was now bound to fight or die, and as he much preferred the

former condition of the two, he kicked and bit and fought like a

tiger, each one of them rolling over one another by turns, and almost

burying themselves in the loose earth.

Wildfire Ned sought out Death-wing, but nowhere could that

remorseless chief be found.

He called upon him to stand forth and engage in deadly combat, but

there was no response to this bold challenge.

When least expected, however, and when in the fulness of his vigorous

onslaught upon the grim gang, he, Wildfire Ned, was seized by some

one from behind!

A thrill of horror ran through his whole frame.

Death-wing, with a loud shout of triumph, cried out,—

“Victory! victory! Ned Warbeck is our prisoner!”

“Liar!” Ned growled, and with a mighty effort released himself from

Death-wing’s grasp.

They now stood face to face.

That moment to each was momentous in the extreme.

Each one was nerving himself up for the final struggle.

Loud shouts now burst out upon Ned’s delighted ears.

With an irresistible rush, cutlass in hand, Lieutenant Garnet, with a

brave band of blue jackets, dashed upon the scene.

With a wild, joyous shout, such as British tars alone know how to

give, Garnet’s men pressed their way into the thickest of the fight.

The combat now was a grand sight indeed.

The night had turned to inky darkness.

Not a star was visible.

In the foreground was the mixed assemblage of fierce combatants.

Blue jackets of the sailors mixed with the white, skeleton forms

which danced hither and thither like ghosts in the darkness.

All the background was brilliantly lighted up by the blazing tavern,

and conflagration of numerous stables.

Wildfire Ned and Bob Bertram each took command of a party of sailors,

and attacked Death-wing’s gang in every direction.

Death-wing mounted his coal black charger, and endeavoured to arouse

his followers to greater efforts and more desperate acts of daring.

Ned and Bob Bertram followed the example.

Once on the back of Starlight, Ned felt more at home.

Everywhere he sought to confront Death-wing.

All his efforts were in vain.

The skeleton chief seemed to be ubiquitous.

Wherever he was seen at one moment he disappeared on the next.

Beaten back at all points, Death-wing and his followers gave way.

They gradually retreated towards a dangerous morass, and thence into

a dense wood, whither it was deemed inadvisable to follow them.

Indeed, it seemed impossible to follow them, for they disappeared

like myths, or Will-o’-the-Wisps, in the marshy bog.

When Lieutenant Garnet and his men were collected, it was found that

many of them had been very dangerously wounded by the gang.

It must be confessed that on this occasion Death-wing had used all

his generalship and courage.

But nothing could withstand Wildfire Ned Garnet, Bob Bertram, and the

innkeeper.

Of Tim it behoves us to speak a little.

He got very roughly handled by his grim opponent, in the deep pit,

but that was all. He extricated himself out of the hole.

He then mounted a tree, and, there perched, had an excellent view of

the battle by the light of burning buildings.

He would shout out occasionally, “That’s it, Master Ned!”—“Give it

to ’em, Bob!”—“Smash the rascals, my brave sailor boys!”—“Hurrah for

Lieutenant Garnet!”—“Bravo, Wildfire Ned!”

But Tim became so noisy during the combat that he attracted the

attention of Death-wing.

“Bring that fool down,” said Death-wing to one of his men, as he rode

past the spot. “Bring that noisy fool out of the tree, and pitch him

into the burning tavern!”

“What a civil devil,” thought Master Tim, and clambered up the tree

still higher.

Death-wing’s orders, however, were obeyed.

A skeleton, with a long dagger between his teeth, clambered up the

tree.

LOOK OUT FOR THE

BOY SAILOR;

OR,

LIFE ON BOARD A MAN-OF-WAR.

A most interesting and powerfully-written Tale, to be completed in

about 30 Numbers.

_No. 2, with No. 1, and a LARGE ENGRAVING, GRATIS._

LOOK OUT FOR

SOMETHING NEW FOR THE BOYS!

=A LARGE ENGRAVING=

AND

=VARIOUS PRIZES, GRATIS=.

Full particulars in No. 6.

[Illustration: “THE BODILESS LEGS WALKED SLOWLY ACROSS THE PATH.”]

With a thick bough, which Tim had torn from the tree, he took

deliberate aim, and dealt his enemy a tremendous thwack on the skull,

when half-way up the tree, and knocked him down again.

This trick Master Tim had played several times with great success;

but ere long two skeletons essayed to climb up after him.

For a few moments they amused themselves with firing at Tim with

their pistols.

This was very pleasant sport for them, but quite the contrary to Tim,

who jumped about as nimbly as a squirrel, and after many attempts

successfully hid himself in the upper part of the trunk!

“I’m safe now,” thought he; but to his horror he heard his grim

pursuers climbing up and probing the rotten trunk with their swords

every yard as they ascended.

One of their sword-blades grazed Tim’s shin, and he quickly fell from

his perch right to the bottom of the trunk, and some three feet below

the surface of the earth.

For be it remarked the tree was an immense old cypress, which in all

cases have hollow trunks.

The two skeletons searched and searched in vain.

They cut, and hacked the soft bark, and, wherever they found a

knot-hole, plunged their long sword-blades into it, in hopes of

transfixing the unlucky, and timorous groom.

But with a long-drawn sigh, Tim thanked his stars that he was now

safe, and, as he turned his eyes upwards, he plainly saw the two

skeletons looking down upon him.

But they did not perceive him.

They gave up the search, thinking that their intended victim had

escaped by crawling out on to a large branch, and then dropping to

the ground among the combatants on every side.

They left the tree; and Tim, all alone in his momentary glory, had

serious misgivings as to how he should escape.

He could _not_ get up again, for his own weight in his descent had

forced him down, with a little squeezing, but it could not force him

up again!

“I’m doomed!” groaned Tim, in his dismal incarceration; “and shall be

stifled, or die of hunger here.”

His position, it must be confessed, was an unenviable one.

“I’m in a living tomb,” he groaned, and as the rats, mice, insects

and other creeping things now began to nibble him in every part of

the body, and with great industry, he shouted out with horror and

positive pain.

Crouched up as he was, and sitting almost like a tailor upon his

curled-up legs, he had no power to move.

Wherever he thrust forth his hand it came in contact with some slimy,

creeping thing, which made the blood curdle in his veins.

To add to his misery, he now heard the voices of Wildfire Ned, Bob

Bertram and Lieutenant Garnet shouting to their followers in tones of

triumph.

Next followed a rousing cheer from the lusty sailors as they left the

spot in pursuit of their grim and stubborn enemies.

Tim shouted again and again with his utmost power.

But his voice died away, and was not heard in the noise and confusion

which reigned on every side.

“I’m lost! I’m lost!” he cried, and gave way to despair.

All was now quiet around the old cypress tree.

Save the crackling of the burning dwellings and the sharp cries of

many who were wounded, poor Tim heard nothing.

He resigned himself meekly and humbly to die.

“If I had only acted bravely,” he thought, “this misfortune wouldn’t

have happened to me. But how could I help it? Wildfire Ned is a

perfect devil, and don’t care any more for a sword-cut than I would

for a flea-bite. This all comes of being a coward,” he groaned.

“Curse the Skeleton rascals! D—n this tree which offered me

protection! If I could only get out of this stifling hole, I’d give——”

“What! what would you give?” asked a solemn voice near to him.

Tim began to shiver in every limb.

“Was that a voice I heard?” he sighed. “No, it cannot be; it must

have been all im——”

“Reality!” interrupted the voice.

For a moment the frightened prisoner dared not move.

“’Tis the devil,” he muttered.

Before he could utter another word Tim felt the earth moving from

under him.

With a groan he endeavoured to cling to the inside of the tree.

The effort was vain.

When least expected he felt himself gradually going.

At last he suddenly fell into a cave some twenty feet below!

CHAPTER XIV.

THE BRIDAL BALL—UNEXPECTED VISITORS—THE DREAD ALARM—THE MUFFLED

PEAL OF BELLS.

Wildfire Ned, Bob Bertram, Lieut. Garnet, and the brave old

innkeeper, followed the Skeleton Band as far as they possibly could,

but, as we have said, soon lost sight of their grim and bloodthirsty

enemies.

The sailors, meanwhile, acting under Garnet’s orders, now returned

to the burning tavern and exerted themselves with great courage and

labour to extinguish the flames.

This they succeeded in doing to some great extent, and soon were

joined by crowds from the village of Darlington, who had been

attracted to the spot by the lurid glare in the sky.

The spirit-room of the tavern was saved, and all it contained, but

little else.

Old Nettles, the landlord—for such was his right name—was too much

overjoyed at vanquishing the Skeleton Crew to think much of his loss,

particularly as Lieutenant Garnet had informed him that he would be

recompensed by the king himself for all he had lost, and much more

given to him besides, for so bravely fighting in the cause of law and

order against Death-wing’s friends.

Full of joy, and not caring a button for his wounds, he helped

to gather up all the stock which had been saved, and, amid loud

applause, distributed ales, wines, and spirits in abundance to all

comers.

The sailors were in their glory, and drank health and long life to

Nettles, landlord of the “Grapes,” in many a flowing tankard, and

many a brimming glass sparkling with good old Jamaica rum, as they

merrily squatted on the green grass smoking their pipes.

Among others who had hurried to the scene of conflict, with his

servants well armed (but who by accident arrived too late), was young

Lord Walton, from the Abbey, some five miles away.

The old marquis, his father, had a large party of lords and ladies

assembled at the Abbey that night to celebrate the marriage of his

only daughter, Lady Julia.

Lord Walton, the son, however, did not remain a moment in the

ball-room when it was whispered to him that the Skeleton Crew were

abroad.

Unknown to any one, he gathered together a band of trusty servants

and hurried forth to lend his aid.

But if he arrived too late, he greatly admired the courage and daring

of those who had so long contended with the Crew; and in token of his

admiration invited Lieutenant Garnet, Wildfire Ned, and Bob Bertram

to pass the rest of the night at the Abbey, and partake of the

hospitality there, and join in the merry marriage dance.

This just suited the three heroes, and with little pressing they

accepted the invitation, particularly as this was the last night

which Wildfire Ned intended to pass on shore.

He was to join Lieutenant Garnet’s ship on the morrow, for on the

spot the brave sailor offered Ned a commission as midshipman, which

he readily accepted.

Away then they sped across the country and soon reached Walton Abbey,

when the soft crash of music, and the gliding of graceful figures

past the many windows, proclaimed that the marriage festivity was at

its height.

When the truth was told about Wildfire Ned and the others, and of

their gallantry in dispersing the Skeleton Crew, every one was

amazed, and fair dames smiled on Ned as he gaily whirled in the

dreamy mazes of the dance.

But soon a change came o’er the festive scene.

The bells of the village church, with muffled peals, suddenly broke

forth upon the night with a discordant funereal clang.

The dance was stopped.

All looked amazed.

Young Lord Walton entreated all to be calm, and meanwhile with an old

and trusty servant went to the entrance hall to ascertain the cause

of a sudden noise heard there.

The doors were flung open.

There stood before him a grim sight.

Death-wing, among his mounted band, with torch and link in hand, all

in a blaze of lurid light, in a hoarse voice, demanded admittance to

the ball.

For a moment the young lord remained motionless.

He could scarcely believe the evidence of his own eyesight.

He had often heard of the Skeleton Crew before, but had never seen

anything of them.

Until that night he looked upon that band as a myth, believed in only

by the dull and ignorant rustics around him.

Had not the story come from the lips of young Warbeck and Lieutenant

Garnet, who had more than once encountered those grim creatures, he

would have still believed that they were all imaginary creatures.

But here was proof positive of their existence.

The hair of the old servant who accompanied the young lord to the

hall door stood up with fright as he looked out upon the ghastly gang

before him, and his knees began to tremble.

“Who and what are ye?” asked the young lord, in firm and determined

tones.

“Death-wing and his crew,” was the hoarse response.

“What want ye here, at this hour of the night?”

“Open wide the door,” said a chorus of Skeletons.

“Stand back,” said young Walton, as he drew his sword, and flourished

it; “the first of ye that stirs shall perish!”

A coarse laugh was the only response.

In a second Death-wing, with a heavy blow, knocked young Walton

senseless to the floor.

The old butler fell flat upon his face with horror in the entrance

hall.

Before they entered the Skeleton Crew threw their torches in a heap

upon the ground, and walked boldly into the hall.

Some few of them remained behind to mind the horses.

All was now darkness.

On the first landing Death-wing halted, and directed his men to enter

the rooms to the right and left.

One of these rooms was at that moment being prepared for the bridal

supper, and many servants were engaged in laying out the tables with

costly plate.

Two or three Skeletons entered.

The servants gave a loud shout of terror, and vanished through an

opposite door.

They made their way at a terrific pace towards the ball-room.

“What means all this commotion?” said the marquis.

“Where is my son?” demanded the marchioness.

“My brother, has aught happened to him?” said the trembling bride.

Before any explanation could be given one of the doors opened, and in

rushed several of the Skeleton Crew.

On the instant they were confronted by Wildfire Ned, Lieutenant

Garnet, and Bob, and most of the gentlemen present, who whipped out

their swords, and darted at the grim intruders.

Some of the ladies fainted.

One or two old gentlemen jumped on the window-sills out of danger.

Others tried to escape.

But, as they rushed in one direction out of harm’s way, other doors

opened and different parties of the Skeleton Crew came into view.

All was a scene of terror and confusion.

It seemed to the affrighted assembly as if the dead had risen from

their graves.

The combat was fierce and fiery.

The bridegroom was one of the first to fall in the melee.

Lady Julia ran forward to assist him.

On the instant, however, and unperceived by the many, Death-wing

advanced with hasty strides, seized the bride, and carried her from

the room.

This was the sole object of Death-wing in making his visit.

When it was accomplished he darted down stairs, with the fair one

fainting in his arms, and mounted his horse.

A shrill cry he gave, which was recognised by all his followers, as

he mounted his strong horse, and galloped away.

His band understood the manœuvre, and as quickly as they could,

fought their way towards the entrance-hall, leaped upon their horses,

and flew away like the wind, with wild shouts of triumph.

“Pursue! pursue!” shouted Ned, fierce with anger.

His advice was followed on the instant.

Horses were called for; but the terrified servants were loth to come

forth from their hiding-places to answer the summons.

They had madly rushed to all manner of places for concealment.

Some had made their way to the top of the mansion, and there

concealed themselves behind chimney-pots, and even in the deep rain

gutters.

One or two had actually climbed up chimneys, and were almost

smothered in soot.

“Anywhere! anywhere!” was the cry among them.

Somewhere or anywhere to hide, so as to be out of sight and reach of

Death-wing’s awful band.

More than one had locked themselves into pantries, among the plates,

dishes, and so forth, and great was the crash of valuable earthenware.

No one among the whole household seemed to care what they did or what

they broke, so that they could get out of the way.

A fat footman who had rushed to the coal-cupboard, found it occupied

by another corpulent servant, who had managed to squeeze himself in

there.

Dirty as he was, he darted into the beautiful bridal chamber, turned

down the bed-clothes, and tumbled in boots and all!

With this state of confusion reigning, therefore, it was impossible

for Wildfire Ned, Garnet, or any one else, to get their horses quick

enough to pursue the villains with any chance of success.

Bob Bertram was foremost at the stables.

There were more than twenty horses there, besides his own, and those

of his friends.

He ran hither and thither, busy with hands and voice, and ere long a

party of gentlemen started in hot pursuit, led on by Wildfire Ned,

who, with loud shouts, dashed spurs into Starlight, and was foremost

of them all.

CHAPTER XV.

IN WHICH SOME OF THE VILLAGERS ARE MADE SANDWICHES OF.

The village of Walton, near to the abbey, never forgot that memorable

night on which Lady Julia, a newly-made bride, was carried off by the

chief of the Skeleton Crew, and her young husband cruelly killed.

It was an event which shocked the most hardened.

During the day, the whole village, and its surroundings had been

making holiday in honor of Lady Julia’s nuptials, and everything had

passed off with the greatest satisfaction to every one.

But few persons were astir, and these consisted of the village

clerk, the butcher, the druggist, the post-master, and a few other

notabilities, who were warming their legs round the tavern fire, and

indulging in all manner of stories, both wild and strange, until long

after the church clock had struck the hour of twelve.

The parson’s clerk was just in the middle of a ghost-story; his

hearers, with open mouths, and staring eyes, listened in wrapt

attention.

The wind sighed down the chimney most dolefully, and the clerk began

to look very nervous and shaky.

He had just got to that part of his tale where the ghost appears upon

the scene, when the village bells in a discordant peal clanged out

upon the silent night.

Every one in the parlor of the “Black Bull” was startled.

For a moment they looked at each other, and then towards the door,

as if expecting that the ghost so often mentioned in the story would

really step in among them.

They listened again and breathed very hard.

Still they heard the dismal clanging of the village bells.

“Who is that?”

“What can that mean?”

“How comes this?” said one and all.

“Don’t thee hear it?”

“Why, in course we do.”

“What can it mean?”

“Oh, it’s some o’ the drunken ringers as have got into the steeple,

and want to frighten us,” said the courageous butcher.

“Then, let us go and stop ’em,” said the clerk. “Who’ll go wi’ me?”

“I will.”

“And so will I,” several replied at once.

They left the cosy parlour, and, lanterns in hand, proceeded through

the village, armed with thick, stout cudgels, bent on giving the

drunken bell-ringers a sound thrashing for thus disturbing the

silence of the night.

It would have been bad enough, the worthies thought, if the ringers

had pealed out merrily; but, instead of that, as we have said, it was

a muffled funeral peal which issued from the old tower.

Besides the clerk and his friends, there were numerous others, who

left their warm beds intent upon finding out the cause of all this

strange and startling disturbance.

Straightway this valiant band of villagers proceeded towards

the church, and could plainly see lights in the belfry, and

the reflection of persons against the windows and through the

lattice-work.

Mr. Clerk led the way up the narrow winding stairs of stone, and, if

it must be confessed, swearing the while most lustily against the

“impudent varlets” who thus disturbed the peace.

He had not gone far up the stairs when the ringing ceased.

All lights were suddenly extinguished in the belfry.

This was a good sign, the clerk thought, and grasped his thick stick

with vigour.

With a loud shout, he and the others rushed into the ringers’ room,

lanterns in hand.

At that moment the bells, this time unmuffled, gave out a most

horrible, clanging sound.

The clerk started back in fright towards the door, and hastily turned

on his light.

He and the rest groaned most dolefully, for, there, standing before

them, were eight Skeletons, each with a rope in his hand, and, while

pulling away most vigorously, grinned most diabolically at the

intruders.

The clerk and his friends would have given all the money in Walton to

have been a mile or more away.

But there they were, unable to stir, wriggling and writhing, and

knowing not which way to retreat, or what to do.

“Oh! mercy on us,” said the clerk, almost distilled to a jelly. “Why,

it’s some of the Skeleton Crew; they have changed from a funeral to a

joy peal.”

“What can all this horrid thing mean?” said another.

“Mean? Ha! ha!” gruffly laughed one of the skeletons, in a voice that

made the entrapped villagers quake again. “Mean, eh? Why, it means

that we are so glad to see you, that’s all. We wanted some amusement.”

“What can these monsters mean or intend to do?” sighed the clerk, who

much wished to get away if he could.

“Mean? intend?” repeated the horrible voice again. “Why, it means

that we intend to celebrate Lady Julia’s marriage with our great

chief, Death-wing, and will do honour to the event by hanging every

mother’s son of you!”

Dismal groans were now heard on all sides.

Some began to gasp from fear.

Others fell to praying.

But the Skeleton Bell-ringers were as good as their word, as we shall

see.

They stopped pealing the bells, and glared most hideously at their

intended victims.

“So you came here with stout cudgels in your hands, did you, and

intended to give us all a good sound thrashing, I dare say?”

“Not me.”

“Nor me.”

“I hadn’t the remotest idea of any such thing, most august and

ghostly strangers,” chimed in the terrified clerk, as his legs almost

gave way from under him.

“As we know you are lying, parson’s man as you are, why, you might as

well come forward first. We intend to make an example of.”

The poor clerk was dragged out from among his fellows.

Two of the skeletons pulled down the heaviest bell, and much of its

slack rope was coiled on the floor.

They held it down.

“That bell is too heavy to swing up one,” said the chief. “Take the

apothecary, and make a ‘sandwich’ of him and the lying clerk.”

Much to the astonishment of all present, the clerk and the apothecary

were placed back to back.

The slack rope of the great bell was twisted and tied round their

bodies, and fastened into a knot.

At a given signal the two skeletons who held down the great bell let

go the rope.

Up went the two unfortunate devils, shouting at the top of their

voices, and dangling in mid-air, like a couple of spiders on a single

thread of web.

In like manner all the rest were “sandwiched,” as it was called.

Each rope was wound round the bodies of two at least.

And there they hung, to the infinite amusement of their tormentors,

writhing and groaning, their own weight drawing down the bells from

time to time, and making the most horrible and discordant noises.

Satisfied with this pleasant handiwork, the Skeleton Bell-ringers

left the belfry; and the worthy villagers, fighting like cats tied on

a clothes line, pulling each other about, and dancing a most painful

hornpipe between the ceiling and floor to the inharmonious jangling

of the bells, were left all alone in their glory.

CHAPTER XVI.

PHILLIP REDGILL IS FOUND TO BE NOT SO CLEVER AS HE CONSIDERED

HIMSELF.

Phillip Redgill next appears on the scene of our story in his

father’s offices.

His father was very rich, and had extensive dealings with ships and

valuable merchandize in the City of London.

He was a widower of nearly sixty summers, and had no child but

Phillip.

This youth had been well educated, and was allowed an ample income to

live on.

But he looked upon commerce as something degrading, and felt ashamed

to own among the gay gallants of the town that he was anything less

than a person of noble blood.

His propensities for gambling had well nigh ruined his father more

than once.

But the fond old parent had overlooked his son’s misdemeanours very

frequently.

At last it was discovered that Phillip had so far forgotten himself

as to forge his father’s name to certain heavy bills, and squandered

the money on gay persons of the town.

From that time forth a great coldness existed between father and

son, and Phillip was told for the last time that he _must_ make his

annual allowance suffice for his pleasures, and that should he again

so disgrace the time-honoured name of Redgill, he would take the

consequences, for the law should be enforced, which in those days was

“death for forgery.”

Phillip, however, had become so accustomed to high life about town,

that he looked upon his father’s conduct as something very cruel,

and resolved to rob him all he could rather than be lowered in the

estimation of his “lordly” acquaintances.

A libertine soon brings many a good and rich parent to ruin.

But old Redgill was a man of firm purpose; when he once had made up

his mind to anything, and although he did not tell any one of his

intentions, he frequently informed Phillip privately that his conduct

was bringing sorrows and misery on his old age, and that if he did

not reform he would disinherit him.

All this Phillip Redgill looked upon as a good joke, and set his wits

to work to get money as best he could by hook or by crook, so as to

still keep up the reputation he had already gained among the gayest

of the gay, as “Reckless Redgill.”

One of the first things which Phillip did when he found it no longer

possible to “screw” money out of his rich old parent, was to form the

acquaintance of the notorious Death-wing, chief of the Skeleton Crew.

Old Redgill had two ships on their way from the Indies, laden with

gold, spices, and silks.

In consideration of receiving half of the cargo, Death-wing and his

infamous crew resolved to waylay these two ships and attack them when

about fifty miles from the Land’s End.

This was done.

The crew of both ships were murdered in cold blood.

The vessels were run into a snug inlet on the West coast of England,

near to where Death-wing’s caves and store-houses were situated.

Phillip received but one-fifth of the spoil, instead of one-half.

But he was much too wise to say anything about his disappointment and

annoyance.

This system of villany was repeated more than once, but as his

father’s ships did not arrive in port except at intervals of many

months, Phillip often found his money running short, and without any

visible means of replenishing his exhausted purse.

In his father’s offices he had often heard of old Farmer Bertram’s

indebtedness, and of how much money was still due on the mortgages at

Four Ash Farm.

Mr. Harry Bolton, he also knew, was his father’s travelling

collector, and was about to start on his usual journey.

As we have seen, Phillip forestalled Bolton’s visit to Four Ash farm,

and by impersonating Bolton, obtained an interview with old Bertram

and murdered him.

Young Redgill was a cool-handed villain, and knew not what remorse

was.

Bloodshed to him was quite a usual thing.

He was not a brave young man by any means, as Wildfire Ned often

proved.

But it was whispered by those who knew him best that when returning

from wine parties he would have no scruple in picking a quarrel with

any inoffensive citizen he might fall across, and feel no regret at

drawing his sword and wounding any one who was unarmed.

Many a simple shopkeeper and unsuspecting night watchman had been

“pinked” by “Reckless Redgill,” and no one was any the wiser.

But, like all great rogues and rascals, Phillip was very careful,

very careful indeed, in picking quarrels, or drawing his “toasting

fork,” upon any one who was at all likely or able to resent it blow

for blow.

He had up to the present time run along in his career of crime

undetected and unsuspected.

But all things have an end.

And so it was with Phillip.

From petty thefts in his father’s offices he gradually and swiftly

descended to greater villanies, until at last, as we have seen, even

coolly-planned murder did not shock or retard him in his life of

crime.

Like an apple, he was only getting sufficiently ripe to fall into

the hands of justice, and, as will be seen in due course of time, he

met with his proper deserts.

Weak and pale, Phillip sat in his father’s counting-house, in which

were busily engaged dozens of industrious clerks.

He had sauntered through the offices with a supercilious air, and

to those who politely bade him “good morrow” he only returned a

contemptuous look, as if they were so much dirt, and beneath his

notice.

As usual, he was elegantly dressed, and a servant assisted him into

his father’s private office, where he lounged in a capacious chair,

and toyed with a pet spaniel.

Old Redgill had been informed of his son’s wound, but up to the

present time knew nothing as to what had occasioned it, for Phillip

did not, in truth, in his own words, “he would not condescend”

to live in his father’s house, but kept up a small but elegant

“establishment” of his own, where wine parties, card playing, and

magnificent suppers were the order of the night.

After a time old Redgill, the famous East India merchant, entered,

and the father and son spoke of many things.

“But you have never told me how you got that sword thrust, Phillip,”

said the father, in a very anxious tone. “I suppose you and some gay

spark fell out on the road and had a pass or two at some roadside

inn? I know your proud spirit, my son, and your headstrong valour.”

Phillip smiled faintly in a patronizing way, as if “a pass or two”

with gay sparks was an every-day occurrence, although his own heart

told him that he was one of the greatest cowards and villains unhung.

“No, sir,” was the calm reply, “the whole affair occurred in this

manner. When I left Darlington Hall with old Sir Richard Warbeck, our

carriage was attacked by a band of highwaymen.”

“I see, I see,” said the fond father, in great glee, “and in beating

them off you got wounded?”

“Not that exactly; let _me_ tell the story. Old Sir Richard escaped

through the assistance of some gallant gentleman unknown to him

or myself, and he travelled on alone, for after fighting with the

vagabonds, and after I had wounded several of them, they took me

prisoner.”

“Took you prisoner, eh? What a mercy you escaped at all! You surprise

me.”

“It will surprise you more to hear what I’ve got to tell. These

ruffians conducted me to a roadside den, some house of call of

theirs, and who should I discover but Ned Warbeck among them.”

“Ned Warbeck? Impossible!”

“No, it is a fact seeing him there; and knowing what a young rascal

he is I accused him of having set on the villains to rob and murder

his uncle so as to fall heir to part of the estate.”

“Oh, the young scoundrel! And so you think he did so?”

“Think!” said Phillip, with a curling lip. “I am _sure_ of it, for

who but he could have known of his uncle’s intended journey?”

“I see, I see,—go on: this adventure is intensely exciting. And what

happened?”

“He knew that I was in the power of his friends, and the young

villain became very defiant. He drew his sword, and would have rushed

upon me unarmed as I was.”

“Cowardly, cowardly boy!” said the father.

“But, when least expected, I whipped a weapon out of the scabbard of

one present, and went at him.”

“Good! excellent! What then?”

“At the first thrust I disarmed him, and the young villain cried for

mercy. I granted it, but when least expected, the whole gang dashed

at me, furious that their young chief—”

“Chief! you do not mean, then, that Ned Warbeck has joined a band of

robbers, and been made their captain?”

“I do, though, just as you say. They rushed at me with savage oaths.

I retreated to the door, fighting as I went, and reached my horse.

Just as I was about to escape, young Warbeck dashed out upon me, and

gave me a sly thrust.”

“Oh, the young imp of the devil!” groaned old Redgill, “just to think

of his cunning and roguery; to leave his uncle’s home to be captain

of a band of highwaymen! Why, the young varlet will shortly grace a

gibbet.”

“Not a doubt of it, and I shall never rest content until I see it

come to pass.”

While father and son were thus conversing, one of the clerks entered

and announced a stranger.

“Who, and what kind of person is he?”

“An officer of the Crown, sir; a tall man with a black patch over his

eye.”

“An officer of the Crown,” thought Phillip, and his face turned

crimson.

“What can he want here?” the old merchant asked.

“I know not, sir; but he is a swaggering kind of person, and is now

walking up and down the stone passage entrance-hall, clanking his

sword in a very fierce and valiant manner.”

“Did he give any name?” Phillip asked, in an uneasy manner.

“No, Mr. Phillip.”

“Admit him,” said the old man, impatiently. “What can any officer of

the Crown want with us, I wonder?”

“I know not,” his son answered; “but, as it may be a matter of

secresy, I will retire.”

“Nay, do not, my son; stay with me.”

Phillip, however, rose from his chair with difficulty, and proceeded

towards the door.

At that moment it was opened.

Captain Jack stalked in.

For a moment he was staggered at seeing Phillip Redgill, and opened

his eyes very wide.

Phillip put his finger to his lips slyly.

Captain Jack coughed significantly, and said not a word.

Phillip now altered his mind, and sat in a chair.

“Your business, sir!” said the old merchant, impatiently.

“My name first, and business afterwards, is the style, I think!” said

Captain Jack, doffing his hat, and stroking his chin.

Without invitation he squatted down in a chair, and stretched out his

immense long legs to the utmost.

Seeing a decanter of wine on the table, he helped himself to a large

tumbler-full, and tossed it off, saying,

“Ah! who wouldn’t be an East India merchant to have such sack as

that? Ah! d—nd fine stuff for a dusty day.”

“Your name, sir?” the old merchant inquired impatiently.

“My name! eh? Ah! just so,” he replied indifferently, and with much

composure pouring out another glass of wine. “My name, sir, is

Captain Jack, and yours is Mr. Redgill, I think; here’s health to

you, old boy!”

“And your business, here?” said the merchant, amazed at the coolness

of his vulgar visitor.

“My business! eh? Well, if you want to know, I’m one of the most

active, zealous, and valiant officers the Crown can boast; and as to

catching rogues, vagabonds, and cut-throats, there isn’t my equal in

all the kingdom. I’ve only got one fault, and that is, I love the

bottle.”

“All this has nothing to do with me, sir!” said the old merchant,

getting red in the face with anger. “Your business here, I demand

again?”

“Don’t get frothy, my old friend!” said Captain Jack, “I’m coming to

that now.”

“And what is it, pray?”

“I’ll just tell you,” said Captain Jack, “but as we don’t want any

intruders, I may as well lock the door.”

He rose and did so, and put the key in his pocket.

Phillip was now apprehensive of danger, and turned deadly pale.

His father began to stutter out something, but could not speak

plainly.

“I have come here on a very important bit of business,” said Captain

Jack, “and like an honest man, as I am, don’t want to hurt the tender

feelings of any one.”

“I don’t understand you,” said the old merchant.

“Well, there has been _murder_ committed, that’s all,” said Captain

Jack, with a low chuckle.

“Murder!” gasped the old merchant, retreating a step or two in

surprise and horror.

“Murder!” echoed Phillip, with a well-feigned look of astonishment.

“Yes, murder, gentlemen, that’s all.”

“And what have _I_ to do with such a foul charge?” asked the

merchant, indignantly.

“_You_ haven’t;

but—there—are—certain—parties—not—a—very—great—way—from—here—as—_have_,”

said Captain Jack, very carelessly in the direction where Phillip sat.

Young Redgill felt the blood run coldly to his heart as he heard

these words.

But he spoke not.

“Some one in _this_ house?” asked the merchant, astonished.

“Yes, in this very house, and no other. Not only murder, mind you,

but robbery,” said Captain Jack, very coolly. “And a pretty good haul

the chap made of it, so I hear. He bagged lots of gold coin. Do you

know old Bertram, of Four Ash Farm?”

“I do; he is my creditor to a large amount, and has to pay me heavy

arrears on a mortgage I hold of him. I expect him in town every day.”

“You may expect a long time, then, for he’s the chap which was robbed

and murdered.”

“Impossible!” said the old merchant, turning white. “What a horrid

affair! And have they found out who did it?”

“Not exactly,” said Captain Jack;

“but—I—think—I—can—find—out—afore—long,” he answered, slowly and

ominously. “I’m coming to that point now. Have you a travelling

collector in your house of the name of Bolton?”

“Bolton? Yes.”

“Of course you have, father,” said Phillip, eagerly. “Surely _he_

couldn’t have been such a wretch as to——”

“Steady, my friends, steady,” said Captain Jack, coolly. “Don’t

be in any flurry, either of ye, but answer me. Did he call at old

Bertram’s? Did you order him to call there, and collect your debt?”

“Yes you did, father. I heard you tell him to do so in my hearing,

when last I saw you.”

“I know I did, my son; but when you had gone I altered my mind, and

sent Bolton in quite a different direction. He was not within fifty

miles of Four Ash Farm, I’ll swear; that is, unless he went there

unknown to me, and contrary to my orders.”

A heavy sigh escaped from Phillip’s lips, and he felt a cold sweat

upon his guilty brow, as he said,

“I know you told him; but if you countermanded the order, of course

that’s a different thing. It’s an awful charge to be accused of is

murder.”

“Yes, ain’t it?” said Captain Jack, with a wicked grin playing around

his large mouth. “And robbery, too. Have neither of ye heard of it

afore? Not a syllable?”

“Never dreamed of such an abominable affair,” said Phillip.

“Lor! how strange! and just to think as how this job has been in my

hands more than a fortnight, and all the country knows it; but is

this Mr. Bolton in your offices now?”

“He is.”

“Then let us have a squint at him. Order him in here, for I’ve got an

exact description of the party who called at the farm-house; he was

disguised.”

The door was unlocked, and in a few moments young Mr. Bolton appeared.

As he crossed the threshold, with a light step and pleasant smile, he

suddenly caught the serious gaze of his master and young Redgill.

“You sent for me, sir,” he began; but turned all manner of colours

when he confronted his old master’s black looks.

“What is all this?” he asked.

“I am sorry to say, Mr. Bolton,” Phillip Redgill began, “that you are

suspected of a most foul——”

“Not so fast,” said Captain Jack, interrupting. “I understand my own

business best and want no assistance from any one.”

“Look you here, young man,” he began, addressing Mr. Bolton, “one of

your master’s customers and old friends have been murdered, and you

are one of the suspected parties.”

“I?”

“Yes, you; and all I’ve got to say is that I have got a warrant for

your apprehension as being concerned in it, and you must come with

me.”

“Arrested on the charge of murder?” Bolton gasped, and he staggered

towards the door, past Phillip Redgill, whose countenance wore a

malicious smile of triumph.

The news stunned the young man, and he would have rushed away from

the spot.

At that moment, however, Mr. Faulkner and another unprepossessing,

ugly-looking member of the “Bakers’ dozen” appeared at the door, and

politely collared the astonished youth.

He was borne away to prison more dead than alive.

But before Captain Jack left the private office he helped himself to

another glass of wine, and, as he went out, whispered to Phillip,

“Can’t I see you some time to-night?”

“Where?” answered Phillip, in a faint voice.

“At the ‘Cat and Bagpipes’ over the water.”

“What time?”

“At twelve.”

“I’ll be there.”

“_Mind you do_,” said Captain Jack, with an ominous wink, and stalked

out of the office in a swaggering manner.

“What did the officer say to you, Phillip?” the anxious father asked.

“He simply said that the case, as it at present stands, looks very

awkward for Mr. Bolton.”

“Oh, is that all? Yet, methinks he is an unmannerly officer. Did you

notice how he winked and blinked at you while he spoke?”

“No; did he?”

“Yes; and had I not known you well, I should have supposed you knew

and had dealings with him at some time.”

Phillip attempted to smile, as he said,

“Oh, that is nothing; winking their eyes and stroking their noses is

only a habit these officers have got. But,” he sighed to himself, “I

am in their clutches! but will soon rid myself of the bloodhounds.

He must visit _me_ to-night. I cannot if I would go there to his den

of thieves. I know the place well, and would not trust myself among

the ragamuffins who meet there, no, not for a thousand pieces of

gold. Curse the hour I ever met them. I am tracked and dogged. These

fellows shall be removed from my path—they _must_ be.”

CHAPTER XVII.

THE NUBIAN SLAVE AND ELLEN HARMER.

It must be confessed that no man living ever felt less remorse for

crime of any kind than did Colonel Blood.

He had been in several wars, and was a rough-handed, cold-hearted

villain.

But with all his knavery, he possessed a sort of gentlemanly bearing

that admitted him into almost any society of the loose-living period

in which he lived, namely, that of the lascivious Charles the Second,

whom people are wont to call “the merry monarch.”

John Blood had ridden some twenty miles or more; he hired a light and

fast four-wheeled vehicle, in order to reach London all the sooner.

Ellen Harmer, almost distracted at thus being forcibly borne away

from her father’s home, wept and bewailed her cruel fate.

But, had she shed tears of gore, they would have had no effect upon

the mind or conscience of her rude, rough-handed captor.

In order to quiet the beautiful Ellen, he administered to her a glass

of wine, in which he had placed a noxious drug.

This had the effect of producing sound sleep; nor was she aware of

whither the fast-going vehicle was going.

All she knew was, that when she awoke on the following morning, she

found herself in a sumptuously-decorated chamber.

Around her were furniture and articles of beautiful design, and

evidently of great price.

She rushed out of bed towards the window in great surprise.

It was barred.

But she could see below her splendid gardens, with fountains playing.

Fruit trees and flowers met her astonished gaze on every hand.

All was silent.

“Am I dreaming?” she thought. “Has all that I have passed through

been nought but a cruel excruciating nightmare?”

Beside a splendid mirror, in which she could see herself from head to

foot, she perceived a massive bell-pull, with fine bullion tassel.

This she mechanically touched.

A soft, sweet sound responded to her touch, like the harmonious

tinkling of a silver bell.

The more she looked about her the more she was astonished and

confounded at the brilliance, beauty and elegance of all things.

She heard no one approach, but turning suddenly beheld a tall

servant, splendidly attired, but his face and bare arms were as black

as ebony.

Ellen started.

The servant bowed lowly and smiled.

“Where am I?” the startled girl inquired, with a flushed face and

flashing eyes. “Who has brought me hither, and for what?”

The tall Nubian smiled again.

He bowed more lowly than ever, but spoke not.

He motioned to her that he was both deaf and dumb.

“Set me at liberty!” gasped the captive girl, for the first time

realizing her true position, “set me free; I cannot breath the

atmosphere of this gilded prison. Oh! let me once more flee to my

poor old father, or my heart will break!”

So speaking, she sank on her knees before the tall Nubian, and burst

into tears.

For a moment the black gazed at the beautiful young creature, and his

eyes rolled in wild delight.

He lifted her up from her prostrate position on the floor, and kissed

her snowy hand with every token of affection.

This act surprised and startled Ellen more than ever, for the strange

intruder was a fierce, tall man, and one who seemed to possess, when

he willed it, both the strength of a lion, or the gentleness of a

lamb.

GRAND DISTRIBUTION OF PRIZES!!

[Illustration: Decoration]

1,400 VALUABLE PRESENTS

=GIVEN AWAY=

WITH THE

=BOYS OF ENGLAND=,

Consisting of Ponies, Pet Dogs, Pigeons, Ducks, Fowls, Rabbits,

Concertinas, Watches, Cricket Bats, Balls and Stumps, Bows and

Arrows, Fishing Rods, Quoits, Boxes of Colours, Sets of Characters,

Scenes, Stage Front, etc., etc.

ORDER NO. 1 OF THE

=BOYS OF ENGLAND=.

ONE PENNY WEEKLY.

With NO. 1 is PRESENTED A LARGE AND MAGNIFICENT ENGRAVING OF THE

BATTLE OF CHEVY CHASE, AND A SET OF CHARACTERS FOR A NEW PLAY.

FOUR TIMES THE SIZE OF ANY OTHER BOYS JOURNAL.

LOOK OUT FOR

THE BOY SAILOR;

OR,

LIFE ON BOARD A MAN-OF-WAR.

A most interesting and powerfully-written Tale, to be completed in

about 30 Numbers.

_No. 2, with No. 1, and a LARGE ENGRAVING, GRATIS._

[Illustration: THE MYSTERIOUS BARBER.]

But with all his ferocious exterior there was a something in his

smile both tender and re-assuring.

He placed a finger on his lips, and led her gently towards the window.

He next, and with great air of mystery and caution, pulled out of his

silk doublet a small ivory tablet.

He partly wrote upon it these words:—

“You are a stranger to me, and, rough as I look, I love you, love you

dearly.”

Ellen’s eyes darted fiery anger at him as she shunned the smiling

black.

He took no notice of her seeming repugnance, but smiled, and in the

act showed his rows of shining teeth.

He rubbed out the words he had written, and quickly pencilled these

others:—

“Do you wish me to be a friend or foe, fair one?”

“A friend,” said Ellen, trembling.

He placed before her the tablet again, and she read—

“I _will_ be a friend to you, and a true one, on a single condition.”

The girl’s blood almost curdled in her veins as she read what he had

hastily scribbled, for she now trembled for her honour and chastity.

“Name your condition,” she gasped.

“Can you, _will_ you keep a secret?” he wrote.

“I _will_,” she answered.

“On your life and honour?” he wrote again.

“Yes, on my life and honour,” she answered, firmly, for a moment

feeling re-assured by his change of manner.

He now wrote on the tablet.

“I am the slave of Colonel Blood; they call me Sinbad, and am

supposed even by my master to be both deaf and dumb; but I am not.”

“Not deaf and dumb?” she answered. “Then you knew the sounds of the

bell I rang?”

“I heard it,” he whispered, “and knew its meaning.”

“My meaning?” she asked.

“Yes; and my master’s also, for he left word with his confidential

valet that directly you rang he should be summoned.”

“For what purpose?”

“That I will afterwards explain. I knew that you had been abducted,

and that when you had fully recovered from the drugs administered to

you last night on the way hither you would ring the chamber bell.

“This bell I watched,” said the Nubian, “and muffled it in order that

I might know when you had awoke from slumber, and forewarn you of all

that is to happen to you this day.”

“Happen?” said Ellen.

“Yes, maiden; look not surprised, you are not the first fair victim

who has fallen into the treacherous fangs of my master, Colonel

Blood.”

“For what purpose, then, was I brought hither? I have never harmed

any one. What crime am I guilty of?”

“Your beauty is your only crime,” the Nubian whispered. “He has

brought you hither as a fair one who may be dishonoured, and,

thereafter, for a time pander to the lusts of the king, his master.”

“Impossible!” Ellen gasped.

“Nay, ’tis true; but, remember, I have fore-warned you, and if you do

but keep your promise I will be your friend; in helping you I seek

my own revenge. I cannot tell you the horrid indignity which I have

suffered at my master’s hands, but you may perhaps at some time learn

it. In case you should need it, take this dagger; conceal it in your

fair bosom. But, hark! I hear some one approaching!”

As quick as thought the Nubian crawled beneath the bed and listened.

’Twas Colonel Blood who stood at the door!

CHAPTER XVIII.

IN WHICH CAPTAIN JACK MAKES AN UNEXPECTED CALL AT MIDNIGHT.

Phillip Redgill was by far too weak from his recent wound to keep

his appointment with Captain Jack at the “Cat and Bagpipes” over the

water, and therefore remained at home in his own snug apartments,

surrounded as he was by every luxury and convenience.

Richly attired gentlemen of gallant appearance called during the day

to inquire after his health and condition.

At night also many of them dropped in to have a chat, and crack a

bottle of wine with the invalid.

Masque balls, marriages, elopements, and the latest court scandal

were the topics of conversation with Redgill and his friends.

The rattle of the dice-box, and shuffling of cards were the order of

the evening among these gay revellers.

Gayest of the gay, and loudest among them all, was Phillip Redgill,

who, propped up with pillows on a luxurious sofa, joined the

gamblers, and puffed a cigar with as much coolness as if nothing were

the matter with him.

The hours flew by, and Phillip neglected his appointment with Captain

Jack.

When he occasionally thought of his promise, he only smiled as he

reflected,

“That long-legged devil recognised me. Well, chance makes us

acquainted with queer people sometimes; that comes of getting into

scrapes upon the road. I suppose he wants to borrow some money of me,

that’s all. Well, well, he’s an ugly-looking rascal, though, and I

like not his looks. I’ll give that worthy a call to-morrow; I can’t

meet him to-night; if I were to take a sedan chair all that distance

it would re-open this cursed wound that Wildfire Ned gave me; d—m

him!”

During the night, other arrivals were announced, both lords and

ladies of doubtful standing in society, brilliant in silks and paint.

Music, light laughter, jokes, wit, and repartee, echoed through

Phillip’s pleasant suite of rooms.

Languishing smiles, whispered words, eloquent winks, nods, and

pressure of the hand, passed and repassed from one to another.

Some sang, others danced; here was a boisterous wine party, and there

a gossiping set.

The hours flew by, nor did any one give heed to thought or care.

Midnight chimed from the church towers.

The half hour tolled.

But the merry makers took no notice of the flight of time.

One o’clock struck.

A loud knock was heard at the door.

A servant opened it.

Captain Jack stood there, accompanied by several friends.

They were comparatively well-dressed; but slightly the worse for

liquor.

“Who are you, gentlemen?” the servant asked.

“We are——” Captain Jack began.

“No we ain’t,” replied Faulkner.

“Yes we are,” said the captain, hiccupping.

“What, sirs?” asked the servant again.

“Why, gentlemen, to be sure,” said Captain Jack, leaning against the

door-post.

“I perceive that,” the servant replied; “but I fear me, sirs, you are

somewhat the worse for liquor, and have missed your way, and called

at the wrong mansion.”

“No, dam’me, if I have!” said Captain Jack. “How dare you say that I

am the worse for liquor, knave?”

“I had better shut the door, gentlemen,” the servant said.

“And if you do, I’ll brain you,” said Faulkner, with an oath.

“Go and inform your master that I am here,” said Captain Jack. “If he

can’t keep _his_ appointment, why, then, I’ll keep _mine_, for I have

made up my mind long ago to visit him.”

“Yes, and tell him that _we_ are here,” said Faulkner, “and desire to

see him.”

“Who shall I say, sir?” the puzzled servant answered.

“Oh, say anything.”

“Tell him that my Lord Smash and friends have called,” said Captain

Jack, laughing. “That’s as good a name as any.”

“Just so,” another replied. “Do you hear, varlet, announce Lord Smash

and friends immediately.”

Before the astonished servant could recover his breath, Captain Jack

and party pushed their way into the hall, and almost terrified out

of his life, he bawled out, the parlor door in hand,

“Ladies and gentlemen—Lord Smash and friends.”

CHAPTER XIX.

MASTER TIM GETS INTO THE HANDS OF SMUGGLERS.

The position of poor Tim, it must be confessed, was anything but

pleasant.

He had fallen into the depths below, but how, he could not tell.

All he recollected, when he recovered consciousness, was, that he had

fallen into a miserably dark and loathsome place, and not knowing how

or which way to move.

“Oh, lord!” he sighed. “Here’s a fix to be in. I’d give a thousand

gold pieces if I were only out of it.”

“Would you?” said a distant voice. “Ha! ha! but, then, you see, you

_ain’t_ going to get out of it, my lad.”

“Who are you?” said Tim, trying to pluck up all the courage he

possibly could. “Don’t you know I’ve got a dagger left?”

“Yes, I dare say you have,” the voice replied. “But, if you had a

dozen daggers, or a whole arsenal at your back, they would do you no

good here.”

At the same moment Tim felt a heavy hand laid upon his shoulder, and

his limbs began to tremble.

“What’s your name, you shivering hound?” said the gruff voice, with a

chuckle.

“Tim, sir, if you please.”

“Tim what?”

“Tim Anything—Tim Nothing. I never had but one name; ’tis only rich

folks as can afford to have two.”

“Come, come, no larking with me,” said the gruff voice. “Speak

honestly, or I’ll brain you.”

“You’re very kind and obliging, I dare say,” said Tim, with

chattering jaws. “But, upon my word, I have only one name, and that

is Tim.”

“You’re much different, then, to a young chap as we lately collared,

and is now in our custody, for he boasts of four names.”

“You don’t say so?”

“But, I do, though; you shall make his acquaintance shortly—you’ll

make excellent comrades. Our hanging days are only once a month now,

so you may as well make up your mind to ‘swing’ when he does.”

“Thank’ee,” said Tim, gloomily; “you are very kind—very kind, indeed.

But, if it’s all the same to you, sir, whoever are you? I’d rather be

swung up the next month after him with the four names.”

The unknown laughed gruffly until he made the cavern echo again with

his boisterous merriment.

“When were you born?” he asked.

“I wasn’t born at all,” said Tim, innocently.

“Not born at all? Why, the rascal is making fun of me.”

“’Pon my word I ain’t,” said Tim. “I wasn’t born at all; leastways,

not as I knows on, for old Sir Richard Warbeck found me in his

stables one morning bright and early, and in them there stables I’ve

been all my life since.”

“Sir Richard Warbeck, eh?”

“Yes. Do you know him?”

“I should think I do,” said the unknown; “and a nice old fellow he

is, too. He has two adopted nephews, hasn’t he?”

“Yes, young Wildfire Ned, and Charley Warbeck, who’s in the East

India House in London.”

“Just so.”

“And what brought you up that cypress tree?”

“Why, you see, Master Ned and I attacked the Skeleton Crew, and, as

they were too many for us, I hooked it up the tree out of the way,

and fell through the hollow trunk, and——”

“Found yourself here, eh? Just so. But who told you there was any

secret way into this cavern through that tree?”

“No one.”

“You lie, knave!”

“On my word, no living soul told me.”

“Not old Nettles, the landlord of the public-house?”

“No, he never breathed a word; but fought with the Skeleton Crew like

a warrior.”

“That’s just what _you_ should have done, and then I wouldn’t have

made up my mind to hang you, as I may do yet. Are you sure that old

Nettles never said a word?”

“I’m positive, and will swear it!”

“’Tis well, for if he had done so I should be under the necessity of

cutting his throat to-night so as to stop his mouth.”

“What a bloodthirsty villain!” thought Tim.

“As you will, perhaps, be a dead man shortly, and as dead men don’t

tell any tales, I don’t mind letting you know a thing or two as to

who and what old Nettles is.”

“What is he?”

“Why, a tavern-keeper; and something more at times,” said the

unknown. “You have taken notice, of course, what a fine stock of

wines, spirits, tobacco, and other things he has?”

“Yes,” said Tim, “it has been the talk of the whole country wide, as

long as I can remember.”

“Quite true; but he owes all his prosperity to _me_, young man,” said

the gruff voice. “I could have blown him and his house up into the

air many a time if I had thought proper. If he had divulged anything

about our secret I would do so even now.”

Tim groaned.

“This place where you are now in is a cave,” said the voice; “a

smuggler’s cave, mind you.”

“Oh, lors!”

“And I am chief of the gang. From this spot there is a long, dry

passage, which runs out into the beach at low tide.”

“Is the mouth of the cavern filled with water, then, at high tide?”

“Yes, nearly so; but there is sufficient room for an eight-oared boat

to float in if the rowers duck their heads.”

“How jolly convenient,” said Tim, who now began to like the

chattiness of his unknown captor.

“At night time we go out of the cavern in our long boats, and meet

ships which are creeping close to shore; sometimes they are friends

who come from France or Spain with smuggled goods, and sometimes they

are strange craft. If they be friends we unload the vessel, and run

up our boats into the cave again, then the vessel stands off shore

until the next night, and so on until we have emptied her; but if

she is _not_ a friendly craft we act according to circumstances.

Sometimes we seize her goods, if we are very short, and the articles

are of any value; they can never find us out.”

“But did you never fall across any of the king’s cruisers?” said Tim.

“Yes, many a time; but, lor’ bless yer simple heart, we don’t mind

them, you know.”

“Don’t you, though?”

“No, not in the least.”

“But they carry long guns, and might——”

“Exactly; but that ain’t nothing when you are used to it.”

“No, I suppose not,” said Tim, with a sigh. “A ten pound cannon shot

playing nine pins with your legs ain’t nothing when you get used to

it; but getting used to it is the thing,” said Tim, very slowly and

solemnly; “but I shouldn’t—never.”

“Yes you would.”

“No, I shouldn’t.”

“Lor, man! a broken arm, or a leg or two knocked off, don’t make much

difference to any of our gang.”

“Nor a broken head either, I should think,” Tim said to himself,

doubtingly.

“We’ve got a famous cook, a bit of a tailor, a good doctor, a

gunsmith, and other chaps in our band, so we manage to make a

pleasant life of it.”

“I shouldn’t like it.”

“Why not?”

“Because you might fall foul of such a man as Lieut. Garnet and _his_

crew some day; and if you did——”

“And if we did, what then? We should have to fight hard, that’s all.”

“That’s all, eh?” thought Tim; “but that’s a little more than _I_

should care about.”

“Why, a fight once in a while is the life and soul of a bold

smuggler. You have no notion how it gives one an appetite.”

“I should think that a ten-pound cannon shot in one’s stomach would

be a trifle more than even a smuggler could digest,” said Tim; “but,

as you very wisely remarked once before, there’s no telling when one

gets used to it.”

“Just so, my brave lad,” said the smuggler chief, laughing. “I like

to hear you talk in that light-hearted way, for it convinces me that,

after all, you’ve got some good stuff in you, and that your heart is

of old British oak.... Our boats are going out to-night; we expect

a schooner off the shore from France about midnight, just after the

moon sets. I’ll take you with me; and, to try you—unless you wish

to be hung as a useless knave among us—I’ll give you the honour of

mounting the stranger’s decks first.”

“First!” gasped Tim. “The first man to board the stranger’s decks!

Why, she might be a revenue cruiser or a well-armed stranger.”

“That’s what she really is, a well-armed stranger, nothing else.

She must come within gun-shot of us, for she’s obliged to round the

headland in order to get into port.”

“In that case, sir,” said Tim, “if it’s all the same to you, I

wouldn’t dare to have the impudence to take the place of honour, and

be first to scale the stranger’s sides—it’s too much honour to confer

on such a poor good-for-nothing as I am. I would much prefer to be

_last_, if anything.”

The smuggler chief laughed out loudly, saying, “You’re a droll devil,

Tim, and no fool, I can very well see; but come this way, I will

introduce you to my comrades.”

So speaking, he tumbled over head, and fastened the trap through

which Tim had fallen into the cave.

“See, Tim,” said the smuggler chief, as he entered a second cave

in which dimly burned a horn lantern, “do you see this?” he said,

pointing to a trap-door in the ceiling.

“Yes, I do,” said Tim, scrutinizing for the first time his tall,

gaunt, rough-handed companion, and not much liking the looks of his

black eyes, shaggy hair and beard, clothed, as he was, in red flannel

and an immense pair of water-boots that reached above the knees, at

the same time not forgetting to cast his eyes on two pistols and a

cutlass that hung in his broad black belt.

“Well,” said the chief, “that trap-door leads into the old tavern.

Nettle sells all our goods for us, and a pretty penny he gets by it.

He’s very rich, but a good-hearted old cock as ever lived. He’s got a

very pretty daughter, too, they call Katie; and if you join us, and

prove yourself a brave fellow, as I know you are, why I’ll introduce

you; and when you’re tired of smuggling, you can settle down, like

many an old sinner does after he’s made heaps of money, and lead a

quiet respectable life.”

“You’re very kind,” said Tim, with his head bewildered with all the

chieftain said.

From one cavern they passed to another, some of which were artfully

ventilated and lighted by holes in the rocks over head.

At last they reached a very large apartment, which had been formed

ages ago by the action of the sea, and cut just as cleverly as if

done with a chisel.

Round a long table sat smoking and drinking twenty or more rough,

hardy-looking fellows, who were card-playing, throwing dice,

sleeping, snoring, and the like.

All of them hastily rose as the chief entered, and Tim was introduced

to the company in words which conveyed the idea that the stranger

would become a valuable member of the band.

Smoking and drinking continued, and soon Master Tim found himself the

centre of attraction, and as he was, of course, expected to be a very

brave fellow, he favoured the company with a long string of lies, in

which he narrated his several encounters with the Skeleton Crew, and

against whom he had displayed prodigies of valour.

The chief, however, left the company, and wended his way through the

dark caverns towards his own particular abode.

He found standing at his door a special messenger.

“That you, Dolphin?” said the chief. “So soon returned?”

“Yes, worthy Sea-hawk,” was the reply. “And I bring most important

news.”

“From whom?”

“The Skeleton Crew and Wildfire Ned—it needs instant attention.”

“It shall be attended to at once. Come this way.”

The Smuggler Chief and his trusty messenger entered the apartment

together.

CHAPTER XX.

CAPTAIN JACK PLAYS A TRUMP CARD—THE GAY COMPANY SURPRISED.

As we have narrated in a previous chapter, Captain Jack and his

friends insisted upon thrusting themselves uninvited upon the gay

and fashionable company assembled in Phillip Redgill’s elegantly

furnished suite of rooms.

“Lord Smash and friends,” said the astonished domestic, announcing

the stranger in a loud voice.

“Lord who?” said Phillip, in astonishment, as he turned his eyes, and

beheld Captain Jack before him.

For a moment he knew not what to do or say.

The thought struck him that they had actually found out all about

old Bertram’s murder, and were come to arrest him.

Cold sweat poured from his brow.

His heart felt chilly, and his sight grew dim.

But when Captain Jack, with a broad smile on his ugly face, shook

Phillip by the hand, and said, “All serene, old fellow,” Redgill felt

great relief, as he said to the company with a forced smile,

“Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce to your notice an

eccentric friend of mine, who rejoices in the extraordinary title

of Lord Smash. These gentlemen, also his companions, are friends of

mine, every one; at least, they have proved themselves such, for I

owe my life to their bravery and valour.”

“Indeed!” said all, in surprise. “Men who would risk their own lives

for the sake of another must be friends indeed.”

“I quite agree with you there, ladies and gentlemen. I invited them

to call upon me at their pleasure, and although they have come at an

unlooked-for moment, I am none the less pleased.”

“Certainly not,” chorused many, “certainly not; but how did the

affair happen?”

“This, then, accounts for your painful wound, Redgill?” several

gallants said.

“Just so,” said Phillip, glad at the happy turn the whole affair had

now taken, and particularly pleased that the true character of the

intruders had not leaked out.

Upon the instant, and with ready invention, Phillip Redgill concocted

an imaginary story, in which he did not fail to laud his own

valour, and that of the new arrivals, all of which was agreed to in

side-winks by Captain Jack and Faulkner, who, from time to time,

drank heartily, and swore roundly that all the company heard was

strictly true.

“But now I come to look at your eccentric friend more closely,” said

a gallant, tapping his snuff-box, and speaking in a whisper, “the

more he reminds me of one of the crown officers, called Captain Jack.”

This he said with a knowing wink to Phillip, who frowned.

Captain Jack heard the observation, and approached the speaker, and

whispered in his ear,

“And now I come to look at _you_, my friend, the more I find you

exactly correspond to a young gentleman as Captain Jack has been on

the look-out for on the charge of forgery.”

The gallant blushed deeply, took a pinch of snuff, and bowed himself

away.

“Not so fast, my friend,” said Captain Jack to him, as he whispered

again. “You are in very snug quarters at present, and I don’t wish

to disturb you; but if you know how to keep a still tongue in your

head, while here in the company, so do _I_. You understand; is it a

bargain?”

“I fear, my eccentric friend, that you have made a slight mistake,”

said the elegantly-attired young gentleman, with a curling lip. “I

know you not.”

“I have made no mistake,” was the whispered answer; “I can, you

know, when I like, swear black’s white. But let me ask, do you know

a certain person in the India House, a gay young spark about town,

named Charles Warbeck?” said Captain Jack, winking.

The stranger tried to smile, but could not.

It was Ned Warbeck’s elder brother!

He turned deadly pale, cast a quick glance at Phillip Redgill, and

joined the card-players again.

But, though he attempted to be merry and careless, care sat upon his

brow, and he sighed to himself,

“I am innocent, but still suspicion is strong against me. Whoever it

was that forged Sir Richard’s signature to that bill was no friend of

mine.”

And he could not help thinking, as he sat in that gay and merry

throng,

“It was an unlucky day I ever made the acquaintance of you, Phillip

Redgill. Still, the end is not yet.”

Captain Jack’s companions made themselves very much at home, in a

rough, off-handed manner.

They were adepts at dice and cards, and, although they began to

gamble on no capital whatever, they none of them were long ere they

had won large sums from those present.

This happened not so much through fair as foul play, and downright

roguery.

However, as long as their cheating tricks were not discovered, or

even suspected, they continued the play, and, together with fine

wines, spirits, cigars, and the like, they seemed to be enjoying

themselves very much, nor did they for a moment know the true reason

why Captain Jack had called there that night.

This, however, was soon explained.

The first opportunity that offered, Captain Jack sought Phillip

Redgill’s side, and began a whispered conversation,

“You did not call at the ‘Cat and Bagpipes’ as you promised.”

“No,” said Redgill, “I was too unwell.”

“Perhaps the company didn’t suit you?”

“True; I must confess it wouldn’t look well for a person of my

standing to be seen in the company of thieves, vagabonds, and the

like.”

“Of course not; I forgot all about that.”

“Besides, my wound is painful at present.”

“Of course it is; it was on account of that I came here myself, in

order to save you a long journey.”

“Why did you bring all those fellows with you?”

“In case I might need them,” said Captain Jack, grinning.

“Need them? I do not understand you,” said Redgill, turning red.

“But you may do so after a time.”

“Indeed! and what may be your business here, I should like to know?

I do not allow persons of your standing to intrude upon me,” said

Phillip, with a curling lip.

“Indeed! Lor how amazingly proud you’re getting,” Captain Jack

answered, with a sneer, and tossing off a glass of wine. “I thought

we should meet as friends.”

“Sir, I do not understand you,” said Phillip, trying to shake off

his rough companion, much like a sparrow frets and struggles when in

the talons of a hawk. “In truth, your room is much better than your

company.”

“I dare say; that’s what a good many say. But, then, you see, the

Crown can’t get along without such as me and my friends.”

“The Crown, sir? And what have I to do with you or the Crown, I

should like to know? You wish to insinuate something; but, as a man

about town, I know too much of you fellows.”

“Ha! ha! how clever you are. Lor, who’d a thought it?”

“Thought it? Thought what?”

“Why, that young Bolton is in prison,” said Captain Jack, with a

smile.

“Serve him right, then, if he is guilty of that foul deed of which

you accuse him.”

“Yes, now you come to think on it, it _was_ a foul and bloody affair,

wasn’t it?”

“Most horrible.”

“And, just to think as how the old man didn’t offend even a mouse,

and to be cruelly butchered for the sake of a few hundred pounds, and

his son clapped in gaol as an accomplice in the deed! He must have

been an artful chap as planned that affair.”

“Yes, truly, he must, and an heartless villain also,” said Phillip.

“But why do you stare at _me_ so?”

“Nothing. I was only going to ask you a question,” said Captain Jack,

stroking his chin in deep thought.

“What is it?”

“Your father is very rich?”

“Yes; what of that?”

“And has many ships?”

“Yes.”

“And sometimes he insures cargoes?”

“And lives also for those who wish.”

“Exactly,” said Jack. “And if you were going abroad, how much would

you insure _your_ life for?”

“That depends. Are you going abroad?”

“Perhaps so.”

“I should insure myself even for the benefit of my friends, if

nothing else, in that case, and I should take good care it was for a

good round sum also.”

“That shows your wisdom, Mr. Redgill. But how much do you consider

yourself worth?”

“Well, you and _I_ are different persons entirely,” said Phillip,

with a careless sneer. “But _I_ should insure myself for at least

£5,000.”

“A very nice sum, indeed. Well, the _other_ question I was going to

ask is this: Will you make me a present of that sum?”

“Me make you a present of £5,000? Why, the man is mad.”

“Not quite; just the contrary,” said Jack, smiling.

“What do you mean?”

“Mean?” said Jack. “Listen; in a whisper, mind; would you rather

swing on a gibbet, or give the sum I name?”

Phillip turned deadly pale, as he stuttered,

“What _can_ you mean?”

“Oh, only this; we have been looking after that murder case of old

Bertram, and if you give us that sum, why, we won’t find out the

right party, that’s all. You understand?” said Captain Jack, with a

knowing wink.

“Has it come to this?” said Phillip, after a pause, and, as he

thought, unheard.

“Nothing shorter, my lad; it were a clever job, you know, and by mere

accident we found out all about it.”

“You want that sum from me, say you?”

“Yes, and nothing less.”

“Do your band know of this?”

“Not a word.”

“On your oath?”

“Yes.”

“And will Bolton suffer?”

“Why not? suspicion is against him. He had better swing than you;

besides, we _must_ have somebody to hang over the job or the judges

will think us worthless and useless. For the honour of our craft we

must hang or transport somebody, you know, innocent or guilty, it

matters little.”

Phillip felt as if a serpent were gnawing at his heart, as he

listened to Captain Jack’s words.

For some moments neither Phillip nor Captain Jack spoke.

“There cannot be a doubt now but that this knave has discovered all

about old Bertram’s murder; and yet for a price he will screen the

guilty, and have the innocent to suffer. What a scoundrel this fellow

is! Yes, ’tis true: from little things, thieves and rogues take to

greater ones, until, at last, the gallows is their fate. I little

thought it would come to this.”

For some time he shaded his face with his snow-white hand, in deep

thought.

But at last he aroused himself, and even attempted to be gay, as he

said,

“You wish to borrow that sum for a short time, eh?”

“Yes,” said the captain, smiling; “I wish to borrow it, if you

like to call it so, and will return it,” he added, very ominously,

“whenever you like to demand it. You understand?”

“But I have not such a sum at command. You do not want it all at

once, I suppose?”

“No; a few hundreds to commence with, and the other by instalments

will suit me; I’m not very particular with friends.”

“But how am I to get this large amount together?” said Phillip. “If

my father is rich _I_ am not.”

“Oh, you can get it easily enough. I dare say you have written your

father’s signature before now.”

“What!” said Phillip, reddening.

“Nothing. I was only thinking,” said the captain, carelessly.

“Would that I could give the rascal a bullet through the heart on the

quiet,” said Phillip, as he bit his lip until it became white again;

“but I’ll be even with him yet.”

The arrangement was agreed to between them; but Captain Jack could

see _revenge_ sparkling in the young man’s eyes, as he handed over a

large sum of money to the knave.

In a short time Captain Jack and his friends retired, and shortly

afterwards it was discovered that they had been not only remarkably

successful in dice and cards, but that several snuff-boxes and

watches were missing.

“Who shall I victimise to get this large sum?” thought Phillip. “This

fellow will not be joked with.”

And as he pondered long and silently he whispered to himself—

“It is a matter of life or death with me; it must be attended to, and

at once; but who shall be my dupe? From whom can I get the money,

by fair means or foul? It is no use trying to get a farthing from

my father beyond the yearly allowance I am entitled to, and I have

forged his name once too often to think of doing so again, for the

last time I did so he threatened to disinherit me. Besides, if such

a transaction were to reach the ears of old Sir Richard Warbeck, I

doubt not he would scratch my name out of his will, and not leave me

a farthing.”

“But stay,” he mused. “That good-natured simpleton, Charley Warbeck,

will answer my purpose; he often goes out and collects large sums.

Suppose I were to steal the amount I want from him. Aye, that’s it;

it shall be done. I will kill two birds with one stone. I hate these

two Warbecks, both Charley and Ned. I detest the very name of Ned,”

said he, writhing with his wound. “I know how it shall be done; I

will get Charley disgraced, and then old Sir Richard will disown him.

Aye, that’s it.”

Thus the villain thought; and yet, as he bade Charley good-night,

Redgill smiled, and shook him by the hand as cordially as if he were

the truest and best friend in the world.

“How innocent he is,” thought Phillip, when left alone, “and how

handsome, too! Well, never mind; I care not who suffers so I do not.

I might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb.”

And, as he thought of his intended plans against Charley, he grinned

like a hyena.

“To-morrow shall decide it,” he said, and smiled at the thought of

the pit he would dig into which young Warbeck should fall.

CHAPTER XXI.

THE WOLF AND THE LAMB—A SCOUNDREL OF THE FIRST WATER.

Unluckily for himself, it was an evil day when Charley Warbeck first

made the acquaintance of Phillip Redgill.

Phillip, as all knew, was a great don about town, and maintained a

handsome suite of rooms, to which the gayest of the gay resorted.

His father was a very wealthy man, so all the world said; a great

ship owner, and “a merchant prince of the good city of London.”

To be patronized by the son of such a person poor Charley considered

“a very fine thing.”

“Wasn’t Phillip Redgill one of the sparks of fashion? Did not fair

dames (of doubtful virtue, perhaps) smile bewitchingly upon him? Was

he not nodded to by this lord and that one? Could he not handle a

sword with almost any man?” said Charley, and many others. “And was

it not a ‘great thing,’ therefore, to be known to, and to be hand and

glove with such a person when I am only a chief clerk in the India

House, and nought to depend upon but my own advancement and old Sir

Richard’s generosity?”

Yes, this was all true; but Charley Warbeck little dreamed of what a

cool, conscienceless villain Phillip was, and how he gained the money

he sported with so lavishly “about town,” as it was called.

It was true that Sir Richard Warbeck’s signature had been forged to a

valuable bill, but how it was done no one could tell.

Suspicion had fallen upon Charley, and, in truth, _he did_ sign his

uncle’s name to the bill in question, but was unconscious of having

done so, and was guiltless.

This singular affair, the first link in Charley’s after misery, but

not the first in Phillip’s chain of crimes by any means, occurred in

this manner.

After Charley had been some time intimate (as they should be, Phillip

said, on the score of relationship) young Redgill gave a party at his

lodgings, to which Charley was invited.

During the evening Phillip wrote a note to Sir Richard Warbeck, and

folded it in a neat wrapper, after the manner of those days when

envelopes were unknown.

“Here, Charley,” said he, “direct this for me.”

Charley, who had been drugged by Phillip, directed the note to Sir

Richard Warbeck, and nothing more.

“That will do,” said Phillip, and he took up the note in a

careless manner, while Charley dropped off to sleep. “That will do

excellently. If old Sir Richard had written the direction himself it

couldn’t have been a better facsimile of his own handwriting, for

there are not any two persons under the sun who write so much alike

as the old knight and Charley. Bravo! it was a clever trick of mine;

an excellent thought, by Jove!”

As he said this, chuckling, he took off the covering of the letter,

which proved to be nothing else than a promissory note for a thousand

pounds!

“All I wanted was this signature,” said Phillip, in high glee.

“How neatly I got it, too! I’ll get it discounted among the Jews

to-morrow; it can never be traced to me again.”

The bill was passed among the Jews, and Phillip got the money.

In time it became due, when the trick was discovered, and Sir Richard

refused to pay.

Officers had the case in hand.

It came to Charley’s ears, and although Sir Richard never breathed a

suspicion of what he thought, Captain Jack long suspected him, but

could not obtain any positive proof to convict him, unless, as he

often did, enter the witness-box and complete his chain of evidence

by deliberate false swearing.

Though many persons laughed at the loss which the Jews suffered

in the transaction, the final bill-holder, a long-bearded English

Israelite, Moss, by name, swore solemnly never to let the matter

rest; nor did Captain Jack ever lose sight of Charles Warbeck,

despite his respectable position and the powerful Sir Richard.

* * * * *

The very next day after Captain Jack’s visit to Phillip’s apartments,

Charles Warbeck was sent out to collect various large sums on account

of the India House, of which old Sir Richard was one of the managing

directors.

He was watched and dogged throughout the whole of the day by a spy

employed by Phillip, and the news was brought to him that Charles

had then in his possession a large sum, which, as usual, he was to

account for that same evening.

But on his way back to the India House, Phillip Redgill met him, and,

in a careless manner, said he was very short of cash, and begged of

Charley to loan him fifty pounds, until the end of the week, as he

was going to a masque ball that night.

Charley had not any such sum, but promised to see what he could do by

borrowing, and would see Phillip that night.

This was agreed to.

But ere they parted, wine was called for, and the hours flew by

rapidly.

Quicker than he imagined the time passed at which he was expected at

the India House, and, after cursing his bad luck, he drank again and

again with Redgill, until at last he became very much the worse for

liquor, and had to be carried to his lodgings by two chairmen, yet

all the while, and through all his drunkenness, taking great care of

the bundle of notes, which he had secreted in his breast, next to his

skin, for fear of theft or accident.

It was now nine o’clock at night, and the two chairmen, being paid,

left the young man at his own door.

With all his ingenuity he was unable to use his night-key, and stood

fumbling at the door a considerable time, and swearing not a little.

Charles was in a fog. The keyhole seemed to be removed from its

accustomed place for he could not find it from the unsteady motion of

his hand; the latch-key dropped many, many times, and it was doubtful

how long he might have remained there, shivering in the cold, had not

the oft apostrophized and obstinate key fallen into the area, and

raised his anger to the highest pitch.

“I’ll bring _some_ one down to the door,” said he, and commenced

knocking at it with great vigour and noise.

In a few moments Dame Worthington, the good old gentlewoman his

landlady, appeared at the door attired in undress, and could scarcely

recognise her lodger ere that unsteady gentleman, who, swaying to and

fro, but holding the area railings, stumbled into the passage and

tumbled over the astonished housekeeper, who, gasping and groaning,

could scarcely be extricated by a female servant, who, candle in

hand, rushed to the rescue, and bore off her mistress to the back

parlour bed-room.

Charley tumbled upstairs as noisily as a young elephant might be

expected to do, knocking down the flowers and flower-stand on the

landing, the globe of gold fish on the window-sill, and raised the

whole house by his laughter, swearing, and heavy tread.

“Just to think of that young man serving me so!” said Dame

Worthington, when sufficiently recovered from her state of collapse

to articulate coherently. “Just to think of him who’s been more than

a mother, to knock over my flowers and the gold fish, to tumble over

me in the passage and go to sleep lying in my room, without word of

apology, in a state of senselessness; laughing with the lodgers on

the stairs, and to go to bed with Mistress Haylark in a delicate

state of health on the landing! Oh, Mary, Mary! that I should have

lived to see him with my own eyes in bed in the parlour, laughing,

making fun, and tumbling over me before you and Mistress Haylark’s

daughter, which is old enough to be his mother! Deary me, Mary, my

dear, deary me! Such is the way, my dear, that the black bottle in

the cupboard which lodgers marked ‘poison’ operates at the dead of

night upon a poor defenceless housekeeper and widow who’s been quiet

and kind to him in the passage, but not old enough or forgetful

enough to disremember the young man in her night-clothes named

Warbeck, who has lost her lawful consoler, which smells, on the top

shelf behind the pickles, for ten long years, like gin!”

It is difficult to imagine, perhaps, the dreadful state of feeling

in which the garrulous dame found herself after the consolations of

her lawful consoler which smells—on the top shelf behind the pickles,

for ten long years—like gin; but of this we are fully assured, that

when Charles Warbeck had had a pleasant nap in his cosy room, and

concluded a long consultation with the water-pitcher, he discovered,

unmistakably, that several hundred fairies, or demons rather, were

busily engaged at wood-chopping under the canopy of his cranium, and

threatening every moment to split his invaluable head into halves.

Pale, penitent, and full of pious intentions for the future, Charley

Warbeck lay on the sofa before his fire, buried in thought.

The church clock struck the hour of eleven, and, as he heard it, he

sighed,

“What a fool I have been to-day in not taking that packet of notes

to the India House. I shake like a leaf, and I know not why; and

haunted by every imaginable terror. I cannot gaze firmly at any one;

the sound of every voice seems like a demon bawling in my ears, and

every step that approaches appears to be that of some officer ready

to tap me on the shoulder, and march me off to prison. I’d give

anything in the world to have had this cursed money delivered to-day,

and should not have dreamed of such a thing as to absent myself, but

for Redgill. He has continually bored me to lend him money and lend

him money, until my own poverty almost tempted me to steal. D—n the

money!” said Warbeck, in a rage, slamming the packet of notes upon

the table, and tossing about in his chair. “It burns my very pocket,

and my brain even seems on fire since I’ve had that wine.”

For some time young Warbeck sat looking at the notes, and would

willingly have gone to the India House then, but it was too late.

While thus reflecting the door noiselessly opened, and Redgill

entered the chamber!

Approaching the table he was much surprised at Charley’s absence of

mind in not awaking from his reverie, but was pleased to see the bank

package lying on the table.

Pretending not to have observed anything of the sort, he slapped his

friend familiarly on the back, who, awaking to his senses, seized the

package in much haste and confusion, and placed it, as he supposed,

unseen, beneath the cushions of the sofa.

Redgill, cold as ice, perfectly collected, and fully resolved in

purpose, observed his friend’s perturbation and confusion, but smiled

good-humouredly, and conversed with animation.

“Any money on hand to-night, Charley, my boy, eh? You promised, you

know. I thought I’d call, and see if you had got the £50.”

“Money!” said Charley, with affected surprise, gazing with much

earnestness at his friend smoking; “money? No! How should _I_ have

any? I _never_ have any, you know; I’m not like _you_ fellows with

rich daddies, who can give ’em a check occasionally. I wish I _had_,

my boy, but I haven’t got a penny. Sorry I disappointed you, Phillip;

I imagined I could borrow it for you, but couldn’t.”

Conversation was continued between the friends, but on the part of

young Warbeck with much difficulty, for his unnatural excitement

almost choked utterance.

During a pause in their conversation a single knock was heard at his

door!

GRAND DISTRIBUTION OF PRIZES!!

[Illustration: Decoration]

1,400 VALUABLE PRESENTS

=GIVEN AWAY=

WITH THE

=BOYS OF ENGLAND=,

Consisting of Ponies, Pet Dogs, Pigeons, Ducks, Fowls, Rabbits,

Concertings, Watches, Cricket Bats, Balls and Stumps, Bows and

Arrows, Fishing Rods, Quoits, Boxes of Colours, Sets of Characters,

Scenes, Stage Front, etc., etc.

ORDER NO. 1 OF THE

=BOYS OF ENGLAND=.

ONE PENNY WEEKLY.

With NO. 1 is PRESENTED A LARGE AND MAGNIFICENT ENGRAVING OF THE

BATTLE OF CHEVY CHASE, AND A SET OF CHARACTERS FOR A NEW PLAY.

FOUR TIMES THE SIZE OF ANY OTHER BOYS JOURNAL.

LOOK OUT FOR

THE BOY SAILOR;

OR,

LIFE ON BOARD A MAN-OF-WAR.

A most interesting and powerfully-written Tale, to be completed in

about 30 Numbers.

_No. 2, with No. 1, and a LARGE ENGRAVING, GRATIS._

[Illustration: THE ATTACK ON THE CASTLE.]

Full of wild imaginings, Charley opened it, and old Sir Richard, one

of the directors of the India House, walked across the room, and

without ceremony took a seat on the sofa beside the fire, but without

speaking a word.

Pulling off his gloves very slowly and solemnly, he bowed to Phillip,

and said, with a frown—

“Would you be kind enough, Phillip, to allow me a few moments’

private conversation with Charles, on very important business,

indeed, I can assure you—very—on India House matters, Mr. Redgill,

which admits of no delay. Thank you.”

Finding he was out of place at that moment, Phillip bowed in a

hurried manner, looked for his handkerchief and gloves, which were

thrown about the sofa pillows, and left the room with a flushed face.

“Charles,” at length Sir Richard began, looking the young man sternly

in the face, “what am I to understand by your unaccountable conduct?”

A solemn pause.

“Good heavens!” mentally ejaculated Charley, “I am discovered,

disgraced, and punished, and all so soon!”

Overcome with emotion, he hung his head in shame and perspired

unnaturally at every pore.

“What am I to think of you, sir? Is _this_ the reward of all my

labour, anxiety, money, and solicitude? Have I not educated you,

taken you by the hand, and lifted you up step by step to what

you are, eh? And do you now, when I expect to see all my labours

rewarded, turn round upon me, and disgrace me?”

“Spare me! Sir Richard! spare me, for heaven’s sake! My heart is

bursting, and my brain is all on fire,” said Charles, mournfully,

averting his head from the old man’s gaze.

“There are very few things which occur _in_ the India House or out of

it which do not quickly reach _my_ ears, Charles. I only heard of it

just now, sir, and must confess I felt shocked. Good Dame Worthington

told me.”

“Dame Worthington?” said Charley, astonished. “How could she have

known it?”

“Yes, Dame Worthington knew it? Why, of course she does, and every

one in the house! Isn’t it the talk of the whole neighbourhood?”

The young man’s agony was painful, and his face became more haggard

in a few moments from mental suffering than age could have effected

during a course of years.

“What do you think they will do with me, Sir Richard? I shall plead

guilty, and save unnecessary trouble and expense.”

“Guilty? Yes, I think so, when so many were witness to it; and your

sentence will be to reform, keep early hours, leave wine parties

alone and gambling, and beg the old dame’s pardon for swearing at her

to-night.”

Had he been shot Charley could not have been more suddenly startled.

Starting to his feet, and looking wildly about him, he comprehended

all—Sir Richard knew nothing of his having the bills; and, with a

heavy sigh, which then escaped him, there was lifted an insupportable

weight of doubt and pain from his soul, and he breathed more freely

and rapidly as one who has been running fast, or carrying a heavy

load.

Infinitely relieved, the young man even attempted to smile at the

unexpected and fortunate turn his imaginings had taken, and, with as

much self-command as he could bring to bear upon the conversation,

laughed, and begged Sir Richard’s pardon for his wild life of late,

and inebriety that night, when the kind old dame was knocked over in

the passage, and his own nose had come into violent contact with the

stairs.

When Sir Richard had departed, in good humour with the repentant

youth, Charley drew the sofa nearer to the fire, and began to

congratulate himself upon escaping an anticipated suspicion.

“I was _sure_, he knew all about it,” thought Charles; “and felt

as if I was suspended between heaven and earth! Oh! what a relief

it was. It is the _first_, and I will take care it shall be the

_last_ time I ever act so carelessly again, as sure as I live!

If professional thieves suffer only half what I have done since

evening, and for no crime whatever, I am sure they would never follow

their trade very long. Let me see—I placed the package under the

sofa mattress; if either had seen it lying on my table, I should

have blown my brains out! But where is it? Gone!” said he, in

astonishment, as he examined in every place, “gone! Who could have

taken it? No one knew it to be there. Gone it is, undoubtedly. I have

searched everywhere, but it can’t be found. Good Heavens! What shall

I do? Which of them could have taken it? No, no, _neither_ of them

could have seen or felt it; it _must_ be here!”

Charles searched in every imaginable nook and corner, but could not

discover the missing roll of bills.

He had placed it under the sofa mattress, he was confident, and

unknown to either of his visitors.

Whither or how it had disappeared was a marvel.

Distracted with countless thoughts and emotions, he put on his cloak,

and, late as it then was, left the apartment, walking aimlessly up

and down first one street and then another, until he found himself

opposite the theatre, with its blazing links, oil-lamps, and

variously-coloured lanterns.

More from habit than design, Charles passed its portals, and soon

found himself among a crowd of gay acquaintances.

“Seen Redgill?” asked he of one and another, until, tired with

waiting, he was about to depart, when both met at the door!

“Did you see a small paper packet lying about my room, near the sofa,

to-night?” asked Charles, carelessly.

“A small paper packet? No. Why, have you lost one? What was it like?”

“Well, it didn’t look like anything particularly, but it was, you

know, very much like one of our bank packets. It was a packet of long

envelopes and other papers.”

“Bank packets, eh? No, my boy, I didn’t see it; I was too much

taken up with thinking of money matters. If you remember, you said

you hadn’t a penny, and I was racking my brain to devise means for

borrowing some, for there is a grand bal masque on here to-night.

Is it very valuable? You look vexed—perplexed. What’s the matter,

Charley, my boy? If I can help you out of the scrape command me, you

know——”

“Well, the fact is, Phillip, the package I speak of, which so much

resembles a bank package, contained something very valuable, more

valuable than my life, in fact. Without I recover it my existence is

henceforth a blank and worthless. I am _dishonoured_!”

“Don’t say ‘dishonoured,’ my boy; that is impossible; _you_ could

never do anything which would reflect dishonour on yourself or your

many acquaintance. Cheer up; you may find it to-morrow. If it is a

hundred or two you want, you can have it in a day or two from me

even.”

Charles went home almost mad.

“Lucky thing I called at Warbeck’s apartments to-night,” said

Redgill, to himself, as soon as Charles had left him. “What brought

that money on _his_ table? Methinks I smell a very large-sized

mouse,” said he, with a fiendish smile, drinking wine at a small

wine-shop near the theatre. “I managed to abstract it rather neatly,

I must confess; his head wasn’t turned more than a minute—and it

contains £2,000. What care _I_ if the fool _is_ ruined? I only wish

it were Ned Warbeck instead; how my heart would leap with joy—the

young viper!”

CHAPTER XXII.

FEARFUL ENCOUNTER BETWEEN THE SKELETON CREW AND THE SMUGGLERS.

“Well, Dolphin, and what news of this new wonder, Wildfire Ned?”

asked the Smuggler Chief. “He has joined Lieutenant Garnet, say you?”

“He has.”

“And what does he intend to do?”

“He swears to exterminate the Skeleton Crew.”

“So much the better for us, then,” laughed the Smuggler Chief. “If

young Ned Warbeck can only rid the seas of such monsters as they

are, then there may be some chance of honest folks, like ourselves,

getting along a bit farther than we have done of late,” said the

Chief, with a dry grin.

“Just so, Sea-hawk,” the Dolphin replied; “if he can manage to rid us

of such grim devils as they are, all well and good; for, you see, we

don’t stand much of a chance with them, for they have played the very

devil with us smugglers of late years. And as to Death-wing, I don’t

think there is any hope of getting him out of the way, for he seems

to be made of cast iron.”

“I only hope this young dare-devil, Ned Warbeck, will only let _us_

alone, though,” said the Chief, “because you know he might turn his

attention this way after doing the first job.”

“That’s just what he _is_ going to do.”

“You don’t mean that?”

“I do, though. I found out all his plans, as well as his

instructions.”

“Indeed!—how?”

“You remember what I said about the marriage at Walton Abbey, and of

Death-wing running away with the young bride?”

“Yes.”

“Well, Garnet and Wildfire Ned, accompanied by Bob Bertram, and

others, started in pursuit.”

“Did they overtake the Crew?”

“That you will quickly hear.”

“For some time, Wildfire Ned and Garnet continued the chase over

hedge and ditch; but they went at such a terrific pace, that in less

than half an hour they had distanced all who followed them, save Bob

Bertram.

“But still they could not make out or trace the route taken by

Death-wing.

“In about an hour, however, they perceived some of the band in the

distance.

“With swords drawn, they shouted in defiance, and made at them.

“But the Skeleton rascals declined the combat.

“The chase then continued.

“But, as before, they lost sight of them, for the last trick was only

a ride to gain time in order that Death-wing and his fair captive

might get off clear.”

“Clever, artful devils,” said the Chief, with a gruff laugh; “and

_did_ they get off clear?” he asked.

“They did. Wildfire Ned rode like a madman in every direction after

them. But it was all to no purpose. They escaped, and Death-wing and

his crew made their way to the sea-shore, and got safely on board

their Phantom ship before Garnet or Wildfire Ned could overtake them.”

“Well, and what next?”

“Wildfire Ned and Bob Bertram made the best of their way to Garnet’s

ship, the ‘Diamond,’ and went on board. The ship set sail immediately

in search of the Skeleton Crew, and every man on board swore to be

revenged.”

“If they fall in with Death-wing, then, we may expect to hear of some

stirring news,” said the chief. “If they conquer Death-wing, or he

conquer them, it’s all the same to us, you know, Dolphin.”

“True,” replied the messenger; “but I would much rather hear they had

made short work of the Skeleton Crew, for we _can_ generally manage

to escape the revenue-cruisers, but it would puzzle the very devil

to get out of the way of these grim and ghastly wretches,” said the

Dolphin.

“So far we agree,” said the grim Chief. “But now to business. Have

you found out anything more about that vessel you wrote to me about?”

“What, that ship which we have long expected from the East Indies?”

“Yes.”

“Of course I have; she is now in the offing; and, if the wind rises,

we may expect her abreast of this place by midnight.”

“Good. Did you hear how many men she carries?”

“Only fifteen.”

“That ain’t too many; so far, so good; but about her guns, Dolphin,

_that’s_ the question; I heard she had four.”

“But I know better; she hasn’t got a single one.”

“Not one?”

“No; not even a pop-gun on board.”

“What’s her name, say you?”

“The ‘Sea Spray.’”

“Then she will prove an easy prize?”

“No doubt of it.”

“What’s her cargo?”

“Silks, spices, and gold dust.”

“Hem,” said Sea-hawk, “then we must prepare for her. Tell the

night-watch to have a bright look-out, and get all the boats ready.

How is the weather?”

“It looks as if we should have a dense fog to-night.”

“So much the better, then,” said the Smuggler Chief. “There’s nothing

half so nice as a thick fog when one wants to come up to a craft

unseen. Get all the boats ready, and let them be moored outside the

cave for instant service.”

These orders were obeyed.

During the day great preparations were made to board and capture the

long-expected East Indiaman, and a look-out man was perched high

upon the rocks outside, with telescope in hand, watching the distant

movements of the “Sea Spray” as she lay becalmed in the far distance,

her sails lazily flapping in the foggy atmosphere.

As night approached the wind freshened, and all was wild excitement

and merriment among the smugglers, who looked forward to the capture

of the vessel with impatient joy.

Master Tim saw all the warlike preparations going on, and felt very

uneasy.

The sight of pistols and knives, cutlasses, boarding pikes, and the

like, struck terror to his soul.

But he dared not show it, or express any thought about the danger all

were about to encounter.

He even tried to smile and look merry.

But it was all sham.

Poor Tim could be as brave as any one as far as words went, but when

it came to blows and hard knocks he wished himself a thousand miles

away.

Some of the smugglers provided Tim with plenty of arms.

“As I _must_ go,” thought Tim, “and as there is no getting away from

these villanous, black-looking band of smugglers, I might as well arm

myself to the teeth; the more weapons I have the greater chance I

have for my life.”

With this thought uppermost in his mind, Master Tim put on an immense

pair of water-boots that reached above the knee; and although

he could scarcely walk in them, on account of their weight and

clumsiness, he never said a word.

“For,” thought Tim, “it won’t do to let these devils think I am

afraid, after all the hard lies I have told ’em to-day; besides, if

they thought I wanted to get away, they’d scrag me on the instant.”

Next he put on an immense waist-belt, and stuck into it half-a-dozen

pistols, all double-shotted.

Besides these, he thrust into his belt a heavy cutlass, a dagger, and

a long knife.

Not satisfied with all these warlike preparations, he seized a heavy

blunderbuss, and filled up to the muzzle with powder and shot.

This he slung on his back, and walked up and down the cave, thinking—

“It’s very nasty, dangerous work, attacking ships; if this one

Sea-hawk is going to capture to-night had been well-armed and manned

by a stout crew, I shouldn’t a’ thought of rigging myself this way;

I should a’ fallen on to their decks, like a dead man, and let the

smugglers fight it out their own way, and then joined the victors;

but if the ship is unarmed, and there is much gold on board, I want

to throw dust into Sea-hawk’s eyes, and get as much as possible for

my share; and then, when I _have_ got the gold-dust, I shall hook

it, for I know the way now into old Nettle’s place up through that

trap-door.”

Tim tried to look very fierce, and smoked a pipe to keep down his

fearful feelings.

But he looked like a walking arsenal more than anything else, and

could scarcely move with the immense weight girt about him.

From time to time as night closed in, word was passed from the

watchers outside that the “Sea Spray” was gradually approaching.

When first he heard this report, Tim pretended to be overjoyed, and

very anxious to encounter the stranger and show the smuggler band

what a courageous fellow he was.

But when Sea-hawk at last gave the order for all his men to make

ready to start out on the expedition, Tim’s heart began to flutter

and to beat very loudly.

He took a good draught of rum, however, and, as well as he could, got

into the boat.

When all had assembled at the mouth of the cave, Sea-hawk called the

six boats’ crew together and gave them his final instructions.

Three of the boats with muffled oars, under the Dolphin’s command,

was to go on some little distance ahead, and creep through the dense

fog unseen, so as to attack the stranger on the windward side.

Sea-hawk, with the other three boats, would follow, and at the same

time assail the “Sea Spray” on the leeward side.

At a given signal the boats put off towards the doomed ship, which

had been suddenly becalmed opposite the smugglers’ cave.

It could just be seen through the thick fog, and Sea-hawk was

delighted with the prospect of its speedy capture.

“We’ll make short work of it,” said the chief to Tim, in a jolly tone.

“I believe you,” Tim replied, in a soft voice, with a ghastly attempt

at a smile.

Onwards the boats’ crews rowed in dead silence.

In a short time they came within full view of the dark sides of the

vessel, as, like an ominous object, it loomed out through the dense

mists.

The first three boats had got round to the other side of the vessel,

and were waiting for Sea-hawk’s signal.

This was soon given.

With a loud shout the smugglers’ boats pulled towards the vessel.

“Let one man remain with each boat,” said the chief, “while all the

rest board the craft.”

“I’ll do that,” said Tim, eagerly.

“No you won’t,” said the chief; “you are to be the first man to board

the ship. Here we are; up you go,” said Sea-hawk, shoving Tim up the

ship’s side with so much violence that Tim fell over the bulwarks.

Tim was awfully scared, for he expected to be shot or stabbed the

instant he reached the deck.

Judge of his happiness, then, when he discovered there was not a

single soul on deck.

Perceiving this, and before any of his comrades could clamber up, he

began cutting, and slashing, and swearing at imaginary foes, stamping

his feet, and hacking at old empty barrels, with such a vengeance and

so much noise as to make every one believe that he was at the moment

performing prodigies of valour.

“Die! down! surrender, villains!” he roared.

And the more he shouted, the more he cut and hacked right and left,

without meeting with a foe, except a cow and a few sheep on board,

which he slaughtered unmercifully in a few seconds.

When the smugglers leaped upon the deck, they were astonished at not

meeting with or finding any opposition.

Tim was puffing and blowing, as if wearied and exhausted with his

terrific efforts, and pointed to the hatchway, shouting,

“I have beaten the villains ten to one; they are down the hatchway;

down after them, my bold boys, down after them!”

Perceiving blood on his sword, the smugglers believed what he said,

and therefore rushed down into the hold of the ship, sword in hand,

bent on slaughter.

Tim was immensely tickled that he had earned the reputation for

valour so cheaply, and thanked his stars Sea-hawk believed him.

While Tim was alone on the deck, however, he suddenly heard unearthly

shouts, screams, oaths, and the like, proceed from the hold of the

ship.

“What’s all that?” thought Tim, trembling in every limb. “I wonder if

they have found out any one. I didn’t see any of the crew.”

He was not left long in suspense.

There issued from the hold, the cabin, and the forecastle of the ship

a band of skeletons, sword in hand.

Tim, at the first sight of them, fell on his knees, and then slipped

into an empty water-barrel that was near by.

From this place he could perceive all that passed.

The Smuggler Chief had been deceived; and so had Dolphin.

But how and by whom neither of them could tell.

Instead of boarding the East Indiaman, they found themselves on the

decks of the Phantom Ship!

The confusion, uproar, and clanging of arms that now ensued were

dreadful.

Sea-hawk, Dolphin, and the rest of the bold smugglers, fought like

demons.

“To the boats! to the boats!” shouted Sea-hawk above the din of

battle.

All his men endeavoured to fight their way back again to the boats as

directed by the chief.

But their retreat was cut off.

The Skeleton Crew, infuriated against their old enemies, the

smugglers, fought with desperation.

Pistol-shots scattered about the decks like hail-stones, and Tim,

unfortunate as ever, had the misery to find that more than one stray

bullet struck the cask in which he was hiding, and grazed his body

and legs; but beyond a few scratches he escaped unhurt.

Sea-Hawk, as brave as a lion, fought long and desperately with the

grim crew; but many of his men were dying and wounded around him.

“To the boats! to the boats!” he again shouted.

Many of his followers did not need this second warning; but leaped

over the sides of the vessel, and plunged into the sea in wild

despair.

On every part of the ship did the Skeleton Crew swarm like bees.

Up the rigging they climbed like monkeys, making the most hideous

noises.

Death-wing, with his black banner on high, and with an immense

cutlass in hand, seemed to mow down Sea-hawk’s men; and in less than

fifteen minutes from the time the action commenced, the Phantom Ship

was cleared of all its intruders save the dead and dying.

The smugglers, entrapped as they had been, fought like bears; but

nothing could withstand Death-wing and his grisly band.

And ere Sea-hawk and his boats pushed off from the vessel, two

cannons, loaded up to the muzzle with grape and canister shot, were

fired after them, and the missiles of death swept the waters around

the Phantom Ship with a hissing and fatal sound.

CHAPTER XXIII.

NED’S FIRST BATTLE—THE SHIP ON FIRE.

After the action, the first thing the Skeleton Crew did was to

examine the bodies of the dead and dying.

Some were cast overboard immediately; but those whose wounds gave

some hope of recovery, were, for the moment, more mercifully dealt

with.

For they were reserved for after tortures!

Tim was in an unfortunate position.

He was neither dead nor wounded.

But from the passing remarks of the Skeleton Crew, he almost wished

that he had been dead, for he trembled to think what tortures and

unearthly agony they intended to make all such as he was, undergo.

“What an unlucky devil I am,” sighed Tim. “I no sooner get out of one

trouble than I fall into another; it’s out of the frying pan into

the fire with me always. I wonder what star I was born under, for

there’s no good fortune ever befalls me. Heigho! just hear those grim

monsters talking. Why, the smugglers were gentlemen, compared to such

fiendish devils as these.”

Tim crouched still more closely in his hiding-place.

“How many dead men have the smugglers left behind?” asked Death-wing,

when they had all been counted and thrown overboard.

“Over a dozen,” was the reply.

“Good,” said Death-wing, with a chuckle.

“Just hear him,” groaned Tim. “I do believe, if there had only been

three dozen he’d jump for joy. Oh! horrors upon horrors accumulate.”

“How many wounded?”

“We have found six.”

“Only half a dozen, that is not a great number,” said Death-wing;

“there ought to be three or four dozen, at least.”

“Yes, so there would have been, Death-wing; but those who were

slightly wounded jumped into the water, or into their boats, at the

hazard of drowning or breaking their necks, rather than remain in our

hands.”

“Ha!” said the grim chief. “They know us of old.”

“Hark! how the villain sighs,” said poor Tim. “I shouldn’t wonder if

he hasn’t got tears in his eyes over it because they wouldn’t stay

behind to be skinned alive, poor devils.”

“I wish we had but one sound man among the six prisoners,” said

Death-wing. “I should like to make an example of him on the spot.”

“Oh-h!” groaned Tim, “I’m in for it this time; they’ll cut me limb

from limb; but it’s better to die here like a rat in this barrel than

to get into their hands.”

Tim, up to the present moment had not dared to poke his long nose out

of his hiding-place, yet, out of curiosity, he now did, so as to see

what they were about to do with their wounded prisoners.

The moment his head appeared, one of the crew with a loud shout of

joy jumped towards him and seized him by the scurf of the neck.

In a second the poor fellow was dragged out of the hogshead, and

pulled along the deck towards where Death-wing stood.

“What, another of ’em,” said the grim chief, with a loud laugh of

mockery, “and armed to the teeth, I perceive! This must be one of the

head leaders, I think; disarm him.”

In the twinkling of an eye, Tim’s blunderbuss, pistols, dagger, knife

and cutlass were taken from him, and he knelt before the chief,

trembling and quaking.

Around him danced several dozen skeletons in wild joy, snapping their

fingers and making the most horrible noises.

“I think I have seen this rascal’s face before,” said Death-wing,

with an oath.

“So do I.”

“Yes, that’s him.”

“Are you not one of my worst enemy’s followers,—Wildfire Ned?”

“Me? lor’ bless you, no,” said Tim, “I never heard of his name afore

in all my life.”

“Liar!” said one, giving him a slap that made his jaws ache again.

“Liar!” another one remarked, kicking him vigorously from behind;

“didn’t we get up a tree after you, and you escaped?”

“Yet now I come to look at the rogue more closely, the more I am

convinced he is one of young Warbeck’s followers,” said Death-wing,

“and as such, he must—”

“Die!” said all, in a solemn chorus.

When the verdict was made known, the whole of the Skeleton Crew

commenced dancing around him in a wild unearthly fashion, and as each

came near him, they gave the luckless fellow a kick or a blow, until

he was black and blue.

“Bind him hand and foot,” said the grim chief; “this rascal has many

secrets to reveal about Wildfire Ned, and Sea-hawk’s gang; we must

extract them all from him, or cut him joint from joint.”

“Bind him hand and foot, and tie him to the main-mast!”

This was done.

All the crew, save one, all the while stood round the victim, while

Death-wing began to question him.

So silent were the crew upon extracting from him every item about

Wildfire Ned, that they took but little notice of the intense fog

which now enveloped the ship, or where it was drifting to.

“The first question I shall ask you,” Death-wing began, “is, do you

know where Wildfire Ned is? if you do not confess, your arms shall

be—”

At that instant, a loud booming noise was heard, and not far off

either.

Every one rose to his feet.

In a second after an eighteen-pound cannon shot came crushing through

the bulwarks!

“Treachery!” Death-wing cried.

Bang! crash! were the sounds repeated.

“Every one to his post!”

Whiz—bang! came another shot, and almost frightened off all the hair

from Tim’s head, as he stood tied to the mast, and unable to move.

“Who are they? Can you make them out?” shouted out Death-wing to his

crew.

“A frigate is bearing down to windward of us.”

“Steer the ‘Phantom’ in towards the shore! Double shot your guns!

’Tis the ‘Diamond’—I can make her out through the fog. Fire away!

Never surrender! Up with the black flag!”

The fight now became hot and desperate.

Cannons flashed and roared, but still the frigate did not approach

any nearer.

In truth, she could not do so.

They were too near land, and the “Phantom” was of a much lighter

draught, and could draw less water.

Hence it was that Death-wing had the advantage of his enemy, for he

now neared the land, and seemed bent upon stranding his vessel and

escaping rather than surrender.

But he was much mistaken.

Although it was the “Diamond” frigate he was fighting, he little

dreamt what was in store for his crew.

Although now the shots of the frigate took but little effect from the

increasing distance, Death-wing was surrounded with dangers.

Lieutenant Garnet with one boat, Wildfire Ned with another, were

pulling through the fog at a desperate rate towards the “Phantom”

to cut it out from grounding, and were followed by Bob Bertram in a

third, all of which were crowded with brave blue-jackets.

When least expected, Death-wing heard the gallant shouts of his

fearless foes.

“Let every one arm to the teeth!” he said.

“Stand ready to resist boarders!”

Another loud shout was given by the blue-jackets as they pulled

towards the vessel.

“Pour broadsides of grape into them!” said Death-wing.

In a second the boats bumped against the ship’s sides and were made

fast.

“They are upon us!” said Death-wing, brandishing his sword.

In a second the gallant tars swarmed on to the ship’s decks.

The first to spring among the Skeleton Crew was Wildfire Ned.

With a loud shout he dashed at Death-wing and cleaved him to the deck!

Wildfire Ned was quickly followed by Lieutenant Garnet, who, at the

head of his brave boat’s crew, cut their way up on to the decks.

And close at his heels followed Bob Bertram, supported by a strong

body.

The fighting was now dreadful on all sides.

Wherever Wildfire Ned dashed he left behind him dozens of victims.

Tim was in great danger, both from friend and foe.

Glancing shots, and accidental strokes from swords and cutlasses came

very near him.

By continual shouting he attracted the attention of Bob Bertram, who

immediately cut the ropes and set him free.

Tim took advantage of his liberty to conceal himself as best he could

under the bulwarks.

But he amused himself very greatly by pounding on the skull of one

of Death-wing’s band, who had been literally smashed to atoms by

Wildfire Ned’s blows.

The Skeleton Crew, finding that their vessel must now be stranded,

and no hope remained of saving her, determined to blow her up.

“Fire the magazine!” roared Death-wing, high above the din of battle.

“Blow Wildfire Ned and his followers to atoms!”

“Ha! ha! so _you_ are getting something for yourself this time, eh?”

said Tim, as he recognized Death-wing’s voice; “but you don’t catch

_me_ staying here if there’s anything of that sort going to take

place.”

So saying, Master Tim crawled over the vessel’s side, and got into

one of the boats, and lay there very snugly out of harm’s way.

Wildfire Ned, however, had a terrible task before him.

He wanted to find the missing bride.

He searched through the cabin.

But no trace of her could be found.

Not to be foiled he looked everywhere.

“Blow up the magazine!” roared Death-wing again.

As he spoke, a terrible thought crossed Ned’s mind,

“Perhaps the fiends have placed the young bride there!”

The thought was almost too horrible.

With desperation and vengeance in his face, Wildfire Ned leaped into

the hold below, sword in hand.

Led by instinct, but why he knew not, Ned rushed madly to the stern

of the vessel.

In the lower hold he perceived a long fusee burning.

There remained but two or three inches of it.

In a few seconds it would reach the powder.

“’Tis for life or death,” said Ned.

With a fearful leap he descended into the lower hold.

All was pitch-darkness around him.

Save the bright red fusee spluttering and burning not a glimmer of

light could be seen.

He groped his way along the bottom of the ship.

But when least he expected it, he was grasped by a skeleton hand!

With an oath, Wildfire Ned drew his dirk.

A terrible conflict ensued.

One minute more, and the magazine would explode.

“We shall die together, young Warbeck!” said the skeleton.

And now began a duel which never had equal before.

In that dark hold they struggled for mastery.

It was a terrific struggle.

At last, with a mighty effort, Wildfire Ned snatched up a small

hatchet which his foe had let fall.

With one fearful blow he crushed in the skull of his grim enemy.

With a loud shout and laugh of triumph Wildfire Ned ran towards the

deadly fusee.

The sparks were even then sputtering near to some waste powder.

In a second more all would be lost.

He fell upon the fusee!

He quenched its flame carefully in his hand.

Next instant, with a mighty blow of the axe, he smashed in the

magazine door.

With a cry of joy, Ned saw before him the stolen bride!

She was tied unto several powder barrels!

This was Death-wing’s especial order!

Ned cut the cords which bound her, and let in a torrent of sea-water

into the powder and swamped the magazine.

The bride was insensible.

He took her in his arms and hurried to the hatchway.

Then a fearful cry was heard from above.

“I defy you!” roared the terrible voice of Death-wing. “In one moment

more the ship will be blown in the air. Ha! ha! the powder magazine

is open! the fusee is burning. Away, my men, away to your rendezvous

on shore! One moment more and Lord Walton’s sister will be a black

and charred mass—vengeance against Wildfire Ned! eternal enmity is

between us!”

“The ship is on fire!” Ned heard Garnet shouting. “Where is young

Warbeck?—the ship is on fire in two places!”

“Help! help!” cried Ned, from the bottom of the lower hold.

His voice was heard from above.

“Help! help!”

In a moment, Garnet and Bob Bertram, with a few others, threw down

the end of a long rope to Ned.

Young Warbeck tied it round his body.

Clasping the unconscious maiden in his arms, he was being drawn out

of the hold, when the flames burst out all around him.

“Quick! quick! or we shall perish,” said Ned. “Those Skeleton fiends

have fired their vessel in several places.”

“Pull away, lads, pull away!” shouted Garnet.

The flames increased every second.

And yet with all the efforts of the seamen, Ned could not get higher

than the lower hold.

The rope had caught in some bolt or block below!

Here was a perilous position.

The flames were now almost all around him.

He hung suspended between life and death.

In a second more the forked flames would catch the maiden’s dress.

Bob Bertram, without a word, slipped down the rope, and disentangled

it.

A loud shout from above rewarded his valor and daring.

“Quick! quick!” faintly cried Ned, now almost suffocated with smoke.

“Quick, quick! I am choking! Quick, Bob, or all is lost!”

With the energy of despair the sailors pulled away at the rope.

Yet all the time they had to fight against the vile Skeleton Crew,

who every moment were trying to cut the rope.

Some were up the rigging, firing down on the brave men.

Others plunged overboard, and swam away towards the shore.

All was a scene of intense excitement.

Yet, with a tremendous effort, Wildfire Ned kept himself alive amid

the dense smoke and flames around him.

With a ringing cheer he reached the deck.

“Saved! saved!” said Ned, and almost fell from sheer weakness!

But at that moment a low, rumbling noise like distant thunder caught

the ears of all!

It was the sound of a mighty torrent of water rushing into the ship’s

hold.

“The ship is scuttled! Away! away!” cried many voices.

In a moment more the ship trembled from stem to stern.

In a second she broke into halves!

CHAPTER XXIV.

IN WHICH PHILLIP REDGILL IS FORCED TO RAISE THE WIND TO PAY HIS

DEBTS TO CAPT. JACK, AND IN WHICH THE READER BEHOLDS THE PHANTOM

LEGS, AND IS INTRODUCED TO THE SKELETON BARBER.

Notwithstanding his robbery of Charley Warbeck, Phillip Redgill had

not near enough of money wherewith to pay the heavy debt Capt. Jack

had against him.

Which way to turn he knew not.

“I must do ‘something,’ or I shall swing on a gibbet in less than a

month’s time.

“Oh, there’s no earthly hope of raising the wind ‘out of _him_,’”

thought Phillip, in regard to his father, “and I know not how to

manage the matter. Let me see!” and he went on with his calculations

very rapidly. “How strange it is that those who _borrow_ will seldom

_lend_ in return! Among all my acquaintance I know of none who at

all seem inclined to accommodate me. They entertain no doubt of my

honesty, so they say; but as to _lending_ a fellow a thousand or two,

that is out of the question. Well, I must either post up the money or

swing and lose the four hundred already gained. I have three clear

days yet. I’ll have a glass of brandy and think awhile.”

The brandy and a good French dinner wonderfully enlightened Mr.

Phillip’s faculties, for he had but just pulled off his coat for a

comfortable snooze ere a bright thought flashed across his mind.

“Why didn’t I think of it before? Why, there’s old Sir Andrew, the

money-lender and insurance broker! Just the man, by Jupiter! If _he_

fails, why then I’m done. I’ll go to him at once.”

Old Sir Andrew was one of those “very smart” men, an insurance office

president, who had sprung from nothing, but had become possessed of

very large means, acquired rapidly, and none could imagine _how_.

A constant church attendant, and economical in his donations to

“charities,” he was generally considered to be one of the pillars

of his church, and a particular strong man on ’Change, whenever he

deigned to visit that extensive gambling salon.

From the number of persons who had constantly visited his offices

in times past, it was shrewdly imagined he had done a considerable

amount of very close “shaving” in bill discounting, and, perhaps, was

not over scrupulous, or troubled with many qualms of conscience in

financial transactions.

This was the individual to whom Phillip applied in his emergency.

“Again?” asked Sir Andrew, when he recognized his visitor; “come

again, so soon? Why, dear me, Phillip, what can the matter be? Take a

seat. Oh, _that’s_ it, eh? want £5,000 for a week! Phew! young man,

you talk as if pounds could be picked up in the street. Why, bless

you, I haven’t got such a sum by me; besides, you owe me £10,000

already, for which you have given nothing but promissory notes, with

interest, on the death of your father, and _that_ event looks as

distant as ever, judging by his ruddy countenance and activity on

’Change the other day. Your father is speculating very extensively of

late; but no one knows, in these squally times, _how_ speculations

may turn out. Things are not what they used to be, Mr. Phillip; every

man with two or three hundreds in his pocket, gambles in stock now,

and, if things continue as they have been going on for the past six

months, I shouldn’t be at all surprised to hear of our banks closing,

and to go ‘popping’ off all round us like fire crackers. It can’t be

done, sir; I have been unwise in lending you money at all, perhaps,

on such precarious terms; and really, if I were to speak the truth,

Mr. Phillip, a little less of horse-racing, wine parties, ‘ladies’

in satin, and so forth, would greatly improve you, both morally and

physically. But young men _will_ be young men, you know,” added

old Sir Andrew, with a peculiar look which gave the lie to all his

affected modesty and sanctity. “Why not try the Jews? Your worthy

father’s name is good, you know,” added the money-lender, with a

grin; “but I suppose you have written his name instead of your own

sufficiently often, perhaps, eh? Ha! ha! Well, well, don’t fret and

bite your nails. You wish he was in _heaven_, you meant to say. Well,

I hope we shall _all_ get there one of these days, but it is very

tight times on ’Change, I can assure you. Why, a young man like you

should have ingenuity enough, I think, to raise such an amount as

_that_, without much trouble! There are _plenty_ of men who would

jump at the chance of obliging _you_, Phillip; particularly as you

will be very rich one of these days. Ha! ha!”

Despite the utmost importunity, old Sir Andrew was inexorable, and

smiled at the disappointment, rage, and revenge, which evidently

flashed from the young man’s eyes; for, although he begged for

favours which were not granted, and loathed the very person from

whom he had expected to receive them, yet he dared not give vent to

his almost suffocating fury, for old Sir Andrew, mild-spoken, and

perfectly at ease, held forged papers in his possession, which hung

over Phillip’s head as the sword of Damocles.

“I wish I could poison the old miser,” muttered the youth, walking

back towards his apartments in high dudgeon. “I’ll make a ‘smash’

_somewhere_ before the week is out, if I _swing_ for it.”

He _must_ have cash from somewhere, he thought, so determined to do

that which many “very smart” men had the reputation for having done

during life—namely, to get money by any adroit means that should

escape detection and proof, or, at most, only injure his “name”—for

your greatest rogues, after all, he thought, are usually the greatest

“sticklers” for so-called “honour” and “reputation.”

“What’s the difference _if you are not found out_?” he muttered.

“Who can point out to _one_ honest man? The true secret of success

is to get all you can, and keep all you get. How many can say the

foundation of their prosperity was laid in undisputed honesty?

“How would the best of us fare if justice was fairly meted out to all?

“‘_Go as close to the gaol as you please; but don’t go in!_’ is the

maxim in our times. Rich men’s knavery consigns them to the ease and

luxuriance of a palace. Poor men, for the same, may rot in dungeons.

‘Do whatever you please, but don’t get found out,’ is the practical

philosophy of the day. Those who succeed, retire upon large fortunes,

and are austere bigots and pillars of hypocrisy; those who fail, are

cuffed and kicked, and never stop rolling until they roll into the

grave.”

Thus mused Mr. Phillip Redgill, bent on fresh crime.

GRAND DISTRIBUTION OF PRIZES!!

[Illustration: Decoration]

1,400 VALUABLE PRESENTS

=GIVEN AWAY=

WITH THE

=BOYS OF ENGLAND=,

Consisting of Ponies, Pet Dogs, Pigeons, Ducks, Fowls, Rabbits,

Concertinas, Watches, Cricket Bats, Balls and Stumps, Bows and

Arrows, Fishing Rods, Quoits, Boxes of Colours, Sets of Characters,

Scenes, Stage Front, etc., etc.

ORDER NO. 1 OF THE

=BOYS OF ENGLAND=.

ONE PENNY WEEKLY.

With No. 1 is PRESENTED A LARGE AND MAGNIFICENT ENGRAVING OF THE

BATTLE OF CHEVY CHASE, AND A SET OF CHARACTERS FOR A NEW PLAY.

FOUR TIMES THE SIZE OF ANY OTHER BOYS’ JOURNAL.

LOOK OUT FOR

THE BOY SAILOR;

OR,

LIFE ON BOARD A MAN-OF-WAR.

A most interesting and powerfully-written Tale, to be completed in

about 30 Numbers.

_No. 2 with No. 1, and a LARGE ENGRAVING, GRATIS._

[Illustration: THE INTERVIEW.—_See_ No. 10.]

CHAPTER XXV.

PHILLIP REDGILL CONTINUES TO PLAY HIS GAME OF VILLANY—HE DETERMINES

TO MARRY AN HEIRESS—THE DISCOVERY OF FALSE NOTES IN THE MONEY-SAFE

AT THE INDIA HOUSE—CHARLEY’S REMORSE AND CONFESSION—“LET NOT THE

INNOCENT SUFFER FOR THE GUILTY.”

One would have thought that such ill success in his system of villany

in thus becoming the slave of Captain Jack would have been a very

practical, as it certainly was a very expensive lesson to young

Redgill, seeing that he had agreed to pay the great thief-taker five

thousand pounds for his silence. Yet, instead of cooling, it only

seemed to irritate Phillip, and to such a degree, that he was not

sober one day for a whole week after his interview with the renowned

thief-taker; but, nevertheless, bore up under his losses with the

airs of an honest millionaire.

His father was rich, every one said, and had ships at sea, which,

laden with teas and silks, were on their way from China.

“The old man won’t be nice to a thousand or two when they arrive.

Why, old Sir Andrew’s office has insured them for five hundred

thousand pounds, so their cargoes _must_ be worth a trifle! Go

a-head, father! make all the cash you can—_I’ll_ manage to spend it

for you when you drop off the books.”

It was certainly true that Mr. Redgill, senior, had extensive

dealings on ’Change, for in the single item of two ships homeward

bound he held insurance policies for not less, as we have said, than

five hundred thousand pounds.

“What a good thing it would be if young Redgill could manage to marry

my only daughter, Fanny! I’d see if it _can’t_ be done,” thought

the miserly old Sir Andrew. “It would be a capital match! But I see

a great many fond parents have the same idea in regard to _their_

daughters, judging from the endless invitations to balls, &c.,

Phillip is continually receiving. He’ll be a fine ‘catch’ for some

one. I’ll see what can be done in that matter, and consult with ‘my

lady.’”

Old Sir Andrew’s consultation with “his lady” was so far successful

that Phillip and Fanny were soon on most excellent terms; but as she

was “anything but a beauty,” even when assisted by paints, flowers,

silks, and false hair, many gallants about town, of inquisitive turn

of mind, were unable to imagine the reasons which had determined so

good-looking a young man as Phillip Redgill to pay such strict court

to her.

The truth was that Phillip wanted “money,” and was greatly

embarrassed.

He even desired the match, hoping thus to draw heavily both on _her_

father and _his own_!

But, although he pressed his suit with much ardour, the intended

marriage was always postponed at Redgill, senior’s, request.

But if Mr. Phillip Redgill could withstand his losses and

disappointments in his career of crime with so much equanimity of

temper, and even propose to himself matrimony as a solace for all his

losses, it was not so with Charley Warbeck.

When that young gentleman, full of repentance, had calmly reflected

upon his perilous situation, he was filled with alarm, and trembled

for the fate which must surely overtake him.

He attended the India House as usual, but day by day he became more

deathly pale.

His limbs seemed to have lost all strength, and he moved to and fro

with unsteady gait and aching heart.

As often as he approached the huge iron safe where, in a moment of

madness, he had cleverly placed a packet of false notes in lieu of

those he had lost, in order to lull suspicion for a time, he became

dizzy from excitement, and could scarcely stand.

Remorse and shame were punishing him more fearfully than actual

imprisonment could have done.

When the day arrived upon which the India House usually issued a

statement of their affairs, he was in a high fever, and, despite all

remonstrance from his good old landlady, Dame Worthington, and old

Sir Richard Warbeck, he persisted in going to the India House as

usual, and even counterfeited gaiety.

The accounts soon showed a large deficit, and a buzz of astonishment

was heard among all the clerks.

The directors of the India House seemed undisturbed, nor did they

betray any token of great concern.

They smiled as blandly as before, and even joked with the terrified

clerks, who were unable to speak, for all of them were implicated in

suspicion, and none could imagine on whose head should rightly fall

the actual guilt.

Each was distrustful of the other.

Towards the close of business hours Charley became really ill, but as

he had been unwell for several days previous, no remark was passed

upon his going home earlier than usual.

Excitement caused fever, and the latter superinduced lightness and

flightiness of the mind.

In truth he was not now sane.

When he entered the house, Dame Worthington gazed upon him for a few

moments, and then burst into tears.

He was unable to walk upstairs, hence the good old dame led him into

the snug parlor, and put him to bed there upon the couch, and sent

for medical assistance.

The whole house was astonished at the sudden and dangerous change

in the young man, and when Clara Haylark heard of it, she rushed

downstairs in great haste, and proffered her services in any way in

which they might prove useful—for Clara had a lurking suspicion that

her curls and captivating ways might have had a little something to

do with Charley’s sudden indisposition.

At least she intimated as much to her mother, in answer to a query;

for she solemnly sighed, turned up her eyes with eloquent meaning,

and said, “Poor Charles! I’m sure he cannot blame me, mother

dear!” and covered her face—the little hypocrite—with a lace-edged

handkerchief!

For several days Charles remained half demented and in high fever.

Dame Worthington, for reasons to be hereafter made known—and good

ones, too—was crazed with care, and scarcely left him for one moment,

either by night or day, but carefully watched his bedside with more

than maternal care.

Mistress Haylark, the fair Clara’s mother, also was loud in her

advice, and concocted various little palatable dishes and drinks,

which Clara, in her curls, and with a serio-comic voice and

gesture, administered to the patient with great grace of manner and

captivating attitude.

She would read to him, and tell him stories, Dame Worthington always

being present, sitting in her chair at a distance, in the shadows

of the room, rocking herself in thought, and gazing with a look of

care and anxiety upon her “poor, sick boy,” and when Charles was

able to move about again, Clara would invariably go to the harp and

play a few soft, plaintive airs, which soothed her patient, and won

his affection more deeply than the index of his eyes had ever before

betrayed to the gay and light-hearted Clara.

At the close of an afternoon spent in this manner, and his courage

being greatly stimulated by a glass of brandy prescribed by the

doctor, Charley said, “Oblige me, Clara, by singing that beautiful

air again.”

His accents seemed so earnest that, as Clara complied, her voice and

fingers trembled with unusual excitement.

At the close of the piece, no one being nigh, Charles approached her,

and without a gesture of warning, kissed her!

She rose as if shot, looked at him inquiringly for a moment, burst

into tears, and left the room!

No one could imagine why Clara absented herself from the parlour

for several days following, and not even her mother—although, from

the soft and mysterious conversations held by Mistress Haylark and

Dame Worthington upon the landings, and in the passages, on several

occasions, it was apparent that womanly sagacity had intuitively

suggested the real facts to their minds, although they only smiled

and nodded and winked in that peculiar manner known to mothers and

very elderly persons.

Sir Richard Warbeck, it may be taken for granted, was not remiss in

visiting his protegé, but evinced the greatest anxiety for his health

and speedy recovery.

His visits were daily, and he always brought some trifle which

might be grateful to a sick palate; but Mistress Haylark—that aged

thermometer of passing events—always noticed that Dame Worthington

always was in unusual spirits upon his coming, but suddenly depressed

whenever he departed.

There was “something mysterious” between them, Mistress Haylark

thought, but what it was it seemed impossible to divine.

As Clara seemed to be constantly in high spirits, and delighted

always in company with the good-looking Charley, Mistress Haylark

began to assume airs of great matronly dignity, and, if the truth

must be told, confessed that she began to feel older and older every

day, and that “her sole thought was concerning the future happiness

of her darling beautiful daughter.”

Mesdames Haylark and Worthington became almost inseparable and

extremely confidential, and on one occasion, when Mistress Haylark

complained of a pain in her stomach and would have gone upstairs for

“a thimbleful” of ginger wine, Dame Worthington vehemently protested,

and forthwith introduced her old family specific from “the top shelf,

behind the pickles,” forty drops of which, slightly diluted with

water, effectually relieved all pain, and threw them both into such

high spirits, that they continued discussing family and household

affairs and secrets, until long after the church clocks had chimed

the hour of midnight.

But while Charley is recovering, under the combined effects of love,

philosophy, and kind treatment, the Directors of the India House have

been assiduous in their endeavours to trace out the true depositor of

the packet of counterfeit bank notes.

They went to work very quietly and coolly, but despite their own, and

the hawk-eyed exertions of clever detectives—Captain Jack among the

rest—they were wholly unable to fasten solid suspicion upon any one

of their employées.

An anonymous note, evidently written in a counterfeit hand, and

signed “R,” startled them.

Charley was the person pointed at by the unknown correspondent; but

Sir Richard Warbeck and others who were consulted would not believe

the insinuation, and the matter seemed to drop indefinitely.

Charley, being fully recovered in body, returned to the India House

as usual, and was received with tokens of much respect by all the

directors.

He attempted to appear gay; but all his endeavours were vain.

He was not the same person he had been, and could not look any one

fairly in the face without evident effort.

There was a worm at his heart gnawing deeply, daily and hourly.

From being a gay, light-hearted youth, of fresh colour and dashing

manner, as he had always been before he knew Phillip Redgill, he now

appeared like a person of age, on whose shoulders a heavy weight was

pressing.

Some thought it might arise from an unfortunate disappointment in

love affairs; but these hints he parried with a faint smile, and

attempted to joke in his old manner.

One morning a young, bright-faced clerk was called into the

Directors’ Council Room, and returned therefrom looking very pale,

and with large tears standing in his eyes.

“Good day, Charley,” said he to Warbeck, with much emotion. “I’m

going; they don’t want me any longer. I’ve done nothing wrong,

you know; they lay no charge against me, yet I feel certain that

they have formed wrong suspicions against me, on account of the

unfortunate packet of counterfeit notes that was substituted for good

ones in the safe a month or two ago. Good day, my boy; _this_ will

break my poor old mother’s heart. She has no one to depend upon but

me. I am lost, ruined, disgraced!”

The youth leaned upon the counter, shading his face, and tears flowed

from him fast and hot.

His breast heaved convulsively, and he would have fallen from

weakness but that Charles placed him in a chair, and gazed upon his

guileless face long and intently.

Charley’s features wore a ghastly smile.

His lips became bloodless and blue, and quivered with emotion as he

attempted to speak.

He could _not_ speak, however, for his voice faltered, and the words

stuck in his throat.

Loosening his cravat to avoid a sense of strangulation, to which of

late he had become sometimes subject, he seized the youth by the arm

with an iron grip, and striding towards the Directors’ Council Room.

“Come with _me_,” he exclaimed, in a hoarse, hollow-toned voice,

“come with _me_! _You_ shall not suffer for the deeds of _others_!

Gentlemen,” he began when he had shut the door and stood before the

Board of Directors, “gentlemen, I wish to say a few words before this

young man leaves the India House. I wish to inform you——”

He caught the eye of old Sir Richard Warbeck gazing intently at him,

and his courage failed him.

Summoning all his energy, with a great effort he approached to lean

upon the council-table, and, casting his eyes upon the ground,

continued, amid a solemn silence,

“I wish to inform you that _I_ alone am answerable for the charge

brought against, or supposed to exist, against this young man. _I_

lost the money, and replaced the amount with a packet of false

notes—no one else. I acknowledge it was my intention to have

confessed it all on the following day. I have never had or spent a

single penny of the amount, but lost it all by some unaccountable

means the same evening on which I neglected to return to the India

House. Prosecute me, and I will suffer cheerfully; anything is better

than the hellish remorse which I have already suffered. But do not—do

not, I beg of you, harbour suspicions against this sinless youth, on

whose labour and reputation a poor widowed mother depends for bread!”

Charley Warbeck sank into a chair, and wept like a child.

The Board of Directors were astonished at such an unexpected

disclosure from one of their favourite and much-trusted clerks, and

sat for many minutes in mute surprise and profound reflection.

CHAPTER XXVI.

THE PHANTOM LEGS—PHILLIP REDGILL CONTINUES HIS CAREER OF

VILLANY—HIS FRIEND CAPTAIN JACK—YOUNG REDGILL’S MOTIVES FOR

MARRYING—THE SUDDEN DEATH OF HIS FATHER—WHO CAUSED IT?—CHARLEY

WARBECK IN PRISON—HE IS VISITED BY HIS FALSE FRIEND PHILLIP.

The sudden disclosure so much appalled Sir Richard Warbeck that he

hung his head, and was unconscious when Charles was led away by two

burly, rough-looking men.

His first impulse was to rush to Dame Worthington’s, and seek for

him there; but on arriving, of course, found him not at home.

His agitation and tears filled the poor, fond old woman with alarm,

for, from what she could gather she imagined that Charles had been

taken violently ill, or, what was far worse, perhaps had died!

When Sir Richard had explained everything to her, she screamed, and

sank into a fit; and Mistress Haylark, dashing into the apartment,

stood almost petrified to find him supporting her in his arms, and

addressing her with words of endearment.

Clara was the next one to appear upon the scene, and, in her

curl-papers, struck several melo-dramatic attitudes, and gracefully

sank into the arm-chair, where she gave vent to a volley of

ejaculations, and relieved her young feelings in a genuine flood of

tears.

* * * * *

Phillip Redgill, when informed of the affair, was consulting his

intended father-in-law regarding his prospective marriage with Fanny,

and heard the news with indifference, or at most with a great display

of affected surprise.

“Don’t say so! Charley, eh? Ah! he always _was_ fond of fast living!

That’s what comes of going beyond one’s means. _I_ have learned

_that_ long ago. Poor fellow! confessed it, eh? Well, he _was_ an

ass and no mistake. _His_ prospects are gone, and no mistake. Not

half-a-dozen Sir Richard Warbecks will ever re-instate _him_ again.

But about _our_ business, Sir Andrew. As I was saying, I am devilish

short, upon my word; haven’t a coin in the world, and the ‘old man’

refuses to come up; I have asked him. I shall be rich, as you know,

one of these days. Now these two young Warbecks are out of the way,

old Sir Richard is sure to make me his heir.”

“Ah, it is a great pity! So much comes of living beyond one’s means.

What would _you_ have done, Phillip, if I were to have let those

prettily executed pieces of paper signed by you in your father’s name

have gone floating about, eh?” said old Sir Andrew, grinning.

“Oh, never mind all _that_, you know. I am an altered man _now_, you

see. I am going to marry and settle shortly. I have sown all my wild

oats, and shall prove an exemplary member of society, you know—a

member of parliament, or something of that sort, see if I don’t.

But how about the ships _Eclipse_ and _Racehorse_? Didn’t my father

insure them in your office? I thought so—for £500,000, I believe.

Lord! they tell me they have splendid cargoes of silks and teas on

board. The last we heard of them they were sailing in company and had

put into Pernambuco for water and supplies. The ‘old man’ will make a

pretty penny by that ‘spec.,’ see if he don’t, and then I may expect

him to sign my marriage contract. But, in the meantime, good Sir

Andrew, let me have a thousand or two—say £5,000; that ain’t much,

you know. I want it for a special purpose. Come, open your heart for

once, old fellow, you’ll be my father-in-law soon, I hope.”

Sir Andrew, the old usurer, _did_ open his heart, and in view of the

expected marriage between Phillip and Fanny, his only daughter, let

the intended husband have the amount he required.

Phillip passed a few moments with his “intended,” in the garden, but

left the house suddenly. But why did he leave his intended bride so

hurriedly?

The reason was this:

While with one arm round Fanny’s waist he was poring soft nothings

in the ear of his intended bride, and forgetful for the moment of

all the villany and ruin he had committed in the world, the startled

maiden screamed aloud in horror.

Phillip, drawing his sword, and, while supporting the fainting maid,

turned suddenly, and, to his amazement, beheld within a few feet of

him the “Phantom legs.”

The blood was frozen in his heart as he heard the ominous words,

“Phillip Redgill, I follow you forever.” (See cut in No. 6).

With superhuman exertion he conducted Sir Andrew’s daughter in a

fainting state to the mansion again, and assured the affrighted

maiden that what she had seen was all imagination. But, meanwhile,

filled with terror at the memory of old Bertram’s murder, he left the

house, trembling and pale, intent upon drowning his feelings in wine.

His steps were directed to a flash gambling-house where he lost

considerably at cards; and, if the truth must be confessed, he spent

the rest of the night at a house of bad repute, in company of Captain

Jack and others, indulging in expensive wines and general debauchery.

Having spent most of his money, except what he had paid to Captain

Jack, he visited Charles Warbeck in prison, and condoled with him in

an off-handed manner, and at the same time mentally chuckling at his

own superior tact, and cursing Charley’s simplicity, or, as he termed

it, his “stupidity.”

“Why couldn’t he have kept it to himself; he could never be found

out, the fool? Conscience be hanged! Whoever heard of such a thing in

these days? Well, _I’m_ all right, _that’s_ all _I_ care about, let

every one look after themselves; a rogue is honest till found out. If

a man betrays himself, so much the bigger fool he is, say I.”

Phillip’s visit of consolation was of short duration, and as he

departed from the prison walls he mused,

“So my father refuses to sanction this marriage, for some time, and

for ‘special reasons,’ does he? What can be his ‘special reasons?’

He says he’s ‘considerably involved, and wishes to see his way clear

first;’ the same old tune! Fathers are _always_ the same; he never

_did_ coincide with any ideas of mine, the old brute! Well, never

mind, he can’t _last_ long, _that’s_ certain; and _I don’t think it

would take much trouble to put him out of the way_, if all comes to

all! Lord! what a fine time I should have then, eh? _I_ don’t care

about old Sir Andrew’s daughter, not a particle; she’s _rich_ and

_that’s_ the main point now-a-days.”

With these thoughts Phillip visited his grey-haired father, whom he

found sitting before his office fire, gazing at the glowing embers,

and buried in deep thought.

“How the wind blows to-night, Phillip! how fearfully it blows! I

wonder how the sea is to-night? Is it rough weather, think you? How

is it, stormy say you? Does the telegraph say so? The ‘Racehorse’ and

‘Eclipse’ must be fairly in the channel, or near it by this time,

what think you? I hope they’ll get through safely, Phillip; if _they_

were to go——!”

“What then?” asked Phillip, laughingly; “your prospects are not

centred solely in them, surely?”

“Ah, my son, you know nothing of business yet, I see. All my

prospects _are_ in those ships, and if anything befalls them, I am

ru—!”

“Oh, the old story,” thought Phillip, and was so disgusted that he

made his visit of very short duration, and, taking up his hat, left

his father’s offices in profound disgust.

“These old fogies never will learn wisdom,” thought he. “As if the

ships aren’t fully insured—what stuff! If the old driveller don’t

come up to taw, I’ll soon put him out of the way, and no mistake.

His tune has always been the same for the past five years—_always_

on the point of bankruptcy, and yet always making no end of money!

Well, well, I’m tired of it—he shan’t keep me like a beggar _much_

longer, _I_ know!” And he paced up and down the street for some time

in profound reflection.

* * * * *

Mr. Redgill, senior, went to his offices on the following morning as

hale and hearty as ever, and appeared on ’Change the same as he had

already done for many years before.

Telegrams from different parts of the coast, both north and south,

confirmed previous rumours that the severe gale of the past few days

had been unusually destructive, and that many vessels were reported

wrecked or stranded. Several fast-sailing ships, which arrived the

same morning, reported having passed the “Racehorse” and “Eclipse”

off the Irish coast, “all well.”

This news cheered the old man up so much that he consented to dine

and go out with Phillip for an evening drive.

On the following morning newspapers detailed “the sad and unexpected

death of the famous merchant, Mr. Redgill, who was thrown from his

vehicle and drowned the previous evening, while riding with his only

son, Phillip, the pair of horses having taken fright and ran away.”

The account added that “Mr. Redgill, jun., had a miraculous escape,

but, with wonderful agility, he leaped from the conveyance and saved

himself, the horses and carriage, with his father, having tumbled

into the Thames, and were drowned!”

CHAPTER XXVII.

OLD NETTLES IS SHAVED BY TWO OF THE SKELETON CREW.

A barber’s has been often, and very wisely, called a “gossiping shop.”

If this is true of tonsorial establishments in town, it is

particularly of such places in a village.

In a hamlet, or small town, the barber knows all the news, the latest

joke, and the newest scandal.

There is nothing that he does not know, in fact.

No item ever escapes the “professor” who cuts your hair, or shaves

you.

Thus thought old Nettles, the tavern-keeper, a few days after the

eventful and dreadful conflict between Wildfire Ned and the Skeleton

Crew, on the ocean.

For many miles around there were wild rumours of the ferocious battle

which had taken place.

But no two persons had the same tale to tell.

Some said that Death-wing had killed young Ned Warbeck.

Others swore that Death-wing and most of his crew had been drowned.

But old Nettles knew differently.

Yes; but how?

Through the agency of Sea-Hawk and his smuggler band.

For when Sea-Hawk and his party had been decoyed on to, and

afterwards beaten away from the Phantom Ship, they rowed rapidly to

their cave again.

Later in the night, however, the sounds of distant fire-arms, and the

booming of cannon over the ocean aroused their curiosity.

They took to their boats again, and sallied forth.

At a respectful distance from the scene of conflict, the Smuggler

Chief had witnessed all, and was not slow to inform his old

companion, Nettles, of the particulars.

When, therefore, Nettles went into the village-barber’s shop to get

shaved, the tonsorial professor was very loquacious, and, at great

length, told him all he had heard about the conflict.

“Don’t be such an ass, Mr. Barber,” said Nettles, waiting for his

turn. “Don’t be such an ass as to tell such idle tales. I tell thee

that Ned Warbeck or Wildfire Ned was not killed, nor brave Lieutenant

Garnet either, for Ned rescued Lord Walton’s sister from the sinking

ship, and she is now safe and sound at the abbey again.”

“Thee doesna’ mean that ’ere, Maister Nettles, does thee?” said the

astonished barber.

“Yes; but I do though, and more nor that I did hear that the king has

raised Wildfire Ned to the rank of a lieutenant in the navy, and has

given him the command of a rakish, fast-sailing, ten-gun sloop of

war, and that at this very moment he is cruising about on the bright

look-out for this Skeleton Crew, what remains of ’em, and a pretty

overhauling they’ll get, too, if Wildfire Ned should fall foul on

’em.”

“But they do say these skeletons are invincible, Maister Nettles,”

the barber remarked, “and can’t be hurt by anything.”

“All stuff,” said Nettles, contemptuously. “I dare say they don’t

like hard knocks no more than common folk, if the truth was known. I

don’t fear none on ’em, if they did set fire to my tavern.”

“They say they be all charmed, maister?”

“So I’ve hearn; but don’t believe it. The Red Man of the Gibbet is

worse than all on ’em.”

“How so?”

“Why he were one o’ the founders on ’em, and the story goes that he

gets out of his gibbet at certain times, and plies his trade.”

“His trade! Why what does thee mean, Maister Nettles?”

“Mean! Why, didn’t thee hear; the Red Man o’ the Gibbet had been—once

on a time—a barber.”

“A barber! Lor’ bless the man! thee can’t mean that.”

“I do, though. He were once a barber, and cut the throat of a

nobleman for his money.”

“Awful!”

“Yes, and afore they caught him he joined the Skeleton Crew, but was

afterwards gibbeted; but that didn’t seem to concern him much, for

they say he can get out at certain times and seasons, and goes on the

spree.”

“On the spree! What! a sperit goo on the spree, Maister Nettles?”

“So they say; but I can never believe it, nor will I until I sees it

with my own eyes.”

The conversation of Nettles with the village barber so much

interested the open-mouthed villagers, that many lounged into the

little shop to hear it.

This arose from the fact that all felt greatly interested in

listening to his narrative of the brave and heroic exploits of young

Warbeck on sea and land, and especially interesting at the present

time, since it was whispered that old Sir Richard Warbeck at the

Hall was in deep grief through the sad disgrace which Charley, Ned’s

elder brother, had fallen into lately in London.

The sudden disappearance of the miller’s daughter, the horrible

murder of her rustic lover, the escape of Bob Bertram from prison,

and the half strangulation of the sexton, parish clerk, and others in

the belfry by the Skeleton Crew, all tended to heighten the interest

of any remarks old Nettles might make.

This was more so when it was well known that the old tavern-keeper

had actually fought a battle with the terrible Death-wing and his

gang,

With staring eyes and open mouths, they listened to Nettles, who

gratified his audience with most alarming stories of the Skeleton

Crew, so much so as to make many of them tremble in their shoes.

It was now Nettles “turn” to be shaved.

He sat in the chair, and a small boy placed a napkin under his chin.

Yet all the while he was laughing at the villagers about their

childish hobgoblin notions regarding the Skeleton Crew.

They in turn began to laugh also, until the shop re-echoed with their

boisterous merriment.

When the barber’s boy, lather-box and brush in hand, had half

“soaped” Mr. Nettles, he gave a sudden shout of alarm and dropped his

utensils on the floor.

His hair stood on end with fright, and he trembled violently in every

limb.

And well he might.

He cried for help.

But the barber and his audience rushed out of the shop yelling like

lunatics at the sight they saw, leaving Nettles and the boy alone.

How it happened no one could imagine.

But while the valiant Nettles was discoursing about and jeering the

many stories about Death-wing’s gang——

A skeleton appeared, razor in hand, and seized Nettles by the hair of

his head!

Beside him, and grinning most horribly, stood the black spectre of

the Red Man of the Gibbet, sharpening a razor on a strop attached to

the wall (see Engraving in No. 7), and preparing to shave his enemy,

old Nettles, the terrified tavern keeper.

More dead than alive, Nettles shook in every limb.

The barber’s boy collapsed all of a heap upon the floor, and was

howling like a mad dog.

“Shave him!” said the black spectre, in sepulchral tones.

Nettles was almost melted into a jelly.

He was in the hands of his worst enemies.

What became of him we shall shortly see.

CHAPTER XVIII.

PHILLIP REDGILL’S UNEXPECTED FORTUNE—HE IS ALONE IN THE WORLD—THE

CORONER’S INQUEST OVER HIS FATHER—THE VERDICT—THE VILLAIN PURSUES

HIS CAREER OF CRIME—SIR ANDREW’S DAUGHTER FANNY, AND WHAT SHE

DID—THE PRANKS OF A KNAVE.

This event of his father’s death filled Phillip, apparently, with

unbounded grief. He was so much afflicted that, at the coroner’s

inquest, the body having been dragged for and recovered, he could

scarcely articulate a word.

He averted his face from the corpse, and simply explained that “the

mournful accident had happened by his father driving too close to the

edge of the bridge; and the first intimation he had of danger was the

sudden tilting of the vehicle and the falling of the horses, with his

father, into the river.”

The verdict rendered by the coroner’s jury was “accidental drowning.”

The funeral of the much-respected deceased was attended by numbers

of well-known merchants and brokers on ’Change, who condoled with

Phillip upon his unexpected bereavement.

Old Sir Andrew appeared seated in the first coach as one of the chief

mourners, and if the size of a white handkerchief was any index of

the extent of his grief, Sir Andrew’s sorrow must have been of very

extensive dimensions; for he held the said handkerchief to his face

all the way to the cemetery and back, and sighed very often and

emphatically.

He did not fail to preach a sermon on the way to Phillip, on the

vanity of earthly things—the old hypocrite!—but that youth simply

sighed hypocritically, and, if the truth must be told, felt extremely

glad that his parent _was_ laid in the grave.

“_I_ know what old Sir Andrew’s about!” mused Phillip, as they rode

home from the funeral; “he can’t fool _me_! he wants me to marry his

daughter, eh? What an idea! I’m not fool enough to think of such

a thing _now_—of _course_ not! Marry _her_?—Such a weazened-faced

old maid as _she_ is? Not _I_, indeed! All the governor’s property

is _mine_, now! I have no more use for old Sir Andrew and _his_

money-grubbing lot. I’m rich enough without him, and will marry some

dashing belle when my father’s affairs are arranged, and fool Sir

Andrew—he’ll see if I don’t!”

The truth is that Phillip had all along desired a marriage with Sir

Andrew’s daughter for the sake of money only; but now that he was

master of his own actions, and inheritor of all his father’s wealth,

he instantly conceived different ideas.

When young Redgill had returned from the funeral, he discovered that

Jacob Sloman, Esq., the lawyer, had already arrived to read the will,

and, among the uninvited, was old Moss, the Jew.

Alter light refreshment, the company adjourned to the large parlour,

where Mr. Sloman was busily engaged in arranging his papers.

Sir Andrew, and a dozen other gentlemen present, intimate friends and

relations of the deceased, were loud in their praises of the defunct,

and nothing could be said that was too good in honour of his many

inestimable qualities.

He was—

“A model father!”

“An exemplary Christian!”

“An honest and irreproachable merchant!”

“Upright citizen!”

“Ornament to commerce!” &c., first one and then another remarked,

until at last, Phillip began to imagine, for the first time in his

life, that his father must have been much more than an “ordinary”

gentleman.

When the will was read all the relations were much surprised to

discover that nothing had been left them, and that everything had

been bequeathed unreservedly to his only son, “after the payment of

all just and honest debts.”

Sir Andrew, although not related, appeared much disappointed,

yet, concealing his chagrin at receiving no token of his profound

friendship for deceased, gave vent to his feelings by giving long and

fatherly advice to the heir.

In truth, Mr. Sloman had scarcely finished reading the will,

ere every one found they had important business elsewhere which

required their instant attention, and did not stay one moment longer

than necessary, to pay any more compliments to the memory of the

“exemplary Christian” and “model father,” whom they had so loudly

praised before the last will and testament had been read.

For several weeks Phillip visited but little, and many observed that

his grief must be “really genuine,” or he would have appeared in

company long before.

Many members of polite society called at his residence and left their

cards, and among them not a few intriguing ambitious mothers, who

had rather suddenly discovered the vast importance of Mr. Phillip

Redgill, and of the unbounded friendship which they had “always”

entertained for that “interesting, good-looking” young man.

Sir Andrew, it must be confessed, was not behind any of the “polite”

circle in frequently calling upon “his young friend,” and giving him

fatherly advice.

Yet he could not help grimly smiling at the “insiduous attempts,” as

he termed it, of the many inquisitive, and industrious matrons, who

were continually inviting the young man to sojourn with them for a

few days, in order to “drive away his deep-seated melancholy,” and

“make love to their daughters,” perhaps might have been added.

At least, Sir Andrew imagined so, and did not fail to inform his wife

and daughter, who threw up their hands and eyes in holy horror at the

“worldliness and unscrupulousness of certain parties!”

The true reason for Phillip’s non-appearance in society arose, not

so much from “genuine grief,” or “deep-rooted melancholy,” at what

all termed “the sad and lamentable bereavement,” as from anxiety to

ascertain the true state of his father’s affairs.

In truth, he so much chafed under his confinement in the old

house, and seemed so tremulous, that he never visited his father’s

apartments without a thrill of horrible excitement, and would

often jump out of bed at night, as if suddenly alarmed by dreadful

apparitions.

He daily imbibed large draughts of brandy, and this resort seemed to

cheer him.

But the practice grew upon him hourly, so that the brandy lost much

of its customary effect, and he accordingly drank deeply to sustain

his drooping spirits.

Not being one of the executors himself, he knew but little of

his father’s indebtedness; but when he questioned old Moss, the

money-lending Jew, on one occasion, regarding that point, the old

Israelite said that “he would plainly tell him,” and remarked very

solemnly—

“When all debts are paid, your father’s estates are not worth one

penny! He was generally considered to be worth more than he really

was. He sustained many losses, and kept afloat on credit! If the

‘Racehorse’ and ‘Eclipse’ safely arrive, there will be a little

something for you, perhaps, when the cargoes are sold; but if they do

not, there will not be a penny to spare. But, worse than all, many of

us creditors, Phillip, will have to bite our fingers!”

It is unnecessary to say that this piece of confidential information

surprised the young man considerably.

But not so much as might have been expected; for, from a careful

study of his father’s books, he had arrived at something like the

same conclusion himself.

“Well, there’s no help for it,” thought he, drinking deeply of the

brandy, “It will be a month, at least, before lawyer Sloman and

the executors can present a balance sheet—I’ll marry Sir Andrew’s

daughter, Fanny!”

Phillip’s first visit to Sir Andrew after the funeral was of the most

interesting nature.

The mother, “my lady,” embraced him as a son.

Sir Andrew shook him cordially by the hand, and heartily welcomed him

once more beneath his roof.

But both parents soon vacated the apartment in favor of their

daughter, whose rustling silk could plainly be heard approaching upon

the stairs.

The meeting between the affianced was solemn and tender.

Fanny struck a captivating attitude upon entering the room, tottered

slightly towards the sofa, holding a handkerchief to conceal her

tears!

Phillip rushed forward to break her fall, clasped her round the

waist, kissed her with great gallantry, and, amid many ejaculations

of “Phillip, dear!” and “Fanny, my beloved!” the couple passed

several hours in delightful child’s play.

Fanny’s irresistible toilet, made up as it was for the most part of

paints, flowers, false hair, puff combs, hoops, and silk, played so

powerfully upon the sensitive and innocent heart of Phillip Redgill,

that as he gazed upon her bewitchingly enamelled features—as her

fair head leaned lovingly and confidingly upon his manly breast, he

determined to allow of little delay in marrying.

And this resolution he whispered fondly into the not unwilling ear

of his loved one, who blushed and sighed, and put her lace-worked

handkerchief to her eyes, and appeared absorbed in deep emotion and

crimson confusion.

When consulted upon this matter that same evening in his library, Sir

Andrew sat in his easy chair with much affected state, and played

with his watch-chain and keys in a smiling, self-complacent manner.

“I couldn’t entertain any such project for the present; at least,

not for one year, out of respect to Mr. Redgill, senior’s, memory,

by which time you will have fully wound up your affairs, and perhaps

think more seriously upon the point, Phillip.”

The coldness and calculation of old Sir Andrew simply had the

effect of redoubling the ardour of the lovers, who sighed and

condoled together on the proverbial “cruelty of parents” with much

melo-dramatic tenderness.

Fanny did not confess it to her lover, but told “mamma” in confidence

that she thought _three_ months would be sufficiently long to

postpone the event.

“For, who knows what may happen, mamma dear? I can’t get such a

chance as dear Phillip every day. He is young, handsome, rich, and

much courted. _Who_ knows _what_ might happen in twelve months?”

Phillip, on the other hand, had his own motives for hastening the

marriage, and sought every opportunity to visit and make love to his

affianced.

His eloquence and importunities were so impressive that he found the

fair Fanny daily yielding to his arguments.

And, knowing that she possessed a great vein of romance in her

disposition, he played upon it so effectually that she finally

consented to a clandestine marriage.

“We can easily procure a ‘licence’ and get married a few miles out

in the country without the old folks knowing anything about it, and

then we can avow the act whenever we see that your cruel father will

relent.”

In accordance with this plan Phillip procured a marriage licence.

Fanny met him, and, after two hours’ ride, they alighted at a small

country town, and were privately married.

EVERY BOY SHOULD READ THE NEW JOURNAL,

THE BOYS OF ENGLAND,

The Largest and Handsomest Publication of the Day!

One Thousand Four Hundred Prizes

GIVEN AWAY!

COMPRISING THE FOLLOWING:—

2 SHETLAND PONIES.

6 NEWFOUNDLAND DOGS.

50 SPANIEL AND OTHER FANCY DOGS.

50 PAIRS OF PIGEONS.

50 PAIRS OF DUCKS AND FOWLS.

50 PAIRS OF PET RABBITS.

50 CRICKET BATS, BALLS, &c.

50 WATCHES.

50 VOLUMES OF SHAKSPERE.

100 CONCERTINAS.

50 BOXES OF WATER COLOURS.

50 BOWS AND ARROWS.

50 FOILS AND FENCING STICKS.

50 SETS OF BOXING GLOVES.

50 SETS OF FISHING TACKLE.

SETS OF QUOITS, ETC., ETC.

And many other Articles for In-door and Out-door Amusements, too

numerous to mention.

To every Purchaser is given

A COMPLETE NEW PLAY,

ENTITLED

“ALONE IN THE PIRATES’ LAIR,”

CONSISTING OF

EIGHT SCENES, SEVEN SHEETS OF CHARACTERS, SIX WINGS AND FOOT-PIECES,

AND A LARGE STAGE FRONT.

The First Sheet of Characters was given with No. I.; the Second with

No. III; and others will follow rapidly.

With No. I. was also given

A LARGE & MAGNIFICENT ENGRAVING,

Beautifully printed on thick paper, representing

THE ENCOUNTER

BETWEEN

EARL PERCY OF NORTHUMBERLAND & THE DOUGLAS,

AT THE

CELEBRATED CONFLICT OF CHEVY CHASE.

ORDER No. I.,

AND JUDGE FOR YOURSELVES!

[Illustration: CAPTAIN JACK COMMITS MURDER.]

No one knew them there, so that information could not be sent to town.

Having spent the day very pleasantly together, the young couple

returned in the evening, and when she arrived home Miss Fanny

informed her anxious and loving parents that “she had been spending a

very pleasant day with an old schoolmate.”

Phillip called that same evening some time after Fanny’s return home,

and, hypocrite as he was, assumed all the manners of one who had

casually “dropped in” for a customary evening chat.

As usual, the old people retired into the inner drawing-room to

allow the lovers to converse with freedom, and Sir Andrew came to

the conclusion, in consideration of the unusually late hour at which

Phillip departed home, that “the young couple were getting to like

each other daily more and more, and would make a most excellent

couple.”