"Amen. And so you wouldn't even part with Clay? Or Laura!"

"Not for anything in the world. I love them just the same as I love my

own: They pet me and spoil me even more than the others do, I think.

I reckon we'll get along, Si."

"Oh yes, it will all come out right, old mother. I wouldn't be afraid to

adopt a thousand children if I wanted to, for there's that Tennessee

Land, you know--enough to make an army of them rich. A whole army,

Nancy! You and I will never see the day, but these little chaps will.

Indeed they will. One of these days it will be the rich Miss Emily

Hawkins--and the wealthy Miss Laura Van Brunt Hawkins--and the Hon.

George Washington Hawkins, millionaire--and Gov. Henry Clay Hawkins,

millionaire! That is the way the world will word it! Don't let's ever

fret about the children, Nancy--never in the world. They're all right.

Nancy, there's oceans and oceans of money in that land--mark my words!"

The children had stopped playing, for the moment, and drawn near to

listen. Hawkins said:

"Washington, my boy, what will you do when you get to be one of the

richest men in the world?"

"I don't know, father. Sometimes I think I'll have a balloon and go up

in the air; and sometimes I think I'll have ever so many books; and

sometimes I think I'll have ever so many weathercocks and water-wheels;

or have a machine like that one you and Colonel Sellers bought; and

sometimes I think I'll have--well, somehow I don't know--somehow I ain't

certain; maybe I'll get a steamboat first."

"The same old chap!--always just a little bit divided about things.--And

what will you do when you get to be one of the richest men in the world,

Clay?"

"I don't know, sir. My mother--my other mother that's gone away--she

always told me to work along and not be much expecting to get rich, and

then I wouldn't be disappointed if I didn't get rich. And so I reckon

it's better for me to wait till I get rich, and then by that time maybe

I'll know what I'll want--but I don't now, sir."

"Careful old head!--Governor Henry Clay Hawkins!--that's what you'll be,

Clay, one of these days. Wise old head! weighty old head! Go on, now,

and play--all of you. It's a prime lot, Nancy; as the Obedstown folk say

about their hogs."

A smaller steamboat received the Hawkinses and their fortunes, and bore

them a hundred and thirty miles still higher up the Mississippi, and

landed them at a little tumble-down village on the Missouri shore in the

twilight of a mellow October day.

The next morning they harnessed up their team and for two days they

wended slowly into the interior through almost roadless and uninhabited

forest solitudes. And when for the last time they pitched their tents,

metaphorically speaking, it was at the goal of their hopes, their new

home.

By the muddy roadside stood a new log cabin, one story high--the store;

clustered in the neighborhood were ten or twelve more cabins, some new,

some old.

In the sad light of the departing day the place looked homeless enough.

Two or three coatless young men sat in front of the store on a dry-goods

box, and whittled it with their knives, kicked it with their vast boots,

and shot tobacco-juice at various marks. Several ragged negroes leaned

comfortably against the posts of the awning and contemplated the arrival

of the wayfarers with lazy curiosity. All these people presently managed

to drag themselves to the vicinity of the Hawkins' wagon, and there they

took up permanent positions, hands in pockets and resting on one leg; and

thus anchored they proceeded to look and enjoy. Vagrant dogs came

wagging around and making inquiries of Hawkins's dog, which were not

satisfactory and they made war on him in concert. This would have

interested the citizens but it was too many on one to amount to anything

as a fight, and so they commanded the peace and the foreign dog coiled

his tail and took sanctuary under the wagon. Slatternly negro girls and

women slouched along with pails deftly balanced on their heads, and

joined the group and stared. Little half dressed white boys, and little

negro boys with nothing whatever on but tow-linen shirts with a fine

southern exposure, came from various directions and stood with their

hands locked together behind them and aided in the inspection. The rest

of the population were laying down their employments and getting ready to

come, when a man burst through the assemblage and seized the new-comers

by the hands in a frenzy of welcome, and exclaimed--indeed almost

shouted:

"Well who could have believed it! Now is it you sure enough--turn

around! hold up your heads! I want to look at you good! Well, well,

well, it does seem most too good to be true, I declare! Lord, I'm so

glad to see you! Does a body's whole soul good to look at you! Shake

hands again! Keep on shaking hands! Goodness gracious alive. What will

my wife say?--Oh yes indeed, it's so!--married only last week--lovely,

perfectly lovely creature, the noblest woman that ever--you'll like her,

Nancy! Like her? Lord bless me you'll love her--you'll dote on her

--you'll be twins! Well, well, well, let me look at you again! Same old

--why bless my life it was only jest this very morning that my wife says,

'Colonel'--she will call me Colonel spite of everything I can do--she

says 'Colonel, something tells me somebody's coming!' and sure enough

here you are, the last people on earth a body could have expected.

Why she'll think she's a prophetess--and hanged if I don't think so too

--and you know there ain't any, country but what a prophet's an honor to,

as the proverb says. Lord bless me and here's the children, too!

Washington, Emily, don't you know me? Come, give us a kiss. Won't I fix

you, though!--ponies, cows, dogs, everything you can think of that'll

delight a child's heart-and--Why how's this? Little strangers? Well

you won't be any strangers here, I can tell you. Bless your souls we'll

make you think you never was at home before--'deed and 'deed we will,

I can tell you! Come, now, bundle right along with me. You can't

glorify any hearth stone but mine in this camp, you know--can't eat

anybody's bread but mine--can't do anything but just make yourselves

perfectly at home and comfortable, and spread yourselves out and rest!

You hear me! Here--Jim, Tom, Pete, Jake, fly around! Take that team to

my place--put the wagon in my lot--put the horses under the shed, and get

out hay and oats and fill them up! Ain't any hay and oats? Well get

some--have it charged to me--come, spin around, now! Now, Hawkins, the

procession's ready; mark time, by the left flank, forward-march!"

And the Colonel took the lead, with Laura astride his neck, and the

newly-inspired and very grateful immigrants picked up their tired limbs

with quite a spring in them and dropped into his wake.

Presently they were ranged about an old-time fire-place whose blazing

logs sent out rather an unnecessary amount of heat, but that was no

matter-supper was needed, and to have it, it had to be cooked. This

apartment was the family bedroom, parlor, library and kitchen, all in

one. The matronly little wife of the Colonel moved hither and thither

and in and out with her pots and pans in her hands', happiness in her

heart and a world of admiration of her husband in her eyes. And when at

last she had spread the cloth and loaded it with hot corn bread, fried

chickens, bacon, buttermilk, coffee, and all manner of country luxuries,

Col. Sellers modified his harangue and for a moment throttled it down to

the orthodox pitch for a blessing, and then instantly burst forth again

as from a parenthesis and clattered on with might and main till every

stomach in the party was laden with all it could carry. And when the

new-comers ascended the ladder to their comfortable feather beds on the

second floor--to wit the garret--Mrs. Hawkins was obliged to say:

"Hang the fellow, I do believe he has gone wilder than ever, but still a

body can't help liking him if they would--and what is more, they don't

ever want to try when they see his eyes and hear him talk."

Within a week or two the Hawkinses were comfortably domiciled in a new

log house, and were beginning to feel at home. The children were put to

school; at least it was what passed for a school in those days: a place

where tender young humanity devoted itself for eight or ten hours a day

to learning incomprehensible rubbish by heart out of books and reciting

it by rote, like parrots; so that a finished education consisted simply

of a permanent headache and the ability to read without stopping to spell

the words or take breath. Hawkins bought out the village store for a

song and proceeded to reap the profits, which amounted to but little more

than another song.

The wonderful speculation hinted at by Col. Sellers in his letter turned

out to be the raising of mules for the Southern market; and really it

promised very well. The young stock cost but a trifle, the rearing but

another trifle, and so Hawkins was easily persuaded to embark his slender

means in the enterprise and turn over the keep and care of the animals to

Sellers and Uncle Dan'l.

All went well: Business prospered little by little. Hawkins even built a

new house, made it two full stories high and put a lightning rod on it.

People came two or three miles to look at it. But they knew that the rod

attracted the lightning, and so they gave the place a wide berth in a

storm, for they were familiar with marksmanship and doubted if the

lightning could hit that small stick at a distance of a mile and a half

oftener than once in a hundred and fifty times. Hawkins fitted out his

house with "store" furniture from St. Louis, and the fame of its

magnificence went abroad in the land. Even the parlor carpet was from

St. Louis--though the other rooms were clothed in the "rag" carpeting of

the country. Hawkins put up the first "paling" fence that had ever

adorned the village; and he did not stop there, but whitewashed it.

His oil-cloth window-curtains had noble pictures on them of castles such

as had never been seen anywhere in the world but on window-curtains.

Hawkins enjoyed the admiration these prodigies compelled, but he always

smiled to think how poor and, cheap they were, compared to what the

Hawkins mansion would display in a future day after the Tennessee Land

should have borne its minted fruit. Even Washington observed, once, that

when the Tennessee Land was sold he would have a "store" carpet in his

and Clay's room like the one in the parlor. This pleased Hawkins, but it

troubled his wife. It did not seem wise, to her, to put one's entire

earthly trust in the Tennessee Land and never think of doing any work.

Hawkins took a weekly Philadelphia newspaper and a semi-weekly St. Louis

journal--almost the only papers that came to the village, though Godey's

Lady's Book found a good market there and was regarded as the perfection

of polite literature by some of the ablest critics in the place. Perhaps

it is only fair to explain that we are writing of a by gone age--some

twenty or thirty years ago. In the two newspapers referred to lay the

secret of Hawkins's growing prosperity. They kept him informed of the

condition of the crops south and east, and thus he knew which articles

were likely to be in demand and which articles were likely to be

unsalable, weeks and even months in advance of the simple folk about him.

As the months went by he came to be regarded as a wonderfully lucky man.

It did not occur to the citizens that brains were at the bottom of his

luck.

His title of "Squire" came into vogue again, but only for a season; for,

as his wealth and popularity augmented, that title, by imperceptible

stages, grew up into "Judge;" indeed' it bade fair to swell into

"General" bye and bye. All strangers of consequence who visited the

village gravitated to the Hawkins Mansion and became guests of the

"Judge."

Hawkins had learned to like the people of his section very much. They

were uncouth and not cultivated, and not particularly industrious; but

they were honest and straightforward, and their virtuous ways commanded

respect. Their patriotism was strong, their pride in the flag was of the

old fashioned pattern, their love of country amounted to idolatry.

Whoever dragged the national honor in the dirt won their deathless

hatred. They still cursed Benedict Arnold as if he were a personal

friend who had broken faith--but a week gone by.

CHAPTER VI.

We skip ten years and this history finds certain changes to record.

Judge Hawkins and Col. Sellers have made and lost two or three moderate

fortunes in the meantime and are now pinched by poverty. Sellers has two

pairs of twins and four extras. In Hawkins's family are six children of

his own and two adopted ones. From time to time, as fortune smiled, the

elder children got the benefit of it, spending the lucky seasons at

excellent schools in St. Louis and the unlucky ones at home in the

chafing discomfort of straightened circumstances.

Neither the Hawkins children nor the world that knew them ever supposed

that one of the girls was of alien blood and parentage: Such difference

as existed between Laura and Emily is not uncommon in a family. The

girls had grown up as sisters, and they were both too young at the time

of the fearful accident on the Mississippi to know that it was that which

had thrown their lives together.

And yet any one who had known the secret of Laura's birth and had seen

her during these passing years, say at the happy age of twelve or

thirteen, would have fancied that he knew the reason why she was more

winsome than her school companion.

Philosophers dispute whether it is the promise of what she will be in

the careless school-girl, that makes her attractive, the undeveloped

maidenhood, or the mere natural, careless sweetness of childhood.

If Laura at twelve was beginning to be a beauty, the thought of it had

never entered her head. No, indeed. Her mind wad filled with more

important thoughts. To her simple school-girl dress she was beginning to

add those mysterious little adornments of ribbon-knots and ear-rings,

which were the subject of earnest consultations with her grown friends.

When she tripped down the street on a summer's day with her dainty hands

propped into the ribbon-broidered pockets of her apron, and elbows

consequently more or less akimbo with her wide Leghorn hat flapping down

and hiding her face one moment and blowing straight up against her fore

head the next and making its revealment of fresh young beauty; with all

her pretty girlish airs and graces in full play, and that sweet ignorance

of care and that atmosphere of innocence and purity all about her that

belong to her gracious time of life, indeed she was a vision to warm the

coldest heart and bless and cheer the saddest.

Willful, generous, forgiving, imperious, affectionate, improvident,

bewitching, in short--was Laura at this period. Could she have remained

there, this history would not need to be written. But Laura had grown to

be almost a woman in these few years, to the end of which we have now

come--years which had seen Judge Hawkins pass through so many trials.

When the judge's first bankruptcy came upon him, a homely human angel

intruded upon him with an offer of $1,500 for the Tennessee Land. Mrs.

Hawkins said take it. It was a grievous temptation, but the judge

withstood it. He said the land was for the children--he could not rob

them of their future millions for so paltry a sum. When the second

blight fell upon him, another angel appeared and offered $3,000 for the

land. He was in such deep distress that he allowed his wife to persuade

him to let the papers be drawn; but when his children came into his

presence in their poor apparel, he felt like a traitor and refused to

sign.

But now he was down again, and deeper in the mire than ever. He paced

the floor all day, he scarcely slept at night. He blushed even to

acknowledge it to himself, but treason was in his mind--he was

meditating, at last, the sale of the land. Mrs. Hawkins stepped into the

room. He had not spoken a word, but he felt as guilty as if she had

caught him in some shameful act. She said:

"Si, I do not know what we are going to do. The children are not fit to

be seen, their clothes are in such a state. But there's something more

serious still.--There is scarcely a bite in the house to eat"

"Why, Nancy, go to Johnson----."

"Johnson indeed! You took that man's part when he hadn't a friend in the

world, and you built him up and made him rich. And here's the result of

it: He lives in our fine house, and we live in his miserable log cabin.

He has hinted to our children that he would rather they wouldn't come

about his yard to play with his children,--which I can bear, and bear

easy enough, for they're not a sort we want to associate with much--but

what I can't bear with any quietness at all, is his telling Franky our

bill was running pretty high this morning when I sent him for some meal

--and that was all he said, too--didn't give him the meal--turned off and

went to talking with the Hargrave girls about some stuff they wanted to

cheapen."

"Nancy, this is astounding!"

"And so it is, I warrant you. I've kept still, Si, as long as ever I

could. Things have been getting worse and worse, and worse and worse,

every single day; I don't go out of the house, I feel so down; but you

had trouble enough, and I wouldn't say a word--and I wouldn't say a word

now, only things have got so bad that I don't know what to do, nor where

to turn." And she gave way and put her face in her hands and cried.

"Poor child, don't grieve so. I never thought that of Johnson. I am

clear at my wit's end. I don't know what in the world to do. Now if

somebody would come along and offer $3,000--Uh, if somebody only would

come along and offer $3,000 for that Tennessee Land."

"You'd sell it, S!" said Mrs. Hawkins excitedly.

"Try me!"

Mrs. Hawkins was out of the room in a moment. Within a minute she was

back again with a business-looking stranger, whom she seated, and then

she took her leave again. Hawkins said to himself, "How can a man ever

lose faith? When the blackest hour comes, Providence always comes with

it--ah, this is the very timeliest help that ever poor harried devil had;

if this blessed man offers but a thousand I'll embrace him like a

brother!"

The stranger said:

"I am aware that you own 75,000 acres, of land in East Tennessee, and

without sacrificing your time, I will come to the point at once. I am

agent of an iron manufacturing company, and they empower me to offer you

ten thousand dollars for that land."

Hawkins's heart bounded within him. His whole frame was racked and

wrenched with fettered hurrahs. His first impulse was to shout "Done!

and God bless the iron company, too!"

But a something flitted through his mind, and his opened lips uttered

nothing. The enthusiasm faded away from his eyes, and the look of a man

who is thinking took its place. Presently, in a hesitating, undecided

way, he said:

"Well, I--it don't seem quite enough. That--that is a very valuable

property--very valuable. It's brim full of iron-ore, sir--brim full of

it! And copper, coal,--everything--everything you can think of! Now,

I'll tell you what I'll, do. I'll reserve everything except the iron,

and I'll sell them the iron property for $15,000 cash, I to go in with

them and own an undivided interest of one-half the concern--or the stock,

as you may say. I'm out of business, and I'd just as soon help run the

thing as not. Now how does that strike you?"

"Well, I am only an agent of these people, who are friends of mine, and

I am not even paid for my services. To tell you the truth, I have tried

to persuade them not to go into the thing; and I have come square out

with their offer, without throwing out any feelers--and I did it in the

hope that you would refuse. A man pretty much always refuses another

man's first offer, no matter what it is. But I have performed my duty,

and will take pleasure in telling them what you say."

He was about to rise. Hawkins said,

"Wait a bit."

Hawkins thought again. And the substance of his thought was: "This

is a deep man; this is a very deep man; I don't like his candor; your

ostentatiously candid business man's a deep fox--always a deep fox;

this man's that iron company himself--that's what he is; he wants that

property, too; I am not so blind but I can see that; he don't want the

company to go into this thing--O, that's very good; yes, that's very

good indeed--stuff! he'll be back here tomorrow, sure, and take my offer;

take it? I'll risk anything he is suffering to take it now; here--I must

mind what I'm about. What has started this sudden excitement about iron?

I wonder what is in the wind? just as sure as I'm alive this moment,

there's something tremendous stirring in iron speculation" [here Hawkins

got up and began to pace the floor with excited eyes and with gesturing

hands]--"something enormous going on in iron, without the shadow of a

doubt, and here I sit mousing in the dark and never knowing anything

about it; great heaven, what an escape I've made! this underhanded

mercenary creature might have taken me up--and ruined me! but I have

escaped, and I warrant me I'll not put my foot into--"

He stopped and turned toward the stranger; saying:

"I have made you a proposition, you have not accepted it, and I desire

that you will consider that I have made none. At the same time my

conscience will not allow me to--. Please alter the figures I named to

thirty thousand dollars, if you will, and let the proposition go to the

company--I will stick to it if it breaks my heart!" The stranger looked

amused, and there was a pretty well defined touch of surprise in his

expression, too, but Hawkins never noticed it. Indeed he scarcely

noticed anything or knew what he was about. The man left; Hawkins flung

himself into a chair; thought a few moments, then glanced around, looked

frightened, sprang to the door----

"Too late--too late! He's gone! Fool that I am! always a fool! Thirty

thousand--ass that I am! Oh, why didn't I say fifty thousand!"

He plunged his hands into his hair and leaned his elbows on his knees,

and fell to rocking himself back and forth in anguish. Mrs. Hawkins

sprang in, beaming:

"Well, Si?"

"Oh, con-found the con-founded--con-found it, Nancy. I've gone and done

it, now!"

"Done what Si for mercy's sake!"

"Done everything! Ruined everything!"

"Tell me, tell me, tell me! Don't keep a body in such suspense. Didn't

he buy, after all? Didn't he make an offer?"

Offer? He offered $10,000 for our land, and----"

"Thank the good providence from the very bottom of my heart of hearts!

What sort of ruin do you call that, Si!"

"Nancy, do you suppose I listened to such a preposterous proposition?

No! Thank fortune I'm not a simpleton! I saw through the pretty scheme

in a second. It's a vast iron speculation!--millions upon millions in

it! But fool as I am I told him he could have half the iron property for

thirty thousand--and if I only had him back here he couldn't touch it for

a cent less than a quarter of a million!"

Mrs. Hawkins looked up white and despairing:

"You threw away this chance, you let this man go, and we in this awful

trouble? You don't mean it, you can't mean it!"

"Throw it away? Catch me at it! Why woman, do you suppose that man

don't know what he is about? Bless you, he'll be back fast enough

to-morrow."

"Never, never, never. He never will comeback. I don't know what is to

become of us. I don't know what in the world is to become of us."

A shade of uneasiness came into Hawkins's face. He said:

"Why, Nancy, you--you can't believe what you are saying."

"Believe it, indeed? I know it, Si. And I know that we haven't a cent

in the world, and we've sent ten thousand dollars a-begging."

"Nancy, you frighten me. Now could that man--is it possible that I

--hanged if I don't believe I have missed a chance! Don't grieve, Nancy,

don't grieve. I'll go right after him. I'll take--I'll take--what a

fool I am!--I'll take anything he'll give!"

The next instant he left the house on a run. But the man was no longer

in the town. Nobody knew where he belonged or whither he had gone.

Hawkins came slowly back, watching wistfully but hopelessly for the

stranger, and lowering his price steadily with his sinking heart. And

when his foot finally pressed his own threshold, the value he held the

entire Tennessee property at was five hundred dollars--two hundred down

and the rest in three equal annual payments, without interest.

There was a sad gathering at the Hawkins fireside the next night. All

the children were present but Clay. Mr. Hawkins said:

"Washington, we seem to be hopelessly fallen, hopelessly involved. I am

ready to give up. I do not know where to turn--I never have been down so

low before, I never have seen things so dismal. There are many mouths to

feed; Clay is at work; we must lose you, also, for a little while, my

boy. But it will not be long--the Tennessee land----"

He stopped, and was conscious of a blush. There was silence for a

moment, and then Washington--now a lank, dreamy-eyed stripling between

twenty-two and twenty-three years of age--said:

"If Col. Sellers would come for me, I would go and stay with him a while,

till the Tennessee land is sold. He has often wanted me to come, ever

since he moved to Hawkeye."

"I'm afraid he can't well come for you, Washington. From what I can

hear--not from him of course, but from others--he is not far from as bad

off as we are--and his family is as large, too. He might find something

for you to do, maybe, but you'd better try to get to him yourself,

Washington--it's only thirty miles."

"But how can I, father? There's no stage or anything."

"And if there were, stages require money. A stage goes from Swansea,

five miles from here. But it would be cheaper to walk."

"Father, they must know you there, and no doubt they would credit you in

a moment, for a little stage ride like that. Couldn't you write and ask

them?"

"Couldn't you, Washington--seeing it's you that wants the ride? And what

do you think you'll do, Washington, when you get to Hawkeye? Finish your

invention for making window-glass opaque?"

"No, sir, I have given that up. I almost knew I could do it, but it was

so tedious and troublesome I quit it."

"I was afraid of it, my boy. Then I suppose you'll finish your plan of

coloring hen's eggs by feeding a peculiar diet to the hen?"

"No, sir. I believe I have found out the stuff that will do it, but it

kills the hen; so I have dropped that for the present, though I can take

it up again some day when I learn how to manage the mixture better."

"Well, what have you got on hand--anything?"

"Yes, sir, three or four things. I think they are all good and can all

be done, but they are tiresome, and besides they require money. But as

soon as the land is sold----"

"Emily, were you about to say something?" said Hawkins.

Yes, sir. If you are willing, I will go to St. Louis. That will make

another mouth less to feed. Mrs. Buckner has always wanted me to come."

"But the money, child?"

"Why I think she would send it, if you would write her--and I know she

would wait for her pay till----"

"Come, Laura, let's hear from you, my girl."

Emily and Laura were about the same age--between seventeen and eighteen.

Emily was fair and pretty, girlish and diffident--blue eyes and light

hair. Laura had a proud bearing, and a somewhat mature look; she had

fine, clean-cut features, her complexion was pure white and contrasted

vividly with her black hair and eyes; she was not what one calls pretty

--she was beautiful. She said:

"I will go to St. Louis, too, sir. I will find a way to get there.

I will make a way. And I will find a way to help myself along, and do

what I can to help the rest, too."

She spoke it like a princess. Mrs. Hawkins smiled proudly and kissed

her, saying in a tone of fond reproof:

"So one of my girls is going to turn out and work for her living! It's

like your pluck and spirit, child, but we will hope that we haven't got

quite down to that, yet."

The girl's eyes beamed affection under her mother's caress. Then she

straightened up, folded her white hands in her lap and became a splendid

ice-berg. Clay's dog put up his brown nose for a little attention, and

got it. He retired under the table with an apologetic yelp, which did

not affect the iceberg.

Judge Hawkins had written and asked Clay to return home and consult with

him upon family affairs. He arrived the evening after this conversation,

and the whole household gave him a rapturous welcome. He brought sadly

needed help with him, consisting of the savings of a year and a half of

work--nearly two hundred dollars in money.

It was a ray of sunshine which (to this easy household) was the earnest

of a clearing sky.

Bright and early in the morning the family were astir, and all were busy

preparing Washington for his journey--at least all but Washington

himself, who sat apart, steeped in a reverie. When the time for his

departure came, it was easy to see how fondly all loved him and how hard

it was to let him go, notwithstanding they had often seen him go before,

in his St. Louis schooling days. In the most matter-of-course way they

had borne the burden of getting him ready for his trip, never seeming to

think of his helping in the matter; in the same matter-of-course way Clay

had hired a horse and cart; and now that the good-byes were ended he

bundled Washington's baggage in and drove away with the exile.

At Swansea Clay paid his stage fare, stowed him away in the vehicle, and

saw him off. Then he returned home and reported progress, like a

committee of the whole.

Clay remained at home several days. He held many consultations with his

mother upon the financial condition of the family, and talked once with

his father upon the same subject, but only once. He found a change in

that quarter which was distressing; years of fluctuating fortune had done

their work; each reverse had weakened the father's spirit and impaired

his energies; his last misfortune seemed to have left hope and ambition

dead within him; he had no projects, formed no plans--evidently he was a

vanquished man. He looked worn and tired. He inquired into Clay's

affairs and prospects, and when he found that Clay was doing pretty well

and was likely to do still better, it was plain that he resigned himself

with easy facility to look to the son for a support; and he said, "Keep

yourself informed of poor Washington's condition and movements, and help

him along all you can, Clay."

The younger children, also, seemed relieved of all fears and distresses,

and very ready and willing to look to Clay for a livelihood. Within

three days a general tranquility and satisfaction reigned in the

household. Clay's hundred and eighty or ninety, dollars had worked a

wonder. The family were as contented, now, and as free from care as they

could have been with a fortune. It was well that Mrs. Hawkins held the

purse otherwise the treasure would have lasted but a very little while.

It took but a trifle to pay Hawkins's outstanding obligations, for he had

always had a horror of debt.

When Clay bade his home good-bye and set out to return to the field of

his labors, he was conscious that henceforth he was to have his father's

family on his hands as pensioners; but he did not allow himself to chafe

at the thought, for he reasoned that his father had dealt by him with a

free hand and a loving one all his life, and now that hard fortune had

broken his spirit it ought to be a pleasure, not a pain, to work for him.

The younger children were born and educated dependents. They had never

been taught to do anything for themselves, and it did not seem to occur

to them to make an attempt now.

The girls would not have been permitted to work for a living under any

circumstances whatever. It was a southern family, and of good blood;

and for any person except Laura, either within or without the household

to have suggested such an idea would have brought upon the suggester the

suspicion of being a lunatic.

CHAPTER VII.

Via, Pecunia! when she's run and gone

And fled, and dead, then will I fetch her again

With aqua vita, out of an old hogshead!

While there are lees of wine, or dregs of beer,

I'll never want her! Coin her out of cobwebs,

Dust, but I'll have her! raise wool upon egg-shells,

Sir, and make grass grow out of marrow-bones,

To make her come!

B. Jonson.

Bearing Washington Hawkins and his fortunes, the stage-coach tore out of

Swansea at a fearful gait, with horn tooting gaily and half the town

admiring from doors and windows. But it did not tear any more after it

got to the outskirts; it dragged along stupidly enough, then--till it

came in sight of the next hamlet; and then the bugle tooted gaily again

and again the vehicle went tearing by the horses. This sort of conduct

marked every entry to a station and every exit from it; and so in those

days children grew up with the idea that stage-coaches always tore and

always tooted; but they also grew up with the idea that pirates went into

action in their Sunday clothes, carrying the black flag in one hand and

pistolling people with the other, merely because they were so represented

in the pictures--but these illusions vanished when later years brought

their disenchanting wisdom. They learned then that the stagecoach is but

a poor, plodding, vulgar thing in the solitudes of the highway; and that

the pirate is only a seedy, unfantastic "rough," when he is out of the

pictures.

Toward evening, the stage-coach came thundering into Hawkeye with a

perfectly triumphant ostentation--which was natural and proper, for

Hawkey a was a pretty large town for interior Missouri. Washington,

very stiff and tired and hungry, climbed out, and wondered how he was to

proceed now. But his difficulty was quickly solved. Col. Sellers came

down the street on a run and arrived panting for breath. He said:

"Lord bless you--I'm glad to see you, Washington--perfectly delighted to

see you, my boy! I got your message. Been on the look-out for you.

Heard the stage horn, but had a party I couldn't shake off--man that's

got an enormous thing on hand--wants me to put some capital into it--and

I tell you, my boy, I could do worse, I could do a deal worse. No, now,

let that luggage alone; I'll fix that. Here, Jerry, got anything to do?

All right-shoulder this plunder and follow me. Come along, Washington.

Lord I'm glad to see you! Wife and the children are just perishing to

look at you. Bless you, they won't know you, you've grown so. Folks all

well, I suppose? That's good--glad to hear that. We're always going to

run down and see them, but I'm into so many operations, and they're not

things a man feels like trusting to other people, and so somehow we keep

putting it off. Fortunes in them! Good gracious, it's the country to

pile up wealth in! Here we are--here's where the Sellers dynasty hangs

out. Hump it on the door-step, Jerry--the blackest niggro in the State,

Washington, but got a good heart--mighty likely boy, is Jerry. And now I

suppose you've got to have ten cents, Jerry. That's all right--when a

man works for me--when a man--in the other pocket, I reckon--when a man

--why, where the mischief as that portmonnaie!--when a--well now that's

odd--Oh, now I remember, must have left it at the bank; and b'George I've

left my check-book, too--Polly says I ought to have a nurse--well, no

matter. Let me have a dime, Washington, if you've got--ah, thanks. Now

clear out, Jerry, your complexion has brought on the twilight half an

hour ahead of time. Pretty fair joke--pretty fair. Here he is, Polly!

Washington's come, children! come now, don't eat him up--finish him in

the house. Welcome, my boy, to a mansion that is proud to shelter the

son of the best man that walks on the ground. Si Hawkins has been a good

friend to me, and I believe I can say that whenever I've had a chance to

put him into a good thing I've done it, and done it pretty cheerfully,

too. I put him into that sugar speculation--what a grand thing that was,

if we hadn't held on too long!"

True enough; but holding on too long had utterly ruined both of them;

and the saddest part of it was, that they never had had so much money to

lose before, for Sellers's sale of their mule crop that year in New

Orleans had been a great financial success. If he had kept out of sugar

and gone back home content to stick to mules it would have been a happy

wisdom. As it was, he managed to kill two birds with one stone--that is

to say, he killed the sugar speculation by holding for high rates till he

had to sell at the bottom figure, and that calamity killed the mule that

laid the golden egg--which is but a figurative expression and will be so

understood. Sellers had returned home cheerful but empty-handed, and the

mule business lapsed into other hands. The sale of the Hawkins property

by the Sheriff had followed, and the Hawkins hearts been torn to see

Uncle Dan'l and his wife pass from the auction-block into the hands of a

negro trader and depart for the remote South to be seen no more by the

family. It had seemed like seeing their own flesh and blood sold into

banishment.

Washington was greatly pleased with the Sellers mansion. It was a

two-story-and-a-half brick, and much more stylish than any of its

neighbors. He was borne to the family sitting room in triumph by the

swarm of little Sellerses, the parents following with their arms about

each other's waists.

The whole family were poorly and cheaply dressed; and the clothing,

although neat and clean, showed many evidences of having seen long

service. The Colonel's "stovepipe" hat was napless and shiny with much

polishing, but nevertheless it had an almost convincing expression about

it of having been just purchased new. The rest of his clothing was

napless and shiny, too, but it had the air of being entirely satisfied

with itself and blandly sorry for other people's clothes. It was growing

rather dark in the house, and the evening air was chilly, too. Sellers

said:

"Lay off your overcoat, Washington, and draw up to the stove and make

yourself at home--just consider yourself under your own shingles my boy

--I'll have a fire going, in a jiffy. Light the lamp, Polly, dear, and

let's have things cheerful just as glad to see you, Washington, as if

you'd been lost a century and we'd found you again!"

By this time the Colonel was conveying a lighted match into a poor little

stove. Then he propped the stove door to its place by leaning the poker

against it, for the hinges had retired from business. This door framed

a small square of isinglass, which now warmed up with a faint glow.

Mrs. Sellers lit a cheap, showy lamp, which dissipated a good deal of the

gloom, and then everybody gathered into the light and took the stove into

close companionship.

The children climbed all over Sellers, fondled him, petted him, and were

lavishly petted in return. Out from this tugging, laughing, chattering

disguise of legs and arms and little faces, the Colonel's voice worked

its way and his tireless tongue ran blithely on without interruption;

and the purring little wife, diligent with her knitting, sat near at hand

and looked happy and proud and grateful; and she listened as one who

listens to oracles and, gospels and whose grateful soul is being

refreshed with the bread of life. Bye and bye the children quieted down

to listen; clustered about their father, and resting their elbows on his

legs, they hung upon his words as if he were uttering the music of the

spheres.

A dreary old hair-cloth sofa against the wall; a few damaged chairs; the

small table the lamp stood on; the crippled stove--these things

constituted the furniture of the room. There was no carpet on the floor;

on the wall were occasional square-shaped interruptions of the general

tint of the plaster which betrayed that there used to be pictures in the

house--but there were none now. There were no mantel ornaments, unless

one might bring himself to regard as an ornament a clock which never came

within fifteen strokes of striking the right time, and whose hands always

hitched together at twenty-two minutes past anything and traveled in

company the rest of the way home.

"Remarkable clock!" said Sellers, and got up and wound it. "I've been

offered--well, I wouldn't expect you to believe what I've been offered

for that clock. Old Gov. Hager never sees me but he says, 'Come, now,

Colonel, name your price--I must have that clock!' But my goodness I'd

as soon think of selling my wife. As I was saying to ---- silence in the

court, now, she's begun to strike! You can't talk against her--you have

to just be patient and hold up till she's said her say. Ah well, as I

was saying, when--she's beginning again! Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one,

twenty-two, twen----ah, that's all.--Yes, as I was saying to old Judge

----go it, old girl, don't mind me.--Now how is that?----isn't that a

good, spirited tone? She can wake the dead! Sleep? Why you might as

well try to sleep in a thunder-factory. Now just listen at that. She'll

strike a hundred and fifty, now, without stopping,--you'll see. There

ain't another clock like that in Christendom."

Washington hoped that this might be true, for the din was distracting

--though the family, one and all, seemed filled with joy; and the more the

clock "buckled down to her work" as the Colonel expressed it, and the

more insupportable the clatter became, the more enchanted they all

appeared to be. When there was silence, Mrs Sellers lifted upon

Washington a face that beamed with a childlike pride, and said:

"It belonged to his grandmother."

The look and the tone were a plain call for admiring surprise, and

therefore Washington said (it was the only thing that offered itself at

the moment:)

"Indeed!"

"Yes, it did, didn't it father!" exclaimed one of the twins. "She was my

great-grandmother--and George's too; wasn't she, father! You never saw

her, but Sis has seen her, when Sis was a baby-didn't you, Sis! Sis has

seen her most a hundred times. She was awful deef--she's dead, now.

Aint she, father!"

All the children chimed in, now, with one general Babel of information

about deceased--nobody offering to read the riot act or seeming to

discountenance the insurrection or disapprove of it in any way--but the

head twin drowned all the turmoil and held his own against the field:

"It's our clock, now--and it's got wheels inside of it, and a thing that

flutters every time she strikes--don't it, father! Great-grandmother

died before hardly any of us was born--she was an Old-School Baptist and

had warts all over her--you ask father if she didn't. She had an uncle

once that was bald-headed and used to have fits; he wasn't our uncle,

I don't know what he was to us--some kin or another I reckon--father's

seen him a thousand times--hain't you, father! We used to have a calf

that et apples and just chawed up dishrags like nothing, and if you stay

here you'll see lots of funerals--won't he, Sis! Did you ever see a

house afire? I have! Once me and Jim Terry----"

But Sellers began to speak now, and the storm ceased. He began to tell

about an enormous speculation he was thinking of embarking some capital

in--a speculation which some London bankers had been over to consult with

him about--and soon he was building glittering pyramids of coin, and

Washington was presently growing opulent under the magic of his

eloquence. But at the same time Washington was not able to ignore the

cold entirely. He was nearly as close to the stove as he could get,

and yet he could not persuade himself, that he felt the slightest heat,

notwithstanding the isinglass' door was still gently and serenely

glowing. He tried to get a trifle closer to the stove, and the

consequence was, he tripped the supporting poker and the stove-door

tumbled to the floor. And then there was a revelation--there was nothing

in the stove but a lighted tallow-candle! The poor youth blushed and

felt as if he must die with shame. But the Colonel was only

disconcerted for a moment--he straightway found his voice again:

"A little idea of my own, Washington--one of the greatest things in the

world! You must write and tell your father about it--don't forget that,

now. I have been reading up some European Scientific reports--friend of

mine, Count Fugier, sent them to me--sends me all sorts of things from

Paris--he thinks the world of me, Fugier does. Well, I saw that the

Academy of France had been testing the properties of heat, and they came

to the conclusion that it was a nonconductor or something like that,

and of course its influence must necessarily be deadly in nervous

organizations with excitable temperaments, especially where there is any

tendency toward rheumatic affections. Bless you I saw in a moment what

was the matter with us, and says I, out goes your fires!--no more slow

torture and certain death for me, sir. What you want is the appearance

of heat, not the heat itself--that's the idea. Well how to do it was the

next thing. I just put my head, to work, pegged away, a couple of days,

and here you are! Rheumatism? Why a man can't any more start a case of

rheumatism in this house than he can shake an opinion out of a mummy!

Stove with a candle in it and a transparent door--that's it--it has been

the salvation of this family. Don't you fail to write your father about

it, Washington. And tell him the idea is mine--I'm no more conceited

than most people, I reckon, but you know it is human nature for a man to

want credit for a thing like that."

Washington said with his blue lips that he would, but he said in his

secret heart that he would promote no such iniquity. He tried to believe

in the healthfulness of the invention, and succeeded tolerably well;

but after all he could not feel that good health in a frozen, body was

any real improvement on the rheumatism.

CHAPTER VIII.

--Whan pe horde is thynne, as of seruyse,

Nought replenesshed with grete diuersite

Of mete & drinke, good chere may then suffise

With honest talkyng----

The Book of Curtesye.

MAMMON. Come on, sir. Now, you set your foot on shore

In Novo Orbe; here's the rich Peru:

And there within, sir, are the golden mines,

Great Solomon's Ophir!----

B. Jonson

The supper at Col. Sellers's was not sumptuous, in the beginning, but it

improved on acquaintance. That is to say, that what Washington regarded

at first sight as mere lowly potatoes, presently became awe-inspiring

agricultural productions that had been reared in some ducal garden beyond

the sea, under the sacred eye of the duke himself, who had sent them to

Sellers; the bread was from corn which could be grown in only one favored

locality in the earth and only a favored few could get it; the Rio

coffee, which at first seemed execrable to the taste, took to itself an

improved flavor when Washington was told to drink it slowly and not hurry

what should be a lingering luxury in order to be fully appreciated--it

was from the private stores of a Brazilian nobleman with an

unrememberable name. The Colonel's tongue was a magician's wand that

turned dried apples into figs and water into wine as easily as it could

change a hovel into a palace and present poverty into imminent future

riches.

Washington slept in a cold bed in a carpetless room and woke up in a

palace in the morning; at least the palace lingered during the moment

that he was rubbing his eyes and getting his bearings--and then it

disappeared and he recognized that the Colonel's inspiring talk had been

influencing his dreams. Fatigue had made him sleep late; when he entered

the sitting room he noticed that the old hair-cloth sofa was absent; when

he sat down to breakfast the Colonel tossed six or seven dollars in bills

on the table, counted them over, said he was a little short and must call

upon his banker; then returned the bills to his wallet with the

indifferent air of a man who is used to money. The breakfast was not an

improvement upon the supper, but the Colonel talked it up and transformed

it into an oriental feast. Bye and bye, he said:

"I intend to look out for you, Washington, my boy. I hunted up a place

for you yesterday, but I am not referring to that,--now--that is a mere

livelihood--mere bread and butter; but when I say I mean to look out for

you I mean something very different. I mean to put things in your way

than will make a mere livelihood a trifling thing. I'll put you in a way

to make more money than you'll ever know what to do with. You'll be

right here where I can put my hand on you when anything turns up. I've

got some prodigious operations on foot; but I'm keeping quiet; mum's the

word; your old hand don't go around pow-wowing and letting everybody see

his k'yards and find out his little game. But all in good time,

Washington, all in good time. You'll see. Now there's an operation in

corn that looks well. Some New York men are trying to get me to go into

it--buy up all the growing crops and just boss the market when they

mature--ah I tell you it's a great thing. And it only costs a trifle;

two millions or two and a half will do it. I haven't exactly promised

yet--there's no hurry--the more indifferent I seem, you know, the more

anxious those fellows will get. And then there is the hog speculation

--that's bigger still. We've got quiet men at work," [he was very

impressive here,] "mousing around, to get propositions out of all the

farmers in the whole west and northwest for the hog crop, and other

agents quietly getting propositions and terms out of all the

manufactories--and don't you see, if we can get all the hogs and all the

slaughter horses into our hands on the dead quiet--whew! it would take

three ships to carry the money.--I've looked into the thing--calculated

all the chances for and all the chances against, and though I shake my

head and hesitate and keep on thinking, apparently, I've got my mind made

up that if the thing can be done on a capital of six millions, that's the

horse to put up money on! Why Washington--but what's the use of talking

about it--any man can see that there's whole Atlantic oceans of cash in

it, gulfs and bays thrown in. But there's a bigger thing than that, yes

bigger----"

"Why Colonel, you can't want anything bigger!" said Washington, his eyes

blazing. "Oh, I wish I could go into either of those speculations--I

only wish I had money--I wish I wasn't cramped and kept down and fettered

with poverty, and such prodigious chances lying right here in sight!

Oh, it is a fearful thing to be poor. But don't throw away those things

--they are so splendid and I can see how sure they are. Don't throw them

away for something still better and maybe fail in it! I wouldn't,

Colonel. I would stick to these. I wish father were here and were his

old self again--Oh, he never in his life had such chances as these are.

Colonel; you can't improve on these--no man can improve on them!"

A sweet, compassionate smile played about the Colonel's features, and he

leaned over the table with the air of a man who is "going to show you"

and do it without the least trouble:

"Why Washington, my boy, these things are nothing. They look large of

course--they look large to a novice, but to a man who has been all his

life accustomed to large operations--shaw! They're well enough to while

away an idle hour with, or furnish a bit of employment that will give a

trifle of idle capital a chance to earn its bread while it is waiting for

something to do, but--now just listen a moment--just let me give you an

idea of what we old veterans of commerce call 'business.' Here's the

Rothschild's proposition--this is between you and me, you understand----"

Washington nodded three or four times impatiently, and his glowing eyes

said, "Yes, yes--hurry--I understand----"

----"for I wouldn't have it get out for a fortune. They want me to go in

with them on the sly--agent was here two weeks ago about it--go in on the

sly" [voice down to an impressive whisper, now,] "and buy up a hundred

and thirteen wild cat banks in Ohio, Indiana, Kentucky, Illinois and

Missouri--notes of these banks are at all sorts of discount now--average

discount of the hundred and thirteen is forty-four per cent--buy them all

up, you see, and then all of a sudden let the cat out of the bag! Whiz!

the stock of every one of those wildcats would spin up to a tremendous

premium before you could turn a handspring--profit on the speculation not

a dollar less than forty millions!" [An eloquent pause, while the

marvelous vision settled into W.'s focus.] "Where's your hogs now?

Why my dear innocent boy, we would just sit down on the front door-steps

and peddle banks like lucifer matches!"

Washington finally got his breath and said:

"Oh, it is perfectly wonderful! Why couldn't these things have happened

in father's day? And I--it's of no use--they simply lie before my face

and mock me. There is nothing for me but to stand helpless and see other

people reap the astonishing harvest."

"Never mind, Washington, don't you worry. I'll fix you. There's plenty

of chances. How much money have you got?"

In the presence of so many millions, Washington could not keep from

blushing when he had to confess that he had but eighteen dollars in the

world.

"Well, all right--don't despair. Other people have been obliged to begin

with less. I have a small idea that may develop into something for us

both, all in good time. Keep your money close and add to it. I'll make

it breed. I've been experimenting (to pass away the time), on a little

preparation for curing sore eyes--a kind of decoction nine-tenths water

and the other tenth drugs that don't cost more than a dollar a barrel;

I'm still experimenting; there's one ingredient wanted yet to perfect the

thing, and somehow I can't just manage to hit upon the thing that's

necessary, and I don't dare talk with a chemist, of course. But I'm

progressing, and before many weeks I wager the country will ring with the

fame of Beriah Sellers' Infallible Imperial Oriental Optic Liniment and

Salvation for Sore Eyes--the Medical Wonder of the Age! Small bottles

fifty cents, large ones a dollar. Average cost, five and seven cents for

the two sizes.

"The first year sell, say, ten thousand bottles in Missouri, seven

thousand in Iowa, three thousand in Arkansas, four thousand in Kentucky,

six thousand in Illinois, and say twenty-five thousand in the rest of the

country. Total, fifty five thousand bottles; profit clear of all

expenses, twenty thousand dollars at the very lowest calculation. All

the capital needed is to manufacture the first two thousand bottles

--say a hundred and fifty dollars--then the money would begin to flow in.

The second year, sales would reach 200,000 bottles--clear profit, say,

$75,000--and in the meantime the great factory would be building in St.

Louis, to cost, say, $100,000. The third year we could, easily sell

1,000,000 bottles in the United States and----"

"O, splendid!" said Washington. "Let's commence right away--let's----"

"----1,000,000 bottles in the United States--profit at least $350,000

--and then it would begin to be time to turn our attention toward the real

idea of the business."

"The real idea of it! Ain't $350,000 a year a pretty real----"

"Stuff! Why what an infant you are, Washington--what a guileless,

short-sighted, easily-contented innocent you, are, my poor little

country-bred know-nothing! Would I go to all that trouble and bother for

the poor crumbs a body might pick up in this country? Now do I look like

a man who----does my history suggest that I am a man who deals in

trifles, contents himself with the narrow horizon that hems in the common

herd, sees no further than the end of his nose? Now you know that that

is not me--couldn't be me. You ought to know that if I throw my time and

abilities into a patent medicine, it's a patent medicine whose field of

operations is the solid earth! its clients the swarming nations that

inhabit it! Why what is the republic of America for an eye-water

country? Lord bless you, it is nothing but a barren highway that you've

got to cross to get to the true eye-water market! Why, Washington, in

the Oriental countries people swarm like the sands of the desert; every

square mile of ground upholds its thousands upon thousands of struggling

human creatures--and every separate and individual devil of them's got

the ophthalmia! It's as natural to them as noses are--and sin. It's

born with them, it stays with them, it's all that some of them have left

when they die. Three years of introductory trade in the orient and what

will be the result? Why, our headquarters would be in Constantinople and

our hindquarters in Further India! Factories and warehouses in Cairo,

Ispahan, Bagdad, Damascus, Jerusalem, Yedo, Peking, Bangkok, Delhi,

Bombay--and Calcutta! Annual income--well, God only knows how many

millions and millions apiece!"

Washington was so dazed, so bewildered--his heart and his eyes had

wandered so far away among the strange lands beyond the seas, and such

avalanches of coin and currency had fluttered and jingled confusedly down

before him, that he was now as one who has been whirling round and round

for a time, and, stopping all at once, finds his surroundings still

whirling and all objects a dancing chaos. However, little by little the

Sellers family cooled down and crystalized into shape, and the poor room

lost its glitter and resumed its poverty. Then the youth found his voice

and begged Sellers to drop everything and hurry up the eye-water; and he

got his eighteen dollars and tried to force it upon the Colonel--pleaded

with him to take it--implored him to do it. But the Colonel would not;

said he would not need the capital (in his native magnificent way he

called that eighteen dollars Capital) till the eye-water was an

accomplished fact. He made Washington easy in his mind, though, by

promising that he would call for it just as soon as the invention was

finished, and he added the glad tidings that nobody but just they two

should be admitted to a share in the speculation.

When Washington left the breakfast table he could have worshiped that

man. Washington was one of that kind of people whose hopes are in the

very, clouds one day and in the gutter the next. He walked on air, now.

The Colonel was ready to take him around and introduce him to the

employment he had found for him, but Washington begged for a few moments

in which to write home; with his kind of people, to ride to-day's new

interest to death and put off yesterday's till another time, is nature

itself. He ran up stairs and wrote glowingly, enthusiastically, to his

mother about the hogs and the corn, the banks and the eye-water--and

added a few inconsequential millions to each project. And he said that

people little dreamed what a man Col. Sellers was, and that the world

would open its eyes when it found out. And he closed his letter thus:

"So make yourself perfectly easy, mother-in a little while you shall have

everything you want, and more. I am not likely to stint you in anything,

I fancy. This money will not be for me, alone, but for all of us.

I want all to share alike; and there is going to be far more for each

than one person can spend. Break it to father cautiously--you understand

the need of that--break it to him cautiously, for he has had such cruel

hard fortune, and is so stricken by it that great good news might

prostrate him more surely than even bad, for he is used to the bad but

is grown sadly unaccustomed to the other. Tell Laura--tell all the

children. And write to Clay about it if he is not with you yet. You may

tell Clay that whatever I get he can freely share in-freely. He knows

that that is true--there will be no need that I should swear to that to

make him believe it. Good-bye--and mind what I say: Rest perfectly easy,

one and all of you, for our troubles are nearly at an end."

Poor lad, he could not know that his mother would cry some loving,

compassionate tears over his letter and put off the family with a

synopsis of its contents which conveyed a deal of love to then but not

much idea of his prospects or projects. And he never dreamed that such a

joyful letter could sadden her and fill her night with sighs, and

troubled thoughts, and bodings of the future, instead of filling it with

peace and blessing it with restful sleep.

When the letter was done, Washington and the Colonel sallied forth, and

as they walked along Washington learned what he was to be. He was to be

a clerk in a real estate office. Instantly the fickle youth's dreams

forsook the magic eye-water and flew back to the Tennessee Land. And the

gorgeous possibilities of that great domain straightway began to occupy

his imagination to such a degree that he could scarcely manage to keep

even enough of his attention upon the Colonel's talk to retain the

general run of what he was saying. He was glad it was a real estate

office--he was a made man now, sure.

The Colonel said that General Boswell was a rich man and had a good and

growing business; and that Washington's work world be light and he would

get forty dollars a month and be boarded and lodged in the General's

family--which was as good as ten dollars more; and even better, for he

could not live as well even at the "City Hotel" as he would there, and

yet the hotel charged fifteen dollars a month where a man had a good

room.

General Boswell was in his office; a comfortable looking place, with

plenty of outline maps hanging about the walls and in the windows, and

a spectacled man was marking out another one on a long table. The office

was in the principal street. The General received Washington with a

kindly but reserved politeness. Washington rather liked his looks.

He was about fifty years old, dignified, well preserved and well dressed.

After the Colonel took his leave, the General talked a while with

Washington--his talk consisting chiefly of instructions about the

clerical duties of the place. He seemed satisfied as to Washington's

ability to take care of the books, he was evidently a pretty fair

theoretical bookkeeper, and experience would soon harden theory into

practice. By and by dinner-time came, and the two walked to the

General's house; and now Washington noticed an instinct in himself that

moved him to keep not in the General's rear, exactly, but yet not at his

side--somehow the old gentleman's dignity and reserve did not inspire

familiarity.

CHAPTER IX

Washington dreamed his way along the street, his fancy flitting from

grain to hogs, from hogs to banks, from banks to eyewater, from eye-water

to Tennessee Land, and lingering but a feverish moment upon each of these

fascinations. He was conscious of but one outward thing, to wit, the

General, and he was really not vividly conscious of him.

Arrived at the finest dwelling in the town, they entered it and were at

home. Washington was introduced to Mrs. Boswell, and his imagination was

on the point of flitting into the vapory realms of speculation again,

when a lovely girl of sixteen or seventeen came in. This vision swept

Washington's mind clear of its chaos of glittering rubbish in an instant.

Beauty had fascinated him before; many times he had been in love even for

weeks at a time with the same object but his heart had never suffered so

sudden and so fierce an assault as this, within his recollection.

Louise Boswell occupied his mind and drifted among his multiplication

tables all the afternoon. He was constantly catching himself in a

reverie--reveries made up of recalling how she looked when she first

burst upon him; how her voice thrilled him when she first spoke; how

charmed the very air seemed by her presence. Blissful as the afternoon

was, delivered up to such a revel as this, it seemed an eternity, so

impatient was he to see the girl again. Other afternoons like it

followed. Washington plunged into this love affair as he plunged into

everything else--upon impulse and without reflection. As the days went

by it seemed plain that he was growing in favor with Louise,--not

sweepingly so, but yet perceptibly, he fancied. His attentions to her

troubled her father and mother a little, and they warned Louise, without

stating particulars or making allusions to any special person, that a

girl was sure to make a mistake who allowed herself to marry anybody but

a man who could support her well.

Some instinct taught Washington that his present lack of money would be

an obstruction, though possibly not a bar, to his hopes, and straightway

his poverty became a torture to him which cast all his former sufferings

under that held into the shade. He longed for riches now as he had ever

longed for them before.

He had been once or twice to dine with Col. Sellers, and had been

discouraged to note that the Colonel's bill of fare was falling off both

in quantity and quality--a sign, he feared, that the lacking ingredient

in the eye-water still remained undiscovered--though Sellers always

explained that these changes in the family diet had been ordered by the

doctor, or suggested by some new scientific work the Colonel had stumbled

upon. But it always turned out that the lacking ingredient was still

lacking--though it always appeared, at the same time, that the Colonel

was right on its heels.

Every time the Colonel came into the real estate office Washington's

heart bounded and his eyes lighted with hope, but it always turned out

that the Colonel was merely on the scent of some vast, undefined landed

speculation--although he was customarily able to say that he was nearer

to the all-necessary ingredient than ever, and could almost name the hour

when success would dawn. And then Washington's heart world sink again

and a sigh would tell when it touched bottom.

About this time a letter came, saying that Judge Hawkins had been ailing

for a fortnight, and was now considered to be seriously ill. It was

thought best that Washington should come home. The news filled him with

grief, for he loved and honored his father; the Boswells were touched by

the youth's sorrow, and even the General unbent and said encouraging

things to him.--There was balm in this; but when Louise bade him

good-bye, and shook his hand and said, "Don't be cast down--it will all

come out right--I know it will all come out right," it seemed a blessed

thing to be in misfortune, and the tears that welled up to his eyes were

the messengers of an adoring and a grateful heart; and when the girl saw

them and answering tears came into her own eyes, Washington could hardly

contain the excess of happiness that poured into the cavities of his

breast that were so lately stored to the roof with grief.

All the way home he nursed his woe and exalted it. He pictured himself

as she must be picturing him: a noble, struggling young spirit persecuted

by misfortune, but bravely and patiently waiting in the shadow of a dread

calamity and preparing to meet the blow as became one who was all too

used to hard fortune and the pitiless buffetings of fate. These thoughts

made him weep, and weep more broken-heartedly than ever; and be wished

that she could see his sufferings now.

There was nothing significant in the fact that Louise, dreamy and

distraught, stood at her bedroom bureau that night, scribbling

"Washington" here and there over a sheet of paper. But there was

something significant in the fact that she scratched the word out every

time she wrote it; examined the erasure critically to see if anybody

could guess at what the word had been; then buried it under a maze of

obliterating lines; and finally, as if still unsatisfied, burned the

paper.

When Washington reached home, he recognized at once how serious his

father's case was. The darkened room, the labored breathing and

occasional moanings of the patient, the tip-toeing of the attendants and

their whispered consultations, were full of sad meaning. For three or

four nights Mrs. Hawkins and Laura had been watching by the bedside; Clay

had arrived, preceding Washington by one day, and he was now added to the

corps of watchers. Mr. Hawkins would have none but these three, though

neighborly assistance was offered by old friends. From this time forth

three-hour watches were instituted, and day and night the watchers kept

their vigils. By degrees Laura and her mother began to show wear, but

neither of them would yield a minute of their tasks to Clay. He ventured

once to let the midnight hour pass without calling Laura, but he ventured

no more; there was that about her rebuke when he tried to explain, that

taught him that to let her sleep when she might be ministering to her

father's needs, was to rob her of moments that were priceless in her

eyes; he perceived that she regarded it as a privilege to watch, not a

burden. And, he had noticed, also, that when midnight struck, the

patient turned his eyes toward the door, with an expectancy in them which

presently grew into a longing but brightened into contentment as soon

as the door opened and Laura appeared. And he did not need Laura's

rebuke when he heard his father say:

"Clay is good, and you are tired, poor child; but I wanted you so."

"Clay is not good, father--he did not call me. I would not have treated

him so. How could you do it, Clay?"

Clay begged forgiveness and promised not to break faith again; and as he

betook him to his bed, he said to himself: "It's a steadfast little

soul; whoever thinks he is doing the Duchess a kindness by intimating

that she is not sufficient for any undertaking she puts her hand to,

makes a mistake; and if I did not know it before, I know now that there

are surer ways of pleasing her than by trying to lighten her labor when

that labor consists in wearing herself out for the sake of a person she

loves."

A week drifted by, and all the while the patient sank lower and lower.

The night drew on that was to end all suspense. It was a wintry one.

The darkness gathered, the snow was falling, the wind wailed plaintively

about the house or shook it with fitful gusts. The doctor had paid his

last visit and gone away with that dismal remark to the nearest friend of

the family that he "believed there was nothing more that he could do"

--a remark which is always overheard by some one it is not meant for and

strikes a lingering half-conscious hope dead with a withering shock;

the medicine phials had been removed from the bedside and put out of

sight, and all things made orderly and meet for the solemn event that was

impending; the patient, with closed eyes, lay scarcely breathing; the

watchers sat by and wiped the gathering damps from his forehead while the

silent tears flowed down their faces; the deep hush was only interrupted

by sobs from the children, grouped about the bed.

After a time--it was toward midnight now--Mr. Hawkins roused out of a

doze, looked about him and was evidently trying to speak. Instantly

Laura lifted his head and in a failing voice he said, while something of

the old light shone in his eyes:

"Wife--children--come nearer--nearer. The darkness grows. Let me see

you all, once more."

The group closed together at the bedside, and their tears and sobs came

now without restraint.

"I am leaving you in cruel poverty. I have been--so foolish--so

short-sighted. But courage! A better day is--is coming. Never lose

sight of the Tennessee Land! Be wary. There is wealth stored up for you

there --wealth that is boundless! The children shall hold up their heads

with the best in the land, yet. Where are the papers?--Have you got the

papers safe? Show them--show them to me!"

Under his strong excitement his voice had gathered power and his last

sentences were spoken with scarcely a perceptible halt or hindrance.

With an effort he had raised himself almost without assistance to a

sitting posture. But now the fire faded out of his eyes and be fell back

exhausted. The papers were brought and held before him, and the

answering smile that flitted across his face showed that he was

satisfied. He closed his eyes, and the signs of approaching dissolution

multiplied rapidly. He lay almost motionless for a little while, then

suddenly partly raised his head and looked about him as one who peers

into a dim uncertain light. He muttered:

"Gone? No--I see you--still. It is--it is-over. But you are--safe.

Safe. The Ten-----"

The voice died out in a whisper; the sentence was never finished. The

emaciated fingers began to pick at the coverlet, a fatal sign. After a

time there were no sounds but the cries of the mourners within and the

gusty turmoil of the wind without. Laura had bent down and kissed her

father's lips as the spirit left the body; but she did not sob, or utter

any ejaculation; her tears flowed silently. Then she closed the dead

eyes, and crossed the hands upon the breast; after a season, she kissed

the forehead reverently, drew the sheet up over the face, and then walked

apart and sat down with the look of one who is done with life and has no

further interest in its joys and sorrows, its hopes or its ambitions.

Clay buried his face in the coverlet of the bed; when the other children

and the mother realized that death was indeed come at last, they threw

themselves into each others' arms and gave way to a frenzy of grief.

CHAPTER X.

Only two or three days had elapsed since the funeral, when something

happened which was to change the drift of Laura's life somewhat, and

influence in a greater or lesser degree the formation of her character.

Major Lackland had once been a man of note in the State--a man of

extraordinary natural ability and as extraordinary learning. He had been

universally trusted and honored in his day, but had finally, fallen into

misfortune; while serving his third term in Congress, and while upon the

point of being elevated to the Senate--which was considered the summit of

earthly aggrandizement in those days--he had yielded to temptation, when

in distress for money wherewith to save his estate; and sold his vote.

His crime was discovered, and his fall followed instantly. Nothing could

reinstate him in the confidence of the people, his ruin was

irretrievable--his disgrace complete. All doors were closed against him,

all men avoided him. After years of skulking retirement and dissipation,

death had relieved him of his troubles at last, and his funeral followed

close upon that of Mr. Hawkins. He died as he had latterly lived--wholly

alone and friendless. He had no relatives--or if he had they did not

acknowledge him. The coroner's jury found certain memoranda upon his

body and about the premises which revealed a fact not suspected by the

villagers before-viz., that Laura was not the child of Mr. and Mrs.

Hawkins.

The gossips were soon at work. They were but little hampered by the fact

that the memoranda referred to betrayed nothing but the bare circumstance

that Laura's real parents were unknown, and stopped there. So far from

being hampered by this, the gossips seemed to gain all the more freedom

from it. They supplied all the missing information themselves, they

filled up all the blanks. The town soon teemed with histories of Laura's

origin and secret history, no two versions precisely alike, but all

elaborate, exhaustive, mysterious and interesting, and all agreeing in

one vital particular-to-wit, that there was a suspicious cloud about her

birth, not to say a disreputable one.

Laura began to encounter cold looks, averted eyes and peculiar nods and

gestures which perplexed her beyond measure; but presently the pervading

gossip found its way to her, and she understood them--then. Her pride

was stung. She was astonished, and at first incredulous. She was about

to ask her mother if there was any truth in these reports, but upon

second thought held her peace. She soon gathered that Major Lackland's

memoranda seemed to refer to letters which had passed between himself and

Judge Hawkins. She shaped her course without difficulty the day that

that hint reached her.

That night she sat in her room till all was still, and then she stole

into the garret and began a search. She rummaged long among boxes of

musty papers relating to business matters of no, interest to her, but at

last she found several bundles of letters. One bundle was marked

"private," and in that she found what she wanted. She selected six or

eight letters from the package and began to devour their contents,

heedless of the cold.

By the dates, these letters were from five to seven years old. They were

all from Major Lackland to Mr. Hawkins. The substance of them was, that

some one in the east had been inquiring of Major Lackland about a lost

child and its parents, and that it was conjectured that the child might

be Laura.

Evidently some of the letters were missing, for the name of the

inquirer was not mentioned; there was a casual reference to "this

handsome-featured aristocratic gentleman," as if the reader and the

writer were accustomed to speak of him and knew who was meant.

In one letter the Major said he agreed with Mr. Hawkins that the inquirer

seemed not altogether on the wrong track; but he also agreed that it

would be best to keep quiet until more convincing developments were

forthcoming.

Another letter said that "the poor soul broke completely down when be saw

Laura's picture, and declared it must be she."

Still another said:

"He seems entirely alone in the world, and his heart is so wrapped

up in this thing that I believe that if it proved a false hope, it

would kill him; I have persuaded him to wait a little while and go

west when I go."

Another letter had this paragraph in it:

"He is better one day and worse the next, and is out of his mind a

good deal of the time. Lately his case has developed a something

which is a wonder to the hired nurses, but which will not be much of

a marvel to you if you have read medical philosophy much. It is

this: his lost memory returns to him when he is delirious, and goes

away again when he is himself-just as old Canada Joe used to talk

the French patois of his boyhood in the delirium of typhus fever,

though he could not do it when his mind was clear. Now this poor

gentleman's memory has always broken down before he reached the

explosion of the steamer; he could only remember starting up the

river with his wife and child, and he had an idea that there was a

race, but he was not certain; he could not name the boat he was on;

there was a dead blank of a month or more that supplied not an item

to his recollection. It was not for me to assist him, of course.

But now in his delirium it all comes out: the names of the boats,

every incident of the explosion, and likewise the details of his

astonishing escape--that is, up to where, just as a yawl-boat was

approaching him (he was clinging to the starboard wheel of the

burning wreck at the time), a falling timber struck him on the head.

But I will write out his wonderful escape in full to-morrow or next

day. Of course the physicians will not let me tell him now that our

Laura is indeed his child--that must come later, when his health is

thoroughly restored. His case is not considered dangerous at all;

he will recover presently, the doctors say. But they insist that he

must travel a little when he gets well--they recommend a short sea

voyage, and they say he can be persuaded to try it if we continue to

keep him in ignorance and promise to let him see L. as soon as he

returns."

The letter that bore the latest date of all, contained this clause:

"It is the most unaccountable thing in the world; the mystery

remains as impenetrable as ever; I have hunted high and low for him,

and inquired of everybody, but in vain; all trace of him ends at

that hotel in New York; I never have seen or heard of him since,

up to this day; he could hardly have sailed, for his name does not

appear upon the books of any shipping office in New York or Boston

or Baltimore. How fortunate it seems, now, that we kept this thing

to ourselves; Laura still has a father in you, and it is better for

her that we drop this subject here forever."

That was all. Random remarks here and there, being pieced together gave

Laura a vague impression of a man of fine presence, abort forty-three or

forty-five years of age, with dark hair and eyes, and a slight limp in

his walk--it was not stated which leg was defective. And this indistinct

shadow represented her father. She made an exhaustive search for the

missing letters, but found none. They had probably been burned; and she

doubted not that the ones she had ferreted out would have shared the same

fate if Mr. Hawkins had not been a dreamer, void of method, whose mind

was perhaps in a state of conflagration over some bright new speculation

when he received them.

She sat long, with the letters in her lap, thinking--and unconsciously

freezing. She felt like a lost person who has traveled down a long lane

in good hope of escape, and, just as the night descends finds his

progress barred by a bridge-less river whose further shore, if it has

one, is lost in the darkness. If she could only have found these letters

a month sooner! That was her thought. But now the dead had carried

their secrets with them. A dreary, melancholy settled down upon her.

An undefined sense of injury crept into her heart. She grew very

miserable.

She had just reached the romantic age--the age when there is a sad

sweetness, a dismal comfort to a girl to find out that there is a mystery

connected with her birth, which no other piece of good luck can afford.

She had more than her rightful share of practical good sense, but still

she was human; and to be human is to have one's little modicum of romance

secreted away in one's composition. One never ceases to make a hero of

one's self, (in private,) during life, but only alters the style of his

heroism from time to time as the drifting years belittle certain gods of

his admiration and raise up others in their stead that seem greater.

The recent wearing days and nights of watching, and the wasting grief

that had possessed her, combined with the profound depression that

naturally came with the reaction of idleness, made Laura peculiarly

susceptible at this time to romantic impressions. She was a heroine,

now, with a mysterious father somewhere. She could not really tell

whether she wanted to find him and spoil it all or not; but still all the

traditions of romance pointed to the making the attempt as the usual and

necessary, course to follow; therefore she would some day begin the

search when opportunity should offer.

Now a former thought struck her--she would speak to Mrs. Hawkins.

And naturally enough Mrs. Hawkins appeared on the stage at that moment.

She said she knew all--she knew that Laura had discovered the secret that

Mr. Hawkins, the elder children, Col. Sellers and herself had kept so

long and so faithfully; and she cried and said that now that troubles had

begun they would never end; her daughter's love would wean itself away

from her and her heart would break. Her grief so wrought upon Laura that

the girl almost forgot her own troubles for the moment in her compassion

for her mother's distress. Finally Mrs. Hawkins said:

"Speak to me, child--do not forsake me. Forget all this miserable talk.

Say I am your mother!--I have loved you so long, and there is no other.

I am your mother, in the sight of God, and nothing shall ever take you

from me!"

All barriers fell, before this appeal. Laura put her arms about her

mother's neck and said:

"You are my mother, and always shall be. We will be as we have always

been; and neither this foolish talk nor any other thing shall part us or

make us less to each other than we are this hour."

There was no longer any sense of separation or estrangement between them.

Indeed their love seemed more perfect now than it had ever been before.

By and by they went down stairs and sat by the fire and talked long and

earnestly about Laura's history and the letters. But it transpired that

Mrs. Hawkins had never known of this correspondence between her husband

and Major Lackland. With his usual consideration for his wife, Mr.

Hawkins had shielded her from the worry the matter would have caused her.

Laura went to bed at last with a mind that had gained largely in

tranquility and had lost correspondingly in morbid romantic exaltation.

She was pensive, the next day, and subdued; but that was not matter for

remark, for she did not differ from the mournful friends about her in

that respect. Clay and Washington were the same loving and admiring

brothers now that they had always been. The great secret was new to some

of the younger children, but their love suffered no change under the

wonderful revelation.

It is barely possible that things might have presently settled down into

their old rut and the mystery have lost the bulk of its romantic

sublimity in Laura's eyes, if the village gossips could have quieted

down. But they could not quiet down and they did not. Day after day

they called at the house, ostensibly upon visits of condolence, and they

pumped away at the mother and the children without seeming to know that

their questionings were in bad taste. They meant no harm they only

wanted to know. Villagers always want to know.

The family fought shy of the questionings, and of course that was high

testimony "if the Duchess was respectably born, why didn't they come out

and prove it?--why did they, stick to that poor thin story about picking

her up out of a steamboat explosion?"

Under this ceaseless persecution, Laura's morbid self-communing was

renewed. At night the day's contribution of detraction, innuendo and

malicious conjecture would be canvassed in her mind, and then she would

drift into a course of thinking. As her thoughts ran on, the indignant

tears would spring to her eyes, and she would spit out fierce little

ejaculations at intervals. But finally she would grow calmer and say

some comforting disdainful thing--something like this:

"But who are they?--Animals! What are their opinions to me? Let them

talk--I will not stoop to be affected by it. I could hate----.

Nonsense--nobody I care for or in any way respect is changed toward me,

I fancy."

She may have supposed she was thinking of many individuals, but it was

not so--she was thinking of only one. And her heart warmed somewhat,

too, the while. One day a friend overheard a conversation like this:

--and naturally came and told her all about it:

"Ned, they say you don't go there any more. How is that?"

"Well, I don't; but I tell you it's not because I don't want to and it's

not because I think it is any matter who her father was or who he wasn't,

either; it's only on account of this talk, talk, talk. I think she is a

fine girl every way, and so would you if you knew her as well as I do;

but you know how it is when a girl once gets talked about--it's all up

with her--the world won't ever let her alone, after that."

The only comment Laura made upon this revelation, was:

"Then it appears that if this trouble had not occurred I could have had

the happiness of Mr. Ned Thurston's serious attentions. He is well

favored in person, and well liked, too, I believe, and comes of one of

the first families of the village. He is prosperous, too, I hear; has

been a doctor a year, now, and has had two patients--no, three, I think;

yes, it was three. I attended their funerals. Well, other people have

hoped and been disappointed; I am not alone in that. I wish you could

stay to dinner, Maria--we are going to have sausages; and besides,

I wanted to talk to you about Hawkeye and make you promise to come and

see us when we are settled there."

But Maria could not stay. She had come to mingle romantic tears with

Laura's over the lover's defection and had found herself dealing with a

heart that could not rise to an appreciation of affliction because its

interest was all centred in sausages.

But as soon as Maria was gone, Laura stamped her expressive foot and

said:

"The coward! Are all books lies? I thought he would fly to the front,

and be brave and noble, and stand up for me against all the world, and

defy my enemies, and wither these gossips with his scorn! Poor crawling

thing, let him go. I do begin to despise thin world!"

She lapsed into thought. Presently she said:

"If the time ever comes, and I get a chance, Oh, I'll----"

She could not find a word that was strong enough, perhaps. By and by she

said:

"Well, I am glad of it--I'm glad of it. I never cared anything for him

anyway!"

And then, with small consistency, she cried a little, and patted her foot

more indignantly than ever.

CHAPTER XI

Two months had gone by and the Hawkins family were domiciled in Hawkeye.

Washington was at work in the real estate office again, and was

alternately in paradise or the other place just as it happened that

Louise was gracious to him or seemingly indifferent--because indifference

or preoccupation could mean nothing else than that she was thinking of

some other young person. Col. Sellers had asked him several times, to

dine with him, when he first returned to Hawkeye, but Washington, for no

particular reason, had not accepted. No particular reason except one

which he preferred to keep to himself--viz. that he could not bear to be

away from Louise. It occurred to him, now, that the Colonel had not

invited him lately--could he be offended? He resolved to go that very

day, and give the Colonel a pleasant surprise. It was a good idea;

especially as Louise had absented herself from breakfast that morning,

and torn his heart; he would tear hers, now, and let her see how it felt.

The Sellers family were just starting to dinner when Washington burst

upon them with his surprise. For an instant the Colonel looked

nonplussed, and just a bit uncomfortable; and Mrs. Sellers looked

actually distressed; but the next moment the head of the house was

himself again, and exclaimed:

"All right, my boy, all right--always glad to see you--always glad to

hear your voice and take you by the hand. Don't wait for special

invitations--that's all nonsense among friends. Just come whenever you

can, and come as often as you can--the oftener the better. You can't

please us any better than that, Washington; the little woman will tell

you so herself. We don't pretend to style. Plain folks, you know--plain

folks. Just a plain family dinner, but such as it is, our friends are

always welcome, I reckon you know that yourself, Washington. Run along,

children, run along; Lafayette,--[**In those old days the average man

called his children after his most revered literary and historical idols;

consequently there was hardly a family, at least in the West, but had a

Washington in it--and also a Lafayette, a Franklin, and six or eight

sounding names from Byron, Scott, and the Bible, if the offspring held

out. To visit such a family, was to find one's self confronted by a

congress made up of representatives of the imperial myths and the

majestic dead of all the ages. There was something thrilling about it,

to a stranger, not to say awe inspiring.]--stand off the cat's tail,

child, can't you see what you're doing?--Come, come, come, Roderick Dhu,

it isn't nice for little boys to hang onto young gentlemen's coat tails

--but never mind him, Washington, he's full of spirits and don't mean any

harm. Children will be children, you know. Take the chair next to Mrs.

Sellers, Washington--tut, tut, Marie Antoinette, let your brother have

the fork if he wants it, you are bigger than he is."

Washington contemplated the banquet, and wondered if he were in his right

mind. Was this the plain family dinner? And was it all present? It was

soon apparent that this was indeed the dinner: it was all on the table:

it consisted of abundance of clear, fresh water, and a basin of raw

turnips--nothing more.

Washington stole a glance at Mrs. Sellers's face, and would have given

the world, the next moment, if he could have spared her that. The poor

woman's face was crimson, and the tears stood in her eyes. Washington

did not know what to do. He wished he had never come there and spied out

this cruel poverty and brought pain to that poor little lady's heart and

shame to her cheek; but he was there, and there was no escape. Col.

Sellers hitched back his coat sleeves airily from his wrists as who

should say "Now for solid enjoyment!" seized a fork, flourished it and

began to harpoon turnips and deposit them in the plates before him "Let

me help you, Washington--Lafayette pass this plate Washington--ah, well,

well, my boy, things are looking pretty bright, now, I tell you.

Speculation--my! the whole atmosphere's full of money. I would'nt take

three fortunes for one little operation I've got on hand now--have

anything from the casters? No? Well, you're right, you're right. Some

people like mustard with turnips, but--now there was Baron Poniatowski

--Lord, but that man did know how to live!--true Russian you know, Russian

to the back bone; I say to my wife, give me a Russian every time, for a

table comrade. The Baron used to say, 'Take mustard, Sellers, try the

mustard,--a man can't know what turnips are in perfection without,

mustard,' but I always said, 'No, Baron, I'm a plain man and I want my

food plain--none of your embellishments for Beriah Sellers--no made

dishes for me! And it's the best way--high living kills more than it

cures in this world, you can rest assured of that.--Yes indeed,

Washington, I've got one little operation on hand that--take some more

water--help yourself, won't you?--help yourself, there's plenty of it.

--You'll find it pretty good, I guess. How does that fruit strike you?"

Washington said he did not know that he had ever tasted better. He did

not add that he detested turnips even when they were cooked loathed them

in their natural state. No, he kept this to himself, and praised the

turnips to the peril of his soul.

"I thought you'd like them. Examine them--examine them--they'll bear it.

See how perfectly firm and juicy they are--they can't start any like them

in this part of the country, I can tell you. These are from New Jersey

--I imported them myself. They cost like sin, too; but lord bless me,

I go in for having the best of a thing, even if it does cost a little

more--it's the best economy, in the long run. These are the Early

Malcolm--it's a turnip that can't be produced except in just one orchard,

and the supply never is up to the demand. Take some more water,

Washington--you can't drink too much water with fruit--all the doctors

say that. The plague can't come where this article is, my boy!"

"Plague? What plague?"

"What plague, indeed? Why the Asiatic plague that nearly depopulated

London a couple of centuries ago."

"But how does that concern us? There is no plague here, I reckon."

"Sh! I've let it out! Well, never mind--just keep it to yourself.

Perhaps I oughtn't said anything, but its bound to come out sooner or

later, so what is the odds? Old McDowells wouldn't like me to--to

--bother it all, I'll jest tell the whole thing and let it go. You see,

I've been down to St. Louis, and I happened to run across old Dr.

McDowells--thinks the world of me, does the doctor. He's a man that

keeps himself to himself, and well he may, for he knows that he's got a

reputation that covers the whole earth--he won't condescend to open

himself out to many people, but lord bless you, he and I are just like

brothers; he won't let me go to a hotel when I'm in the city--says I'm

the only man that's company to him, and I don't know but there's some

truth in it, too, because although I never like to glorify myself and

make a great to-do over what I am or what I can do or what I know,

I don't mind saying here among friends that I am better read up in most

sciences, maybe, than the general run of professional men in these days.

Well, the other day he let me into a little secret, strictly on the

quiet, about this matter of the plague.

"You see it's booming right along in our direction--follows the Gulf

Stream, you know, just as all those epidemics do, and within three months

it will be just waltzing through this land like a whirlwind! And whoever

it touches can make his will and contract for the funeral. Well you

can't cure it, you know, but you can prevent it. How? Turnips! that's

it! Turnips and water! Nothing like it in the world, old McDowells

says, just fill yourself up two or three times a day, and you can snap

your fingers at the plague. Sh!--keep mum, but just you confine yourself

to that diet and you're all right. I wouldn't have old McDowells know

that I told about it for anything--he never would speak to me again.

Take some more water, Washington--the more water you drink, the better.

Here, let me give you some more of the turnips. No, no, no, now, I

insist. There, now. Absorb those. They're, mighty sustaining--brim

full of nutriment--all the medical books say so. Just eat from four to

seven good-sized turnips at a meal, and drink from a pint and a half to a

quart of water, and then just sit around a couple of hours and let them

ferment. You'll feel like a fighting cock next day."

Fifteen or twenty minutes later the Colonel's tongue was still chattering

away--he had piled up several future fortunes out of several incipient

"operations" which he had blundered into within the past week, and was

now soaring along through some brilliant expectations born of late

promising experiments upon the lacking ingredient of the eye-water.

And at such a time Washington ought to have been a rapt and enthusiastic

listener, but he was not, for two matters disturbed his mind and

distracted his attention. One was, that he discovered, to his confusion

and shame, that in allowing himself to be helped a second time to the

turnips, he had robbed those hungry children. He had not needed the

dreadful "fruit," and had not wanted it; and when he saw the pathetic

sorrow in their faces when they asked for more and there was no more to

give them, he hated himself for his stupidity and pitied the famishing

young things with all his heart. The other matter that disturbed him was

the dire inflation that had begun in his stomach. It grew and grew, it

became more and more insupportable. Evidently the turnips were

"fermenting." He forced himself to sit still as long as he could, but

his anguish conquered him at last.

He rose in the midst of the Colonel's talk and excused himself on the

plea of a previous engagement. The Colonel followed him to the door,

promising over and over again that he would use his influence to get some

of the Early Malcolms for him, and insisting that he should not be such a

stranger but come and take pot-luck with him every chance he got.

Washington was glad enough to get away and feel free again. He

immediately bent his steps toward home.

In bed he passed an hour that threatened to turn his hair gray, and then

a blessed calm settled down upon him that filled his heart with

gratitude. Weak and languid, he made shift to turn himself about and

seek rest and sleep; and as his soul hovered upon the brink of

unconciousness, he heaved a long, deep sigh, and said to himself that in

his heart he had cursed the Colonel's preventive of rheumatism, before,

and now let the plague come if it must--he was done with preventives;

if ever any man beguiled him with turnips and water again, let him die

the death.

If he dreamed at all that night, no gossiping spirit disturbed his

visions to whisper in his ear of certain matters just then in bud in the

East, more than a thousand miles away that after the lapse of a few years

would develop influences which would profoundly affect the fate and

fortunes of the Hawkins family.

CHAPTER XII

"Oh, it's easy enough to make a fortune," Henry said.

"It seems to be easier than it is, I begin to think," replied Philip.

"Well, why don't you go into something? You'll never dig it out of the

Astor Library."

If there be any place and time in the world where and when it seems easy

to "go into something" it is in Broadway on a spring morning, when one is

walking city-ward, and has before him the long lines of palace-shops with

an occasional spire seen through the soft haze that lies over the lower

town, and hears the roar and hum of its multitudinous traffic.

To the young American, here or elsewhere, the paths to fortune are

innumerable and all open; there is invitation in the air and success in

all his wide horizon. He is embarrassed which to choose, and is not

unlikely to waste years in dallying with his chances, before giving

himself to the serious tug and strain of a single object. He has no

traditions to bind him or guide him, and his impulse is to break away

from the occupation his father has followed, and make a new way for

himself.

Philip Sterling used to say that if he should seriously set himself for

ten years to any one of the dozen projects that were in his brain, he

felt that he could be a rich man. He wanted to be rich, he had a sincere

desire for a fortune, but for some unaccountable reason he hesitated

about addressing himself to the narrow work of getting it. He never

walked Broadway, a part of its tide of abundant shifting life, without

feeling something of the flush of wealth, and unconsciously taking the

elastic step of one well-to-do in this prosperous world.

Especially at night in the crowded theatre--Philip was too young to

remember the old Chambers' Street box, where the serious Burton led his

hilarious and pagan crew--in the intervals of the screaming comedy, when

the orchestra scraped and grunted and tooted its dissolute tunes, the

world seemed full of opportunities to Philip, and his heart exulted with

a conscious ability to take any of its prizes he chose to pluck.

Perhaps it was the swimming ease of the acting, on the stage, where

virtue had its reward in three easy acts, perhaps it was the excessive

light of the house, or the music, or the buzz of the excited talk between

acts, perhaps it was youth which believed everything, but for some reason

while Philip was at the theatre he had the utmost confidence in life and

his ready victory in it.

Delightful illusion of paint and tinsel and silk attire, of cheap

sentiment and high and mighty dialogue! Will there not always be rosin

enough for the squeaking fiddle-bow?

Do we not all like the maudlin hero, who is sneaking round the right

entrance, in wait to steal the pretty wife of his rich and tyrannical

neighbor from the paste-board cottage at the left entrance? and when he

advances down to the foot-lights and defiantly informs the audience that,

"he who lays his hand on a woman except in the way of kindness," do we

not all applaud so as to drown the rest of the sentence?

Philip never was fortunate enough to hear what would become of a man who

should lay his hand on a woman with the exception named; but he learned

afterwards that the woman who lays her hand on a man, without any

exception whatsoever, is always acquitted by the jury.

The fact was, though Philip Sterling did not know it, that he wanted

several other things quite as much as he wanted wealth. The modest

fellow would have liked fame thrust upon him for some worthy achievement;

it might be for a book, or for the skillful management of some great

newspaper, or for some daring expedition like that of Lt. Strain or Dr.

Kane. He was unable to decide exactly what it should be. Sometimes he

thought he would like to stand in a conspicuous pulpit and humbly preach

the gospel of repentance; and it even crossed his mind that it would be

noble to give himself to a missionary life to some benighted region,

where the date-palm grows, and the nightingale's voice is in tune, and

the bul-bul sings on the off nights. If he were good enough he would

attach himself to that company of young men in the Theological Seminary,

who were seeing New York life in preparation for the ministry.

Philip was a New England boy and had graduated at Yale; he had not

carried off with him all the learning of that venerable institution, but

he knew some things that were not in the regular course of study. A very

good use of the English language and considerable knowledge of its

literature was one of them; he could sing a song very well, not in time

to be sure, but with enthusiasm; he could make a magnetic speech at a

moment's notice in the class room, the debating society, or upon any

fence or dry-goods box that was convenient; he could lift himself by one

arm, and do the giant swing in the gymnasium; he could strike out from

his left shoulder; he could handle an oar like a professional and pull

stroke in a winning race. Philip had a good appetite, a sunny temper,

and a clear hearty laugh. He had brown hair, hazel eyes set wide apart,

a broad but not high forehead, and a fresh winning face. He was six feet

high, with broad shoulders, long legs and a swinging gait; one of those

loose-jointed, capable fellows, who saunter into the world with a free

air and usually make a stir in whatever company they enter.

After he left college Philip took the advice of friends and read law.

Law seemed to him well enough as a science, but he never could discover a

practical case where it appeared to him worth while to go to law, and all

the clients who stopped with this new clerk in the ante-room of the law

office where he was writing, Philip invariably advised to settle--no

matter how, but settle--greatly to the disgust of his employer, who knew

that justice between man and man could only be attained by the recognized

processes, with the attendant fees. Besides Philip hated the copying of

pleadings, and he was certain that a life of "whereases" and "aforesaids"

and whipping the devil round the stump, would be intolerable.

[Note: these few paragraphs are nearly an autobiography of the life of

Charles Dudley Warner whose contributions to the story start here with

Chapter XII. D.W.]

His pen therefore, and whereas, and not as aforesaid, strayed off into

other scribbling. In an unfortunate hour, he had two or three papers

accepted by first-class magazines, at three dollars the printed page,

and, behold, his vocation was open to him. He would make his mark in

literature.

Life has no moment so sweet as that in which a young man believes himself

called into the immortal ranks of the masters of literature. It is such

a noble ambition, that it is a pity it has usually such a shallow

foundation.

At the time of this history, Philip had gone to New York for a career.

With his talent he thought he should have little difficulty in getting an

editorial position upon a metropolitan newspaper; not that he knew

anything about news paper work, or had the least idea of journalism; he

knew he was not fitted for the technicalities of the subordinate

departments, but he could write leaders with perfect ease, he was sure.

The drudgery of the newspaper office was too distaste ful, and besides it

would be beneath the dignity of a graduate and a successful magazine

writer. He wanted to begin at the top of the ladder.

To his surprise he found that every situation in the editorial department

of the journals was full, always had been full, was always likely to be

full. It seemed to him that the newspaper managers didn't want genius,

but mere plodding and grubbing. Philip therefore read diligently in the

Astor library, planned literary works that should compel attention, and

nursed his genius. He had no friend wise enough to tell him to step into

the Dorking Convention, then in session, make a sketch of the men and

women on the platform, and take it to the editor of the Daily Grapevine,

and see what he could get a line for it.

One day he had an offer from some country friends, who believed in him,

to take charge of a provincial daily newspaper, and he went to consult

Mr. Gringo--Gringo who years ago managed the Atlas--about taking the

situation.

"Take it of course," says Gringo, take anything that offers, why not?"

"But they want me to make it an opposition paper."

"Well, make it that. That party is going to succeed, it's going to elect

the next president."

"I don't believe it," said Philip, stoutly, "its wrong in principle, and

it ought not to succeed, but I don't see how I can go for a thing I don't

believe in."

"O, very well," said Gringo, turning away with a shade of contempt,

"you'll find if you are going into literature and newspaper work that you

can't afford a conscience like that."

But Philip did afford it, and he wrote, thanking his friends, and

declining because he said the political scheme would fail, and ought to

fail. And he went back to his books and to his waiting for an opening

large enough for his dignified entrance into the literary world.

It was in this time of rather impatient waiting that Philip was one

morning walking down Broadway with Henry Brierly. He frequently

accompanied Henry part way down town to what the latter called his office

in Broad Street, to which he went, or pretended to go, with regularity

every day. It was evident to the most casual acquaintance that he was a

man of affairs, and that his time was engrossed in the largest sort of

operations, about which there was a mysterious air. His liability to be

suddenly summoned to Washington, or Boston or Montreal or even to

Liverpool was always imminent. He never was so summoned, but none of his

acquaintances would have been surprised to hear any day that he had gone

to Panama or Peoria, or to hear from him that he had bought the Bank of

Commerce.

The two were intimate at that time,--they had been class, mates--and saw

a great deal of each other. Indeed, they lived together in Ninth Street,

in a boarding-house, there, which had the honor of lodging and partially

feeding several other young fellows of like kidney, who have since gone

their several ways into fame or into obscurity.

It was during the morning walk to which reference has been made that

Henry Brierly suddenly said, "Philip, how would you like to go to

St. Jo?"

"I think I should like it of all things," replied Philip, with some

hesitation, "but what for."

"Oh, it's a big operation. We are going, a lot of us, railroad men,

engineers, contractors. You know my uncle is a great railroad man. I've

no doubt I can get you a chance to go if you'll go."

"But in what capacity would I go?"

"Well, I'm going as an engineer. You can go as one."

"I don't know an engine from a coal cart."

"Field engineer, civil engineer. You can begin by carrying a rod, and

putting down the figures. It's easy enough. I'll show you about that.

We'll get Trautwine and some of those books."

"Yes, but what is it for, what is it all about?"

"Why don't you see? We lay out a line, spot the good land, enter it up,

know where the stations are to be, spot them, buy lots; there's heaps of

money in it. We wouldn't engineer long."

"When do you go?" was Philip's next question, after some moments of

silence.

"To-morrow. Is that too soon?"

"No, its not too soon. I've been ready to go anywhere for six months.

The fact is, Henry, that I'm about tired of trying to force myself into

things, and am quite willing to try floating with the stream for a while,

and see where I will land. This seems like a providential call; it's

sudden enough."

The two young men who were by this time full of the adventure, went down

to the Wall street office of Henry's uncle and had a talk with that wily

operator. The uncle knew Philip very well, and was pleased with his

frank enthusiasm, and willing enough to give him a trial in the western

venture. It was settled therefore, in the prompt way in which things are

settled in New York, that they would start with the rest of the company

next morning for the west.

On the way up town these adventurers bought books on engineering, and

suits of India-rubber, which they supposed they would need in a new and

probably damp country, and many other things which nobody ever needed

anywhere.

The night was spent in packing up and writing letters, for Philip would

not take such an important step without informing his friends. If they

disapprove, thought he, I've done my duty by letting them know. Happy

youth, that is ready to pack its valise, and start for Cathay on an

hour's notice.

"By the way," calls out Philip from his bed-room, to Henry, "where is

St. Jo.?"

"Why, it's in Missouri somewhere, on the frontier I think. We'll get a

map."

"Never mind the map. We will find the place itself. I was afraid it was

nearer home."

Philip wrote a long letter, first of all, to his mother, full of love and

glowing anticipations of his new opening. He wouldn't bother her with

business details, but he hoped that the day was not far off when she

would see him return, with a moderate fortune, and something to add to

the comfort of her advancing years.

To his uncle he said that he had made an arrangement with some New York

capitalists to go to Missouri, in a land and railroad operation, which

would at least give him a knowledge of the world and not unlikely offer

him a business opening. He knew his uncle would be glad to hear that he

had at last turned his thoughts to a practical matter.

It was to Ruth Bolton that Philip wrote last. He might never see her

again; he went to seek his fortune. He well knew the perils of the

frontier, the savage state of society, the lurking Indians and the

dangers of fever. But there was no real danger to a person who took care

of himself. Might he write to her often and, tell her of his life.

If he returned with a fortune, perhaps and perhaps. If he was

unsuccessful, or if he never returned--perhaps it would be as well.

No time or distance, however, would ever lessen his interest in her. He

would say good-night, but not good-bye.

In the soft beginning of a Spring morning, long before New York had

breakfasted, while yet the air of expectation hung about the wharves of

the metropolis, our young adventurers made their way to the Jersey City

railway station of the Erie road, to begin the long, swinging, crooked

journey, over what a writer of a former day called a causeway of cracked

rails and cows, to the West.

CHAPTER XIII.

What ever to say be toke in his entente,

his langage was so fayer & pertynante,

yt semeth unto manys herying not only the worde,

but veryly the thyng.

Caxton's Book of Curtesye.

In the party of which our travelers found themselves members, was Duff

Brown, the great railroad contractor, and subsequently a well-known

member of Congress; a bluff, jovial Bost'n man, thick-set, close shaven,

with a heavy jaw and a low forehead--a very pleasant man if you were not

in his way. He had government contracts also, custom houses and dry

docks, from Portland to New Orleans, and managed to get out of congress,

in appropriations, about weight for weight of gold for the stone

furnished.

Associated with him, and also of this party, was Rodney Schaick, a sleek

New York broker, a man as prominent in the church as in the stock

exchange, dainty in his dress, smooth of speech, the necessary complement

of Duff Brown in any enterprise that needed assurance and adroitness.

It would be difficult to find a pleasanter traveling party one that shook

off more readily the artificial restraints of Puritanic strictness, and

took the world with good-natured allowance. Money was plenty for every

attainable luxury, and there seemed to be no doubt that its supply would

continue, and that fortunes were about to be made without a great deal of

toil. Even Philip soon caught the prevailing spirit; Barry did not need

any inoculation, he always talked in six figures. It was as natural for

the dear boy to be rich as it is for most people to be poor.

The elders of the party were not long in discovering the fact, which

almost all travelers to the west soon find out; that the water was poor.

It must have been by a lucky premonition of this that they all had brandy

flasks with which to qualify the water of the country; and it was no

doubt from an uneasy feeling of the danger of being poisoned that they

kept experimenting, mixing a little of the dangerous and changing fluid,

as they passed along, with the contents of the flasks, thus saving their

lives hour by hour. Philip learned afterwards that temperance and the

strict observance of Sunday and a certain gravity of deportment are

geographical habits, which people do not usually carry with them away

from home.

Our travelers stopped in Chicago long enough to see that they could make

their fortunes there in two week's tine, but it did not seem worth while;

the west was more attractive; the further one went the wider the

opportunities opened.

They took railroad to Alton and the steamboat from there to St. Louis,

for the change and to have a glimpse of the river.

"Isn't this jolly?" cried Henry, dancing out of the barber's room, and

coming down the deck with a one, two, three step, shaven, curled and

perfumed after his usual exquisite fashion.

"What's jolly?" asked Philip, looking out upon the dreary and monotonous

waste through which the shaking steamboat was coughing its way.

"Why, the whole thing; it's immense I can tell you. I wouldn't give that

to be guaranteed a hundred thousand cold cash in a year's time."

"Where's Mr. Brown?"

"He is in the saloon, playing poker with Schaick and that long haired

party with the striped trousers, who scrambled aboard when the stage

plank was half hauled in, and the big Delegate to Congress from out

west."

"That's a fine looking fellow, that delegate, with his glossy, black

whiskers; looks like a Washington man; I shouldn't think he'd be at

poker."

"Oh, its only five cent ante, just to make it interesting, the Delegate

said."

"But I shouldn't think a representative in Congress would play poker any

way in a public steamboat."

"Nonsense, you've got to pass the time. I tried a hand myself, but those

old fellows are too many for me. The Delegate knows all the points.

I'd bet a hundred dollars he will ante his way right into the United

States Senate when his territory comes in. He's got the cheek for it."

"He has the grave and thoughtful manner of expectoration of a public man,

for one thing," added Philip.

"Harry," said Philip, after a pause, "what have you got on those big

boots for; do you expect to wade ashore?"

"I'm breaking 'em in."

The fact was Harry had got himself up in what he thought a proper costume

for a new country, and was in appearance a sort of compromise between a

dandy of Broadway and a backwoodsman. Harry, with blue eyes, fresh

complexion, silken whiskers and curly chestnut hair, was as handsome as

a fashion plate. He wore this morning a soft hat, a short cutaway coat,

an open vest displaying immaculate linen, a leathern belt round his

waist, and top-boots of soft leather, well polished, that came above his

knees and required a string attached to his belt to keep them up. The

light hearted fellow gloried in these shining encasements of his well

shaped legs, and told Philip that they were a perfect protection against

prairie rattle-snakes, which never strike above the knee.

The landscape still wore an almost wintry appearance when our travelers

left Chicago. It was a genial spring day when they landed at St. Louis;

the birds were singing, the blossoms of peach trees in city garden plots,

made the air sweet, and in the roar and tumult on the long river levee

they found an excitement that accorded with their own hopeful

anticipations.

The party went to the Southern Hotel, where the great Duff Brown was very

well known, and indeed was a man of so much importance that even the

office clerk was respectful to him. He might have respected in him also

a certain vulgar swagger and insolence of money, which the clerk greatly

admired.

The young fellows liked the house and liked the city; it seemed to them a

mighty free and hospitable town. Coming from the East they were struck

with many peculiarities. Everybody smoked in the streets, for one thing,

they noticed; everybody "took a drink" in an open manner whenever he

wished to do so or was asked, as if the habit needed no concealment or

apology. In the evening when they walked about they found people sitting

on the door-steps of their dwellings, in a manner not usual in a northern

city; in front of some of the hotels and saloons the side walks were

filled with chairs and benches--Paris fashion, said Harry--upon which

people lounged in these warm spring evenings, smoking, always smoking;

and the clink of glasses and of billiard balls was in the air. It was

delightful.

Harry at once found on landing that his back-woods custom would not be

needed in St. Louis, and that, in fact, he had need of all the resources

of his wardrobe to keep even with the young swells of the town. But this

did not much matter, for Harry was always superior to his clothes.

As they were likely to be detained some time in the city, Harry told

Philip that he was going to improve his time. And he did. It was an

encouragement to any industrious man to see this young fellow rise,

carefully dress himself, eat his breakfast deliberately, smoke his cigar

tranquilly, and then repair to his room, to what he called his work, with

a grave and occupied manner, but with perfect cheerfulness.

Harry would take off his coat, remove his cravat, roll up his

shirt-sleeves, give his curly hair the right touch before the glass, get

out his book on engineering, his boxes of instruments, his drawing paper,

his profile paper, open the book of logarithms, mix his India ink,

sharpen his pencils, light a cigar, and sit down at the table to "lay out

a line," with the most grave notion that he was mastering the details of

engineering. He would spend half a day in these preparations without

ever working out a problem or having the faintest conception of the use

of lines or logarithms. And when he had finished, he had the most

cheerful confidence that he had done a good day's work.

It made no difference, however, whether Harry was in his room in a hotel

or in a tent, Philip soon found, he was just the same. In camp he would

get himself, up in the most elaborate toilet at his command, polish his

long boots to the top, lay out his work before him, and spend an hour or

longer, if anybody was looking at him, humming airs, knitting his brows,

and "working" at engineering; and if a crowd of gaping rustics were

looking on all the while it was perfectly satisfactory to him.

"You see," he says to Philip one morning at the hotel when he was thus

engaged, "I want to get the theory of this thing, so that I can have a

check on the engineers."

"I thought you were going to be an engineer yourself," queried Philip.

"Not many times, if the court knows herself. There's better game. Brown

and Schaick have, or will have, the control for the whole line of the

Salt Lick Pacific Extension, forty thousand dollars a mile over the

prairie, with extra for hard-pan--and it'll be pretty much all hardpan

I can tell you; besides every alternate section of land on this line.

There's millions in the job. I'm to have the sub-contract for the first

fifty miles, and you can bet it's a soft thing."

"I'll tell you what you do, Philip," continued Larry, in a burst of

generosity, "if I don't get you into my contract, you'll be with the

engineers, and you jest stick a stake at the first ground marked for a

depot, buy the land of the farmer before he knows where the depot will

be, and we'll turn a hundred or so on that. I'll advance the money for

the payments, and you can sell the lots. Schaick is going to let me have

ten thousand just for a flyer in such operations."

"But that's a good deal of money."

"Wait till you are used to handling money. I didn't come out here for a

bagatelle. My uncle wanted me to stay East and go in on the Mobile

custom house, work up the Washington end of it; he said there was a

fortune in it for a smart young fellow, but I preferred to take the

chances out here. Did I tell you I had an offer from Bobbett and Fanshaw

to go into their office as confidential clerk on a salary of ten

thousand?"

"Why didn't you take it ?" asked Philip, to whom a salary of two thousand

would have seemed wealth, before he started on this journey.

"Take it? I'd rather operate on my own hook;" said Harry, in his most

airy manner.

A few evenings after their arrival at the Southern, Philip and Harry made

the acquaintance of a very agreeable gentleman, whom they had frequently

seen before about the hotel corridors, and passed a casual word with. He

had the air of a man of business, and was evidently a person of

importance.

The precipitating of this casual intercourse into the more substantial

form of an acquaintanceship was the work of the gentleman himself, and

occurred in this wise. Meeting the two friends in the lobby one evening,

he asked them to give him the time, and added:

"Excuse me, gentlemen--strangers in St. Louis? Ah, yes-yes. From the

East, perhaps? Ah; just so, just so. Eastern born myself--Virginia.

Sellers is my name--Beriah Sellers.

"Ah! by the way--New York, did you say? That reminds me; just met some

gentlemen from your State, a week or two ago--very prominent gentlemen

--in public life they are; you must know them, without doubt. Let me see

--let me see. Curious those names have escaped me. I know they were from

your State, because I remember afterward my old friend Governor Shackleby

said to me--fine man, is the Governor--one of the finest men our country

has produced--said he, 'Colonel, how did you like those New York

gentlemen?--not many such men in the world,--Colonel Sellers,' said the

Governor--yes, it was New York he said--I remember it distinctly.

I can't recall those names, somehow. But no matter. Stopping here,

gentlemen--stopping at the Southern?"

In shaping their reply in their minds, the title "Mr." had a place in it;

but when their turn had arrived to speak, the title "Colonel" came from

their lips instead.

They said yes, they were abiding at the Southern, and thought it a very

good house.

"Yes, yes, the Southern is fair. I myself go to the Planter's, old,

aristocratic house. We Southern gentlemen don't change our ways, you

know. I always make it my home there when I run down from Hawkeye--my

plantation is in Hawkeye, a little up in the country. You should know

the Planter's."

Philip and Harry both said they should like to see a hotel that had been

so famous in its day--a cheerful hostelrie, Philip said it must have been

where duels were fought there across the dining-room table.

"You may believe it, sir, an uncommonly pleasant lodging. Shall we

walk?"

And the three strolled along the streets, the Colonel talking all

the way in the most liberal and friendly manner, and with a frank

open-heartedness that inspired confidence.

"Yes, born East myself, raised all along, know the West--a great country,

gentlemen. The place for a young fellow of spirit to pick up a fortune,

simply pick it up, it's lying round loose here. Not a day that I don't

put aside an opportunity; too busy to look into it. Management of my own

property takes my time. First visit? Looking for an opening?"

"Yes, looking around," replied Harry.

"Ah, here we are. You'd rather sit here in front than go to my

apartments? So had I. An opening eh?"

The Colonel's eyes twinkled. "Ah, just so. The country is opening up,

all we want is capital to develop it. Slap down the rails and bring the

land into market. The richest land on God Almighty's footstool is lying

right out there. If I had my capital free I could plant it for

millions."

"I suppose your capital is largely in your plantation?" asked Philip.

"Well, partly, sir, partly. I'm down here now with reference to a little

operation--a little side thing merely. By the way gentlemen, excuse the

liberty, but it's about my usual time"--

The Colonel paused, but as no movement of his acquaintances followed this

plain remark, he added, in an explanatory manner,

"I'm rather particular about the exact time--have to be in this climate."

Even this open declaration of his hospitable intention not being

understood the Colonel politely said,

"Gentlemen, will you take something?"

Col. Sellers led the way to a saloon on Fourth street under the hotel,

and the young gentlemen fell into the custom of the country.

"Not that," said the Colonel to the bar-keeper, who shoved along the

counter a bottle of apparently corn-whiskey, as if he had done it before

on the same order; "not that," with a wave of the hand. "That Otard if

you please. Yes. Never take an inferior liquor, gentlemen, not in the

evening, in this climate. There. That's the stuff. My respects!"

The hospitable gentleman, having disposed of his liquor, remarking that

it was not quite the thing--"when a man has his own cellar to go to, he

is apt to get a little fastidious about his liquors"--called for cigars.

But the brand offered did not suit him; he motioned the box away, and

asked for some particular Havana's, those in separate wrappers.

"I always smoke this sort, gentlemen; they are a little more expensive,

but you'll learn, in this climate, that you'd better not economize on

poor cigars"

Having imparted this valuable piece of information, the Colonel lighted

the fragrant cigar with satisfaction, and then carelessly put his fingers

into his right vest pocket. That movement being without result, with a

shade of disappointment on his face, he felt in his left vest pocket.

Not finding anything there, he looked up with a serious and annoyed air,

anxiously slapped his right pantaloon's pocket, and then his left, and

exclaimed,

"By George, that's annoying. By George, that's mortifying. Never had

anything of that kind happen to me before. I've left my pocket-book.

Hold! Here's a bill, after all. No, thunder, it's a receipt."

"Allow me," said Philip, seeing how seriously the Colonel was annoyed,

and taking out his purse.

The Colonel protested he couldn't think of it, and muttered something to

the barkeeper about "hanging it up," but the vender of exhilaration made

no sign, and Philip had the privilege of paying the costly shot; Col.

Sellers profusely apologizing and claiming the right "next time, next

time."

As soon as Beriah Sellers had bade his friends good night and seen them

depart, he did not retire apartments in the Planter's, but took his way

to his lodgings with a friend in a distant part of the city.

CHAPTER XIV.

The letter that Philip Sterling wrote to Ruth Bolton, on the evening of

setting out to seek his fortune in the west, found that young lady in her

own father's house in Philadelphia. It was one of the pleasantest of the

many charming suburban houses in that hospitable city, which is

territorially one of the largest cities in the world, and only prevented

from becoming the convenient metropolis of the country by the intrusive

strip of Camden and Amboy sand which shuts it off from the Atlantic

ocean. It is a city of steady thrift, the arms of which might well be

the deliberate but delicious terrapin that imparts such a royal flavor to

its feasts.