CHAPTER III.

Produced by Annie R. McGuire

[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]

Copyright, 1896, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.

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PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, JUNE 30, 1896. FIVE CENTS A COPY.

VOL. XVII.--NO. 870. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.

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[Illustration]

INQUISITIVE BILLY AND HIS COUSIN GIBB.

BY RICHARD BARRY.

The only way to prove whether this story is true or not is to find the

Professor (who could tell you all about it) and the Quartermaster (who

claims to have been an eyewitness), and ask them; or to believe the tale

that Billy Schreiber, Jun., and his cousin, Gibson Peters, II., tell,

without any proof at all. But the two young gentlemen say they really

and truly had this adventure, and that it honestly happened on the

Fourth of July.

The Professor had rented the old Hope farm because it was the loneliest

place on Long Island; and although he had lots of business on hand, for

some reason he did not wish to be caught working at it. Perhaps he was

bashful, and did not wish anybody to see him in his shirt sleeves. At

all events, he took great precautions.

Now the way that Billy Schreiber and Gibb Peters found out that the Hope

farm (it had been deserted for years) was rented was this: They went

over there one day, and saw from Trotters Hill that the Hope barn had

been reshingled, that the house was evidently occupied, and some men

were at work building a road through the apple orchard. It was quite

half a mile away, but they could make all this out very plainly.

"What's going on?" said Gibb to Bill.

"Something on the Q. T.," was the answer, "or father would have known

about it, you can be sure of that!"

Mr. Schreiber senior was the station agent at the only railroad that

came to that part of the country, and he knew the why and wherefore of

every parcel that came into the village of Centreport. The boys looked

off to the right, and saw piles of new lumber and boxes stored near the

barn-yard, and crawling along the lower road a heavy-laden team that

kicked up no small amount of dust.

"Those things never came by rail," said Gibb.

"Perhaps they brought them in from the south shore by boat," answered

Billy, wisely. "'Tain't more 'an fifteen miles."

"Well, the easiest way to settle it," said Billy, "is to go in and ask

them what they're doing."

"Don't think they'd object, do you?" suggested Gibb.

"Of course not," Billy answered. "Let's walk right up the main road."

But they were forced by circumstances to abandon this straightforward,

fair, and aboveboard way of doing things. They had hardly turned the

bend in the road at the bottom of the hill when there, in front of them,

stretched a heavy barbed-wire fence, with the strands so close together

that no one could possibly get through it or under it. Even climbing

looked risky, and on the top of a post was the following legend, in very

black letters:

"Trespassing Forbidden. Beware! No one Allowed on this Property on any

Pretence Whatever. No Admittance."

"That kind of stops us," observed Billy to Gibb. "Say! what do you

suppose is going on in there, anyhow?"

"Counterfeiters!" exclaimed Gibb; "that's what they are. I've read about

them hiring lonely houses."

"It may be," returned his cousin. "But I've got an idea."

Now Billy Schreiber was the smartest boy in the Northport, Eastport,

Westport, and Centreport schools. He read all the newspapers that he

could lay his hands on, and, moreover, had the good fortune, of course,

to be the son of his father--who had asked so many questions in his life

that he could not help having imbibed a vast store of knowledge--and

Billy had inherited some of his father's traits.

"Yes, I've got an idea," he repeated. "They're fitting out a Cuban

expedition."

Why they should be fitting out a Cuban expedition twenty miles from the

coast it might be hard to tell, but it sounded nice and adventurous. It

was full of possibilities, and the idea struck Gibb at once as being

almost worthy of "Old Sleuth, the Guessing Detective," of whose wondrous

discernment he had read in a dime novel.

"Let's make believe we are spies," said Gibb, "and find out. Don't let's

tell them in the village anything about it."

"All right," answered Billy. "Then get down on your hands and knees and

crawl through the bushes."

No sooner said than done, and the boys crept into the thicket of

scrub-oak. But the heavy fencing ran completely around the old Hope

farm, and they could get no nearer to the house than when they had first

sighted it, the distance of fully a quarter of a mile and more. They

could see, however, that there were five or six men employed about the

buildings, that three or four large wagons were drawn off to one side,

and that an object that looked like a steam threshing-machine, and yet a

little like a fire-engine, was under a sheltering tent made of canvas.

"I'll wager father could tell what that is," said Billy, pointing.

"But don't you tell him anything," said Gibb, "or you'll have half the

village up here pokin' round. My father says your father is a knowin'

feller, but he talks too much. I tell you what let's do, let's keep this

thing secret."

Now Billy and Gibb had had secrets very often during the course of their

acquaintance, but they had never succeeded in keeping them any length of

time. But on this occasion they determined to make a compact, sacred and

awful, and not to be betrayed, no matter what happened. So that night,

after every one else had gone to bed, they drew up a fearful paper in

red ink, with skulls and cross-bones, and added the pictures of an

eagle, a locomotive, and an American flag as extra decorations.

As it rained all of the next day, they staid in the house, drawing up

the plans of campaign, and were near to betraying themselves upon more

than one occasion. Gibb proposed to let his uncle into the secret, under

a bond of strict adherency to silence, but Billy, maybe because it is a

wise child that knows its own father, refused to second the motion, and

the conspirators remained two in number.

Everything was arranged for an early start on Saturday morning, in order

to make it a day of reconnoitring. But, alas! Billy, who had been

ailing, broke out with the measles. This was distressing enough; but as

the elder cousin generally led in most things, Gibb felt it incumbent

upon himself to follow suit, and three days later he wanted to wager

that he was "rasher than Billy, anyhow."

This unforeseen postponement rather reduced the intensity of their

curiosity; but when they were convalescing, after three weeks' close

confinement, it was decided they must hasten, as rumors of the goings on

at Hope farm had already reached the village, and Mr. Schreiber had

expressed his intention of harnessing up and driving out that way some

time in the near future.

"Our scheme's a goner if he gets there before we do," said William, upon

hearing this--and at last a day came when they got away.

They were a little weak in the knees, and the six-mile tramp down the

dusty road wore upon them. But at last they arrived at the barbed-wire

fence that blocked the old driveway to the farm. Apparently there was

nothing unusual going on, although a huge door had been cut in the front

of the hay-barn, and through the roof of one of the smaller buildings a

tall iron pipe extended, from which white feathery steam was spurting

regularly, showing that machinery was at work within.

Through the orchard ran a long board walk, or so it appeared to the

boys, at least. They skirted through the underbrush, seeking a place

where a brook entered the Hope property, knowing that there they could

find out something by closer observation. As they crossed a little path,

a man stepped from behind a tree directly in front of them. So intent

had been the boys on the idea that they were Spanish spies, that they

had been communicating with one another in most unintelligible

gibberish, and their first idea was that they must have betrayed

themselves. But the man, who was dressed in a very citified fashion,

appeared to be rather glad to see them.

"Halloa, boys!" he said. "Do you live here?"

They shook their heads.

"Well, do you know Professor Woerts?"

"Naw," said Gibb. "Who is he?"

The young man did not reply. "What's going on in there?" he asked. "Eh?

Go on, tell us."

But Billy had learned something by this time in the question-asking

line. "Who are you?" he put in.

"I'm a reporter for the _Evening Detector_, and have come here to find

out what Professor Woerts is doing. Of course I know something about it,

but he won't let any reporters on the premises."

It was evident that the Professor had adopted no half-way measures to

keep curious persons away, for a man on horseback, with a shot-gun

across his saddle, rode around a corner of the woods inside the fence

just at this moment. The boys were for running at once, but the young

man in the stiff Derby hat hallooed out: "Heigh there, mister! I want to

talk to you."

The man on horseback rode closer.

"What's the matter with you fellows, anyhow?" began the reporter.

"Woerts ought to know that I'm going to write a story about this,

whether I get in or not. Say! I'll give you five dollars to change

clothes with me and let me ride up to that stable--I won't steal the

horse or the house, either."

"It's agin' orders to let anybody inside here," answered the sentry,

with a drawl--"until the day," he added.

"Well, look here," went on the reporter, "tell me something. Has she had

a run yet?"

"I won't tell you nothing," the man replied, "and there's nobody ye can

see. Me and the Professor's the only folks on the premises. So go on

away."

"You're a polite gentleman; I like you," said the reporter, kissing his

hand. "Say! I'm going back and write up a story about you all being

crazy. The whole thing's a fake; that's my opinion."

At this the man on the horse woke up. "Fake, eh?" he said. "All you

fellows will be let in at the right time. No, sir, it's a success. You

should have seen last night--"

"Should've seen what?" asked the reporter, putting his hand in his

pocket for his note-book.

"Nothing," the man answered. "Keep the other side of the fence!" He

touched his horse with the whip and rode away.

Evidently the reporter was chagrined at his lack of success, for he

inquired the direction of the nearest port and the time of the trains.

Schreiber, who was a walking time-table, gave him the necessary

information, and he strode off. The boys, however, continued their way

until they came to the brook. Sure enough, they could get under the wire

fence easily if they wished to try it.

But as they were feeling hungry, they determined to postpone further

investigations until later. Well, a week went by, and at last the night

they had settled upon arrived. It was bright moonlight, and the day had

been a very busy and a noisy one. For, as it happened long ago, the

signers of a certain important paper connected with our national history

had settled on this day to "proclaim liberty throughout the land." It

was "the Glorious Fourth!" Billy and Gibb had fired fire-crackers until

there weren't any left; had gone in swimming four times, which were

three too many; and had told their families that they were going over to

Westport in the evening to see the "celebrashun," which was not exactly

the truth. But the Hope farm was in Westport, if in any place, and

perhaps the result of their visit might be termed a celebration.

It was nearly midnight when they reached the brook, and splashed down it

until they came to the wire fence. They ducked under the lower strand,

and, soaking wet, they scrambled up the bank on the other side.

"Say! ain't this excitin'?" whispered Gibb, as they peered around the

corner of the barn, and saw that the house was still and deserted. The

moonlight made everything quite bright, and the boys saw that a track

like a railroad switch, only with double rails on each side, ran up to

the door of the barn, and extended through the orchard into the meadow a

distance of almost half a mile. It was strongly and carefully made, but

what it was used for the boys had no idea.

"If we could only get into the barn," sighed Gibb.

"Hush!" answered Billy. "Let's see if the door's open."

They sneaked out of the shadows, and found a long rope with a

cross-piece hanging within easy reach. Billy gave it a pull. There was a

creak, and the great doors opened out slowly, exposing the whole front

of the huge barn. There before them, they saw a strange object--a

flat-boat on wheels it appeared to be at first glance, with a

superstructure of tall tubes, strung and guyed with tense wires no

heavier than fiddle-strings. But that was not all. A succession of wide

flat surfaces stretched one above another. They looked like sails spread

the wrong way.

When the doors had swung open so noisily the boys looked toward the

house to see if they had been discovered, but not a sound or a stir did

they hear or see.

"Come in. Let's look at the thing," Gibb said, entering cautiously,

"What under the sun is it?"

Billy followed him, and the boys now perceived that on the deck of the

flat-boat which rested on the wheels was something that looked like the

engine of a steam-launch, but there was no boiler in sight--three round

cylinders of a shining white metal placed one above the other, and

overhead a series of complicated belts and cogs. Now four

strange-looking objects resolved themselves into four huge twisted fans

like propellers.

"Golly! I wish we had more light," muttered Gibb, as he stumbled over

something on the floor.

He half fell against the flat-boat, and it rolled a few feet along the

track.

"Goodness! doesn't it move easy?" said Billy, giving it a shove.

Despite the apparent size and the various complications, the great thing

ran as smoothly as a bicycle. In fact, it needed but a little extra

pushing to wheel it out on the track into the air.

The sky had clouded a little, but there was enough light to see by. The

boys clambered up on the deck, as it were. As they did so Gibb put out

his hand to steady himself, and it touched something that moved. Now a

strange thing happened. There was a click, a buzzing sound, and a soft

whirring began close overhead. Slowly and surely the car began to move.

The whirring grew louder, and then with a jump the whole fabric started

off at a tremendous pace. The boys clutched two of the uprights in mad

terror. Before they knew it they were tearing through the orchard at

fifty miles an hour. In fact, it all happened so quickly that the

sensations of these first few seconds left but a vague impression.

There was a lifting trembling quiver that caused both the unwilling

passengers to hold on tighter, if possible, than before, and all at once

there was a crash that almost took out their arms. They had reached the

end of the track, but they did not stop. Oh no! As a stone skips off the

surface of a mill-pond they left the earth, with a sickening upward

swoop that almost stopped their hearts. On and on, higher and higher,

with a roaring whirring sound in their ears, and then apparently they

reached a height where for a few moments, as Billy afterwards put it,

they "kept an even keel." But it was not for long. There was a dip

forward, and down they swooped at even greater speed than they had

ascended. Gibb began to scream now, and, fell flat, with his arms about

the upright and his legs, spread out, clawing with his toes to keep

himself from slipping. Billy lost his balance too, and reaching up his

hand, caught one of the stays. Instantly there was a great rush of air,

a checking of the downward motion, and, as Gibb put it, they "scooped"

up again. Maybe the two boys had become more used to this nightmare sort

of motion by this time, for they were lying with their faces looking

over the side. Far below them they could see the dark shadow that they

knew was ground, and little twinkling lights that they knew were houses.

Some brilliant-colored fireworks burst in the air beneath them. For some

five or ten minutes they kept on a level, and for the first time found a

chance to indulge in conversation.

"Where are we going to, anyway?" shrieked Gibb, in mortal fear.

"I dun'no'," chattered Billy, with his hair on end. "Hold tight; the old

thing's goin' down again."

Sure enough, the flying-machine had taken a sort of twist off to the

eastward, and was descending every second but at such an angle that it

would be some minutes before it struck. The fans were working slower,

and the great kitelike tail behind sagged slightly. But the stretches of

silk were taut, and trembling like tight-trimmed fore-sails. They were

skimming now scarcely two hundred feet above the tops of the trees. Half

a mile away they saw the waters of the bay. The flight was becoming less

swift, and they were sinking downwards with a sliding motion, softly and

surely, but still with enough force to crush themselves to pieces should

they strike the earth. Beneath them they saw a house. Gibb was

whimpering again, and Billy also had begun to blubber.

Oh, what would they not give to awake and find that this was all a

dream! But no; here they were holding tight for their lives, and there,

below, stretched the pier where the light-house-tender always landed.

There was the steamer. Two minutes more and they would--

But here is where Quartermaster Tim Muldoon comes into the story. It was

his watch on the deck of the U.S.S. _Fern_, light-house-tender, and Tim

had returned from liberty ashore early in the evening. He was drowsy and

tired. Suddenly he was aroused by hearing a sound as if made by giant

rushing wings. He raised his head, and then fell backwards flat upon the

deck; not forty feet above him a huge thing was shooting along through

the air.

Tim closed his eyes, and called in a whisper upon the saints. He would

have screamed, but his voice apparently had left him. The first shock

over, however, he rose to his feet and rubbed his eyes. No, it was not

imagination. There was the huge thing dashing along over the surface of

the bay. Then, as Mr. Muldoon watched it, it remained stationary for a

minute, and slowly sank. Tim put his hand in his pocket and pulled

something out. There was a splash, and a big black bottle sank alongside

the pier-head. Then, with a frightened look on his face, Tim went below

and called the other watch.

Half an hour later two dripping boys appeared at the Schreiber house.

They were weak and pale, and when Mrs. Schreiber saw them they stood

there holding on to the banisters.

"Don't let's tell them a thing," whispered Billy.

"All right," said Gibb. "Let 'em think what they want to."

"You've been out on the water and upset," said Mrs. Schreiber,

emphatically. "William, I'll tell your father to-morrow morning. You'll

catch it!"

"All right, ma'am," said Billy, meekly. "I guess me and Gibb will go to

bed."

As the boys went up stairs Mrs. Schreiber heard her nephew say,

"Billy, I guess we swum half a mile."

Now on board the _Fern_ they attribute Quartermaster Muldoon's

conversion to the cause of total abstinence to the fact that one night

he saw a fish-hawk as big as a full-rigged ship come down out of the sky

and sink into the waters of Horseshoe Point, where the charts show no

bottom.

Two days after the Fourth of July Mr. Schreiber drove over to the Hope

farm. He found the wire across the road had been taken down, and

apparently everything hauled away but a few odds and ends of

strange-looking timbers and a section of a wooden track.

One of the Sunday papers published, a week or so afterwards, a long

article with the following headings: "Professor Woerts's Air-Ship Runs

Away! The Professor claims that His Wonderful Invention took Flight and

disappeared of Its own Accord. Lost--A Flying-Machine. He says he will

make another!"

The other papers commented upon the story, and said, "It is a pretty

good yarn." But they all advised the Professor to "chain the shebang

down."

Now what I have written here is what I got from the boys, and whether it

is a good yarn or not I do not know; but, as I said before, just find

the Professor and the Quartermaster; they may help you to decide.

HOW TO ENTER THE NAVY.

BY ADMIRAL BANCROFT GHERARDI, U. S. N.

Some of our young readers would be glad to know how to enter the United

States navy. There are two ways--one is through the Naval Academy at

Annapolis, in which the young man becomes in time a commissioned

officer; the other is through the Training-School at Newport, in which

case the young man becomes a sailor, and in time may become an officer

known officially as a warrant-officer. A commissioned officer holds an

appointment from the President, and is confirmed by the United States

Senate. A warrant-officer holds an acting appointment from the Navy

Department, and after having served six months on a sea-going vessel,

and his commanding officer having made a favorable report as to his

fitness to remain an officer in the navy, he is then given a warrant

signed by the President, and dated back to the time he received his

acting appointment. Warrant-officers are designated gunners,

boat-swains, and carpenters, and are officers as much as any other

officers in the navy, except that they may not hold commissions.

The history of the United States navy has been particularly glorious. It

has traditions of heroism and bravery that are a constant source of

pride to those in the service, and that appeal especially to young men

who are fond of their country and of achievements in warfare. To become

an officer in the service is a most honorable ambition, and one to which

thousands of young men aspire. It is for that reason that appointments

to Annapolis are always sought eagerly. Each Congressional district is

entitled to one cadet at Annapolis at one time, and in addition the

President has ten appointments at large. There can be, however, only ten

appointees of the President, serving apprenticeship at the same time.

The District of Columbia likewise sends one cadet to the Academy. The

President usually appoints the sons of naval or army officers.

The Congressmen or delegates to Congress from the Territories recommend

the appointment of the other cadets. To avoid favoritism the Congressmen

occasionally recommend young men who have passed the best examination in

a competition, of which there has been public notice given.

Congressmen's appointees must reside in the district from which they are

appointed, and all appointees must be between the ages of fifteen and

twenty.

When a young man receives his appointment to Annapolis he is required to

sign articles binding himself to eight years' service. He must pass an

examination in the ordinary English branches, special attention being

paid to the history of the United States. He must be sound physically,

or his "alternate," the young man who usually passes the next best

preliminary examination, takes his place as the cadet, provided the

latter is sound physically, and can also pass the entrance examination

to the Academy. When a young man becomes a cadet he gets $500 salary

each year. The course of study lasts six years. Four of these are passed

at the Academy, and two at sea. One of these is the "line" division, and

the other is the "staff" division. The line-men are the officers who do

the fighting, navigating, and executive work of a ship, and the others

become officers who have charge of the machinery of a ship, and are

known as engineers. The line division is the favorite, because young men

rise to the highest grade, such as rear-admiral, in this branch of the

service. The other men become engineers, and cannot reach any grade

higher than that of commodore.

After two years' service at sea, during which the young man perfects

himself in the problems of seamanship, the cadets receive appointments

as commissioned officers, if there are vacancies. If there are not

sufficient vacancies to go around, the best men are taken, and the

others are discharged, with a certificate of graduation and one year's

pay--$1000. We are building and manning ships so fast in these days of

the new navy that there are always enough vacancies, and it is rare that

any cadets are discharged because there is no room for them in the

service. After having become a commissioned officer in the staff or

line, the young officer is promoted gradually from grade to grade,

usually according to relative rank, except in time of war, when, for

especial reasons, the brighter men are pushed forward because of their

exceptional fitness for command or other important work. The officers

remain in the service until they are sixty-two years old, unless they

resign before that time, and then are retired under three-quarter pay

until they die.

The scarcity of men who go into the engineering department of the navy

is such that there is a bill now pending in Congress to admit graduates

of colleges where marine and mechanical engineering is taught to enter

the navy without passing through the Annapolis Academy. They must pass

an examination to show that they are fit for the engineering work, and

must spend two years at sea, like the graduates of Annapolis. If this

bill should become a law, it will be possible for young men to become

officers in the engineer corps in the navy without going through the

Annapolis Academy.

[Illustration: ENLISTING ON BOARD A RECEIVING-SHIP.]

When a boy wishes to become a sailor in the navy he applies to one of

the three "receiving" ships. They are the _Vermont_ at the New York

Navy-Yard, the _Wabash_ at the Boston Yard, and the _Richmond_ at the

League Island Navy-Yard in Philadelphia. The boys must be between

fourteen and sixteen years of age, sound in health, and be able to read

and write to some extent. No distinction is made in race, and it is a

singular fact that the colored boys who apply are almost invariably able

to read and write better than the white boys. On board the _Vermont_ the

only reading test applied is contained on a card, which is as follows:

"'Be it enacted by the Senate and House of Representatives of the United

States in Congress assembled, that fraudulent enlistment and the receipt

of any pay or allowance thereunder is hereby declared an offence against

naval discipline, and made punishable by general court martial.'

"What I have just read to you is a law of the United States, and it

means that if you do not tell the truth about your age, parents, or

guardian, or if you are a deserter from the naval or military service,

you may be tried by a court martial, be put in prison, or punished in

some way."

[Illustration: GUNNERY AND AIMING DRILL AT THE NEWPORT NAVAL

TRAINING-SCHOOL.]

The last paragraph of this is what boys are usually required to read.

The officers are not very strict about the hard words, and so almost any

boy can pass the test. After being admitted, Uncle Sam gives each boy an

outfit. His parents or guardian must sign a paper giving him to the

government until he is twenty-one years of age. He becomes known at once

as a third-grade apprentice, and in a few days he is sent to a

training-school at Newport, where he is taught rudimentary things about

a sailor's life and work. After remaining at Newport for six months he

is transferred to one of two training-ships. These are the _Essex_ and

the _Alliance_. He remains on one of these for six months, and takes a

cruise. On the voyage he learns how to handle the sails, how to sew and

splice, and how to handle guns. Innumerable other things about a

sailor's life he also picks up, and when he returns he is transferred to

a modern man-o'-war, where he becomes an apprentice of the second class.

Here he takes his place with the regular crew, and has his allotted

share of the daily routine to perform. He is examined every three

months, and usually he becomes an apprentice of the first class in six

months, when he has a rank which corresponds to the rank of seaman with

sailors.

When a boy becomes twenty-one he may leave the service, or enlist again,

and be independent of parents or guardian. There are three grades of

enlisted men in the navy--landsmen, ordinary seamen, and seamen. Besides

these the following are enlisted: machinists, masters-at-arms, and

coal-heavers, and from these classes there are other special classes.

The boy who enlists after he has served his apprenticeship usually goes

into the highest grade--that of seaman. After a while he may be promoted

to be a warrant-officer, and so reach the highest grade.

When a man enters the navy he enters one of the three grades--landsman,

ordinary seaman, or seaman. If he has had no experience whatever on

shipboard he becomes a landsman, and practically is taught all he knows

on shipboard. If he has had some experience on ships, but is not expert

in all branches of his work, he becomes an ordinary seaman. If he has

served five years at sea and is intelligent, he usually goes to the

grade of seaman. Such men are competent to "reef, hand, and steer," as

the expression goes; that is, they are competent to do all the work

required of a sailor without further instruction. As fast as their terms

expire men and boys may re-enlist, and at each re-enlistment they

receive a slight increase of pay.

As third-class apprentices the boys get $9 per month; when they become

second-class apprentices they get $15 a month, and when they become

first-class apprentices they get $21 a month. If they re-enlist after

they are twenty-one they get three months' extra pay at the rating they

had when they became of age, and, in addition, get one dollar a month

more pay than they received as apprentices.

There are other ways for men to get into the navy than those I have

mentioned, but these are what might be called special enlistments. For

example, a man may enlist as a fireman. There are two grades of these,

according to skill and experience. Then there are machinists, who must

pass an examination, and stewards, carpenters, musicians, and the like.

These special grades require skilled labor to some extent, and of course

higher pay goes with their work.

It is imperative when a boy enters the service that his parents or

guardian shall sign papers giving him to the government until he is

twenty-one. When a boy applies who has no parents or duly qualified

guardian the officials supply him with a guardian. They do this through

the generosity of a lawyer in New York, named Herbert Van Dyke. He

becomes their guardian, and all such boys are known as "Van Dyke"

boys--a discrimination which from the name should of itself be quite

aristocratic. Mr. Van Dyke has become the guardian of probably 1500 boys

since he has been in this kind of work. He does it entirely from motives

of philanthropy, and there is no doubt that he is a public benefactor.

Many a boy has been started in an honorable career in the navy through

his kindness and generosity. He performs a most welcome service not only

to the boys, but to his country as well. He does this so quietly that

almost nothing is heard of him, and it is simply a matter of justice

that credit should be given to him.

It is a mistake to think that there is room in the navy for "bad boys,"

that is, boys who are unmanageable at home or have done some crime.

There is a popular idea that when a boy becomes utterly bad, and fit

only for the reform school, his parents may get rid of him, and hope at

the same time to make a man of him, by getting him into the navy. No

such boys are taken if the officials know of it. The uniform of the

United States is honorable, and only honorable persons are expected to

wear it. No others are wanted. When the officials find out that a boy

has a bad record morally, he is rejected forthwith. Even with the

applicants who are fit morally to wear the uniform, only about

one-quarter are taken, but no one is rejected so quickly as a boy who

ought to go to a reform school rather than into the navy, even though he

may be able to pass the mental and physical examination with ease. There

is no law to prevent the enlistment of aliens in the United States navy,

but it is a singular fact that so popular has this branch of the public

service become in recent times that for the last two years practically

none but Americans have entered it.

The truth of the old saying "that it is sweet to die for one's country"

shows itself in the spirit which animates most of those who compose the

navy of the United States to-day, whether they are officers or sailors.

A notable instance of this was seen during the recent civil war in

Brazil. The rebels at Rio Janeiro blockaded the port, and would not

allow our merchant ships to go into the harbor. Admiral Benham, in

command of our squadron, notified the ships of the rebels that he

intended to take our merchant-men into the harbor, and that if they were

interfered with he should fire on the rebel fleet. Our war-ships were

cleared for action, and every man waited a single word before he plunged

into a fight that must have meant death to many of them. One of the

spectators of that scene has declared that he never saw a more

inspiriting sight than the way our sailors, probably not a dozen of whom

had ever had experience in war, responded to the call of duty. To a man

they were ready to die for one's country if necessary. Surely, if it is

sweet to die for one's country, it is honorable at all times to wear the

uniform of that country, and that doubtless explains why our naval

service is so popular nowadays, and is composed chiefly of native-born

Americans.

In order to induce good men to return to the service, there is a law of

Congress which gives to every man on re-enlisting three months' pay of

the grade that he held at the time of his discharge, providing he

enlists within three months from the date of his discharge. Then the

regulations of the department, as another inducement for men, give a

continuous-service certificate to all men receiving honorable

discharges, which certificate entitles a man at every re-enlistment to

one dollar's additional pay.

OLD TOOLS AND NEW ONES.

BY BARNET PHILLIPS.

I bought a gimlet with a metal handle for five cents, and it turned out

to be a good tool. Five cents seemed cheap for a gimlet. Then I read

that when manufacturers turned out gimlets in large quantities they

could afford to sell them for less than a cent apiece. I happened to

remember how a friend of mine showed me, some years ago, a handsome

otter-skin pouch neatly ornamented, and told me that when he was in

Alaska he had given an Indian a gimlet for it.

"That was a hard trade for the Indian," I said, "for that skin is worth

twenty-five dollars."

"I did not take any advantage of the Indian," was my friend's answer.

"The man was perfectly satisfied with the barter. A week afterwards I

would have given the skin back, and more besides, to have had a gimlet.

Skins were plenty in Alaska, gimlets scarce. The real cost of a thing

often depends on how much you need it--and that is called the demand;

and to something else--the distance from the place where the thing is

made. You see, the subject of transportation comes in there, which has

to do with supply."

When I thought it over I came to the conclusion that my friend had not

got the better of the Indian, and that it was a fair swop.

I have the credit with my own children of being a very poor tinkerer,

with a reputation for breaking tools; and I wanted a gimlet, and did not

have one, when, strangely enough, the United States National Museum at

Washington sent me one, not to use, but to look at, and here is an exact

outline of it:

[Illustration]

It is a splinter of flint made by primitive man, and he used it to bore

holes in wood or as an awl for piercing skins. It came from Boone

County, Missouri. It is immensely old, so old that its date, or when it

was made, can only be guessed. The antiquity of it in a general way can

be insisted upon, because it is what is called "weathered," and by

weathered this is meant: that the piece of flint has been so long

exposed to the action of the air and moisture that the composition of

the flint has altered. If you were to take a piece of freshly splintered

flint and put it in a hole in the ground when you were ten years old,

and waited until you were seventy, and then dug it up, the alteration on

the outside would be but slight. You might, of course, put it in wet

ground where the water was full of lime in solution, and more rapid

changes would take place. Anyhow, you would not be likely in a lifetime

to see much alteration in the character of your flint. If your

great-great-great-grandfather had buried that flint, and you had found

it, the changes would have been more evident. Now this gimlet, or borer,

is of a white creamy color, and you cannot see that it resembles flint.

I could not bore a hole with it, because it would be certain to break.

If I were to guess how old it is I should say, "Fifteen hundred years

ago that borer was in use," and then I might not give it age enough. It

is a very old-fashioned gimlet, and since we can make gimlets to-day for

less than a cent apiece, I wonder what this flint one was worth fifteen

or twenty thousand years ago?

You might never have thought about it, but the hardest thing to do

to-day is to find out exactly what a thing costs. There are, however,

certain things that you do know--the cost of the raw material, and the

price of labor. When the gimlet-maker in New England made up the price

of his wares by the millions, he had to count up a hundred or more

different kinds of expenses before he could settle down to what was

about the exact cost of a gimlet.

We cannot apply the same rules exactly to this flint tool. In 1896 you

can buy iron or steel everywhere. Flint may seem to you to-day as of no

great value, because there is so little demand for it, but in the early

history of man it was a substance highly prized. It is not scattered

about everywhere. Primitive man made long journeys in order to obtain

it. He wanted it badly, not only for his tools, but for the purpose of

making a fire. He knew that by striking it with a bit of metal or with

certain natural metallic substances he could bring forth sparks. There

are often found in the graves of men whose race or tribe or origin is

lost bits of flint with fragments of pyrites; and pyrites is a natural

combination of sulphur and iron. When you strike them together there is

a spark. What is strange about these finds is this, that in the

surrounding country there is not to be found a bit of flint or a scrap

of pyrites. Primitive man must have set out to find them, or they came

to him by barter. I should then think that if we could measure the

values of tools in the past with those of to-day, such implements as

early man had were expensive, and worth comparatively more to him than

our tools are to us. It is, however, a puzzle. Labor must have been

cheap, because savage people take little account of time. To-day we know

how these flint tools or weapons are made, and coarser ones can be

fashioned by us in a short time. There must have been developed,

however, great skill in the long past, and for this simple reason: The

flint tools broke so easily that there was always a demand for new

tools, and so the old gimlet business must have been always brisk.

[Illustration: A PREHISTORIC SCRAPER.]

Another illustration is a scraper, and belongs also to the United States

National Museum. It served for dressing skins, in removing the hair and

grease, before the rough process of tanning. These stone scrapers are

found of all sizes, and as implements might have served for a variety of

purposes. This bit of flint is as old as the gimlet or borer, being

white with age.

[Illustration: THE CHISEL.]

Here is a chisel, or gouge, and, compared with the other tools, this may

be called an implement made the day before yesterday. Those who have

studied this kind of tool, found in the Swiss lakes, say it is not more

than 2500 or 3000 years old. Ages on ages ago there was a race of people

who lived in houses built on piles which stood in the water of the Swiss

lakes. Nobody ever thought such a race existed until the level of one of

the lakes was lowered, and then the secrets of a long-forgotten people

were discovered. This tool is made of a piece of green serpentine

embedded in a handle, which socket is a portion of the antler of a deer.

It has still a good edge on it, though it has remained under water

thousands of years. I might scrape off a bit of wood with it to-day. The

handle, however, is weak, rotten through age, and would crumble.

This is what I should like to impress on my readers: Our work to-day is

what is called specialized. By that is meant that everybody has a

special or particular trade or occupation. I should not want a carpenter

to make my clothes, or a locksmith to make my boots. Men become skilled

because they exercise one craft, doing it quicker and better. In those

old days there must have been artisans, as the stone tool maker, who

made blunt implements, and nothing else; but from the nature of things

those who used the tools had many occupations. Having but few tools, one

implement served various purposes. The edge of the drill might be used

to cut with, or, attached to a stock, could be converted into a weapon.

Primitive man, then, had to be a "Jack of all trades," and was not, as

in the old adage, "master of none," for he was forced to turn his hand

to many different kinds of occupations.

INDEPENDENCE DAY.

With pomp of waving banners,

With beat of throbbing drums,

And shouts of happy people,

The joyous morning comes;

The very air is thrilling,

And every heart is gay,

For once again we welcome

Our Independence day.

'Twas a very little nation

That set apart "the Fourth";

'Tis a nation strong and mighty

Which keeps it, South and North.

Our flag of stars is floating

From surging sea to sea,

And beneath its folds we gather,

A people great and free.

Not the older Magna Charta

Was a pledge of braver hearts

Than the later Declaration

From which this proud day starts.

Stout souls they were that framed it,

Stout hands that signed and sealed,

And the birthright thus they gave us

We never more will yield.

So to gallant martial music

We are stepping down the street,

With the shrilling bugles calling,

And the drum's exulting beat,

While from every spire and steeple

There flutters, blithe and gay,

The flag we love and honor

This Independence day.

MARGARET E. SANGSTER.

THE AMERICAN NIGHTS' ENTERTAINMENTS.

LEXINGTON ON FOURTH OF JULY.

BY EMMA J. GRAY.

"Tell you what, fellows, I mean to have a rousing good time this Fourth of

July, and no mistake. I'm tired of just torpedoes, crackers, and

cannons. What do you say to joining me?"

"Joining you, Alec? Of course we will," was the hearty response given by

Sam Thayer, with a hurried look at each of the boys, as if to make

doubly sure of their assent; and a second afterwards they all shouted,

as if they had practised in concert, "You can make sure of me"; while a

later voice added, with a face full of mischief, and a sly wink to the

boy at his left, "Catch any of us missing Alec's fun"; and then, turning

towards Alec, he asked, "Do you remember last Fourth how we scared cats

with torpedoes until, notwithstanding their nine lives, I think some of

them gave up the ghost? And do you remember, too, how we watched out for

policemen before touching off our crackers? Whew!"

"Oh, that was the time," Alec laughingly responded, "when, to quote from

my recitation to-morrow,

"'The boys turned out

With noise and rout,

And loud halloo, and lusty shout,

And racket of crackers, and boom, and pop,

And ringing of bells, and sizz, and splutter,

Till good folks trying to sleep would stop,

And get up, and close the windows and shutter.'

"But this time I propose something quite different."

[Illustration]

The group numbered fifteen. They had been taking a spin on their

bicycles, and now had stopped to rest, to lay plans for the coming

Fourth, and also to get comfortably cool under the long branches of this

welcome grove of maple-trees.

Alec was undoubtedly the ringleader, but Sam Thayer, John Sinclair, and

Clarence Bruce were his right-hand men, so whenever an unusually big

scheme was on foot Alec always bided his time until being sure of their

support.

"Hurrah for Alec!" suddenly ejaculated John Sinclair, tossing his cap

ten feet or more upward; and a tremendous whoop, followed by three times

three cheers and a tiger; but Sam Thayer, not yet satisfied with the

stir already made, thought he would continue, and picked up a stick and

tin pan lying on the road, and, making believe he was a drummer-boy,

banged away with all his might, rat-ta-tat-tat, rat-ta-tat-tat--and

marching to his left and so around, he speedily made a circle which

enclosed the group.

"Thayer is anticipating part of my programme, boys." These words were

sufficient, for in a trice the stick and pan were thrown as far as Sam's

strong arms could pitch them, while Sam, first having turned a

summersault, threw himself on the soft grass, thus joining the other

expectant listeners.

"What would you think of a battle, fellows?"

"Fine!" And the very suggestion threw the little group in such disorder

and hubbub that Alec laughingly but decidedly called "Order," adding,

"The time is rapidly passing, and if we are to go to war we must

prepare. You are sure you will not fail me, boys?"

"Certain sure." And once again quiet was restored.

"My plan is very simple. It is to divide ourselves into two armies. One

army will represent the British, the other the United States. Make

believe that Congress has commanded us to fortify the farm that belongs

to my father. You know the location?"

"Rather."

"Suppose we name the place Lexington. You each know that it was at

Lexington, Massachusetts, that the first skirmish in the War of American

Independence was fought.

"Well, the United States army must occupy the farm, and the British

force must attack it; and, of course, the United States army must win.

"The British will simply respect the action of the Revolutionary period

at the time of the surrender of Lord Cornwallis--they will run away, but

not, like the boy in the story-book, 'come to fight another day.' In

order to make it really jolly, though, we should enlist fifty boys, and

more if possible, and, to make it a fair fight, divide them evenly.

"You'll have to be General-in-chief of the whole, Alec," interrupted one

of the listeners.

"All right; as you have decided to adopt my plan, I cannot do otherwise

than accept such a position. I'm bound on having a good time, and if

you'll honestly join me, we'll have one.

[Illustration]

"Now, by right of office, and to get the thing started, I appoint as

head of the British army Clarence Bruce, and as head of the army of the

United States Samuel Thayer. As General-in-chief of both armies I would

further state that the said officers must secure the requisite number of

men, and see that they are provided with suitable uniforms and flags. In

order not to make ourselves a nuisance to our mothers and big sisters,

adopt as uniform our very oldest clothing; then we'll not have any

advice or fuss as to care. We can show our colors by means of flags,

banners, and a short scarf of bunting tied around our left arms: or

what's the matter with basting a narrow strip of bunting around our

jackets or on the outside seams of our trousers? Everybody must be

provided with a wooden gun, as neither balls, cartridges, nor shot of

any sort will be allowed. But both officers and privates may use large

fire-crackers, any amount of torpedoes, and cannon, for war is not

altogether fun; and the soldiers on both sides must show pluck. My plan

of battle would be the following, but the officers in charge must

arrange for themselves: Commence hostilities at nine o'clock Fourth of

July morning, thus enabling our parents and friends to watch, at which

time half of the United States army will be hidden back of the rocks

which skirt the southeast side of the farm, and most of the others will

be in the old barn that my father has been trying to tear down for the

last two years. A sentinel should pass to and fro before the barn, and

back of him other men should occasionally appear. The onslaught should

be made by the British throwing handfuls of torpedoes against the rocks;

but on the same rocks the United States army will have previously placed

cannon, which, at a few moments after nine, will go off with a

tremendous bang. The British will continue the hurling of the torpedoes

until they are satisfied that all of the United States men are about the

barn, and then they will recklessly march directly on the forbidden

territory. At this moment the hidden soldiers will jump to their feet,

and those at the barn will come to assist them. Thus action will

determinedly commence. The English, being surprised, will soon be

surrounded, and a fierce battle will ensue. The United States soldiers

are now firing, and it seems a veritable blinding hailstorm, so thick

and fast the white torpedo shells shower down, and the noise from the

occasional fire-cracker not only increases confusion, but creates

dismay. In the excitement the English make a mad rush for the barn; but

that action has been anticipated--indeed, so much so that one of the

privates had staid behind with the express purpose of firing it. And

what a magnificent conflagration it will make, fellows, for we must

carefully prepare it with a coating of tar and long wisps of tarred

paper!

"When the barn is fired the battle will end, for there will be nothing

left for the British to do but to surrender. Those who will not

willingly give up their guns will drop them in the chase, for the United

States Soldiers will be after them sure and fast, and all their banners

and flags will be exhibited as trophies."

When Alec concluded, the boys drew a long breath, and then all tongues

were loosed, and each one seemed to talk faster and louder than the

other in his desire for a hearing, all agreeing, however, that the

battle would be "jolly fun," and it was "like Alec" to get ahead of them

in planning such grand sport. But what would be done with the rest of

the day? This amusement would be but a starter; not a moment must be

left for idleness.

And so it was another of the boys that was heard. He had lately been

reading, he explained, the story of Mary, the mother of Washington, and

he suggested that something should be done in her honor. That so much

was always said about General George Washington, the Declaration of

Independence, and all that, and he had made up his mind for one that

George Washington would have been nowhere without his mother, and that

she should be celebrated.

This resulted in tremendous applause, and the calling out of, "Only

listen to Mr. Wisdom."

For a second the boy was abashed; but suddenly regaining himself, he

added, "I've explained I have only but just finished reading about her,

and the book told me of General Lafayette's visit and of the impression

she gave him; for on reporting the interview to his friends, he stated,

'I have seen the only Roman matron living at this day!' and it is also

said of her that the cause of American Independence had no more

steadfast adherent."

So, after a short discussion, the boys decided to follow the battle with

a procession, in which every one would be invited to join, even the

visitors, whether friends or strangers; these should follow either four

or six abreast, as their number would allow. That the boys who had

represented the English army should make the necessary change in attire,

and march as the United States navy, while the other boys would march as

the army. There should be a detachment of cavalry--for a few riders

ought to be found somewhere--a battalion of volunteers and several

companies of infantry, all followed by the Marine Band.

A banner should lead the procession, bearing the inscription, "In honor

of Mary Washington," and the Star-spangled Banner should triumphantly

wave throughout the entire line.

One of the younger boys was noticeably uneasy, and in reply to the

question, "Don't you want the procession?" said:

"Oh yes! but the battle's far jollier. I like the smell and bang of

gunpowder, and I've been studying a receipt for a powerful noise."

"What's that--a good receipt for a noise?" and the next instant the boy

was surrounded by his fellows.

"Yes, simple enough too--nothing but chlorate of potash and sulphur

mixed; you should put several pieces of paper around it, though, and

hammer it down as heavy as you can."

Just then was heard a sharp whistle, and Alec, with a jump on his wheel,

called, "Good-by, all; it's time for me to start home." And a minute

later those who were watching saw a bicycle-race along the road.

A VIRGINIA CAVALIER.

BY MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL.

CHAPTER III.

Next morning, as usual, George was up and on horseback by sunrise. Until

this year he had ridden five miles a day each way to Mr. Hobby's school;

but now he was so far ahead of the schoolmaster's classes that he went

only a few times a week, to study surveying and the higher mathematics,

and to have the week's study at home marked out for him. Every morning,

however, it was his duty to ride over the whole plantation before

breakfast, and to report the condition of everything in it to his

mother. Madam Washington was one of the best farmers in the colony, and

it was her custom, after hearing George's account at breakfast, to mount

her horse and ride over the place also, and give her orders for the day.

The first long lances of light were just tipping the woods and the river

when George came out, and found his horse held by Billy Lee, a negro lad

of about his own age, who was his body-servant and shadow.[1] Billy was

a chocolate-colored youth, the son of Aunt Sukey, the cook, and Uncle

Jasper, the butler. He had but one idea and one ideal on earth, and that

was "Marse George." It was in vain that Madam Washington, the strictest

of disciplinarians, might lay her commands on Billy. Until he had found

out what "Marse George" wanted him to do, Billy seemed unconscious of

having got any orders. Madam Washington, who could awe much older and

wiser persons than Billy, had often sent for the boy, when he was

regularly taken into the house, and after reasoning with him, kindly

explaining to him that both "Marse George" and himself were merely boys,

and under her authority, would give him a stern reproof, which Billy

always received in an abstracted silence, as if he had not heard a word

that was said to him. Finding that he acted throughout as if he had not

heard, Madam Washington turned him over to Aunt Sukey, who, after the

fashion of those days with white boys as well as with black, gave him a

smart birching. Billy's roars were like the trumpeting of an elephant;

but within a week he went back to his old way of forgetting there was

anybody in the world except "Marse George." Then Madam Washington turned

him over to Uncle Jasper, who "lay" that he would "meck dat little

triflin' nigger min' missis." A second and much more vigorous birching

followed at the hands of Uncle Jasper, who triumphed over Aunt Sukey

when Billy for two days actually seemed to realize that he had something

else to do besides following George about and never taking his eyes off

him. Uncle Jasper's victory was short-lived, though. Within a week Billy

was as good for nothing as ever, except to George. Madam Washington then

saw that it was not a case of discipline--that the boy was simply

dominated by his devotion to George, and could neither be forced nor

reasoned out of it. Therefore it was arranged that the care of the young

master's horse and everything pertaining to him should be confided to

Billy, who would work all day with the utmost willingness for "Marse

George." By this means Billy was made of use. Nobody touched George's

clothes or books or belongings except Billy. He scrubbed and then

dry-rubbed the door of his young master's room, scoured the windows, cut

the wood and made the fires, attended to his horse, and when George was

there personally to direct him Billy would do whatever work he was

ordered. But the instant he was left to himself he returned to idleness,

or to some perfectly useless work for his young master--polishing up

windows that were already bright, dry-rubbing a floor that shone like a

mirror, or brushing George's clothes, which were quite spotless. His

young master loved him with the strong affection that commonly existed

between the masters and the body-servants in those days.

[1] In Washington's will he mentions "my man William, calling himself

William Lee," and gives him his freedom, along with the other slaves,

and an annuity besides: "and this I give him as a testimony of my sense

of his attachment to me, and for his faithful services during the

Revolutionary war."

Like Madam Washington, George was a natural disciplinarian, and himself

capable of great labor of mind and body, he exacted work from everybody.

But Billy was an exception to this rule. It is not in the human heart to

be altogether without weaknesses, and Billy was George's weakness. When

his mother would declare the boy to be the idlest servant about the

place, George could not deny it; but he always left the room when there

were any animadversions on his favorite, and could never be brought to

acknowledge that Billy was not a much-injured boy. Serene in the

consciousness that "Marse George" would stand by him, Billy troubled

himself not at all about Madam Washington's occasional cutting remarks

as to his uselessness, nor his father's and mother's more outspoken

complaints that he "warn't no good 'scusin' 'twas to walk arter Marse

George, proud as a peacock ef he kin git a ole jacket or a p'yar o'

Marse George's breeches fur ter go struttin' roun' in." Aunt Sukey was

very pious, and Uncle Jasper was a preacher, and held forth Sunday

nights, in a disused corn-house on the place, to a large congregation of

negroes from the neighboring places. But Billy showed no fondness

whatever for these meetings, preferring to go to the Established Church

with his young master every Sunday, sitting in a corner of the gallery,

and going to sleep with much comfort and regularity as soon as he got

there. Madam Washington always exacted of every one who went to church

from her house that he or she should repeat the clergyman's text on

coming home, and Billy was no exception to the rule. On Sunday,

therefore, instead of joining the gay procession of youths and young

men, all handsomely mounted, who rode along the highway after church,

George devoted his time on his way home to teaching Billy the text. The

boy always repeated it very glibly when Madam Washington demanded it of

him, and thereby won her favor, for a short time, once a week.

On this particular morning, as George took the reins from Billy and

jumped on the back of his sorrel colt, and galloped down the lane

towards the fodder-field, Billy, who was keen enough where his young

master was concerned, saw that he was preoccupied. Contrary to custom,

he would not take his dog Rattler with him, and Billy, dragging the

whining dog by the neck, hauled him back into the house and up into

George's room, where the two proceeded to lay themselves down before the

fire and go to sleep. An hour later the indignant Aunt Sukey found them,

and but for George's return just then it would have gone hard with Billy

anyhow.

As George galloped briskly along in the crisp October morning he felt

within him the full exhilaration of youth and health and hope. He had

not been able to sleep all night for thinking of that promised visit to

Greenway Court. He had heard of it--a strange combination of

hunting-lodge and country-seat in the mountains, where Lord Fairfax

lived, surrounded by dependents, like a feudal baron. George had never

in his life been a hundred miles away from home. He had been over to

Mount Vernon since his brother Laurence's marriage, and the visit had

charmed him so that his ever-prudent mother had feared that the simpler

and plainer life at Ferry Farm would be distasteful to him; for Mount

Vernon was a fine, roomy country-house, where Laurence Washington and

his handsome young wife, both rich, dispensed a splendid hospitality.

There was a great stable full of saddle-horses and coach-horses, a

retinue of servants, and a continual round of entertaining going on.

Laurence Washington had only lately retired from the British army, and

his house was the favorite resort for the officers of the British

war-ships, that often came up the Potomac, as well as the officers of

the military post at Alexandria. Although he enjoyed this gay and

interesting life at Mount Vernon, George had left it without having his

head turned, and came back quite willingly to the sober and industrious

regularity of the home at Ferry Farm. He was the favorite over all his

brothers with Laurence Washington and his wife, and it was a

well-understood fact that, if they died without children, George was to

inherit the splendid estate of Mount Vernon. Madam Washington had been a

kind step-mother to Laurence Washington, and he repaid it by his

affection for his half-brothers and young sister. In those days, when

the eldest son was the heir, it seemed quite natural that George, as

next eldest, should have preference, and should be the next person of

consequence in the family to his brother Laurence.

He spent an hour riding over the place, seeing that the fodder had been

properly stripped from the stalks in a field, looking after the

ferry-boats, giving an eye to the feeding of the stock and a sharp

investigation of the stables, and returned to the house by seven

o'clock. Precisely at seven o'clock every morning all the children,

servants, and whatever guests there were in the house, assembled in the

sitting-room, where prayers were read. In his father's time the master

of the house had read these prayers, and after his death Laurence, as

the head of the family, had taken up this duty; but since his marriage

and removal to Mount Vernon it had fallen upon George.

When he entered the room he found his mother waiting for him as usual,

with little Mistress Betty and the three younger boys. The servants,

including Billy, who had already been reported by Aunt Sukey, were

standing around the wall. After an affectionate good-morning to his

mother, George, with dignity and reverence, read the family prayers in

the Book of Common Prayer. His mother was as calm and as collected as

usual, but in the small velvet bag she carried over her arm lay an

important letter, received between the time that George left the house

in the morning and his return. Prayers over, breakfast was served,

George sitting in his father's place at the head of the table, and Madam

Washington talking calmly over every-day matters.

"I do not know what we are to do with that boy Billy," she said. "This

morning, when he ought to have been picking up chips for the kitchen, he

was lying in front of your fireplace with Rattler, both of them sound

asleep."

George, instead of being scandalized at this, only smiled a little.

"I do not know which is the more useless," exclaimed Madam Washington,

with energy, "the dog or that boy."

George ceased smiling at this; he did not like to have Billy too

severely commented on, and deftly turned the conversation: "Lord Fairfax

again asked me, when we were crossing the river last night, to visit him

at Greenway Court. I should like very much to go, mother. I believe I

would rather go even than to spend Christmas at Mount Vernon, for I have

been to Mount Vernon, but I have never been to Greenway, or to any place

like it."

"The Earl sent me a letter this morning on the subject before he left

Fredericksburg," replied Madam Washington, quietly.

The blood flew into George's face, but he spoke no word. His mother was

a person who did not like to be questioned.

"You may read it," she continued, handing it to him out of her bag.

It was sealed with the huge crest of the Fairfaxes, and was written in

the beautiful penmanship of the period. It began:

"HONORED MADAM,--The promise you graciously made me, that your

eldest son, Mr. George Washington, might visit me at Greenway

Court, gave me both pride and pleasure; and will you not add to

that pride and pleasure by permitting him to return with me when I

pass through Fredericksburg again on my way home two days hence? Do

not, honored madam, think that I am proposing that your son spend

his whole time with me in sport and pleasure. While both have their

place in the education of the young, I conceive, honored madam,

that your son has more serious business in hand--namely, the

improvement of his mind, and the acquiring of those noble qualities

and graces which distinguish the gentleman from the lout.

"He would have at Greenway, at least, the advantage of the best

minds in England, as far as they can be writ in books, and for

myself, honored madam, I will be as kind to him as the tenderest

father. If you can recall with any pleasure the days, so long ago,

when we were both twenty years younger, and when your friendship,

honored madam, was the chief pleasure, as it always will be the

chief honor, of my life, I beg that you will not refuse my

request. I am, madam, with sentiments of the highest esteem,

"Your obedient humble servant, FAIRFAX."

"Have you thought it over, mother?"

"Yes, my son; but, as you know, I am a person of deliberation; I will

think it over yet more."

"I will give up Christmas at Mount Vernon, mother, if you will let me

go."

"I have already promised your brother that you shall spend Christmas

with him, and I cannot recall my word."

George said no more. He got up, and bowing respectfully to his mother,

went out. He had that morning more than his usual number of tasks to do;

but all day long he was in a dream. For all his steadiness and

willingness to lead a quiet life with his mother and the younger

children at Ferry Farm, he was by nature adventurous, and for more than

a year he had chafed inwardly at the narrow and uneventful existence

which he led. He had early announced that he wished to serve either in

the army or in the navy, but, like all people, young or old, who have

strong determination, he bided his time quietly, doing meanwhile what

came to hand. He had been every whit as much fascinated with Lord

Fairfax as the elder man had been with him; and the prospect of a visit

to Greenway--of listening to his talk of the great men he had known; of

seeing the mountains for the first time in his life, and of hunting and

sporting in their wilds; of taking lessons in fencing from old Lance; of

looking over Lord Fairfax's books--was altogether enchanting. He had a

keen taste for social life, and his Christmas at Mount Vernon, with all

its gayety and company, had been the happiest two weeks of his life.

Suppose his mother should agree to let him go to Greenway with the Earl

and then come back by way of Mount Vernon? Such a prospect seemed almost

too dazzling. He brought his horse down to a walk along the cart-road

through the woods he was traversing while he contemplated this

delightful vision; and then, suddenly coming out of his day-dream, he

pulled himself together, and striking into a sharp gallop, tried to

dismiss the subject from his mind. This he could not do, but he could

exert himself so that no one would guess what was going on in his mind,

and in this he was successful.

Two o'clock was the dinner-hour at Ferry Farm, and a few minutes before

that time George walked up from the stables to the house. Little Betty

was on the watch, and ran down to the gate to meet him. Their mother,

looking out of the window, saw them coming across the lawn, arm in arm,

Betty chattering like a magpie, and George smiling as he listened. They

were two of the handsomest and healthiest and brightest-eyed young

creatures that could be imagined, and Madam Washington's heart glowed

with a pride which she believed sinful, and strove unavailingly to

smother.

At dinner Madam Washington and George and Betty talked, the three

younger boys being made to observe silence, after the fashion of the

day. Neither Madam Washington nor George brought up the subject of the

Earl's visit, although it was a tremendous event in their quiet lives.

But little Betty, who was the talkative member of the family, at once

began on him. His coach and horses and outriders were grand, she

admitted; but why an Earl, with bags of money, should choose to wear a

plain brown suit, no better than any other gentleman, Mistress Betty

vowed she could not understand. His knee-buckles were not half so fine

as George's, and brother Laurence had a dozen suits finer than the

Earl's.

"His sword-hilt is worth more than this plantation," remarked George, by

way of mitigating Betty's scorn for the Earl's costume. Betty

acknowledged that she had never seen so fine a sword-hilt in her life,

and then innocently remarked that she wished she were going to visit at

Greenway Court with George. George's face turned crimson, but he

remained silent. He was a proud boy, and had never in his life begged

for anything, but he wanted to go so badly that the temptation was

strong in him to mount his horse, without asking anybody's leave, and

taking Billy and Rattler with him, start off alone for the mountains.

Dinner was over presently, and as they rose, Madam Washington said,

quietly:

"My son, I have determined to allow you to join Lord Fairfax, and I have

sent an inquiry to him, an hour ago, asking at what time to-morrow you

should meet him in Fredericksburg. You may remain with him until

December; but the first mild spell in December I wish you to go down to

Mount Vernon for Christmas, as I promised."

George's delight was so great that he grew pale with pleasure. He would

have liked to catch his mother in his arms and kiss her, but mother and

son were chary of showing emotion. Therefore he only took her hand and

kissed it, saying, breathlessly:

"Thank you, mother. I hardly hoped for so much pleasure."

"But it is not for pleasure that I let you go," replied his mother, who,

according to the spirit of the age, referred everything to duty. "'Tis

because I think my Lord Fairfax's company will be of benefit to you; and

as there is but little prospect of a school here this winter, and I have

made no arrangements for a tutor, I must do something for your

education, but that I cannot do until after Christmas. So, as I think

you will be learning something of men as well as of books, I have

thought it best, after reflecting upon it as well as I can, to let you

go."

"I will promise you, mother, never to do or say anything while I am away

from you that I would be ashamed for you to know," cried George.

Madam Washington smiled at this.

"Your promise is too extensive," she said. "Promise me only that you

will _try_ not to do or say anything that will make me ashamed, and that

will be enough."

George colored at these words, as he answered, quickly: "I dare say I

promised too much, and so I will accept the change you make."

[Illustration: HERE A WILD HOWL BURST UPON THE AIR.]

Here a wild howl burst upon the air. Billy, who had been standing behind

George's chair, understood well enough what the conversation meant, and

that he was to be separated until after Christmas from his beloved

"Marse George." Madam Washington, who had little patience with such

outbreaks of emotion, sharply spoke to him: "Be quiet, Billy!"

Billy's reply was a fresh burst of tears and wailing, which brought home

to little Betty that George was about to leave them, and caused her to

dissolve into tears and sobs, while Rattler, running about the room, and

looking from one to the other, began to bark furiously.

Madam Washington, standing up, calm, but excessively annoyed at this

commotion in her quiet house, brought her foot down with a light tap,

which, however, meant volumes. Uncle Jasper too appeared, and was about

to haul Billy off to condign punishment, when George intervened.

"Hold your tongue, Billy," he said; and Billy, digging his knuckles into

his eyes, subsided as quietly as he had broken forth.

"Now go up to my room, and take the dog, and stay there until I come,"

continued George.

Billy obeyed promptly. Betty, however, having once let loose the

floodgates, hung around George's neck and wept oceans of tears. George

soothed her as best he could, but Betty would not be comforted, and was

more distressed than ever when, in a little while, a note arrived from

Lord Fairfax, saying he would leave Fredericksburg the next morning at

sunrise, if it would be convenient to Mr. Washington to join him then.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

[Illustration: Between Two Years]

BY MARGARET SUTTON BRISCOE.

I.

The Right Rev. Bishop Hegan and his younger brother were holding a family

conclave in the Bishop's library, one at each side of the sermon-strewn

writing-table.

"I may be wrong," the younger man was saying, "but I see no better way

out of my difficulty. My dear brother, you pray every Sunday for

fatherless children and widows; why don't you mention widowers and

motherless children; they are in far more need of help."

"It is hard," said the Bishop, sympathetically; "but I am afraid you are

making your path harder by this last move."

Mr. Hegan made no effort to contradict his brother. "I see no better

way," he repeated. "I went to Mildred's, and there found Tom, a boy of

eighteen, eating his ten-o'clock breakfast--quail on toast. I picked

Master Tom up with me and went on. At Jane's I found my four other young

ones. But you have seen for yourself how I found them."

The Bishop laughed genially. "There was nothing to worry you in their

training."

"No, for there was none. Perhaps I ought to have let their mother's

sister bring them up as she offered."

"Whip them up, you mean," said the Bishop.

"Exactly; that's why I refused. It was good of my sisters to take my

children for me; but they are not as their mother left them."

"No," said the Bishop, shaking his head; "they have lost what cannot be

replaced. I suppose, Tom, you are not thinking of marrying again?" The

brothers talked together with the utmost freedom, the younger answering

the point-blank question as frankly as it was asked.

"I had thought of that, but the chances seemed to me as even that a

step-mother would make the children unhappy as that my plan may. Joan is

now--let me see--sixteen years old. She ought not to study this year;

she is not as strong as she should be. She has been growing too fast and

thinking too hard. The change to a year of home life and home cares will

do her good."

"Is Joan to keep your house?"

"That was my idea. Jane has been filling her little head with romances,

and letting her talk freely with the servants at the same time, until

her conversation is a grotesque mixture of cultivation and picturesque

terms culled from the servants' hall. Tom hears her in horror. But he

needs to be shocked, so that's one good gained. I shall take Tom out to

the furnaces with me, and start him with a crowbar in his hand to work

his way up. It's the only chance for redeeming him. I haven't broken

that piece of news to him yet. He thinks he is to go to college. I don't

dare to send him there in his present trim. Milly has meant well, but

she has almost ruined my boy with her money. Jane has done less harm to

the others, but I must have my children with me for a year at least to

straighten them out, and then I can decide what each one needs."

The Bishop looked grave. "It seems to me an awful experience ahead for

you, and a pretty hard one for the young people, Tom. Aren't you just a

little severe on them?"

"I don't think so; I know I don't mean to be. The truth is they have

lost their dear mother, and life must be hard for us all at present. I

think they ought to take their share of it. Shirking their burden, as I

have been letting them, was certainly doing them harm. We are a

motherless brood, and a motherless brood we will be, and work it out

together."

The elder brother looked tenderly across the table at the younger. "You

are a brave fellow, Tom. God bless you and your undertaking! I can't

help feeling it's a wild experiment, but, as you have the courage to

conceive it, you may have the character to bring it to a good end. Now

that you have your little brood all collected here, let them roost in

the garret as long as you like, and draw a free breath before you plunge

in. Here come the youngsters now."

The study door was banged open, and three little children, two boys and

a girl, hurtled into the room. The elder children were dragging the baby

girl between them, and they were followed by Joan, who had plainly set

out with the intention of quelling the riot, but forgot her errand by

the way, and now wandered in dreamily after the procession. The Bishop's

quiet study, kept always by his housekeeper as a half-sacred retreat,

buzzed as if blue-bottle flies had flown in.

"Godfather, we can play here, can't we?"

The Bishop was godfather to all his brother's children.

"Play here? No, my dears," said the Bishop, promptly; "you cannot. See!

I tied my manuscript scissors to my desk yesterday, because-- Well, you

two boys know why; and now somebody has most impudently cut the string

with those very same scissors, and they are off again. This will not do,

gentlemen--it will not do."

The Bishop was afraid of no man, woman, or child either; for, strange to

say, it is not uncommon to find those who are bold with grown people

fearful with little folk.

Mr. Hegan laughed to see his two stormy boys stand staring solemnly and

guiltily at their uncle. "I wish I had your royal talent," he said. "I

never shall make myself loved yet respected as you do. Once, twenty

years ago, you found me shoving about some of your papers on this very

desk, and I took a long walk afterward, and crept in at the back door

when I came home. I loved you just as dearly, but I never touched your

desk papers again, any more than my boys will your scissors."

"Dear! dear! I must have a frightful temper," said the Bishop, easily.

"Tom, suppose you wake Joan. But the child has a lovely face when she

sleeps awake, hasn't she?"

"Joan!" called Mr. Hegan; "my child!"

Joan turned with a start. She had been standing gazing up at a picture

that hung over the Bishop's head. The painting was a spiritual yet

spirited conception of the manly Maid of Orleans, with a peculiarly

delicate shading of her womanliness into the warlike pose.

"Father," said Joan, as she turned--her voice cooed like a

wood-pigeon's--"did you ever see such a perfect picture? Can't the

children go out now? They are getting so fritty in the house."

There was no break between the sentences, only a change of tone.

"Fritty?" asked her uncle. "What's fritty, pray?"

"I don't know. I always say that. Frightfully fretful, I suppose. They

certainly are that. It's not really raining now, father." She walked to

the window. "Just a kinder drizzle-drazzle, slightly drippy-drap."

The father and uncle exchanged glances and waited; but Joan, turning

back, was again absorbed in the painting above them, and saw nothing.

"We are talking about the weather, my dear," said Mr. Hegan, dryly, and

Joan flushed as she roused again. "Does their nurse think the children

should go out?"

Joan laughed aloud. She had a child's laugh. "Lolly? Why, father, Lolly

doesn't know anything. You wrote Aunt Jane you would rather the children

had a stupid nurse than a bright one who would force them forward, so we

chose out Lolly, and indeed, father, you've got your rather." She

laughed out again--with no impertinence, but an open enjoyment that

anything should be expected of Lolly.

"Is this the nurse you expect to keep?" asked the Bishop of his brother.

Mr. Hegan looked troubled. Joan watched him anxiously, and with a swift

keenness of expression that surprised and pleased her uncle.

"Father," she said, seriously, "I haven't asked what your plans are, but

whatever they may be, don't part with Lolly. She's half a fool, but she

bathes the children beautifully, and keeps their clothes nice, and they

love her just as the baby loves her cribby-house. She is so soft and

kind and pleasant to them. I always--or Aunt Jane--decide things."

Again the brothers exchanged glances, as Joan stooped to extricate the

baby, who had been tilted over into the scrap-basket.

"She looked a woman as she said that," whispered the Bishop, "and like a

child the moment before."

"She is both," said the father. "Joan, sit here a moment, my dear. We

want to talk with you. Your uncle does not approve what I am going to

do, but I have decided, if you feel able to undertake it, to let you

drop study for a year, and keep house for me and the children. What do

you say? Could you 'decide things' without Aunt Jane?"

To the disappointment of those who were closely watching her on this

test question, Joan's radiant delight rose as a screen before any latent

capacity she might have shown.

"Oh dear father, is it true? Oh, godfather, I am so happy! Children,

children, listen--"

"Let her alone," said the Bishop; "we can only tell by waiting. She is a

sweet-hearted child, if she does use extraordinary language, and she

still will be sweet if she should utterly fail you in housekeeping.

Remember that, Tom."

"But she also shows a lovely and cultivated mind at times," insisted the

father.

"Well, not to me as yet," denied the Bishop, laughingly.

"'Fritty'--'Drippy-drap'--'drizzle-drazzle'! Nevertheless, you are right

to forbid her to study for a time. She has sombre shadows under her eyes

that add to her peculiar style of beauty, but they must be painted out

by a good common rose-color. Now, Tom, take yourself and your children

and your affairs out of my study and my head--out of my heart you never

go--but this sermon must be written."

"Oh, just one minute," begged Joan, "Father, what about Tom?"

"He is to be with us. I shall take him on the furnace work with me. But

don't mention that to him yet, Joan; I charge you carefully not to tell

him."

Joan's face was a flushed joy. "Not for the world. How happy, happy,

happy we shall all be together! Tom's coming is my last straw of joy."

"Godfather," pleaded the baby, with hands held up, "you tarry me up

'tairs."

Godfather flung the baby up to his tall broadcloth shoulder, and the

whole cavalcade trooped to the stairs, the baby the centre of

attraction. Joan, running on ahead, stood smiling from the upper

landing, her arms held down for the crowing baby girl, whom she clasped

and carried away to bed.

Presently from the highest landing, where the children were quartered,

Joan's still sweet tones floated down as if remonstrating against some

action of her brother's.

"Tom, Tom, you mustn't grab baby like that with a pin in your coat. Why,

I wouldn't keep pins in my clothes any more than I would a hoppy-toad.

Sure to scratch baby. Well, dear boy, if you don't like my ways, don't

swing on my gate. When you strain my hinges, they creak."

"No lack of spirit, at any rate," laughed the Bishop. "Cheer up, Tom. I

am more anxious now for your boy than for your girl. I think she'll do."

At that moment, in the garret nursery, temporarily fitted up for the

children's use, Tom's boy was talking with Joan in a way momentous to

both. He was a handsome, finely built young fellow, with the look of

half-sulky defiance which marks the boy who, for one reason or another,

has yet to earn his real manhood.

"So that's the plan for you and the kids, eh? I'm glad for you, Joan, if

you like it. I wish I knew what college father will decide to send me

to. I can't understand why he won't let me choose. And he was so odd at

Aunt Milly's; he swept me away before I had really finished my

breakfast, and sat watching me eat with his face like a thunder-cloud."

Joan's heart contracted with a quick fear of unhappy possibilities which

had not before occurred to her. What had seemed ideal to her was not,

she began to realize, Tom's ideal. She controlled herself to reply.

"What were you eating?" she asked, practically.

"Quail on toast; and there was no harm in that. You would have thought

he had caught me picking a pocket. He was closeted for a long time with

Aunt Milly, and she came out crying, and told me father meant to take me

from her at once. Did you know Aunt Milly wanted to adopt me?"

Joan raised her eyes with the rare searching look her uncle had

admired. "You would not like that?" she stated rather than asked.

Tom shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know. It would mean money to burn."

"It would mean hearts to burn," replied Joan, quickly. "Tom, _would_ you

like it?" She looked in his face with pleading anxiety.

Tom melted. "No, I would hate it. I'm immensely proud of being my

father's son. Do you happen to know how father got his first promotion?

Uncle told me to-day. He wasn't very much older than I when he went to

work. The furnace he was in charge of was cooling fast, and they

couldn't control it. He had barrels of oil hoisted to the top of the

furnace, and with his own hands he flung them down into the red-hot

opening. It saved the company thousands; but what I liked was his doing

it himself, and not sending some poor devil of a workman to do it for

him."

Joan's dark cheek flushed. "Wasn't that fine? Tom, there are two things

I do envy you the chance of doing. Poor me! I shall never be able to do

anything fine like that, and I never can knock anybody down. I always

wanted to be able to hit out from the shoulder if I needed to, and do

deeds of valor like Joan of Arc. Uncle has the most perfect picture of

her."

"Don't talk like that, Joan," said Tom, with a humorous look at her. He

was at times strikingly like his uncle, with the same unconscious air of

gentle breeding, quite different from the man-of-the-world manner he

affected whenever he remembered it. "I want you to be like other girls.

Fellows don't like peculiar women, and I want my sister to be a toast

among my college friends. I suppose father will let me fill the house

for the holidays. There's good shooting down there, isn't there?"

"I don't know," said Joan.

"Joan," said Tom, in a still voice, "what are you crying about? You know

something you are not telling me, Joan. What is it?"

"Indeed, Tom--"

"Don't try to tell stories, Joan; you don't know how to. Father has some

plan for me that I won't like, and you know what it is."

"Oh, Tom, why do you say that; what have I said?"

"Nothing. That's just the trouble. If you don't know anything, deny it."

Another long and, to Joan, terrible stillness. "Does father want me to

go to work half educated, as he did? There is no earthly necessity for

it, as there was with him. If you don't answer, Joan, I shall know

that's his plan."

Joan wrung her hands in speechless agony.

"It's a piece of rank tyranny," said Tom, between his teeth. "I won't

submit to it, and I shall tell father so this minute. I won't be planned

for over my head."

He had accepted the facts as if Joan had told him of them in so many

words. Joan had a vague sense that she was being horribly wronged, or

that she was wronging some one, her over-tender conscience leading her

to settle in the latter conviction. She was trying to clasp Tom's arm

and hold him back with sobbing entreaties, but he would not be held. The

little baby sister, attracted half pleasurably by the emotion she saw

between her elders, had drawn near, and was staring up at them

round-eyed. Tom stubbed his toe over her as he made for the door, and

did not stop for more than a hasty glance, which told him the baby was

more angry than hurt. It was Joan who picked up the child, and the two

sobbed together, with their faces tucked each into the other's soft

neck.

"Oh," sobbed the elder sister, "don't cry, little sister, don't cry. Big

sister wants to think!"

Tom meantime was allowed no preparation between his discovery and his

interview with his father, for he stumbled against Mr. Hegan in the

lower hall as he had on the baby in the nursery, with the difference

that the father not only withstood the shock, but caught his son by the

shoulder, steadying him. So the two came face to face and eye to eye in

actual arm's-length of each other.

"What's the matter?" asked Mr. Hegan; and Tom knew he was not referring

to their bodily encounter.

"Joan has been telling me--" he blurted out.

Mr. Hegan's hands dropped. He knew at once what was referred to. "Joan

told you!" he exclaimed.

Tom recovered his wits and his generosity. "No, no! I mean I wormed it

out of her. She did not mean to tell anything."

"Did you twist her arm or pinch her?"

"Father!"

"It amounts to the same thing. As you have succeeded in 'worming out' of

Joan--I use your own terms--what I wanted to tell you myself, suppose we

talk it all over now and settle it here."

Mr. Hegan moved to the hall window, leaning against one side of the

frame. His tone of cold contempt stung like a whip, and matters did not

mend as they progressed. To Tom it was as if the world were at stake,

and Mr. Hegan, in a few terse matter-of-fact sentences, was making his

will known. The boy broke in at last, unable to wait for a proper pause:

"You had not a college education yourself, sir, or you would realize why

I feel it so important."

The tone was not respectful, and Mr. Hegan's brow reddened slightly, but

his voice was as even as before: "Does the anticipation of a college

education give so much experience? Perhaps I value what I lost more than

if I had enjoyed it. You cannot possibly place more importance on

education than I do, for you have not felt the handicap of its lack.

But, though you will not now believe it, there are things more

important. For my own reasons, and thoughtfully"--Mr. Hegan's voice grew

warmer and his manner more fatherly--"I have decided, Tom, that you must

just now begin as your father began."

Tom looked up steadily in his father's face.

[Illustration: "HAD YOU CONSIDERED THAT I MIGHT REFUSE, SIR?"]

"Had you considered that I might refuse, sir?"

Mr. Hegan did not again change color, though now the disrespect was

marked. He looked at his son calmly, as he might at a stranger.

"No," he replied, quietly. "I had not considered that for a moment."

Tom strove in vain to render his own tones as quiet. "What is there to

prevent my refusing? What is to prevent my acceptance of Aunt Milly's

offer of adoption?"

"Nothing," answered Mr. Hegan, as quietly as before. "Your Aunt Milly

would be glad to take you back on any terms, pleasant or offensive to

me, and once back with her, I assure you I would not move a finger to

dislodge you."

In spite of his resentment at fatherly control, this announced

indifference cut the son to the quick. He flung back his head.

"I will go at once," he said.

"No," replied Mr. Hegan, "you will not."

"Why not?" asked Tom, and could have choked himself for the involuntary

question.

"You will not go simply because I forbid it."

At the simple words Tom's heart stood still. A quick conviction seized

him that he would for some unknown reason have to obey this calm command

as absolutely as it was given. At the bare mental suggestion a great

anger and defiance surged within him. He knew then that he had touched

the crisis. It was then or never--freedom or bondage. Hot words that

were to cut him loose from all authority were on his tongue, and he

opened his lips to say them. Mr. Hegan's calm eyes were fixed on his

face. To the boy's amazement, defiant words would not come. In their

place, as he gasped in his effort, there was something else--a wordless,

voiceless sound tearing its way through his throat and choking an outlet

at his lips. Tom was leaning against the window opposite his father,

sobbing like a beaten child. In the depths of his mortification, the

confusion of his abrupt downfall, he heard his father's footsteps pass

by him, leaving the hall. For the first time in his prosperous life Tom

had been knocked down flat--in spirit. He was quivering in every nerve

with the shock of failure, yet he felt a strange new sense of power. He

had measured his strength for the first time against a more powerful

nature, and, though beaten, he was stronger for the struggle, and he

knew it. There was something in the experience that had developed while

it humbled him.

In the Bishop's study Joan was also taking her first lesson in the new

life, but she had a different teacher, and her lesson was shorter. He

had always been easy for her to talk with, and a few questions drew

forth the true state of the case.

"The young rascal!" said the Bishop.

"Do you," sobbed Joan--"do you think father will be harsh with him?"

"I don't doubt it for a moment," said the Bishop, cheerfully. "Tom will

be treated to just enough punishment, and not a grain too much."

Her uncle laid his hand tenderly on her dark head. "See here, my little

girl," he said, "I want you to take life less heroically. I am going to

give you a token to remind you of this. You keep looking up at my Joan

of Arc. Well, she is yours. No, you must accept it, for I can spare her

easily. I don't care to own too many impediments in my walk through the

world. You must hang the picture in your own room; and whenever you look

at it I want you to say to yourself, not Joan of Arc, but--Joan of Home.

You don't understand what I mean just yet, but some day as you say this

you will understand suddenly, and better than if I had explained it. Now

run away, my dear."

"Dear! dear!" thought the Bishop to himself, as he shut his study door,

"Brother Tom has plainly been reading the riot act. I wonder if his boy

will ever make him another declaration of independence?" His eye fell on

the calendar on his desk, and he raised his eyebrows, smiling. "Why," he

said, "what a man of peace I am! It's the great Fourth of July, and I

never realized it. Well, Tom and his family have been Celebrating and

Declaring enough for us all. I wonder how it will end?"

II.

"Now, Joan, I think the table looks as if a butler had set it," said

Tom, as he arranged the napkins in little hillocks.

"You are awfully good to me, Tom. Indeed, I couldn't keep house without

you. I hardly knew a carafe from a finger-bowl until you taught me. Aunt

Jane never thought or cared for such things."

"Aunt Milly never thought or cared for anything else," said Tom. "If

I've taught you some things, you've untaught me more, Joan. Anyhow, what

good does it do a man to know how to serve a dinner? It doesn't help me

to sledge."

"Perhaps it does. Father said yesterday that you were more accurate in

sledging than any man on the works."

Tom glowed with pleasure. "Did he say that?" he said, eagerly; then he

laughed. "Suppose a year ago any one had told me I should blush with

pride at praise for sledging! By-the-way, I want to remind you, Joan,

you mustn't yawn in his lordship's face this evening when you begin to

get sleepy. If I know him, he wouldn't like it at all, and it's not

polite. I've told you that so often, why don't you stop it?"

"I can't," said Joan, sorrowfully. "I have tried to close my mouth and

let it go out at my ears, as you said, but I feel as if I were turning

inside out like a popcorn."

"You had better turn inside out than be rude, Aunt Milly would tell you.

Joan, do you know we have both changed in this year? Here we are, you

sniffing at Aunt Jane's housekeeping, and I at Aunt Milly's eternal

little fixings. I don't say that was nice of us, but it does mark a

change. You know we have thought our respective aunts perfection."

Joan looked troubled, and was attempting an explanation--she could not

think so fast as Tom--when the front door opened, and her father's voice

announced the arrival of their expected guest. Joan paused to give a

quick glance around the room. Everything was ready: the dinner, she

knew, prepared to serve in a moment; the baby in bed; the little

boys--externally--in perfect order. "Tom, do you think they'll behave

decently?" she asked, with a young mother's anxious glance at the boys.

"I don't see why they should," Tom rejoined, cheerfully--"they never

have."

"Indeed, Tom, Robert sometimes makes me doubt the efficacy of prayer.

Every night he asks God to make him a good boy, but I don't see any

improvement in him. Do you?"

Joan spoke earnestly, but Tom laughed. "Don't you worry, Joan. Uncle is

a man of the world: he always understands everything."

If Bishop Hegan did not understand everything, he understood a great

deal with no questions asked, and he nodded silent congratulations to

his brother across the dinner table. When the meal was ended the Bishop

said:

"I think I will go to bed with the chickens and the children," said

Bishop Hegan. "I am a tired man to-night. Tom--young Tom, I

mean--suppose you come help me to take off my apron. Lord Bishops wear

aprons, Tom, don't they?" He looked at his nephew with a twinkle in his

eye.

"I don't know, sir; I never unfrocked one before," retorted Tom, and

then gasped at his own audacity. He would never have ventured so

reckless a jest with his father. The Bishop was different somehow--more

like himself, and in a degree like Aunt Milly. As he led his uncle to

his room, Tom felt with a pleasurable excitement that it was to be a

brief return to the world from his work-a-day life.

"Suppose we talk about Joan," said the Bishop. "She looks well--very

well--quite like a little milkmaid."

"That's just the trouble," said Tom, plunging eagerly into the subject,

as one near to his heart. "Why, uncle, she's a perfect tomboy. Do you

know, Joan is seventeen years old, and there's not a romance in the

house she hasn't read, and not a tree in the country round that she

can't and don't climb. You heard her change the subject when father

asked where the cherries came from that we had at dinner."

"No," answered the Bishop. "You see, I am not sufficiently a member of

the family to take in all these shibboleths."

"They came from a tree she was ashamed to say she had climbed. Those

cherries--I recognized them--are almost never gathered, because there's

not a boy around here who likes to climb that tree. Do you think she

ought to run wild like that? I don't mean she doesn't do finely at home,

for she does--just as well as she can--that is--" Tom's truth forced the

amendment. "Father's awfully good to her. He keeps a chair by his study

desk for her, that she calls her thinking-chair, and when she's in any

home trouble she slips in there and sits by him to think it over.

Sometimes she consults father, but as often she doesn't say a word. She

seems to get help from him without that. I suppose you have seen how

very fond they are of each other."

The Bishop was winding his watch, and looking about the bedroom to which

Tom had led him. "That's nice," he said. "Where's your thinking-chair?"

The question came so suddenly, and the look which went with it was so

kindly searching, that Tom stammered out the truth with a rush: "Father

and I are not confidential like that. But it's a mercy that Joan is his

favorite. You see, she's so dreamy she's apt to blunder, and if she were

not a favorite with him it would be frightfully hard for her."

"Is it frightfully hard for you?" asked the Bishop.

"Sometimes," said Tom, truthfully. He spoke candidly, but with a reserve

which his uncle respected.

"Wouldn't you miss Joan sadly if she were to be sent away?" he asked.

"You seem to depend on each other."

The older man noted the swift change in the young face near him.

"I can't think about that. No human being knows what Joan has done for

me this year. She seemed always to divine just when I couldn't stand

things any longer, and there she is by me. I suppose I shouldn't let her

be around those rough furnaces so much, but I never can send her away.

It made me ashamed the other day when I found she could stand as much of

the furnace gas in her lungs as I. You see, she always comes at the

worst times to bring me lemonade or something of that sort. The thirst

in those gases is awful."

"Yet you think she ought to go elsewhere?"

The answer came unhesitatingly: "I know it. This is no way to bring up a

girl."

"I'm not so sure," said the Bishop, easily. "It depends on the girl."

But Tom, his tongue once loosened, went on: "Now if she could spend one

year with Aunt Milly--"

The Bishop's mouth twitched. "Well, now, it would be rather funny,

wouldn't it, to have the life here curing what was bad for you in your

Aunt Milly's training, and Aunt Milly's training curing what is bad for

Joan in the life here; No, no; your Aunt Milly would suit for some

girls, but not for Joan. She is a little oddity, and not very strong in

body. She needs odd treatment. Your father sees that. Let her read and

climb all she chooses, but a governess with no domestic authority might

be an advisable addition to the family. I'll suggest that to your

father; and tell him too that while Joan talks more carefully than a

year ago, she has to-night informed me that the baby is the 'very spit

of father.'" The Bishop smiled at the memory. "That won't do, of course.

Why haven't you talked Joan over with your father?"

"I should as soon think of advising the Pope, uncle. My father," he

added, with a little unconscious wistfulness that caught the listener's

quick ear--"my father is the finest man I know, but he is not easy to

talk with, as you are."

The unconscious comparison did not offend the Bishop. He sat thoughtful

for a while before he replied. "I want to tell you something to

remember," he said at last. "Some day you and your father will come

together, and be all the closer for the momentum you get by being

separate now. I know he is a silent man, but wait until you get at what

is behind his silence, as I have. Did I ever show you any of his letters

to me? I suppose he lets himself out in them as nowhere else, and some

of them I have laid away for you children when you are older. Let me

see; I think I can show you a part of one now. It struck me as so true I

almost stole it for use in a sermon." He drew out some letters from his

pocket, and choosing one, he turned it down between certain lines and

handed it over to his nephew. Tom read with interest that grew intense

as he went on.

"I am sure we both agree," the letter ran, "that the man who earns his

education, and his right to eat bread and live, by the sweat of his own

brow, has an enormous pull over the man whose education and buttered

bread and honey are all paid for by somebody else. At the same time my

boy has worked so finely, so manfully and earnestly, at the furnaces

this year, I think, and you, my dear brother, will be glad to learn

this, that by the coming fall I can venture to send him--"

"Where?" asked Tom, devouring the turned-down page with hungry eyes. His

fingers trembled to lift the sheet.

"Dear! dear!" said the Bishop, innocently, taking the paper and folding

it away. "Did I leave out something I ought to have folded down? Well,

don't ask me any questions. Don't ask me. It's a very imprudent person

who tells names and tales the same day. I don't think I left out the

name of the college, did I? Now, my boy, be off, before my waistcoat is.

How could you respect my cloth if you should see me in flannel? I must

go to rest if I mean to climb that cherry-tree with Joan to-morrow, and

I certainly mean to try."

Bishop Hegan was always as good as his word, generally a little better;

therefore the next morning he and Joan and the little boys and Lolly and

the baby were all established under the spreading branches of the

cherry-tree--Joan half ashamed of the tree's proportions, but wholly

happy.

"Do you always move in a caravan like this?" asked Bishop Hegan, "I felt

like Father Abraham establishing a tribe as we trailed over the fields.

I don't remember asking any one but you to accompany me, Joan."

"They always come too," said Joan, simply, "wherever I go. Do you really

want to climb this tree, godfather? It would be a nice way for you to

celebrate the Fourth of July, wouldn't it?"

"For me, as a kind of mild and clerical dissipation, I suppose," laughed

the Bishop. "Bless my soul, I don't believe there is such an unpatriotic

man in America as I! Last Fourth of July I forgot to celebrate at all,

and here's another Fourth hours old before I realize its birth."

Joan looked at her uncle with round shocked eyes. "Why, godfather! I

didn't know you'd think that a right way to feel. I make our children

pray every night for our country and the President and our continued

independence."

The Bishop could not restrain a smile. "My little Joan of Arc," he said,

and the words struck a chord of memory with them both. "How is it with

Joan of Home?"

Joan shook her head sorrowfully. "Not very well. But indeed I am trying.

I keep your letters and read them over, and I say, 'Joan of Home' every

time I look at my lovely Joan of Arc; but I don't see yet why you told

me to do that, godfather."

"Yes, you do," said the Bishop; "at least your heart has seen, if your

mind has not. What do you think as you look at the Maid?"

Joan's eyes kindled; her voice rang: "That I would love to buckle on my

armor as she did, and fight for my country as she fought."

Again the Bishop had to hide a smile. "Well, don't you?"

Joan stared. "I am so stupid, godfather. I don't understand you."

"Why, sometimes I think every woman is a fighting patriot, all day and

every day. Don't you buckle on your armor every morning and war with the

butcher, the baker, and candlestick-maker to defend your little country

in this direction and that? Every family is a small state to be

governed. Don't you know that?"

Joan's face fell. "Godfather, I don't like that idea," she burst out.

"There is nothing glorious in what I am doing. Of course I love helping

father, but the dear children and the tradesfolk almost fray me out

sometimes. I only war in the way you describe because I know I ought

to."

"That's a good enough and glorious enough reason," said the Bishop.

"Don't you fret, my little girl. If the chance of any kind of glory ever

comes your way--and your cruel old godfather prays it never may--you

won't find yourself ill prepared to meet it, if you take care of the

peace duties and let the glory take care of itself."

"Yes," said Joan, humbly, "I will try. I am trying to talk better than I

did, as you wrote to me I should. Do you think I have improved at all? I

know I did sometimes talk to beat the band."

"Well, the last remark was not wholly guiltless," laughed the Bishop.

"But never mind. You are doing very well in all ways. What a

sweet-tempered child you are making of Teddy! Hear the boy now."

"Bumble-peg, bumble-peg," Teddy was calling to Robert. "Yeth, I want to

play it. Oh, come an' leth play bumble-peg. What ith it?"

"He gets that from you, dear godfather," said Joan. "I don't believe

there's another bishop in the world that would go out to climb trees

with his niece."

"I haven't climbed yet," said the Bishop, looking up at the spreading

branches and the huge bare hole of the old tree. "My dear, where do you

get your first foothold?"

"Here," said Joan. "I'll show you, godfather. But you mustn't tell Tom.

It was half mean of him to tell you on me about climbing this tree."

She had led her uncle to the back of the old tree, where the underbrush

clustered thickly, hiding a set of heavy iron pegs, which she had driven

into the trunk, one above the other, until they were like an irregular

set of steps.

"I did that with a great iron hammer," said Joan. "It took a whole

morning. I stood on one as I drove in the other, and I never felt so

much like my Joan of Arc as then."

"I should think so," said the Bishop, looking up at the iron perches.

"Personally I should think it would have been easier, and certainly more

school-girlish, to content yourself with candy at home."

"I know," said Joan; "but then I never did care for candy. I always

loved the works of nature better than the arts of man." She spoke so

sweetly and simply that though he really started at the last words,

Bishop Hegan could not find it in his heart to laugh at them. He set his

foot on the first iron peg, which at once yielded under his weight.

"Dear! dear!" he said, drawing back; "my rotundity or the weight of my

divinity is too much for your ladder, Joan. No wild celebrating for me

to-day. By-the-way, why aren't you children blowing off your fingers and

your heads on this glorious Fourth? You, of all people, Joan, should not

have a toe or finger left."

"Father doesn't allow fireworks here," said Joan; "you see, he can't

make any exceptions for us, as we live on the works. There are never

holidays for furnaces, and he can't very well allow the furnace-men to

be playing at fire-crackers. Somehow I like it quiet this way much

better. We can _feel_ the day more solemnly than if we were playing all

the time. I think if everybody would try to _do_ something patriotic on

the Fourth of July it would be beautiful, and ever so much better than

firing off shooting-crackers. But then it's awfully hard to find

patriotic things to do. I've tried every year, and I have never found

one yet."

"And then most of us find more satisfaction in shooting-cracker

patriotism," said Bishop Hegan, dryly. "Now, little girl, up with you;

let me see how you can climb."

[Illustration: SHE SWAYED FROM BRANCH TO BRANCH.]

He expected a pretty sight, but Joan's climbing was something more than

that. She not only swayed from branch to branch, but fitted her slender

body against limbs too large to grasp, crawling out on their limits as

the tree-toad crawls. For the pure joy of motion, she worked her sinuous

way to the tree-top, where no cherries grew, and back again to the limbs

where they hung in clusters, which she flung down, laughing. It was not

the fearless climbing of a hardy boy, but the poetry of climbing as a

delicate girl might be expected to climb, but as the on-looker had never

seen one venture to attempt. He felt that in a way it was scarcely

human, and was glad when Joan, flushed but not breathless, dropped again

at his side.

"Thank you," said the Bishop, as if he had witnessed a special benefit

performance. He kept watching the young girl as she walked home quietly

by his side.

"Aunt Milly!" he thought. "Fancy this bit of oddity shackled in her

house! But she climbs entirely too well. Egad! it's a professional

wood-nymph. She must have a governess. I wonder if she is all heroics,

or if we have a mute inglorious Jeanne d'Arc in our midst. I almost wish

we could prove the child."

"Come, children," said Joan, interrupting the thread of her uncle's

thought. "Come, stir your little stumps. We are late for lunch, and I'm

hungry. No, Lolly, it won't hurt Ted to run a little. You know, nothing

ever hurts our boys. I declare, rattlesnakes run from 'em."

"She's just a little child, after all," decided the laughing Bishop,

"Upon my word, I think I caught her heroics for the moment."

"Come on," said Joan, urging on the little ones. "Come on. Father must

be at home by now."

She stopped short, suddenly listening, her eyes dilated. Across the

fields, blown to them on the wind, came faintly the sound of a sharp

shrill whistle, thrice repeated, then silence, and the same signal

again.

"It's for father," said Joan, breathlessly. "Something has happened at

the works."

All over the great iron-works men were hurriedly calling inquiries to

one another as the shrill insistent whistle rang out with that note of

alarm which danger signals seem to gain, or which the ear hears in them.

The busy place roused as a humming beehive is roused by a sounded gong.

All those who could, or who dared to leave their work, ran in the

direction where they saw others running. Tom, dressed in his rough

overalls, and with face and hands grimy from the great furnace stoves

for which he was responsible, was by that responsibility tied to his

post until he could leave everything in safe order. He was almost the

last man free, and not until long after his patience was exhausted was

he able to follow the straggling procession that led to the new

fire-proof stock-house in process of erection. As he ran, Tom learned by

snatches what had happened. Those dreaded poisonous gases that are the

curse of the furnace-man had been insidiously leaking out from the

neighboring furnace pipes, and creeping up under the iron roof of the

stock-house. There they had collected as in an ether-cone, waiting to do

their mischievous work. So slowly and so imperceptibly had they

gathered, the men working in under the roof, riveting the huge iron

girders, had labored on unconscious of the enemy surrounding them. They

were not "iron-men" proper, and so less inured to the gases and less

aware of their danger, the peculiarity of which is that the gases do

their deadly work so swiftly when once taking hold that a man is

unconscious before he knows he is actually attacked. Tom remembered one

poor fellow who was sitting on a high wall eating his poor dinner-pail

meal, when the gases found and caught him. It was Tom who had discovered

him lying at the foot of the wall, a bit of bread still in his hand,

and--Tom did not care to remember the rest, and he was glad when he

reached the stock-house to see that a piece of tarpauling had been laid

over a huddled something on the ground outside the house.

"Father is here," thought Tom, "or that would have been left out to gape

at."

But it was not his father who was standing by the tarpauling. It was

Bishop Hegan, who looked up at Tom as he would have hurried by, and

beckoned to him. "Find Joan and the children," he said. "They

outstripped me, and are here somewhere. Take them home. I must stay here

by this poor thing. They say his wife is coming."

Bishop Hegan's face was white with pity. He took a step to the open

building, and pointed up significantly. Tom lifted his eyes, and then

ran forward where the crowd surged inside.

There had been three men working on the girders; now there were but two,

still hanging, no one knew how, astride the great iron ribs sixty feet

above the terrified eyes that watched them. They were both unconscious,

as was yet another poor fellow who had tried to climb to his comrades'

aid, and almost reached them, but turned back just in time, gasping and

fainting. Half-way down the wall he was with difficulty rescued and

lowered to safety. No one else was volunteering for the dangerous task.

To climb those high sheer walls, mounting from ladder to brace, from

brace to bracket, was no easy task at best for the coolest heads. The

danger doubled when one climbed with nerves unhinged. Outside the

building there were scaffoldings in place against the unfinished walls,

but the braces on the steep roof had been removed, and to reach the

unconscious men from there meant working unstayed on the verge of a

precipice, and delving a way through iron plates. There seemed no choice

but waiting in sickening suspense for a second tragedy, to be followed

by a third.

Under the open windows and along the wall of the house Mr. Hegan was

pacing up and down with an excitement which his son had never before

seen. His men left a way for him, and watched him with a rude affection.

Stern as he was, the safety of his men was dear to him, as they knew. He

had vainly striven to raise a rescuing party, but the men hung back, he

saw, in earnest. His helplessness seemed to hurt bodily.

"If I were only twenty years younger!" he was groaning as he walked.

"I am that, father. What shall I do?"

Mr. Hegan started and stood still, looking at his son in the first flush

of his young manhood. He settled back against the window-frame with a

deep breath.

"No," he said, hoarsely, uttering perhaps the first untruth of his manly

life. "Any attempt is useless. It is throwing life away. I absolutely

forbid it."

As if with a flash of memory, Tom's mind went back to that scene a year

before, of which this seemed a repetition. Then, on this same historic

July day, he had, with a curious appropriateness, made to his father his

declaration of independence, but had met an inappropriate defeat. Then,

too, they had stood, as now, by an open window, and, moved by an

instinct of repetition, Tom turned to stand exactly as he had before

stood, leaning against the opposite side of the frame. As he did so, he

saw with what he knew was a foolish but uncontrollable flush of

exultation that his eyes were on an exact level with his father's. One

ambition he had achieved, but along with this growth had come another so

much more important that Tom forgot all else in the exhilaration of its

discovered possession.

"Father," he said, in a low tone that none the less rang with

determination, "last year I didn't dare to disobey you, because I was

afraid, but now--I'm not a bit afraid of you."

Mr. Hegan leaned quickly forward, and laid his hand on his boy's

shoulder with a fatherly touch and an anxiety in his eyes that made

Tom's heart beat high.

"I must try it, father," he said, gently, answering the questioning

look. "There isn't a man here who can stand the gases as I can. I'm used

to them."

Mr. Hegan bowed his head. He tried to reply quietly, but his voice

broke. "You are a man," he said; "your own master. I haven't the right

to say no if your courage says yes. God go with you!" He held out his

hand, but turned away as if he could not see the boy's first step toward

danger.

Tom grasped the hand, but did not move. "Father!" he cried, in a gasp.

"Look! It is Joan!"

[Illustration: JOAN WAS DRAGGING HER LITHE BODY ALONG THE IRON BEAM.]

Mr. Hegan turned. Tom was pointing up, not at the endangered men, but to

a spot on which every eye was now fixed, and to which all were pointing

in turn. Further along the building and close under the roof was a small

opening, left for some temporary purpose, and through this opening, by

which no man could have entered, appeared the slight shoulders and the

dark head they all recognized. With strong motions of her slender arms,

Joan was dragging her lithe body into the building, until she lay at

last flattened on the wide iron beam that separated wall from roof. From

there she began to work her way along the beam towards the girder where

the men still hung. Her progress, like that of a measuring-worm, was

slow but sure. A light rope was coiled round and round her waist.

"She will tie them to the girders," shouted Tom. "Take courage, father;

she can stand the gases as I can. Who goes up with me?"

"My goodness!" murmured the father. "Both my children!" But in a moment

he was himself again--the master, the director. He stepped forward, as a

captain reviewing his troops.

"Volunteers!" his commanding voice ordered, and from the mass of

reluctant men sprang a dozen, stung to tardy courage. Mr. Hegan rapidly

divided his forces. Half were to go with him to the outer walls and the

roof, half to follow Tom, already on his way up the inner wall to Joan.

If Joan had stopped to ask herself how she came to be where she was, she

could hardly have told. From the moment when she reached the stock-house

and saw the poor souls dangling, as it were, between life and death, her

brain had worked like a fire. She saw the small opening under the eaves,

and remembering the scaffolding on the outside, realized that she could

make the height of the walls in pure air. To her the gases were less

terrifying because she had formed the habit of visiting Tom when the air

was most foul, to carry him cooling draughts. Almost instinctively she

caught up a rope, and winding it about her waist, ran to the outer wall,

where she was quite alone. Never before in her childish life had she

felt so little the need of advice and instruction. As each move occurred

to her, she followed it instantly, and with a concise certainty as

unusual to her as it was exhilarating. Never before had she climbed with

such careful precision or so rapidly. Her whole soul was absorbed in the

impulse of succor, which steadied while it inspired her. She did not

stop to count the cost, because cost did not exist for her. Once only

did she remember herself and her danger, and that was when some

instinctive feeling drew her eyes down to the rescuing-band swarming up

to her aid. After that one look she did not venture to measure with her

eyes the dreadful distance below. She was soon on a level with those she

came to reach, and breathing the same air they breathed. Used as she was

to the gases, their poison was affecting her. Her breath began to come

heavily, and her eyes were now and then playing her false. Joan grasped

her dulling senses as with physical hands and forced them to her service

until she reached the girder. To climb out upon it and to lash the men

in place were all that remained for her to do. Then, if she had the

strength left, she would also lash herself, and--she realized dully that

she had reached the first victim.

He had fallen forward, and was caught by the breast and between the arms

in the frame-work. Joan twined the rope about him and the bar, and with

the loose end passed on, crawling to the next man, who lay less

dangerously. He was supported astride the girder as by a miracle of

balance, his back against an iron bar, his head dropped on his breast. A

strange throbbing sound was troubling Joan's ears, and seemed to her to

dim her powers, and make the knots her stiffened fingers tied yet more

difficult. Her sight, too, was growing dimmer, as the throbbing entered

into her brain with hard metallic crashings that increased in force and

volume, paralyzing the will-power to which she now felt herself clinging

but feebly. She tied the last knot about the unconscious man, and felt

herself then stupidly trying to wind the rope's end about her own waist.

The clashing in her brain grew terrible. It was like an acute suffering,

than which a fall to the depths below was preferable. But, painfully

forcing herself to what was now a mere duty of self-preservation, she

feebly plucked at the rope, her body swaying back and forth on the

girder. Suddenly she realized her swaying motion, and righted herself

with a start that roused her to a full, if momentary, consciousness. She

had no longer the power to even toy with the rope or stop this swaying,

which she knew had begun again. The terrible crashing sound was an

unbearable uproar in her ears and brain. Her head fell forward

helplessly; she felt her body following, and with a great human cry of

mortal fear she struggled desperately against the sinking impulse which

was dragging her down, down--

A strong rough grasp was about her waist, catching her back. Tom's voice

was crying her name in her ears, and a moment later the iron roof,

yielding to the brave attacking of sledges and crowbars, opened above

their heads. But to Joan's sick and giddy senses it was the heavens that

were parting, with a tearing, rending sound, and a glory of inrushing

sunlight told her that all was over. She closed her eyes, wondering

vaguely at the painlessness of death, and while thus wondering lost

consciousness.

When Joan awoke it was with a warm rain, dropping on her face, and she

looked up into her uncle's eyes. He was kneeling by her side, bending

over her. On her other side she recognized the physician of the works,

and standing at her feet was Tom, his arm about his father's shoulders,

supporting him. Mr. Hegan was trembling, and leaning on that support as

gratefully and as naturally as if it had ever been his habit to cling to

his son. A dry sob of relief broke from her father's lips as Joan opened

her eyes.

"Hush!" whispered the doctor, as she looked around her amazed. A rope

was knotted about her waist and the pulley block and ropes by which she

had been lowered from the roof were still attached to her rope girdle.

"What is it?" she asked, in painful bewilderment. "Oh, what is all

this?"

The doctor bent to speak to her soothingly, but Bishop Hegan motioned

him back.

"It is your unbuckled armor, my little Joan," he said. "You have had

your wish for glory, Joan."

Joan lay still, looking up at him, her eyes growing larger and deepening

with intelligence as her memory returned. Suddenly she cried: "I

remember now. Are the men safe?"

"They are recovering," Mr. Hegan tried to say, but his voice failed as

he spoke.

"And who saved me?"

"Your brother," answered Bishop Hegan. "Six other men ran to your help,

but four gave out, and Tom outstripped the other two by yards of

climbing. He caught you just as you were falling, and handed you out to

a rescue party on the roof."

Joan looked affectionately at her brother. "I'd have done the same for

him," she said, simply. Her glance travelled on to her father's white

face and shaking hands. She sat upright suddenly, anxious and inquiring.

"Why, father dear, what ever's the matter? You are just as white and

jumpity as you can be. I never saw you like this. You haven't had any

lunch, have you? Well, I think we all had better go home to eat

something. I'm awfully hungry myself. Help me up, Tom." The elders hung

back as the two young people drew together.

Bishop Hegan held out his hand--the brothers stood clasping each other.

"God bless my boy!" said Mr. Hegan, feelingly. "He has earned his

independence, if ever a man did." The Bishop was openly wiping his eyes.

"God bless my little girl! She may be as romantic as a milkmaid, and

talk like a sailor-taught parrot if she chooses, with no more scoldings

from me. My dear Tom, it's the Fourth of July. Do you remember how one

year ago to-day you were laying down the law to the young rebels?"

"Yes, I remember, and to-day they are playing Washington to my King

George."

"Well, not exactly," said the Bishop. "You see, you were imposing

nothing unreasonable last year."

Mr. Hegan laughed. "Exactly what King George said, I have no doubt. Let

me acknowledge it when my reign is justly over. Tom shall go to college

in the fall, and Joan--she shall decide for herself on a governess. My

two eldest are now a man and a woman, not my children after to-day.

Shall we go to luncheon? When the heroine of the hour calls loudly for

bread and beef we old folks needn't stop to be sentimental."

"I suppose," said the Bishop, "that Independent States and States of

Independence are nearly the same thing. Are we to have a celebration?"

"Undoubtedly," laughed Mr. Hegan. "There are our conquerors calling us.

Yes, children, we are coming."

FREDDY SOLILOQUIZES--JULY 4, 1896.

He's a very wise man,

The Calendar Man;

He fixes the year just right;

He has a good plan,

As every one can

Discern at the very first sight.

He knows that the very best days of the year

Are Christmas and Fourth of July,

And it would have been very unpleasant and queer

If he'd gone and arranged 'em close by.

But with one in December and the other one now,

The calendar's all right for fun.

There's time to recover from one, anyhow,

Before the other's begun.

RICK DALE.

BY KIRK MUNROE,

AUTHOR OF "SNOW-SHOES AND SLEDGES," "THE FUR-SEAL'S TOOTH," "THE 'MATE'

SERIES," "FLAMINGO FEATHER," ETC.