CHAPTER X.

Oh, for that Beautiful Summer!

The worthy showman was now more convinced than ever that an enemy

existed who would move heaven and earth to remove Peggy from his charge,

and she was quite as much to him as if she had been his daughter. He

determined, therefore, to keep a more watchful eye over her. She was a

wilful, wandering little maiden, who took everybody to be good even as

she herself was good. She had no suspicion of evil in any one, because

it existed not in her own warm little heart.

But Fitzroy told her now that she must promise never to go away from the

camp without her bloodhound. Wondering much, the girl made this promise,

and the good fellow breathed more freely now.

But for weeks after that strange adventure, they spent a really good

time in Scotland, and drew in the dollars too, for above all countries

in the world, perhaps, Caledonia is the land of song and poetry. The

love of beauty lies deep down at the bottom of each far-northern heart,

side by side with sentiment and true patriotism, a flower that can only

bloom in a mountain land.

Then one day they found themselves all back once more, safe and sound in

England, the scenery of which, though less wild than that of its warlike

neighbour, is very sweet and tender.

Summer would not be leaving here for some time to come.

They had given Wales a turn, and lay for a whole week on the beautiful

bank of the Wye. The music of Wales is also Celtic, that is the old, old

music, and though the country is now famous for its study of the

classical, dearly do they love the more simple lilts of the land of

Burns and Tannahill.

So Fitzroy did well to introduce Scottish scenes and customs, and

Scottish melodies into the little plays he now presented to the rural

public. At L---- they had one of the heartiest welcomes ever accorded to

them anywhere, and it was with great reluctance that Fitzroy at last

intimated to a bumper house, that next morning they must start on their

wanderings once again.

“But we are coming back, my friends,” he concluded, “for never while

life holds on to burn within our breasts shall we forget the kindly

welcome we have received in Wales.”

* * * * *

So early did they start, on and away over the hills and through the

beautiful woods, next day, that there was hardly a soul astir to see

them off.

They did not give another entertainment for a whole fortnight. But

nobody was really idle. Indeed, Fitzroy was the busiest of the busy.

Wasn’t he building a new play to be put upon the boards late in autumn?

Besides, he spent his leisure time in fashioning flutes. This was most

congenial employment, and he could think out his drama even as he

worked. The flutes when fashioned were really beautiful instruments, and

there was in London a firm that knew their value and gave him good

prices. But he received even larger sums for the flutes he sold

privately.

When they lay for a few days at some village, they billed it, not for

the play, but for “Peggy the Palmist.”

“Oh, yes, she had studied palmistry as an exact science. I myself have

doubts concerning its exactness, but after reading a hand, Peggy made

wonderfully good guesses as to the past and future life of her visitors.

The bills ran something as follows:--

“THALASSAINE,

The world-renowned Child Palmist, will deliver an outdoor lecture

on Palmistry in the camp of the Wandering Minstrels

On etc., etc.,

Admission Free.

Thalassaine may be consulted by appointment at her caravan, the

‘Little Rover,’ or will attend ladies at their own residences. Fee

on application.”

Did the lectures pay? Indeed they did. Though they were free, a

collection was made to defray all expenses, and after this Peggy would

sing and play, the giant and dwarf went through a short performance, and

Johnnie gave an exhibition with the Indian clubs.

Then the lecture led to such good business that the Wandering Minstrels

often stayed for three weeks in a nice pitch, which under other

circumstances they would have left next day.

* * * * *

Oh, for that beautiful summer that so quickly wore away! And, oh, for

the charming scenery of the south and the west of Merrie England, which

they might perhaps never see again!

Shall I describe the scenery in detail which day after day they passed

through as the weeks glided over their heads? If I had space, nothing on

earth would please me more, my dear girl and boy readers. Some day

perhaps--yes, some day! Heigho! But I must not seem to sadden you,

children, even with a sigh.

The events and the incidents of the road were for ever changing. Every

turn of the highway brought before them a new scene--woods draped in all

the glory of sunshine, high green lights, and darkest foliage; the

silence of forests, broken only by the songs of the wild-birds or the

croodling of the ring-doves in the thickets of spruce; the solemn

silence of moorlands--in spring-time dotted over with the white

blossoming hawthorn or may, and the golden glory of furze that scented

the air for miles around--in autumn, crimson and purple with heather and

heath; great stretches of greenest grass-land, undulating, charming,

with maybe a streamlet meandering through them, by the banks of which

rustic divinities in the shape of red or speckled cows waded knee-deep

in buttercups and daisies; cattle and sheep happy together on lone

hill-sides; hares on the heaths, who sat up and quietly washed their

faces as they gazed at or after the caravans; wild-flowers everywhere,

by the river’s brink, afloat in the river itself, standing erect in

their glory of crimson or pink among the bulrushes; wild-flowers on the

moors, on the mountains, in the fields, by the hedgeways, and covering

great patches of level sward through which the brown road went winding

and winding till it climbed mountain and hill perhaps, and disappeared

over its brow, or went rapidly downwards till lost in the rolling

shadows of woodlands; little lakes and lonely tarns near to which they

often made the mid-day halt, and rippling streams, with here a pool and

there a pool, from which glad fish leapt up into the sunshine.

Sunshine? Oh, yes, sunshine, but not always. There were days of wind and

rain, drizzling mountain rain that soaked the roads, that saddened the

very horses; wild storms of wind or sudden squalls that at times all but

overturned the great caravan. Then there were the thunder-storms that so

delighted Peggy, for the louder heaven’s artillery, the heavier the

spate, and the more vivid the lightning, the better pleased were Peggy

and little Willie.

On rainy days even with the wind ahead, little concerts would be held in

the wee caravan, as the horse jogged slowly on. On days like these they

tried to get earlier into camp, and after the tent was erected and the

horses seen to, an excellent dinner made all hands forget the weariness

of the long, long way they had traversed.

I pause here--give one more sigh for the summer that passed so soon

away.

* * * * *

One autumn evening they encamped in a field not far from a sweet little

village, or rather hamlet, of scattered, old-fashioned, and very Saxon

houses. The children were as Saxon as the village, fair-headed,

rosy-lipped, bare-headed innocents, with eyes of “himmel blue”;

beautiful enough were they to dream of.

There was an inn here and there in the village, but the streets, as they

might have been called by courtesy, were so winding and so interlaced,

crossing here and crossing there, that to walk down any one of them

[Illustration:

_Page 130._

“You cowards,” cried the captain.]

streamlet and play to it and its water-lilies. The blood-hound was her

constant companion, hardly ever leaving her side for a moment. Nor did

she ever go out without Kammie. She never cared much whither she went or

wandered, so long as there was rustic beauty around her, and I daresay

she was guilty of trespassing as often as not.

The sun was declining in the west, and his beams were already shimmering

horizontally through the tall and leafy elms of a beautiful park, one

afternoon when she came to a tiny Gothic bridge and crossed it. It was

evidently private ground, for there was an air of cultivation everywhere

around, and two snow-white swans sailed up to her and looked sidelong at

her with their wise, soft eyes. These swans seemed to be fifty years of

age, if a day.

Peggy wandered on and over the grass, past great clumps of brown-stemmed

pine-trees, clumps of ferns and rhododendrons, at present out of bloom,

till she came in sight of a fine old English mansion-house: yellow were

its walls against the green and well-kept lawn, and in the rays of the

fast-declining sun.

Peggy stopped now and gazed in a bewildered way at the house, then at

all its surroundings. Where had she seen a house something like this

before? Was it in a dream, or had the place only some resemblance to

mansions she must often have seen during her wanderings. But no; it must

have been a dream. She seated herself on a little rustic bench, and

Ralph jumped up by her side. Her fingers touched the mandoline. Music

always clears memory, because it calms the mind.

She was singing a song that was sad but sweet. She could not tell who

had taught her that song, nor where she had heard it, only it welled up

in her memory, and seemed to mingle with the dream that was around her.

Presently Ralph rose slowly and growled low, but not in an unfriendly

way. Indeed, he was wagging his tail. Peggy looked quickly round, for a

gentle hand was laid upon her shoulder.

“Dear child,” said a white-haired, kindly-faced, elderly lady who stood

over her, “will you oblige me by playing that air again and singing the

song? It is an old, old favourite of mine. I will sit beside your noble

hound.”

Peggy had been used to encores all her life, or ever since she had

joined the Wandering Minstrels, so she readily complied. When she looked

about again, she noticed that tears had been falling over the lady’s

face. But these were quickly dried.

“Thank you, dear. Thank you, Thalassaine. You see I know your name. What

is on your shoulder, child? You are smoothing it with one finger.”

Then the truth flashed upon Peggy’s mind. This gentle-faced lady, with

hair like the winter’s snow, was partially blind.

“Oh, dear lady,” she said, soothingly, and laying her tiny hand on hers,

“are you--I mean, don’t you see quite well?”

“But,” she added, before she could receive an answer, “this is my pet

chameleon. Johnnie baptised him Kammie. He never speaks nor makes a

single sound, but he is quiet in all his ways, and _so_ droll

that--well, I think Johnnie and I have grown fond of him.”

“Who is Johnnie?”

“Oh, Johnnie is--just Johnnie.”

“Naturally, but----”

“I live in a show, lady, and Johnnie’s the owner’s son. He is very

strong and good, and nice, and he always calls me cousin. But I don’t

know why. Father Fitzroy--we all call him Father--brought me to the show

when I was very tiny, and that was after mother and father died, you

know. He told me that. I think you would like Kammie. May I put him in

your hand?”

The lady stretched out her white palm, and immediately she did so Peggy

forgot all about Kammie, and he remained there on her shoulder looking

all round him for his evening meal of unwary flies. Peggy took the hand,

and as she did so a strange and unaccountable thrill ran through her.

“Ah, little maiden, you are a palmist, and what soft, little, fondling

hands you have. Yes, you may read my palm if you please.”

It was a sweet, still evening, the winds whispering through the trees;

and though summer was over, a blackbird still fluted on the hawthorn.

Beauty everywhere around, in the sky, on the trees, and on yonder

lakelet, that shone like a mirror, and reflected the dying glory of the

shrubs that grew around it. But Peggy heard nothing, saw nothing except

the white palm held out for inspection.

The child believed in palmistry as she believed in the Book, and yet

often she found it difficult indeed to read a hand. But now, it was all

so very different, and everything was as clear to her as a landscape in

the noonday sun. Nay, more, it did not seem to be herself who was

talking, or rather, I should say, it did not appear to be her own self

that was accountable for the words she spoke. Something appeared to be

talking to her--through her, and she was but repeating what she heard.

It was a soul voice. The child spoke earnestly, as she examined line

after line.

“You have had much sorrow and disappointment in life, lady--more, I

mean, than many have. (A sigh from her patient attested to the truth of

what she said.) You were born to wealth and riches--you married, but not

the man you loved--he was reported false--he was true as needle to the

pole--he might never talk to you again--you were the bride of

another--for long years, though you never knew it, he dwelt near to you

in a humble cottage, that he might see you as you passed his garden--an

undying love--but your child, a prattling infant girl of four, made the

hermit’s acquaintance--he had always a flower for her or sweets as she

passed with her maid--and the child became fond of the recluse--became

the light of his soul--he was never happy on the days she did not

come--a wild wintry storm raged--the village was blocked for weeks--at

last the sun shone--bud and burgeon on the trees--bird song in the

copse--but the blinds were drawn down over the hermit’s windows--he was

gone.”

“Was he dead?” said the lady.

“There is one line, dear lady, that I cannot read.”

“Go on, child.”

“Months after this, proof of death and a will.”

“Yes, yes.”

“That will left all his wealth to your little daughter--in case of her

death it would revert to his brother, a man who lived by his wits, a

betting man, a man of the world, yet poor. Then, lady, that child was

lost--she had wandered away from her maid and had fallen into a disused

pit, where the body was found a month afterwards, recognisable only by

the clothes she wore.”

Peggy stopped. The soul voice had ceased to prompt her.

“I can tell no more,” she said. “All your future seems dark and misty.”

“Ay, child, and dark will it be when my sight goes--quite dark. I shall

then have but the past to dwell on. Would it had been a happier one!

But,” she added, “you have read my hand aright. I hope you will come

here again often before you go, and that you will write to me. Down in

that clump of trees is a marble tablet, and under it the remains of the

child I loved so dearly. Good-bye, little one. Mind you come again

to-morrow. Bring your beautiful dog and your little cold Kammie.”

And so Peggy said “Good-night.” The lady kissed her beautiful hair, and

though she could not tell why, the tears came with a rush to Peggy’s

eyes as she did so.

Johnnie himself came to meet her, as the shades of evening were now

falling and the boy was anxious. Peggy sighed sadly as she was told that

Father Fitzroy had ordered an early start for next day. Father Fitzroy

must be obeyed.

And Peggy had no time then to call on the gentle, white-haired lady. But

the meeting was one she would never, never forget.

BOOK II.

CHAPTER I.

Poor Kammie.

Summer was done; autumn itself was far spent, and once more near the

suburbs of a pretty and fashionable seaside town the Wandering Minstrels

had pitched their camp.

The dear old life by the dear old sea had commenced again, and Peggy and

Johnnie were very happy; so, too, was white-faced wee Willie, while as

for the giant--well, nothing ever put him out.

Father Fitzroy was jolly enough also, because he was drawing good houses

with his new play, and selling many flutes. What more could heart of

wanderers wish? Ah! well, nobody ever is altogether content in this

world, and there were times when Fitzroy thought his life had been

almost thrown away, and that he might be better off than he now found

himself--lessee of the “Lyceum,” for instance. But better days might

even be in store for Fitzroy. So he lit another huge cigar, and took up

a new flute to see if he could improve it.

* * * * *

There were woods all round this seaside town, more romantic even than

the forests about Bootle-super-Mare, because there were hills and rocks

in them, and a rushing river and a waterfall. Although there were but

few leaves now on the trees, and winds tossed the branches to and fro,

it was pleasant to walk on the silent turf beneath, or to climb the

cliffs and gather the last wild-flowers of the year.

Peggy was more often alone than with Johnnie Fitzroy during these

rambles. She never asked him to come, and he was a strange and wayward

boy, who never made up his mind to do anything until the last moment.

The sea was usually more sullen in temper now, yet Peggy loved it in its

every mood, and liked to lie on the shingle and watch its waves chasing

each other shorewards, erecting their white manes and spending their

wild-beast fury on the beach. They sang a song that was eternal, and it

was that eternal song she liked to lie and listen to.

Was Peggy becoming a dreamer of dreams as she lay by the seashore, the

blood-hound by her side ever watchful, the chameleon on her wrist or

shoulder? I could not say for certain, but I know she sometimes wondered

what her future life might be. There were people who lived in great

mansions like that of the snowy-haired lady she had met that day in the

park, and who, simply because they have money, must be happy, because

they can go where they like, and do what they like--theirs surely must

be life in a sort of fairyland--the fairyland of wealth and greatness!

Was she herself longing for an existence like this, and if ever it came

to her, would she not look back to the days that had been so happy, in

woods and wilds, with Kammie, with Ralph, and--well, and with Johnnie?

She used to return in the autumn twilight, coming back to camp through

the town itself, with its clean and beautiful streets, and with

everywhere around her signs of a life in which she mingled not, and

about which she knew little or nothing.

The evenings were colder now, for it was the month of September, and

while stars were becoming visible in the blue-green of the east, and

struggling with the dying glow of the twilight, lights sprang up in the

houses and villas she passed by, and as people at this seaside resort

seldom drew their blinds down, Peggy, though by no means inquisitive,

could not help having a peep inside, and a glimpse of the happiness and

cosiness of many a family circle. The crimson or blue hall-lights looked

very pretty, she thought. How big and rich-like even the great

hall-mats, and the clean, shining linoleum! Here was a pretty cottage,

and its snug drawing-room, and white-haired gentleman quietly reading in

an easy-chair, his wife knitting by the fire, a cat and dog on the

hearth-rug. A peaceful scene! And Peggy sighed, she knew not why. She

would have liked just such a father and mother as that to tuck her up in

bed of a winter’s night, in a room with a real fire in a real pretty

grate, and pictures on the walls--to tuck her nicely up, and then,

perhaps, sing soft, sweet lullabies to her till she glided away into the

land of dreams.

Here is a party in a parlour not quite so pleasant. Yet the room is

beautiful, and the ladies and gentlemen who stand around the table

playing ping-pong are well-dressed, and all look happy and gay. And here

again she paused a minute, to gaze into a room in which were five or

six fair-haired and pretty young children, each engaged in some parlour

game, a big black cat right in the centre of the table, and a

hobby-horse in one corner of the room--it was as good as a pantomime.

Then came a great house with great windows, brilliantly lighted with

flittering balls of electric lamps. It was a hotel dining-room, and

those were the guests all sitting at the dozens of tables, looking like

kings and queens. Waiters bringing silver trays glided hither and

thither, and on the snow-white table-cloth lay silver and gold dishes,

and sparkling glasses, and flowers of every hue. Peggy sighed again, but

could not even yet say why she did so.

She turned and came slowly back. But she increased her speed when she

came in sight of her own little cosy camp, the tent lit up and as white

as linen, the lights streaming from the caravan windows. She sighed no

longer.

One night, when everybody was out of the camp, save old Molly and

herself, Peggy sat at the tent table. And Peggy felt very sad, for

Kammie, her weird, old-world pet, had been ailing for weeks, and had got

thinner and thinner, and colder and colder. He had taken no food, and

when placed on the grass he hardly moved. Indeed, when laid on his side

he scarcely cared to wriggle into a more comfortable position. He was on

his little branch of wood, and had gone to sleep with one arm raised,

which he did not seem to have the strength to take down again.

Peggy had been sitting in the tent for hours watching him. She did not

even want to play. Presently she got up, and, followed by Ralph, walked

down the winding pathway that led from the sea-road and shingle to the

camp. She leaned over the gate, and as she did so noticed a figure

advancing. She was a little timid, but Ralph gave voice at once to a

welcoming bay, and sprang forward to place two friendly paws on

Johnnie’s shoulder.

“Oh, Johnnie,” she said, when he got close to her; “poor Kammie.”

“Not dead?”

“No; maybe not dead, but I’m sure he is going home.”

Then the innocent child began to sob and cry in her handkerchief.

Johnnie and she covered the cage up that night. They could not bear to

see their favourite so very white and with so little colour in his

tail.

Next morning the change came. Kammie was dead in reality now. The

wonderful circular, brown, wrinkled eyelids that had always been a

bonnie brown were black. The sides only of the body were jet black,

every other part pale, white almost as snow, only about the gills a

sunset glow of red. The tail was speckled yellow and gray.

Yes, Kammie was beautiful in Death. Stiff and stark he lay in state all

that day, and on the morning after, they placed him in a little coffin

of cardboard, and he was laid to rest in a grave that Willie had made in

a distant corner of the field. And they planted a flower to mark the

spot.

CHAPTER II.

Storm and Wreck.

“And what a change it will be, too,” said Reginald Fitzroy to Johnnie

and Willie, while Peggy McQueen sat listening in the tent to every word

that was said.

He had already signed the agreement with the Macgilvray Company to bring

out Peggy on the Australian stage. In her acting and singing she had

made such progress this winter, that she was certain to cause a

sensation in that new land of sunshine.

It was spring again once more; it is a sorrowful thing for anyone who

loves nature, to sail away from his native land when the birds begin to

build and sing, and wild-flowers spring wanton, to be loved and admired.

But ever since he had met Macgilvray’s agent, Fitzroy had been a

different man.

“It will be for the good of us all, my dears,” he said, hopefully.

“Peggy will become a queen of the stage.”

Poor Peggy’s eyes sparkled with delight, but she sighed immediately

afterwards, for she was very fond of her caravan. But then--well, she

couldn’t be always a child.

Father Fitzroy had already written a three-act piece for Peggy, and he

himself believed he would get rich. Willie would be a draw, and the

splendid blood-hound would work beautifully into the play. Such a chance

would never come again, he thought--

“There is a tide....

Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune.”

Thus Fitzroy, with gestures suited for the occasion. But poor old Mother

Molly took Father Fitzroy down a peg.

“Which ye doesn’t get Molly to sail for no furrin parts, ’cept heaven

itself when her day comes; there’s no tide but that for her.” And Molly

resolved now to reside with a sister.

The caravans would not be sold, but left in comfortable quarters. A show

like this, Fitzroy said, might be something to fall back upon.

The expenses would all fall on Macgilvray’s agent. He pooh-poohed them.

Fitzroy would be able to pay him back out of his first week’s

gate-money.

No wonder hope rose high. They were

[Illustration:

_Page 163._

“She dressed him in flowers.”]

going in a sailing-ship, though. This would be quieter, and though a

longer voyage, it would be a healthier; and Fitzroy was just old enough

to begin to think of his health and comfort.

A smart little barque enough, and a kindly skipper; a trader, however,

and ordered to make straight for Rio first, then Buenos Ayres, etc.;

and, at each town he visited, the Wandering Minstrels were to give their

great entertainment.

Nothing succeeds like success, and had Fitzroy elected to stay on with

his company even at Rio, he might have made a pile.

But he didn’t. There was a golden future before them all, he told

himself, when they should reach the land of the Southern Cross.

They had troublesome times weathering Cape Horn, and the barque leaked

badly. Often and often it was all hands to the pump. Pump or drown,

Fitzroy phrased it. The children were told nothing about their danger,

and the stormier the weather the merrier they were. Why, in two months’

time, somewhat to Fitzroy’s consternation, Willie grew a whole quarter

of an inch!

“If he starts growing,” said Fitzroy to the giant, “he’ll ruin himself,

and hurt me also.”

“But,” said Gourmand, “I suppose you don’t mind me growing, do you?”

“Goodness sake, Gourmand!” cried Fitzroy; “grow a foot if you want to,

or a yard even would be better.”

Somehow, when the ship was stretching up north and west into sunnier

seas, she stopped leaking. Seaweed sometimes gets sucked into a leak and

stops it. Ah! then it was a happy and a merry time on board!

But another storm arose which drove them far out of their course, which

split the sails, and smashed the bulwarks to pieces.

One night the mate came to the skipper’s state-room.

“The ship is sinking, sir, and the men have seized the boats. They are

going to leave her, you better come.”

“You cowards!” cried the captain, springing up and seizing his revolver.

“I will shoot the first man who attempts to leave the vessel.”

This was only what the scoundrel of a mate expected. He darted out of

the state-room and locked the door.

The captain was a prisoner, probably to be drowned like a rat in its

hole.

When the sun rose about six next day, like a big, blood orange

shimmering red through the horizon’s haze, the good barque _Vulture_ lay

like a log upon the water, and reeled like a drunken man. The waves were

high, but there was not a breath of wind. Only those smooth,

oily-looking billows.

The children had to be told of the danger now, for at any time the

_Vulture_ might take her final plunge. But they bore up most bravely.

The captain had been set free again, and he, with Fitzroy himself and

the giant, set about cutting away every stick. Few sailors could wield

axe or adze as Gourmand did. It was splendid to see the splinters fly!

But thus relieved, and the rolling seas going down, the vessel recovered

herself.

She might float a long time yet. But for a time she was at the mercy of

the currents, or of any breeze that might blow.

Two little jury-masts were rigged just to catch the wind, which soon

came from the south-east, only bits of staysails, but they served the

purpose of keeping her head before it.

Every day they kept looking out for the ship that never passed their

way, and every night they burned a light.

They spent a terrible time. The sun was so hot that the pitch between

the planks of the quarter-deck boiled and stuck to the shoes. There were

plenty of provisions, but the mutinous mate and crew had taken most of

the water and all the rum away in the boats. The remainder of the water

went bad, and both Peggy and Willie began to pine. Oh, it was pitiful to

see them, and even to hear the poor, faithful blood-hound appealing in

his own canine fashion for the water that was not forthcoming. To make

matters worse, the captain found he was far out of the track of ships,

far away from any of the ocean’s great highways.

“But,” pleaded poor Peggy, hopefully, “a ship may come. God may send a

ship.”

Alas! God seemed to have forgotten them, if that indeed were possible.

One night, the sky bright with heaven’s jewels, sheet-lightning playing

behind the low, rocky clouds on the horizon, that seemed to forebode a

storm, and a phosphorescent light upon the waves, something happened.

There was a rasping noise coming from beneath the keel, and all motion

suddenly ceased.

The _Vulture_ had grounded on a reef! No one slept two consecutive

hours, and everyone was astir before the sun leapt out of his ocean

bed. But it was not an ocean bed this morning, for in the east, and but

a short distance off, lo and behold! a green and beautiful island, with

a beach of coral sand, and strange round huts built under tall and

stately poplar trees. A cry of joy burst from every lip. They were

saved!

Yes, saved from the sea!

But on those sands spear-armed savages danced and yelled, brandishing

their weapons and waving their naked arms as if to keep them off.

What now would be the fate of the Wandering Minstrels?

CHAPTER III.

When the Worst Comes to the Worst.

What a welcome sight those cocoa-nut trees were! They only grow in

islands where water abounds, and the young cocoa-nut itself, before the

kernel is formed, contains at least a quart of the most delicious fluid

in the world. No wine is equal to it.

But never a boat was there left on board the _Vulture_ to take them on

shore, when they should dare to make the venture, as dare they must, or

die!

Canoes with armed natives came towards them, but kept aloof, making many

threatening gestures. It was evidently their intention to board at

night, and so the one swivel-gun which the _Vulture_ possessed was

loaded to her adamantine lips, and kept in readiness, and so were all

the small-arms.

It was long past midnight, however, before anything occurred. The stars

were burning very brightly, specially the Southern Cross, when suddenly

Ralph gave warning voice. A fleet of dug-outs was approaching, although

nothing could be seen distinctly, and the gun was immediately pointed in

its direction.

First the savages were warned off: they only came on faster. A rifle

fired into their midst had merely the effect of stopping their progress

for a moment. In a few minutes they would be swarming up the sides,

knives in hand, and murder in their fierce and fearful eyes.

It is hard to have to take the lives of even savages, but needs must

now, and so the gun gave voice. It was fired into their very midst, its

canister-shot doing dreadful damage, as the yells of the foe fully

testified. There were loud shrieks and groans, and speedily all that was

left of the dark fleet retreated shorewards. But just as speedily the

gun was now loaded, and once more discharged with deadly effect.

The natives had probably never heard a gun fired before, nor ever seen

the face of a white man.

Presently, when all was still, a rasping on the ship’s side told that a

canoe was rubbing against her, and Johnnie himself ventured down. There

was no one in it, and the paddles were gone. But a large calabash of

pure water was found. How glorious! God had not forgotten these

shipwrecked wanderers after all, and the savages who had come off

thirsting for blood had brought life instead.

Ralph kept watch. The others slumbered on deck, with the exception of

Peggy, who was hard and fast asleep on the cabin sofa.

Morning revealed another marvel.

The tide had risen and floated the _Vulture_ off the reef and into a

creek!

When they awoke, to their astonishment, our heroes found woods all round

them, composed of a species of mangrove, and a far taller, more

spreading tree laden with beautiful, peach-like fruit. The anchor was at

once let go, lest the returning tide might drift the old barque once

more out to sea.

* * * * *

A council of war was assembled, and it was agreed that unless they could

make peace with these savages or save themselves by stratagem of some

sort, in all probability they would be unable to hold out many days, and

indeed the tragedy might be but a few hours distant.

The wiles of black men, into whose breasts the civilising influence of

religion has never entered, are many. In this case they must be met by

the stratagems of whites.

To fight for any length of time was impossible. To fight at all was but

to invite death in its ugliest form. If fighting, therefore, must take

place, it must be a last resource, and to sell their lives as dearly as

they could. It was for Peggy that all feared most, and dreadful though

the resolve was, Fitzroy determined that she should not fall alive into

the hands of those fearful blacks, to be tortured to death, and probably

devoured afterwards. Though he said nothing of this to Johnnie, he spoke

his mind quietly to the skipper of the _Vulture_, as well as to Giant

Gourmand.

They each pressed his hand. They knew well what he meant. Had they put

it in words it would have ran thus: When the worst comes to the worst,

the last shot shall be for Peggy McQueen.

* * * * *

Savages are very superstitious, and next morning when they found the

_Vulture_ gone--no signs of her anywhere--they must have jumped to the

conclusion that the men on board were evil spirits and possessed the

power of disappearing whenever they had a mind to. They evidently

visited the creek but seldom, or this part of the island was

uninhabited, for the whole forenoon passed away without a sign of a

savage.

The captain of the _Vulture_ determined, nevertheless, to explore his

surroundings. This man had been a blackbirder in his time, and knew all

the tricks and the manners of these islanders. The blackbirder is, or

was, a man who fitted out a vessel in some Australian harbour, and

sailed for these islands, taking the natives off with them, _nolentes

volentes_, to be used as black labourers. These poor labourers are

terribly treated, and the blackbirder is a meaner, more despicable

wretch than even the slaver.

So after the guns were loaded and every preparation made to repel an

attack, he slid over the side and swam on shore.

The time passed wearily by on board the _Vulture_, and it wanted barely

an hour to sunset when the captain returned. He came hand over hand up

the side, smiling, and as soon as he had changed his wet garments he

made his report.

“I think,” he told them, “it will be all right for one night at least,

whatever may happen another day. I have had a strange experience, for I

have captured an outlying savage.”

“Was he asleep?”

“Sound, and I questioned him in his own language, which, as it happens,

I know right well. This part of the island, for miles around, is

uninhabited. It has a bad name. The blackbirders and the natives, he

told me, had a battle here, and their spirits (gooboos) still haunt the

woods. This is all in our favour, though gooboos or not gooboos, if they

find we are here in the flesh they will attack us.”

“Captain Stransom,” said Fitzroy, “you didn’t murd---- well, kill the

poor savage, did you?”

“Not much, though I’ve shot many a prettier bird. No, I have him tied up

with withies--sailors’ knots--in the wood here, and we’ll have him on

board to-morrow; I expect we can make him useful later on. But to-morrow

we must fortify our position here, and prepare ourselves for whatever

may happen. Luckily, there is a stream of pure water not far from this,

and fruit enough for a line-of-battle ship.”

This was good news, and innocent little Peggy was happy once more, if

nobody else was.

“Oh,” she cried; “I should like to go and sing and dance to these poor

people.”

“Ah! my Peggy, you would never sing or dance any more after that,” said

Fitzroy.

Ralph, who slept with one eye open, was on duty again that night.

About two bells in the morning watch, everyone was suddenly aroused by

the hound’s deep baying. All hands rushed to arms at once, prepared to

repel boarders. But no attack was made, and no sound was audible to

human ear, so the skipper concluded it must have been Tootaker, the

savage, trying to make his escape.

“He can’t, though,” he added; “not if he were the devil. Sailors’ knots

and plenty of them!”

The only arms these savages possessed were knives and ugly spears, which

they could throw with great precision.

The sun rose in another hour’s time, and, after breakfast, wood was got

up from below and a barricade was built around the quarter-deck. The

saloon was provisioned, and all the other hatches were battened down.

They were now in a position to stand a siege, if need were.

Luck was in their favour, for they noticed two canoes beached near by,

and Stransom, the skipper, with Johnnie, swam over the creek and took

possession of them. There was a shot-hole in the gunwale of each, so no

doubt those canoes had formed part of the hostile fleet. The paddles

were in both.

“The natives,” said Stransom, “must have jumped overboard and left

these.”

First the prisoner was taken on board, and so well was he treated that

he told the skipper he never wanted to leave the ship any more, for if

he returned his people would cook him alive, then gobble him all up, and

lick their lips afterwards. He was a well-formed man, this savage, with

a high skull and somewhat full lips, but most intelligent eyes. He wore

only one garment, of coarse hair stuff. But Peggy liked him from the

first, and it seemed to delight the child to play and sing to him.

Tootaker glared at her with his black eyes and said, “Oo! oo! Yum! yum!”

but whether he was enraptured with the music, or was thinking how nice

Peggy would be to eat, I cannot say for certain. “Yum! yum!” means so

much.

The two canoes came in very handy, and that forenoon the ship’s chief

water-tank was filled.

At first the blood-hound was very suspicious of Tootaker, and Tootaker

looked upon the dog as some fearful wild beast. But they soon became

friends.

This savage, in conversation with Stransom, said his people had taken

the ship for a blackbirder, and were determined to slay every man on

board. This was not very comforting, and for the present, at all events,

the best thing that our heroes could do was to lie _perdu_. “Defence not

defiance” must now be their motto. Stratagem might come in afterwards.

* * * * *

To say the least--the position of Fitzroy and his friends was one that

could not be envied.

On the one hand they had water and provisions enough to last them for a

very long time indeed, but they were literally in a stage of seige.

There was no saying what might occur at any moment. Not less than five

hundred wild natives lived on this lonesome isle of the Pacific, which

was so far out of the usual track of trading vessels that there was

little chance of its being visited, unless a ship should happen to be

driven out of its course as the _Vulture_ had been.

The island was certainly not a large one, probably only about five miles

in any one direction, very irregular and wooded in parts. Although the

sea was swarming with sharks, there were no wild beasts in it larger

than a species of rock-rabbit, but turtles abounded, and there were

thousands of wild-fowl. Bar an accident to their magazine, there was but

little danger of their being starved, and the ship was now dry and

trustworthy, being no longer strained and buffeted by the waves.

But oh! the lonesomeness of the situation; for they were afraid even to

put out a little way to sea in the canoes, lest their position should be

discovered.

When a whole fortnight passed away and absolutely nothing occurred,

except one tropical storm, which served to break the monotony, all

agreed that the life was becoming unbearable. The giant became morose,

Willie looked as sad as if he had been heat-struck, and would sit

forward in the fo’c’sle for two hours at a time silently gazing into the

water. Even Peggy lost heart and seldom touched her mandoline. And

Johnnie, who was evidently forcing himself to keep up his spirits, tried

in vain to rouse Peggy from her lethargy. Ralph would get up often and

stretch himself and yawn, but he had no heart to romp. He would walk

over to Peggy, and placing his great head in her lap, look up in her

face with his beautiful, beseeching eyes, as much as to say: “Dear

little mistress, how long is this going to last? When are we going back

to the wild woods, the tent, and the little caravan?” The child believed

she knew what he was thinking about, and as she bent down to kiss his

noble brow, her eyes were wet with tears.

“And is this to be the end of all my ambition?” thought Fitzroy. “Are we

never to reach Australia, the land of all my hopes?”

“I tell you what it is, Stransom,” he said one day to the skipper,

“something has got to be done, else I shall go out of my mind.”

As the skipper made no reply--

“I say,” he continued, “couldn’t something be done with the ship

herself? Couldn’t we put to sea again and try to make some land,

somewhere? She seems trustworthy now.”

“You are no sailor, Mr. Fitzroy. We are shorthanded, and the ship once

strained by a heavy sea would certainly sink. No; I myself think

something should be done, else we’ll get as cowardly as rats in a hole.

I’ll think it over and let you know. Are you ready to follow my advice?”

he added.

“Yes!” cried Fitzroy and Johnnie both in one breath. And even Gourmie

wakened up out of his lethargy and smiled a ten-inch smile. “I’m on for

anything, from pitch-and-toss to manslaughter,” he cried, rubbing his

hands; “and if it comes to a fair stand-up fight Gourmie’ll do two men’s

share at least.”

The giant rubbed his hands again. The skipper lit his pipe and threw

himself down on the deck to think. And Johnnie ran forward to see

Willie.

“Willie, Willie; don’t sit and mope there like a baby owl. Something is

going to be done. Father and the captain said so. We’re going to get out

of this hole by hook or by crook.”

“Wowff--wow--ow--ow!” bayed Ralph, and Willie jumped joyfully up, and

five minutes afterwards he and Peggy and Johnnie were having a concert

together in the saloon.

Everybody had more appetite for dinner that day, and after it Stransom

said, carelessly--

“I’m going on shore to-night with Tootaker. Don’t worry if I don’t come

back till sunrise.”

Johnnie liked that speech, and couldn’t help admiring the captain for

his coolness.

“I couldn’t have made a better speech myself,” he told Willie, in

confidence.

But everyone wondered what was going to happen next.

CHAPTER IV.

On the Cannibal Isle.

Stransom, the old blackbirder, was a go-ahead kind of fellow, and as

bold as a lion. He was just the man who would “make a spoon or spoil a

horn”--“do a deed or perish in the attempt.” There was no fear of

failure in his heart.

About a couple of hours before sunset he stuck his revolvers in his

belt, nodded to those he was leaving behind, and beckoned to Tootaker to

follow him into the canoe. A few minutes after this the white man and

the friendly savage stood together in a woodland glade.

“I can trust Tootaker?”

“Tootaker will die for master. Not false, true, true!”

This in the language of the islanders.

“Lead me through the woods, Tootaker. I would speak with your chief.”

The guide darted forward. Stransom looked at his revolvers. He meant to

shoot that guide through the head if he exhibited even a trace of

treachery or fear. The only thing to dread in this wood was the snakes.

Creatures of marvellous beauty, small, slender, green or crimson, they

crept and twined everywhere. Among the reeds by pools, in the pools

themselves, and in the branches of the trees, Stransom had often to dash

them aside with his brown hands. Yet beautiful though they were, a

single bite would mean an agonising death.

This jungle was a most intricate one. The trees did not grow from roots

underground: the roots were above, so that one had to climb over them,

or creep under them. It was a swamp and a labyrinth combined, and if

Tootaker had wished to be unfaithful, he had a good chance now, even in

spite of Stransom’s revolvers. But the white man had won his affection;

and, above all, the wondrous beauty of the child Peggy had so stolen

around his savage heart, that he had lost all desire to live longer

among his own people.

The sun was almost down before they got clear of the forest. They were

on a bare green hill now, and far below on the east side of the island

they could see the waving cocoa-palms and the green banana banks near to

which the savages dwelt.

“Halt!” cried Stransom.

Then he took out a long piece of rope and tied the guide’s arms to his

side and his wrists to one another, bidding the wondering Tootaker watch

exactly how it was done. Tootaker had cute eyes, and he needed them to

follow this wondrous intricacy of knot.

“Now,” said Stransom, laughing, “pull your hands apart.”

Tootaker did so, and to his amazement every knot was instantly loosed

and the rope fell to the ground.

“Now bind me, Tootaker.”

The black was a little awkward at first, but he soon managed the whole

trick.

By this time the moon had risen, and in less than half an hour Tootaker

marched with bold strides into the camp, and right up to the great kraal

of the king, leading a white captive, apparently bound and helpless.

There were shouts of savage joy, but Tootaker held up his hand

authoritatively and commanded silence. The natives followed as far as

the verandah of the palace, but on being told that he and his captive

must first hold chik-chak with the chief, they retired.

Critical moments followed. Stransom was staking his life and the life of

all on board the _Vulture_ on one bold stroke. If it failed--well, after

all, people have only once to die!

But Tootaker had been well instructed how to play his part, and forgot

nothing.

The king was squatting on a daïs, from which he did not rise, but

received Tootaker with great joy, and asked him question after question,

while with bowed head Stransom stood before the throne. He smiled to

himself though, when he heard this cannibal king telling Tootaker how

his body was to be cut up, and what joints should be roasted for the

royal table, and what apportioned to his under-chiefs and people. The

king evidently intended that all the most toothsome and appetising

portions of Stransom’s body should fall to his own share.

“Now,” cried the king, “bring him here that I may drink the white man’s

blood.”

He seized an ugly knife as he spoke. But he certainly was not prepared

for what followed. With a sharp kick Stransom struck the knife from the

savage hand, and next moment he stood before him a free man armed with a

revolver in each hand. Stransom spoke hurriedly now, but with excellent

effect.

“One loud word, King Karoo, and you are a dead man.”

Their eyes met. The king cowered before his captive.

“Ah, you know me now? I am Stransom the blackbirder. How you came here I

know not, but you were chief of the Luttoo Isles, five hundred miles to

the west, and you and your fellows massacred every man of the brig

_Ranger_. Don’t be afraid, old friend. I was her captain, and the only

man saved.”

“I saved you!” cried the king, excitedly, as he glanced down the barrel

of that revolver in evident dread that it might go off. “I saved you!”

“Yes, you thundering old scoundrel, you saved me, to be tortured and

thus made more tender, and so to serve as a side dish for your own

table. But, listen! I did not come here to have revenge and kill you!

Your people did nothing wrong in massacring the blackbirders. They had

come to drag you into bondage worse than slavery. I would have done the

same had I been in your place. No, I don’t come now to take revenge,

else I’d shoot you like a rabbit right off. I’m no longer a

blackbirder.”

Then in far simpler language he told the story of the storm, the mutiny,

and the desertion of the ship, and the wreck.

“The blackbirders will come to your island by and by, but if you now

make friends with the remainder of my people we will give you and your

fellows and your women wonderful gifts and beautiful beads. See, here

are some of them.”

He emptied his pockets as he spoke, of strings of beads that quite

dazzled the savage king.

“Oh-h-h!” he cried, “and you will give me all this?”

“Yes, if you will come with me to-night, at once, through the moonlight

in your big canoe to the creek where lies our ship.”

“And you will not kill me and eat me?”

“Eat you, King Karoo! I’d be precious hungry before I touched a morsel

of such a tough old rascal as you. Be true to me as Tootaker has been,

and you and your island will be spared when the great ship comes. For I

can save you.”

“You are a white devil?” asked the king.

“Angel or devil, I’ll keep my word. Now, which do you choose, death or

life?”

And Karoo bent his head in submission, only begging leave to take in his

boat ten trusty warriors.

Stransom, by way of reply, coolly counted the number of chambers in his

revolvers, going round them with his finger-tips--“One life, two lives,

three lives,” etc., up to ten; then he nodded and smiled.

* * * * *

Neither Fitzroy nor his boy were easy enough in their minds to-night to

sleep.

The moon was at its height, when suddenly Ralph started up and bayed in

anger. A huge war-canoe had swept round the point and was entering the

creek.

The big gun was directed at it immediately.

“Who goes there? Speak quick, or I fire!”

“All right, Fitz. It’s Stransom. Prepare to receive royalty.”

“Hurrah!” shouted Gourmand, seizing his big bass instrument which had

been made specially for him, and wound right round his shoulder like a

Highlander’s plaid. The mouthpiece of it was so big that Willie could

get inside easily. He blew a blast that would have awakened the dead.

When with considerable difficulty, for he was very fat, the old king got

up the side, and saw Gourmand, he started back and nearly went heels

over head into the sea again.

“Don’t be afraid, old boy,” said Stransom, hitting him a smack on the

back that almost took his breath away. “That’s only one of my little

boys.”

Then Stransom gave Tootaker orders not to let anyone else up the side,

for savages are arrant thieves, and took the king below to the saloon.

The king’s eyes were now like bull’s eyes with amazement mingled with

fear.

But Stransom made him sit down, and gave him a stiff glass of whisky.

Hand in hand with Willie, Peggy herself came in, all smiles. Stransom

introduced them.

“Two babies,” he said, “just three days old.”

Johnnie entered next.

“Born four days ago,” said Stransom, coolly.

“How do, old block? Delighted, I’m sure!”

The king took Johnnie’s extended hand, but holloed with pain immediately

after, for the athletic boy had given him what he called an artistic

squeeze. It was artistic enough, anyhow, to make the blood ooze from

under his nails. No wonder he holloed.

Meanwhile Fitzroy entertained the men in the canoe. They ate like ogres

of the good things handed down to them--a bushel of biscuits and about

fifteen pounds of salt beef. Fitzroy could see them, their stomachs

swelling even in the moonlight. Then he threw them down beads, and

coloured cloth.

They fought over this till they nearly capsized the great war-canoe. But

the fittest survived: the rest were _hors de combat_ between the

thwarts.

The king had more whisky!

He grew happy and fought all his battles over again, and told of all the

wondrous cannibal feasts he had taken part in. He even volunteered a

song, though he had no more music in him than a carrion crow.

He had some more whisky, and was then induced to go on deck, and walk

forward, or rather totter, gibbering all the time like a blithering

idiot. Here he lay down, and Fitzroy threw a tarpaulin over him.

Tootaker stood sentry over his king all night, and the savage emperor

was a different man in the morning, and a sadder.

But in this strange way was friendship established between the white men

and this terrible tribe of cannibals.

CHAPTER V.

A Bloodless Battle.--Life on the Island.

A hearty breakfast--and it was a hearty one too--put King Karoo into

fine form again. He was quite friendly now.

“We don’t want to eat any more white men,” he said.

“If you try it,” said Stransom, “you may find that the bones will stick

in your throat.”

“Now, Fitz,” he added, turning to the playwright and flute-maker, “I

believe in striking the iron while it is still hot--I purpose going back

with the king. The canoe is big enough to hold us all. But you and

Johnnie had better stay here to guard the ship, not that there is any

danger, but if I take Gourmand----”

“I’m on again,” said Gourmie.

“And Willie and Peggy, and give these savages a little entertainment and

a few presents, I think we shall win a bloodless battle. What say you?”

“I’m a little afraid for Peggy,” replied Fitzroy; “she is the strength

of the company; besides, we all love her, and----”

But Fitzroy’s scruples were soon overcome, and so, after dressing like

an angel--this was Johnnie’s expression--Peggy was the first to get into

the war-canoe, much to the astonishment of the savages. Peggy had no

fear. All were armed with revolvers. But there did not seem very much to

dread. They took quite a bale of goods with them, and Gourmand had his

great duck-gun: so big and heavy was it, that few ordinary men could

have wielded it.

On his way to the king’s camp, and while still at sea, Gourmand raised

the piece and brought down a bird of the hawk species. The report was so

awful and so unexpected, that most of the crew fell backwards with

alarm, and lay there with their naked legs in the air.

The king himself almost fainted, but when he saw the great bird lying

dead on the water--

“Oh, good, good!” he exclaimed, in his own language. “The big boy

clever, clever. When we get back, the big boy shall shoot my old fat

wife. She is good for nothing now--only for soup.”

The landing was very impressive. The savages crowded round their king,

and it was evident from his gestures that he was telling all his

adventures, and speaking in favour of these white men.

When a few minutes after this the pigmy Willie led Peggy on shore, and

Peggy smiled and bowed to them, and then quietly ran, chattering and

laughing, into the very midst of the wildest-looking group, those

cannibals were completely vanquished.

But when Gourmand jumped on shore with his marvellous trombone, they

fell back, and would have turned pale with superstitious terror, if it

were possible for a negro to do so. Then Gourmand blew a blast from the

instrument, and twenty men at least fell flat on their faces. But seeing

the king laughing, they took heart and advanced, and in less than five

minutes the giant was so great a favourite that they would willingly

have killed and eaten Karoo in order that Gourmand might reign in his

stead. And so this bloodless battle was won.

* * * * *

The child Peggy had brought her mandoline, and was invited by the king

to sing, in order that his people, he said, might rejoice.

Peggy needed no second bidding. She mounted a grassy mound beneath a

spreading tree and sang her best and sweetest song. It did seem strange,

this crowd of listening, spear-armed savages, around the one little mite

of a white child who had the power to enthral them with the music of her

voice!

But when, with Willie as a partner, she danced a fandango, the natives

grew wildly excited, and they too must dance. Before Peggy knew exactly

what was the matter, behold, a triple ring of them were whirling madly

round the tree, shouting, screaming, and yelling, while they brandished

their spears aloft!

“Give them a solo,” shouted Stransom to Gourmand; “it will help to

quicken the beggars.”

And at the very first blast from that marvellous instrument, a scene of

panic ensued, such as is seldom witnessed. The savages darted back in

all directions, knocking each other down, falling on each other, with

legs, arms, heads and spears, in such a mad comminglement, the wonder is

that many were not killed; and before Gourmand had finished his

gigantic solo, there wasn’t a soul to be seen.

“‘Music hath charms,’” cried Gourmand, doing an attitude, “‘to soothe

the savage breast.’”

The king almost went into a fit with laughing, while Peggy and Willie

joined in the general merriment, and the giant added his bass “Ho! ho!

ho!” and his deep “Ha! ha! ha!” till the very welkin rang.

But the natives soon returned, and “Little Gourmie,” as Willie called

him, gave an exhibition of his strength and skill that astounded his

audience.

The giant was then requested by the king to shoot his fat old wife.

“No,” said Gourmie; “I’ve never been used to shooting fat old wives, and

I’m too old to learn. Thank you, all the same.”

* * * * *

Peggy and Willie had described all their picnic that evening at dinner

to Johnnie, and Johnnie sighed because he hadn’t been there.

The friendship between the savages and the whites soon ripened into

something very real and lasting.

The king gladly gave his people permission to build a fort for the

Wanderers, and they worked so hard under Stransom’s supervision that it

was soon completed. It was erected close to the wood, and was to all

intents and purposes impregnable.

In boats, round from the creek, all provisions and everything of value

was brought. The _Vulture_, indeed, was now dismantled, for she had

begun to leak again.

About a month after our heroes had settled down in their strange wild

home, a cyclone swept over the island; so terrible was its force, that

trees were torn up by the roots and carried high into the air. The sea

rose and threatened to sap the very foundations of the fort, and

hundreds of the native huts were scattered about like so much hay.

Next day all was calm again, and the savages quietly commenced to

rebuild their huts. But the _Vulture_ had sunk at her moorings. Well was

it for our people that they had left her in time.

* * * * *

Long months passed with no signs of deliverance from this beautiful

island-life, which was, after all, but exile; and Fitzroy and Stransom

were now the greatest of friends with the savages, and really nothing

else save friendship and love ruled the place.

Yes, they were cannibals, but what one eats is merely a matter of taste,

and I have known many respectable cannibals, though I never accepted the

invitations to dinner they sent me. Her majesty the fat queen had

somehow disappeared.

“Haven’t seen her majesty of late,” said Stransom, one day, to the king.

“What!” was the reply. “You are sorry, then, I did not send you a

joint?”

That was the answer put into English. It was really a much more gruesome

one. “It was a shuddery reply,” Johnnie said.

The lives of Johnnie, Willie, and Peggy (with noble Ralph, of course)

were nearly all woodland and wave now. They had canoes, one each, in

which they rowed races, or from which they fished, whenever it was fine,

and around this enchanting island, cannibalistic though it was, the seas

were nearly always smooth and blue.

They all carried revolvers wherever they went, not that there was much

danger, but one should always be prepared. “Peggy was an excellent

shot,” so said Willie; “because,” he added, “she always manages to hit

the thing she isn’t aiming at.” By the way, the cannibals made a canoe

for this dear little dwarf boy, and it wasn’t much bigger than a pocket

dictionary--well, it might have been a little larger. It is best to be

exact in matters of this sort.

The king dearly loved to have Peggy and the dwarf to play and sing to

him, and usually went to sleep during the performance. This was very

“sweet” of him, Peggy said, and “quite complimentary.”

Peggy’s influence over this cannibal king was very great. She twined him

round her little finger, so to speak. He had to do everything the pretty

little minx told him, and take her and her companions out in the royal

canoe whenever she wanted a picnic or an airing. The king would sit

patiently on his daïs sometimes, as calm and serene as a summer sunset

or a stucco cat, while she dressed him from top to toe in flowers and

leaves and strings of beads, and finally crowned him with her oldest

tartan Tam o’ Shanter. He looked so droll in this get-up that Peggy had

to clap her hands and laugh and run round and round about him, to view

him from every quarter. If there had been a missionary on the island and

Peggy had asked the king to throw a stone at him, the king would have

obeyed, unhesitatingly.

There had been a missionary there once, the king allowed. The missionary

said Providence had sent him. The king believed him, for that

missionary, his majesty told Johnnie, made the best curry ever he had

tasted!

“The missionary was a good cook, then?” said Johnnie.

“Good cook!” cried the king. “No, no, my fat old wife the cook. My wife

cookee _he_!”

The king was being taught English, but it wasn’t the best.

“Oh, I see,” said Johnnie, “I see now. Your wife cookee _he_, and you

cookee _she_. Well, you’re a queer lot, you cannibal fellows.”

At first Ralph the blood-hound used to terrorise the whole population,

specially the little pickaninnies or children, who all ran from him when

he appeared on the white sandy beach where they played.

It made our young heroes laugh till their sides were sore to see a crowd

of these naked little black children fleeing from Ralph, who, by the

way, never condescended to chase them. It was a crowd of whirling legs

and arms, and each tiny cannibal looked like the three-legged wheel you

see on a Manx half-penny, only without stockings or bootlets on.

The king delighted to see the giant exhibit his strength. But when one

day the tiny dwarf boy, unknown to the king, hid inside the bell-shaped

end of Gourmand’s enormous brass basoon and jumped out with a wild

shriek when the giant began to play, his majesty nearly went into a fit

with laughing.

It _was_ fun! And some fresh fun was invented every day for the purpose

of making this great big baby of a king laugh and shake.

Ah! well, but after all, our shipwrecked Wandering Minstrels did long

for home often enough too, and at supper-time or after, while by

themselves in the fort, they were never tired of talking about their

adventures in dear old England--in wayside camp and caravan.

One morning early, Johnnie, who had been out shooting rock-rabbits, came

back into the fort with a rush or a run.

“Oh!” he cried; “the ship! the ship!”

Then indeed there was excitement in the little fort.

CHAPTER VI.

White Wings upon the Waves.

There she was, just rounding the point--the bonnie, white-winged

barque--and standing in for the beach near to which the natives dwelt.

“That’s a blackbirder,” said Stransom, “as sure as I’m a sailor. But we

shall stop her game, shan’t we, Fitzroy?”

There was no time to lose.

The savages had already assembled on the beach to give the enemy a warm

welcome, and Stransom sent a black fellow off at once to the king,

bidding him be of good cheer, because Fitzroy and Gourmand would be with

them round his own kraal without a moment’s delay.

This was done, but the blackbirders had the cruelty to fire a volley at

the retreating cannibals, killing and wounding several. The men from the

fort now hurried up, making a slight detour through the bush in order to

keep out of sight. Gourmand carried the swivel gun. Fitzroy and the

other two, rifles and the ammunition. There was a battery in front of

the native village, and behind this they quickly hid.

The blackbirders landed in three well-armed boats, and forthwith

commenced the attack, stopping every now and then to fire a volley at

the trenches. This was harmless enough, and Stransom would not permit

the savages to show themselves, although they were now burning for

revenge.

Probably the blackbirders--a more cutthroat-looking crew it would have

been impossible to conceive--suspected an ambuscade, for they now

advanced somewhat more slowly.

Again they fired.

And immediately the trenches replied--a regular peppering volley that

both astonished and staggered these accursed slave-hunters.

“Back to your boats, you villains,” shouted Stransom, “or we’ll blow you

to Jericho.”

A volley was all the reply, and on came the blackbirders with a rush.

They thought to carry the trench by storm.

The swivel gun was emptied into their very midst, and the slaughter was

terrible: what had been a crowd of living men seemed now but a mangled

mass of dead and dying. For even those unwounded threw themselves down

and shouted for mercy.

It needed all the skill of the cannibal king to prevent his men from

utterly wiping out the enemy. They were restrained, however, after a

fashion, yet nearly all the wounded were speared.

Stransom and his men gathered round the rest and made them prisoners.

As the fight took place well out of sight of the few men left in charge

of the barque, these had no idea what had occurred.

The leader of the raid was the captain of the ship himself. He was

wounded, but had sufficient strength to sit up, and his eyes met those

of Stransom. The man was Allison, first mate of the old _Vulture_.

“Allison, it is you!”

“It’s me, skipper. I deserve my fate. Let me now die in peace.”

“Die in peace, you shall,” answered Stransom, “but, my good fellow, had

you not been wounded I should have hanged you!”

“Thank you,” sneered Allison.

Fitzroy now advanced. The playwright had some knowledge of surgery, and

at once applied a tourniquet to the mutineer’s bleeding limb, and

dressed it as well as he could.

The man was very faint, and begged for water. A negro lad climbed a

cocoa-nut tree and threw down some of the greenest fruit.

After Allison had drunk, he appeared to fall asleep, and Fitzroy got the

giant to carry him gently in under the shadow of the banana shrubs.

Presently he opened his eyes. Fitzroy was kneeling by his side.

“Don’t leave me,” he moaned. “Don’t let me die just yet. I have that on

my mind I would fain confess--and it concerns yourself--and Peggy

McQueen.”

Meanwhile Stransom, with Johnnie and the giant, had gone off in one of

the boats, towards the barque. They had the swivel gun in the bow.

As soon as they were near enough they hailed, “Ship ahoy!”

“Ay, ay. What’s in the wind?” cried a black-bearded, cut-throat-looking

man over the stern.

“You’ve got to surrender, that’s all, my sweet little seraph. Your

game’s up. Surrender quietly and your innocent life will be spared. If

you make a bit of bobbery, I’ll hang you from your own jibboom.”

“We surrender.”

“Does you now? Well, that is really very thoughtful of you. Been a

blackbirder myself, though, darling. So just fire your guns in the air

to please me, and to show us all is safe.”

“Curse you!” cried the ruffian.

The rifles rang out, and immediately after were flung on the deck.

Next minute, Stransom and Johnnie stood on the blackbirder’s poop.

“Good-morning,” said the former, with provoking coolness. “Sulky was he?

Eh? Ah, but his mother’s darling mustn’t. Your new captain, that’s me,

doesn’t like sulky boys. Ah! he smiles! See this little thing? Look,

this is a revolver. His new captain doesn’t want to shoot, but must now

send all hands below, prisoners--four of you? Eh? All right, down all of

you to the hold. And when your new captain comes back he’ll let you all

free and not hang anybody if everybody will be good and do as he is

told.”

In five minutes more all four blackbirders were under lock and key.

“She’s safe enough,” said Stransom, as they pulled back shorewards.

“They can’t weigh anchor and give us the slip.”

ALLISON’S STRANGE STORY.

Fitzroy poured a little brandy from his flask into the man’s mouth. He

swallowed it, and presently he felt strong enough to raise himself

slightly and to sit supported in the arms of a native.

“Mr. Fitzroy,” he said, “you must bear with me, and you must forgive me

for what I have done. Can you? Do you?”

“I do,” said Fitzroy, solemnly, “as I hope to be forgiven when as close

to the shadow of the grave as you are now.”

“You remember, sir, when Peggy McQueen first came into your charge?”

“I remember when I first adopted the dear child.”

“You were paid to do so. The money you received helped to set you up in

life.”

“If there has been any setting up in it,” answered Fitzroy.

“You have been successful ever since.”

“Till now, yes, fairly so.”

“And you knew, Peggy had a history which you did not trouble your head

much to inquire into?”

“Perhaps, perhaps; but come, what has this to do with your confession?”

The man had fainted, but was soon restored, and went on again.

He was weaker now, however, and again Fitzroy held a little more brandy

to his lips.

“In my pocket--feel,” he said, slowly, “a key.” The left jacket pocket.

Yes, that is it. When you go on board, open my private drawer, and you

will find letters to testify to the truth of all I tell you. Peggy

McQueen is a stolen child--stolen that she might not reap the benefits

of an uncle’s will. This uncle was an old bachelor and lived with his

sister-in-law--yes, the address is in my drawer--the estate, it is a

fine one, would be his only brother’s had he died without a will. His

only brother was his greatest enemy. He loved the child, and left her

all his fortune. But the very night on which he died this evil brother

came to me. I was poor, and fell an easy prey to bribery.

“Oh, horrible!” continued the dying man. “I was told off to steal Peggy

and throw her down a disused well.”

A light began to dawn on Fitzroy’s mind now, for he remembered the story

poor Peggy had told him about her meeting with the beautiful,

white-haired lady in her own park, and about everything that happened.

He grasped Allison by the cold hand.

“And you--you murdered another child and threw _her_ into the well--you

stole Peggy and--sold her to me!”

“No--no--there was no murder. I could not do that, but--God forgive me,

I robbed a grave of its little girl inmate. It was a ghoulish thing to

do. It was her corpse in Peggy’s clothes that was found down the well.”

“Yes, but----”

“Listen, for I feel I am going fast. When the money I received for

the--the deed--was squandered--I blackmailed the evil brother! He

laughed at me first, but when I told him that Peggy was still alive, and

threatened to bring her up, he trembled like the coward he was, but

promised that if I brought the child to him--but I would not--I was

bribed again--but my men failed to kidnap her. Then came the plot to get

you and her out of the country to a place where she would never likely

be heard of again.”

“Hold a moment! There was no Macgilvray?”

“No--no--it was all a plot to ruin you--forgive--I--I----”

It was no faint this time. The brandy Fitzroy tried to pour into his

mouth ran out again over his cheeks and chin.

Only one brief spasm, and the jaw dropped. The eyes were fixed for ever.

Fitzroy lowered him slowly to the ground and left the place, sad, though

he did not know why, and wondering if all this could be true.

But he had the key, and before nightfall he would know everything.

CHAPTER VII.

She Sailed Away in the Middle Watch.

So complete was the rout of the blackbirders, and so terrible a tale

would the survivors have to tell when they returned to Australian

waters, that many a long year, no doubt, would elapse before that

blood-stained though beautiful island would be visited again.

I fear that a great carnival commenced on this very night, and that it

lasted for days. Our people were glad to be out of it, and they had much

to do. But as many of the bodies as could be recovered were taken out,

by Stransom’s orders, and buried at sea. The cannibals might do what

they pleased with their own dead. They would no doubt afford them decent

interment after their own fashion.

The cannibals did, but over their orgies we must draw a curtain.

Only five of the blackbirders had escaped intact, and to these Stransom

offered life and liberty if they would help to work the ship to the

nearest British port.

They were only too glad to do so. As far as regards their share of

blackbirding, they could hardly be called free agents. Allison himself

was the only man who could have been brought to account. And he was

gone.

Stransom and Fitzroy spent the next few weeks in determining the

latitude and longitude, and studying the topography of the island,

taking soundings, and surveying generally.

Very pleasant indeed were these little picnics, as the young people

called them. They were made in the barque’s own boats. Stransom was an

old sailor, and knew well the tricks and manners of the blackbirders. He

knew that they would not hesitate to get up anchor and sail away with

the ship if he gave them but half a chance. But he kept his weather eye

lifting, and while cruising round the island he only left one hand on

board.

Is it strange that Peggy felt really sorry when the time drew near when

she would have to part for ever with the cannibal king? But she really

was so.

This curious being, however, was offered his passage to England, if he

chose to accept it.

“No,” he replied, in his broken English; “no goodee fo’ me. Plap

Eenglan’ moochee too small place! Den ebery man haf on’y one wife. King

Karoo stop ’long his people. When King Karoo too old, his people knockee

on de head and truly bury him, plenty.”

“Bury him in the usual way, I suppose,” said Fitzroy, smiling.

“Plaps,” said the king, laconically.

Feeling perfectly safe now, the girl with Johnnie and their friend the

dog made many excursions into the far interior of this beautiful island.

There were hills here of rare beauty, green wooded, almost to their

summits, between which glimpses could be caught on every side of a sea

more blue and lovely than any other in all this wide world--a sea in

which many a little island was afloat apparently ’twixt ocean and sky,

islands with white and silvery sands along the beach, but bedecked with

many a waving tree-fern and feathery palm, among which fairies and elves

must play in the starlight if any such there be in this world of ours.

No doubt those seas are wild and stormy enough at certain times and

seasons. Indeed I myself have found them so, but placid and peaceful

enough were they all the time our heroes were there.

The birds were numerous enough and beautiful, yet all but songless.

Everywhere the flowers were gorgeous. And butterflies as large as fans,

but far more radiant in their rainbow beauty, flitted from bush to bush

revelling in the warm sunshine.

Being somewhat of a naturalist, Johnnie determined to make a collection

of these. It is a delightful fancy, this of butterfly hunting, for

although it is against my own principles to take life, or deprive a

summer’s day of anything that is beautiful, still these creatures are

numerous enough, and hardly suffer pain when caught and killed by

pinching the thorax, or with chloroform.

Anyhow, with their nets, Peggy and Johnnie, sometimes Willie being with

them, and always Ralph, spent many a happy hour.

But one day they wandered farther a-field than usual, and presently

found themselves nearing a wood, where the trees were higher than any

they had yet seen, and where there was but little undergrowth, the stems

rising tall and pillar-like straight into the air, and mingling their

palm-like leaves to form a canopy of green.

Had they taken the faithful hound’s advice they would have turned back

at once, for he stopped at the entrance of the forest, and sniffed the

air suspiciously, and it was with something like terror in his eyes, and

with evident reluctance, that he followed his little master and mistress

into the gloomy depths.

Nor was it long before the two became conscious of a sickly, death-like

odour that went straight round their hearts.

Then all at once they found themselves in one of the most awful places

that pen can describe, a temple built of human bones. They felt a kind

of terrible fascination steal over them as they gazed with fear and

terror at the walls around them.

Ghastly designs with long bones and spines and ribs, a fearful species

of rude architecture; the walls of the avenue that led to the oval

interior, the walls of the temple itself, and even a raised platform--no

need to say for what dread purpose this had been built--all were built

of human bones. Climbing wild flowers trailed here and there over the

walls, little lizards crept in and out of eyeless sockets, and

bright-winged birds perched innocently on rain-bleached skulls!

No wonder Peggy clutched Johnnie’s hand.

“Oh, lead me on, lead me out of this,” she cried.

It was a sight she would never forget, a sight she would dream of many a

night in after life when on a bed of sickness. Ugh!

* * * * *

That very night Peggy McQueen formed a resolution. Some may call it a

childish one. Perhaps it was, yet even from the mouths of babes and

sucklings wisdom at times may come.

She would try to convert that blood-stained cannibal king.

She now spent an hour or two each day with him at his palace of huts,

and surely no preacher ever expounded the doctrines of Christianity in

language more simple and beautiful, yet forcible, than did our little

heroine. Its loveliness, its truths, and its terrors, she told him all.

Did she succeed? Ah, that I cannot tell, but the king’s soul, it must be

remembered, was like that of a little child. The souls of all savages

are, and if the guileless prattle of child Peggy did not appeal to it

and touch a chord, the sterner, though more learned logic of no

missionary may hope to succeed.

The Wandering Minstrels gave one more performance the night before they

left, and every one of Fitzroy’s troupe excelled himself and broke all

former record.

Johnnie never felt in better form; Willie had never been so funny

before; Peggy never sang nor played more sweetly; the giant’s great

brass bassoon made echoes ring from tree to tree; then good-byes were

spoken.

Fireflies were flitting from bush to bush, and moon and stars shone

softly on the sea when the boats took all hands back to the barque.

When poor King Karoo looked seaward at sunrise next morning, never a

sign of ship was there, nor on the distant horizon.

She had sailed away in the middle watch.

* * * * *

The owners of the blackbirding barque, which had been so cleverly

captured off the cannibal island, served their own interests, I think,

by denying all knowledge of her, when written to on the subject. She was

a splendid clipper, and must have cost a deal to build. But she now

became the property of her captors, and when paid off in Southampton

waters, the black-bearded mate and his men were very glad to get off

scot-free. They had not expected such leniency.

The vessel herself was sold at a good figure, and Stransom had his

share, which was a good and a solid one. He disappears from our story,

and so, too, does the barque.

Fitzroy and his people had their shares also, and Johnnie’s father was

now able to set up as a music publisher in London.

He is there now, in winter that is. If you want to know where he is in

summer, reader, you must read on.

* * * * *

Dr. Annandale was sitting in his easy-chair one summer evening, when his

servant entered with a silver salver in his hand, on which lay a card

with the simple inscription--

“REGINALD FITZROY.”

“Show him in, James.”

Next minute Fitzroy himself and Peggy, now a beautiful, ladylike girl of

thirteen, entered.

The white-haired old physician rose, and bowing, prayed them to be

seated.

“Is this to be my little patient?” he said. “She does not look ill.”

“No,” answered Fitzroy; “she is not ill, but we have a strange story to

tell, which will interest you; at least I believe so.”

The doctor touched the bell.

“James,” he said, when the man re-entered, “I am not to be disturbed

until I ring. Let callers wait. Now, Mr. Fitzroy, I am at your service.”

“You have been physician, I believe, for many years to Mrs. Wycliffe of

Wycliffe Park here, in your neighbourhood?”

The doctor folded his thin white hands and leaned back complacently in

his chair.

“For over twenty years,” he said.

“It is of her we would speak, doctor. And I must be brief. She had one

child, sir?”

“Alas! yes, a dear, sweet little girl, who disappeared mysteriously, and

was found many weeks afterwards at the bottom of a well.”

“Did--did you make a post-mortem, doctor?”

“I did.”

“Was there any evidence of foul-play?”

“Nothing that we could hinge a case upon. The poor little tot had

wandered away and fallen into this terrible place. So we believe, at

least.”

“Was there any birth-mark?”

“There was, or rather, had been before death, a curiously-shaped mark on

the right arm above the elbow.”

“Did you find this mark on the little body which had fallen into or been

thrown into a pit?”

“The body, sir, had lain too long to distinguish this. The

identification was simple. The clothes and even trinkets were those the

child had worn on the very morning of her disappearance.”

“Doctor, look at my adopted child here. Can you say that you have never

clapped eyes on her before?”

The physician scrutinised Peggy for a short time.

“The same hair and eyes,” he said, slowly.

“Was the child found in the well auburn-haired?” asked Fitzroy.

“Ye--es, or brown-auburn, I _think_.”

“Bare your right arm, Peggy.”

The child did so, and the doctor started as if he had seen a ghost.

“Why--God have mercy on us, Mr. Fitzroy, this is Maggie Wycliffe back

from the grave!”

“Now,” said Fitzroy, “will you listen patiently to my story and hers?”

And he told the doctor all.

The doctor, after hearing it, took several strides up and down the

floor.

“We must be cautious,” he said at last, “how we break the news to--to

Maggie’s mother. A shock might kill her. Even a shock of joy.”

“All this I leave to you, my dear sir. But you are convinced yourself

now, that here stands Maggie Wycliffe, and convinced, too, of the

terrible wrong that has been done her.”

“I see it all very, very clearly now.”

“Then I have nothing further to say at present, doctor, and shall take

my leave. I have my part to play; you have yours. Good-night, sir.”

“Good-night, Mr. Fitzroy. Good-night, little Maggie.”

The meeting between Peggy, for I must continue to call her by this sweet

name, and her mother, the gentle-faced old lady with the snow-white

hair, whom the child had met in the park, was a very tender one.

There were tears in Mrs. Wycliffe’s eyes as she pressed the child to her

heart, and tears in Peggy’s too.

“I’m going to live for your sake. I am going to try to make you happy,

child.”

“And I will make you happy, mother.”

The word “mother” was a new one to Peggy, but it seemed a very, very

fond one.

Fitzroy was so pleased when asked to take up his residence at the Park

till things were settled. He lost no time about this settlement,

notwithstanding, but placed the matter at once in his lawyer’s hands.

There was like to be some little trouble at first. The evil brother had

held the estates of Creve for eight long years now, and he felt it hard

to give them up. But so terrible was the evidence of his guilt that even

his own solicitor advised him not to fight the case.

On the very next day after this advice had been vouchsafed, the unhappy

man was found dead in his bed. It matters but little now what the

verdict of the coroner was. He is gone, and we must hope that he is

forgiven.

* * * * *

The estates of Creve in Devonshire, under the guardianship of her

mother, are worth many thousands annually, and Peggy Wycliffe is the

beautiful little mistress thereof, but somehow neither she nor her

mother care to reside there, and so they are let.

* * * * *

My story is told--my “ower true” tale. And so the curtain drops.

Yet it seems but right that we should raise it again for a few moments

to have one last look at our heroes and heroines.

Little Peggy McQueen or Wycliffe is very happy in her new home, and her

mother is really renewing her youth. Sad it is that she is almost blind.

She and her daughter are never parted. They may often be seen walking

together in the beautiful park when the weather is fine, and always

followed by that noble blood-hound, Ralph.

And there is one seat among the trees on which they very often rest. It

is the rustic daïs on which Peggy was sitting with her dog that day,

when quietly up behind her came the gentle lady with the snow-white

hair.

Willie Randolph, Peggy’s old favourite, she is going to see frequently,

also poor little Gourmie.

As for Molly. Oh, bless my soul, my dear young reader, I wouldn’t forget

her for the world. She is a resident at Wycliffe now, and looks after

the plate and the linen, and is just as happy as the twenty-first of

June is long.

Molly says she is getting old. “_Getting_” you know, and Peggy smiles

kindly on her when she says so. “And my poor back, Miss Peggy,” she

says, “it do ache unkimmon sometimes, with that plaguey rheumatiz. But

what can I expect, dear Missie. I be’s six-and-forty years o’ age. Ay,

be I.”

I think myself that if Molly had said sixty-four instead of forty-six

she would have been nearer the mark. The same figures, four and six, but

the dear old lady had put the cart before the horse.

What matters it? Old Molly is happy.

Both Fitzroy and Johnnie are frequently down at Wycliffe enjoying a few

days’ sport, for game abounds on the estate.

And right happy days these are. Johnnie is going into the Army. I am

curious to know what sort of a soldier he will make. I shall keep my

weather eye lifting, but I feel sure that if Johnnie doesn’t win the

Victoria Cross it will be through no fault of Johnnie’s.

But the dear old life in wayside camp and caravan is not going to be

altogether given up. No, because with her mother’s sanction Peggy is

preparing for a grand tour right away from the beautiful New Forest in

Hampshire to the wild grandeur of the Sutherland Highlands, far beyond

the Caledonian Alps. Peggy’s caravan will be no longer the little one

over the half-door of which she was leaning when we first made her

acquaintance. It is to be the most spacious and the handsomest

travelling car on the road, saloon-cabin and after-cabin. But Peggy’s

mother will go also, and old Molly and Ralph as well.

Peggy has told me that she does not mean to do things by halves, and

that not only shall Gourmie be one of the crew, but little Willie the

violinist, and Fitzroy himself.

Will Johnnie be there? Was that what you asked? What a question, to be

sure! If you asked Peggy herself, she would look at you in sweet

surprise and say, “Why, of course. Caravan life would not be caravan

life, nor a camp a camp, without Johnnie!”

I end by wishing them a happy cruise.

And you, my young reader, boy or girl, a happy Christmas, with a right

merry and jolly New Year to follow!

Ta, ta!

LONDON AND GLASGOW, COLLINS’ CLEAR-TYPE PRESS

The “Forward” Series.

The Original Series, with Coloured Pictures.

New Attractive Bindings, in Art Colours.

This Series of Books for Boys and Girls has been Edited by Herbert

Hayens, author of “Under the Lone Star” and numerous other Books for

Boys; and care has been taken to publish only what can be confidently

placed in the hands of youth.

Each Book is printed from a new font of Clear Type.

54 Stepping Heavenward. Mrs. Prentiss

53 A Mystery of the Sea. Herbert Hayens

52 Old Jack. W. H. G. Kingston

51 Gisli, the Outlaw. Sir George Dasent

50 The Water-Babies. Charles Kingsley

49 Manor Pool Island. Harold Avery

47 Alice in Wonderland. Lewis Carroll

46 Will of the Mill. G. Manville Fenn

45 The Old Lieutenant and His Son. Norman MacLeod

44 Ungava. R. M. Ballantyne

43 What Katy Did. Susan Coolidge

42 What Katy Did at School. Susan Coolidge

41 Ned Myers. J. Fenimore Cooper

40 Tales from Shakespeare. Charles Lamb

39 Favourite Tales from Grimm.

38 Cousin Christine. Florence Dugdale

37 The Basket of Flowers.

36 Little Susie. Mrs. Prentiss

35 Fairy Tales from Andersen.

34 Fairy Tales from Grimm.

33 The Flower of the Family. Mrs. Prentiss

32 The Young Pilgrim. A.L.O.E.

31 The Three Midshipmen. W. H. G. Kingston

30 Audrey Marsh. E. Everett-Green

29 Young Peggy M’Queen. Dr. Gordon Stables

28 Delmayne’s Adventures. Bessie Marchant

27 Jack Fraser’s Adventures. Herbert Hayens

26 Stories from Grimm.

25 Stories from Andersen.

24 The Lost Jewel. A.L.O.E.

23 The Kopje Farm. William Johnson

22 The Captives of the Kaid. Bessie Marchant

21 The Quest of the Luck. Lewis Ramsden

20 The Lamplighter. M. S. Cummins

19 Gorilla Hunters. R. M. Ballantyne

18 Home Sunshine. C. D. Bell

17 Two Years before the Mast. R. H. Dana

16 Good Wives. L. M. Alcott

15 Little Women. L. M. Alcott

14 Manco, the Peruvian Chief. W. H. G. Kingston

13 Masterman Ready. Captain Marryat

12 The Scalp-Hunters. Captain Mayne Reid

11 Tom Brown’s School Days. Thomas Hughes

10 Feats on the Fiord. Harriet Martineau

9 Prince of the House of David. Rev. J. H. Ingraham

8 The Last of the Mohicans. J. Fenimore Cooper

7 Martin Rattler. R. M. Ballantyne

6 The Settlers in Canada. Captain Marryat

5 Danesbury House. Mrs. Henry Wood

4 The Rifle Rangers. Captain Mayne Reid

3 Peter the Whaler. W. H. G. Kingston

2 The Cruise of the Midge. Michael Scott

1 The Coral Island. R. M. Ballantyne

Additional Titles in Preparation.

London and Glasgow: Collins’ Clear-Type Press.