Produced by Annie R. McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]
Copyright, 1896, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.
* * * * *
PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 29, 1896. FIVE CENTS A
COPY.
VOL. XVII.--NO. 883. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.
* * * * *
[Illustration]
THE ATTACK OF TORPEDO-BOAT NO. 5.
BY LIEUTENANT YATES STIRLING, JUN., U. S. N.
The night is dark and cloudy, and a heavy mist hovers over the entrance
to the highly fortified port of ----. Like gigantic aquatic ghosts a
fleet of American men-of-war is cautiously and silently approaching this
strong-hold of the enemy. Every light on board the vessels is masked,
and the lookouts are vigilantly peering into the darkness, for fear that
one of the swift and unmerciful torpedo-boats of the enemy steal unseen
and unheard upon their ship and launch its deadly charge of destruction.
The American squadron, six huge battle-ships and four fast cruisers,
accompanied by ten sea-going torpedo-boats, have been detailed by the
commander-in-chief to attack and capture this important naval station.
Within safe distance from the forts on the harbor's entrance the
squadron's mighty engines are stopped, and the ships soon cease to forge
ahead in the quiet sea. One of the swift little crafts, then another and
another, noiselessly runs alongside the Admiral's ship, and an officer
from each climbs the precipitous side of the battle-ship. They make
their way at once to the cabin of the Admiral.
"I have dangerous work for you and your little vessels, gentlemen," is
their commander's quiet explanation, as the lieutenants remove their
caps, and group themselves in respectful attention around their
gray-haired superior. "Your small flotilla is to make an attack on the
enemy's fleet in the harbor yonder; the entrance is narrow, and too
early a discovery means failure to the expedition if not annihilation to
yourselves. No. 5 will lead the column, for her commanding officer is
familiar with the harbor, and will be a valuable guide on this dark
night. The plan is to make a simultaneous attack on the fleet, and
unless they are very much on the alert and ready with their guns, you
should render a good account of the night's work. After your purpose has
been accomplished, or you have been driven off, join me at the entrance
to the bay. I will move to the attack as soon as you are discovered. The
army is co-operating with us, and even now we should hear the distant
roar of their guns."
Many an eye is dim and voice husky with emotion as the officers grasp
the Admiral's hand in parting, and listen to his kind and encouraging
words. When the torpedo lieutenants reach the deck, their small commands
are lying alongside the flag-ship, steam pouring from their miniature
escape-pipes, a dumb protest to be off.
As the Lieutenant of No. 5 reaches the conning-tower of his little boat,
the flotilla is going at full speed, nearly twenty-five knots an hour,
in column, his vessel in the lead. They are heading for the sombre
outline of the distant land where he knows is the entrance to the
harbor.
By his side stands a young ensign, his assistant, looking fixedly out
into the night. Not a word is spoken. Each knows his life is to be
staked at awful odds for his country.
Death has always seemed of little consequence to these young lives. They
have in the few years of their lives barely given it a thought, but now
in the little tomb of the conning-tower they are almost face to face
with the grewsome intangible hereafter. They think of the time when as
children they have whispered their prayers at their mothers'
knees--prayers almost forgotten; but they come back to them now with
startling clearness, and are mentally repeated, coming like a soothing
draught of water to a thirsty mortal. On flies the little craft, while
behind her noiselessly follow her nine sisters. The big battle-ships
have long since been swallowed up in the black night.
The ever-watchful officers, as they stand in the confined space of the
wheel-house, protected by three inches of steel from the cool breeze
that the speed of the boat makes as she rushes madly along, are gazing
through the small apertures in the metal, straining their eyes to see
the first obstacle that dare be in their way. They see naught but
darkness. They have been into the harbor before, to a great naval review
given in commemoration of some important event in history. How different
were the circumstances! Then the holders of the naval station were
friends, and held out a cheerful welcome. Lights were upon the rugged
and dangerous coast to show the mariner the many hidden dangers, and to
navigate him clear of the many treacherous shoals and rocks. But now a
difference had arisen between the two nations that could not be
arbitrated, so they had resorted to cruel war to settle their
difficulties. No lights are visible save now and then a small flicker
from a fisherman's hut, and it is doubtful whether the small visitors
will reach the harbor, even though they escape the steel from the guns
that are surely soon to play upon them. The Lieutenant is the first to
break the silence.
"We have tough work ahead, Church. Heaven only knows whether we will
ever come out of this death-trap alive."
The younger man shakes his head in concurrence with his comrade's views
of the situation, but dares not venture a word, for fear he may betray
his nervousness in his voice. He knows exactly what is expected of him,
and will sacrifice his life without an outward qualm in this his first
real duty to his flag.
Suddenly on the port bow a small light springs up from out the darkness.
It is on one of the patrol torpedo-boats of the enemy. If it discovers
the invaders all is useless: the alarm will be given, and the forts
cannot be passed. It would be foolhardiness to attempt it. Once beyond
them, undiscovered, the mission will be easily accomplished. On go the
insidious weapons of war on their errand of destruction. They are now
between the forts on the harbor's entrance. The many guns there are
pointed in their direction, but are dumb. Their crews are asleep, and
are peacefully ignorant of the angels of death stealing past their
vigil. The night is so dark that the outline of the land so close aboard
has melted into the all-pervading blackness. No sound can the officers
in the leading boat hear save the slight whir of the little engines
making hundreds of revolutions a minute, the swash of the water cut like
a knife by the sharp bow of the little craft, and the beating of their
own hearts. The last seems so loud that each thinks the other surely
must hear.
The minutes drag slowly by; they seem like hours to the anxious men on
the torpedo-boats. The forts are passed in safety. The discovery must
come soon. Farther and farther the destroyers penetrate into the bay. If
there are ships here they must soon discover these unwelcome visitors.
Hark! From out of the darkness to port is heard the report of a
rifle-shot, quickly followed by a number of others in rapid succession.
The officers in No. 5 suppress a cry of relief. The suspense has been
telling. Hot work is better than uncertainty.
In a very short time lights are shown on the forts astern of the
attacking party; they are the unfocussed rays of the powerful
search-lights, and soon will make the torpedo-boats as conspicuous on
the surface of the bay as the picture in a magic-lantern slide is on the
sheet. The tunnels of light sweep quickly, nervously, about the bay,
endeavoring to concentrate upon the swiftly moving enemy. On, on goes
the flotilla in its mighty effort to reach its goal. Every torpedo is in
its tube, and to launch it on its errand will be the work of a second.
The long shafts of light are now rapidly focussing on one after another
of the long line of small hulls, stretching nearly across the bay, ready
to sink anything that may lie in their path.
The stillness of the night is disturbed by the thunder of heavy
artillery and the fitful report of rapid-fire and machine guns. Shells
go screeching about them, throwing columns of water high in the air as
they strike it with a baffled hiss.
Search-light after search-light flashes up from the men-of-war in the
inner harbor, and are sweeping the bay with their blinding light.
Closer, closer draw the attacking boats to their huge enemies.
An exclamation of terror escapes from the officers in No. 5 as they see
what resembles a bunch of enormous sky-rockets shoot high above the bay
almost directly over them. But they know it is from a group of 16-inch
rifled mortars on the shore only a short mile away. With a sickening
whir the mighty bolts of steel swoop down and blot out of existence
three of the small crafts. Church has left his Lieutenant's side, and
with a nervousness hard to suppress stands at the breech of the bow
torpedo-tube, ready to launch its 300 pounds of guncotton at the owner
of the search-light ahead of them, if they escape the rain of metal long
enough to get within the limited range of the weapon.
Right ahead, nearly within the coveted distance, a dark hull looms up;
her search-light is boring through the inky darkness, but as yet has not
discovered the whereabouts of the fast-approaching danger. All at once
Church, from his position in the bow, sees the small conning-tower
lighted up through the peep-holes by the dazzling light, and hears
simultaneously the quick reports of her machine-guns.
All about the bay is a scene of firing; but for this the men in No. 5
have no eyes; the deadly peril of their boat from the countless guns on
the black hull ahead is their only concern. No thought of personal
safety now enters their minds; such feeling has long since been
forgotten; their only idea is to reach the enemy in front of them.
Church, lockstring in hand, sees the moment has nearly arrived. In the
next they may all be blown to pieces by a well-aimed shot. His hand is
nervously clutching the lanyard, while his eyes are fixed on the face of
his superior. He sees his face, pale as death, in the terrible glare of
the search-light. He sees his lips move, yet he can hear no sound above
the roar of the firing. He knows the word they frame. Fire! A sharp
report fills the small compartment, and the next second he is thrown
heavily against the vessel's side, as, in answer to her helm, she
swiftly swerves to starboard, and is soon speeding away from the column
of water thrown up by the explosion of her torpedo against the steel
hull of the sinking ship. For the shot has done its work, and the great
mass of steel and cannon will soon lie at the bottom of the bay. The
commands of her unfortunate officers to "Abandon ship!" can be
distinctly heard in the lull after the explosion.
In the excitement of the attack the operations of the fleet at the
entrance to the harbor have escaped the notice of the crew of No. 5. Now
they see flash after flash from the forts answered by tongues of fire
from the invading fleet, the search-lights of both throwing a lurid
light over the awe-inspiring spectacle. From astern of them they also
hear the sounds of a mighty struggle, the rumble of heavy ordnance and
the rattle of musketry tell them that the army has moved to the attack.
With all speed the remnants of the flotilla are leaving the scene of
their triumph, leaving half their number as a sacrifice on the altar of
their country.
Morning dawns over the bay, and reveals a mass of wreckage and
destruction difficult to picture.
A fleet is anchored in the harbor, battle-scarred and begrimed with
smoke. On the grassy slopes of the harbor the white tents of a large
army are pitched. On the many flag-stalls a bright flag is waving in the
balmy breeze. The flag is the stars and stripes.
CAPTAIN JACK AND THE MUTINEERS.
The newspapers from town had been full of the accounts of a great strike
in a manufacturing district of the city, and Tommie, after his father
had finished reading them, had asked to be allowed to take the papers
down to old Jack. Jack had once said to the boys that he never knew what
was going on anywhere, because he was too poor to buy the daily
newspapers, and had added:
"It's only when I have luck that I even get a _Tribune_ a year old.
Why," said he, "a small boy down here once brought me a New York
_Tribune_ that told all about the milishy being called out to stop a
riot up in Buffalo, and it was a mighty exciting story, I can tell you.
Next day a feller come down and hired my boat to go out a-bluefishin'
with, and after we'd been out two or three hours I says to him, 'How's
the riot at Buffalo this morning?' 'The what?' says he. 'The riot,' says
I. 'Haven't you heard of the riot?' 'No,' says he. 'It's all in the
paper,' says I, and I went into my cabin and brought out the paper. 'Oh!
I see!' says he, with a laugh. 'That was two years ago.' And I looked at
the date of that there _Tribune_, and shiver my timbers if the thing
warn't dated two years before!"
This unhappy condition rather appealed to Tommie, and the result was
that he got his father to promise that when he had read his morning
paper he could have it to take down to the beach to old Jack, and Jack
was very appreciative.
"It's very kind of you, Tommie," he said. "The news I get nowadays is at
least young enough to be interesting, and I hope you'll never forgit
that _I'll_ never forgit your kindness. Take them strikers up in town,
for instance. In the old way I'd never have heard anything about 'em for
a month or two anyhow, but now I hear about 'em right off, and I sort of
feel as if I was still living in the world, instead of being out of it,
as I used to be."
"What do you think of the strike, Captain Jack?" asked Bobbie.
"What do I think of it?" echoed the Captain. "What could any sea-captain
think of it--any self-respectin' sea-captain? It had ought to be
stopped. That's what. That's just the trouble with being on land,
though; you can't do things like you would on the water. 'F I was
runnin' a big factory, I'd do it ship-shape, and I wouldn't stand any
mutinies. I tell you what, now, my factory'd be a model. In the first
place, I'd give the factory a name, just as if she was a ship, and the
men who came there to work would be my crew, and the very minute one of
'em didn't behave himself, and tried to kick up a rumpus with me as
their Captain, I'd clap him into irons. I believe in ironing them, I do;
and it almost makes me wish I owned a factory, and the sailors in it
would strike, so's I could show the world what I'd do under the
circumstances.
"I'll never forget the last mutiny I had to deal with. It was back in
'83. I was skipper of the clipper _Benjamin Q._, of Nantucket. We were
engaged in carrying coal from Sandusky to Kennebunkport, and one morning
two o' the crew up an' declined to shovel another ton.
"'Why not?' says I, calmly.
"'It's too dirty. We thought this was hard coal, and it's soft. It takes
us an hour to get clean after the day's work's over, and that makes nine
hours a day's work. We won't work more'n eight.'
"'I guess you're reasonable,' says I. 'Knock off, an' go in and take
your bath. I'll turn the water on for ye myself. I'll let ye use my
tub.'
"So they went aboard, and I went in and turned on the water in my tub,
and I put about two pounds o' starch in the water. They all took turns,
and said they felt better.
"'Now,' says I, 'you fellers can do this every day. Seven hours' work,
and one hour for bathin', and I don't want anymore kickin'.' The
mutineers agreed, and thought I was easy. Every day for a week they took
starch baths--though they didn't know anything about the starch. I took
care o' that. Well, you know what starch is. There they was a-soakin' it
into their systems for an hour a day, and, by the flyin' Dutchman, when
Sunday came around every one of 'em was so stiff they couldn't move.
Monday they was like iron--couldn't move a joint. And then I says to
'em, says I, 'Kinder stiff, ain't ye? Little stiffer'n ye thought ye was
goin' to be, eh? Thought ye was goin' to take the starch out of me, eh?
Did too--if ye only knew it. Now ye can go about your business, and the
next time ye take it into your heads to mutiny, choose another Captain
to fool with.' I had 'em carried ashore and laid on the dock, and I
sailed away. What ever became of 'em I don't know, but I heard that one
of 'em had made a fortune as a ossified man in a Chicago museum."
With which astounding story of his method of dealing with strikers,
Captain Jack rose up and walked away, leaving Bob and Tommie wondering
if it really could have happened as the old tar had said.
THE VOYAGE OF THE "RATTLETRAP."
BY HAYDEN CARRUTH.
VIII.
The next morning the condition of the tempers of the crew of the
Rattletrap was reversed. Jack was feeling better, and was quite amiable,
and inclined to regret his bloodthirsty language of the night before.
But Ollie and I, on our diet of gooseberries, had not prospered, and
woke up as cross as Old Blacky. The first thing I did was to seize the
empty gooseberry can and hit the side of the wagon a half-dozen
resounding blows.
"Get up there," I cried, "and 'tend to breakfast. No pretending you're
sick _this_ morning."
"All right," came Jack's voice, cheerfully. "Certainly. No need of your
getting excited, though. You see, I really _wasn't_ hungry last night,
or I'd have got supper."
"But we were hungry!" answered Ollie. "I don't think I was ever much
hungrier in my life; and then to get nothing but a pint of gooseberries!
I could eat my hat this morning."
"I'm sorry," said Jack, coming out; "but I can't cook unless I'm hungry
myself. The hunger of others does not inspire me. I gave you all there
was--your hunger ought to have inspired you to do something with those
gooseberries."
"I'd like to know what sort of a meal you'd have got up with a can of
gooseberries?"
"Why, my dear young nephew," exclaimed Jack, "if I'd been awakened to
action I'd have fricasséed those gooseberries, built them up into a
gastronomical poem, and made a meal of them fit for a king. A great cook
like I am is an artist as much as a great poet. He--"
"Oh, bother!" I interrupted; "the gooseberries are gone. There's the
grouse Ollie shot yesterday. Do something with that for breakfast."
Jack disappeared in the wagon, and began to throw grouse feathers out
the front end with a great flourish. The poor horses were much dejected,
and stood with their heads down. They had eaten but little of the hay.
Water was what they wanted.
"We must hitch up and go on without waiting for breakfast," I said to
Ollie, "It can't be far to water now, and they must have some. Jack can
be cooking the grouse in the wagon."
So we were soon under way, keeping a sharp lookout for any signs of a
house or stream of water. We had gone five or six miles, and were
descending into a little valley, when there came a loud whinny from Old
Blacky. Sure enough, at the foot of the hill was a stream of water. The
pony ran toward it on a gallop, and as soon as we could unhitch the
others they joined her. They all waded in, and drank till we feared they
would never be able to wade out again. Then they stood taking little
sips, and letting their lips rest just on the surface and blinking
dreamily. We knew that they stood almost as much in need of food as of
water, as they had had nothing but the hay since the noon before. There
was a field of corn half a mile away, on a side hill, but no house in
sight.
"I'm going after some of that corn," I said to the others. "If I can't
find the owner to buy it, then I'll help myself."
I mounted the pony and rode away. There was still no house in sight at
the field, and I filled a sack and returned. The horses went at their
breakfast eagerly. But twice during the meal they stopped and plunged in
the brook and took other long drinks; and at the end Old Blacky lay down
in a shallow place and rolled, and came out looking like a drowned rat.
In the mean time Jack had got the grouse ready, and we ate it about as
ravenously as the horses did their corn. We had just finished, and were
talking about going, when a tall man on a small horse almost covered
with saddle rode up, and began to talk cheerfully on various topics.
After a while he said,
[Illustration: "WELL, BOYS, WAS THAT GOOD CORN?"]
"Well, boys, was that good corn?"
We all suspected the truth instantly.
"He did it," exclaimed Jack, pointing to me. "He did it all alone. We're
going to give him up to the authorities at the next town."
The man laughed, and said "Don't do it. He may reform."
There seemed to be but one thing to do, so I said: "It was your corn, I
suppose. Our only excuse is that we were out of corn. Tell us how much
it is, and we'll pay you for it."
"Not a cent," answered the man, firmly. "It's all right. I've travelled
through them Sand Hills myself, and I know how it is. You're welcome to
all you took, and you can have another sackful if you want to go after
it."
I thanked him, but told him that we expected to get some feed at Gordon,
the next town. After wishing us good luck, he rode away.
We started on, and made but a short stop for noon, near Gordon. We found
ourselves in a fairly well settled country, though the oldest settlers
had been there but two or three years. The region was called the
Antelope Flats, and was quite level, with occasional ravines. The trail
usually ran near the railroad, and that night we camped within three or
four rods of it. Long trains loaded with cattle thundered by all night.
We were somewhat nervous lest Old Blacky should put his shoulder against
the wagon while we slept, and push it on the track in revenge for the
poor treatment we gave him in the Sand Hills, but the plan didn't seem
to occur to him. It was at this camp that we encountered a remarkable
echoing well. It was an ordinary open well, forty or fifty feet deep,
near a neighboring house, but a word spoken above it came back repeated
a score of times. We failed to account for it.
[Illustration: NOT OLLIE'S IDEA OF AN INDIAN.]
The next forenoon we jogged along much the same as usual, and stopped
for noon at Rushville. This was not far from the Pine Ridge Indian
Agency and the place called Wounded Knee, where the battle with the
Sioux was fought three or four years later. We saw a number of Indians
here, and though they came up to Ollie's idea of what an Indian should
be a little better than the one that rode with us, they still did not
seem to be just the thing.
"I don't think," he said, "that they ought to smoke cigarettes."
"It does look like rather small business for an Indian, doesn't it?"
answered Jack. "But then smoking cigarettes is small business for
anybody. What's your idea of what an Indian ought to smoke?"
"Well, I'm not sure he ought to smoke anything, except of course the
peace pipe occasionally. And he oughtn't to smoke that very much,
because an Indian shouldn't make peace very often."
"Right on the war-path all the time, flourishing a scalping-knife above
his head, and whooping his teeth loose--that's your notion of an
Indian."
"Well, I don't know as that is _exactly_ it," returned Ollie,
doubtfully. "But it seems to me these aren't hardly right. Their clothes
seem to be just like white people's."
"I don't know about that," said Jack. "I saw one when I went around to
the post-office wearing bright Indian moccasins, a pair of soldier's
trousers, a fashionable black coat, and a cowboy hat. I never saw a
white man dressed just like that."
"Well, I think they ought to wear some feathers, anyhow," insisted
Ollie. "An Indian without feathers is just like a--a turkey without
'em."
The Indians were idling all over town, big, lazy, villainous-looking
fellows, and very frequently they were smoking cigarettes, and often
they were dressed much as Jack had described, though their clothes
varied a good deal. There were two points which they all had in common,
however--they were all dirty, and all carried bright, clean
repeating-rifles. We wondered why they needed the rifles, since there
was no game in the neighborhood.
The chief business of Rushville seemed to be shipping bones. We went
over to the railroad station to watch the process. There were great
piles of them about the station, and men were loading them into freight
cars.
"What's done with them?" we asked of a man.
"Shipped East, and ground up for fertilizer," he answered.
"Where do they all come from?"
"Picked up about the country everywhere. Men make a business of
gathering them and bringing them in at so much a load. Supply won't last
many months longer, but it's good business now."
They were chiefly buffalo bones, though there were also deer, elk, and
antelope bones. We saw some beautiful elk antlers, and many broad white
skulls of the buffalo, some of them still with the thick black horns on
them. As we were watching the loading of the bones, Ollie suddenly
exclaimed,
"Oh, see the pretty little deer!"
We looked around, and saw, in the front yard of a house, a young
antelope, standing by the fence, and also watching the bone-men as they
worked.
"It _is_ a beautiful creature, isn't it?" said Jack. "And how happy and
contented it looks!"
"I guess it's happy because it isn't in the bone-pile," said Ollie.
We went over to it, and found it so tame that it allowed Ollie to pet it
as much as he pleased. The man who owned it told us that he had found it
among the Sand Hills, with one foot caught in a little bridge on the
railroad, where it had apparently tried to cross. He rescued it just
before a train came along.
We left Rushville after a rather longer stop for noon than we usually
made. Nothing worthy of mention occurred during the afternoon, and that
night we camped on the edge of another small town, called Hay Springs.
"I don't know," said Jack, "whether or not they really have springs here
that flow with water and hay, or how it got its funny name. If there are
that kind of springs, I think it's a pity there can't be some of them in
the Sand Hills."
Jack went over town after supper for some postage-stamps, and came back
quite excited.
"Found it at last, Ollie!" he exclaimed. "Grandpa Oldberry was right."
"What--a varmint?" asked Ollie.
"A genuine varmint," answered Jack. "A regular painter. It's in a cage,
to be sure, but it may get out during the night."
We all went over to see it. It was in a big box back of a hotel, and the
man in charge called it a mountain-lion, and said it was caught up in
the Black Hills. "Right where we are going," whispered Ollie. The animal
was, I presume, really a jaguar, and was a big cat three or four feet
long.
We were off again the next morning, looking forward eagerly to the
camp for the night, which we expected would be at Chadron, and where
our course would change to the north into Dakota again, this time
on the extreme western edge, and carry us up to the mountains. Most
of the day we travelled through a rougher country, and saw many
buttes--steep-sided, flat-topped mounds; and in the neighborhood of
Bordeaux the road wound among scattering pine-trees. We camped at noon
near the house of a settler, who seemed to have a dog farm, as the place
was overrun with the animals. We needed some corn for the horses, and
asked him if he had any to sell. He was a queer-looking man, with hair
the color of molasses candy, and skim-milk eyes.
[Illustration: "I JESS RECKON I _HAVE_ GOT SOME CO'N TO SELL."]
"Waal, now, stranger, I jess reckon I _have_ got some co'n to sell," he
said. "The only trouble with that there co'n o' mine is that it ain't
shucked. If you wouldn't mind to go out into the field and shuck it out,
we can jess make a deal right here."
We finally gave him fifty cents for all our three sacks would hold, and
he pointed out the field a quarter of a mile away and went back to the
house. We noticed that he very soon mounted a pony and rode away toward
Hay Springs, but thought nothing of it. When we were ready to start we
drove over to the corn-field to get what we had paid for. Jack put his
head out of the wagon, took a long look, and said,
"That's the sickest-looking corn-field _I_ ever saw!"
We got out, and found a sorry prospect. The corn was poor and scattering
and choked with weeds.
"And the worst of it is," called Jack, as he waded out into the weeds,
"that it has been harvested about twelve times already. The scoundrel
has been selling it to every man that came along for a month, and I
don't believe there were three sackfuls in the whole field to start
with."
We went to work at it, and found that he was not far from right.
"No wonder the old skeesicks went off to town soon as he got his money,"
I said. "He won't show himself back here till he is sure we have gone."
We worked for an hour, and managed to fill one bag with "nubbins" and
gave up, promising ourselves that we wouldn't be imposed upon in that
way again.
We reached Chadron in due time, and went into camp a little way beyond,
on the banks of the White River, a stream which flows through Dakota,
and finally joins the Missouri. Our camp was on a little flat where the
river bends around in the shape of a horseshoe. It seemed to be a
popular stopping-place, and there were half a dozen other covered wagons
in camp there. The number of empty tin cans scattered about on that
piece of ground must have run up into the thousands. But there had not
been a mile of the road since we left Valentine which had not had from a
dozen to several hundred cans scattered along it, left by former
"movers." We had contributed our share, including the gooseberry can.
From the labels we noticed on the can windrow along the road it seemed
that peaches and Boston baked beans were the favorite things consumed by
the overland travellers, though there were a great many green-corn,
tomato, and salmon cans.
"You can get every article of food in tin cans now," observed Jack, one
day, "except my pancakes. I'm going to start a pancake cannery. I'll
label my cans: 'Jack's Celebrated Rattletrap Pancakes--Warranted Free
from Injurious Substances. Open this end. Soak two weeks before using.'"
It was a pretty camping-place on the little can-covered flat, and we sat
up late, visiting with our neighbors and talking about the Black Hills.
"I think," said Jack, as we stumbled over the cans on our way to the
Rattletrap, "that I'll go into the mining business up there myself. I'll
just back the Blacksmith's Pet up to the side of a mountain, tickle his
heels with a straw, and he'll have a gold-mine kicked out in five
minutes."
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
IN THE OLD HERRICK HOUSE.[1]
[1] Begun in HARPER'S ROUND TABLE No. 879.
BY ELLEN DOUGLAS DELAND.
CHAPTER V.
Elizabeth was in her own room when she arrived at this determination to
seek a home with the Brady family, and the more she thought of it the
more advisable did the plan seem. She began to prepare for an immediate
departure. Most fortunately for her purpose, Miss Rice had gone out, her
aunt Caroline was about to go, and she could very easily escape from her
aunt Rebecca, who was reading in the library.
The first thing to do was to dress suitably for the occasion. The frock
that she had on seemed scarcely the thing to wear at the Bradys'; in
fact, she had nothing that was exactly appropriate, except a dress which
her aunt had told her was too much spotted to wear again. She would be
more like Eva Louise and Bella if she had on something which was not
altogether clean.
This important matter settled, she put on her hat--it was a large one,
with many feathers, but the Brady girls wore very gay hats--and slipped
quietly down the stairs, carrying a bag in which were her night-dress
and toilet articles. On her aunt's cushion she pinned a note--she
believed runaway heroines always did so--explaining the situation.
"DEAR AUNT CAROLINE," she had written, "I am going away to some
people I know. You will never find me. I cannot go to Virginia. If
my father ever comes back I will hear of it, and then I will come
home. Please take good care of Julius, for the sake of your
affectionate niece,
"ELIZABETH HERRICK.
"P. S.--Please do not try to find me. I am with friends. P. S.
number two.--I hope you won't mind my going very much."
This done, she continued her way down stairs, out of the front door, and
around to the home of the Brady family.
Eva Louise and Bella were playing the inevitable jack-stones on their
own door-step when Elizabeth appeared. They looked up, but continued
their game.
"How do you do?" said Elizabeth.
"Holloa! I say, Eva Louise, that ain't no fair. Them's mine."
"'Tain't, neither. Yer a reg'lar cheat, Bella Brady! I'm a-goin' to tell
pop, an' I ain't a-goin' to play with yer another minute."
Elizabeth, fearing that slaps were imminent, hastened to interpose.
"I want to ask you something, Eva Louise. Is your mother at home?"
"Is that all yer want to ask? Well, I guess she is. I say, Bella--"
"But, Eva Louise, I really want to speak to you. Do you think--do you
think your mother would be willing to let me stay here a little while?"
"Stay here! What ever do yer mean?"
"I mean that I want to live here till my father comes home. I-- Well,
the truth is, my aunts want me to go somewhere, and I don't want to go,
because I don't know the people, and I thought perhaps I might stay here
with you, that is if you don't mind."
"Well, I never!" exclaimed Eva Louise. "If you ain't a queer one! Ma! I
say, ma!"
There was no reply, so Eva Louise went into the house, leaving Bella in
triumphant possession of all the jack-stones, which she immediately
swept into a very dirty pinafore. Presently her sister returned,
followed by Mrs. Brady, with the front of her skirt turned up and her
arms bared to the elbow.
"How do you do, Mrs. Brady? Has Eva Louise told you? Would you mind?"
"What iver on earth do yer mean, miss? Sure it can't be that yer afther
wantin' to lave yer nice house that's as big as a palace, and come here
to the loikes o' us?"
"I really do, Mrs. Brady; and I shall be so much obliged to you if you
will let me."
"Come inter the house, miss, an' we'll talk it over. Sure, do the
Herrickses know yer afther comin' here?"
"Oh no, of course not. No one knows it, and I don't want you to tell
them, please, Mrs. Brady," said Elizabeth, as she followed her hostess
through the narrow passageway into the kitchen.
Here the baby was crying upon the floor, while Mr. Brady smoked his pipe
in the corner. Through the window Elizabeth could see their own garden
fence, with the fruit trees beyond, and above them the windows of the
closed room.
"If you don't mind, I should like to stay here awhile," she said. "I
won't be any trouble, really, Mrs. Brady, and I might help you to take
care of the baby."
The child had seated herself on the extreme edge of the only available
chair in the room. Mrs. Brady stood with her hands on her hips, looking
at her, with a daughter on either side.
"Well, I never!" said she at last. "I can't think yer really mean it.
Pop, what do yer say to it?"
Mr. Brady smoked in silence for some minutes. Then he removed his pipe,
and remarked, in a surly tone:
"If the old ladies is willin' to pay us han'some for it, I 'ain't got no
objections. If we take boarders, of course we look for boarders' pay."
Having made this statement, he replaced his pipe. His wife and daughters
again looked at Elizabeth.
"What old ladies?" she asked.
"It's yer aunts he is afther meanin', miss. As pop says, we 'ain't got
no objections to takin' boarders."
"Oh, but I am afraid I can't pay you just now. My aunts don't know where
I am, you know, and I don't want them to. I haven't any money of my own
now, but I will have when I grow up, and I will pay you then, Mrs.
Brady--indeed I will."
The pipe was again removed.
"If yer afther thinkin' yer goin' to live here for nothin' till yer
growed up, yer pretty much mistaken. Atin' us out o' house an' home, an'
nothin' to show for it!"
[Illustration: "OH, BUT, REALLY, MR. BRADY, I DON'T EAT MUCH."]
"Oh, but really, Mr. Brady, I don't eat much. That is just what is the
matter with me, and why I had to have the doctor. I only eat a little
oatmeal and cream for breakfast, and I don't really care for anything
but sweetbreads and ice-cream, and I can get along very well without
them. You won't have to get anything extra for me. I will promise not to
eat a bit more than I can help. And I could do ever so much to help Mrs.
Brady, taking care of the baby or washing the dishes. Please let me
stay!"
And she looked imploringly from one to the other.
Mrs. Brady stepped over to the corner, and a conversation ensued between
her and her husband of which Elizabeth could hear but snatches. The
question of money appeared to figure largely in it, and she heard the
words "reward" and "have us arrested."
Finally Mrs. Brady turned to her visitor.
"Pop says you can stay for the prisent."
"Oh, thank you!" said Elizabeth, gratefully. "Shall I go take off my
things? And where shall I put them?"
Eva Louise volunteered to take her up stairs. She had a great curiosity
to see what was in the beautiful leather travelling-bag which Elizabeth
carried, a curiosity which was presently gratified when the new-comer
took from it a silver-backed brush and comb, and laid them on the old
wash-stand which appeared to serve as a dressing-table.
"La!" cried Bella, who had followed them up stairs, "ain't we grand?
Say, is them real solid silver?"
"Why, yes," said Elizabeth; "I suppose so."
"Pop needn't worry about no board money, I guess."
And the two daughters of the house hurried downstairs.
Elizabeth looked about her. It was certainly very different from her own
room in the next street. As there were but few bedrooms in the house,
she feared that she might be obliged to sleep with the Brady girls.
Already she felt homesick. And the house was filled with the odor of
salt fish mingled with that of onions and bad-tobacco smoke. It was
almost unbearable.
Presently she heard loud voices. Some of the boys had returned, and it
sounded as if they were quarrelling. How very dreadful it was! Elizabeth
was afraid to go down, so she staid where she was, with difficulty
opening the window a crack in order to get a breath of fresh air.
She began to wonder if life in Virginia could be worse than this. If she
only had Julius Cæsar here, it would be a comfort; but Julius would not
be happy in such a place. He liked soft cushions and rugs to lie upon,
and he was particular about having a clean plate for his food.
She wondered if her aunt Caroline had returned yet, and what she would
think when she read her note. After what seemed a long time, she heard
the State House clock strike six. She would be about to sit down to
supper if she were at home. The aunts were expecting guests to dinner
that night. The voices downstairs grew louder. She distinctly heard Mr.
Brady say:
"If we ain't a-goin' to be paid for it, she don't stay the night. I'll
murder the whole o' yers before I let her ate us out o' house an' home.
Silver, yer say she's got? I'll see it before I believe yers."
This was too dreadful! Elizabeth began to cry. And then she heard a loud
knocking at the door.
* * * * *
In the mean time Miss Herrick had returned from her drive. She found
visitors in the parlor, and when they had gone it was necessary to give
a glance at the dinner table to see that all was properly arranged for
her guests; and then she went up stairs to dress. It was almost six
o'clock.
As she looked at the tiny clock on her dressing-table, her eye was
attracted by Elizabeth's note, pinned on her cushion.
"What is this for?" she said to herself, as she opened and read it.
"What can the child mean? Gone to some friends--'some people she knows'?
Who are they? Has she lost her mind? Perhaps her illness is affecting
her brain."
Miss Herrick almost ran from the room, and called Miss Rice.
"Where is Elizabeth?" she demanded.
"Is she not with you?" asked Miss Rice. "As she was not at home, I
fancied that you had taken her to drive."
"Not at all. The child must be found. Read this quickly, and tell me
what you think. Was there ever anything so trying? The child will be the
death of me. Company for dinner, and all this excitement! Where can she
be? Rebecca," to her sister, who appeared at this moment, "Elizabeth,
has actually had the audacity to run away! What shall we do about it?"
Miss Rebecca Herrick read the note.
"How perfectly absurd!" she remarked as she finished it. "No doubt she
has gone to those dreadful Bradys she was forever talking about. She
always spoke of them as friends."
"Of course! How clever you are, Rebecca! Miss Rice, kindly tell James to
go to the Bradys' and ask if she is there. He probably knows where they
live. I have barely time to dress for dinner. Let me know if he brings
her back." And Miss Herrick returned to her room. "No doubt she is
there," she said to herself. "It is useless to become unduly alarmed
before it is absolutely necessary. What a strange child she is! Perhaps
Helen Redmond will understand her better than I do. I hope so, I am
sure, and the sooner she is sent there the better, if she is going to
behave in this way."
But Miss Herrick was more alarmed than she cared to acknowledge. She
moved nervously about the room, and it was a relief to her when, as she
was putting the finishing touches to her toilet, there was a knock at
the door.
"Who is it?" she cried.
"It is Elizabeth," said a small voice. "May I come in, Aunt Caroline?
Oh, I am so glad to get back! Thank you so much for sending James after
me!"
"Do you think this is the proper way for a little girl to behave?" asked
Miss Herrick, in a severe voice, although she was greatly relieved to
see her niece.
"No, Aunt Caroline, I don't, and I hope you will excuse me. I--I didn't
want to go to Virginia, you know, and I thought that the Bradys' would
be better than that. But it isn't, Aunt Caroline. Nothing could be worse
than the Bradys! I was so glad to have James come for me! They were all
quarrelling, and Mr. Brady was not at all nice. He was even talking
about murdering people when James knocked at the door. And I am so glad
to get home! Don't you think I might stay here now, Aunt Caroline? Must
I really go to Virginia?"
"Certainly you must, more so now than ever. It is nonsense for you to
dread it so. There is no reason why you should not be happy there. Now
run away, for I must go down to the drawing-room."
"I should have liked to kiss her," said Miss Herrick to herself, as she
went down stairs. "I am growing very fond of her, with all her oddness.
But I must not allow myself to care deeply again. One disappointment is
enough."
And she thought of the locked door upstairs.
Elizabeth went to her room. It was softly lighted, and it all looked so
comfortable and quiet compared with the Brady apartment. How thankful
she should be that she had not been born a Brady! Even Miss Rice was
endurable after Mrs. Brady. If she could only stay here, and not go to
Virginia!
But fate and the doctor and Miss Herrick were apparently inexorable, and
day after day slipped by, bringing nearer that which was set for her
departure. Her trunk was packed; it was off. She bade good-by to her
aunts and to Julius Cæsar--she had begged to be allowed to take him with
her, and had wept bitter tears over the refusal--and now the carriage
was at the door. Miss Rice, on her way to her home in South Carolina,
was to take Elizabeth to her destination.
"Good-by, Aunt Caroline," said the little girl, with streaming eyes.
"Good-by, Aunt Rebecca. I am sorry I have not been a better child, but
you don't know how hard it is sometimes. And you will send me word if my
father comes home, won't you, Aunt Caroline? I still think he will come
some day."
And then she ran down the steps, the carriage door was shut, and she was
driven rapidly away.
"I feel as if I could not let her go," said Miss Herrick, as she stood
in the window and stroked Julius Cæsar, who was quite aware that
something out of the ordinary was happening. "If it were not that the
doctor spoke so strongly, I should keep her now. It is very strange that
she cannot be happy or well with us. I am afraid, Rebecca, that I am
going to miss her sadly."
"You will soon grow accustomed to it, Caroline," returned her sister,
calmly. "The child was a great care, for we never knew what she was
going to do next--running away, investigating Mil--what she should not
have done, up to all kinds of mischief."
"Do not allude to that, Rebecca, I beg of you," said Miss Herrick, with
some agitation. "The child reminds me of _her_ in certain ways. This
taste for drawing that she has developed fills me with dread. I do not
want her to be like her. I shall write to Helen Redmond, and tell her it
must not be encouraged."
Just as Miss Herrick said this a telegram was handed to her. She opened
it hurriedly, and read:
"Marjorie has scarlet fever. Do not let Elizabeth come.
"HELEN REDMOND."
For a moment Miss Herrick scarcely knew what to do. She glanced
helplessly at the window from which a few minutes before she had seen
Elizabeth drive away. Then she looked at the clock. There was a good
half-hour yet before the train would start.
"What is the matter, Caroline? Do tell me what is in the telegram,
instead of keeping me in suspense," exclaimed Miss Rebecca.
Her sister thrust it toward her without a word, and left the room. She
was dressed for the street, for she had intended to go out as soon as
the carriage should return from taking Elizabeth to the station. She
went out of the house, and her acquaintances would have been greatly
startled had they seen the stately Miss Herrick almost run to Walnut
Street, and with ungloved hand signal to a trolley-car to stop for her.
It was rarely that Miss Herrick condescended to set foot in any
conveyance but her own carriage.
She was quite breathless when she reached the station and mounted the
stairs. She looked for the gate through which the passengers were
crowding to the southern train.
"Your ticket, madam?" said the gate-keeper.
"Oh, I have none! I am not going anywhere. I must get my niece. Scarlet
fever!"
And before he could stop her, Miss Herrick had pushed through and was
running down the long platform.
Elizabeth, sitting forlornly in her place in the parlor-car, with the
back of Miss Rice's austere-looking bonnet in front of her, and her mind
filled with the dread of Virginia, was astonished to see her aunt
suddenly appear at her side and grasp her hand.
"Come quickly, Elizabeth! You are not to go, after all. Come, before the
train starts."
"Not to go?" repeated the child.
"No. Marjorie has scarlet fever. Good-by, Miss Rice. I will write and
explain. There is the bell ringing. Hurry, child, hurry!"
And they were but just in time. The train moved off with Miss Rice, and
Elizabeth remained in Philadelphia.
It seemed too good to be true. She asked her aunt a thousand questions,
but she gained little satisfaction. Now that Elizabeth was saved from
the danger of infection, Miss Herrick did not know what to do next.
According to the doctor, she must not remain with them; but now that the
home in Virginia was closed to her, there seemed to be no way of
disposing of the child. Her mind was so occupied with Elizabeth's future
that she could not attend to her present needs.
They returned to the house which Elizabeth, in tears, had left so short
a time before, and then Miss Herrick got into her carriage and drove to
the doctor's. He must help her out of the difficulty.
The result was that the town house and the country house were closed for
the summer, and the three Misses Herrick went to the sea-shore. When
they should come back in the autumn, there was to be a new order of
things. Elizabeth was to go to school, and she was to have companions of
her own age.
"That is, if you don't want to kill her," said the doctor, bluntly, when
he had stated his views.
That same night Elizabeth heard that Marjorie Redmond had died of
scarlet fever. She had been almost glad to hear that she was ill, for it
had been the means of preventing her from going there; and now the
favorite cousin of whom Val had been so fond was dead.
Miss Herrick shuddered when she heard the news. How narrow Elizabeth's
escape had been! If she had gone a week earlier, there would have been
no saving her. But she gave no sign of the strong hold that her niece
had gained upon her heart, and Elizabeth little guessed how much her
aunt really cared for her.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
[Illustration]
A VIRGINIA CAVALIER.[2]
[2] Begun in HARPER'S ROUND TABLE No. 868.
BY MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL.
CHAPTER XVI.