largest of the archipelago already mentioned, the distance is only
twelve miles, while it is but twenty miles across the Strait of Fuca to
the American mainland on the south. These two points being so near at
hand, it is easy enough to run a boat-load of opium or Chinamen over to
either of them in a night. For such a passage each Chinaman is compelled
to pay from $15 to $20, while opium yields a profit of four or five
dollars a pound. Smuggling from Victoria is thus such a lucrative
business that many men of easy conscience are engaged in it.
Both the island route and that by way of the strait present the serious
drawbacks of having their landing-places so remote from railroads and
cities, that though the frontier has been passed, there is still a
dangerous stretch of territory to be crossed before either of these can
be reached. In view of this fact it occurred to one of the more
enterprising among the Victoria smugglers to undertake a greater risk
for the sake of greater profits, and run a boat nearly one hundred miles
up the sound to some point in near vicinity to one of its large cities.
He had just the craft for the purpose, and finally secured a captain
who, having recently lost a schooner through seizure by the American
authorities for unlawful sealing in Bering Sea, was reckless and
desperate enough for the new venture. As this man undertook the run for
a share of the profits, he was inclined to reduce all expenses to their
very lowest limits, and had already made a number of highly successful
trips. Although the fare to each Chinaman by this new line was $25, it
offered such superior advantages as to be liberally patronized, and the
boat was always crowded.
In the mean time the American authorities had discovered that much
illegal opium and many illegal Chinamen were entering their country
through a new channel that seemed to lead to the vicinity of Tacoma. The
recently appointed commander of a United States revenue-cutter
determined to break up this route, and capture, if possible, these
boldest of all the sound smugglers. For some weeks he watched in vain,
overhauled and examined a number of innocent vessels, and with each
failure became the more anxious to succeed. At length he sent his third
Lieutenant to Victoria, of course out of uniform, to gain what
information he could concerning any vessel that seemed likely to be
engaged in smuggling.
This officer, after spending several days in the city without learning
anything definite, was beginning to feel discouraged, when one
afternoon, as he was strolling near the docks, he noticed two lads
walking ahead of him who looked something like sailors. One of them had
evidently just purchased a new outfit of clothing, and carried a canvas
bag on which his name was painted in black letters. Making a mental note
of this name, the officer followed the lads out of curiosity to see what
kind of a craft they would board.
When he saw the _Fancy_ he said to himself: "Tough-looking old packet. I
wonder if that young chap with the bag can be one of her crew?"
Without approaching the sloop so closely as to attract attention, he
lingered in her vicinity until Alaric went uptown to procure supplies,
when the officer still kept him in sight. He even entered the store in
which the lad was dealing, and here his curiosity was stimulated by the
young sailor's varied and costly order.
"That sloop must make an extraordinary amount of money somehow," he
reflected.
So interested had he now become that he even followed Alaric while the
lad made his subsequent purchases. Finally he found himself again near
the sloop just as the lad who had excited his curiosity was ordered to
the wharf to air himself after his unfortunate experience with the
bottle of cologne. At length the officer addressed him, and by dint of
persistent questions became confirmed in his suspicions that the dingy
old sloop cruised to the sound with Chinamen and opium.
Having gained the information he wanted thus easily and unexpectedly,
the officer returned to his hotel for supper and to write a despatch
that should go by that night's boat. After delivering this on board the
steamer he determined to take one more look at the suspected sloop; and
strolling leisurely in that direction, reached the wharf just in time to
see her glide out from the slip and head for the open sea.
Here was an emergency that called for prompt action, and running back to
the hotel, the young man paid his bill, secured his bag, and gained the
steamer just as that fine American-built vessel was about to take her
departure for ports of the upper sound. Shortly afterwards, a little
beyond the harbor mouth, the big brilliantly lighted steamer swept past
a small dimly outlined craft, on whose deck somebody was waving a
lantern so that she might not be run down.
Of course it has been understood long ere this that the sloop _Fancy_
was a smuggler. She was not only that, but was also the boldest, most
successful, and most troublesome smuggler on Puget Sound. The one
person at all acquainted with the shabby old craft and as yet unaware of
her true character was Alaric Todd. His slight knowledge of smugglers
having been gained through books, he thought of them as being only a
sort of half pirates, either Spanish or French, who flourished during
the last century. Thus, although he did not approve of either the
sloop's passengers or cargo, it did not occur to him that they were
being carried in defiance of law until about the time that steamer's
lights were disappearing in the distance.
The boy's hands were still smarting from an unaccustomed hauling on
ropes that had resulted in hoisting the big mainsail, and now he lay on
deck well forward, where he had been told to keep a sharp lookout and
report instantly any vessel coming within his range of vision. Before a
fresh beam wind the _Fancy_ was slipping rapidly through the water, with
Captain Duff steering, Bonny doing odd jobs about deck, and the
passengers confining themselves closely to the hold. After the young
mate had waved his signal lantern to the steamer, he extinguished both
it and the side lights that had been burning until now, leaving the
binnacle lamp carefully shaded as the only light on board. With nothing
more to do at present, he threw himself down beside Alaric, and the boys
began a low-voiced conversation.
"What made you put out those lights?" asked the latter. "I thought all
ships carried lights at night."
"We don't," laughed Bonny. "They'd give us away to the cutters, and we'd
be picked up in less'n no time. I'm mighty glad that steamer isn't a
revenue-boat."
"Why?"
"Because she's so fast. There's only one craft in the sound can beat
her, and that's the _Flyer_, running between Tacoma and Seattle. The
_City of Kingston_ is a good one, though. She used to be a crack Hudson
River boat, and came out here around the Horn; or rather not exactly
that, but through the Strait of Magellan. That's a tough place, I can
tell you."
"I suppose it is," replied Alaric. "But, Bonny, tell me something more
about those cutters. Why should they want to catch us?"
"For running 'chinks' and 'dope.'"
"What harm is there in that? Is it against the law?"
"I should rather say it was. There's a duty of ten dollars a pound on
one, and the others aren't allowed in at any price."
"Then I don't see how we are any different from regular smugglers."
"That's what some folks call us," replied Bonny, with a grin. "They are
mostly on the other side, though. In Victoria they call us
free-traders."
"It doesn't make any difference what anybody calls us," retorted Alaric,
vehemently, "so long as we ourselves know what we are. It was a mean
thing, Bonny Brooks, that you didn't tell me this before we started."
"Look here, Rick Dale! do you pretend you didn't know after seeing the
'chinks' and the 'dope' and all that was going on? Oh, come, that's too
thin!"
"I don't care whether it's thin or thick," rejoined Alaric, stoutly. "I
didn't know that I was shipping to become a pirate, or you may be very
certain I'd have sat on that log till I starved before going one step
with you."
"What do you mean by calling me a pirate?" demanded Bonny, indignantly.
"I'm no more a pirate than you are, for all your fine airs."
In his excitement Bonny had so raised his voice that it reached the ears
of Captain Duff, who growled out fiercely, "Stow yer jaw, ye young
swabs, and keep a sharp lookout for'ard--d'ye hear?"
"Ay, ay, sir!" responded the young mate, rising as though to end the
conversation, and peering keenly into the gloom.
But Alaric was not inclined to let the subject drop; and, with an idea
of continuing their talk in so low a tone that it could not reach the
Captain's ears, he too started to rise.
At that moment the sloop gave a quick lurch that caused him to plunge
awkwardly forward. He was only saved from going overboard by striking
squarely against Bonny, who was balancing himself easily in the very
eyes of the vessel, with one foot on the rail. The force of the blow was
too great for him to withstand. With a gasping cry he pitched headlong
over the bows and disappeared from his comrade's horrified gaze.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
BICYCLE-TOURING DURING SUMMER VACATIONS.
Wheeling has become such a universal matter now that it may prove of
interest to give some practical hints to riders who have not yet
realized what health and enjoyment, as well as experience, may be gained
by taking something more than a day's ride in the vicinity of home and
daily work. By far the greater number of those who own wheels are, or
rather have been up to the present, satisfied to take afternoon runs of
from ten to fifty miles in length, or, at most, to ride out of town to
some friend's house, returning the next day. In those cities and towns
of the United States which admit of it hundreds of men, young and old,
ride every day to school or college or business, but until this year
there has been comparatively little of the two weeks' or two months'
touring--that is the best use to which a wheel can be put. Naturally one
of the reasons for this has been that but few people have time to go off
on fortnightly trips. The chief reason probably has been the difficulty
of getting good accommodations, good roads, and good opportunity for
repairs in case of accidents. It has become the custom to ride through
England or France, and thus combine a sight-seeing tour with a long
bicycle ride, rather than make similar runs at home, and why not here?
If a tour is possible in Europe, it certainly is possible in America,
and to him who has eyes to see there is much to see and learn about his
own country, if he goes on a wheel, that never can be seen in any other
way. Now, too, the facilities for such a trip are greatly improved over
anything in the past. There is not a village of any size, to say nothing
of towns and cities, that has not one repair shop at least, and in New
England and the Middle States, and all along the northern part of the
United States, out beyond Chicago, a wheelman can get to one within an
hour, except, perhaps, in some isolated instances where there are long
stretches of woodland. A five or ten mile walk with a badly broken wheel
is an unpleasant job; but if you are on any reasonably important
thoroughfare you are sure to get a chance to ride on some passing wagon,
and then, once the repair shop is reached, the wheel can either be
repaired, or another one hired until your own is in good order again.
Hotels are now accustomed to bicyclists. There was a time when many a
hotel had a regulation that no one in bicycle costume was permitted to
enter the dining-room, but such inns are fast getting behind the times.
All hostelries are in existence to make money, and the moment--which is
now arrived--that a sufficiently large number of men and women ride to
them on bicycles they will open dining-rooms and the whole hotel to
them. Then, again, the League of American Wheelmen is doing a great deal
for this touring of the bicyclist. The League is not a money-making
affair in any way; most of its officials give their services free, and
the endeavor is merely to pay expenses, while the object is to unite
wheelmen and make them a sufficiently strong body to urge the different
governments of the States, cities, etc., to build good roads and pass
reasonable laws for the bicyclist. If you join this L.A.W. you secure
for your initiation a ticket which in most large towns and cities admits
you to at least one hotel for a somewhat reduced price. At any rate, on
a two weeks' tour the wheelman will get his initiation fee back again
half a dozen times over. Besides his ticket the member also is presented
with a road-book of his State, which not only gives the best routes all
over the State, but tells him also the hotels which give reduced rates,
gives distances from one place to another, and other information of this
kind. It also suggests good runs from 50 to 500 miles in length. With
the improvement in the strength, durability, and lightness of the
bicycle itself, the information of L.A.W. road-books, and the increase
in repair shops, the great difficulties of touring have vanished. It
turns out, therefore, that the facilities for touring are really better
in the United States than in Europe, the one real disadvantage being
that English and French roads are in better condition than those in
America.
The difficulties to be overcome, then, are those of the bicyclist
himself. How shall he fit out? Where shall he go, at what rate, and by
what route? These questions, hard to answer as they may seem to any one
who has not travelled much, are not difficult if they are taken up in
detail. The real objects of such a trip should be amusement, comfort,
sight-seeing, and out-door exercise. The speed at which you go should be
comfortable to you, and you yourself must therefore settle that. Some
men want to do seventy or eighty miles a day. Others are tired if they
do more than ten. The distance, however, is or should be absolutely of
no importance. If you feel like doing a good bit one day, it is
possible. If you feel like staying abed the next day, or taking a walk,
that is possible, too. In either case the idea of bicycle-touring does
not or should not be concerned with distance at all. One man will have
quite as good a time on a two weeks' tour covering a hundred miles as
another will in covering a thousand.
In laying out the trip, some general idea of its course ought to be
decided upon, such as a run from Boston to New York and return, from New
York to Washington, New York to Buffalo and Niagara, Chicago to Buffalo,
Chicago to St. Louis, and so on; or a trip to the White Mountains in New
Hampshire, or the Berkshire Hills in Massachusetts, from any of the
places named. The words "mountains" and "hills" have a dangerous sound
to wheelmen, but the beauty of scenery, the visions of long even coasts,
and pleasant variations from the continual revolving of wheels to
walking up the next slope, all mean a great deal more than mere hilly
roads. Once the trip is laid out, however, all idea of the different
stages must be forgotten or never figured out. That planning to reach
this town on Monday, and another on Tuesday, and the next on Wednesday,
is ruinous to pleasure and to the nerves. The constant strain to get
there, or the still greater vexation of getting there in the middle of
the afternoon and feeling like going on, is bad.
At any rate, there is not much pleasure in running on railroad time. If
the week or fortnight at your disposal is up before the journey is done,
take a train and go home, with the wheel in a baggage-car; but on no
account hurry. You have your road-map with you, and can see at a glance
that Johnstown is three miles further on, and Brownstown is ten. If at
Johnstown you don't want to stop, make for Brownstown. If you grow weary
five miles out, stop at the first decent-looking house and tell the
housewife you are on a pleasure tour, that you want to rest, or hope for
a glass of milk or a dinner or a bed. She will help you out if you pay,
and often if you don't; but should she refuse, try the next house after
suggesting to her that she should ride a bicycle; for as sure as there
is a wheel resting up against the house anywhere, you will be received
and comforted. Some of the pleasantest incidents of a trip, some of the
kindest friends, are found in these little unexpected stops. In any case
be pleasant, be considerate; take the baby on your knee, show Johnny how
the wheels go round, and scratch the cat's back. All these will open the
spare bedroom and the larder, to say nothing of the hostess's heart, and
they will even save money.
Suppose, for instance, the trip is to be from New York city to Boston
along the Connecticut coast, and back through Massachusetts, over the
Berkshire Hills, and down the Hudson--a trip that it will be difficult
for any one to surpass anywhere else in the United States for variety of
scenery, historic interest, and for good roads and accommodations. You
leave New York city, run out through Stamford, New Haven, New London, in
Connecticut, thence through Providence to Boston, taking a side trip, if
there is time, to Newport, Rhode Island. From Boston the run is westward
through Worcester and Springfield, and then, winding about through
Lenox, Pittsfield, Stockbridge, and all the Berkshire towns, it finally
crosses the border into New York State, until the Hudson is reached;
thence it extends down the east bank of the river to New York city. The
whole trip has a good name for roads, is full of historic interest,
combines sea and mountain air, and gives you a glimpse of old New
England life as well as of modern country life of the most advanced
type. There are towns and repair shops in plenty, and not many hills as
such tours go. You can do it in two weeks or less, or you can easily
take a month to it, and at any time you can reach New York city in one
night by rail.
There are other trips that in some ways would prove more interesting to
different men, and any one, wherever he lives, provided it is somewhere
in the northern or eastern part of the United States, or on the Pacific
or Atlantic coast, can lay out such a tour from his road-books or his
own head. Suppose, for the moment, this trip is to be taken, however,
how shall a bicyclist fit out? The questions which require solution are
how to carry sufficient clothing for exigencies, and to have it weigh as
nearly nothing as possible; and how to travel at as near no cost as
possible. There is a well-known system for carrying baggage on a walking
tour which is eminently suited to bicyclists; this is to have two pieces
of baggage. The first is a large valise or small trunk, containing
clothing of all kinds needed for an ordinary two weeks' trip by rail,
besides toilet articles, and so on. The materials for the other is
composed of a similar set of toilet articles, and one or at most two
sets of underclothing, besides an extra pair of shoes or
slippers--moccasins pack easily and are very serviceable. This last is
packed in a leather case set into the diamond frame of the wheel, or
into a knapsack carried on the shoulders. If the diamond-shaped
portmanteau is properly made it is better. Luggage seems lighter on the
wheel than on your back.
The trouble with the average portmanteau is that it is too thick, making
it necessary for the wheelman to straddle it instead of giving him the
free use of his limbs to press up and down on the pedals
perpendicularly. If you will take the trouble to have this portmanteau
made to order and carefully measured, so that it will not come outside a
line drawn on either side of the bicycle from the sides of the saddle to
the inside of each pedal when at its lowest point in a revolution, you
will find no trouble with it. This, however, necessitates its being
narrower at the top than at the bottom. On arriving at a hotel for the
night, it is unstrapped from the wheel and taken up to your room. Then
after your bath there is the change of clothing, the slippers, the
toilet articles in a little case by themselves, and your repair kit,
which may be wanted in the evening for some little repairs on the wheel.
The portmanteau will always be full, so take only what is absolutely
necessary, otherwise you will find that some important thing has been
left behind, and a useless appendage brought only to occupy valuable
space, and be thrown away in disgust. Always carry soap and a towel.
They are sometimes hard to find, and oftener so bad that one goes dirty
rather than use them. Then, too, a good wash by a stream is only
satisfactory when soap and towel are at hand. If you have been compelled
to repair a puncture by the way, such a wash with soap and towel is
everything. If you stop for a bath in some stream, the towel comes in
again.
Another good addition is one of the tiny cameras that are sold nowadays
for a small amount. For if you cannot sketch well they bring back with
you little reminders of a journey which are invaluable, and they do not
take the time in preparation that a sketch does. Of course it would be
foolish to attempt to state that photographs are better than good
sketches. Any one who can draw reasonably well has something of the
greatest value with him. For the average mortal a camera must take its
place.
All this time nothing has been said as to the use to be made of the
large valise or small trunk. It contains several changes of clothing,
extra shoes, extra suits, extra everything, and is sent from New York by
express to the Narragansett House at Providence, or to Newport, or even
to Boston. On the first day's ride you make Stamford, thirty miles away,
or New Haven, forty-one miles further on. The next day New London is far
enough. Perhaps you want to stay there an extra day, or perhaps you
spend two or three days getting to Providence. At any rate, in three or
four or five days you are in Providence, and there is the valise
awaiting you with a fresh supply of clothing for the portmanteau. Next
morning it goes to Boston, and you follow it the same day, or the next,
or three or four days later, just as you wish. In Boston all the
clothing can be laundered in a day, and a new start made. From this city
the valise goes by express to Springfield or Lenox or Stockbridge, and
you follow on at your leisure. If at any time you decide not to pass
through the city or town holding your valise for the time being, send a
letter and order it sent elsewhere, paying the required amount and a
little more by money-order enclosed. Such transactions are safe in any
good hotel; but always have the valise marked "to be called for by John
Brown, expecting to arrive by bicycle about such and such a date."
It is not improbable that you may want the valise at once. In that case
the best plan is to get on a train and ride to it. It will never be more
than four hours away, and instead of covering the distance you ride in
the train on your wheel, you can add some unexpected and therefore
interesting detour to your programme.
From Lenox the valise goes to Hudson or Poughkeepsie, or even to New
York city again, and the trip is finished, as it was begun, in pleasant
irregular stages, with stoppages wherever desirable, and long runs
whenever wanted. And this suggests another word as to the regulation of
habits on the road. Don't eat and drink in every town you happen to pass
through. Eat a hearty breakfast, and then read a paper for an hour. With
breakfast, at eight, the start will be at nine. Then run along at any
gait that suits you, only remembering that an easy start means a
pleasant and a long run. Stop at twelve or thereabouts, as the town
appears and the spirit moves, wash up, and eat a big noon dinner. After
another hour's rest--sometimes including a nap--start out again, going
slowly usually, or rest till four or five o'clock if it is midsummer and
very warm.
When a hill is reached, remember that a little walk is a great rest and
recreation, and a ride up a short hill is equal to a long stretch of
level road. It is really wiser and pleasanter to walk up all hills that
are steep. If you see a pretty brook and a shady tree near it, and the
spirit again moves, dismount and read a volume out of the portmanteau,
or lie quietly, enjoying one of the privileges of a bicycle trip--a
little communion with honest nature, far removed from the railroad, the
hotel, the guide, and the summer tourist. If it rains, ask the first man
to take you in--and so on.