Produced by Annie McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]
Copyright, 1895, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.
* * * * *
PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, AUGUST 20, 1895. FIVE CENTS A COPY.
VOL. XVI.--NO. 825. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.
* * * * *
[Illustration]
BRADDY'S BROTHER.
BY JULIANA CONOVER.
[Illustration: Decorative I]
t was the ending of the ninth inning; the score stood 8 to 7 in
Princeton's favor, but Harvard had only one man out, and the bases were
full.
Was it any wonder that the Freshmen couldn't keep their seats, and that
the very air seemed to hold its breath while Bradfield, '98, twisted the
ball?
In the centre of the grand stand, where the orange and black was
thickest, but the enthusiasm more controlled, stood a boy, his whole
body quivering with nervous excitement, his eyes glued--as were all
others--to the pitcher's box.
"Come in, now! look out! lead off!" the Harvard coach was saying, as the
umpire's "one strike, two balls, two strikes, three balls," raised and
dashed again the hopes of Princeton. Then came a moment of horrible
nerve-destroying suspense, and then the umpire's calm and
judicial--"striker out."
Above the cheers, which literally tore the air, the shrill discordant
note of the boy's voice could be heard, yelling like mad for Princeton
and '98.
"Who is that little fellow?" said a girl, just behind him to her
companion. The boy turned like a flash.
"I'm Braddy's brother," he said, his chest still heaving, and his cheek
glowing. "He's struck out _seven_ men!"
The girl smiled, and an upper classman, who was next to him, patted him
on the back.
"It's a proud day for Braddy's brother," he said, "and for '98 and
Princeton, that is, if Harvard doesn't--" For a moment it looked as if
Harvard would, for the regular thud of the ball against the catcher's
glove was interrupted by the ominous crack of the bat, and the men on
bases ran for their lives on the bare chance of a hit, or possibly an
error.
But '98 was not going to let a hard-earned victory slip between her
fingers like that; the short-stop fielded the swift grounder
beautifully, and the runner was out at first.
There was a short cheer, then a long wordless, formless burst of triumph
swelling out from a hundred throats. The crowd swarmed on the diamond,
the Freshman nine was picked up and carried off the field, "Braddy"
riding on the crest of a dangerous-looking wave which was formed by a
seething, howling mob.
"Well," said the Senior, turning to his small neighbor, "how does
'Braddy's brother' feel now?"
But "Braddy's brother's" feelings were too deep for utterance; besides,
he was trying to remember just how many times the Princeton Freshmen had
won from Harvard in the last six years.
* * * * *
"Hullo, Dave! Dave Hunter!" called Bradfield, as a small boy passed near
the group on the front campus. "Don't you want to take my brother off
for a little while, and show him the town?"
Dave came up blushing with pleasure at having the man who had just
pitched a winning game single him out.
"This is Dave Hunter, a special friend of mine, Bing," Braddy continued,
turning to the little chap who was lying stretched out on the grass
beside him, and who felt by this time as if he owned the whole campus
and all the college buildings, for hadn't he been in the athletic
club-house, the cage, and the 'gym.'? and wasn't he actually going to
eat at a Freshman club, and sleep up in a college room? It was the
greatest day of his life, his first taste of independence; and the glory
of being "Braddy's brother" seemed to him beyond compare.
"Don't keep him too long, Dave," said Bradfield, as the two boys started
off; "we'll have to get through dinner early if we want to hear the
Seniors sing."
Young Bingham Bradfield nodded and blushed and smiled all the way down
to the gate, as men in the different groups which they passed called
out:
"There goes 'Braddy's brother,'" or, "Hullo, little Brad," or, "What's
the matter with '98?" and one who knew him at home sang out,
"B-I-N-G-O--_Bingo_!" It was awfully exciting.
"They're going to have a fire to-night," Dave said, as they walked up
Nassau Street. "I heard some of the Freshmen say that they would begin
and collect the wood as soon as it was dark."
"Where do they get it?" asked Bingham.
"Oh, just take it," Dave answered, carelessly. "They take fences and
gates, and boards and barrels, and, oh, anything they can find. That
would be a dandy one," pointing to a half-broken-down rail fence which
divided an orchard from a newly opened road.
"It wouldn't let any cows or horses out, you see. They stole our barn
gate once, and the horses got loose on the front lawn and tore up all
the grass. We didn't mind, though," with true college spirit, "for we'd
beaten Yale."
"Yale Freshmen?" eagerly.
"No," with great scorn: "the 'Varsity. Nobody's much stuck on Freshmen
in Princeton," he continued, "except, of course, your brother. He's
great; he'll make the 'Varsity next year, sure."
Bingo's feelings were soothed. _He_ thought all the Freshmen "great,"
but was satisfied if others only appreciated Braddy.
They grew very chummy, the two boys, and Braddy's brother had learned a
great deal about college life by the time he was brought back to the
campus.
* * * * *
It was in the middle of Senior singing, when the shadows from the tall
old elms were being swallowed up in the gathering darkness, and the
groups in white duck trousers scattered about the grass were beginning
to be indistinguishable, that slim figures were seen hurrying
mysteriously to and fro, and the peace of the evening was rudely broken
into by the preparations for a "Freshman fire."
The victory had already been celebrated on Old North steps, for had not
Bingo himself heard the Seniors sing, as an encore to a favorite solo,
these never-to-be-forgotten lines, composed for the occasion:
"The Freshmen nine came from Harvard for to show
How they played the game of ball;
But found when Bradfield got in his finest curves
They couldn't hit the ball at all.
The game stood in our favor 8 to 7
When they came to the bat once more.
Their Captain said, ''Tis the ending of the 9th,
We've got to tie the score.'
_Chorus._--Then when he saw the bases full
His sides with laughter shook.
But when he heard the umpire shout
'Two strikes'--then 'striker out!'
He wore a worried look--
He wore a worried look."
That brought even a finer glow to the boy's cheek than when the familiar
"Bingo! Bingo! Bingo!--'way down on the Bingo farm!" had drawn the
attention of his brother's friends to him, and made him feel for a
moment as though he were a college hero.
The singing had ceased with "Old Nassau," and the campus was alive now
with hurrying groups. The usual night cries filled the air: "Hullo,
Billy Appleton!" "Hullo, Benny Butler!" "Come over here!" "See you
later," etc., and the Freshmen were shouting and rushing wildly about.
"Where's Porter?" "Where's Tommy?" "Where's Dad?" was heard on all
sides. "'98 this way, '98 this way!"
"Stick to me, Bing," said Braddy, as he started over to his room in
Witherspoon; "stick close to me, or you'll surely get lost."
"We haven't half enough wood, Park," said a '98 man, coming up to the
class president, who was standing near Bradfield; "it won't make any
sort of a fire."
"Can't you get more? We must have a good one," answered Porter, "Get a
fence, or a house--any old thing will do. I've got to find Runt and
Bunny now, and see about a wagon for the nine. Will meet you later."
"Come on, Bingo," said Braddy.
He, Braddy, ought not to stay round and hear all the arrangements for a
celebration which was to be in his honor. The nine was supposed to keep
modestly out of the way, and know nothing whatever about it.
"Come on, Bing!"
But Bingo didn't "come on," he has business of his own to transact. The
Freshman fire, his first fire, _must_ be a success, and he knew where a
good fence was. Quick as thought he dropped behind his brother, and was
soon lost in the crowd, then he made a break for the street. At the
corner he met Dave Hunter.
"Hullo! where you going?"
It was a secret, but he told, and Dave, like "Ducky Daddies,"
"Cocky-locky," etc., in the old Grimm fairy-tale of _Henny-Penny_, said,
"Then I'll go too."
* * * * *
It was a full hour later, and the Freshmen were crowding about the old
cannon, round which a pile of boards, fence rails, barrels, etc., were
stacked, all ready to light. The resources of the town had been about
exhausted, and the raiders were returned "bringing their sheaves with
them." Roman candles and fire-crackers still went off at intervals in
different parts of the campus, but they were only a side issue, the fire
was the real business of the evening. The college was there almost to a
man, and the cheering for and by '98 was "frequent and painful and
free," or would be to one whose nerves were below par; to a healthy
enthusiast it was soul-stirring and exhilarating.
Even the upper classmen added their thunder from well-trained iron lungs
when the old wagon containing the victorious nine came up, dragged by a
lot of wild, reckless, muscular Freshmen. Only true heroes could so
calmly have imperilled their lives, for these bold young spirits were
actually standing up and singing, as the wagon lurched and pitched and
wobbled over curbstones, and down into gutters, and up again. But
fortune favors the brave, and they reached the fire without a single
accident, and were halted at the cannon's mouth in the front row.
Everything was ready, yet there seemed to be some hitch. The crowd began
to get impatient.
"What's the matter?" they cried. "Why don't you light her up?"
"We're waiting for Braddy," came back the answer.
"Where is he?"
"Give it up."
"He's hunting his brother," said one. "He's down on the Bingo farm,"
cried another.
This was rather "fresh," but there was a general laugh, which turned
into a cheer as Braddy, wearing a worried look, pushed his way through
the crowd.
"I can't find the kid," he said, anxiously.
"Oh, he will turn up all right," said the others; "he's sure to come to
the fire. Brace up and light her, Jennings."
Just then there was a shout from behind, and the closely packed mass
opened up to let a fence come in, which two small flushed and panting
boys were dragging after them.
"Great Scott, it's Braddy's brother!" said the Senior who had sat next
to him at the game. "Where in the world did you get all that fence, and
how did you manage to drag it here?"
Bingo was far too breathless to answer, but Dave spoke up.
"A lot of fellows helped us," he said. "We brought it round a back way,
but Brad and I brought it through the campus alone."
"Give them a cheer, fellows," cried the Senior, "and start the fire."
"Here's to Braddy's brother," sang the Freshmen, as they threw the
lighted matches into the pile, "drink her down! Here's to Braddy's
brother, and--"
"Dave Hunter!" shouted Bingo, who had found his voice.
"--and Dave Hunter he's the other; drink her down, drink her down,
drink her down, down, down!" etc., ending up with a rousing
B-I-N-G-O--_Bingo_!
Then the fire began to crackle and sizzle and blaze up and roar, and the
Freshmen cheered and sang and shouted, and the bright light revealed
groups of girls with brothers and friends who had come to see the
celebration, and myriads of small boys who had come to see the fun.
It was a beautiful sight. The wood had been piled up in pyramid form,
and the flames rose red and yellow almost to the tops of the tall elms,
those still sentries of the campus. How it spluttered and hissed and
crashed and roared! and not even the Freshmen could drown the mighty
voice, which spoke in so many different tongues, though they did their
best; and as Braddy's brother, standing near the wagon which held the
nine, watched the shooting, dancing, devouring flames his heart thumped
so that it almost broke out of bounds, and he drew long, very long
breaths.
The fire had died down somewhat, the cheering was more spasmodic and
subdued, the time for speeches had come. Every one crowded closer, and
the wagon, not the burning pile, became the centre of attention.
"Speech! speech!" cried '98. "A speech, Braddy."
Bradfield was not only the pitcher, but the Captain of the Freshman
nine. So they forced him upon the high seat, and yelled for quiet.
Braddy looked down upon the densely packed mass, hushed for the moment
into something like stillness, and his nerve completely deserted him.
There he stood, fair and boyish, a target for all eyes, but he could not
say a word. He opened his mouth, he even gestured, but no sound came. It
was a case of pure stage-fright, and the awkwardness increased with
every second. "Fellows," he managed to stammer out--"fellows--"
But there he stopped. Suddenly the painful pause was broken by a high
excited voice. "Tell 'em Princeton's the biggest college in the world,
Tom, and that '98 can beat any Freshman nine in the country!"
It broke the spell. Long and loud were the cheers that followed this
outburst, and "Braddy's brother," covered with confusion, was hoisted by
a dozen hands into the wagon beside the nine. By the time that quiet had
once more been restored Tom Bradfield had recovered his "nerve," and his
speech on that memorable occasion will go down to posterity as one of
the best on record. All the speeches were good, _splendid_, Bingo
thought, for he heard, and understood, and thrilled with every word.
When the final sentence had been delivered, and '98 had once more
dragged the nine in triumph round the now visible cannon, and cheered
them hoarsely for the last time, and when the crowd had begun to
disperse, leaving the smouldering embers, and shouting and singing as
they went, Braddy turned to his brother with a smile and said,
"Well, Bing, ready for bed?"
And Bingo answered with a sigh, "I suppose a fellow has to go to bed
even after a Freshman fire."
"THE OLD-FASHIONED LAWYER."
Laura's cousins were coming to stay overnight, so she asked mamma if she
might not invite some other school friends, and some of brother Will's,
to spend the evening. And as these friends were pretty sure to come,
mother and daughter held a conference as how best to entertain them.
"Why not have games?"
"The very thing! What would I do without your help, mother dear," was
the impulsive answer.
"And the best game I know to start with would be The Old-fashioned
Lawyer. That will rub away all shyness, and all will feel as though they
were friends for a year."
Laura was delighted, and contentedly ran off to tell her brother. But
Will did not know the game, and Laura had to explain.
"We'll need an odd number of players. But that can be arranged by you or
I dropping out.
"The odd one must be Judge, to settle disputed points.
"The players must sit opposite each other in two rows, and the Lawyer is
to stand in the centre between the rows. The Judge can sit in the big
green chair, because it is high; for he must keep all the players in
full view.
"The game begins by the Lawyer putting a question to the person at
either end of one of the rows. But the one to answer is not the one
addressed. And there, Will, is where the fun comes in."
"Who is to answer?"
"The person at the extreme end of the opposite row. And should he not
correctly answer before the Lawyer counts five, he must change places
with the Lawyer. And the Lawyer begins to count slowly out loud as soon
as he asks the question."
"What if the person addressed replies.'"
"Then he must pay a forfeit.
"After the first question is answered, the Lawyer may address whomever
he pleases, but the party addressed must remain silent; it is the
opposite one who must answer. The Lawyer must of course ask questions
that are possible to answer. If he should take advantage, there's the
Judge to keep him in order."
"What kind of questions _would_ you ask?"
"Why, ordinary ones. Whether or not a person paints from nature? Who is
your favorite musician? Which do you prefer, rowing or sailing, tennis
or golf? All kinds of questions like that. I don't believe one of us
could tell the date of the first crusade, or who invented ink and when.
"And another thing, never look at the individual you intend next to
question. For both he and his opposite neighbor would then be prepared.
You must play very rapidly or it's no fun. And if any question or
discussion occurs, the Judge must decide."
"That will be right jolly, Laura. Do you think the folks will all
come?"
CORPORAL FRED.[1]
A Story of the Riots.
BY CAPTAIN CHARLES KING, U.S.A.
CHAPTER V.
For a mile after leaving its armory the regiment had marched through the
beautiful residence portion of the city, cheered and applauded to the
skies. Turning "column right," it had then threaded a narrow street,
shop-lined and less sympathetic, had tramped in cool disregard through
half a mile of railway property where, in groups of twenty or thirty,
strikers and sympathizers recoiled, but scowled and cursed them, yet
prudently refrained from further violence. Once in a while some street
arab let drive a stone, then dove under the nearest car, and scurried
away into hiding. Then came the lumber district, the swaying bridges
where they broke their cadenced stride, and crossed at route step. Then
in the gathering darkness the head of the column reached the outlying
wards. Square upon square, section on section of frame two-story houses,
the homes of citizens of only moderate means, and here, too, people
clustered on door-steps or ran to gather at street corners and murmur
God-speed and blessing, for less than a mile away now the western sky
was lighting up with the glare of conflagration, and the direful word
was going round that the mob was firing the freight-cars, and that,
despite the efforts of fearless and devoted firemen, the flames were
spreading to warehouses and factories along the line. Only a few minutes
after sundown the first summons had banged on the gongs of the engine
and truck houses of the west side. Then every fire-box for four miles
along the lines of the Great Western seemed to have been "pulled," and
in a wild confusion of alarms assistant chiefs were driving their
clanging buggies, followed by rushing hose-wagons and steamers, all over
the outlying wards, unreeling their hose only to have it slashed and
ruined by swarming rioters, and they themselves, the fire-fighters of
the people, men whose lives were devoted to duty, humanity, and mercy,
brutally clubbed and stoned by overpowering gangs of "toughs" bent on
mad riot and destruction. For hours from every direction the vicious,
the desperate, the unemployed of the great city had been swarming to the
scene, and the police force that, properly led and handled at the
outset, could easily have quelled the incipient tumult, was now as
powerless as the firemen. Oh, what if a prairie gale should rise and fan
these flames, as once, long years before, it swept before it an ocean of
fire that left only a ruined city in its wake!
Marching at route step now, but still in stern silence, the column
seemed to quicken its pace and push eagerly ahead. Open spaces between
the houses or one-storied cottages became more frequent. Fiercer and
wilder the flames seemed shooting on high. Over the low hoarse murmur of
the distant throng could now be heard occasional crackle of pistol
shots, followed by fierce yells. Out at the front, a hundred yards in
advance of the staff, an alert young officer, with a dozen picked men,
scoured the streets, the front yards, the crossings, sweeping the way
for the main column; and now as they came within six blocks of the
scene, the roar of the riot mingling with that of the mounting flames
drowned all other sounds about them. Women at squalid saloons and corner
groceries were laughing and jeering. Women at quiet homes were weeping
and wringing their hands. Somewhere up at the front, beyond the black
bulk of a row of warehouses, a sudden flash and glare lit up the
westward front of every house, and shone on scores of pallid faces. A
volume of flame, a burst of beams, sparks, and billowing smoke flung
high in air, and an instant later a dull roar and rumble shook the
windows close at hand, letting some loose sashes down with startling
clash and jangle. From the sidewalks arose stifled shrieks and louder
wailing. From the head of the column, where some horses shied in sudden
fright, came the firm, low-toned orders of the Colonel: "Forward the
first company! Clear that street ahead!" For, as if hurled back by the
explosion, a dense mass of rioters came flooding into the broad
thoroughfare, blocking it from curb to curb. Promptly at double time the
foremost company went dancing by, forming front into line as it cleared
the group of mounted officers, and then the Colonel turned in his
saddle, and looked back beyond his staff to a second rank of orderlies
and buglers, to where a pale young fellow, hatless, and with heavily
bandaged head, rode side by side with the signal sergeant, his dark eyes
fixed on the soldierly form of his commander.
"Corporal Wallace!" called the Colonel, and our wounded Fred urged his
horse to the commander's side. "You know all these buildings hereabouts.
Can you judge what they're blowing up?"
"That's near the shops, sir. They may have fired them."
"Which is Allen Street? The police officials are to meet us there."
"Second street ahead, sir; just this side of the crowd."
"What's that big plant off there to the northward?" asked the Colonel,
indicating a group of factorylike buildings whose walls and windows were
illumined by the glare of the flames in the freight-yards.
"The Amity Wagon-Works, sir, where Sercombe and I were discharged this
afternoon."
"Yes. I heard about that. Similar cases occurred in town. Never you
mind, my lad, there'll be employers enough for both of you when this
trouble's over, and troubles enough for the employers who discharged
you. Now ride close by me; we'll need guides here, and that's why you're
mounted. What an infernal row they're making yonder," he added, as
though to himself, as yells of rage and triumph mingling rose madly over
the hiss of the flames.
Already the advance company was nearing the crossing of the second
street. At the hydrant on one side stood a fire-engine blowing off its
useless steam. In a buggy, surrounded by a dozen helmeted police on
foot, sat an inspector of the department, alternately eying the flames
and the surging mob on one side, and on the other the dim column
swinging up the dusty street. Already dozens of excited men were
rushing, ducking, and darting along the sidewalks, speeding to their
fellows in the mob to say the soldiers were close at hand. The little
squad in advance had reached the crossing, when the official in the
buggy raised his hand, signalled halt, and, obedient to the time-honored
republican principle of the subordination of the military to the civil
power, the Lieutenant respected the order. The leading company marched
straight to the crossing, then, too, in its turn, as one man, halted
short at the command of its stalwart captain, and down came the musket
butts on the wooden pavement. The Colonel spurred forward, his Adjutant
and Corporal Fred following in his tracks. There was little of
gratification in the soldier's face as he recognized the official in the
buggy; but the laws of his State, which he had sworn to obey, as well as
the orders of the Governor and the officers appointed over him,
prevailed. The Governor's orders placed the troops at the disposal of
the Mayor. The Mayor ordered the Colonel to report to the Inspector of
Police. It was something unheard of in military tradition, but this was
no time to expostulate or object. The gentleman and soldier touched his
hat to the ex-ward politician. "Mr. Morrissey, I report with my regiment
for your instructions." And the long column behind him, battalion by
battalion, came to the halt.
Up the side street among some piles of lumber arose above the tumult, or
rather pierced its low, deep-throated roar, the shrill cries of a child
in mad excitement and distress. "Oh, let me go!" it wailed. "I must see
the Colonel! I want my brother! They're killing my father! Oh, don't
stop me! Fred! Fred!" it screamed, and in the grasp of a burly policeman
at the outskirts of a crowd of women and children a little hatless boy
could be seen madly struggling.
[Illustration: IN ANOTHER MOMENT HE HAD RAISED THE BOY IN HIS ARMS.]
"Ah, go home to your mother wid yer fairy stories," was the cajoling
answer, as the officer strove to thrust the youngster back among the
by-standers; but all in an instant a lithe young fellow in the uniform
of a corporal had sprung from his saddle and rushed to the scene. In
another moment he had raised the boy in his arms, and with his burden
clinging sobbing at his neck, Fred Wallace came bounding back down the
street.
"Hear him, Colonel, oh, hear him!" he cried. "He has come straight from
the shops. Jim, my brother, sent him to beg for help. They're mobbing
father."
"Sure they fired the shops good fifteen minutes ago. They're all in a
blaze," said an officer of police, in a tone of remonstrance. "There's
no use going there."
"Who sent the kid?" asked the Inspector, doubtfully. "How do you know
this isn't all a fake?"
"It's my brother," cried Fred, nearly mad with impatience and dread.
"Oh, for pity's sake, let us go, Colonel! Jim sent you himself, didn't
he, Billy?"
"Yes, yes," sobbed the little fellow, "and they were screaming and
bursting in the door."
"Who is he, anyhow?" went on the official, still bent on investigation,
when the Colonel sharply interposed.
"This is no time for talk. I believe the story. You can see--hear it's
true. I demand the right to drive back that mob, or the whole country
shall ring with the story of your refusal."
"My goodness, Colonel! I'm not to blame. I've got my orders just as you
have. I'm told to use force only as a last extremity, and not to fire at
all. You can't scatter that mob without firing."
"Can't I?" shouted the Colonel, eagerly grasping the implied permission.
"Out of the way there, you people!" he cried to some women and children
scurrying across the street. "Come up with the rest of that first
battalion!" rang his voice, clear and thrilling, over the throng.
"Mount, corporal, you must show us the way. The police will take care of
the little man. Forward. Company B! Tumble that crowd into the gutter!"
"Forward, double time!" ordered the Captain, as the Inspector whipped
his buggy out of the way, and the rifles bounded up to the right
shoulder. "March!" he added, an instant later, and straight up the broad
avenue, steady, solid, unswerving, went the long double ranks, the
Colonel and his little party trotting close behind, the senior Major,
with his three companies, following sturdily in their wake while the
Lieutenant-colonel, ordering the bugle signals "attention" and
"forward," prepared to support them with the rest of the column. Yelling
and jeering, but scattering right and left, the nearest rioters leaped
for the sidewalks, or turned and fled into the thicker mass ahead, less
able from its own solidity to move. "Port arms!" was the next command,
and down came the brown barrels across the broad blue chests. "Give 'em
the butt if they keep in the way," growled the burly Captain. "Steady
there in the Centre. Keep in line," he cautioned, as some eager fellows
strove to quicken the pace and lead in the anticipated charge, and so
tramp, tramp, tramp, tramp, in the quick cadence of the dancing feet,
sixty-six strong, the senior company led the ready column straight into
the heart of the mob, straight through the gates, where two foolhardy
fellows striving to lower them were flattened out by the whack of
musket-butts, and went down like stock-yard cattle under the blow of the
steel. Over the gleaming lines of tracks, in the glare of blazing rows
of freight-cars, right, and left, sweeping the cursing rioters like
chaff before them, reckless of flying missile or savage oath, through
the broad gates beyond the yards, with clearer ground ahead, they kept
their steady way, then slowed down to quick time, their triumphant
passage safely forced. Then, once outside the yards, leaving to their
comrades in the rear the easy duty of facing and standing off the raging
but impotent throng, the foremost company, led now by the Colonel, with
Corporal Fred in close attendance, broke once more into column of fours,
and plunged into a narrow street lighted by the flames shooting aloft
from the repair shops of the Great Western road. Ahead of them,
separated from the yards by the high picket-fence, was an open space
well nigh packed with rioting men, their savage faces ruddy in the
glare. The fence itself was blazing from the neighboring cars, and a
broad section almost opposite the shops had been hurled down by the mob.
"Back with you, Captain!" called the Colonel to his Adjutant. "Turn the
second battalion into the yards and up to that gap. We'll hem them on
two sides there! Close up! Close up!" he shouted to the rearward
companies. "Now, Captain Fulton, form line again the moment you clear
this lane." The Adjutant went clattering back full gallop. Another
minute, and the rush and roar of the crowd beyond the fence told that
the ready second was sweeping all before it down among the blazing cars.
Presently the long rows of drab felt hats could be seen dancing along in
the fire-light.
"Never fear, corporal, we'll be there in time," said the Colonel. "See,
the flames haven't reached half their length. Now, Fulton, right turn
and drive them north. Split 'em up! Give 'em--fits!" he added, with a
gulp, for he was a pious man, and opposed to the use of terms that come
"far more natural" at such a time. And the next thing Fred knew Captain
Fulton's men were again double-timing up another street, whirling the
crowd before them. "G," "H," and "L"--Fred's own company--were sweeping
the broad space in front of the shops from one side, and fairly pitching
the mob into the faces of their comrades of the second battalion as they
neared the gap. If there were broken noses, blackened eyes, battered
heads all through those suburban streets and lanes that grewsome night
it surely wasn't the fault of the Colonel's "boys," but a score of these
fellows, following the lead of the hatless corporal, who sprang from his
horse opposite the blazing entrance, bending low to avoid the stifling
smoke, pushed on across the little court-yard, past a wrecked and
dismantled wing whose roof was just crackling and bursting into fierce
flames.
Behind them, sure of protection now, a dozen linemen came dragging their
hose. A knot of ragged, raging "toughs," issuing from a narrow door,
burst away at sight of them--not so quick as to escape some resounding
thumps of those hated rifle-butts, and through this smoking portal
leaped Fred, closely followed by his comrades. The shooting flames
overhead and down the main building lit a pathway even through the
stifling clouds of smoke, and a moment more brought the foremost of the
party to a little room partitioned off. There on its accustomed peg hung
old Wallace's coat.
Here, there, and everywhere, overturned benches and chairs and scattered
tools, and scraping, struggling footprints on the dusty floor told of
some recent and desperate battle. Something warm and wet was sprinkled
all about the place, at touch of which Fred grew sick and faint; but not
another sign was there of old Wallace or of Jim, until from under a
blazing, half-finished car some fifty feet away the firemen dragged a
battered, bleeding form, and the younger brother threw himself by the
senseless elder's side, madly imploring him to say what had befallen
father.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Begun in HARPER'S ROUND TABLE No. 821.
HIS SCORCHING WAS NOT IN VAIN.
BY WILLIAM HEMMINGWAY.
Arthur Clark believed himself the victim of gross injustice. His bicycle
had brought him into disgrace. He had come home flushed with victory,
ready to be hailed as the uncrowned king of scorchers, and here he was
virtually a prisoner in his room, thither he had been sent directly
after a wretched supper of oatmeal porridge.
"I wouldn't mind it if I had been ordered not to go into the road race,"
he said to himself, for the fiftieth time, as he rolled impatiently in
his bed; "but just because I promised my father I wouldn't do any riding
that would exhaust me, he has packed me off to bed as if I were a mere
child. That's pretty rough on a fellow of fourteen. Anyhow, I beat all
the scorchers in our school, and that's something."
Arthur could not go to sleep. He twisted and squirmed from one side of
the bed to the other, listening to the solemn protests of the katydids
and the shrill chirping of the crickets. That industrious prompter,
conscience, began to annoy him shamelessly. Now that the first flush of
his resentment had died away, he thought that perhaps his father was
right after all. True, he had beaten all the other fellows easily; but
then, what if it had been a hard struggle? Wouldn't it have exhausted
him? It occurred to him that he had broken his word.
Arthur fell asleep very late. He usually slept so fast and so hard that
from bedtime until the rising bell seemed like one minute. But now he
tossed restlessly. His sleep was light. Suddenly he found himself
sitting bolt-upright in bed. He saw a streak of pale whitish light on
the floor and across his bed, and caught a glimpse of the moon. Oh, yes,
it was the moon that had awakened him. Queer that had never happened
before. He would go to sleep again. Then a rough, rather hoarse voice
startled him. It came from his father's room.
"You're comin' right down ter de bank, dat's wat you're goin' ter do,"
the voice said, "an' if ye don't open de safe ye'll be learned
how--see?"
"I shall not go one step. You may do your worst." It was his father's
voice now.
"Hurrah for you, father!" Arthur could hardly keep from shouting. Then
there was silence for a moment. He heard two sharp clicks that told of
the cocking of a revolver; then his mother's voice pleading with his
father to remember the children. Now there was the sound of a struggle.
The burglar won, although he feared to use his revolver least the noise
might summon help. Arthur understood it all. His father was the cashier
of the Traders' Bank. The burglar probably had an accomplice outside who
would help take his father to the bank and force him to open the safe.
Help must be got. The bank was in Plainfield, three miles away. If only
there were some way of telephoning to the police station! He knew that a
sergeant sat there all night. Men slept upstairs. But there was no
telephone. Now a thought came to him that almost made him shout for joy.
In ten seconds he had jumped into his sweater and knickerbockers, and
was lacing on his rubber-soled bicycling shoes. He did not wait for a
hat or stockings. He peered anxiously over the edge of the porch roof
into the backyard. No, there was no one watching there. Noiselessly the
boy lowered himself over the edge, and climbed down one of the pillars,
crushing the honeysuckle vine as he went. He found his bicycle leaning
against the house, where he had left it that afternoon after the race.
He picked up the wheel and walked on tiptoe across the grass at the rear
of the house. He threaded his way between the rows of corn-stalks in the
kitchen-garden. He made a long circuit, and at last came out in the
road. Then he mounted his bicycle and wheeled away at a pace that would
have astonished his friends. Going down hill he was very cautious. He
back pedalled. There must be no falling; therefore no coasting. Again on
the level road, he shot forward like a racer. He knew that if the
burglars got his father into the bank they would try to make him open
the safe in which $70,000 had been deposited that day. His father would
resist, he knew. He remembered what had happened to other bank cashiers
who resisted. The thought choked him. He bent over his handle bar, and
the wheels seemed to fly. The pale, sinking moon, the silent road that
stretched its white length before him, the tall trees, mysterious in
their own dark shadows, the grass shining with dew, all made a picture
that he never forgot. Above all, a scene stood out that he could not
shut from his mind, try as he might--his father in the hands of the two
ruffians, resolutely defying them in face of awful danger.
The sergeant nodding in his chair in the police station at one o'clock
in the morning was startled by the vision of a bareheaded, white-faced
boy.
"Hurry!" the boy exclaimed. "The Traders' Bank! Robbers!" In less than a
minute the sergeant and two of his men were on their way to the bank.
Arthur followed them closely. He hid with them in the dark vestibule of
the bank. It seemed to the boy as if years passed before he at last
heard footsteps in the silent street. Then the minutes were hours long.
At last the two robbers and their victim arrived at the outer door. They
pushed him in and told him to be lively about unlocking that door. At
that instant the policemen jumped forward and presented their pistols at
the heads of the burglars. They made no resistance. They were too
surprised. Arthur and his father walked home side by side, Arthur
pushing his bicycle by the handle bar. For a long time they had nothing
to say to each other, for each was busy with his thoughts.
"Arthur," said his father at length, "I'm glad there is a scorcher in
the family, but I--"
"Yes, sir," interrupted the boy, eagerly; "but I want to tell you I'm
sorry I went into the road race to-day."
"Perhaps I was too hasty," said Mr. Clark. "But the bicycle has done one
good thing. It has shown me that my son is as quick-witted as he is
brave."
GREAT MEN'S SONS.
THE SON OF CHARLEMAGNE.
BY ELBRIDGE S. BROOKS.
[Illustration: Decorative I]
n the summer days of the year 781 an odd sort of a procession marched
through France.
There were fluttering standards and melodious trumpets; there were
gallant knights, and grave men in robes and gowns, and noble ladies, and
a long train of servants; there were spearmen and bowmen and horsemen in
martial array; and the central figure of all this parade and pomp was a
very small boy of but three years old.
Strangest of all was this small boy's dress. He was but little more than
a baby, and yet he rode upon a stately war-horse housed in purple and
gold. He was clad in complete armor of polished steel; on his head he
wore a casque of steel and gold, surmounted with a tiny golden crown; in
his small hand he bore a truncheon, and about his neck was slung a
cross-handled sword of steel and gold.
A stalwart knight rode at the little boy's bridle-rein, his protecting
arm holding the small rider firmly in the saddle; the royal banner
fluttered ahead, and at the boy's right hand rode his governor and
guardian, Count William, called the snub-nosed--well, because it was.
[Illustration: "HEAVEN BLESS HIS LITTLE GRACE."]
From castle and cottage, from town and hamlet, came thronging men and
women, boys and girls, with smile and cheer and shout of hearty welcome:
"Heaven bless his little Grace! God guard our little King! Long live
King Louis!"
For this very small boy of three was indeed a King entering his
dominion. He had been crowned by the Pope at Rome King of Aquitaine.
Then, from his father's splendid palace in Aachen, or what is now the
German city of Aix-la-Chapelle, he had started with his glittering
escort to take possession of his kingdom in southwestern France. Over
the first part of the route he was carried in his cradle; but when he
left the city of Orleans, and, crossing the Loire, set foot within his
own dominions, this cradle-travelling, so the old chronicle tells us,
"beseemed him no longer." He was a King, and this was his kingdom;
therefore like a King he must make his royal progress. So upon this
little three-year-old was put a suit of shining armor, made expressly
for him, with sword and truncheon "equally proportioned"; they set him
on horseback, and thus royally attended he entered Aquitaine, and
marched on to his own royal palace at Toulouse. He must have looked
"awfully cunning"--this three-year-old in armor--but just think how
tired the poor little fellow must have been.
Aquitaine was that large section of southwestern France that stretched
from the river Loire to the Pyrenees, and from the Bay of Biscay
eastward to the banks of the Rhone. It had been brought under subjection
by the conquering monarch whose short-lived empire embraced all of
Europe from Rome to Copenhagen, and from the English Channel to the Iron
Gates of the Danube, and who, parcelling out his dominion among his
boys, had set over the principality of Aquitaine as King his little
three-year-old Louis, forever famous as the son of Charlemagne.
Here, in his palace at Toulouse, did Louis rule as King of Aquitaine for
thirty-two years, subject only to his renowned father, Charles the
Emperor, called Carolus Magnus, or Charlemagne. This mighty man, "the
greatest of Germans"--great in stature, in aim, in energy, and in
authority--looked sharply after the small boy he had made King of
Aquitaine. He had the lad carefully and thoroughly educated, and Louis
grew to be an intelligent, bright-faced, clear-eyed, sturdy, and strong
young man, but he was sober and sedate, skilled in the Scriptures and
learned in Latin and Greek, unsuited to the rough war days in which he
lived, more a scholar than a soldier, and more a priest than a prince.
So the years slipped by. Then trouble came to the great Emperor. One by
one the sons of Charlemagne sickened and died--those brave and stalwart
boys upon whom the father had relied as the stay and help of his old
age, his successors in his plan of empire. At last only Louis the Clerk
was left.
Hludwig Fromme he was called by his subjects of Aquitaine--that is,
Louis the Kind; and thus, though wrongly rendered, the name of this good
and peace-loving son of Charlemagne has come down to us as Louis the
Pious, or Louis le Debonair.
Nowadays we are apt to think of debonair as meaning gay, careless,
fashionable, and "dudish"; but Louis, the son of Charlemagne, was
anything but this. He was kind, courteous, loving, gentle, and true; but
he was also strict, dutiful, and just. He was strong of limb and stout
of arm; none could bend bow better nor couch lance truer than he; but he
never cared for sport nor the rough "horse-play" of his day; he seldom
laughed aloud: he was grave, prudent, and wise, "slow to anger, swift to
pity, liberal in both giving and forgiving."
He won the loyalty of his subjects of Aquitaine by love and not by
tyranny; he kept at bay the pagan Moors of Spain, and, under wise
counsellors, sought to govern his kingdom justly and well.
But when his brothers died, and he, the youngest of the three, was
summoned to his father's side, he left his palace by the Garonne, in
pleasant Toulouse, and hastened to Aix-la-Chapelle, his father's
capital.
It was the year 813. An assembly of the nobles of the empire met the
great King in his capital, and promised to recognize King Louis of
Aquitaine as heir to the throne of Charlemagne. Then in the great church
that he had built at Aix-la-Chapelle the old monarch, dressed in
magnificent robes (which he never liked and would but rarely put on),
stood before the vast assembly of princes and nobles of Germany, leaning
upon the shoulder of his sturdily built and kindly looking son.
The sounds of prayer and song that opened the ceremony were stilled, and
then the old Emperor, facing his son, told him that the lords and barons
of the empire had sanctioned his appointment as associate and heir.
"You will reign in my stead," he said. "Fear God, my son, and follow His
law. Govern the Church with care, and defend it from its enemies.
Preserve the empire; show kindness to your relations; honor the clergy
as your fathers, and love the people as your children. Force the proud
and the evil ones to take the paths of virtue; be the friend of the
faithful and the helper of the poor. Choose your ministers wisely; take
from no man his property unjustly, and keep yourself pure and above
reproach in the eyes of God and man."
Then Charlemagne bade Louis take up the iron crown of Rome and the
empire that lay upon the altar, and place it upon his head. "Wear it
worthily, O King, my son," the father said, "as a gift from God, your
father, and the nation."
And when the son of Charlemagne had thus crowned himself Emperor,
turning to the great assembly the old man said: "Behold, I present to
you your sovereign and your lord. Salute him, all people, as Emperor and
Augustus!"
A mighty shout of loyalty and welcome filled the crowded church, and
thus was the son of Charlemagne crowned as his great father's associate
and successor. And when, in the year 814, Charlemagne, still a sturdy
old man, suddenly fell sick of a fever, and died in his palace at
Aix-la-Chapelle, at the age of seventy-one, Louis ascended the throne of
what was called the Holy Roman Empire as its sole and sovereign lord.
He came to his vast power with high hopes and lofty aims. The solemn
words of his father upon his coronation day lived in his memory, and he
determined to rule in peace, in justice, in wisdom, and in love. He
would abstain from war; he would lift his people higher; he would make
his court learned, refined, and pure; he would be father and friend to
all his people, and make his realm rejoice. Louis, called the Pious and
the Kind-hearted, should rather have been called Louis the
Well-intentioned.
But alas for good intentions if strength of will be wanting! Louis lived
in harsh and brutal days, and men could appreciate neither his gentle
manners nor his worthy aims. He had neither his father's strength of
mind nor firmness of will, nor had he what is called magnetism--the
power to compel men to do as one elects. His noble aims were speedily
brought to naught; his high purpose was swiftly overthrown; his
ambitious sons opposed him, quarrelled with him, defied him, assailed
and dethroned him; and after a stormy reign of twenty-six years, during
which he many times wished to give up his crown and become a monk, Louis
the Well-intentioned died, in the summer of the year 840, on one of the
little islands in the river Rhine, a discrowned, defeated, and sorrowing
King, conquered by his sons.
The great empire his father had left him was speedily broken asunder,
and from its remains, after long years of disorder and of blood, came at
last the nations of France and Germany--the outgrowth of that vast
heritage of power which the son of Charlemagne had received from his
mighty father, but had neither wit nor will enough to govern or hold
unbroken.
A noble man in many ways was Louis, the son of Charlemagne. But he lived
in advance of his times, for stormy seas demand a strong hand at the
helm, and great matters require the head to plan and the will to do. In
all of these requirements for royalty was Louis deficient; and while
history accords him praise for honesty of purpose, gentleness of heart,
good intentions, and lofty aims, it still writes him down as an
unsuccessful ruler, because a weak-willed son could not uphold the
heritage of a father who indeed was great.
OAKLEIGH.
BY ELLEN DOUGLAS DELAND