Before the three adventurers had gone many yards, a Chinese beggar
sidled up to Charlie and begged his honourable brother to bestow a gift
upon the degraded dog who addressed him.
At first Charlie did not know whether the man was asking what the time
was, or whether he desired to be directed to some place. So he gave a
glance round, and discovering that the man was begging he shook his head
gravely. The beggar departed, and Charlie inwardly congratulated himself
on having done very well. His self-satisfaction was, however,
short-lived. He looked round to assure himself that Fred and Ping Wang
were following him, and just as he did so a European lady stepped out of
a shop, and her parasol, which she was in the act of opening, prodded
him in the back. He turned sharply, and the lady, believing him to be a
Chinaman, apologised in Chinese. Seeing that she was apologising Charlie
quite forgot his disguise, and seizing his skull-cap, raised it. Of
course the pigtail came off with it, to the amazement of the lady, who
stepped quickly into her trap and drove off.
[Illustration: "The pigtail came off with the skull-cap."]
Fred had the greatest difficulty in preventing himself from laughing
aloud, but Ping Wang hurried forward, and taking Charlie by the arm,
said in an undertone, 'Come into this shop: you have put your cap on
crooked.'
The Chinese shop assistant laughed heartily as he saw Ping Wang arrange
Charlie's skull-cap. He saw that Charlie was a European, but, as Ping
Wang said later, it was better that he should discover it than some of
the street loafers, who would probably have set to work to find out the
reason for an Englishman being disguised as a Chinaman.
'We had better go back at once,' Ping Wang said, as they quitted the
shop, and they walked to their temporary home without further adventure.
The manager was highly amused on hearing of Charlie's mishap, but when
his merriment had subsided he gave the brothers a few words of advice.
'You will have to be very careful indeed when you get away from the
treaty ports,' he said earnestly, 'for if people discovered you in
Chinese attire, they would think that you were disguised for some evil
purpose. Of course, there are some missionaries who wear Chinese dress,
but the people know them, and understand their reasons. But you, not
being missionaries, would naturally be regarded with great suspicion,
and would probably be punished severely--perhaps executed.'
'I will remember what you have said,' Fred answered, 'and I am very much
obliged to you.'
'And so am I,' Charlie declared. 'My brother and I will be very careful
after to-day.'
The conversation was now changed to home affairs, for the manager, being
a thorough-bred Englishman, was anxious to hear the latest news of
London.
Soon after lunch they went aboard the _Canton_, which they found to be a
small and poky vessel. The saloon placed at their disposal was very
similar to the after-saloons which Charlie and Ping had seen in the
North Sea steam trawlers; that is to say, the bunks were round the
table.
The trip to Tien-tsin occupied several days, and all on board, except
the skipper and his mate, being Chinamen, Charlie and Fred were
compelled to speak very little, and then only in an undertone, for fear
that they should be overheard. However, they managed to enjoy
themselves, as Ping Wang taught them several exciting Chinese games.
'In which direction do you intend to travel when we reach Tien-tsin?'
the skipper of the _Canton_ asked Ping Wang, shortly after they had
passed Taku.
'Up the Pei-ho,' Ping Wang answered. 'By-the-bye, I suppose you know
several boatmen who work up the river?'
'I have a slight acquaintance with a score or so of them, and if you
wish to get a passage on one of their boats I dare say that I can manage
to choose a fairly honest man.'
'That is just what I do want. Of course it can never do to let him know
that my friends are Englishmen. He might refuse to take them.'
'He would take them readily enough; but he would demand an absurdly
high price for it; and, possibly, when you reached your destination, he
would make known that they were foreigners.'
'That is highly probable,' Ping Wang admitted. 'I am afraid that some
one on board is certain to discover that our friends are not Chinamen.'
'Pretend that they are both ill, and that they must on no account be
disturbed. Then they will be able to escape being spoken to.'
'That is a very good idea,' Ping Wang declared; but when they arrived at
Tien-tsin, and he and the skipper started bargaining with a small
cargo-boat owner for passages, it was found that the idea was not so
good as he expected.
'I will not take them,' the boatman declared, when he heard that two of
his proposed passengers were invalids. 'They will die on my boat, and
then their spirits will haunt me.'
Neither Ping Wang nor the skipper of the _Canton_ had thought of this
objection--a very natural one from a Chinese point of view.
'But these men will not die,' the skipper declared, hurriedly. 'It is
only bad eyes that they are suffering from. They have come from Hongkong
with Ping Wang, and, if they are not worried, they will soon be well
again.'
For a moment the Chinese boatman was silent.
'I will take them,' he said, at length, 'if my honourable brother, Ping
Wang, will promise that if they become very ill he will throw them
overboard, so that they shall not die in my boat.'
'I promise,' Ping Wang said, and he had no qualms about making that vow,
for Fred and Charlie were in splendid health, and it was very unlikely
that they would become seriously ill during the two days' journey
up-river.
'It seems to me,' Charlie said, when he heard of the arrangement that
had been made, 'that I shall never make a really enjoyable trip on
water. My first voyage I made as a cook, and had a bullying skipper to
worry me. Then I escaped to what I thought was a mission ship, but it
turned out to be a rascally coper. On the _Canton_ I had to pretend that
I was a Chinaman, and now, if I get ill, I'm to be thrown overboard.'
'You have told the boatman that my brother and I are suffering from bad
eyes,' Fred remarked to Ping Wang; 'but he will see at a glance that
there is nothing the matter with them.'
'I have thought of that,' Ping Wang answered, 'and have bought a pair of
Chinese goggles for each of you. I wonder that I didn't think of them
when we were at Hongkong, for they will make your disguise much more
complete. At present your eyes do not look at all like Chinamen's.'
Charles and Fred at once put on the goggles which Ping Wang gave them,
and the skipper declared that now, if they did not speak aloud, no one
would guess that they were not Chinamen.
'We ought to go at once,' said Ping Wang; and, after shaking hands with
the skipper, the three travellers quitted the _Canton_, and made their
way towards the boat.
In less than five minutes the three travellers reached the spot where it
was moored. It was a long, heavy boat. The cargo was packed in the
middle of the boat, and near the stern was a roughly-made awning,
composed of mats and dirty-looking cloth, which had been erected for the
comfort of Ping Wang's invalids.
Charlie and Fred walked aboard in silence, and assumed invalids' airs
with so much success that the boatman, believing them to be seriously
ill, said to Ping Wang, as he passed him, 'Honourable brother, do not
forget the promise which you made to your worthless servant--that if the
honourable lords with sore eyes get worse you will throw them into the
river.'
'Have I not promised you?' Ping Wang asked, haughtily. 'Do you doubt my
word?'
The boatman protested, humbly, that Ping Wang's word could not possibly
be doubted by his disreputable servant, adding, moreover, that he lived
simply to obey him.
The wooden seats under the awning were hard and uncomfortable, and
Charlie, Fred, and Ping Wang were soon tired of sitting there,
especially as they dared not talk, for fear of being overheard. Once
Ping Wang caught the boatman peeping under the awning. He seized him
quickly, and demanded his reason for prying on the sick travellers.
'Noble brother,' the boatman answered, trembling with fear, 'I wanted to
see if they were dying.'
'They are getting better,' Ping Wang declared. 'It is a good thing for
you that they are not dying, for their father is as rich as a mandarin;
and if I had to throw them overboard he would certainly have you
executed.'
Ping Wang's romancing had the desired effect. The boatman shook with
fear, and, kowtowing before Ping Wang, groaned aloud.
'I shall be glad if they will die in my boat,' he declared, without the
slightest intention of intimating that he hoped that Charlie and Fred
would die. He was too excited to speak calmly: for, though he dreaded
the spirits, he had a greater fear of mandarins.
From that minute Charlie, Fred, and Ping Wang were left undisturbed. The
boatman's four assistants shunned the awning, as if it sheltered lepers,
and were apparently greatly relieved when an opportunity occurred for
them to go ashore and tow the boat. The boatman remained on board, but,
except when Ping Wang addressed him, kept at a respectful distance from
the passengers.
(_Continued on page 308._)
WHAT KATIE HEARD.
'How very annoying!'
'It is really too bad to have this noisy creature foisted on us just
now.'
Katie stood on the doorstep of her aunt's house in a very stiff, pink
frock. Her cheeks were red and rosy, for it was a warm summer day, and
her feelings were just those of any little girl who is paying her first
real visit to an aunt in the country.
The speakers were Katie's two cousins, Janet and Clare, and the words
came very clearly through the curtains and open windows, as Katie stood
there, wondering whether the bell had really rung, or whether she had
better give it another tug. She saw her own reflection in the shining
bell-handle, and it had gone crimson all at once.
Poor Katie! Mother had told her she would be expected, and this was what
her cousins thought about her!
Was it not a dreadful state of affairs for a small girl at the beginning
of her first visit? Katie shut her mouth tight, and clenched her small,
hot hands, in a desperate effort to look just ordinary. It was very hard
to be brave. She would have liked to run away, but she knew that would
be cowardly. Her cheeks kept growing hotter and hotter. It was mean, she
had always heard, to listen to things that were not intended for one.
Plainly, there was only one course: to go right on, and not let anybody
know that she had overheard those dreadful, unkind words.
The waiting and the silence was almost too much. The girls' voices died
away in the room; a bee was buzzing in a foxglove bell at her elbow, and
some cows went quietly up the lane past the green garden-gate. Then, all
at once, the door flew open, and tall Janet and fair-haired Clare stood
before her.
'You dear child, have you come all alone? How tired she looks, Clare!'
'Katie, Katie, haven't you got a kiss for your own Clare?'
There was quite a chorus of greetings as they ushered puzzled Katie into
a bright room where her invalid aunt, wrapped in a shawl, and rather
pale, lay on a couch, holding out both hands to welcome the visitor.
'Oh, dear,' thought Katie, 'I don't know how they can _pretend_ to be so
kind!'
She stood there in the midst of them all, awkward and silent, an
honest-hearted little girl, obliged to act a most untruthful part. Try
as she might, her kisses were but cold ones. She would have liked to
push them away, and to cry out: 'You don't love me, really; you said I
was a noisy creature! Let me go home.'
It was worse when her kind, suffering aunt took her in her arms, and
said she was 'Oh! so glad to have her to stay!' Katie felt such a mean,
horrid little girl. She did not know which way to look or where to hide
her hot cheeks.
In the middle of the window, a large green parrot was clawing at her
perch.
'This is Polly,' said Janet, passing a hand under the great creature's
wing. 'The people next door are going away, and they have sent her to us
till they come back.'
Here Polly interrupted with a long, loud screech, so that everybody had
to put their hands to their ears.
'We rather like her,' said Clare, when she had finished, 'but oh! she is
so noisy! Come and stroke her, Katie!'
So that was the 'noisy creature!' Katie's troubles all vanished at a
stroke; and before Clare and Janet could ask what was the matter, she
was sobbing out all about the silly mistake to her kind aunt.
[Illustration: "Katie stood on the doorstep."]
[Illustration: "'I am afraid I have no berth here for you, my lad.'"]
ONE GOOD TURN DESERVES ANOTHER.
Tim Sullivan started from the town with a heavy heart, but as he left
the smoke and noise behind him, the pleasant sunshine and fresh autumn
breeze soon began to work a change in his spirits. It was good to see
green fields again, and he wished he could walk on and on, and never
return to the town life he disliked so much.
After all, what was to prevent him? His uncle had been reproaching him
that very morning for his idleness at school, and had told him he would
never be worth anything in the office.
'It is high time you were beginning to be of some use,' he had said. 'I
did not bargain to keep you for nothing when I took you in on your
father's death.'
And poor Tim knew it was hard on his uncle to have this addition to his
large family. He really did try to get on at school, but it was no good.
He could not learn, and the harder he tried the more stupid he seemed to
grow.
Before the death of his parents, when he lived such a happy life on the
little farm in Ireland, it was not so noticeable that he was not quite
like other boys. Lessons were not held of much account there, and no boy
of his age could have been more useful than Tim in all farm, field, or
garden work; so that it was a new experience for the poor boy to be
taunted with his uselessness and stupidity, and it caused him great
unhappiness.
As he trudged along, a familiar grunt suddenly made him feel he must be
in old Ireland again. He looked round and saw a pig rooting in the ditch
by the side of the road.
'Has he got astray?' he asked a man who was breaking stones close by.
'Likely enough,' was the answer. 'Farmer Smale's man was driving home
pigs from market yesterday, and I thought as he passed he was getting a
bit old for work--and pigs are uncommon difficult to drive too.'
'Not if you know the right way to set about it,' said Tim. 'Instead of
holloing and shouting and beating it with a stick, you should just stoop
down and catch the eye of the cratur, and sure he will go the way you
want.'
The man grinned. 'You're from the Ould Counthry--no need to tell me
that, my broth of a boy!'
Tim nodded, with an answering twinkle in his eye.
'If you tell me where Farmer Smale lives, I will drive this pig there,'
he said.
The directions were given. Tim soon had the pig before him, and all his
troubles were forgotten in an occupation which reminded him of old
times.
'Perhaps doing the farmer and the pig a good turn will bring me
something good,' he thought.
There was a tremendous grunting in the farmyard when the wanderer
rejoined his companions. Farmer Smale came out, followed by his wife, to
see what was causing such a commotion.
'Well, you are a smart boy,' the farmer said. 'You must come in and rest
and have some tea, for pig-driving is a tiring business.'
'It's not tired I am, sir. I only wish I had a chance to drive pigs
every day. You will not be wanting a boy to help on your farm, will you,
sir?'
'Why, my lad, you don't look cut out for hard work,' the farmer said,
for Tim's stunted growth, and the large head, out of proportion to his
small body, made him look less strong than other boys.
'I can work hard with my hands,' he said. 'It is only lessons and
figures which bother me.'
'Well, I am afraid I have no berth here for you, my lad. Besides, I
could not take a boy I knew nothing about, even if he was kind enough to
bring home my pig.'
Tim's face fell. He looked bitterly disappointed.
'Have you no people of your own, my dear?' asked Mrs. Smale, and Tim
thought she had the kindest face he had ever seen.
'Now, missus, you go in and get tea ready for this little chap,' her
husband said.
He wanted to have her out of the way, for he knew how soft-hearted his
wife was. She never could turn away a tramp or a beggar from her door;
she gave food and shelter to all stray dogs and cats, and a blackbird in
a cage outside the window bore witness to her kind nature. She had
rescued a nest full of fledglings from some cruel boys and had tried to
bring them up by hand. Only one survived, and although she had set it
free when it was old enough to take care of itself, it often flew back
to its old home, the door of which was always left open.
While they were having tea, Mrs. Smale drew from the boy all his sad
little story, and of course she wanted the farmer to give him a home.
'Will Ford is getting old, and needs some help in attending to the
animals,' she said.
'I had a lot to do with cattle on Father's farm,' Tim broke in eagerly,
'and I know all there is to know about pigs, though I am no scholar.'
The farmer smiled. 'I suppose I shall have to give you a chance, sonny,
as the missus has set her heart on it. But I must see this uncle of
yours. Perhaps he may object.'
'He will be glad to get rid of me,' Tim said.
His words proved true, and before a week had passed Tim was settled in
his new home. He worked with a will, and liked his work, because he felt
he was at last of some use in the world instead of being a burden to
others.
And the pig that had led him to such a happy position received such a
special share of attention that he grew fatter and bigger than any of
his fellows.
'One good turn deserves another,' Tim would think. 'The pig got me this
job, and sure and I am paying him back for it.'
THE FOX'S SERENADE.
Little Goose, I love thee, little Goose.
All the stars are flinging
Bright blue beams above me,
As I'm sweetly singing
How I dearly love thee.
Here I'm waiting; is it any use?
Little Goose,
More than words can tell I love thee dearly,
More than tongue can tell--or very nearly.
Little Goose, I love thee, little Goose.
The shadows cling together,
The moonbeams give sweet kisses;
How I wonder whether
We shall know such blisses.
To my mother you I'll introduce,
Little Goose.
She will greet you with a smile so cheery,
Like a mother kind--or very nearly.
Little Goose, I love thee, little Goose.
Hark, the farmer's coming
With his ugly rifle;
So I must be roaming,
For I dare not trifle:
And the watch-dog he will now unloose,
Little Goose.
Some night in the future I'll come really,
Make you all my own--or very nearly.
THE COW-TREE.
One of the very remarkable trees of South America--a region notable for
its natural-history wonders--is that called the cow-tree. It receives
that name, not because in its shape it is at all like a cow, but
because, at certain seasons, it yields an abundant supply of milk. It
grows in hilly districts, usually where very little moisture is to be
had for several months of the year. This makes it more singular that a
plentiful flow of milky fluid will come from the trunk, on boring into
it deeply, though the branches look dried. It is believed that most milk
is got when the tree is tapped about sunrise, or when the moon is nearly
full. If the milk is put aside for a time, a thick cake forms upon it,
under which is a clear liquid. Some of it kept in a bottle, well corked
up, was once preserved for several months. The cork, on being extracted,
came out with a loud report, followed by a bluish smoke; the milk was a
little acid, but not disagreeable to taste.
A grove of cow-trees is a grand sight, for the species grows to a great
height, and the trunk may be fifty or more feet without a branch; near
the top the branches cluster together, displaying tough and ribbed
leaves. Many of these leaves are ten or twelve inches long. The tree
bears fruits of moderate size, each containing one or two nuts, which
are said to have the flavour of strawberries and cream. From the bark of
the tree, soaked in water, a bread has been made, which proved nearly as
nourishing as wheaten bread.
INSECT WAYS AND MEANS.
X.--HOW INSECTS MAKE SILK.
Of all the marvellous things of which the lower creatures are capable,
certainly one of the most wonderful is their power of spinning threads
of the most beautiful fineness, some of which we know as 'silk,' while
for others we have no special name.
Though insects are--at least, from our point of view--the most important
of the world's spinners, yet they are not the only creatures who possess
this secret, for the spiders and mussels and the pearl oyster have also
shown themselves very wonderful spinners.
The purposes for which the fine thread is spun are very different.
Caterpillars use it chiefly as a means of providing a warm covering
while in the chrysalis stage: so also do some beetles. The spider uses
its silk to build cunning traps for unwary flies. The mussel lying below
the surface of the sea employs its power as a spinner to construct a
cable, which, being fastened to the rocks on the sea-bed, prevents the
otherwise helpless mussel from being washed away.
In the silkworm (fig. 1) the silk is produced by certain peculiar
structures, tube-like in shape, known as the silk-glands. The silk is
created in a liquid form in the inside of the silk-gland, and, becoming
mixed with a kind of gum, is forced through a sort of mechanical press,
from which it comes through the mouth in the form of the delicate
threads which we know as 'silk.'
This silk is used by caterpillars for various purposes, and varies much
in quality: that spun by silkworm caterpillars is much prized by man.
The caterpillar uses it to form a case for the protection of its body
when turning into a chrysalis, from which it will emerge later a
full-grown moth.
When spinning, the caterpillar begins by sending out the end of a thread
which is quite soft and sticky. This immediately sticks to the object to
which it is attached. This done, every movement of the caterpillar's
head draws a fresh piece of the silk thread from its mouth. When
spinning a cocoon, the thread is made to form a long, oval, egg-shaped
case around the body of the caterpillar. But sometimes, as in the case
of those caterpillars which live in companies, it is used to form a
sheet or tent within which the tent-makers dwell. Other caterpillars use
the power of weaving silk as a means of escape from enemies. When in
danger they let themselves down on to the ground by attaching the end of
a thread to a leaf or twig, and then dropping off, leaving the thread to
be drawn from the mouth by the weight of the body as it falls.
Under the microscope each thread of silk is seen to be double: the total
length of the thread when unwound from the cocoon is over a thousand
feet. Over four hundred different kinds of silk-producing caterpillars
are known.
The spinning glands of the spider are placed at the tail end of the
body, but the threads spun therefrom, though strong, are of little use
for commercial purposes. Silk fabrics have, however, been made from
spider webs, but these are only curiosities.
The silk, or, as we may call them, the spinning glands, consist of from
two to four pairs of organs, or 'spinnerets,' placed together in a small
cluster. The threads which they form are made, as in the case of the
silk of the caterpillar, of a sticky fluid, which, when drawn out
through the tiny holes of the spinnerets, and exposed to the air, form
fine threads, and these combining together form the silky thread with
which we are familiar.
One of the principal uses of the silk threads is to form nets to catch
small insects. These nets are often--as is the case of the garden
spider, for example--very beautiful. In their construction the greatest
skill is shown. The method is briefly as follows: First of all a large
five-sided frame is formed; then long threads, which are rather like the
spokes of a wheel, are added. These harden at once, and to them are
attached the cross-threads, which form the delicate network of the
complete web. But if the web be examined with a strong magnifying glass,
there will be found, among the network, a number of threads bearing
little drops of a sticky substance (fig. 2). These are made by special
glands, and differ from the ordinary threads in that they do not dry on
being exposed to the air. They serve the purpose of bird-lime--that is
to say, they are there to aid in entangling insects which fly up against
the web. Having spread his net, the spider returns to a little shelter
woven on the under side of a leaf. Here he waits for his victims,
holding in one of his claws a long, delicate thread attached to the web,
so as to serve as a means of communication with the trap, the vibrations
set up by the struggles of the captive giving warning by shaking the
communication cord! He then rushes out, if the victim be small, and
throwing himself upon the wretched prisoner, sucks him dry and cuts away
the web so as to release the empty carcase. Should a wasp or bee happen
to be caught, the proceedings are much more cautious, and the spider
himself often proves the victim.
[Illustration: Fig. 1.--Silkworm, natural size.]
Spiders when small often use their spinnerets much as the witches of old
were supposed to use a broom-stick--that is to say, as a means of
travelling through the air. Turning the end of the body upwards they
force out a few threads, which, caught by the breeze, are blown away,
and so a number of long threads are rapidly drawn out, sufficiently long
at last to carry the spider itself with them. When too heavy to fly,
they sometimes send a thread adrift and wait until it catches in some
projecting bough; this done, they make fast the end to the bough or leaf
on which they may be resting, and climb along this tight-rope to build a
new home.
[Illustration: Fig. 2.--Silk Threads of Spider's Web, highly magnified.]
The floating threads formed by broods of small spiders are sometimes
very numerous, and cover everything: they are especially noticeable in
hedges, and are one of the causes of what is called in the country
'Gossamer.'
W. P. PYCRAFT, F.Z.S., A.L.S.
AFLOAT ON THE DOGGER BANK.
A Story of Adventure on the North Sea and in China.
(_Continued from page 303._)