Scene I.--A Wood near Rome.

Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England

Boycotted

and other stories

By Talbot Baines Reed

________________________________________________________________________

Here are fifteen of the most eccentric short stories you can imagine.

To make the job more difficult the hard copy of the book from which I

worked was in very poor condition, with the pages extensively browned.

That said, in the way of my poor workmanship making me blame my tools,

I do not think I have made too much of a mess of it, and you should be

able to gain much enjoyment from reading the book.

The whole ensemble is not really very long, about two-thirds of the

length of a typical book by this author. So go ahead and see how you

get on. NH.

________________________________________________________________________

BOYCOTTED

AND OTHER STORIES

BY TALBOT BAINES REED

CHAPTER ONE.

Sub-Chapter I.

THE SCHOOL CUTS ME.

I hardly know yet what it was all about, and at the time I had not an

idea. I don't think I was more of a fool than most fellows of my age at

Draven's, and I rather hope I wasn't an out-and-out cad.

But when it all happened, I had my doubts on both points, and could

explain the affair in no other way than by supposing I must be like the

lunatic in the asylum, who, when asked how he came to be there, said, "I

said the world was mad, the world said I was mad; the world was bigger

than I was, so it shut me up here!"

It had been a dismal enough term, as it was, quite apart from my

troubles. That affair of Browne had upset us all, and taken the spirit

out of Draven's. We missed him at every turn. What was the good of

getting up the football fifteen when our only "place-kick" was gone?

Where was the fun in the "Saturday nights" when our only comic singer,

our only reciter, our only orator wasn't there? Who cared about giving

study suppers or any other sociable entertainment, when there was no

Browne to invite?

Browne had left us suddenly. One day he had been the life and soul of

Draven's, next morning he had been summoned to Draven's study, and that

same evening we saw him drive off to the station in a cab with his

portmanteau on the top.

Very few of the fellows knew why he had been expelled. I scarcely knew

myself, though I was his greatest chum. On the morning of the day he

left, he met me on his way back from Draven's study.

"I'm expelled, Smither," he said, with a dismal face.

"Go on," replied I, taking his arm and scrutinising his face to see

where the joke was hidden. But it was no joke.

"I am," said he hopelessly: "I am to go this evening. It's my own

fault. I've been a cad. I was led into it. It's bad enough; but I'm

not such a blackleg as Draven makes out--"

And here for the first time in my life I saw Browne look like breaking

down.

He wasn't going to let me see it, and hurried away before I could find

anything to say.

If he hadn't told me himself, I should have called any one who told me

Browne had been a cad--well, I'd better not say what I should have

called him. I knew my chum had been a rollicking sort of fellow, who

found it hard to say No to anybody who asked anything of him; but that

he was a blackleg I, for one, would not believe, for all the Dravens in

the world.

Hardly knowing what I did, I walked up to the master's study door and

knocked.

"Come in." I could tell by the voice that came through the door I

should do no good.

I went in. Mr Draven was pacing up and down the room, and stopped

short in front of me as I entered. "Well?"

I wished I was on the other side of the door; but I wasn't, and must say

something, however desperate.

"Please, sir, Browne--"

"Browne leaves here to-day," said Mr Draven coldly; "what do you want?"

"Please, sir, I hope you will--"

I forgot where I was and what I was saying. My mind wandered aimlessly,

and I ended my sentence I don't know how.

Draven saw I was confused, and wasn't unkind.

"You have been a friend of Browne, I know," he said, "and you are sorry.

So am I, terribly sorry," and his voice quite quavered as he spoke.

There was a pause, and I made a frantic effort to recall my scattered

thoughts.

"Won't you let him off this time, sir?" I gasped.

"That, Smither, is out of the question," said the head master, so

steadily and incisively that I gave it up, and left the room without

another word. The fellows were trooping down the passage to breakfast,

little guessing the secret of my miserable looks, or the reason why

Browne was not in his usual place.

But the secret came out, and the school staggered under the shock. Mr

Draven announced our comrade's departure kindly enough in the afternoon,

adding that he had confessed the offence for which he was expelled, and

was penitent. Two hours later we saw his cab drive off, and as we

watched it disappear it all seemed to us like a hideous dream.

We said little about it to one another. We did not even care to inquire

particularly into the offence for which he had suffered. But we moped

and missed him at every turn, and wished the miserable term were ending

instead of beginning.

This, however, is a long digression. I sat down to write the story of

my own trouble, not Browne's. But the reader will understand now why I

said that, as it was, apart from my own misfortunes, the term, which had

still a month more to run when my story begins, had been a dismal one.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

I was wandering about the playground one frosty November morning,

beginning to hope that if a frost should come we might after all get a

little fun at Draven's before the holidays came, when Odger junior,

whistling shrilly, crossed my path.

Odger junior was not exactly my fag, for we had no fags at Draven's, and

if we had had, I had not yet reached that pitch of dignity at which one

fellow has the right to demand the services of another. Still Odger

junior had, for a consideration, done a good many odd jobs for me, and I

had got into the way of regarding him as a quasi-fag.

"Hullo, youngster!" said I, as we met, "there's going to be a stunning

frost. Can't you smell it in the air? I wish you'd cut down to

Bangle's and get me a pair of straps for my skates."

To my astonishment, not wholly unmixed with amusement, Odger junior

regarded me majestically for a moment, and then, ejaculating the

oracular phrase, "Oh, ah!" walked off, his four-foot-one drawn to its

full height, his hands behind his back, and his mouth still drawn up for

whistling, but apparently too overcome with dignity to emit the music

which an observer would naturally be led to expect.

I was not on the whole a short-tempered youth. My laziness saved me

from that. It certainly did occur to me on this bright frosty morning

that it would be exhilarating both for young Odger and me if I were to

go after him and kick him. But what was the use? He would enjoy it as

much as I should. There would be plenty of ways in which to pay him out

less fatiguing than an undignified chase round the playground. So I let

him go, and grinned to think how much nicer monkeys are when they behave

like monkeys, and not like men.

I had a lot of work to do in my study that morning before afternoon

school, and so had very little time to think of Odger junior, or any one

else. As it was, I was only just in time to take my usual place in the

Greek class when Mr Draven sailed into the room and the lesson began.

I had been so flurried by my hasty arrival that I did not at first

observe that the desk on my right, usually occupied by a boy called

Potter, was vacant.

"Where's Potter?" I asked of my neighbour on the left. "Is he--why,

there he is at Browne's old desk!" I added, catching sight of the

deserter across the room.

Browne's desk had always been left empty since its late owner went.

None of us had cared to appropriate it, and the sight of it day after

day had fed our sorrow over his loss. It seemed to me, therefore, an

act almost of disloyalty on Potter's part towards the memory of my old

chum to install himself coolly at his desk without saying a word to

anybody.

"What's he gone there for?" I inquired of Sadgrove on my left. "He's

got no--"

"Don't talk to me!" said Sadgrove.

Sadgrove was in a temper, and I wasn't surprised. So was I, lazy as I

was. We had all stuck to Browne through the term, and it was a little

too much now to find a fellow like Potter, who professed to be Browne's

friend too, stepping in this cold-blooded way into his place. Sadgrove

was put up to construe, so there was no opportunity for further

conversation, had we desired it.

I wasn't surprised that Potter avoided me in the playground after

school. He guessed, I supposed, what I had to say to him, and had the

decency to be ashamed of himself. However, I was determined to have it

out, and that evening, after preparation, went up to his study. He was

there, and looked guilty enough when he saw me.

"Look here, Potter," I began, trying to be friendly in spite of all. I

got no further, for Potter, without a word, walked out of the door,

leaving me standing alone in the middle of his study.

I had seen the working of a guilty conscience once or twice before at

Draven's, but never knew it to work in quite so strange a manner as it

did with Potter that evening.

There was nothing for it but to give him up as a bad job, and go to bed.

Which I did; and awoke next morning in a forgiving mood.

It was always a scramble at breakfast on Saturdays at Draven's to see

who could get nearest to the ham, for we sickened of the cold mutton

they gave us on other days. This morning, to my gratification, I was

"well up." That is, there were only two fellows before me, so that at

any rate I was good for a fair, straight slice from the middle.

"Huzza!" said I, crowding up to Williams, who was next above me. "I've

never had anything but knuckle all this--"

Williams faced round as he heard my voice; and then, without waiting to

hear the end of my sentence, got up and took a seat at the lower end of

the table.

"Poor beggar's out of sorts," said I to myself. "Another of his bilious

attacks, I suppose," I added, moving up to his seat and addressing the

proud occupant of the carver's chair. This fellow was Harrison, whom,

next to Browne, we counted the oiliest fellow at Draven's. He could

sing, and make puns, and though a long way behind Browne, was a popular,

jovial companion.

He appeared not to hear my remark, but, hitching his chair a little

away, began deliberately to carve a slice of ham.

He took a long time about it, and I watched him patiently till he was

done. It was a prime ham, I could see, and, ashamed as I am to confess

it, it made me feel amiable to all the world to find it was so.

"If they were all like this--" I began.

"There's room here, Harrison, old man," Williams called up the table.

Whereupon Harrison, plate in hand, went down to keep Williams company,

leaving me for the first time in my life "top-hammer."

Somehow I did not enjoy the dignity quite as much as I should have

expected. I was sorry Harrison had gone, for I wanted to speak to him

about Potter, and I could not help fancying, from his unusual manner,

that he was put out about something, and I thought he might have told me

about it instead of chumming up to Williams. However, I was hungry, and

took my slice of ham and passed the dish along to the fellow next me,

who sat below the two empty chairs up which I had risen.

It was rather a solitary meal, and I was glad when it was over and the

bell rang for first school. There at least I should have the society of

the sympathetic Sadgrove, who, as I knew, felt as sore as I did about

Potters behaviour.

But, to my mortification as well as perplexity, Sadgrove I found, had

cleared out his desk and removed his goods and chattels to a seat on the

row behind mine, where he appeared to have met with a cordial welcome

from his new neighbours.

I could not make it out. He always told me he liked his desk better

than any, and would not change it even for Browne's. And here he was,

for no apparent reason, on a lower form, at a smaller desk, and in--

well, less select society.

As I sat in my place that morning, with an empty desk on each side of

me, it began slowly to dawn on my mind that something was wrong

somewhere.

The proceedings of Odger junior, Potter, Sadgrove, Williams, and

Harrison, taken singly, were not of much importance, but taken as a

whole I did not like them. I might be wrong. There might be no

intention to cut me, and I could not think of anything I had done or

said which would account for it. I would try, at any rate, to get to

the bottom of it before I was many hours older.

So I went in search of my cousin, who was a few months my senior, and a

particular chum of Williams.

"I say, Arthur, what did Williams cut me dead for this morning?"

Arthur looked uncomfortable and said--

"How should I know?"

"You do know," said I, "and I want to know why."

He coloured up, and made as though he would leave room. But my blood

was up, and I stepped across door.

"Tell me this," I said. "Have these fellows cut on purpose or no?"

"However should--"

"You do know. Are they cutting me or no?"

He flushed up again, and then said hurriedly--

"Yes, we are!"

Sub-Chapter II.

I AM BEATEN.

"Yes, we are."

The reader may think it strange when I tell him that my first sensation

on receiving this momentous announcement was one of almost amusement, I

knew it was a mistake, and that I had done nothing to merit the sentence

which had been passed upon me. Draven's had put itself in the wrong,

and I had pride enough to determine that I of all people was not going

out of my way to put it right.

So I took my cousin's announcement coolly, and refrained from demanding

any further explanations.

"Oh!" I said, with something like a sneer, and walked off; leaving him,

so I flattered myself, rather snubbed.

I was boycotted!

There was something a trifle flattering in the situation. Brave men

before my time had been boycotted. I had read their stories, and

sympathised with them, and hated (as I hate still) the miscreants who,

in the name of "patriotism" had acted the sneak's and coward's part to

ruin them. Now I was going to taste something of their hardships at the

hands of my "patriotic" schoolfellows; and my spirit rose as I resolved

to hold up my head with the bravest of them.

Forewarned is forearmed; and when I went into school that afternoon I

gave no one a chance of avoiding me. I spread myself out as comfortably

as possible at my place, and shifted some of the papers and books which

crowded my own desk into the vacant desks on either side of me, first

ejecting rather ostentatiously a few papers and notebooks which had been

left in them by their late owners.

I was conscious of one or two glances directed my way across the room;

but these only added to my pleasure as I emptied Sadgrove's inkpot into

my own, and proceeded cheerfully to cut my initials on Williams's desk.

When I was put up to construe, I managed to get through my passage

without any sign of trepidation; and when at last the class was

dismissed, I took the wind out of the sails of my boycotters by

remaining some minutes later than any one else, completing the

decoration of my new quarters.

It was easy enough in the playground that afternoon to keep clear of my

fellow human beings; and I had, as I persuaded myself, a jolly hour in

the gymnasium all by myself. Fellows looked in at the door now and

then, but did not disturb my peace; and it was rather gratifying than

otherwise to feel that as long as I chose to occupy the place every one

else would have to wait outside.

"After all," thought I, as I went to bed that night, "boycotting isn't

as bad as people make it out. I've had all I wanted to-day. No one has

annoyed me or injured me. I can do pretty much as I like; in fact, I do

more than I ever used to be able to do. If any one is loser by it all,

it's the other fellows, and not me. I rather enjoy it.

"Still," I could not help reflecting; as I turned over and went to

sleep, "I think Harrison might have stuck by me."

When I woke next morning it was with a sense of something on my mind. I

tried hard to persuade myself it was amusement, and went down to

breakfast wondering how Draven's would keep it up. I found myself "top-

hammer" again--or I should say "top-muttoner," for ham was a luxury

reserved only for one day in the week--and the two chairs below me were

again vacant.

I helped myself to a slice from the uninviting joint, and then artlessly

pushed the dish along one place, opposite the first of the empty chairs,

and proceeded to regale myself.

It was interesting to see the perplexity which my simple manoeuvre

caused. The next fellow below me, out of reach three chairs away, had

nothing for it but either to speak to me, which I calculated his vows

would not allow him to do, or else ignominiously to walk up to the seat

next mine and possess himself of the dish. He did the latter, and I

scored one--the only "one" I scored for some time to come.

For Draven's, seeing I was defiant, felt hurt in its pride, and drew the

blockade closer around me. It had expected at least that I should make

some effort to win my way back into popularity, and it did not at all

like, when it chose to boycott me, that I should boycott it. So

gradually we forgot what the quarrel was about, and set ourselves to see

who could hold out longest.

A manly, sensible, Christian occupation for fifty fellow-creatures

during a dull winter month!

I never got the gymnasium to myself now, for whenever I went it was

always full, and remained full till I was tired of waiting for a vacant

bar or swing. As for football, hockey, paper-chasing, and the other

school sports, I was, of course, excluded both by my own pride and the

action of the school.

In fact, Draven's never pulled together so well at anything as they did

at boycotting me during those few weeks. Their discipline was splendid.

They all seemed to know exactly what to do and what not to do when I

appeared on the scene, and any hopes I had of winning over a few

stragglers to my side vanished before the blockade had lasted a week.

At first I didn't mind it. My mettle was up, I was excited, and the

consciousness that I was unjustly treated carried me through.

But in a few days the novelty began to wear off, and I began to get

tired of my own company. I still made the most of my elbow-room in

class and at meals, but it ceased to be amusing.

I tried to work hard in my study every evening, and to persuade myself I

was glad of the opportunity of making up for lost time; but somehow or

other the distant sounds of revelry and laughter made Livy and Euclid

more dull and uninteresting than ever. I tried to hug myself with the

notion of how independent I was in school and out, how free I was from

bores, how jolly the long afternoon walks were with no one hanging on at

my heels, how dignified it was to hold up my head when all the world was

against me. But spite of it all I moped.

Greatly to my disgust, Draven's did not mope. As I sat down in my

study, or wandered, still more solitary, in the crowded playground, it

seemed as if all the school except myself had never been in better

spirits. Fellows seemed to have shaken off the cloud which Browne's

expulsion had left behind. The football team was better than it had

been for a year or two, and I overheard fellows saying that the

"Saturday nights" were jollier even than last winter. In fact, it

seemed as if, like Jonah, the throwing of me overboard had brought fine

weather all round.

Still I was not going to give in. Draven's should be ashamed of itself

before I met it half way!

So I watched with satisfaction my face growing pale day by day, and I

aided this new departure in my favour by eating less than usual, giving

up outdoor exercise, and staying up late over my lessons.

I calculated that at the rate I was going I should be reduced to skin

and bones by the end of my term, and perhaps at my funeral Draven's

would own they had wronged me. At present, however, my pallor seemed to

escape their observation, and as for my late hours, all the good they

did me was an imposition from Mr Draven for breaking rules.

As the days went on, I seemed to have dropped altogether out of life. I

might have been invisible, for anything any one seemed to see of me.

Even the masters appeared to have joined in the conspiracy to ignore me,

and for a whole week I sat at my solitary desk without hearing the sound

of my own voice.

My readers may scoff when I tell them that at the end of a fortnight I

felt like running away. The silence and isolation which had amused me

at first became a slow torture at last, and, poor-spirited wretch that I

was, my only comfort was in now and then crying in bed in the dark.

I made up for this secret weakness by putting on a swagger in public,

and rendered myself ridiculous in consequence. Draven's could hardly

help being amused by a fellow who one day slunk in and out among them

self-consciously pale, black under the eyes, with a hacking cough and a

funereal countenance, and the next blustered about defiantly and glared

at every one he met.

The fact was, having despaired of making a friend, my one longing now

was to make an enemy. I would have paid all my pocket-money twice over

for a quarrel or a fight with somebody. But that was a luxury harder to

get even than a friendly word.

I tried one day.

I was mooning disconsolately round the playground, when I met young

Wigram, the most artless youngster in all Draven's.

"You played up well in the second fifteen on Saturday," I said, as if I

had spoken to him not five minutes ago, whereas, as a matter of fact,

the sound of my own voice gave me quite a shock.

"Yes," began he, falling into the snare, "I was lucky with that run up

from--er--I--beg pardon--good-bye," and he bolted precipitately.

It was a mild victory as far as it went, but it did not end there, for

that afternoon I came upon a group in the playground, the central figure

of which was the wretched Wigram, on his knees in the act of apologising

humbly all round for having been cad enough to speak to me. It seemed a

good chance for the long-wished-for quarrel, and I jumped at it.

"Let him go!" shouted I, breaking into the group and addressing the

company generally. "If any one touches him he will have to fight me!"

Alas! they stared a little, and then laughed a little, and then strolled

away, with Wigram among them, leaving me alone. After that I knew I was

beaten, and might as well own it, for a disappointed enemy is a far

worse failure than a disappointed friend.

Still I clung on to my pride. Broken down as I was, and unnerved and

damaged in my self-respect, there was but a week more of the term to

run, and I would try to hold out till the end. If I could only do that,

I was safe, for I would get my father to take me away at Christmas for

good. No--would I?--that would be the biggest surrender of all. I

could not think what I would do.

So I sat down and wrote to Browne for lack of any better occupation, and

told him how I envied him his expulsion, and wished any such luck could

happen to me.

Then I grimly set myself to endure the remaining days of my slow

torture.

Oh, the silence of those days! The noise and laughter of the fellows

was nothing to it. I could endure the one, and in my extremity was even

glad of it. But the sealed lips of everyone that met me were like so

many daggers.

At last I was really ill--or at any rate I was so reduced that unless

relief came soon I must either capitulate or run away.

Even yet I found it hard to contemplate the former alternative. I met

Harrison one morning in the passage. I suppose I must have looked

specially miserable, for, contrary to his usual practice now, instead of

looking away, he slackened speed as he came up and looked at me. Now

was my time surely. I was famished for want of a friendly word or look,

and my pride was at its last gasp. I believe I had actually begun to

speak, when a sound in the passage startled us both, and we passed by as

of old--strangers.

I rushed off to my study, ashamed and disappointed, and paced round it

like a caged animal. What could I do? Should I write to some of the

fellows? Should I tell Draven? or--should I escape?

Then it occurred to me, had not I a right to know why I was being

treated like this? What had I done? Was I a sneak, or a leper, or a

murderer, that I should thus be excommunicated and tortured? What a

fool I had been, not to think of this before! Alas! it was too late

now. My pride had made it impossible for me to speak the first word

without surrendering all along the line; and even yet, at the eleventh

hour, I could not face that. So I shut myself up for another day,

miserable, nervous, and ill, and counted the minutes to bedtime.

The evening post brought a letter from Browne, and, thankful for any

diversion, and the silent company even of a friendly piece of paper, I

crawled off early to my study to make the most of my little comfort.

I started before I had read two lines, and uttered an exclamation of

amazement.

"Dear Smither,--

"There's been a most frightful mistake. By the same post as brought

your letter I got enclosed from Williams. What a set of cads they've

been, and all my fault! I've written to Williams that if it's not all

put right in twenty-four hours I'll come down, disgraced as I am, and

tell Draven. I'm in too great a rage to write more. Unless I get a

telegram `All right!' by ten to-morrow morning I'll come.

"Yours ever,--

"P. Browne."

Williams's letter enclosed--or rather part of it, for Browne had kept

one sheet--was as follows, though my head was swimming so much at the

time that I could scarcely take it all in.

"The fellows here haven't forgotten you, and they're showing it in a

pretty decided way at present. About three weeks ago we discovered that

Smither, who called himself your friend, was the sneak who went to

Draven the morning you were expelled, and let out about you. He was

seen coming from D.'s study early, and young Wright, who happened to be

in the next room, heard him speaking about you. Well, we've boycotted

him. Not a fellow is allowed to speak to him, or notice him, or go near

him. Everybody's been bound over, and unless some one plays traitor,

the place will get too hot for him before the term's up. And serve him

right too. Harrison and I--"

Here the letter broke off.

I felt stunned; and, strange to say, the sudden discovery left me as

miserable as it found me. I suppose I was ill; but for a short time my

passion got the upper hand, and made it worse for me than if I had never

known the truth.

But it didn't last long. There came a knock at the door, and, without

waiting for an invitation, Harrison came into the room, looking so

miserable and scared that I scarcely recognised him for a moment. He

was evidently prepared for any sort of rebuff, and I despised myself far

more than him as I heard the half-frightened voice in which he began.

"Smither, old man--"

He got no farther; or at least I did not hear any more. It seemed like

a dream after that. I was dimly conscious of his hand on my arm and

then round me. The next thing I was aware of was that I was lying in

bed, with him sitting beside me sponging my forehead.

"Has the bed-bell rung?" I asked.

"My dear fellow, you've been in bed a fortnight," said he, bending over

me; "but you mustn't talk now."

After awhile I asked again--

"Why are you here, then?" for the term had had only three days to run

when I had been taken ill.

"We couldn't go, old man. The fellows begged Draven to let them stay

till you were out of danger, and he did. They're all here. This is

Christmas Day, and they will be glad to hear you are better. But really

you mustn't talk, please."

"Tell the fellows to go home, then," I said, "and wish them a Merry

Christmas, and say--"

"Really, old man," pleaded Harrison, looking quite frightened, "don't

talk."

That was the quietest, but not the least hopeful Christmas Day I ever

spent.

And when Draven's met again next term, I fancy most of us had got by

heart the good Christmas motto, "Goodwill to men," and were mutually

agreed that, whatever manly and noble sports we should engage in during

the year, boycotting should not be one of them.

CHAPTER TWO.

A TRUE STORY IN TWO

CHAPTERS.

Sub-Chapter I.

THE STORY.

Ferriby had broken up. The rats and mice were having their innings in

the schoolrooms, and the big bell was getting rusty for want of

exercise. The door of the Lower Third had not had a panel kicked out of

it for a whole week, and Dr Allsuch's pictures and sofas and piano were

all stacked up in the Detention Room while their proper quarters

underwent a "doing-up."

There was no mistake about the school having broken up. And yet, if it

was so, how came we all to be there this Christmas week, instead of

sitting at our own firesides in the bosoms of our own families, anywhere

but at Ferriby?

When I say all, I mean all in Jolliffe's House; the others had cleared

out. Bull's was empty, and Wragg's, across the quadrangle, had not a

ghost of a fellow left. Nor had the doctor's. Every other house was

shut up, but Jolliffe's was as full up as the night before a county

match, and no sign of an exodus.

Of course the reader guesses the reason at once!

"I know," says one virtuous youth; "they'd all been detained for bad

conduct, and stopped their holidays!"

Wrong, my exemplary one! Jolliffe's was the best behaved house in

Ferriby, though I say so who should not. But any one could tell you so.

For every thousand lines of imposition the other houses had to turn out

Jolliffe's only had a hundred, and for every half-dozen canes worn out

on the horny palms of Bull's and Wragg's, one was quite enough for us.

No; the fact was, one of our fellows had had scarlet fever a fortnight

before the holidays, and as he was in and out with us for some days

before it was discovered, sleeping in our dormitory, and sitting next to

us in class it was a settled thing we were all in for it.

So the school was suddenly broken up, the other houses all packed off,

the sickly ones among us--there were only one or two--removed to the

infirmary, and the rest of us, under the charge of Jolliffe himself,

invited to make the best of a bad job, and enjoy ourselves as well as we

could, with the promise that if in three weeks no one else showed signs

of knocking up, we should be allowed to go home.

Of course, we were awfully sold at first, and by no means in an amiable

frame of mind. It is no joke to be done out of Christmas at home. What

a dolt that Gilks was to get scarlet fever! Why could he not have

waited till he got home?

But after a day or two we shook down, as British boys will, to our lot.

After all, it was only a case of putting off our holiday, and meanwhile

we were allowed to do anything we liked, short of setting the place on

fire, or kicking up a row near the infirmary.

There were enough of us to turn out two good teams at football, or to

run a big paper-chase across country, or get up a grand concert of an

evening; and not too many of us to crowd into the long dormitory, where,

for all we were interfered with, we might have prolonged our bolster

matches "from eve to dewy morn."

In time we came to look upon our confinement as rather a spree than

otherwise, and this feeling was considerably heightened by the arrival

of several hampers at the beginning of Christmas week, including a

magnificent one from Dr Allsuch himself, along with a message bidding

us be sure and have a merry Christmas. We voted the doctor a brick, and

drank his health in ginger beer, with great enthusiasm, to the toast of

"Dr Allsuch, and all such bricks!"

It was on Christmas Eve, after a specially grand banquet off the

contents of one of these hampers, that we crowded round the big common-

hall fire in a very complacent frame of mind, uncommonly well satisfied

and comfortable within and without.

"I don't know," said Lamb meditatively, cracking a walnut between his

finger and thumb, and slowly skinning it--"I don't know; Gilks might

have done us a worse turn after all."

"I rather wish he'd make a yearly thing of it," said Ellis. "They say

he's pulled through all right."

"Oh yes, he's all right! and so are the other three. In fact, French

and Addley never had scarlet fever at all. It was a false alarm."

"Well," said Lamb, "I'm jolly glad of it! I wouldn't have cared for any

of them to die, you know."

Lamb said this in a tone as if we should all be rather surprised to hear

him say so.

"Nobody ever did die at Ferriby, did they?" said Jim Sparrow, the

youngest and tenderest specimen we had at Jolliffe's.

It was rather cheek of a kid like Jim to interpose at all in a

conversation of his seniors, and it seemed as if he was going to get

snubbed by receiving no reply, when Fergus suddenly took the thing up.

"Eh, young Jim Sparrow, what's that you're saying?"

Fergus was the wag of our house--indeed, he was the only Irishman we

could boast of, and the fact of his being an Irishman always made us

inclined to laugh whenever he spoke. We could see now by the twinkle in

his eye that he was going to let off the steam at Jim Sparrow's expense.

"I said," replied Jim, blushing rather to find every body listening to

him, "nobody's ever died at Ferriby, have they?"

Fergus gazed at him in astonishment.

"What!" exclaimed he, "you mean to say you never heard of poor Bubbles?"

"Bubbles? No," replied Jim, looking rather scared.

"Just fancy that!" said Fergus, turning round to us; "never heard of

Bubbles!"

Of course we, who saw what the wag was driving at, looked rather

surprised and a little mysterious.

"What was it?" inquired Jim Sparrow, looking half ashamed of himself.

"Eh? Well, if you never heard it, I'd better not tell you. It's not a

nice story, is it, you fellows?"

"Horrible!" said Lamb, starting at another walnut.

"Oh, do tell me!" cried Jim eagerly, "I'm so fond of stories;" and he

settled himself back in his chair rather uneasily, and tried to look as

if it was all good fun.

"Well, if you do want it I'll tell you; but don't blame me if it upsets

you, that's all!" replied the irrepressible Fergus.

Jim looked as heroic as he could, and wished he had never asked to be

enlightened on the subject of Bubbles.

Fergus refreshed himself with an orange, stuck his feet into the fender,

and began in a solemn voice.

"I suppose, Jim Sparrow, if you have never heard about Bubbles, you

really don't know the history of the school at all. You don't even know

how it came to be called Ferriby?"

"No," responded Jim, keeping his eyes on the fire.

"Ferriby is derived from two Anglo-Saxon words," proceeded Fergus,

"which you may have heard--`fire' and `boy.' Now I'll tell you about

Bubbles!"

There was something very mysterious about the manner in which Fergus

uttered these words, and we listened for what was to come almost as

breathlessly as Jim Sparrow.

"It was early in this century," he said, "that a boy came to this school

called Bubbles. No one knew where he came from. He had no parents, and

never went home for the holidays. He was about your age, Sparrow, and

just your build, and he was in the Lower Fourth."

"I'm going to be moved up this Christmas," interposed Jim hurriedly.

"Are you? So was Bubbles going to be moved up when what I'm going to

tell you happened!"

It was getting dark, and for the last, few minutes all the light in the

room had been caused by a jet of gas in the coals. That jet now went

out suddenly, leaving us in nearly total darkness.

"It was a Christmas Eve. Everybody else had gone home for the holidays,

and Bubbles was the only boy left in the school--Bubbles and a master

whose name I won't mention."

"He was the Detention Master, wasn't he?" inquired Lamb's voice.

"Ah, yes. There's no harm in telling you that. Bubbles and the

Detention Master were left all alone at Ferriby, Sparrow."

"Ye--es," said Sparrow softly, and making two syllables of the word.

"They'd had no hampers sent them, and as they sat round the fire that

evening they knew both of them there was no Christmas dinner in the

house. They had neither of them tasted food for some days, and had no

money to buy any, and if they had had, the snow was too deep to get

anywhere. They had tried making soup out of copybook covers, but it

wasn't nourishing, and the soles of their boots which they tried to eat

didn't sit well on their stomachs."

Some one choked at this point, greatly to the speaker's wrath.

"All right; some one seems to think it a laughing matter, so I'll stop."

"Oh no," cried one or two voices eagerly, "do go on. He only got a

piece of apple the wrong way."

"Was it you laughed, Jim Sparrow?" demanded Fergus.

"Oh no," replied Jim, who was holding on rather tight to the sides of

his chair.

"I don't like any one making fun of a serious thing like this," said

Fergus. "I was saying the soles of their boots didn't sit well on their

stomachs. They sat round the fire the whole evening, brooding and

ravenous, and saying nothing. For a long time they both stared into the

fire; then presently the master took his eyes off the fire and stared at

Bubbles. Bubbles used to be fat, like you, Sparrow, but the last day or

two he had got rather reduced. Still he was fairly plump; at least, so

thought the master, as he looked first at him, then at the fire, and

then thought of the empty larder downstairs."

It was too dark to see Jim Sparrow, but I could almost _hear_ him turn

pale, so profound was the silence.

"The fire was a big one, a roaring one, and howled up the chimney as if

it was hungry too. Bubbles where he sat was close to it, in fact, his

feet almost touched the bars. The master sat a little behind Bubbles,

and his arm rested on the back of Bubbles's chair. `To-morrow,' thought

the master, `he will be thinner, and next day only skin and bone.' Then

he thought of the saying in the copy-books, `Never put off till to-

morrow what you can do to-day.' He sprang to his feet, seized Bubbles

by the head and feet--there was a shriek and a yell--and next moment the

master was alone in the room, and the chimney was on fire!"

At this last sentence the speaker, suiting the action to the word, had

risen from his seat and suddenly pounced upon the unhappy Sparrow, who,

already paralysed with terror, now fairly yelled and howled for mercy.

Fergus dropped him back gently into his chair, and resuming his own

seat, continued--

"There is very little to add. Under the ruins were found the remains of

the master grasping in each hand a large-sized drumstick. Bubbles was

never seen more. It was supposed he escaped without his legs on to the

roof, and they do say that every Christmas Eve he revisits Ferriby, and

tries to get down the chimney in search of his lost legs."

At the conclusion of this tragic story every one drew a long breath.

Jim Sparrow, it was clear, had swallowed it from beginning to end, and

one or two others of the juniors looked as if they would have been more

pleased had the event not been made to happen on Christmas Eve, of all

nights. But with these exceptions the whole thing seemed a very good

joke, and greatly to the credit of Fergus's imagination.

"Oh, and I should say," added that doughty historian, as he poked up the

fire into a blaze, "though it's not of much consequence, that this took

place in this very house, they say in this very room. Funny story,

isn't it, Sparrow?"

Sparrow had not yet sufficiently recovered from his fright to reply, but

it was evident by his looks he considered it anything but funny.

However, the talk soon veered round to other and more ordinary topics,

in the midst of which, aided by the remnants of our feast, the spirits

even of Jim Sparrow revived, so much so that by bedtime he was as

cheerful as if he had never even heard the name of Bubbles.

Sub-Chapter II.

THE GHOST.

Mr Jolliffe appeared on the scene as usual at ten o'clock, and read

prayers. After which, advising us all to get a good night, and

announcing that to-morrow being Christmas Day, we should not breakfast

till nine, he trotted off to his quarters and left us.

We were all pretty ready to take his advice, for what with a sixteen-

mile run across country in the afternoon, and our big dinner in the

evening, the thought of bed seemed rather a comfortable prospect.

One or two of the fellows, however, fellows whom no exertion ever seemed

to weary, protested against going to bed at ten o'clock, and took good

care that those who did shouldn't sleep. We were used to that, and had

to put up with it, and it must have been close upon the stroke of

Christmas Day before they finally condescended to turn in and leave us

in peace.

One by one the candles went out, the talk and the laughter gradually

subsided, and even the grunts and twitches of the doughty heroes as they

first gave themselves over to slumber died away in the darkness. For

the first time since we rose that morning, a dead silence reigned in

Jolliffe's.

In fact, as I lay awake and tried to get to sleep the silence seemed

unnaturally profound. The tick of the big clock down in the hall struck

on the ear with almost a thud, and the light breeze outside moaned among

the ventilators and played chromatic scales through the keyhole in a

fashion quite disturbing. I wished that wind would shut up, and that

the clock would run down. How was a fellow to get to sleep with such a

row going on?

And yet, next moment, the utter silence of the place disturbed me even

more than the wind and the clock. Why, I actually seemed to hear the

winking of my own eyes as I lay there. I wished some one would snore,

or breathe hard, or roll over in his bed. But no, in all those thirty

beds there was neither sound nor motion.

Nothing is so unpleasant as listening for sounds in a dead silence. I

half wished--

Hullo! what was that? Rain on the window! Why can't rain drop straight

instead of tapping at a fellow's window? It sounded like some one

wanting to come in. I knew it was only rain; but supposing it _had_

been somebody--a thief, for instance, or--or--Bubbles come to look after

his legs!

I do not know what evil genius put the thought of Bubbles into my head.

But once in, I could not get it out. Downstairs before the big fire I

had laughed as loud as any one, and been as sure as sure could be that

Fergus's story was all an invention of his fertile imagination. But,

somehow, now that the lights were out, and the fellows all asleep, and

the wind was moaning outside, and I lay sleepless on my bed, it did not

seem so utterly preposterous.

Not that I believed in ghosts. Oh dear no. I hoped I was not such a

fool as that, but supposing--

That rain again at the window! Why couldn't it stop startling a fellow

in that way? Yes, supposing Fergus's story had been founded on fact,

what a dreadful end to a boy Bubbles's end must have been!

"And they do say,"--the words seemed to echo in my ears--"that every

Christmas Eve he re-visits Ferriby, and tries to get down the chimney in

search of his lost legs."

Ugh! Why did not some of the fellows wake up? How unnaturally still

they all were! I would have given all my pocket-money to two of them to

start another steeplechase that moment over the beds. In fact, I had

half a mind to--

As I reached this point a sudden noise made my blood run cold, and froze

me to my bed.

It did not seem to be in the dormitory, or on the stairs outside, or in

the quadrangle below. None of my companions appeared to have heard it,

for they all slept on quietly, and the silence which followed was doubly

as intense as that which had gone before. What could it be?

I do not fancy I was a particularly cowardly boy, but somehow that sound

terrified me. I could neither move nor call out. All I could do was to

lie and listen.

There it was again! this time not so sudden, but far more distinct.

There was no mistaking it now. As sure as I lay there, it was something

on the roof! It sounded like something crawling slowly and by fits and

starts along the gutter just above the dormitory. Sometimes it seemed

to spring upwards, as though attempting to reach a higher position, and

then sullenly slip down and proceed on its crawling way.

Yes, without doubt Fergus had told the truth!

Suddenly a voice in a loud whisper at the other end of the dormitory

exclaimed--

"Listen! I say, listen!"

It was Lamb's voice. There was at least some comfort in knowing that I

was not the only one awake.

With a desperate effort I sat up in my bed and replied--

"Oh, Lamb, what is it?"

His only reply was a gasp, as the noises recommenced. The body,

whatever it was, seemed to have dragged itself forward, so as to be now

just over our heads. The ceiling above us went right up into the roof,

and I could distinctly hear a rustling sound against the tiles, followed

by an occasional upward leap, sometimes almost wild in its eagerness.

How could I mistake these sounds? The chimney was immediately above us,

and it was towards this goal, as I well knew, that the hapless and

legless Bubbles was destined fruitlessly to aspire. At last one bound

more frantic than the rest, followed by a sudden clatter of displaced

tiles, unloosed my tongue, and I fairly cried out--

"Oh!"

Half a dozen fellows were on the alert in an instant.

"Who's that called out?" cried one. "I'd like to scrag him."

"What's the row, whoever it is?" demanded Fergus.

"Hush! Listen!" was all I could reply.

There must have been something in my voice which bespoke my horror, for

a dead silence ensued.

But not for long. Once more the dull, dragging sound, interrupted by

the spasmodic and fruitless leaps!

A shudder went round the dormitory at the sound. They knew as well as I

did what it meant.

"It's the ghost!" faltered Sparrow's trembling voice; and no one

contradicted him. Fergus himself, like one suddenly confronted with a

spirit of his own raising, seemed the most terrified of the lot, and I

could hear him gasping as he sat petrified in his bed.

"Can't some one strike a light?" Lamb said presently.

All very well, but the matches were on the table, and to secure them one

would have to get out of bed. No one seemed quite inclined for that.

As we lay endeavouring to screw up our courage to the necessary pitch,

the sound once more recommenced, with a violent motion towards the edge

of the roof. The moon at the same moment broke out from behind the

clouds and shot its pale light in at the big windows. There was a

momentary pause above us, and then, casting a sudden shadow across the

dormitory floor, a dim white figure, as of a body without limbs, floated

down outside the window. The moon once more was obscured, and we were

left motionless and horrified in utter silence and darkness! What would

come next?

How long we might have remained in suspense I can't say, had not Lamb

and another fellow, by a combined effort of heroism, dashed arm in arm

from bed and secured the matches. They were in the act of striking a

light (one match had broken, and another had had no head)--they were in

the act of striking a light when Lamb, who was close to the window,

suddenly exclaimed--"Look!"

There was such terror in his tone that we knew only too well what he had

seen. But where!

"Where?" I managed to gasp.

"There, down in the quad," he replied, pointing out of the window, but

looking another way.

Curiosity is sometimes greater than fear, and for all my terror I could

not resist the impulse to steal up to the window and look out. And

others did the same.

It was as Lamb had said. There in the quadrangle below, moving

restlessly to and fro, and swaying itself upward, as if in supplication,

was the white form, erect but helpless. For a long time we gazed

without a word. At last, one more hardy than the rest said--"What can

it be?"

What a question! What could it be but--Bubbles! Still, when the

question was once asked, it did occur to one or two of us that possibly

we might have jumped to a conclusion too hastily. It's wonderful how

hardy a fellow will get when he's got twenty fellows clustering round

him.

"He's alive, anyhow," said one. "Call out to him, some one," suggested

another. "You're nearest the window, Fraser," said another. Fraser was

vice-captain of the second fifteen, and always touchy whenever his pluck

was called in question.

"I'm not afraid," he said, in a voice which was hardly quite steady.

And as he spoke he threw up the window, and called out hurriedly, and in

rather deferential tones--"Who are you down there?"

I don't suppose Fraser ever did a pluckier thing than ask that question.

We listened, all ears, for the reply. But none came. Only a faint

moan, as the apparition swayed uneasily towards us, and even seemed to

try to raise itself in our direction; but never a word we heard, and we

closed the window again as much in the dark as to its identity as ever.

What could we do? We couldn't go to bed with Bubbles's or anybody's

ghost wandering about in the quadrangle below us, that was evident. But

how were we to solve the mystery, unless indeed--

It was a terrible alternative, but the only one. We thought of it a

good bit before any one proposed it. At last Fraser himself said--

"Who's game to come down into the quad?"

Fraser was on his mettle, or he would never have been so mad. At first

a dead silence was the only answer to his challenge. Then Lamb said--

"I don't mind."

If he didn't mind, why should he nearly choke saying so? However, he

broke the ice, and others followed. I considered myself as good a man

as Lamb any day (it was only my own opinion), and I wasn't going to be

outdone by him now. So I volunteered. And one or two others who

considered themselves as good as I volunteered too, until the forlorn

hope numbered a dozen.

"Come along," said Fraser, who had armed himself with a lighted candle

and led the way.

I think those who stayed behind felt a little dismayed when the last of

us glided from the door and left them behind.

Still, as far as happiness of mind was concerned, they would not have

gained much had they been of our party. For we descended the staircase

in rather depressed spirits, starting at every creak, and--some of us--

wishing twenty times we were safe back in the dormitory. But there was

no drawing back now.

What a noise the bars of the big door made as we unfastened them, and

what an ominous shriek the lock gave as we turned the key! Our one hope

was that the ghost would have taken fright and vanished before we

reached the quadrangle. But no! As we stepped out into the damp breezy

night the first thing that met our eyes was the distant, restless figure

of Bubbles!

By one consent we halted, and as we did so a gust of wind extinguished

our leader's candle! What was to be done? I glanced up, and saw the

lights twinkling at the far distant dormitory window. Oh, whatever

possessed me to come on this wild errand!

"Now then, you fellows!" It was Fraser's voice, and more like himself

too. "Now then, stick all together and--"

"Better get a light first," suggested some one. "Will you run back to

the dormitory and get the matches?" asked our leader.

Nothing more was said about the light.

We advanced a few yards, and then halted again.

"Better speak to him, I think," said Lamb.

"All right," said Fraser. "Now then, who are you? What's your name

there?"

His voice sounded loud and startling in the night air; but it was wasted

breath. Never a word spoke Bubbles, but moaned as he struggled

restlessly on the ground where he lay.

Fraser's spirits were rising every moment. "Oh, hang it!" he exclaimed.

"I don't believe it's a ghost at all."

So saying, he made a further advance to within a few yards of the

apparition.

If it wasn't a ghost, it was the most unearthly thing in the dark I ever

saw as it lay there. We were still too far off to see it clearly, but

it looked like some bloated creature without legs trying its hardest to

rise on the feet that were not there.

"Do you hear?" shouted Fraser once more. "Why can't you speak and tell

us who you are?"

The creature gave a long sigh by way of answer, but no more.

Fraser advanced another step, and we were preparing to follow, when the

ghost slowly rose on end and made a sudden bound towards him!

In an instant we were back in the house, rushing pellmell up the stairs,

and looking neither this way nor that till we were safe back in the

dormitory with our companions.

We passed the remainder of that night dressed, and with candles burning,

and it was not till morning broke that we dared once more look out of

the window.

And then we discovered the mystery of Bubbles's ghost.

A small half-exhausted balloon, about five feet high, lay on the grass

below, with enough gas in it still to toss about restlessly in the

breeze, and now and then even to rise on end and drag its little car a

few inches.

Where it came from and who it belonged to we never discovered. Probably

some toy balloon let up by Christmas Eve revellers, who little thought

it would alight on the roof of Jolliffe's, and after flopping about

there for some minutes would finally tumble into the court below, and

there act the part of Bubbles to a handful of scared schoolboys.

However, all's well that ends well, and among the many amusements which

made that day a Merry Christmas to us all there was none over which we

laughed more than "Bubbles's Ghost."

CHAPTER THREE.

Sub-Chapter I.

THE POETRY CLUB.

During one of my terms at G-- (and in speaking of that famous old school

it is quite unnecessary to mention more than the first letter of its

name) a serious epidemic broke out. It affected chiefly the lower half

of the upper school, and during the brief period of its duration it

assumed so malignant a type that it is still a marvel to me how any one

of its victims ever survived it. The medical and other authorities were

utterly incompetent to deal with it. In fact--incredible as it may

seem--they deliberately ignored its existence, and left the sufferers to

pull through as and how they could. Had it been an ordinary outbreak,

as, for instance, scarlatina or diphtheria, or even measles, they would

have cleared the school between two "call-overs," and had us all either

in the infirmary or in four-wheelers at our parents' doors. But just

because they had not got this--the most destructive kind of all

epidemics--down on their list of infectious disorders, they chose to

disregard it utterly, and leave us all to sink or swim, without even

calling in the doctor to see us or giving our people at home the option

of withdrawing us from our infected surroundings.

I love the old place too well to dwell further on this gross case of

neglect. The present authorities no doubt would not repeat the error of

their predecessors. Should they be tempted to do so, I trust the

present harrowing revelation may be in time to avert the repetition of

the calamity of which I was not only a witness but a victim.

The fact is, in the term to which I allude, we fellows in the upper

Fifth and lower Sixth took to _writing poetry_! I don't know how the

distemper broke out, or who brought it to G--. Certain it is we all

took it, some worse than others; and had not the Christmas holidays

happily intervened to scatter us and so reduce the perils of the

contagion, the results might have been worse even than they were.

Now, one poet in a school is bad enough; and two usually make a place

very uncomfortable for any ordinarily constituted person. But at G-- it

was not a case of one poet or even two. There were twenty of us, if

there was one, and we each of us considered our claim to the laurel

wreath paramount. Indeed, like the bards of old, we fell to the most

unseemly contentions, and hated one another as only poets can hate.

It was my tragic lot to act as hon. secretary to the "Poetry Club,"

which constituted the hospital, so to speak in which our disease worked

out its course during that melancholy term. Why they selected me, it is

not for me to inquire. Some of my friends assured me afterwards that it

was because, having no pretensions or even capacity to be a poet myself,

I was looked upon as the only impartial member of our afflicted

fraternity. No doubt they thought it a good reason. Had I known it at

the time I should have repudiated the base insinuation with scorn. For

I humbly conceived that I was a poet of the first water; and had indeed

corrected a great many mistakes in Wordsworth and other writers, and

written fifty-six or fifty-seven sonnets before ever the club was

thought of. And Stray himself, who was accounted our Laureate, had only

written thirty-four, and they averaged quite a line less than mine!

Be that as it may, I was secretary of the club, and to that circumstance

the reader is indebted for the treat to which I am about to admit him.

For in my official capacity I became custodian of not a few of the

poetical aspirations of our members; and as, after the abatement of the

disease, they none of them demanded back their handiwork--if poetry can

ever be called handiwork--these effusions have remained in my charge

ever since.

Some of them are far too sacred and tender for publication, and of

others, at this distance of time, I confess I can make nothing at all.

But there lies a batch before me which will serve as a specimen of our

talents, and can hardly hurt the feelings of any one responsible for

their production.

Our club, as I have said, was highly competitive in its operations. It

by no means contented us each to follow his own course and woo his own

muse. No, we all set our caps at the same muse and tried to cut one

another out. If I happened to write an ode to a blackbird--and I wrote

four or five--every one else must write an ode to a blackbird too; until

the luckless songster must have hated the sound of its own name.

It was no easy work finding fit subjects for these poetic competitions.

But the papers lying here before me remind me at least of one which

excited great interest and keen rivalry. Complaints had been made that

the club had hitherto devoted itself almost altogether to abstract

rhapsodies, and had omitted the cultivation of itself in the epic or

heroic side of its genius. On the other hand, the abstract rhapsodists

protested that any one could write ballads, and that the subject to be

chosen should at least be such as would admit of any treatment. One

member suggested we should try the fifth proposition of the first book

of Euclid, as being both abstract and historical--but he was deemed to

be a scoffer. Eventually Stray said, why not take a simple nursery

rhyme and work upon it, just as musicians take some simple melody as the

theme of their great compositions?

It was a good idea, and after some consideration--for we had most of us

forgotten our nursery rhymes--we fixed upon the tragical history of

"Jack and Jill;" and decided to deal with it.

The understanding was that we might treat it any way we liked except--

notable exception--in prose!

And so we went off to our studies and gave ourselves up to our

inspirations. The result, the reader shall judge of for himself. Only

he shall never know the real names of the poets; nor will anything

induce me to disclose which particular production was the performance of

the humble Author of this veritable narrative.

I will select the specimens haphazard, and distinguish them only by

their numbers.

Number 1 was a follower of the classic models, and rendered the story in

Homeric fashion.

Attend, ye Nine! and aid me, while I sing

The cruel fate of two whom heaven's dread king

Hurled headlong to their doom. Scarce had the sun

His blazing course for one brief hour run

When Jack arose and radiant climbed the mount

To where beneath the summit sprang the fount.

Nor went he single; Jill, the beauteous maid,

Danced at his side, and took his proffered aid.

Together went they, pail in hand, and sang

Their love songs till the leafy valleys rang.

Alas! the fount scarce reached, the heedless swain

Turned on his foot and slipped and turned again.

Then fell he headlong: and the woe-struck maid,

Jealous of his fell doom, a moment stayed

And watched him; then to the depths she rushed

And shared his fate. Behold them, mangled, crushed.

Weep, oh my muse! for Jack, for Jill your tears outpour,

For hand-in-hand they'll climb the hill no more.

After this somewhat severe version of the story it is a relief to turn

to the lighter rendering of the same affecting theme by Number 2.

Number 2 was evidently an admirer of that species of poetry which begins

everything at the wrong end, and seems to expect the reader to assist

the poet in understanding what it is the latter is driving at.

What's the matter, Jack? Lost your head, poor wight!

I always told you the block wasn't screwed on too tight.

Tumbled? Is that it? It's a mercy you lit on your head.

Nothing brittle in that;--if you'd come on your feet instead--

Broke it? No, never! You have? I knew it was slightly cracked:

Never mind that there was nought to come out--that's a comforting

fact!

What! two of you? Who is the other? Not Jill, I declare!

Is her head cracked too? On my word, you're a pair.

Have I seen a pail lying about? Why, no, I have not.

Pails don't grow wild on this hill--that is, that I wot.

Oh, you dropped it, you did? Oh, I see, 'twas your pail,

And it tumbled you both o'er the rock? That's your tale.

It may turn up somewhere, perhaps. So you fell

Off the edge of the path that leads up to the well?

Well, all's well that ends well, at least so 'tis said;

But next time you'd better stay down, and try to fall uphill instead.

Some of us at the time thought highly of this performance. I remember

one fellow saying that Number 2 seemed to have caught the spirit of Mr

Browning without his vagueness, which was a very great compliment.

Number 3's poetry ran chiefly in dramatic lines. He therefore boldly

threw the narrative into dialogue form:--

_Shepherdess_.--Alas, my Jack is dead!

_Shepherd_.--I mourn for lovely Jill.

_Both_.--A common fate o'ertook them on the hill.

_Shepherdess_.--I watched them go--him and the hateful minx.

_Shepherd_.--I smiled to mark his footsteps on the brinks.

_Both_.--Cruel deceiver he/she! shameless intriguer she/he!

_Shepherdess_.--'Twas she who lured him o'er the cruel ledge.

_Shepherd_.--'Twas he who basely dragged her to the edge.

_Both_.--Oh! faithless he/she! oh! monstrous traitor she/he!

_Shepherdess_.--Her fate no tongue shall mourn, no eye shall weep;

_Shepherd_.--His doom was all deserved upon the steep.

_Both_.--Oh! hapless he/she! oh! wicked wicked she/he!

_Shepherdess_.--Take warning, Shepherd; trust no faithless Jill.

_Shepherd_.--Nor you, fair nymph, with Jack e'er climb a hill.

_Both_.--Oh, woe is me! and woe, oh woe is thee!

_Shepherdess_.--With thee, poor youth, I fain would shed a tear.

_Shepherd_.--Maiden, with thee I'd sit and weep a year.

_Both_.--Wouldst thou but smile, I too would dry mine eye; Nay, let's do

both, and laugh here till we cry.

Number 4 was a specimen of the simple ditty style which leaves nothing

unexplained, and never goes out of its course for the sake of a well-

turned phrase.

When Jack was twelve and Jill was ten

Their mother said, "My dear children,

I want you both to take the pail

We bought last week from Mr Gale,

And fill it full of water clear,

And don't be long away, do you hear?"

Then Master Jack and Sister Jill

Raced gaily up the Primrose Hill,

And filled the pail up to the top,

And tried not spill a single drop.

But sad to tell, just half way down

Jack tripped upon a hidden stone,

And tumbled down and cut his head

So badly that it nearly bled.

And Jill was so alarmed that she.

Let drop the pail immediately

And fell down too, and sprained her hand,

And had to go to Dr Bland

And get it looked to; while poor Jack

Was put to bed upon his back.

Number 4 regarded his performance with a certain amount of pride. He

said it was after the manner of Wordsworth, and was a protest against

the inflated style of most modern poetry, which seemed to have for its

sole object to conceal its meaning from the reader. We had a good

specimen of this kind of writing from Number 5, who wrote in blank

verse, as he said, "after the German."

I know not why--why seek to know? Is not

All life a problem? and the tiniest pulse

Beats with a throb which the remotest star

Feels in its orbit? Why ask me? Rather say

Whence these vague yearnings, whither swells this heart,

Like some wild floweret leaping at the dawn?

'Tis not for me, 'tis not for thee to tell,

But Time shall be our teacher, and his voice

Shall fall unheard, unheeded in the midst!

Still art thou doubtful? Then arise and sing

Into the Empyrean vault, while I

Drift in the vagueness of the Ambrosian night.

We none of us dared inquire of Number 5 what was the particular bearing

of these masterly lines upon the history of Jack and Jill. I can

picture the smile of pitying contempt with which such a preposterous

question would have been met. And I observe by the figures noted at the

back of this poem that it received very few marks short of the highest

award.

Number 6 posed as democratic poet, who appealed to the ear of the

populace in terms to which they are best accustomed.

'Twas a lovely day in August, at the top of Ludgate Hill

I met a gay young couple, and I think I see them still;

They were drinking at the fountain to cool their parching lips,

And they said to one another, looking up between their sips--

_Chorus_--I'd sooner have it hot, love; I'd rather have it hot;

It's nicer with the chill off--much nicer, is it not?

They took a four-wheel growler for a drive all round the town,

And told the knowing cabby not to let his _gee-gee_ down;

But they'd scarcely got to Fleet Street when their off-hind-wheel went

bang,

And they pitched on to the kerb-stone, while the crowd around them

sang--

_Chorus_--I'm glad you've got it hot, love; I'm pleased you've got

it hot;

It's nicer with the chill off--much nicer, is it not?

Moral.

Now all you gay young couples, list to my fond appeal,

Beware of four-wheel growlers with spokes in their off-hind-wheel;

And when you go up Ludgate Hill, all on a summer day,

Don't drink much at the fountain; or if you do, I say--

Be sure and take it hot, love; be sure and take it hot;

It's nicer with the chill off--much nicer, is it not?

This poem was not highly marked, although Number 6 confessed he had sat

up all night writing it. He thought we had missed the underlying

philosophy of his version, and was sorry for it. As he said, the first

essential of a poem is that it should be read, and he believed no one

could deny that he had at least written up to that requirement.

There was a more serious moral hidden in Number 7's version, which was

stated to be on the models of the early sonnets:--

Two lovers on one common errand bound,

One common fate o'erwhelms; and so, me-seems,

A fable have we of our daily round,

Who in these groves of learning here are found

Climbing Parnassus' slopes. Our aim is one,

And one the path by which we strive to soar;

Yet, truer still, or ere the prize be won,

A common ruin hurls us to our doom.

'Twere best we parted, you and I; so, Fate,

Baulked of her double prey, may seek in vain,

And miss us both upon the shadowy plain.

The writer of Number 8 I always suspected of being a borrower of other

people's ideas. In fact it seemed as if he must have had "A Thousand

and One Gems" open before him while he was at work, and to have drawn

liberally from its pages.

The way was long, the night was cold,

And Jack and Jill were young and bold.

"Try not the hill," the old man said,

"Dark lowers the tempest overhead."

A voice replied far up the height,

"We've many a step to walk this night."

Ah, luckless speech! ah, bootless boast!

Two minutes more and they were lost.

Who would not weep for Jack and Jill?

They died, though much against their will.

And the birds of the air all fell sobbing and sighing

As they heard of these two unfortunates dying.

The concluding line (which was the only original one in the poem) was

specially weak, and Number 8, I observe, only received one vote, and

that was probably given by himself.

But, for originality and humour, Number 9's version was the most

distinguished of the lot. With it I conclude, and if I may express an

unbiassed opinion, many years after the memorable contest, I consider it

far and away the best version of the story of Jack and Jill I have ever

met with.

Jack and Jill

Went up a hill

To fetch a pail of water,

Jack fell down

And broke his crown,

And Jill came tumbling after.

CHAPTER FOUR.

Sub-Chapter I.

EIGHTEEN HOURS WITH A "KID."

_[Copy of a holiday letter from Gus. Cutaway, of the Upper Remove,

Shellboro', to his particular chum and messmate. Joseph Rackett]_:--

Dear Jossy,--If you want a motto in life, I'll give you one--"'Ware

kids!" Don't you have anything to do with kids, unless you want to lose

all your pocket money, and be made a fool of before the fellows, and get

yourself in a regular high old mess all round.

You needn't think I don't know what I'm talking about. I do. Promise

you'll never say a word to anybody, especially to any of the fellows,

and I'll tell you.

It was on breaking-up day. You know, all of you went off by the 2

train, and I had to wait till the 3:15. That's the worst of going

through London; the trains never go at the right time. It came in up to

time, for a wonder, and I bagged a second-class carriage to myself, and

laid in some grub and a _B.O.P._ and made up my mind to enjoy myself.

What do you think? Just as the bell was ringing, a female with a kid

rushed on to the platform and made a dive for my carriage. I can tell

you I was riled. But that wasn't half of it.

"Are you going to Waterloo, young gentleman?" asks the female, as out of

breath as you like.

"Yes--why?" said I.

"Would you be so kind as to look after Tommy? His father will be there

to meet him. He's got his ticket; haven't you, Tommy? Say `Thank you'

to the kind young gentleman. Bye, bye; be a good boy."

"Right forward," sings out the guard.

"Love to daddy," says the female.

"Stand away from the train," shouts the porter.

And then we were off. And here was I, left alone in a carriage with a

kid called Tommy, that I was to give over to a chap called daddy at

Waterloo!

How would _you_ have liked it yourself, Jossy? I was awfully disgusted.

And, of course, till the train was off, I never thought of saying, "I

can't," and then it was too late. I can tell you it's a bit rough on a

fellow to be served that way. If ever you're going by train and see a

female and a kid coming along, hop out of the carriage till you see

which carriage they get into; and then go and get into another.

I made up my mind I'd leave the little cad to himself, so I started to

read. At least I pretended to. Really I took a good squint at him

while he wasn't looking. He was a kid of about four and a half, I

fancy, with a turnippy head and a suit of togs that must have been new,

he was so jolly proud of them. He sat staring at the lamp and swinging

his legs for a good bit. Then he got hold of the window-strap and

fooled about with that. Then he remembered his swagger togs and looked

himself all over, and stuck his hands in his pocket. He twigged me

looking at him as he did so.

"I've got a knife," he said, as cool as if he'd known me a couple of

terms.

"Who said you hadn't?" I responded.

"It's in my pocket," he said.

"Oh," said I. I didn't want to encourage him.

He pulled it out, staring at me all the time. Then he slipped down off

the seat and brought it up to me.

"Open it," he said.

"Open it yourself," said I.

"I can't," said he. "Open it! Open it!"

"All right, keep your temper," said I, and I opened it. A beastly blunt

thing it was. "There you are; take it."

"I want to sit beside you," he said, when he'd got it.

"Do you? I don't want you. Haven't you got all the rest of the

carriage?"

"Lift Tommy up," he whined.

I'd a good mind to chuck him out of the window.

"Lift yourself up," I said, "and shut up. I want to read." Then I'm

bothered if the young cad didn't begin yelling! Just because I didn't

lift him up. I never saw such a blub-baby in all my life. I couldn't

make out what he was up to at first. I thought he was curtseying and

seeing how long he could hold his breath. But when it did come out, my

eye! I thought the engine-driver would hear. I was in a regular funk;

I thought he'd got a fit or something; I never heard such yelling. He

was black in the face over it, and dancing. I'd a good mind to pull the

cord and stop the train. But I thought I'd see if I could pull him

round first.

So I picked him up and stuck him up on the seat. Would you believe it,

Jossy? The moment he was up he stopped howling and began grinning. It

had all been a plant to get me to lift him up; and as soon as he'd made

me do it he laughed at me!

I can tell you it's not pleasant to be made a fool of, even by a kid.

"I'm sitting beside you now," he said, as much as to tell me he'd scored

one off me.

I was too disgusted to take any further notice of him. I suppose he saw

I was riled, and began to be a bit civil. He pulled a nasty sticky bit

of chocolate out of his pocket and held it up to my nose.

"A sweetie for you," he said.

I didn't want to have him yelling again, so I took it. Ugh!--all over

dust and hairs, and half melted.

He watched me gulp it down, and then, to my relief, got hold of the

_Boy's Own Paper_ and began looking at the pictures. He got sick of

that soon, and went and looked out of the window. Then he came and sat

by me again, and began to get jolly familiar. He stroked my cheeks with

his horrid sticky hand, and then climbed up on the seat and tried to

lark with my cap. Then just because I didn't shut him up, he clambered

up on my back and nearly throttled me with his arms round my neck; and--

what do you think?--he began to kiss me!

That was a drop too much.

"Stow it, kid!" I said.

"Dear, dear!" he said, getting regularly maudlin, and kissing me at

about two a second.

"Let go, do you hear? you're scrugging me."

"Nice mannie," he said.

I didn't know what to do until I luckily thought of my grub.

"Like a bun?" said I.

He let me go and was down beside me like a shot. You should have seen

him walk into that bun! His face was all over it, and the crumbs were

about an inch deep all over the place. When he got near the end of bun

Number 1, he looked up as near choking as they make them, and said--

"I like buns awfully."

"All right, have another," said I. You see as his governor was going to

meet him in town, it didn't matter much to me if he got gripes at night.

Anything to keep him quiet.

After the third bun he was about full up, and said he was thirsty. I

couldn't make the young ass understand that I had no water in the

carriage. He kept on saying he was thirsty for half an hour, till we

came to a station. I had made up my mind I would get into another

carriage at the first stop we came to; but, somehow, it seemed rather

low to leave the kid in the lurch. So I bought him a glass of milk

instead, which set him up again. Nobody else got in the carriage--knew

better--and off we went again.

He'd got an awful lot to say for himself; about dicky-birds and puff-

puffs, and dogs, and trouser-pockets and rot of that sort, and didn't

seem to care much whether I listened or no. Then, just when I thought

he had about run dry and was getting sleepy, he rounded on me with--

"Tell me a story."

"Me? I don't know any stories."

"Oh yes; a funny one, please."

"I tell you I don't know any--what about?"

"`The Three Bears.'"

"I don't know anything about `three bears,'" said I.

"Do! do!! do!!!" he said, beginning to get crusty.

So I did my best. He kept saying I was all wrong, and putting me right;

he might just as well have told it himself. I told him so. But he took

no notice, and went on badgering me for more stories.

I can tell you I was getting sick of it!

When I made up a story for him to laugh at, he looked so solemn and

said--

"Not that; a funny one."

And when I told him a fairy tale, he snapped up and said he didn't like

it.

It ended in my telling him the "The Three Bears" over and over again.

It was about the sixty-fifth time of telling that we got to Vauxhall,

and had to give up tickets.

"Now, young 'un, look out for your governor when we get in--I don't know

him, you know."

The young ass didn't know what I meant.

"Look out for daddy, then," I said.

He promptly stuck his head out of the window and said the ticket-

collector was daddy; then that the porter was; then that a sweep on the

platform was.

It wasn't very hopeful for spotting the real daddy at Waterloo. I told

him to shut up and wait till we got there.

When we got there, I stuck him up at the window, as large as life, for

his governor to see. There were a lot of people about; but I can tell

you I was pretty queer when no one owned him. We hung about a quarter

of an hour, asking everybody we met if they'd come to meet a kid, and

watching them all go off in cabs, till we had the platform to ourselves.

"Here's a go, kid!" said I; "daddy's not come."

"I 'spex," says he, "when the middling-size bear found his porridge

eaten up, he wondered who it was."

"Shut up about the bears," said I. "What about your gov.--your daddy?

Where does he live?"

"In London town," said he, as soon as I could knock those bears out of

his head.

"Whereabouts? What street?"

"London town."

"Do you mean to say--look here, what's your name? Tommy what?"

"It's Tommy," he said.

"I know that. Is it Tommy Jones, or Tommy Robinson, or what?"

"It's Tommy," he repeated. "My name's Tommy." Here was a nice go!

Stranded with a kid that didn't know his own name, or where his governor

lived! The worst of it was, I had to stop in London that night as there

was no train on. My pater had written to get a room for me at the

Euston Hotel, so that I should be on the spot for starting home first

train in the morning.

I was regularly stumped, I can tell you. It never turned a feather on

the kid, his governor not turning up; and I couldn't make the idiot

understand anything. He hung on to me singing and saying, "Who's been

tasting my porridge and eaten it all up?" or else cheeking the porters,

or else trying to whistle to make the trains go.

I thought I'd better leave word with the station-master where I'd gone,

in case any one turned up; and then there was nothing for it but to take

a cab across to the hotel.

The kid was no end festive to have a ride in the cab. It would have

been in a little better taste if he'd held his tongue, and shown a

little regret for the jolly mess he'd let me into. But, bless you, he

didn't care two straws.

"What will daddy say when he can't find you?" I said, trying to get him

to look at things seriously.

"Daddy will say, `Who's been sitting in my chair, and broken the bottom

out?'" said he, still harping on those blessed bears. I gave him up

after that, and let him jaw on.

When we got to the hotel I was in another fix. The chap in charge said

he'd got instructions about one young gentleman, but not two.

"Oh, I'm looking after this boy," said I, "till tomorrow: I'll have him

in my room."

The chap looked as if he didn't like it. And, of course, just when he

was thinking it over, the young cad must go and cheek him.

"What makes that ugly man so red on his nose?" he asks at the top of his

voice, for every one to hear.

The chap was no end riled at that, and looked as if he'd kick us out.

When he'd cooled down he said--

"You wait here; I'll attend to you presently."

That was a nice go! If I had had tin enough I should have gone

somewhere else; but I'd only got enough for the journey to-morrow, and

so thought I'd better hang on here, where the governor had arranged.

The lid went on anyhow while we were waiting in the hall. He ran and

stood in front of people, and he pulled waiters' coat-tails, and got

mixed up with the luggage, and called out to me to know where the ugly

red-nosed man had gone. At last I had to pull him in.

"Look here, kid!" said I; "if you don't hold your jaw and sit here

quietly, I'll give you to a policeman."

"Tell me about the bears, then."

Oh, how I loathed those bears! Think of me, captain of my eleven, in

that rackety hall, with people coming and going, and a row enough to

deafen you, telling a kid about The Three Bears! You may grin, Jossy;

but I was reduced to it.

After a time the hotel chap came and said we were to have a double-

bedded room, and he should charge half-extra for the kid, and if we

wanted dinner we'd better look sharp, as it was just beginning.

So we went up and washed--at least I had to wash the kid's sticky hands

and face for him--and then came down to _table d'hote_. I was in a

regular funk lest any of our fellows, or any one I knew, should see me.

We got squeezed in between a lady in grand evening dress, and a

professor chap with blue spectacles; and as they were both attending to

their neighbours, I hoped we might scrape through without a scene.

You should have seen that kid tuck in! I mildly suggested that he'd

better not have any mock-turtle soup; but he began to get up steam for a

bowl and a half, so I gave it up.

He said it was ugly stuff, but for all that he polished off a plate of

it, and then walked into salmon. After that he had a turn at roast pork

and apple sauce, and after that a cabinet pudding and some Gorgonzola

cheese. He was very anxious to have some beer, like the professor, or

some wine, like the lady; but I put my foot down there, and let him have

lemonade instead. You should have seen people stare at him! The

professor glared as if he was a rum animal.

"Your brother?" said he.

"Not exactly," said I.

"Uncommon appetite. Would you mind telling me in the morning what sort

of night he had? I shall be curious to know."

The lady glared too, chiefly because the kid had sprinkled her silk

dress with melted butter, and pork gravy and lemonade. He caught her

eye once, and said out loud to her--

"Our cat's called Flossy; what's your cat called?"

The lady turned away; whereupon the kid began his cheek again.

"That lady," said he to me and the company at large, "has got a nice

dress and a nasty face. I like nice faces bestest--do you?"

"Shut up, or I'll clout your ear," snarled I, in a regular perspiration

of disgust.

"What's clout?" inquired he. Then, feeling his ears, "My ears don't

stick out like that man's over there, do they?"

"Do you hear? shut up, you little fool!"

"We've got a donkey at home, and his--"

Here I could stand it no longer, and lugged him off, whether he liked it

or no. He was just as bad in the reading-room. He wouldn't sit still

unless I told him stories, and made a regular nuisance of himself to the

other people. Then (I suppose it was his big feed) he began to get

crusty, and blubbered when I talked sharply to him, and presently set up

a regular good old howl.

"Why don't you put the child to bed?" said a lady; "he's no business up

at this hour."

Nice, wasn't it?

I had to sneak off with him upstairs, howling all the way. He wouldn't

stop till I gave him a mild cuff on the head. That seemed to bring him

round enough to demand the "The Three Bears" once more.

Anything to keep him still; so at it I went again.

Then I told him to go to bed; and he told me to undress him, as he

couldn't do the buttons.

I can't make out how I got him out of his togs. Then he kicked up no

end of a shine because I was going to stick him in bed without his bath.

"I've got no bath," said I; "wait till the morning."

"Tommy wants his bath. Bring it! bring it!!" he shrieked.

Finally I had to mess him about in a basin in cold water, which set him

yelling worse than ever. Then I had to put him in my night-gown, for

he'd got none of his own.

"I want to get in beside you," he said, as I stuck him in bed.

"I'm not going to bed yet," said I; "not likely, at eight o'clock!"

More yells; and a chambermaid came and knocked at the door to know what

was the matter.

I tried all I knew to quiet him down. He wouldn't listen to me, not

even when I tried to tell him his "Three Bears." He bellowed out one

incessant "Want to get in beside you! Want to get in beside you!!" till

finally I chucked up the sponge and actually went to bed to oblige him.

He simmered down after that; and I began to hope he'd drop off and get

to sleep. But bless you, Jossy, was it likely, after those buns and the

dinner he'd had?

We had a fearful night, I can tell you. He kicked till I was black and

blue, and rolled over and over till I hadn't a stitch on me. Then he

wanted some water to drink. Then he wanted the gas alight. Then he

began to blubber for his mother. Then he wanted the clothes on. Then

he wanted them off. Then he got his feet entangled in the night-gown.

Then he wanted some chocolates. Then he wanted to know who was talking

in the next room. Then he wanted the pillow turned over. Then he

wanted a story told him, and shut me up before I'd begun one sentence of

it. Then he wanted me to put my arm round him. Then he wanted me to

lie over on the edge of the bed. Then he had a pain in his "tummy," and

called on me to make it well, and howled because I couldn't.

Poor little beggar! He was in a jolly bad way, and I couldn't well cut

up rough; but I can tell you it was the worst night I ever spent. He

didn't quiet down till about three in the morning; and then he went off

with his head on my chest and his hand on my nose, and I daren't for the

life of me shift an inch, for fear of bringing it all on again.

I suppose I must have dropped off myself at last; for the next thing I

remember, it was broad daylight, and the young cad was sitting on the

top of me as merry as a cricket, trying to prize my eyes open with his

fingers.

"Can't you let a chap be?" grunted I; "haven't you made a beast enough

of yourself all night without starting again now?"

"I want to see your eyes," said he.

Then he began to jump up and down on the top of me, and explained that

he was "riding in the puff-puff."

I wished to goodness he was! Of course I had to wake up, and then we

had those brutal "Three Bears" on again for an hour, till it was time to

get up.

He insisted on being tubbed all over, with soap, and criticised me all

the while.

"Boys who spill on the carpet must be whipped," said he. "Mother will

whip you, and you'll cry--ha, ha!"

"I don't care," said I, "as long as she clears you off."

He never seemed to understand what I said, and wasn't a bit set down by

this.

Then came the same old game of getting him into his togs, and parting

his horrid hair, and blowing his nose, and all that.

I can tell you I was about sick of it when it was done.

When we got down in the hall, the first chap we met was the hotel man.

"There's the ugly man with the red nose," sings out the kid. "I can see

him--there is he!" pointing with all his might.

"Look here, young gentleman," said the man, coming to me, "we aren't

used to be kept awake all night by your noise or your baby's. You may

tell your papa he needn't send you here again. There's half a dozen of

my visitors leaving to-day, because they couldn't get a wink of sleep

all night."

"No more could I," said I.

He was going to say something more, but just then a man came in from the

street. Directly he spotted the kid, he rushed up to him.

"Why, it _is_ Tommy," said he.

Tommy put on a grin, and dug his hands into his pockets. "I've got a

knife," said he, "of my very own."

"Are you the young gentleman who left the message at Waterloo?" said the

man. "Why, the letter I got said the train got in at 8 a.m., not 8 p.m.

You don't know what a turn it gave me to go down there this morning and

not see him. Have you had him here all night?"

"Rather," said I.

"Daddy, there's an ugly man came to this house. I can see him now, with

a red nose. Look there!"

"I hope he's been a good boy," said the proud father. "I'm sure I'm

much obliged. I'm afraid he's been a trouble to you. I've got a cab

here. My word, I'm glad I've got you safe, Tommy, my boy. Come, say

good-bye to the kind gentleman."

"He was naughty, and spilt the water on the floor. He must be whipped--

ha, ha!" observed Tommy, by way of farewell.

He didn't seem to care twopence about leaving me, and chucked me up for

his governor as if I'd been a railway porter. However, I can tell you I

was glad to see the back of him, and didn't envy his governor a little

bit.

Of course, I'd lost my first train home, and had to wait till mid-day,

to endure the scowls of the hotel man, and the frowns of all the people

who had been kept awake by the kid's row. Among others there was the

professor.

"Well," said he, "what sort of night did baby have?"

"Middling," said I.

"I expected it would be middling," said he.

Now, Jossy, you know what I mean by "'Ware kids." Keep all this mum,

whatever you do. I wouldn't have any of the fellows hear about it for

the world. I can tell you, I feel as if I deserve a week's holiday

longer than the rest of you. Never you utter the words "Three Bears" in

my hearing, or there'll be a row.

Yours truly, Gus. Cutaway.

CHAPTER FIVE.

SIGURD THE HERO.

Sub-Chapter I.

THE TOWER OF THE NORTH-WEST WIND.

On the rugged shore of the Northern Sea, where the summer sun never

sets, there stood long ago a grim bleak fortress, called the Tower of

the North-West Wind. Before it stretched the sea, which thundered

ceaselessly at its base, like a wolf that gnaws at the root of some

noble oak. On either side of it glittered the blue fiord, dotted with

numberless islets, throwing its long arms far inland. Behind it frowned

a dense forest of pines as far as eye could reach, in which the wind

roared day and night, mingled often with the angry howls of the wolves.

The Tower of the North-West Wind stood there, the solitary work of man

in all that wild landscape. Not a sign of life was to be seen besides.

Not even a fisherman's hut on the shores of the fiord, or a woodman's

shed among the trees. The stranger might easily have taken the rugged

pile itself for a part of the black cliff on which it stood. No road

seemed to lead up to it, no banner floated from its walls, no trumpet

startled the sea-birds that lodged amongst its turrets.

Yet the old castle was not the deserted place it looked, for here dwelt

Sigurd, the mightiest hero of all that land, brother to Ulf, the king.

Men hated Ulf as much as they loved his brother; for Sigurd, with all

his prowess, was just and generous, and lied to no man.

"If Sigurd were but king," said they one to the other, "our land would

be the happiest the sun shines upon. As it is, Ulf makes us wretched.

We had rather be his enemies than his friends."

But though they said this one to another, Sigurd listened to none of it,

and when they urged him to rebel, he sternly bade them hold their peace.

And he went forth and fought the battles of the king, his brother, and

they followed him, wishing only the battle-cry were "Sigurd!" and not

"Ulf!"

For all this loyalty the king gave his brother little thanks. Indeed,

as victory followed victory, and Sigurd's fame rose higher and higher,

Ulf's heart swelled with jealousy, and jealousy presently grew to hate.

For it was not in Ulf's nature to endure that another should be held

greater than himself. So, instead of rewarding his brother for his

service, he accused him and degraded him, and made another general in

his place.

"Now," said the soldiers, "our chief will surely rebel, and we will

follow his lead, and pluck down Ulf from the throne and set up our

Sigurd."

But Sigurd sternly silenced them, and bade them serve their king as they

feared him. He meanwhile departed sadly from his brother's court, and

came and dwelt alone in his Tower of the North-West Wind.

For many weeks the time passed slowly, as Sigurd brooded over his wrongs

and pined in idleness.

Yet this grieved him less than the secret visits of not a few of his old

comrades, who had deserted Ulf, and now came begging him to lead them

forth and rid the land of a tyrant. He sent them each sternly away,

bidding them, on pain of his anger, return to their duty and serve the

king; and they durst not disobey.

So passed many a weary month in the Tower of the North-West Wind, when

one bright summer day a little fleet of English ships sailed gaily up

the fiord under the castle walls.

Sigurd joyfully bade the voyagers welcome to his castle, for the chief

of the little band was Raedwald, an English king, whom Sigurd himself

only two years before had visited in his own land. There, too, he had

met not Raedwald only, but Raedwald's beautiful daughter, who now, with

her gay train of attendants, accompanied her father on this visit to his

friend and comrade.

And now the days passed gaily and only too swiftly for the happy Sigurd.

In the company of Raedwald and amid the smiles of the ladies, Ulf was

forgotten, and all the wrongs of the past vanished. The Tower of the

North-west Wind was no longer a gloomy fortress, but a gay palace, and,

like the summer day in the northern heavens, the sun of Sigurd's content

knew no setting.

Before the day of Raedwald's departure arrived a wedding had taken place

in the chapel of the good old Tower, and the English king, as he hauled

his anchors and set his sails westward, knew not whether to mourn over

the daughter he had given up or to rejoice over the son he had gained.

As for Sigurd, he could do nothing but rejoice, and some who saw him and

heard him laugh said, smiling--

"The queen his wife is a fairer sweetheart than was the king his

brother. Ulf and our country and all of us are forgotten in the smiles

of this little English maiden."

But three days after Raedwald had sailed a storm broke over the Tower of

the North-West Wind. The summer sea lashed furiously against the rocks,

and far up the fiord the angry breakers rushed in, so that no boat could

live upon their surface for an hour.

That night as Sigurd sat heedless of the hurricane without and feasted

with his lords and ladies, they came and told him that a raft had been

driven ashore at the foot of the castle, with a man upon it half dead.

Sigurd bade them instantly bring him to the castle, and give him fire

and clothing and food, to revive him in his unhappy plight.

This they did, and presently came to the hero with the hews that the man

lived and desired to speak with his deliverer. So Sigurd ordered him to

be brought up. And as the tempest raged without, his heart rejoiced to

know that one man at least had been saved from its ravages.

The man was of the common order, and though clothed in a rough woodman's

suit it was plain to see he was a soldier.

He fell at the feet of the prince and poured forth his thanks for the

shelter given him that night.

"And who art thou?" asked Sigurd, to whom such thanks were never

welcome.

"I am a servant of King Ulf thy brother."

At the mention of the king's name the faces of those present fell, and

Sigurd asked, sternly--

"And what is thy errand here?"

"I was sent," said the man, "with two others, to spy into your state

here. The king has heard of your merrymakings and of your alliance with

the English king. He bade us see how you were armed and how prepared

for a sudden assault, and then return secretly and report it to him."

"And is it thus you perform your errand?" cried Sigurd. "Where are thy

companions?"

"Drowned, my liege, in the fiord, as I had been but for your gracious

help."

"And when is the king coming to assault this tower?" demanded an English

noble who sat near.

"Never," said the man, shortly.

"And why?" asked Sigurd.

"Oh, my liege," said the man, dropping once more on his knees, "please

Heaven, in a week's time there will be no king in all this land but

Sigurd."

The hero started from his seat and seized the man roughly.

"What is it you say?" he cried. "Speak out, and that plainly, or it

will be worse for you!"

"On this day week," said the trembling serf, "Ulf is to visit his castle

of Niflheim. He goes there alone, as you, my liege, came hither, to

receive his bride. But he will never return the way he came, for Bur

and Harald, your friends, my prince, have vowed to slay him there, and

at one blow rid the land of a tyrant and give it a just and good king."

When Sigurd heard this he turned white and red with wrath and fear.

Fiercely he summoned his guards, and bade them seize the spy and cast

him into the dungeon.

Then, as soon as words came, he turned to the company and said--

"You hear what this knave says?"

"Yes, we hear," cried some, "and we rejoice that Sigurd's day has come

at last. Long live King Sigurd!"

Then Sigurd struck the table with his fist as he started to his feet and

glared at the rash companions.

"Villains!" he shouted, with a voice that made the room itself tremble.

"Yes, Sigurd's day has come--the day for teaching cowards like you the

duty of a knight and a brother. Ulf, at his bridal, unarmed, slain by

traitors' hands. Is that the chivalry ye praise? If so, begone from my

sight and reach of this arm! But 'tis no time for talk. Without there,

my arms! and saddle my horse!"

"What means this!" cried all. "Where go you, Sigurd?"

"I go to my brother," he said.

"Your brother! Ulf is eight days' sail from here!"

"'Tis but five days across the forest," said the hero.

At this the ladies shrieked, and all looked on Sigurd as a man that is

mad.

"The forest, said you?" cried one. "It swarms with wolves, Sigurd, and

where the wolves are not, the robbers lurk."

Sigurd smiled scornfully. "It is wolves and robbers I go to seek," he

said.

"If thou wilt go," they said then, "we will go with thee."

"No!" cried Sigurd. "I go alone. Let him who loves me remain here and

guard my lady. I can trust you to be true to a lady--but ye have yet to

learn to be loyal to a prince."

At this many hung their heads and were silent.

Sigurd meanwhile put on his armour, and turned hurriedly to bid farewell

to his wife. The hero's voice trembled as he prayed Heaven to guard

over her.

They all accompanied him to the courtyard, where, quickly mounting, he

departed, and rode slowly forward into the forest.

Sigurd rode slowly forward into the forest, and as he entered it he

turned for one last look at the brave old castle which held within its

walls the joy of his life--and a soft voice at his ear whispered

"Return!"

Yet he halted not, nor did his courage waver, for another voice, louder

than the other, cried "Onward!" It seemed like his brother's voice, as

he had known it years ago, before troubles came, and when as merry boys

the two lived with but one heart between them. And at the sound he put

spurs to his horse and plunged into the wood.

Gloomy indeed was this forest of lonely pines, which rocked and groaned

in the wind, and in which a dim twilight deepening often into black

darkness reigned on every hand. And gloomier still were those distant

cries which rose ever and again above the tempest, and caused even the

brave horse to shiver as he heard them.

But Sigurd shivered not, but rode forward, trusting in his God and

listening only to that old-remembered voice ahead.

For a league the road was easy and the perils few. For thus far the

woodman's axe had often fallen amidst the thick underwood, clearing a

path among the trees and driving before it the sullen wolves into the

deeper recesses of the forest.

But as Sigurd rode on, and the boughs overhead closed in between him and

the light of day, these few traces of man's hand vanished.

His good horse stumbled painfully over the tangled ground, often hardly

finding himself a path among the dense trunks. And all around, those

wild yells which had mingled with the tempest seemed to draw closer, as

though eagerly awaiting the horse and its rider somewhere not far off.

Sigurd heeded them not, but cheered himself as he rode on by calling to

mind some of the beautiful stories of the old religion of his land. He

thought of the elves and fairies who were said to dwell in these very

forests, and at midnight to creep up from their hiding-places and gambol

and play tricks among the flowers and dewdrops with the wild bees and

the summer insects, or dance in magic circles on the greensward. And it

did his heart good to feel he was not alone, but that these merry little

companions were with him, lightening his way and guiding his course all

the night through. And he thought too of luckless dwarfs whom Odin had

condemned to dig and delve all day deep in the ground, and throw fuel on

the great central fire of the earth, but who at night, like the fairies,

might come above and revisit then old haunts. And even these

mischievous little companions helped to cheer the heart of the wayfarer

and beguile his journey.

And so he plodded on all through the night, resolutely plunging deeper

and deeper into the forest, and leaving the Tower of the Norths

Waistcoat Wind league after league farther behind.

The day passed as the night had passed. Save for an occasional halt to

rest his horse and refresh his body with food, nothing broke the

dullness of the journey. The wolves alone were silent, waiting for the

night. As the afternoon wore on Sigurd could see their gaunt forms

skulking among the trees, casting many a hungry sidelong glance that

way, and licking their cruel jaws as foretaste of the wished-for meal.

And now Sigurd needed to stop his ears closer than ever against the

voice which cried "Return!" and set his face still more steadfastly

towards Niflheim. For though his heart never faltered, his spirits

drooped as another night closed in, and weary and oppressed he pushed

onward.

The fairies no longer cheered him, nor could he smile again at the

antics of the dwarfs. The soft voice of one behind was all he heard,

and the music of its tones was sad. The voice before still cried

"Onward," but it mingled dismally with the storm overhead and the wild

and ever-increasing howling of the wolves. The horse, too, seemed to

share his master's trouble, for he stumbled forward spiritlessly,

hanging his head and trembling at each approaching howl.

Nearer and nearer those cruel voices closed in around him, not one but

half a score. Stealthily at first they dogged their prey. Then,

gaining boldness, advanced, and pressed more closely on the heels of the

horse. Sigurd, as he glanced quickly round, saw a score of cruel eyes

flash out in the darkness, and almost felt the hot breath in his face.

One bolder than the rest made an angry snap at the horse's heel. The

unhappy animal, who long ere this had lost his wonted nerve, made a

sudden bound forward, which almost unhorsed his rider. The sudden

movement was the signal for the pack to leap forward with wild yells,

and next moment Sigurd and his gallant horse were fighting for dear

life.

Desperately fought Sigurd, swinging his trusty axe right and left, and

carrying at each stroke death among his savage assailants.

At length the horse, beset on all sides, exhausted, wounded, dropped to

the ground, unable longer to hold out. With a cry of savage triumph the

wolves leapt upon him in a hideous, howling, struggling mass. Sigurd,

scarcely gaining his feet after the fall, started forward alone. For

the horse that was dead was more to the wolves than the hero who yet

lived. And over the carcass they jostled and fought, and screamed

ravenously, till nought remained to fight for.

Sigurd knew well, as he hastened forward, axe in hand and sword in

belt--his spear had broken off short--that the respite was but short. A

few minutes and the pack would be once more on the trail, and then it

would be his turn. Yet he prayed his God to send him help and bring him

through the peril.

He hurried on, yet slowly, by reason of the tangled paths and dense

underwood of the forest, listening to the angry tumult behind and

wondering how long before the hue and cry began once more.

It was not long. Scarcely had he forced his way a half-mile when he

could hear the pack following. Onward they came at a rush with hideous

tumult, and Sigurd knew that the foremost would be upon him in a moment.

He strode on, casting a glance back at every step, and gripping fast

his trusty axe. Presently, just as he reached a small clearing among

the trees, the brushwood behind him crackled, and a pair of eyes gleamed

close at hand.

Then Sigurd turned, and putting his back against a broad tree, waited.

On they came, half sated, doubly savage with the taste of blood on their

jaws.

Desperately once more fought Sigurd, swinging his axe right and left and

dealing death at every blow, till he stood surrounded by a half-circle

of dead or dying wolves.

Sigurd fought till he could scarce stand or wield his axe. Many a cruel

wound weakened him, his eyes grew dim, his hand unsteady, his blows

uncertain. He could do no more. The axe fell from his grasp, and he

reeled back.

As he did so there rose, loud above the wind and above the howling of

the wolves, a cry which caused Sigurd to start once more to his feet,

and the wild beasts to pause midway in their mortal onslaught.

It was the deep-mouthed voice of a dog, and next moment a huge mastiff

dashed from out of the thicket and fastened on the throat of the

foremost wolf.

It was Sigurd's own watch-dog Thor, whom some dear hand had loosed from

his chain and sent forth into the forest to guard and maybe save his

master.

At the sight of the great champion, and at sound of his bark, the

cowardly wolves one by one slunk sullenly back into the woods, and

Sigurd felt that he was saved.

A joyous meeting was that between gallant master and gallant hound.

"Thor, my brave dog," cried Sigurd, "is it to thee, then, I owe my

life--my brother's life? Yet not to thee so much as to the fair lady

who sent thee, a messenger of love and life to me. Thanks, Thor, thanks

lady, thank most to God. Now shall I reach Niflheim even yet."

Thor wagged his great tail and barked joyfully in answer.

All that night Sigurd lay secure, watched over by the sleepless Thor,

whose honest bark was the sweetest music that ever lulled a hero to

repose.

For two days Sigurd trudged safely onward through that dense forest,

with Thor, the dog, beside him. The way was hard and painful, and the

hero's limbs, now his only support, crashed wearily through the

thickets. But, faint and weary though he was, his bold heart and the

thought of his brother carried him through.

Four days had come and gone since he quitted the Tower of the North-West

Wind, and in three more Ulf would either be saved or slain. Sigurd, as

he thought of it, strode sternly forward and shut his ears to all the

backward voices.

And, with Thor at his side, all danger from the wolves seemed at an end.

As the two pressed on many a distant how! fell on their ears, many a

gaunt form stole out from among the trees to gaze at them, and then

steal back. Thor's honest bark carried panic among those cruel hordes,

while it comforted the heart of Sigurd.

For two days, without sleep, without rest, without proper food, the hero

walked on, till, on the fifth morning after quitting his castle, the

light broke in among the trees, the woodman's cheerful axe resounded

through the glades, the angry howling sounded far behind, and Sigurd

knew he was on the other side of the forest.

In one day he would reach Jockjen, and scarce two hours' march beyond

Jockjen lay Niflheim.

Thor seemed to guess his master's mind, and with a hopeful bark bounded

forward. But Sigurd regarded his companion sadly and doubtfully. He

called him to him, caressed him lovingly, and said--

"Good Thor, thou hast been like a messenger from God to bring me through

this wood. Alas! that we must part."

Thor stopped short as he heard these last words, and moaned piteously.

"Yes, good Thor," said the hero, sadly, "for I cannot live another day

without sending a message to my lady that I am safe, thanks to her and

thee."

The dog, who seemed to understand it all, looked up in his master's face

beseechingly, as if to persuade him against his resolve.

"The danger now is past," said Sigurd. "No wolves haunt the forest

betwixt here and Jockjen, and in the town thy presence may discover me.

So haste back, good Thor, to my lady with this my message."

So saying he took from the ground a smooth strip of bark, on which, with

the point of his sword, he wrote something. Then, turning to Thor,

"Carry this," he said, "to her."

And as Thor turned and hastened off on his errand, Sigurd looked after

him and sighed, and wished he too were going that way.

But time forbade that he should linger long thus, and once more he

turned his face resolutely towards Jockjen and went on alone.

Although the forest stretched some leagues farther, the trees were no

longer dense or the path difficult. In parts large clearings had been

made, and felled timber here and there betokened the busy hand of the

woodman. Sigurd met more than one of these, who accosted him. He would

not, however, tarry with any of them, but pressed eagerly forward, so

that they would turn and look after this noble knight and wonder who he

was, and whither he hasted.

One of these simple folk with whom he waited a few minutes to partake of

a hasty meal said, at parting--

"Beware, my lord, of the robbers who haunt the skirts of the forest.

They come suddenly upon the unwary traveller, and have no pity."

Sigurd smiled.

"I have passed the four-footed wolves," he said; "I fear not the two-

footed."

"Nay, but," said the peasant, "they are not to be despised. Ever since

Sigurd was banished many of his soldiers have deserted the king, and now

live the robber's life in these woods. Stay here, my lord, till a band

of us will be going to Jockjen together."

But Sigurd smiled scornfully, and, thanking the man, started forward,

fearing nothing save arriving too late at Niflheim.

Yet the woodman's warning was not lost upon him, for he walked with his

drawn sword in his hand, keeping both his eyes and ears open as he went.

All that day he pressed onward, and towards evening came to a lonely

part of the wood, where the trees for a short space all round closed

thickly overhead and shut out the light. He had passed through this

spot, and was once more emerging into the open, when three men suddenly

sprang out of the thicket and faced him.

Two of them were in the garb of common peasants, and carried, the one a

club, the other a knife. Sigurd guessed them at once to be two of the

robbers of whom the woodman had warned him. Their companion was a

powerful man in the dress of a soldier, and carried a sword. In him,

though he knew not the man, Sigurd recognised a soldier of the army of

the king, who, as he might guess, had deserted his lawful calling for

the life of a bandit.

The party was plainly unprepared to meet a knight fully armed. They had

expected rather to find some defenceless merchant, or even woodman, whom

they might easily overcome and as easily rob.

They fell back an instant before the noble form of Sigurd, but the next,

true to their calling, rushed upon him, shouting to him to surrender and

yield up whatever of value he might possess on his person.

Sigurd wasted not a word in replying to this insolent challenge, but

defended himself against the sudden assault. At the first onslaught the

two bandits were foremost, who thought to bear him down by sheer weight.

But Sigurd, stepping back a pace, caught the knife of the one on his

shield, while with his own sword he ran his comrade through the body.

So quickly was it done, that the soldier, advancing wildly to the

attack, stumbled and fell over the body of the prostrate man; and before

he could rise again to his feet, a second thrust from Sigurd's sword had

laid low the other bandit beside his comrade.

The soldier, therefore, was the only adversary that remained, and of him

Sigurd thought to make short work; but in this he judged wrongly, for

this robber proved to be a man of extraordinary strength and agility,

while Sigurd himself was faint and jaded with his long and painful

march.

For an hour that afternoon the woods resounded with the clash of swords.

The two men spoke not a word, but fought with teeth set and lips

closed. Once and again, by common consent, they halted, leaning on

their swords for breath, but as often closed again more furiously than

ever. It surprised Sigurd to find an adversary so resolute and

dextrous. At another time it might have pleased him, for he loved

courage even in an adversary; but now, when every hour lost meant peril

to Ulf, his bosom swelled with wrath and disappointment. By force of

superior weight he drove his adversary back inch by inch, till at the

end of an hour the two stood some yards distant from the spot where the

fight began.

Yet, though falling back, the soldier kept a bold guard, and while not

inflicting any wound on his enemy, was able to ward off all blows aimed

at himself.

At length, when for a moment Sigurd seemed to flag in the combat, the

man gathered himself together for one mighty stroke at the hero's head.

It fell like a thunderbolt but Sigurd saw it in time and caught it on

his uplifted sword, and with such force that the soldier's weapon broke

in two, and he himself, overbalanced by the shock, fell backwards to the

ground.

Then Sigurd, with a glance of triumph, planted his foot on the body of

his prostrate foe, and prepared to avenge the delay of that hour's

combat.

The man neither struggled nor called for mercy, but looked boldly up in

his victor's face and awaited death with a smile.

The sword of Sigurd did not descend. Some passing memory, perchance, or

some soft voice breathing mercy, held it back. He drew back his foot,

and sheathing his weapon, said--

"Keep thy life, and return and serve the king thy master."

The man lay for a moment as one bewildered, then springing to his feet,

and casting from him his broken sword, he knelt and cried--

"Oh, merciful knight, to thee I owe my life, and it is thee I will serve

to the world's end!"

"Peace!" said Sigurd, sternly; "this is no time for parley. I must be

in Jockjen this night. Follow me if thou wilt thus far."

And with that he began to stride once more forward with rapid steps,

followed closely by his late adversary.

Sigurd uttered not a word, but walked with sword drawn as before,

fearing nothing save to arrive too late at Niflheim.

Once, as they neared Jockjen, two other robbers rushed out from the

woods as if to attack him, but when they perceived the stalwart champion

who followed hasten forward and place himself beside the traveller, they

refrained, and departed suddenly the way they came.

And now they were come at last to Jockjen. But when Sigurd made as

though he would enter the town, his follower hastened to overtake him,

and said--

"My knight, avoid this town, for Ulf, the king, is here, and has

commanded that no stranger enter it."

"Is Ulf here?" inquired Sigurd. "They told me he was at Niflheim."

The man looked strangely at him.

"My lord," said he, "you know what only a few know. Ulf is to be at

Niflheim."

"When?" demanded Sigurd.

"This night," said the man.

Sigurd answered nothing, but walked on quickly. The man, seeing that he

was determined to enter the town, followed cautiously and at a distance,

waiting to see what might happen.

It was evening as Sigurd entered Jockjen. The little town, overshadowed

by its grim fortress, was astir with unwonted bustle. For the king's

marriage on the morrow had brought together many of the country people,

who, though they loved not Ulf, loved a pageant, and a holiday to see it

in. And besides them many soldiers were there who talked mysteriously

at street corners, and seemed to have other business than merry-making

on hand.

Sigurd passed unheeded through the streets, keeping his face hid in his

cloak, and avoiding all points where the crowd seemed large or curious.

He was hastening thus stealthily down a by-street which led towards

Niflheim, when he suddenly became aware of a small group of men before

him, under the shadow of a high wall, in eager talk.

He halted, for, by their eager gestures and cautious looks, he judged

them to be desperate men, whom it would be well for him to avoid rather

then meet. Withdrawing quickly into a deeper shade, he waited with

impatience till their conference should be over.

As he waited he heard them speak.

"By this time," said one, "he should have learned what is in store."

"Doubtless," said another. "Yet I am glad it was no earlier, for it

will all be over before he can prevent it."

"Ulf once dead," said the first, "Sigurd cannot help being the king,

however much he may dislike it."

"Nay, he dislikes not being king, but he is so foolishly tender about

his brother."

The other laughed.

"There are others, I trust, will not be foolishly tender with his

brother this night. At what hour is the deed to be done?"

"By midnight."

At this Sigurd, who had heard it all, could not refrain from starting

where he stood.

The men heard him in an instant, and finding themselves thus discovered,

rushed with one accord on the hero.

Before Sigurd could draw his sword or offer any resistance he was

overpowered and held fast by his assailants who, for fear he should cry

aloud and alarm the town, threw a cloak over his head and led him off

quickly to the castle.

Here, when the guards came out and inquired what it all meant, "This

man," they said, "we know to be an enemy of the king's, who has come

disguised to this town to do him some harm; keep him fast till the

morning."

The guard, without so much as uncovering Sigurd's face, hurried him

through the gate, and brought him to a dark dungeon, into which they

thrust him, turning the key twice upon him.

Then Sigurd cast himself on the floor in despair.

To find himself thus confined, after all the fatigues he had suffered

and all the perils he had escaped, was fearful indeed, the more so

because he knew his brother was close at hand, and yet must die with no

brotherly hand to help him. For himself he cared nought. The men who

had cast him there called themselves his friends, and, as he knew,

desired only to keep him fast, believing him to be a stranger who might

disclose their plot. When all was over and Ulf dead, they would release

him and perchance discover who he was.

Sigurd wished he might die before the morning.

But presently, as he lay, he heard a sound of feet on the pavement

without approaching his dungeon.

The door slowly opened and a monk stood before him.

The hope that dawned in Sigurd's breast as the door opened faded again

as a gruff voice without said--

"Do thy work quickly, father. A short shrift is all the villain

deserves."

With that the door closed again, and Sigurd and the monk were left in

darkness.

"I am to die, then?" asked the hero of the holy man.

"'Tis reported," said the monk, "you seek the king's life; therefore in

the morning you are to die. But," added he, speaking lower, "you shall

not die, my lord."

Sigurd started, not at the words, but at the voice that uttered them.

"Who art thou?" he whispered.

"One who owes thee his life, and would repay thee, my lord. I am he

whom thou sparedst but lately in the wood."

In the dark Sigurd could not see his face, but he knew he spoke the

truth.

"Quick," said the man, throwing off his gown and hood; "off with thy

armour, my lord, and don these. There is no time to spare."

For a moment Sigurd paused, amazed at the man's offer. Then the thought

of Ulf decided him.

"Brave friend," said he, "Heaven bless you for your aid. For four hours

I accept thy deliverance and borrow my freedom. If before then I have

not returned, call me a coward and a knave."

"Speak not of borrowing, my lord," said the man. "Heaven forbid I

should require again the poor life thou thyself didst give me."

"Peace!" said Sigurd, quickly casting off his armour and covering

himself in the monk's garb.

In a few moments the exchange was made. Then Sigurd, grasping the hand

of his brave deliverer, pulled the hood low over his face, and stepped

to the door and knocked. The guard without unlocked the door, and as he

did so the robber, crouching in a distant corner of the dungeon; clanked

his arms and sighed.

"Ha, ha! brave monk," said the guard to Sigurd, laughingly. "This

villain likes not your news, 'tis clear. You have done your task, the

headsman shall soon do his."

Sigurd said nothing, but, with head bent and hands clasped, walked

slowly from the cell and on towards the gate.

Here no man stopped him, but some more devout than the rest rendered

obeisance, and crossed themselves as he passed.

Once out of the castle Sigurd breathed freely, and with thankful heart

quickened his pace through the fast emptying streets in the direction of

Niflheim.

A double care now pressed on him. The first on account of his brother's

danger, the other lest he himself, in his efforts to save the king,

should be detained, and so unable to keep faith with the brave man he

had left in his place in the dungeon.

He therefore pressed on with all speed, unheeded by passers-by, to whom

the sight of a monk hurrying on some mission of mercy was no strange

thing.

In due time, in the dim twilight, the castle of Niflheim rose before

him, and he felt that his journey was nearly done.

Late as it was, there was revelling going on in the palace. Knights and

ladies crowded the halls, whilst without, in the outer rooms, persons of

all degrees congregated to witness the festivities and share in the

hospitalities of the royal bridegroom. For though Ulf was hated by all,

some, either through fear or greediness, failed not to keep up a show of

loyalty and even mirth in the royal presence.

Sigurd entered the palace unchallenged, and mingled with the outer

throng of onlookers. No one noticed him, but he, looking round from

under his hood, could see many faces that he knew, and amongst them the

conspirators whom he had that evening overheard plotting in the streets

of Jockjen. The sight of these men doubled his uneasiness, for the

appointed hour was nearly come, and unless he fulfilled his errand

forthwith he might yet be too late.

He therefore approached a knight whom he knew to be still faithful to

the king, and drawing him aside, said--

"Sir, I would speak with the king. I have great news for him."

"You cannot speak to-night, holy friar," said the knight, "for the king

is banqueting. Come in the morning."

"It may be too late in the morning," said Sigurd.

"Why, what news have you that is so urgent?" demanded the soldier.

"I bear news of Sigurd, the king's brother, who is approaching, and may

be here to-night."

"Ha!" exclaimed the knight, eagerly; "Sigurd advancing! How many has he

with him? and does he come in peace or war?"

"You know," said Sigurd, "there is no peace between Ulf and Sigurd; but

I pray you take me to the king, for I have more news that will not bear

delay."

At this the soldier went, and Sigurd waited anxiously.

The knight soon returned.

"The king," said he, "will see you anon, after he shall have spoken to

four worthy citizens of Jockjen who have craved a secret audience."

So saying he left him and advanced to where the conspirators stood

expecting to be summoned.

Then Sigurd could contain himself no longer. With hurried strides,

pushing his way among the crowd, he followed and overtook the knight

before he could deliver his summons. Seizing him fiercely by the arm,

in a way which made the man of war start in amazement, he led him aside,

and said eagerly--

"Sir, I must see the king before those men." The knight, in anger at

being thus handled, cast him off roughly. But Sigurd would not be

daunted.

"Bring me to the king," he said, "or I will go to him without thy

leave."

The knight, amazed at being thus spoken to, looked round, and made as

though he would summon the guard; but Sigurd seeing it, and now grown

desperate, caught him by the neck, and putting his mouth to his ear,

whispered something, which done, he drew back, and for a moment lifted

the hood from his face.

The knight started in amazement, but quickly recovering his presence of

mind, stepped aside with Sigurd.

Then Sigurd, knowing the man to be loyal and trustworthy, hurriedly told

him all, and charged him to be secret, and see to his brother's safety.

The knight begged him to remain and see the king; but Sigurd, fearing

all delay, and feeling that his task at the castle was done, would not

stay, but departed forthwith.

Before he had well left the place the four conspirators were arrested,

and lodged in the deepest dungeon of the fortress. The guards,

especially such as stood near the person of the king, were enlarged, the

guests were quietly dispersed, and that night Ulf slept secure at

Niflheim, little dreaming of the peril he had escaped or of the brother

who had saved him.

Sigurd, meanwhile, light at heart, sped on the wings of the wind back to

Jockjen. People wondered at the wild haste of the monk as he passed.

But he looked neither right nor left till he stood once more at the

great gate of the castle.

The guard stood at the entrance as before.

"Thou art returned betimes, holy father," said he, "for our prisoner is

like to want thee for a last shrift presently."

Great was Sigurd's joy to learn that he was in time, and that the man he

had left behind lived still.

"When is he to die?" he inquired.

"Before an hour is past," said the guard.

"For what crime?"

The guard laughed. "You are a stranger in Ulf's kingdom, monk, if you

think a man needs to be a criminal in order to die. But, in truth, the

king knows nothing of it."

"What is the man's name?" said Sigurd.

"I know not."

"Did you see his face or hear his voice?"

"No; why should we? We could believe those who brought him here."

"And were they the king's officers?"

"The king's that is now," said the guard.

"Why?" exclaimed Sigurd; "what do you mean? Is not Ulf the king?"

"No," said the man. "When you went out two hours ago he was, but now

Sigurd is king."

"False villain!" cried Sigurd, catching the fellow by the throat; "thou

art a traitor like all the rest."

The soldier, astonished to be thus assailed by a monk, stood for a

moment speechless; and before he could find words Sigurd had cast back

the hood from his own head.

The man, who knew him at once, turned pale as ashes, and, trembling from

head to foot, fell on his knees.

But Sigurd scornfully bade him rise and summon the guard, which he did.

Great was the amazement of the soldiers as they assembled, to see a monk

bareheaded stand with his hand on the throat of their comrade. And

greater still did it become when they recognised in those stern, noble

features their own Prince Sigurd.

Before they could recover their presence of mind, Sigurd held up his

hand to enjoin silence, and said--

"Let two men go at once to the dungeon and bring the prisoner out."

While they were gone the group stood silent, as men half dazed, and

wondered what would happen next.

In a few moments the two guards returned, bringing with them the

prisoner, whom Sigurd greeted with every token of gratitude and joy.

"Brave friend," he exclaimed, "but for thy generous devotion this night

might have ended in murder and ruin, and these knaves and their friends

might have done their king and me a grievous wrong. Accept Sigurd's

thanks."

"What!" exclaimed the prisoner, falling on his knees, "art thou Sigurd?

Do I owe my poor life to the bravest of all heroes?"

"I owe my life to thee, rather," said Sigurd; "and not mine only, but my

brother's." Then turning to the bewildered and shame-struck soldiers,

he said--

"Men!--for I scorn to call you friends!--it remains for you to choose

between your duty or the punishment reserved for traitors. You may

thank Heaven your wicked plans for this night have been foiled, and

that, traitors though you be, you do not stand here as murderers also.

Let those who refuse to return to their allegiance stand forward."

Not a man moved.

"Then," said Sigurd, "I demand a pledge of your loyalty."

"We will prove it with our lives!" cried the men, conscience-struck, and

meaning what they said.

"All I ask," said Sigurd, "is, that not a man here breathes a word of

this night's doing. Besides yourselves, one man only knows of my being

at Niflheim, and he has vowed secrecy. Do you do the same?"

The soldiers eagerly gave the required pledge.

"I leave you now," said Sigurd, "at the post of duty. Let him who would

serve me, serve my king."

"We will! we will!" cried the men.

Sigurd held up his hand.

"It is enough," said he; "I am content. And you, friend," said he to

the late prisoner, "will you accompany me home?"

The man joyfully consented, and that same night those two departed to

the sea, and before morning were darting over the waves towards the

Castle of the North-West Wind.

Sigurd's secret was safely kept. Ulf, to the day of his death, knew

nothing of his brother's journey to Niflheim; nor could he tell the

reason why the loyalty of his soldiers revived from that time forward.

He died in battle not long after, yet he lived long enough to repent of

his harshness towards his brother, and to desire to see him again.

Messengers from him were on their way to the Tower of the North-West

Wind at the time when he fell on the field of Brulform. Sigurd's first

act after becoming king was to erect a monument on the spot where Ulf

fell, with this simple inscription, which may be read to this day, "To

my Brother."

CHAPTER SIX.

Sub-Chapter I.

MY FIRST TRAGEDY.

FOREWORD.

I have admired tragedy from my earliest days. I believe I must have

acted in it in the nursery--at least the scenes I have in my mind

appeared to me to be tragic at the time, although it was not of my own

will that I participated in them. The occasions, for instance, when I

was stood in the corner for misconduct at table, or thrashed by my big

brother for my "cheek," or dosed with castor oil by the doctor for

"mulligrubs," all stand out in my memory as tragic, and no doubt

prepared me to appreciate tragedy later on as a fine art.

As soon as I went to school I found still more extended opportunities

for studying that art. Tragedy dogged my footsteps and marked me for

her own from the first. I was bullied; that was bad enough. I was

caned; that was worse. I had to learn Latin verbs; that was worst of

all. I was a practised tragedian at seven. Acts one, two, and three

were performed as a rule once a day, and now and then encored.

The worst of it was that the person who got most of the applause was not

the wretched actor, but the author. I was quite overlooked. This

convinced me early that it is more profitable to make tragedies for

other people to act than to act in them oneself; and at a tender age,

therefore, I set before myself the profession of a tragic author.

For long enough, however, I had to wait my inspiration. I was kept so

busy in the capacity of actor (from which my special talents would not

permit me to retire as early as I should myself have wished) that it was

comparatively late in life--I mean I had turned twelve--before the grand

idea of writing a tragedy dawned in my ardent breast. Even then it was

destined to simmer for three or four years, owing to pressure of other

work and the still more pressing lack of a subject.

Meanwhile, however, I read tragedies ardently. I read Shakespeare, more

or less, and admired him rather, although I could see his weak points,

and thought him considerably overrated. I had also read the nursery

rhymes carefully, and most of the harrowing stories of history and

fiction, particularly the latter. I had, moreover, recently made a

tragic acquaintance with the Greek Drama in the person of a scoundrel

called Aeschylus, whose sickening lucubrations I was forced to learn by

heart, and now and then to copy out, a hundred lines at a time, till I

grew to detest him.

All these circumstances combined decided me to write a tragedy on my own

account; which, while following Shakespeare in his good points, should

avoid his weaknesses, which should embody the best features of the

nursery rhymes, and which should avoid like poison the shockingly

debased style of Aeschylus.

After mature reflection I hit upon a theme which I flattered myself was

original and suggestive. Shakespeare had kept off it, and it was after

Aeschylus' time; and as far as I knew I was the first to clothe it in a

tragic garb. I refer to the story of Romulus and Remus. It was

classical, sanguinary, and sounded well on a title-page. Besides, as

very little was known about it, there was plenty of scope for original

treatment, and no one could say whether I was wrong in my facts, because

no one was in a position to contradict me. In addition to that, as the

story related to boys and athletic sports (both of which subjects I knew

something about), it seemed the very theme of a good tragedy, which

might make my name immortal, and rank to all generations as an English

classic.

It might have, but somehow it didn't. However, I have kept the copy

still, and this book shall be the fortunate medium of introducing the

tragedy to the world.

In case any of my readers, as is possible, should be unacquainted with

the story of Romulus and Remus, let me say that I believe (but am not

quite sure) that they were two twin brothers, both boys, left orphans at

an early age, and nursed by a stepmother in the shape of a wolf. They

were subsequently discovered, and having grown to manhood, it occurred

to Romulus to build Rome. For this modest undertaking Remus chaffed his

brother, and practised the high jump over his walls, naturally damaging

them considerably. Whereupon Romulus knocked him on the head, and lived

happily ever afterwards.

This, briefly, is the story. Now for the tragedy:--

Romulus and Remus; Or, Catching Him On The Hop.

(The sub-title was a concession to the democratic tastes of the present

generation, who like to have their curiosity excited without being told

too much.)

_Dramatis Persona_.

Men. Romulus (a boy). Remus (his brother). John (a shepherd).

Faustulus (a policeman).

Women. A Wolf. Mary Ann (a maiden of forty).

_Chorus, Soldiers, Sailors, Volunteers, Bricklayers, Boys, Maidens, and

Lictors_.

_Act I_.

Scene I.--A Wood near Rome.

_Enter She-wolf with two boys in her mouth, John following_.

_John_. She-monster, tell me, what have you got there?

_Wolf_. Two kids, my John; and dinner-time is near.

_Rom. and Rem._ Oh my! alas! help! hi! Will no one hear?

_John (smacking his lips_). Say, gentle Lupus, where didst find them

both?

_Wolf_. Listen! I'll tell you while you lay the cloth.

(_Sings_).

I'm a wolf, I'm a wolf, in this big lonely wood,

And I live in a hole in a tree,

And I daily prowl forth in my free, hungry mood

To look for my dinner and tea.

I never object to the wing of a man,

Or a tender young lamb gives me joy;

But what I like best is a slice off the breast,

Or the leg, or the arm, of a boy.

To-day I'm in luck, as you plainly may see

By the morsels that kick in my maw;

Fetch a knife, fork, and spoon, John, for you and for me.

Dinner's ready! Young boys taste best raw.

_Rom._

Oh, impious monster, hold thy howling jaw!

And you, John, to your flocks return once more.

Forbear to talk of eating me and Remus,

You ugly, wicked, ill-conditioned schemers.

1. Here I should remark that to be strictly accurate my tragedy should

be called a tragic opera. It abounds in songs calculated to stir

familiar chords in the breasts of a popular and juvenile audience.

2. It may here be objected that my heroes are at this time only a few

weeks old. But instances of precocious children (especially in tragic

drama) are not unheard of; and after careful inquiry the author is not

satisfied that in the present case the young persons in question did not

speak fluently. Allowance must, of course, be made for youthful

inexperience in the matter of rhymes.

_Remus_.

D'you hear, you cads? Shut up, and let us be.

You shall not dine off Romulus and me!

_John (in alarm_).

Upon my word! What if the boys are right?

Friend Lupus, thanks--I'd rather not to-night.

_Wolf (scornfully_).

What? Do you funk it? Well, I call that rough.

_John_.

Fact is, I can't help thinking they'd taste tough.

_Rom. and Rem. (excitedly_).

We would! we would! we're awful tough to eat;

We're only skin and bone and gristle; and no meat.

(_They sing_).

Two little kids from nurse are we,

Skinny as two kids can be;

Never a bite since yesterday,

Two little kids from nurse.

Dropped we were by our cruel ma

(With full consent of our awful pa)

Into the stream of the river Tiber -

Two little kids from nurse.

We were nearly drowned, when the stream stood still

And left us dry (and hungry) till

This old she-wolf came to take her fill

Of two little kids from nurse.

You let us be, or we'll tell our ma,

And she'll inform our awful pa;

If he comes round, you'll catch a Tartar--

Two little kids from nurse.

_Wolf (turning pale_).

Your words alarm me! Gentle lads, behold,

I'll be your nurse until you're two years old.

Then if you have not found your pa or ma,

I will adopt you. What say you?

_Rom. and Rem._.

Hurrah!

_John_.

So now that's settled, let's chant one more strain,

And after that I'll to my home again.

Song.

_Rom._.

Who ran to gulp me where I lay,

And took me in her mouth away,

And talked of eating me to-day?

The she-wolf.

_Rem._.

Who scrunched my arm and clawed my side,

And would not heed me when I cried,

But whispered, "Won't he taste prime fried?"

The she-wolf.

_John_.

Who wouldn't spare two pretty boys,

Until they kicked and made a noise?

Who ever thus her time employs?

The she-wolf.

_Wolf_.

Who's not as bad as people say?

Who's going to nurse you night and day,

And wash your face and help you play?

The she-wolf?

(_Exeunt dancing_.)