Produced by Annie McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]
Copyright, 1895, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.
* * * * *
PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK. TUESDAY, JULY 16, 1895. FIVE CENTS A COPY.
VOL. XVI.--NO. 820. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.
* * * * *
[Illustration]
HOW JACK LOCKETT WON HIS SPURS.
BY G. T. FERRIS.
A STORY OF THE REVOLUTIONARY WAR FOUNDED ON FACT.
The chips flew merrily under Jack Lockett's axe to the tune of his
whistling, for he was chopping the night's supply of firewood, and the
dark was shutting down apace on the cold January day. He had already
made the horse and the cows snug in the barn, and his young appetite was
sharp set for the supper which would be ready with the finish of his
chores. He looked out on the dreary waters of the bay with the gleam of
a dull twilight on them, and saw shining through the dusk a white sail
skimming shoreward. "Some belated fisherman. Br-r-r, how cold it must be
out there!" Jack said to himself, as he breathed on his frosted fingers
and smote the wood with still harder strokes. This stalwart lad of
fourteen, with his fearless blue eyes and tanned face, looked more than
his years, for he lived in parlous times, which ripened men early. His
father, Colonel Lockett, of the Connecticut line, was away with the army
in winter-quarters at Valley Forge, and his young son had to shoulder a
heavy burden. He could not yet carry a firelock in battle, perhaps, but
he could toil patiently for his mother and sisters, with many a sigh
that there was no beard to his chin, while his brave father faced cold
and hunger in camp or the lead and steel of the redcoats in the field.
When he had lugged in the last armful of fagots, and sat down at the
smoking supper table, the common thought found vent on his lips.
"I feel as if I couldn't eat a thing, hungry as I am, mother, when I
remember dear old daddy at Valley Forge. They say that General
Washington himself has scant rations, and men die every day from
hunger. What'll be the end of it all?"
"Perhaps the stories belie the truth" (there hadn't been a word from the
absent soldier for months), said the mother, trying to keep back the
tears. "But look--look, Jack, at the window!" with almost a shriek.
"That face! What is it?"
The cold had begun to coat the glass with a crystal veil. Somebody stood
out there, and by melting the frost with the breath, now looked in on
them with shadowy features and gleaming eyes. Jack stared with open
mouth at the apparition. Then, with a wild whoop, and a spring which
almost upset the table, he yelled, "Why, don't you see it's daddy come
home?" and executed a war-dance of joy to the door.
Colonel Lockett was almost eaten up by his wife and children before he
was permitted to retaliate on the savory dishes of the supper table. He
had been all day in an open boat on the water (the unsuspecting Jack had
had a glimpse of him), and without food since daybreak.
"'Twas unsafe to cross the enemy's lines by land," he said, with a sigh
of delicious contentment, sitting before the great blazing crackling
hearth and looking into the loving faces of his young people and their
mother. "To get through even as far as Sandy Hook was a narrow shave of
capture. So, then, 'twas off uniform and on fisherman's suit, lent me by
a kind heart, who also gave me a cast in his dory to the Great South
Bay. Thence across Long Island to Glen Cove, and 'twas easy there to
find a sail-boat to fetch me home over the Sound."
"And you didn't know of the British ship _Tartar_ lying off the place
here?" said Jack, with wonder and alarm.
"Not till too late. And having thus ventured, 'twould have been a
coward's job to have gone back," answered the father, with a smile.
"But," said Mrs. Lockett, with a face as white as the snow without,
"you're not in uniform. Should you be taken?" Even the youngest of the
children knew what that meant, and they shuddered with the vision of him
they loved standing with the fatal noose about his neck amidst the jeers
of a brutal soldiery.
"Tut, tut, good wife," quoth the Colonel, gayly. "These be but soldiers'
risks, and, trust me, the hemp you fear is not yet spun. And now away
with grewsome thoughts. Tell me how you make matters here, for I've long
been without news."
"Lackaday," said the wife, "'tis but a dull story. All the good-men
away, and none but lads and grandfathers to till the fields and care for
the women. The Cowboys and the Skinners[1] scour the country like
wolves. What the one leaves the other takes. We've suffered with our
neighbors, but bear it lightly, dear heart, for thought of you all in
the thick of the trouble."
"No tongue can speak what the poor fellows endure," said the soldier.
"Uniforms in rags, without blankets to keep 'em warm at night, scarcely
one good meal a day, shoeless feet that drip blood a-walking post in the
snow. His Excellency had me to dinner the night before I left camp. One
tough smoked goose for eight, but 'twas washed down with the General's
choice Madeira. Tears came to his brave patient eyes as he talked. 'Oh,
for some brave heroic deed,' he said, 'some dashing stroke, something to
shoot a thrill of cheer through these downcast spirits! 'Twould be
better, methinks, than the coming of a great supply train.' Even his
iron soul sometimes falters. And now, Jack, about the _Tartar_. Does she
trouble the country overmuch? I made a long beat to 'scape the
look-out."
The boy clinched his teeth. "'Tis a brazen jackanapes, that Captain
Askew. His boat parties do as much mischief as the Cowboys. There's
scarcely a ham left in the place from the Christmas killing. Only two
days since I met him swaggering on the beach, and he threatened to
impress me on the _Tartar_ for a powder-monkey. There was a scowl on his
red face. 'Look ye, you rebel spawn, they say your father calls himself
a Colonel under Mr. Washington. Some day I shall come and take ye aboard
to serve his Majesty, and introduce ye to his Majesty's faithful
servant, the cat.'" The boy stopped, and then started as if something
burned him. "Oh, daddy, think of what General Washington said! If we
could only--"
The same thought leaped like an electric spark between them--brave
father and gallant boy. No need of words. Eye flashed it to eye. To
capture and destroy the _Tartar_--a small matter indeed in the sum of
the struggle, but might it not be like a spark of flame in dead dry wood
to kindle fire and hope?
Colonel Lockett lay quietly at home during a whole week. Scarcely a soul
seemed to know of his coming. But Jack took long rides, to his mother's
wonderment, by night and by day through the country. The secret talks
between Jack and his father, the look of excitement that kept his face
aglow--some mystery alarmed her. At last she learned with terror of the
enterprise afloat to cut out the British ship, and she made the boy's
father promise that Jack should not go with the boats.
"No! no!" he said to the agonized lad. "You are my faithful Lieutenant
ashore, but must stay behind from the attack. Should aught happen to
you, what will come to your mother and sisters when I am gone?" Poor
Jack bit his lip in silence. 'Twas a hard strain on filial obedience,
for his hot young blood had tingled with the thought of what was to
come.
A large barn stood in a lonely place about three miles from the Lockett
house. One night a passer-by would have fancied something strange going
on there. Many a horse was hitched to the trees of the adjacent wood,
lantern-lights twinkled through the crevices, and every few minutes
little groups came up and slipped through the barn-door. When all had
gathered, the tall form of Colonel Lockett arose in their midst, and the
roll was called to see that none was there except those apprised.
"You know what you've come for, friends and neighbors," said he. "We are
about to strike a gallant blow for the good cause. It's not too late for
those to withdraw who fancy the hazard overbold. For half-armed
countrymen to storm a royal ship seems heavy odds of failure. But
courage on one side and panic on the other will right the scales. And
there are no better weapons than yours for a hand-to-hand fight. A
pitchfork with a short handle, a scythe set in a stick, make the best of
boarding-pikes. We need no firelocks. The ship must be taken by
surprise, and carried with a rush. The decks once swept and the hatches
battened down, and she is ours. There is no moon, and the air and sky
betoken a great snow-storm brewing. When that comes, whether to-morrow
night or later, we attack." And so he gave them stirring words, saying
that this feat would ring like the peal of a trumpet.
He proceeded to tell off the boat-crews, appoint the officer of each
division, and give careful instructions.
"And now, old men and beardless boys, it rests with you to do what will
set men's hearts thumping when 'tis known," was his parting, as each
went his way fired with the thought of a gallant deed to be done.
The next night proved propitious. It was a thick, windless snow-storm,
and the white smudge of flakes blinded eyesight better than the blackest
black. An hour after midnight the four whale-boats which floated the
expedition pushed off from the little cove. Jack had gone to the landing
to say "good-by" to his father, his head buzzing with things that didn't
get to his tongue, and, curiously enough, he had slipped a heavy hatchet
under his coat.
"It's for you to be hero at home just now," was the Colonel's last word.
"Two years hence, if the struggle still goes on, my brave lad shall have
a chance to strike a blow."
Jack, whose conscience smote him sorely, mumbled something as his
father's boat moved out into the storm with muffled oars. But as the
last boat slid into deep water the boy gave a spring and landed in the
stern, light as a feather. "'Sh! Not a word," said he, in a low voice.
"I'm going if I have to swim."
The officer of the boat, an old farmer, who had seen service in the
French and Indian wars, scratched his gray poll in grave doubt. "Waal, I
like yer grit fust rate, and ye come by it naturally. I guess I'll hev
to see ye through, ef it is agin the Kurnel's orders. But ye ha'nt no
we'p'n?" Jack pulled out his hatchet, and the old chap laughed again to
himself. "Blessed ef breed don't tell ary time, when it's a bull-pup."
The _Tartar_ lay at anchor two miles off the point, and on such a blind
night, with its smother of snow, it was easy to miss the goal. Orders
had been strict that the boats should keep bunched together almost
within oar's-length. True, the men of the crews knew their waters so
well that they might have bragged they could smell their way to the
frigate over that smooth black pitch like hounds on the scent. But
cocksureness was tricky on such a night. They pulled with slow strokes,
straining to catch a sound or a glimpse. It had begun to get intensely
cold, and the spit of the snow stung their faces and stiffened their
fingers. Jack's young blood was proof against rigor of frost, for his
ears sang with a roaring music, as if a pair of sea-shells had been
clapped against the sides of his skull. His veins beat like
hammer-strokes. He thought he felt a new sensation. "Can it be I'm
afraid?" he repeated to himself.
No, Jack, fear never comes that way. Fear strikes the coward to a lump
of jelly. What you feel now quivering to your finger-tips is the thing
which gives fire and mettle to every gallant heart, and nerves the
muscles to greater strength. No fighter worth his salt ever failed of
this galloping music in his veins on the eve of action. Whisper to that
gray beard by your side whether he doesn't feel the same leap of pulse,
though his sinews have got stiff at the plough-tail, and his blood
sluggish with years since he smelt powder. And don't you remember, too,
Jack, that you felt a little of the same sort of thing that time you
"pitched in" and "licked" the hulking bully nearly twice your size, for
insulting the "school-marm," till he bellowed like a calf?
It seemed that more than an hour must have passed. Could they have
missed the ship, was the thought of all. This meant failure. There was
not the faintest ripple in the dead silence. But hark! there suddenly
boomed on the night the sweet muffled notes of a ship's bell, and with
it there was a dim flicker to starboard, as of a light shining through a
port-hole. Luck was with them, after all, and now the time was close at
hand. A denser black loomed against the darkness, vaguely outlining the
ship's hull, and the head-boat grated on the long hawser holding the
after anchor, thrown out to take up the swing of the ebb-tide. And hark
again! Through the cabin windows, suddenly thrown open as if for a
breath of fresh air, floated the sounds of laughter and singing, the
chorus of a Bacchanalian catch. Captain Askew and his subs, late as it
was, were still making merry with song.
"Gad! 'tis dark as Erebus," said one of the voices at the grating. "What
a night for a cutting-out party!"
A dozen strokes parted the boats to port and starboard, and they dashed
for the ship's sides. Up they swarmed into the chains and clambered
aboard, though not with the sailor's light foot. The watch on deck were
asleep or dozing in sheltered nooks. They sprang to arms with a shout,
but were speedily killed or disabled. A dozen lanterns flashed over the
decks as the crew tumbled up out of the fo'c's'le hatch, for all others
had been spiked down. Half naked, and scarcely awake, they yet fought
doggedly. The Captain and his officers trooped out of the cabin,
flustered with wine, but loaded to the muzzle with pluck, and fell to
with sword and pistol. Colonel Lockett had detailed a dozen picked men
with bags of slugs and powder-canisters to make ready and wheel around
fore and aft a couple of the deck-carronades. The assailants were in the
waist of the ship, and the fury of the assault had begun to drive
men-o'-war's men under hatch, for the ship was undermanned, and the crew
somewhat outnumbered. Scythe and pitchfork did their work well. It was
at this moment that one of the carronades sent its rain of buckshot into
the thick of the British sailors and completed the rout.
Instantly they had boarded, Jack, swinging his hatchet, looked about for
his father, and pressed forward to his side, though the Colonel did not
see him, thinking him at home watching with his mother. When Captain
Askew made the dash from the cabin the two leaders instinctively knew
each other and crossed blades, for Colonel Lockett had snatched a
cutlass from a fallen sailor. They cut and parried fiercely on the
half-lit deck for a few moments, when the Colonel's foot slipped on the
wet wood. That second would have been his last, but Jack's uplifted
hatchet fell like lightning on Captain Askew's shoulder, and smote him
flat to the deck. With this the battle was ended.
Colonel Lockett looked on the lad's panting flushed face with amazement.
"Why, Jack, I ordered you not to come. What does this mean? You deserve
a good horsewhip-- Why, Jack, Jack, you disobedient young villain,
you've saved your father's life!" and with tears rolling down his face
he clasped the brave lad in his arms. The _Tartar_ was taken up to New
Haven, and the Captain, who was only severely wounded, with the other
prisoners, delivered over to the Continental officer in charge of the
post.
When Colonel Lockett returned to Valley Forge, which he did without
delay, Washington thanked him in general orders for his brave feat. Jack
got his heart's wish, and the last year of the war actually served on
the staff of the Commander-in-Chief, young as he was.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] During the Revolution there were gangs of ruffians, little less than
bandits, who spread terror through the region adjacent the field
occupied by the armies. Within a radius of twenty miles from New York,
then in possession of the British, these bands were dubbed Cowboys and
Skinners, the first nominally Tories, the others Patriots, both
outcasts, whose only thought was plunder.
QUILL-PEN, ESQUIRE, ARTIST.
BY JOHN KENDRICK BANGS.
Jimmieboy had been looking at the picture-books in his papa's library
nearly all the afternoon, and as night came on he fell to wondering why
he couldn't draw pictures himself. It certainly seemed easy enough, to
look at the pictures. Most of them were made with the fewest possible
lines, and every line was as simple as could be; the only thing seemed
to be to put them down, and in the right place.
"Why don't you try?" said somebody.
"Eh?" asked Jimmieboy, with a sudden start, for he had supposed he was
alone.
"I say why don't you try?" replied the strange somebody.
"Try what?" queried Jimmieboy, who, not having spoken a word on the
subject of drawing pictures, was quite sure that the question did not
apply to that matter--in which certainly he was very much mistaken, as
the strange somebody's next remark plainly showed.
"Try drawing pictures yourself?" said the voice.
"I can't draw," said Jimmieboy, peering over into the corner whence the
voice came, to see who it was that had spoken.
"You can't tell unless you try," said the voice.
"A man might do a million things
If he would be less shy,
That all his life he never does,
Because he will not try.
"Why don't you try?"
"Who are you, anyhow?" asked Jimmieboy. "Tell me that, and maybe I will
try."
"Why, you know me," said the voice. "I am the Quill-pen over here on
your mamma's table. Don't you remember how you nearly drowned me in the
ink yesterday?"
"I didn't want to drown you," said Jimmieboy, apologetically. "I wanted
you to write a letter for me to my Uncle Periwinkle, asking him to send
me everything he thought I'd like as soon as he could."
The Pen laughed. "I'll do it some time--along about Christmas, perhaps,"
he said. "But about this picture business. I think you could make
pictures."
"Can you make 'em?" queried Jimmieboy.
"I never tried, so I don't know," answered the Pen.
"Then you try, and let's see how trying works," suggested Jimmieboy.
"I'll get a piece of paper for you."
"I'm afraid we can't," said the Pen. "I'm very dry, and don't think I
could make a mark, unless you get me a glass of ink.
"For just as skates are not much use
Without a skating rink,
So pens--of steel or quills of goose--
Are worthless without ink."
"Oh, I'll get plenty of ink," returned Jimmieboy, "though I think water
would be saferer. Water would look pleasanter on the carpet if we upset
it."
"I can't make a mark with water," laughed the Pen.
"How do you know?" asked Jimmieboy. "Did you ever try?"
"No, I never tried. Because why? What's the use?" replied the Pen.
"I do not try to touch the sky
Or jump upon the stars;
I do not try to make a pie
Of rusty iron bars;
I do not try to change into
A baby elephant,
Because I know--and always knew--
'Tis useless, for I can't."
"That's all very good," retorted Jimmieboy; "but a minute ago you were
saying that
"'A man might do a million things,
If he would be less shy,
That all his life he never does,
Because he will not try.'"
"You've got me there," said the Pen, with a smile. "Perhaps we had
better use water. Now that I think of it, I have enough dried ink on me
to make a mark if I am moistened up a bit with water. You get the water
and the paper, and I'll see what I can do."
Jimmieboy ran into the dining-room and brought a glass brimming over
with water to the Pen, and in another minute he had a large pad of paper
ready.
[Illustration: "NOW," SAID THE PEN, "LET US BEGIN."]
"Now," said the Pen, "let us begin. What shall I draw first?"
"I don't know," Jimmieboy replied. "Why not make a--er--a zebra.'"
"What's a zebra?" asked the Pen, who had never been to the circus, as
Jimmieboy had, and who was therefore, of course, ignorant about some
things of very great importance. "Is it a piece of furniture?"
"The idea!" laughed Jimmieboy. "Of course not. It's a sort of a small
animal like a horse, and has--"
"Oh, I know," interrupted the Pen. "Here's one." Then he dipped his head
lightly into the water, and wiggled himself about on the pad for a
minute. "There," he said, "How's that for a zebra?"
[Illustration: ZEBRA.]
Jimmieboy laughed long and loud. "What on earth are those wiggle-waggles
all over him?" he asked.
"Those are the Zees," explained the Quill. "Isn't that right?"
"No!" roared Jimmieboy. "He hasn't a Z to his name."
"Oh yes, he has," replied the Quill. "I know that much, anyhow. I have
written many a zebra, though I never drew one before. They always begin
with a Z, and end with a bray--like a donkey."
"I don't mean it that way. I mean he hasn't any Zees printed on him,"
explained Jimmieboy. "He's striped like the American flag."
"Why didn't you say so in the beginning?" said the Quill.
"I was going to, but you interrupted me, and said you knew all about it,
and I supposed you did," said the boy.
"Well, let's try it again. He's a horse that looks like the American
flag, you say?"
"Yes," said Jimmieboy--a little dubiously, however. He thought perhaps
the zebra more closely resembled a piece of toast, but as he had
mentioned the flag, he thought it would be better to stick to it.
"How is this!" asked the Quill, presenting the following picture to
Jimmieboy. "Is that any more like a zebra?"
[Illustration: ZEBRA.]
"It's the most ridiculous thing I ever saw," said Jimmieboy. "I didn't
say he had stars on him."
"I know you didn't," retorted the Pen. "But that square might pass for a
chest-protector, if any body ever criticised it."
"Well, it isn't anything like a Zebra," said Jimmieboy, firmly. "You'd
better try making an elephant."
"That's easy," returned the Quill. "I never saw an elephant, but I've
heard what they look like. Sort, of like pigs, with two tails, big flop
ears, and paper-cutters for teeth, and great big huge large legs that
look like bolsters. Oh, I can draw an elephant with my eyes shut."
[Illustration: L-EPHANT.]
This the Pen proceeded to do at once, and here is his idea of the
L-ephant.
"That's more like an elephant than either of the two zebras was like a
zebra," said Jimmieboy, with a grin.
"Thank you," said the Pen, simply. "Which part have I done best, the L
or the 'ephant?"
"Well, it's hard to say," smiled Jimmieboy. "I think the hair on his
forehead is very much like that of the elephants I have seen, and then
you've got his eye just right. I've seen elephants look exactly like
that when they have caught sight of a peanut."
[Illustration: THE SWARM OF BEES.]
"How is this for a swarm of bees?" asked the Quill, gratified at his
success, and dashing off this little artistic gem in an instant.
"Ho!" ejaculated Jimmieboy. "What kind of bees are those? They aren't
the honey kind that sting."
"No, they are bees you can spell with, and don't sting," returned the
Pen. "I like 'em better than the other kind."
"Can you draw ostriches?" asked Jimmieboy.
[Illustration: THE OSTRICH.]
"I can try one," said the Pen. "How will this do?" he added, producing
the following. "The horse part is all right, but I'm afraid the strich
isn't so good," said the artist, as Jimmieboy threw himself on the floor
in a paroxysm of laughter. "I never saw a strich, so why should I make a
good one? I think it's real mean of you to laugh."
"Well, really, Penny," said Jimmieboy, "I don't want to hurt your
feelings, but that's the worst-looking animal I ever saw. But never
mind; it's a better-looking creature than most monkeys."
"I never saw a monkey," said the Pen. "How many legs has it?"
"Two legs, two arms, a tail, and a head," Jimmieboy answered.
[Illustration: THE MON-KEY.]
"Something like this?" queried the Quill, dashing off a picture
complacently--he felt so sure that this time he was right.
"Very much like that," Jimmieboy replied, smothering his mirth for fear
of offending the Quill, though if you will refer to the drawing you will
see that the Quill was quite as inaccurate in his picture of the monkey
as he was with his zebras.
"I thought I'd get you to admit that that was a good monkey," observed
the Quill, regarding his work with pride. "I've seen a good many keys,
and, of course, when you said the creature had two legs, two arms, a
tail, and a head, I knew that he was nothing but a key to whom had been
given those precious gifts of nature. To draw a key is easy, and to
provide it with the other features was not hard."
Jimmieboy was silent. He was too full of laughter even to open his
mouth, and so he kept it tightly closed.
"What'll I draw next?" asked the Quill, after a minute or two of
silence.
"Can you do mountains?" queried Jimmieboy.
"What are they?" asked the Quill.
"They're great big rocks that go up in the air and have trees on 'em,"
explained Jimmieboy.
The Quill looked puzzled, and then he glanced reproachfully at
Jimmieboy.
"I think you are making fun of me," he said, solemnly.
"No, I'm not," said Jimmieboy. "Why should you think such a thing as
that?"
"Well, I know some things, and what I know makes me believe what I
think. I think you are making fun of me when you talk of big rocks going
up in the air with trees on 'em. Rocks are too heavy to go up in the air
even when they haven't trees on 'em, and I don't think it's very nice of
you to try to fool me the way you have."
"I don't mean like a balloon," Jimmieboy hastened to explain. "It's a
big rock that sits on the ground and reaches up into the air and has
trees on it."
"I don't believe there ever was such a thing," returned the offended
Quill. "Here's what one would look like if it could ever be," he added,
sketching the following:
[Illustration: MOUNTAIN.]
"What on earth!" ejaculated Jimmieboy.
"What? Why, a mountain--that's what!" retorted the Quill. "Don't you
see, my dear boy, you've just proved you were trying to fool me. I've
put down the thing you said a mountain was, and you as much as say
yourself that it can't be."
"But--how do you make it out? That's what I can't see," remonstrated
Jimmieboy.
"It's perfectly simple," said the Quill. "You said a mountain was a
rock; there's the rock in the picture. You said it had trees on it;
those two things that look like pen-wipers on sticks are the trees."
"But that other thing?" interrupted Jimmieboy. "That arm? I never,
never, never said a mountain had one of those."
"Why, how you do talk!" cried the Quill, angrily. "You told me first
that the rocks went up in the air, and when I showed you why that
couldn't be, you corrected yourself, and said that they reached up into
the air."
"Well, so I did," said Jimmieboy.
"Will you kindly tell me how a rock could reach up in the air, or around
a corner, or do any reaching at all, in fact, unless it had an arm to do
it with?" snapped the Quill, triumphantly.
Again Jimmieboy found it best to keep silent. The Quill, thinking that
his silence was due to regret, immediately became amiable, and
volunteered the statement that if he knew the names of flowers he
thought he could draw some of them.
"Pansies, cowslips, and geraniums," suggested Jimmieboy.
"Good! Here you are," returned the Quill, rapidly sketching the
following:
[Illustration: A PANSY. A COWSLIP. A POTTED G-RANIUM.]
"That pansy," he said, as Jimmieboy gazed at his work, "is a
frying-pansy. How is this for a battle scene?" he added, drawing the
following singular-looking picture.
[Illustration]
"Very handsome!" said Jimmieboy. "But--er--just what are those things?
Snakes?"
"No, indeed," said the Quill. "The idea! Who ever saw a snake with
wings? One is a C gull and the other is a J bird."
"Can you draw a blue bird?" asked Jimmieboy.
"I think so," answered the Quill, as he carefully drew this strange
creature.
[Illustration: A BLUEBIRD.]
"You haven't given him any wings," said Jimmieboy, after carefully
examining the picture.
"No: that's the reason he is blue. He has to walk all the time. That's
enough to make anybody blue," explained the Quill. "Here's a puzzle for
you!" he added. "Guess what it is, and I'll write to your Uncle
Periwinkle and tell him if he'll come up here on Saturday with two
dollars in his pockets, you will show him where you and he can get the
best soda-water made."
[Illustration: STEEPLE-CHASING.]
This is the picture the Quill then presented to Jimmieboy's astonished
gaze.
"Humph!" said Jimmieboy. "It looks like two men on horseback running
after something, but what, I'm sure I don't know."
"What does it look like?" asked the Quill.
"Nothing that I ever saw."
"Nonsense!" returned the Pen. "Does it look like a fox, or a Chinese
laundry, or a what?"
"It doesn't look like any of 'em," insisted Jimmieboy.
"Dear me! How dull you are!" cried the Quill. "Why, boy, it's a church
steeple, that's what. Now what is the whole thing a picture of?"
"A steeple-chase!" cried Jimmieboy.
"Exactly," said the Quill, very much pleased that after all Jimmieboy
had guessed it. "And now I'll write that letter to Uncle Periwinkle."
And so he wrote;
P. S.--DEAR UNCLE PERIWINKLE,
Come up on Saturday. Bring all the money you've got, and the
soda-water we'll have will sail a yacht. If you can't come, send
the money, and I'll look after sailing the yacht.
Yours affectionately,
JIMMIEBOY.
"Will that do?" asked the Quill.
"Yes," said Jimmieboy. "And now put it in an envelope, and I'll put it
with the letters to be mailed."
"Now draw some more," he said, after this had been mailed.
But the Quill answered never a word. He had evidently fallen asleep.
Strange to say, Uncle Periwinkle never got his letter, and the pictures
the Quill made all faded from sight, and so were lost.
SNOW-SHOES AND SLEDGES.[2]
BY KIRK MUNROE.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
INVADING A CAPTAIN'S CABIN.
An earthquake could hardly have caused greater consternation in the
village of Klukwan than did the boom of that heavy gun as it came
echoing up the palisaded valley of the Chilkat. Not many years before
the Indians of that section had defied the power of the United States,
and killed several American citizens. A gunboat, hurried to the scene of
trouble, shelled and destroyed one of their villages in retaliation.
From that time on no sound was so terrible to them as the roar of a big
gun.
While Phil and his companions were chafing at the delay imposed upon
them by the greed of the Chilkat Shaman a government vessel arrived in
the neighboring inlet of Chilkoot, bearing a party of scientific men who
were to cross the mountains at that point for an exploration of the
upper Yukon, and the locating of the boundary line between Alaska and
Canada.
The Princess, learning of its presence, and despairing of assisting her
white friends in any other way, secretly despatched a messenger to the
Captain of the ship with the information that some Americans were being
detained in Klukwan against their will. Upon receipt of this news the
Captain promptly steamed around into Chilkat Inlet and as near to its
head as the draught of his vessel would allow. As he dropped anchor,
there came such a sound of firing from up the river that he imagined a
fight to be in progress, and fired one of his own big guns to give
warning of his presence.
The effect of this dread message was instantaneous. Phil Ryder dropped
his uplifted arm. The Chilkat Shaman scuttled away, issued an order, and
within five minutes a new and perfectly equipped canoe was marvellously
produced from somewhere and tendered to Serge Belcofsky. Five minutes
later he and his companions had taken a grateful leave of the Princess,
and were embarked with all their effects, including the three dogs.
Phil stationed himself in the bow, Serge tended sheet, and Jalap Coombs
steered. As before the prevailing northerly wind their long-beaked canoe
shot out from the river into the wider waters of the inlet, and they
saw, at anchor, less than one mile away, a handsome cutter flying the
United States revenue flag, the three friends uttered a simultaneous cry
of, "The _Phoca_!"
"Hurrah!" yelled Phil.
"Hurrah!" echoed Serge.
"Bless her pretty picter!" roared Jalap Coombs, standing up and waving
the old tarpaulin hat that, though often eclipsed by a fur hood, had
been faithfully cherished during the entire journey.
At that moment one of the cutter's boats, in command of a strange
Lieutenant, with a howitzer mounted in its bow, and manned by a dozen
heavily armed sailors, hailed the canoe and shot alongside.
"What's the trouble up the river?" demanded the officer.
"There isn't any," answered Serge.
"What was all the firing about?"
"Celebrating some sort of native Fourth of July. Is Captain Matthews
still in command of the _Phoca_?"
"Yes. Does he know you?"
"I rather guess he does, and, with your permission, we'll report to him
in person."
"Pull up the hoods of your parkas," said Phil to his companions, "and
we'll give the Captain a surprise party."
A minute later one of the _Phoca_'s Quartermasters reported to the
Captain that a canoe-load of natives was almost alongside.
"Very well; let them come aboard, and I'll hear what they have to say."
In vain did the Quartermaster strive to direct the canoe to the port
gangway. The natives did not seem to understand, and insisted on
rounding up under the starboard quarter, reserved for officers and
distinguished guests. One of them sprang out the moment its bow touched
the side steps, clambered aboard, pushed aside the wrathful
Quartermaster, and started for the Captain's door with the sailor in hot
pursuit.
"Hold on, you blooming young savage! Ye can't go in there," he shouted,
but to heedless ears.
As Phil gained the door it was opened by the Commander himself, who was
about to come out for a look at the natives.
"How are you, Captain Matthews?" shouted the fur-clad intruder into the
sacred privacy of the cabin, at the same time raising a hand in salute.
"It is awfully good of you, sir, to come for us. I only hope you didn't
bother to wait very long at the Pribyloffs."
"Eh? What? Who are you, sir? What does this mean? Phil Ryder! You young
villain! You scamp! Bless my soul, but this is the most wonderful thing
I ever heard of!" cried the astonished Commander, staggering back into
the cabin, and pulling Phil after him. "May, daughter, look here!"
At that moment there came a yelping rush, and with a chorus of excited
barkings Musky, Luvtuk, and big Amook dashed pell-mell into the cabin.
After them came Serge, Jalap Coombs, and the horrified Quartermaster,
all striving in vain to capture and restrain the riotous dogs. As if any
one could prevent them from following and sharing the joy of the young
master who had fed them night after night for months by lonely
camp-fires of the Yukon Valley!
So they flung themselves into the cabin, and tore round and round, amid
such a babel of shouts, laughter, barkings, and crash of overturned
furniture as was never before heard in that orderly apartment.
Finally the terrible dogs were captured, one by one, and led away. May
Matthews emerged from a safe retreat, where, convulsed with laughter,
she had witnessed the whole uproarious proceeding. Her father, still
ejaculating "Bless my soul!" at intervals, gradually recovered
sufficient composure to recognize and welcome Serge and "Ipecac" Coombs,
as he persisted in calling poor Jalap. The upset chairs were placed to
rights, and all hands began to ask questions with such rapidity that no
one had time to pause for answers.
From the confusion Captain Matthews finally evolved an understanding
that the boys were still desirous of reaching Sitka, whereupon he
remarked:
"Sitka, Sitka. It never occurred to me that you had any desire to visit
Sitka. I thought your sole ambition was to attain the North Pole. If you
had only mentioned Sitka last summer I might have arranged the trip for
you, but now I fear--"
At this moment there came a knock at the door, and when it was opened
the Quartermaster began to say, "Excuse me, sir, but here's another--"
Before he could finish his sentence a small furry object jerked away
from him with such force, that it took a header into the room and landed
at the feet of the Commander on all fours, like a little bear.
"Bless my soul! What's this?" cried Captain Matthews, springing to one
side in dismay.
"It's a baby!" screamed Miss May, darting forward and snatching up the
child. "A darling little Indian in furs. Where did it come from?"
"Great Scott!" exclaimed Phil, remorsefully. "To think that we should
have forgotten Nel-te!"
"Are there any more yet to come?" demanded the Captain.
"No, sir; the whole ship's company is present _and_ accounted for,"
replied Jalap Coombs. "But with your leave, sir, I'll just step out and
take a look at our boat, for she's a ticklish craft to navigate, and
might come to grief in strange hands."
So saying, the honest fellow, who had made an excuse to escape from the
cabin, where he felt awkward and out of place, as well as uncomfortably
warm in his fur garments, pulled at the fringe of long wolf's hairs
surrounding his face, and shuffled away. A few minutes later saw him in
the forecastle, where, divested of his unsailorlike parka, puffing with
infinite zest at one of the blackest of pipes filled with the blackest
of tobacco, and the centre of an admiring group of seamen, he was
spinning incredible yarns of his recent and wonderful experiences with
snow-shoes and sledges.
In the mean time May Matthews was delightedly winning Nel-te's baby
affections, while Phil and Serge were still plying the Captain with
questions.
"Were you saying, sir, that you feared you couldn't take us to Sitka?"
inquired Serge, anxiously.
"Not at all, my lad," replied the Captain. "I was about to remark that I
feared you would not care to go there now, seeing that there is hardly
any one in Sitka whom you want to see, unless it is your mother and
sisters and Phil Ryder's father and Aunt Ruth."
"What!" cried Phil, "my Aunt Ruth! Are you certain, sir?"
"Certain I am," replied Captain Matthews, "that if both the individuals
I have just mentioned aren't already in Sitka, they will be there very
shortly, for I left them in San Francisco preparing to start at once.
Moreover, I have orders to carry your father to St. Michaels, where he
expects to find you. So now you see in what a complication your turning
up in this outlandish fashion involves me."
"But how did my Aunt Ruth ever happen to come out here?" inquired Phil.
"Came out to nurse your father while his leg was mending, and
incidentally to find out what had become of an undutiful nephew whom she
seems to fancy has an aptitude for getting into scrapes," laughed the
Captain.
"Has my father recovered from his accident?"
"So entirely that he fancies his leg is sounder and better than ever it
was."
"And are you bound for Sitka now, sir?"
"Certainly I am, and should have been half-way there by this time if I
hadn't been delayed by a report of some sort of a row between the
Chilkats and a party of whites. Now, having settled that difficulty by
capturing the entire force of aggressors, I propose to carry them to
Sitka as legitimate prisoners, and then turn them over to the
authorities. So, gentlemen, you will please consider yourselves as
prisoners of war, and under orders not to leave this ship until she
arrives at Sitka."
"With pleasure, sir," laughed Phil. "Only don't you think you'd better
place us under guard?"
"I expect it will be best," replied the Captain, gravely, "seeing that
you are charged with seal-poaching, piracy, defying government officers,
and escaping from arrest, as well as the present one of making war on
native Americans."