Chapter I. Consultation.

Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England

Parkhurst Boys

And other stories of School Life

By Talbot Baines Reed

________________________________________________________________________

This is a collection of short stories and articles, mostly about boys at

school. There are four groups of these stories: seven about a school

called Parkhurst, detailing major events such as matches and boat races.

The second section consists of eleven discourses on different types of

boy, such as "The Sneak". The third section contains twelve stories

about boys who have played their part in English History, such as the

two young "Princes in the Tower", Dick Whittington, Edward the Sixth,

and so on.

The final section consists of seven general stories of greater length

than the foregoing.

The whole book, though not really long, is quite amusing, though of

course very dated. You'll enjoy it. I personally prefer to listen to

these books. NH.

________________________________________________________________________

PARKHURST BOYS

AND OTHER STORIES OF SCHOOL LIFE

BY TALBOT BAINES REED

Part one. Parkhurst Sketches.

CHAPTER ONE.

MY FIRST FOOTBALL MATCH.

It was a proud moment in my existence when Wright, captain of our

football club, came up to me in school one Friday and said, "Adams, your

name is down to play in the match against Craven to-morrow."

I could have knighted him on the spot. To be one of the picked

"fifteen," whose glory it was to fight the battles of their school in

the Great Close, had been the leading ambition of my life--I suppose I

ought to be ashamed to confess it--ever since, as a little chap of ten,

I entered Parkhurst six years ago. Not a winter Saturday but had seen

me either looking on at some big match, or oftener still scrimmaging

about with a score or so of other juniors in a scratch game. But for a

long time, do what I would, I always seemed as far as ever from the

coveted goal, and was half despairing of ever rising to win my "first

fifteen cap." Latterly, however, I had noticed Wright and a few others

of our best players more than once lounging about in the Little Close,

where we juniors used to play, evidently taking observations with an eye

to business. Under the awful gaze of these heroes, need I say I exerted

myself as I had never done before? What cared I for hacks or bruises,

so only that I could distinguish myself in their eyes? And never was

music sweeter than the occasional "Bravo, young 'un!" with which some of

them would applaud any special feat of skill or daring.

So I knew my time was coming at last, and only hoped it would arrive

before the day of the Craven match, the great match of our season--

always looked forward to as _the_ event of the Christmas term, when

victory was regarded by us boys as the summit of all human glory, and

defeat as an overwhelming disgrace.

It will therefore be understood why I was almost beside myself with

delight when, the very day before the match, Wright made the

announcement I have referred to.

I scarcely slept a wink that night for dreaming of the wonderful

exploits which were to signalise my first appearance in the Great

Close--how I was to run the ball from one end of the field to the other,

overturning, dodging, and distancing every one of the enemy, finishing

up with a brilliant and mighty kick over the goal. After which I was to

have my broken limbs set by a doctor on the spot, to receive a perfect

ovation from friend and foe, to be chaired round the field, to be the

"lion" at the supper afterwards, and finally to have a whole column of

the _Times_ devoted to my exploits! What glorious creatures we are in

our dreams!

Well, the eventful day dawned at last. It was a holiday at Parkhurst,

and as fine a day as any one could wish.

As I made my appearance, wearing the blue-and-red jersey of a "first

fifteen man" under my jacket, I found myself quite an object of

veneration among the juniors who had lately been my compeers, and I

accepted their homage with a vast amount of condescension. Nothing was

talked of during the forenoon but the coming match. Would the Craven

fellows turn up a strong team? Would that fellow Slider, who made the

tremendous run last year, play for them again this? Would Wright select

the chapel end or the other, if we won the choice? How were we off

behind the scrimmage?

"Is Adams to be trusted?" I heard one voice ask.

Two or three small boys promptly replied, "Yes"; but the seniors said

nothing, except Wright, who took the opportunity of giving me a little

good advice in private.

"Look here, Adams; you are to play half-back, you know. All you've got

to take care of is to keep cool, and never let your eyes go off the

ball. You know all the rest."

A lecture half an hour long could not have made more impression. I

remembered those two hints, "Keep cool, and watch the ball," as long as

I played football, and I would advise every half-back to take them to

heart in like manner.

At noon the Craven team came down in an omnibus, and had lunch in hall

with us, and half an hour later found us all in a straggling procession,

making for the scene of conflict in the Great Close. There stood the

goals and the boundary-posts, and there was Granger, the ground-keeper,

with a brand-new lemon-shaped ball under his arm.

"Look sharp and peel!" cried our captain.

So we hurried to the tent, and promptly divested ourselves of our outer

garments, turned up the sleeves of our jerseys, and tied an extra knot

in our bootlaces. As we emerged, the Craven men were making their

appearance on the ground in battle array. I felt so nervous myself that

I could not, for the life of me, imagine how some of them could look so

unconcerned, whistling, and actually playing leapfrog to keep themselves

warm!

An officer in the Crimean War once described his sensation in some of

the battles there as precisely similar to those he had experienced when

a boy on the football field at Rugby. I can appreciate the comparison,

for one. Certainly never soldier went into action with a more solemn

do-or-die feeling than that with which I took my place on the field that

afternoon.

"They've won the choice of sides," said somebody, "and are going to play

with the wind."

"Take your places, Parkhurst!" shouted our captain.

The ball lies in the centre of the ground, and Wright stands ten yards

or so behind it, ready for the kick-off. Of our fifteen the ten

forwards are extended in a line with the ball across the field, ready to

charge after it the moment it goes flying. The two best runners of our

team are stationed quarter-back, where they can skirmish on the

outskirts of the scrimmage. I am posted a little in rear of them at

half-back--an unusual post for so young a player, but one which was

accorded to me by virtue of my light weight and not inconsiderable

running powers. Behind me are the two backs, on whom, when all else

fails, the issue of the conflict depends. The Craven players are

similarly disposed, and waiting impatiently for our captain's kick.

"Are you ready?" he shouts.

Silence gives consent.

He gives a quick glance round at us, then springs forward, and in an

instant the ball is soaring high in the direction of the Cravens' goal

amid the shouts of onlooking friend and foe.

Our forwards were after it like lightning, but not before a Craven back

had got hold of it and run some distance in the direction of our goal.

He did not wait to be attacked, but by a clever drop-kick, a knack

peculiar to all good backs, sent it spinning right over the forwards'

heads into the hands of one of our quarter-backs. He, tucking it under

his arm and crushing his cap on to his head, started to run. Going

slowly at first, he steered straight for the forwards of the enemy till

within a pace or two of them, when he doubled suddenly, and amid the

shouts of our partisans slipped past them and was seen heading straight

for the Craven goal. But although he had escaped their forwards, he had

yet their rearguard to escape, which was far harder work, for was not

one of that rearguard the celebrated Slider himself, who by his prowess

had last year carried defeat to our school; and the other, was it not

the stalwart Naylor, who only a month ago had played gloriously for his

county against Gravelshire?

Yet our man was not to be daunted by the prestige of these distinguished

adversaries, but held on his way pluckily, and without a swerve. It was

a sight to see those two cunningly lay wait for him, like two spiders

for a fly. There was nothing for it but to plunge headlong into their

web in a desperate effort to break through. Alas! brave man! Naylor

has him in his clutches, the Craven forwards come like a deluge on the

spot, our forwards pour over the Craven, and in an instant our hero and

the ball have vanished from sight under a heap of writhing humanity.

"Down!" cries a half-choked voice, from the bottom of the heap. It was

rather an unnecessary observation, as it happens, but it served as a

signal to both parties to rise to their feet and prepare for a

"scrimmage."

Now, if truth must be told, our school always had the reputation of

being second to none in "going through a scrimmage," so while the

players are scrambling to their feet, and waiting for the ball to be

"grounded," I will explain what our method of doing the thing was.

It was nothing more nor less than a carrying out of the principle of the

wedge. The ball formed the apex; the fellows got up close to it, so as

never to let it out of reach of their four feet. Behind these two came

three with locked arms, and behind the three, four. The men in the

middle pushed straight ahead, and those at the sides inwards towards the

ball, while the two or three remaining forwards lent their weight to one

side or other of the base, according as the exigencies of the scrimmage

demanded. Thus our wedge, embodying a concentrated pressure in the

direction of the ball, the farther it advanced the farther it scattered

asunder the foe, who fell off from its gradually widening sides without

hope of getting again within reach of the ball except by retreating to

the rear and beginning the struggle over afresh. When this manoeuvre

was well executed, it was almost certain to carry the ball through the

scrimmage, and when that happened, then was the time for us half and

quarter-backs to look out for our chance.

Our men went at it with their customary vigour and address, and

presently the ball emerged on the far side of the scrimmage. In an

instant it was caught up by one of the Craven quarter-backs, and in an

instant our men were upon him again before he could get a start for a

run. Scrimmage after scrimmage ensued, the ball was constantly in

Chancery, but each crush brought us a yard or so nearer the enemy's goal

than we had been before.

All this time I was little better than a spectator, for the ball never

once came within reach of my fingers, and I was beginning to think that,

after all, a big match was not so exciting a thing as one is apt to

imagine.

At last, however, after one scrimmage more desperate than any that had

gone before, the ball flew out suddenly, and bounded off one of the

Craven men into my grasp. Now was my chance. "If only I could--"

The next thing I was conscious of was that about twenty people had

fallen to the ground all of a heap, and that I and the ball were at the

bottom.

"Down!" I cried.

"Pack up there, Parkhurst!" sang out Wright.

I extricated myself as quickly as I could, and got back to my place in

the rear, thinking to myself, after all, there _was_ some little

excitement in football.

At last the ball got well away from the scrimmage, and who should secure

it but the redoubtable Slider! I felt a passing tremor of deep despair,

as I saw that hero spring like the wind towards our goal.

"Look out, Adams!" shouted Wright.

Sure enough he was coming in my direction! With the desperation of a

doomed man I strode out to meet him. He rushed furiously on--swerving

slightly to avoid my reach, and stretching out his arm to ward off my

grasp. I flung myself wildly in his path. There was a heavy thud, and

the earth seemed to jump up and strike me. The next moment I was

sprawling on my back on the grass. I don't pretend to know how it all

happened, but somehow or other I had succeeded in checking the onward

career of the victorious Slider; for though I had fallen half stunned

before the force of his charge, he had recoiled for an instant from the

same shock, and that instant gave time for Wright to get hold of him,

and so put an end for the time to his progress.

"Well played!" said some one, as I picked myself up. So I was

comforted, and began to think that, after all, football was rather a

fine game.

Time would fail me to tell of all the events of that afternoon--how

Wright carried the ball within a dozen yards of our opponents' goal; how

their forwards passed the ball one to another, and got a "touch-down"

behind our line, but missed the kick; how Naylor ran twenty yards with

one of our men hanging on his back; how our quarter-back sent the ball

nearly over their goal with as neat a drop-kick as ever it has been my

lot to witness.

The afternoon was wearing. I heard the time-keeper call out, "Five

minutes more!" The partisans of either side were getting frantic with

excitement. Unless we could secure an advantage now, we should be as

good as defeated, for the Craven had scored a "touch-down" to our

nothing. Was this desperate fight to end so? Was victory, after all,

to escape us? But I had no time for reflection then.

"Now, Parkhurst," sang out Wright, "pull yourselves together for once!"

A Craven man is standing to throw the ball out of "touch," and either

side stands in confronting rows, impatient for the fray. Wright is at

the end of the line, face to face with Naylor, and I am a little behind

Wright.

"Keep close!" exclaims the latter to me, as the ball flies towards us.

Wright has it, but in an instant Naylor's long arms are round him,

bearing him down.

"Adams!" ejaculates out captain, and in a trice he passes the ball into

my hands, and I am off like the wind. So suddenly has it all been done

that I have already a yard or two start before my flight is discovered.

There is a yelling and a rush behind me; there is a roar from the crowds

on either side; there is a clear "Follow up, Parkhurst!" from Wright in

the rear; there is a loud "Collar him!" from the Craven captain ahead.

I am steering straight for their goal; three men only are between me and

it--one, their captain, right back, and Slider and another man in front

of him.

I see at a glance that my only hope is to keep as I am going and waste

no time in dodging, or assuredly the pursuing host will be upon me.

Slider and his companion are closing in right across my path, almost

close together. With a bound I dash between them. Have they got me, or

have I escaped them? A shout louder than ever and a "Bravo!" from

Wright tell me I am clear of that danger, and have now but their last

defence to pass. He is a tall, broad fellow, and a formidable foe to

encounter, and waits for me close under their goal. The pace, I feel,

is telling on me; the shouting behind sounds nearer, only a few yards

divides us now. Shall I double, shall I venture a kick, or shall I

charge straight at him?

"Charge at him!" sounds Wright's voice, as if in answer to my thought.

I gather up all my remaining force, and charge. There is a flash across

my eyes, and a dull shock against my chest. I reel and stagger, and

forget where I am. I am being swept along in a torrent; the waters with

a roar rush past me and over me. Every moment I get nearer and nearer

the fatal edge--I am at it--I hang a moment on the brink, and then--

"Down!" shouts a voice close at my ear, and there is such a noise of

cheering and rejoicing that I sit up and rub my eyes like one waking

bewildered from a strange dream.

Then I find out what has happened. When I charged at the Craven captain

the shock sent me back staggering into the very arms of Wright and our

forwards, who were close at my heels, and who then, in a splendid and

irresistible rush, carried me and the ball and the half of the other

side along with them right behind the enemy's goal-line, where we fall

_en masse_ to the earth--I, with the ball under me, being at the bottom.

Even if I had been hurt--which I was not--there was no time to be wasted

on condolences or congratulations. The time-keeper held his watch in

his hand, and our goal must be kicked at once, if it was to be kicked at

all. So the fifteen paces out were measured, the "nick" for the ball

was carefully made, the enemy stood along their goal-line ready to

spring the moment the ball should touch the earth. Wright, cool and

self-possessed, placed himself in readiness a yard or two behind the

ball, which one of our side held an inch off the ground. An anxious

moment of expectation followed; then came a sharp "Now!" from our

captain. The ball was placed cunningly in the nick, the Craven forwards

rushed out on it in a body, but long before they could reach it,

Wright's practised foot had sent it flying straight as an arrow over the

bar, and my first football match had ended in a glorious victory for the

Old School.

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

The terms used here describe the Rugby game as it used to be played

prior to 1880.

CHAPTER TWO.

THE PARKHURST PAPER-CHASE.

"The meet is to be at one o'clock, sharp, in the Dean's Warren--don't

forget!"

So said Forwood, the "whipper-in" of the Parkhurst Hare and Hounds Club,

to me, one March morning in the year 18--. I had no need to be reminded

of the appointment; for this was the day of the "great hunt" of the

year, always held by the running set at Parkhurst School to yield in

interest to no other fixture of the athletic calendar.

In fine weather, and over good country, a paper-chase is one of the

grandest sports ever indulged in--at least, so we thought when we were

boys--and the "great hunt" was, of course, the grandest run of the year,

and looked forward to, consequently, with the utmost eagerness by all

lovers of running in our school.

This year, too, I had a special interest in the event, for it was my

turn to run "hare"--in other words, to be, with another fellow, the

object of the united pursuit of some twenty or thirty of my

schoolfellows, who would glory in running me down not a whit less than I

should glory in escaping them.

For some weeks previously we had been taking short trial runs, to test

our pace and powers of endurance; and Birch (my fellow-"hare") and I had

more than once surveyed the course we proposed to take on the occasion

of the "great hunt," making ourselves, as far as possible, acquainted

with the bearings of several streams, ploughed fields, and high walls to

be avoided, and the whereabouts of certain gaps, woods, and hollows to

be desired. We were glad afterwards that we had taken this precaution,

as the reader will see.

I can't say if the Parkhurst method of conducting our "hunts" was the

orthodox one; I know _we_ considered it was, as our rules were our own

making, or rather a legacy left to us by a former generation of runners

at the school.

We were to take, in all, a twelve miles' course, of nearly an oval

shape, six miles out and six miles home. Any amount of dodging or

doubling was to be allowed to us hares, except crossing our own path.

We were to get five minutes' clear start, and, of course, were expected

to drop our paper "scent" wherever we went.

Luckily for me, Birch was an old hand at running hare, and up to all

sorts of dodges, so that I knew all it was needful for me to do was to

husband my "wind," and run evenly with him, leaving him to shape our

course and regulate our pace.

It was a lively scene at the Dean's Warren, when we reached it a few

minutes before the appointed time that afternoon. The "pack"--that is,

the twenty or thirty fellows who were to run as "hounds"--were fast

assembling, and divesting themselves of everything but their light

flannels. The whipper-in, conspicuous by the little bugle slung across

his shoulders, and the light flag in his hand, was there in all the

importance of his office; and, as usual, the doctor and a party of

visitors, ladies and gentlemen, had turned out to witness the start.

"Five minutes, hares!" shouts Forwood, as Birch and I came on the spot.

We use the interval in stripping off all unnecessary apparel, and

girding ourselves with our bags of "scent," or scraps of torn-up paper,

which we are to drop as we run. Then we sit and wait the moment for

starting. The turf is crisp under our feet; the sun is just warm enough

to keep us from shivering as we sit, and the wind just strong enough to

be fresh. Altogether it is to be doubted if a real meet of real hounds

to hunt real hares--a cruel and not very manly sport, after all--could

be much more exciting than this is.

"Half a minute!" sings out the whipper-in, as we spring to our feet.

In another thirty seconds we are swinging along at a good pace down the

slope of the warren, in the direction of Colven meadows, and the hunt

has begun.

As long as we were in sight of the pack we kept up a good hard pace, but

on reaching cover we settled down at once to a somewhat more sober jog-

trot, in anticipation of the long chase before us.

We made good use of our five minutes' start, for by the time a distant

bugle note announced that the hounds were let loose on our track we had

covered a good piece of ground, and put several wide fields and ditches

and ugly hedges between us and our pursuers.

Now it was that Birch's experiences served us in good stead. I never

knew a fellow more thoroughly cunning; he might have been a fox instead

of a hare. Sometimes he made me run behind him and drop my scent on the

top of his, and sometimes keep a good distance off, and let the wind

scatter it as much as it could. When we came to a gap, instead of

starting straight across the next field he would turn suddenly at right

angles, and keep close up under the hedge half-way round before striking

off into the open. Among trees and bushes he zigzagged and doubled to

an alarming extent, so that it seemed as if we were losing ground every

moment. So we should have been if the chase had been by sight instead

of by _scent_; but that would have been against all rules.

If the hounds were to see the hares twenty yards in front of them, and

the scent lay half a mile round, they would be bound, according to our

rules, to go the half-mile, however tempting the short cut might seem.

It was after a very wide circuit, ending up on the top of a moderate

rise, that we first caught sight of our pursuers. As they were a full

six minutes behind us, we agreed to sit down under cover for a minute

and watch them.

At that moment they had evidently lost the scent, and were ferreting

about among some low trees and bushes in search of it. We saw the flag

of the whipper-in marking the spot where it was last visible, and round

this, on all sides, the hounds were exploring busily in search of the

"new departure." Then, presently, came a cry of "Forward!" and off they

all started in our direction; and as the scent after that seemed to lie

pretty clear we considered it high time for us to resume our flight.

So we made off again, and being refreshed by our brief halt, made over a

couple of ploughed fields, which Birch suggested "would make a few of

the hounds look foolish"; and so on till we reached the first water we

had encountered since the start. This was a trout-stream, well known to

some of us who were fond of fishing--nowhere more than half a foot deep,

and in some places easily passable, dry shod, on stepping-stones.

Birch, however, avoided these, and boldly splashing into the stream over

his ankles, bade me follow.

"We'll soon dry up," he said, "and this will gain us a minute or two."

Instead of going straight across, the wily hare began to paddle up the

middle of the stream for twenty or thirty yards, and, of course, in so

doing our scent was soon drifted away down the current. So we flattered

ourselves, when we at last did make the opposite bank, that our pursuers

would be puzzled for a minute or two to know what had become of us.

After a further quarter of a mile we thought we might venture to take

another brief halt on the strength of this last manoeuvre. We were

unable to do so where we could command a view of the hounds, but as we

reckoned we had at least gained three minutes, we felt we could quite

afford to take it easy for that length of time.

Fancy, then, our horror when, after about a couple of minutes, we heard

a cry of "Forward!" close to us, and evidently on this side of the

stream.

Off we dashed like mad, in a regular panic, and never checked our pace

till we had put three ploughed fields and a couple of wide ditches to

our credit. We did not discover till it was all over how it was our

cunning scheme to perplex the hounds had thus miscarried. Then we were

told that some of the scent, instead of dropping into the water, as we

intended, had lodged on the top of some stones in mid-stream, and this

had at once betrayed our dodge to the practised eyes of the foremost

hounds. It was a caution to be more careful another time.

We had to work hard to make up for the ground we had lost by this

mistake, but our next sight of the hounds showed that we were fairly

ahead again, and that the ploughed fields had (as Birch predicted) told

on a good portion of the pack, who now (at least, those of them who were

at all well up) scarcely numbered a dozen.

Half a mile farther brought us to Wincot village, down the main street

of which we sped, greatly to the admiration of the inhabitants, who

turned out in force to see the sport.

By this time we had fairly got our "second winds," and began to realise

the benefit of the steady training of the past fortnight. At an

ordinary pace, with the second wind well laid on, we felt we ought to be

able to hold out for the run home, unless some very unexpected accident

should intervene.

Past the village, we rattled on till we came to the railway embankment,

across which we trespassed, not without some difficulty, as it was steep

and railed off on either side by high palisades. Once over this, we

turned at right angles, and ran for half a mile close alongside the

line, and past Wincot station. Here it was necessary to recross the

line (down a cutting this time), and as we were doing so we caught

sight, on our left, of the leading hounds scrambling to the top of the

embankment, which we had passed only a minute or two before.

Clear of the railway, there remained a good steady piece of work cut out

for us to reach home, across an awful country, full of hedges and

ditches, and as hilly as a pie-crust.

But Birch and I were well in the humour of the thing by this time, and

determined it should not be our fault if the "great hunt" of this year

ended in a victory for the hounds. So we spurted for nearly a mile,

jumping most of the narrow ditches and low hedges that crossed our path,

and making as straight a course as the hilly ground allowed of. But,

despite all our efforts, the occasional glimpses which we caught of our

pursuers showed us that we were unable to shake off four or five of the

leading hounds, who, with Forwood at their head, were coming on at a

great pace, and, if not gaining on us, at least not losing ground.

This would never do. It would be all up if things went on so, we could

see; so the cunning Birch had once again to resort to his dodges to gain

time.

Suddenly altering our track, and leaving the fields, he struck a dusty

lane, which wound in and out in the direction of Parkhurst. Now, as

this was a very dusty and a very chalky lane, and as the wind was

blowing the dust about very freely, it was easy to see why the artful

Birch made use of it on the present occasion. Our white scraps of

paper, falling on the white road, and being fallen on by the white dust,

had a good chance of escaping detection, unless looked after very

carefully; and to make matters more secure, we dodged off into the

fields, and back again into the lane, pretty often, leaving our pursuers

a ditch to jump each time.

This manoeuvre answered fairly well, for the next time we saw the hounds

they were searching about by the side of a ditch for our track, a good

way to the rear.

We had now to face the hardest bit of work of the afternoon. The last

two miles home were over a perfectly flat bit of country--so flat that

the hounds would have us in view nearly all the way, and, consequently,

to dodge or double would be simply useless. Our only course was a

straight hard run for it, trusting to our legs and our wind to pull us

through. So we settled down to the task with a will. Scarcely had we

emerged into the open ground for a couple of minutes, when we saw a

figure dash out of the lane in full cry after us.

It was Forwood, the whipper-in, a terrible "scud" across country, and he

was only fifty yards or so ahead of three others, also celebrated for

their pace. So we hares had our work cut out for us, and no mistake!

For a mile we ran as hard as we well could, turning neither to right nor

left, and halting neither at ditch nor dyke. Parkhurst Towers rose

before us in the distance, and more than one boy was already strolling

out in our direction to witness the finish.

How we wished we were as fresh as they!

"Put it on, hares!" shouted the first who met us, "you'll do it yet."

"Hounds are gaining!" cried the next we passed--a young urchin sitting

on a bank and eating toffee.

And now there met us not single spectators only, but groups, who cheered

loudly, backing, some the hares and some the hounds, till we hardly knew

where we were. Some even began to run along with us, at a respectful

distance, in order to be "in at the death."

The playground wall was now visible only half a mile away, on the other

side of the Gravelshire Canal, which had to be crossed by a bridge which

we were fast approaching.

I gave a rapid look back. Forwood was now only a hundred yards behind

us, with lots of running still in him. He would certainly run us down

in the next half-mile.

"Birch," I said, as I ran beside him, "are you good for a swim?"

"Rather!" he exclaimed; "if you are. Quick!"

We swerved suddenly in our course, and, to the amazement of all

spectators, left the bridge on our left. In another minute we were on

the margin of the canal, and the next moment the splash of a double

"header," and the shouts of the assembled onlookers, proclaimed that we

had made a plunge for it. The canal was only about thirty feet wide,

and we were across it in a twinkling, our light flannel clothes scarcely

interfering with our swimming, and certainly not adding much to the

weight we carried after being soaked through.

Three hundred yards now! Ah! that cheer behind means that Forwood has

followed our plunge. What are they laughing at, though? Can he have

foundered? No! Another shout! That means he is safe over, and hard at

our heels.

For the last three hundred yards we run a regular steeplechase. The

meadows are intersected with lines of hurdles, and these we take one

after another in our run, as hard as we can. Only one more, and then we

are safe!

Suddenly I find myself on my face on the grass! I have caught on the

last hurdle, and come to grief!

Birch in an instant hauls me to my feet, just as Forwood rises to the

leap. Then for a hundred yards it is a race for very life. What a

shouting there is! and what a rushing of boys and waving of caps pass

before our eyes! On comes Forwood, the gallant hound, at our heels; we

can hear him behind us distinctly!

"Now you have them!" shouts one.

"One spurt more, hares!" cries another, "and you are safe!"

On we bound, and on comes the pursuer, not ten yards behind--not _ten_,

but more than _five_. And that five he never makes up till Birch and I

are safe inside the school-gates, winners by a neck--and a neck only--of

that famous hunt.

The pack came straggling in for the next hour, amid the cheers and

chaffing of the boys. Three of them, who had kept neck and neck all the

way, were only two minutes behind Forwood; but they had shirked the

swim, and taken the higher and drier course--as, indeed, most of the

other hounds did--by way of the bridge. Ten minutes after them one

other fellow turned up, and a quarter of an hour later three more; and

so on until the whole pack had run, or walked, or limped, or ridden

home--all except one, little Jim Barlow, the tiniest and youngest and

pluckiest little hound that ever crossed country. We were all anxious

to know what had become of this small chap of thirteen, who, some one

said, ought never to have been allowed to start on such a big run, with

his little legs. "Wait a bit," said Forwood; "Jim will turn up before

long, safe and sound, you'll see."

It was nearly dusk, and a good two hours after the finish. We were

sitting in the big hall, talking and laughing over the events of the

afternoon, when there came a sound of feet on the gravel walk,

accompanied by a vehement puffing, outside the window.

"There he is!" exclaimed Forwood, "and, I declare, running still!"

And so it was. In a minute the door swung open, and in trotted little

Jim, dripping wet, coated with mud, and panting like a steam-engine, but

otherwise as self-composed as usual.

"How long have you fellows been in?" he demanded of us, as he sat down

and began to lug off his wet boots.

"Two hours," replied Birch.

The little hero looked a trifle mortified to find he was so far behind,

and we were quite sorry for him.

"Never mind," he said, "I ran on the scent every inch of the way, and

only pulled up once, at Wincot, for five minutes."

"You did!" exclaimed one or two voices, as we all stared admiringly at

this determined young hound.

"Yes; and a nice dance you gave a chap my size over the railway and

across those ditches! But I didn't miss a single one of them, all the

same."

"But what did you do at the canal?" asked Forwood.

"Why, swam it, of course--obliged to do it, wasn't I, if the hares went

that way? I say, is there any grub going?"

Plucky little Jim Barlow! After all, he was the hero of that "big

hunt," though he did come in two hours late.

This was the last big "hare and hounds" I ever ran in. I have many a

time since ridden with a real hunt over the same country, but never have

I experienced the same thrill of excitement or known the same exultation

at success as when I ran home with Birch, two seconds ahead of the

hounds, in the famous Parkhurst Paper-chase of 18 hundred and something.

CHAPTER THREE.

THE PARKHURST BOAT-RACE.

"Adams is wanted down at the boat-house!" Such was the sound which

greeted my ears one Saturday afternoon as I lolled about in the

playground at Parkhurst, doing nothing. I jumped up as if I had been

shot, and asked the small boy who brought the message who wanted me.

"Blades does; you've got to cox the boat this afternoon instead of

Wilson. Look sharp!" he said, "as they're waiting to start."

Off I went, without another word, filled with mingled feelings of

wonder, pride, and trepidation. I knew Wilson, the former coxswain of

the school boat, had been taken ill and left Parkhurst, but this was the

first I had ever heard of my being selected to take his place. True, I

had steered the boat occasionally when no one else could be got, and on

such occasions had managed to keep a moderately good course up the Two

Mile Reach, but I had never dreamed of such a pitch of good fortune as

being called to occupy that seat as a fixture.

But now it wanted only a week of the great race with the Old Boys, and

here was I summoned to take charge of the rudder at the eleventh hour,

which of course meant I would have to steer the boat on the occasion of

the race! No wonder, then, I was half daft with excitement as I hurried

down to the boathouse in obedience to the summons of Blades, the stroke

of the Parkhurst Four.

I should explain that at Parkhurst we were peculiarly favoured in the

matter of boating. The River Colven flowed through the town only half a

mile from the school boundaries, and being at that place but a short

distance from the sea, it was some fifty yards broad, a clear, deep

stream, just the sort of water one would choose for rowing. There was

no lock for six miles or so up, and the few craft which came in from the

sea rarely proceeded beyond Parkhurst; so that we had a long,

uninterrupted stretch of water for our boats, which, as soon as ever the

spring set in, and the weather became too hot for football and hare and

hounds, appeared in force every half-holiday on its surface.

Some of the fellows on such occasions used to amuse themselves by

starting off for a long, leisurely grind up-stream; or else with set

sail to tack down the lower reaches towards the sea; but most of us who

laid claim in any degree to the name of enthusiastic oarsmen, confined

our operations mainly to the Two Mile Reach, on which most of the club

races were rowed, chief of which was the Old Boys' Race, already

referred to.

This race had been instituted some years before my time at the school,

by an old Parkhurstian, who presented a cup, to be rowed for annually,

between the best four-oared crew of the present school, and any crew of

old pupils who had been at Parkhurst within two years.

This race was the all-absorbing topic in our boat-club for several weeks

before the event. How carefully the crew were selected, how strictly

they trained, how patiently Mr Blunt, one of the masters, and an old

Cambridge oar, "coached" or tutored them; how regularly the boat went

over the course morning after morning, before breakfast; how eagerly the

fellows criticised or commended the rowers; how impatiently we all

looked forward to the coming contest!

This year our prospects were doubtful. The Old Boys had got together a

strong crew, who were reported by some who had been over to see them to

be very fast, and in splendid form; while we, at the last moment, had

had the disadvantage to lose our coxswain and have to fill his place

with a less experienced hand. Still, the school "four" was a good one,

carefully drilled, with plenty of power; one which Mr Blunt pronounced

ought to hold its own with any other average crew. So, on the whole,

there was no saying how the chances stood.

I found I had all my work before me to get accustomed to my new duties

before the day of the race. Daily I was out with the four, and several

times besides I was taken over the course in a punt, and carefully shown

all the shallows, and bends, and eddies of the stream, and made familiar

with the ins and outs of either bank.

Luckily, I was a light weight to begin with, so that I did not lose much

by my limited period of training, being indeed not so heavy as the

former coxswain of the boat, whom I had succeeded.

Well, the eventful day came at last. The Old Boys arrived the day

before, and from the two trial rows which they took over the course, we

could see they were a first-rate crew and formidable opponents. Still

our "coach," who had watched them minutely, told us we had the better

stroke of the two, and if we could only hold out, ought to win after

all. This was comforting information, for the showy style of our

opponents had struck terror into not a few of those whose sympathies

were on the side of the present boys.

The school turned out in force to witness the event. The towing-path

was lined with spectators, many of them from a distance, attracted by

the prospect of an exciting race. A goodly muster of old fellows

revisited the haunts of their school days, and congregated about the

winning-post, while others, of a more athletic turn, prepared to run

along with the race from beginning to end.

Meanwhile, in the boat-house, we had stripped for action and launched

our boat. As we were ready to put off, and make for the starting-point,

Mr Blunt came up and said to Blades, our "stroke",--

"Now remember, row a steady stroke all through. Don't be flurried if

they get the best of the start. If you can stick to them the first half

of the way, you ought to be able to row them down in the last; and mind,

Adams," he said, addressing me, "don't let them force you out of your

straight course, and don't waste time in trying to bother them. Keep as

straight as an arrow, and you can't go wrong."

As our fellows put off for the starting-place, their long clean stroke

elicited no little admiration from the onlookers, who saw much in it

that augured well for the success of our boat. Thanks to Mr Blunt, our

crew had learned to master that steady, strong sweep of the oars which

is universally admitted to be the perfection of rowing style and the

most serviceable of all strokes. Rowed well through from first to last,

gripping the water the instant the oar is back and the body and arms

forward, and dragged clean through without jerk or plunge, the swing of

the bodies regular as clockwork, the feather clear and rapid--this

essentially is the kind of rowing which not only puts most pace into the

boat, but is capable of being sustained far longer than any other.

Not long after us our opponents embarked, and we had an opportunity of

criticising their style as they paddled up to where we lay waiting for

them. It certainly looked pretty and taking. The stroke was quicker

than ours, and equally regular, but it seemed to end in a spasmodic jerk

as the oars left the water, which, though it succeeded in making the

boat travel quickly, appeared to try the powers of the rowers rather

more than our style did. Still, there was no mistaking that they were a

fast and a powerful crew, and I remember to this day the passing

thought, "I wish we were at the end of it!" that flashed through my mind

as I gathered my rudder lines together, ready for the start.

Mr Blunt is to act as starter, and is coming towards us in a boat, with

his watch in his hand. Our rivals' boat is lying close beside ours, and

I can see their stroke is leaning forward and saying something to the

coxswain. I wonder it it's about me? Perhaps he is telling him to push

me out of my course, or perhaps they are saying how nervous I am

looking! Well, I _am_ nervous. I begin to think I shall forget which

way I have to go. Perhaps I shall pull the right-hand line instead of

the left; or possibly I shall omit to pull either line at all! What

lasting disgrace will then be mine! Then suddenly I remember what Mr

Blunt said, that it's all up with a race if the "cox" loses his head,

and by a violent effort I banish my qualms, and resolve, come what may,

_nothing_ shall unsteady me. Still, my hands tremble as I grasp the

lines.

"Adams," says Blades, "make my stretcher fast, will you?"

The voice of a human being close to me, somehow, has the effect of

helping me to recover my wits completely; and as I kneel and make fast

the stretcher, and then once again take my seat in the stern of the

boat, I feel quite myself again, and wonder at myself for being such an

ass.

"Back water half a stroke!" calls out Mr Blunt to us from his skiff.

We obey him, and then find the other boat is a little in front of us.

We therefore move a quarter of a stroke forward. Still the boats are

not quite level. The other boat must come back a foot or two. Not

quite enough; our boat must advance a few inches. There, now they are

level.

"Are you ready?" No, our boat has drifted forward again, and must be

moved back. All this takes time, but presently we are once again level,

and the question is repeated--

"Are you ready?"

The only answer this time is the leaning forward of both crews, with

arms stretched and oars well back, in readiness for the signal.

What ages it seems! And there I actually the wind has blown our rivals'

bows across the stream, and before we start another two minutes must be

spent in manoeuvring her back into position. Once again--

"Are you ready?"

No answer, save the quick reach forward and silent suspense.

"Then go!" and I feel the boat half lifted in the water under me. The

first stroke is rather a scramble, and so is the second, but by the

third the boat has begun to get its "way" on, and in a stroke or two

more our men have settled down to their customary swing.

But what of our opponents? At the first stroke their boat had dashed

away an inch or two in advance of ours, at the third that distance had

become a foot, and presently they were far enough ahead to enable me to

catch sight of their coxswain's back. As we both settled down to work,

they were rowing at a considerably quicker pace than we, wrenching the

boat forward at each stroke, and inch by inch improving their advantage.

All this I noticed before the shout with which the spectators hailed the

start had died away. I had a dim vision of a body of runners starting

along with us on the banks, and of eager cries to one crew or the other

from sympathising onlookers; but I had enough to do to keep my eye fixed

ahead, without gaping at the crowd.

Remembering Mr Blunt's advice, I selected a landmark in front, and

steered our course direct for it; a plan of which I had cause to be glad

pretty early in the race. For the Old Boys' boat, drawing steadily

ahead to about half a boat's length, began very gradually to insinuate

its nose a little over in our direction, so that, had I not had a fixed

point on which to steer, I should have been strongly tempted to give way

unwittingly before it, and so abandon an inch or two of the water that

fairly belonged to our boat. As it was, however, I was able both to

detect and defeat this manoeuvre, for, keeping on a perfectly straight

course, the others were obliged to draw in their horns, and return to a

straight course too, having lost some little ground in the process.

Still, they seemed to be forging ahead, and the shouts from the banks

announced that thus far, at any rate the Parkhurst boat was getting the

worst of it.

I stole a look at Blades. His face was composed and unconcerned, and it

was easy to see he knew what he was about. He kept up his long steady

swing, being well backed up by the three men behind him, and lifted the

boat well at the beginning of the stroke, never letting it down till the

end. I could see that he knew exactly how far the others were ahead,

and at what rate they were rowing; and yet he neither quickened nor

altered his stroke, but plodded on with such a look of easy confidence

that I at once felt quite satisfied in my own mind as to the result. It

was not long before our opponents gave indication of abating somewhat

the quick stroke they had hitherto maintained, and by virtue of which

they had already got nearly a boat's length ahead. At the same moment

Blades slightly quickened his stroke, and instantly our boat began to

crawl up alongside that of our rivals, amid the frantic cheers of the

onlookers. Slowly and surely we forged ahead, till our stroke's oar was

level with their coxswain. Then a spurt from the Old Boys kept the two

boats abreast for a few seconds, but it died away after a little, and

once more their boat travelled slowly back, as we drew level, and began

in our turn to take the lead. Now was our time to--

What is that ahead on the water, drifting right across the bows of our

boat? A shout from the banks apprises me that others besides myself

have taken the sudden alarm. An empty boat, insecurely moored to the

bank, has got adrift, and is calmly floating up with the tide in mid-

stream along our very course! What is to be done? The other boat,

being on the opposite side, can easily clear the obstacle, but not so

ours. Either we must put our bows across our enemy's water, and so run

the risk of a "foul," and consequent defeat, or else we must lose ground

by slackening our pace and going out of our course to avoid the unlucky

boat. There are not ten seconds in which to decide; but that suffices

me to choose the latter alternative, trusting to the rowing powers of

our crew to make up the disadvantage.

"Look to your oars, stroke side!" I cry, and at the same time pull my

rudder line quickly.

It was as I expected. The boat lost ground instantly, and I could see,

out of the corner of my eye, the Old Boys' boat shoot forward with a

quickened stroke, and hear the triumphant shouts of their partisans.

A second or two sufficed to get past the obstructing boat, our oars on

the stroke side just scraping it as we did so; but as we headed again

into our proper course, we saw our opponents two clear boats' lengths in

front, their men pulling with all the energy of triumph and confidence.

It was a sight to make one despair. How were we ever to make up that

tremendous gap?

"How much?" Blades inquires, as he swings forward towards me.

"Two!" I reply.

He sets his face determinedly, and quickens his stroke. The men behind

him do not at first get into the altered swing, and for a moment or two

the rowing is scrambling, and our boat rolls unsteadily, a spectacle

hailed with increased joy by the partisans of the Old Boys' boat.

"Steady now!" cries Blades, over his shoulder, and next moment the boat

rights itself; the four oars dip and feather simultaneously. I, sitting

in the stern, can feel the swing as of one man, and the boat dashes

forward like a machine. Our fellows on the banks mark the change and

cheer tremendously.

"Well spurted, Parkhurst!" "Put it on now!" "You're gaining!" "Rowed

indeed!" Such were the cries which, as I heard them, set my blood

tingling with excitement.

It was a long time before any perceptible gain was noticeable from where

I sat. The Old Boys had taken advantage of their lead to come across

into our water, and all I could see of them was the blades of their oars

on in front, which rose and fell swiftly and with a regular beat.

Still the shout from the bank was, "You're gaining!" and presently I saw

their boat edging off again into their own water, by which I concluded

we had pulled up sufficiently to make this necessary to avoid a foul.

Our men pulled splendidly. Cool, determined, and plucky, each rowed his

best, his eyes fixed on the back of the man before him, keeping perfect

time, and pulling each stroke through with terrible energy. I could see

by their pale looks that they shared the common excitement, but there

was no sign of flurry or distress, nothing but a quiet determination,

which augured better for the result of their efforts than all the shouts

of the onlookers.

Where are we now? Those willows on my left are, I know, just half a

mile from the winning-post. Shall we, in that distance, be able to pull

up the length which now divides us and our rivals? There is a chance

yet! The leading boat is not going as fast as it was a minute ago. I

can tell that by the eddies from their oars which sweep past.

"How much?" inquired Blades again, as he swung forward.

"One!" I replied.

I could see by the gleam in his eyes that he had hope still of making

that one length nothing before the winning-post was reached.

That shout from the bank means something, surely!

"Well rowed indeed, Parkhurst!"

"They're overlapped!"

Yes, those who could see it were watching the little pink flag at the

prow of our boat creeping, inch by inch, up the stern of our rivals'.

The eddies from their oars came past nearer now, and the "thud" of their

outriggers sounded closer.

Yes, we are gaining without doubt; but shall we overtake them in time to

avoid defeat? I can see a mass of people ahead on the banks, and know

that they are gathered opposite the winning-post. It can't be a quarter

of a mile off now!

Again that shout from the bank. Ah, yes, our bow oar is level with

their stroke. "Now you have it!" shout our fellows.

Blades turns his head for half a second, and cries to his men as he

quickens up to his final spurt.

What a shout then rent the air! Our boat no longer crawled up beside

the Old Boys, but began to fly. On, on! Their coxswain seems to be

gliding backwards towards me. In vain they attempt to answer our spurt;

they have not the rowing left in them to do it. Nothing can stop us!

In another moment we are abreast, and almost instantly there come such

cheers after cheers from the bank that even the dash of the oars was

drowned in it.

"Parkhurst's ahead!"

"Ah, well rowed!"

"Now, Old Boys!"

"It's a win!"

On, on! What sensation so glorious, so madly exciting, as that of one

of the crew of a winning boat within twenty yards of the goal? I am

tempted to shout, to wave my hat, to do something ridiculous, but I set

my teeth and sit still, holding my breath. Four strokes more will do

it. One! I am level with the stroke of the Old Boys' boat. Two! Our

fellows pull as if they had another half-mile to go still. Three! The

judge at the winning-post is lifting his hand and cocking his pistol.

Four! Crack goes the signal! and as our men cease rowing, and the boat

shoots forward with the impetus of that last terrific stroke, amid the

cheers and shouts of the assembled crowd, I breathe again, knowing that

the Parkhurst boat has won, by three yards, the grandest race in which

it was ever my lot to take part.

CHAPTER FOUR.

PARKHURST VERSUS WESTFIELD.

"Now, Parkhurst, turn out sharp! They are going in first." So shouted

Steel, the captain of our eleven, putting his head in at the door of the

tent in which we were arraying ourselves in flannels and spiked shoes,

and otherwise arming for the great match against Westfield School, which

was now about to commence.

We always looked upon these Westfield fellows as our most dangerous

rivals on the cricket field (much in the light in which we esteemed

Craven where football was concerned), and the match in which our

respective pretensions were yearly settled was, I need hardly say,

regarded as _the_ match of the season, and made the object of untiring

practice and feverish excitement.

Year after year, for twelve years, our rival elevens had met, always on

the last Saturday of June, one year at Parkhurst and the next at

Westfield, and so far the result had been that each school had won six

matches. Fancy then the state of our feelings this year, as we started

off in the early morning on our omnibus from Parkhurst, to engage in the

decisive contest which (unless it ended in a draw) must turn the balance

either in favour of our school, or to the glorification of our rivals.

We could not bear to think of the possibility of a defeat; it would be

too tragical, too shameful. So as we drove over to Westfield that

morning, we talked of nothing but victory, and felt very like those

determined old Spartans who, when they went to the wars, made a vow they

would return either with their shields or on them.

Of course there was a regular swarm of people to see the match. Old

Parkhurst "bats," who had played in the first match, thirteen years ago,

were there, with big beards, and very majestic to look at; Old Boys, now

settled in life, were there with their wives and children; carriages

full of our own and Westfield's fathers and mothers; and shoals of young

brothers and sisters, crammed the space beyond the flags; the "doctors,"

as usual, had driven over; and almost gave offence to some of our most

enthusiastic partisans by "chumming up" publicly with the head master of

our rivals! And then, besides, there was a host of outsiders, drawn

together by simple curiosity or love of cricket; so that altogether, as

we emerged from our tent in our snow-white flannels and pink belts, we

felt that the eyes of the world were upon us, and were more convinced

than ever that anything short of victory would be the most terrible of

all calamities which could fall on our youthful heads.

Our great hope was in Steel, our captain, one of the best cricketers

Parkhurst had ever produced; and for coolness and self-confidence

without his equal anywhere. We all adored him, for he never snubbed

youngsters, or made light of their doings. If, during practice, a

fellow bowled, batted, or fielded well, Steel took care to encourage

him; but if any one played carelessly, or bungled, Steel scowled, and

that unlucky man's name disappeared for a season from the list of

candidates for a place in the first eleven.

See him now stroll up to the wickets, with his wicket-keeping pads on,

talking on the way to one of the two men who are to officiate first with

their bats on behalf of Westfield.

We youngsters can't understand such coolness, and keep our eyes on him,

as if every moment we expected to see him fell his rival to the earth.

It's a great matter to be used to a thing. I, who was now making my

first appearance in the first eleven, felt as if the world began,

continued, and ended within the area of this Westfield meadow; but here

was some one who, to all appearances, made no more of the great match

than he would of his dinner.

But away now with all thoughts but cricket! The ball we have been

tossing about idly is taken into custody by the umpire; Steel is behind

the wickets, looking round to see if we fielders are all in our places,

and motioning one or two of us to stand deeper or closer in, as he deems

advisable. The Westfield batsman who is to receive the first over is

getting "middle"; our bowler is tucking up his sleeves, and gripping the

brand-new ball in his hand; the ground-keeper is chasing a few small

boys back behind the ropes; and the scorers in the big tent are dipping

their pens in the ink.

Altogether, it is a critical moment in my life--a moment that seems as

long as a whole day.

"Play!" cries the umpire; and our bowler delivers his first ball--not a

very alarming one, and evidently meant more as a test of the ball and

the pitch than as a serious attack on the enemy's wicket. My readers of

course do not expect me to give a full, true, and particular account of

every ball bowled on that eventful day. That would be as tedious for

them as for me. But I shall do my best to recall the chief features of

the game as they presented themselves to me from my post, first at

cover-point, and (while our side was batting) from the tent and the

wickets.

The first few overs were not eventful. They rarely are. Our men had to

get used to the ground and the ball; and the batsmen chose to be

exceedingly careful how they hit out at first. In the third over a

single run was made, and of course the Westfield fellows cheered as if

the match were already won. Then gradually came one or two more

singles, a two, another one, a three, and then, just as the two batsmen

were getting into good humour and fancying they might lay about them a

little more freely, down went the first wicket amid the cheers of our

fellows, and we saw the figures 12 posted up on the telegraph, as

indicating the score so far standing to the credit of Westfield.

We had not long to wait for the next man in, and still less long to see

him out, poor fellow! for the very first ball sent his bails flying over

Steel's head, and he had to trudge back to the tent and take off his

pads almost before he had got used to the feel of them on his legs.

In the over following the arrival of his successor an easy catch by

point disposed of another wicket.

"This is something like!" I exclaimed to myself. "Three men out for

fourteen runs. If it goes on like this, we shall have it all our own

way"; and in my satisfaction I ventured to communicate my ideas to the

man fielding at point.

"Adams, will you attend to the game?" It was Steel who spoke, and at

the sound of his voice I started like one shot, and discovered that the

next man was in and ready to begin. I stepped back to my place in an

instant, and would sooner have had one of Hurley's swiftest balls catch

me on the bare shin than be thus publicly called to order before the

whole field. I can safely say that never in my life since that moment

have I caught myself talking during "play" in a cricket match.

I felt in disgrace, and got nervous; I dared not look at Steel, for fear

of meeting his eye. I wished myself a mile away, and repented of my

satisfaction of being in the first eleven. Most devoutly I hoped no

ball would chance near me, as I should assuredly miss it. As the

thought passed my mind the man who was batting cut a ball hard and low

in my direction. It was so hard and so low that under any circumstances

it would have been a most difficult ball to field, still more to catch.

It flew towards me a few inches from the ground, and I was in despair.

I knew every eye in the field was on me--Steel's in particular. Here

would be some hundreds of witnesses to my utter imbecility! Would that

the ground would swallow me! I sprang forward and tripped as I sprang.

In my fall the ball dashed into my hand, and fell from it to the earth.

I had missed the catch, and my disgrace was complete. Fancy then my

astonishment when I heard Steel's awful voice cry, "Well tried, sir!"

and when a distant sound of clapping reached me from the tents! I could

not understand it at first; but I afterwards found out that by my lucky

trip I had more nearly succeeded in catching the ball than a more

experienced player would have done had he kept his balance, and so I got

credit for a good piece of play which I did not in the least deserve.

However, it served to recover me from my nervousness and bad spirits,

and incite me to a desire to accomplish something for which I could

honestly take credit.

Never was such a determination more called for than now. Driver, the

captain of the Westfield eleven, was at the wickets, a most tremendous

hitter. All bowling came alike to him. The swifter the ball the

happier he was; sending one over the bowler's head, another nearly into

the scorers' tent, another among the spectators behind the ropes. The

score, hitherto so slow, began to fly up. Forty, fifty, sixty, seventy

we saw posted up in rapid succession, and wondered how it all would end.

He seemed to have as many lives as a cat. Some easy catches were

missed, and some "runs out" were only just avoided. Still he scored, no

matter who his partner was (and one or two came and went while he was

in); he hit away merrily, and the cheers of Westfield grew almost

monotonous from their frequency.

We on the "off" side, however, had not much to do, for nearly all

Driver's hits were to the "on," and, curiously enough, nearly all found

their way between two of our men, the "mid-wicket on" and the "long on,"

just out of the reach of either. I could not help wondering why neither

of these fellows altered his place, so as to guard the weak point.

It is curious how sometimes in cricket the same thing occurs to two

people at the same time. While I was inwardly speculating on the result

of this change of position, Steel appeared to become aware of the same

necessity, for I saw him behind the batsman's back silently motioning

"mid-wicket on" to stand farther back, and "mid on" to come round to a

"square" position. This manoeuvre, however, did not escape the wily

Driver, who sent his next ball to leg, and the next to the identical

spot "mid-wicket on" had just quitted. Still, Steel motioned to them to

remain in their new posts. He knew well enough that if a man has a

habit of hitting in any one direction, however studiously he tries to

avoid the place. Nature will sooner or later assert herself, and the

ball will fly where it has been wont to fly. So it was in this case.

He could _not_ resist an impulse to lift one specially tempting ball in

the direction of his old haunt, and sure enough in so doing he sent it

clean into "long on's" hands, and with his own innings ended, to our

great relief, the innings of his side, for a total score of 174, of

which he had contributed quite the odd 74.

It was a good round score to overtake, and things did not promise

cheerfully for us at the commencement of our innings. The Westfield men

were happy in possessing two swift bowlers, who made havoc of the first

two or three on our side who presented themselves. I was one of these.

When I started for the wickets, armed with pads and gloves and bat, I

did not feel happy; still, I was in hopes I might at least succeed in

"breaking my duck's egg," which was more than could be said for either

of my predecessors.

I felt rather important as I requested the umpire to give me "middle,"

and hammered the mark a little with my bat. Still, my feet fidgeted;

there was a sort of "cobwebby" feeling on my face, and a tickling

sensation in the small of my back, as I stood ready for my first ball,

which convinced me I was by no means at home in my new position.

"Play!" cries the umpire.

The bowler starts to run, with arm extended. He makes a sort of curve

round the wicket, and balances himself on one foot as he discharges his

ball. It comes like lightning, right on to my bat, twisting it in my

grasp, and then is snatched up in an instant by "point," who tosses it

to the wicket-keeper, who returns it to the bowler. All this is very

alarming. Here are eleven men banded together with the one object of

putting me out, and they are all so quiet and determined about it that I

feel like a guilty thing as I stand there to defend my wicket.

The bowler starts again for his sinuous run, and again the ball whizzes

from his hand. I lift my bat in an attempt to strike it; it slips under

it; there is a little "click" behind my back, and then the ball flies

aloft, and I discover that my services at the wicket are no longer

required.

So ended my first innings. Happily for our side, some of the men who

went in afterwards made a better show than we three unfortunates who had

opened the ball had done. Steel made forty, and two others about twenty

each, which, added to the odds and ends contributed by the rest of our

side, brought the Parkhurst score up to 102--72 runs behind our

competitors.

There was great jubilation among the Westfield partisans, as their

heroes entered on their second innings under such promising auspices,

especially when the redoubtable Driver went in first with the bat which

had wrought such wonders in the former innings. There seemed every

probability, too, of his repeating his late performance with even

greater vigour, for the first ball which reached him he sent flying far

and high right over the tents for six, a magnificent hit, which fairly

deserved the praise it received, not from the Westfield fellows only,

but from ours, who for a moment could forget their rivalry to admire a

great exploit. The next three balls were delivered to his partner at

the wickets, who blocked carefully, evidently bent on acting on the

defensive while his companion made the running. From the fifth ball of

that over a bye was scored, which brought Driver once again to the end

facing the bowler. The next ball came slightly to the "off," and he

tried to cut it. Either he miscalculated, or was careless about the

direction he gave it, for he lodged it clean into my hands, a safe and

easy catch, but a catch of enormous importance to our side, as it

disposed once and for all of our most dreaded opponent.

Bereft of their champion, the Westfield fellows only succeeded in

putting together the moderate score of fifty in their second innings, of

which twenty-four were contributed by one man. So our spirits revived

somewhat, as we discovered we had only 123 to make to win. That was

indeed plenty against such bowling, but it was a good deal less than we

had dreaded.

Well, the decisive innings began, as soon as we had fortified ourselves

with lunch, provided for us by our hospitable rivals. The afternoon was

getting on, but still the crowd of spectators kept together patiently,

determined to see the end of the match.

"Shall we do it?" I heard some one ask of Steel.

"Do what?" was the evasive reply.

"Win," said the other.

"How do I know?" was our captain's curt answer.

If there was one thing that annoyed Steel above others, it was to be

asked foolish questions.

He sent in two steady men first, with orders not to be in a hurry to

score, but to "break the back" of the bowling. And this advice they

faithfully acted upon. For over after over there was nothing but

blocking. In vain the bowlers strained every nerve to get round or

under those stubborn bats. They could not do it! Runs came few and far

between--the field had nothing to do--and altogether the game became

very monotonous. But those fellows did better service to our side than

many who scored more and played in more brilliant style. We could see

their prolonged stand was not without its effect on the Westfield

bowlers. Their bowling became less and less steady, and their style

seemed to lose its precision, as ball after ball fell hopelessly off

those obstinate bats. This was evidently just what Steel wanted, and we

could tell by his frequent "Played, sir!" how thoroughly he approved of

the steady discipline of his men. After a time the very monotony of the

game seemed to excite the spectators, who answered each neat "block"

with a cheer, which showed they, too, could appreciate the tactics of

our captain.

It was getting desperate for Westfield, and humiliating too, when one of

their bowlers happened to change his style. Instead of the slashing

round-arm balls which he had hitherto sent in, he suddenly and without

warning put in an underhand lob--an easy, slow, tempting ball,

apparently bound to rise exactly on the player's bat.

Our man fell into the snare. I could hear Steel, who was near me,

groan, as we watched him lift the bat which had till now remained so

well under control, and stepping forward prepare for a terrific "slog."

Alas! the deceitful ball never rose at all, but pitching quietly a foot

before the crease, shot forward along the ground, and found its way at

last to the wicket, amid the tremendous shouts of all the crowd.

A parting being thus made between the two steady partners, the survivor,

as is so often the case, did not long remain behind his companion, and

when Steel went in, three wickets had already fallen with only fifteen

runs.

Will our captain save us from defeat? See him stand coolly at the

wicket--how sure of himself he seems!--how indifferent to that imposing

combination of bowlers and fielders which surround him! He takes his

time to get comfortably settled at his wicket, and kneels down to

tighten a shoestring, as if nobody was waiting for him. Then pulling

down the peak of his cap to shade his eyes from the sun, he leisurely

turns his face to the bowler, and announces himself ready for the worst

that desperate character can do to him.

We watched breathlessly the result of his first over, and with an

excitement strangely in contrast with the indifferent and apparently

careless demeanour of the batsman himself. It was soon apparent,

however, that we might dismiss all anxiety from our minds as to his

safety, for he set briskly to work, punishing every ball that came to

him, yet never giving a single chance. I have rarely seen such good

"all-round play." Unlike the Westfield captain, who was strong only on

the leg side of the wicket, he was thoroughly at home from whatever side

the attack was delivered. Some balls he hit to "leg," and some he cut

with terrific force past "cover-point." No ball came amiss to him; he

was up to "twisters," and "lobs," and "thunderbolts," and walked into

them all with faultless dexterity.

Up went our score. Twenty grew to forty, and forty to fifty. It was

all a matter of time now. If the five remaining men still to go in

could together make a stand long enough to enable him to overtake the

enemy's score, he would assuredly do it, unless some unforeseen accident

prevented it. Of these five I was next in order; nor was it long before

my turn arrived, and I found myself sallying forth to join my captain at

the wickets. Remembering the poor figure I had cut in the first

innings, I was not very sanguine of distinguishing myself on this

occasion. Still, there was something in being opposite Steel which gave

me confidence, and relieved me of the nervous sensations which marked my

late _debut_.

The first ball or two after my arrival fell to the lot of Steel, who

sent them flying promptly, and gave me some running to do in

consequence. This helped still more to make me comfortable, so that

when at last my turn came to be bowled at, I experienced none of the

desolate feeling which had rendered my former brief innings so unhappy.

I manage to block the first ball, and the second also. Then comes a

third, under which I contrive to get my bat and send it flying.

"Come!" shouts Steel, and I run.

"Another!" he cries; and I run again, and am safe back before the ball

returns to the wicket-keeper's hands.

Positively I had scored two! I felt as proud as if I had been elected

an M.P. The next ball went for two more, and I could hear a cheer from

the tent, which made me feel very valiant. I glanced to the signal-

board; our score was ninety-six, only twenty-seven to win! Why should

not I be able to hold out until Steel made up the figure, and so defeat

Westfield by four wickets? At any rate I would try; and I sent my next

ball for a single.

Then it was Steel's turn to bat. Of course he would send it flying.

Horrors! He has missed it! A deafening shout proclaims that his

glorious innings is at an end, and I feel like an orphan as I watch him,

with his bat under his arm, quitting the wicket at which he had put

together sixty-six runs in as fine a style as any player ever did. It

was good to hear the applause which welcomed him back to the tent.

But what was to become of us? Here were twenty-six runs to get, and the

four weakest batsmen of our side to play. However, one can but do his

best.

So I played as carefully as I could, becoming gradually accustomed to

the bowling, and knocking an occasional one or two on to the score. My

new companion, however, kept me company but a short time, and his

successor shorter still. This fellow coming in now is our last man.

Will he and I ever be able to stick together till these fifteen runs

which are now required can be made up?

"Steady, Tom," I whisper, as he passes me on the way to his wicket. He

winks his answer.

It is a responsible thing for us two youngsters, with the whole fate of

the school depending on us. But we keep cool, and play our very best.

One by one the score runs up. Ten to win--now eight, seven. It is

getting exciting. The crowd hangs eagerly on the result of each ball.

Another two from my companion. The Westfield fellows look nervously at

the signal-board, as if by watching it they could make our figure grow

less. But, no! Another two, from my bat this time, and then a single.

Only two to win! The next ball gets past my comrade's bat, and skims

within a hair's-breadth of his bails.

"Steady, now!" cries Steel, cheerily. "Mind what you're at!"

Steady it is. The next two balls are blocked dead.

Then my companion makes a single. Hurrah! We are equal now. At any

rate defeat is averted! Now for victory! It is my turn to bat; but

this ball is not the sort of one to play tricks with; so with an effort

I keep my bat square, and stop it without hitting.

"Played, sir!" cries some one, approvingly, and I feel my self-denial

rewarded.

But the next ball is not so dangerous. I can see it is a careless one,

which I may safely punish. Punish it I will; so I step forward, and

catching it on the bound, bang it I know not and care not where.

What shouting! what cheering as we run, one, two, three, four, five

times across the wickets! The match is ours, with a wicket to spare;

and as we ride back that evening to Parkhurst, and talk and laugh and

exult over that day's victory, we are the happiest eleven fellows,

without exception, that ever rode on the top of an omnibus.

CHAPTER FIVE.

A BOATING ADVENTURE AT PARKHURST.

Once, and once only, did I play truant from Parkhurst, and that

transgression was attended with consequences so tragical that to this

day its memory is as vivid and impressive as if the event I am about to

record had happened only last week, instead of a quarter of a century

ago.

I shall recall it in the hope of deterring my readers from following my

foolish example--or at least of warning them of the terrible results

which may ensue from a thoughtless act of wrong-doing.

I have already mentioned that Parkhurst stood some two or three miles

above the point at which the River Colven flows into the sea. From the

school-house we could often catch the hum of the waves breaking lazily

along the shore of Colveston Bay; or, if the wind blew hard from the

sea, it carried with it the roar of the breakers on the bar mouth, and

the distant thunder of the surf on the stony beach.

Of course, our walks and rambles constantly took the direction of the

shores of this bay; and though, perhaps, a schoolboy is more readily

impressed with other matters than the beauties of nature, I can remember

even now the once familiar view from Raven Cliff as if my eyes still

rested upon it.

I can see, on a hot summer afternoon, the great curve of that beautiful

bay, bounded at either extremity by headlands, bathed in soft blue haze.

I can see the cliffs and chines and sands basking, like myself, in the

sun. On my right, the jagged outline of a ruined sea-girt castle stands

out like a sentinel betwixt is land and water. On my left I can detect

the fishermen's white cottages crouching beneath the crags. I can see

the long golden strip of strand beyond; and, farther still, across the

wide estuary of the Wraythe, the line of shadowy cliffs that extend like

a rugged wall out to the dim promontory of Shargle Head.

Above all, I can see again the sea, bluer even than the blue sky

overhead; and as it tumbles languidly in from the horizon, fringing the

amphitheatre of the bay with its edge of sparkling white, my ears can

catch the murmur of its solemn music as they heard it in those days long

gone by.

Well I remember, too, the same bay and the same sea; but oh, how

changed!

Far as the eye could reach the great white waves charged towards the

land, one upon another, furious and headlong; below us they thundered

and lashed and rushed back upon their fellows, till we who watched could

not hear so much as our own voices. In the distance they leapt savagely

at the base of the now lowering headlands, and fought madly over the

hidden rocks and sands. They sent their sleet and foam-flakes before

them, blinding us where we stood on the cliff-top; they seethed and

boiled in the hollows of the rocks, and over the river bar they dashed

and plunged till far up the stream their fury scarcely spent itself.

At such times no ship or boat ventured willingly into Colveston Bay; or

if it did, it rarely, if ever, left it again.

But such times were rare--very rare with us. Indeed, I had been months

at Parkhurst before I witnessed a real storm, and months again before I

saw another. So that my acquaintance with the bay was almost altogether

connected with its milder aspects, and as such it appeared both

fascinating and tempting.

It was on a beautiful August holiday morning that four of us were

lounging lazily in a boat down at the bar mouth, looking out into the

bay and watching the progress of a little fishing smack, which was

skipping lightly over the bright waves in the direction of Shargle Head.

Her sails gleamed in the sunlight, and she herself skimmed so lightly

across the waters, and bounded so merrily through their sparkling

ripples, that she seemed more like a fairy craft than a real yacht of

boards and canvas. "I'd give a good deal to be in her!" exclaimed Hall,

one of our party, a sea captain's son, to whom on all nautical matters

we accorded the amplest deference. "So would I," said Hutton. "How

jolly she looks!"

"Ever so much more fun than knocking about on this stupid old river,"

chimed in I.

"I say, you fellows," cried Hall, struck by a sudden idea, "why

shouldn't we have a little cruise in the bay? It would be glorious a

day like this!"

"I'm not sure old Rogers," (that was the disrespectful way in which, I

regret to say, we were wont to designate Dr Rogers, our head master)

"would like it," I said; "he's got some notion into his head about

currents and tides, and that makes him fidgety."

"Currents and fiddlesticks!" broke in Hall, with a laugh; "what does

_he_ know about them? I tell you, a day like this, with a good sailing

breeze, and four of us to row, in case it dropped, there'd be no more

difficulty in going over there and back than there would in rowing from

here back to Parkhurst."

"How long would it take to get to Shargle?" inquired Hutton.

"Why, only two hours, and perhaps less. The wind's exactly right for

going and coming back too. We can be back by four easily, and that

allows us an hour or two to land there."

It certainly was tempting; the day was perfection, and Colveston Bay had

never looked more fascinating. The headlands stood out so distinctly in

the clear air that it was hard to imagine Shargle Head was five miles

distant from where we sat.

When the proposition had first been made I had felt a passing

uncomfortableness as to the lawfulness of such an expedition without the

distinct sanction of the head master; but the more I gazed on the bay,

and the more Hall talked in his enthusiastic manner of the delights of a

cruise, and the longer I watched the fairy-like progress of the little

white-sailed fishing-boat, the less I thought of anything but the

pleasure which the scheme offered.

So when Hall said, "Shall we go, boys? What do you say?" I for one

replied, "All serene."

All this while one of our party had been silent, watching the fishing-

boat, but taking no part in our discussion. He was Charlie Archer, a

new boy at Parkhurst, and some years our junior. But from the first I

had taken a remarkable fancy to this clever, good-humoured, plucky boy,

who henceforth had become my frequent companion, and with me the

companion of the others who now composed our party. He now looked up

and said, greatly to our surprise--

"I say, I don't want to go!"

"Why not?" we all asked.

"Oh, it doesn't matter," he replied, in evident confusion. "I don't

want to spoil your fun, you know, but I'd rather not go myself."

"Why, what on earth's the matter with you, Charlie?" I asked. "I

thought you were always ready for an adventure."

"I'd rather not go, please," he repeated. "You can put me ashore."

"Why not?" again inquired Hall, this time testily. He never liked

Charlie quite as much as Hutton and I did, and was evidently displeased

to have him now putting forward objections to a proposition of his own

making. "Why not?"

"Because--because," began the boy hesitatingly--"because I don't want to

go."

Hall became angry. Like most boys not sure of the honesty of their own

motives, he disliked to have it suggested that what he was urging was

wrong. He therefore replied, with a taunt keener than any persuasion--

"Poor little milksop, I suppose he's afraid of getting drowned, or of

doing something his mamma, or his grandmamma, or somebody wouldn't like

their little pet to do. We'd better put him ashore, boys; and mind his

precious little boots don't get wet while we're about it!"

It was a cruel blow, and struck home at Archer's one weak point.

Plucky and adventurous as he was, the one thing he could not endure was

to be laughed at. And his face flushed, and his lips quivered, as he

heard Hall's brutal speech, and marked the smile with which, I am

ashamed to say, we received it.

"I'm _not_ afraid," he exclaimed.

"Then why don't you want to go?"

He was silent for some time. A struggle was evidently going on in his

mind. But the sneer on Hall's face determined him.

"I do want to go. I've changed my mind!"

"That's the style," said Hutton, patting him on the back. "I knew you

were one of the right sort."

Hall, too, condescended to approve of his decision, and at once began to

busy himself with preparations for our immediate start.

I, however, was by no means comfortable at what had taken place. It was

plain to see Charlie had yielded against his better judgment, and that

with whatever alacrity he might now throw himself into the scheme, his

mind was not easy. Had I been less selfishly inclined towards my own

pleasure, I should have sided with him in his desire not to engage in a

questionable proceeding; but, alas! my wishes in this case had ruled my

conscience. Still, I made one feeble effort on Archer's behalf.

"Hall," whispered I, as I stooped with him to disengage the ropes at the

bottom of the boat, "what's the use of taking Charlie when he doesn't

want to go? We may as well put him ashore if he'd sooner not go."

"Archer," said Hall, looking up from his ropes, "did you say you wanted

to go, or not?"

The question was accompanied by a look which made it hard for the boy to

reply anything but--

"I want to go."

"And it's your own free will, eh?"

"Yes."

So ended my weak effort. If only I had been more determined to do

right; if, alas! I had imagined a thousandth part of what that day was

to bring forth, I would have set Archer ashore, whether he would or not,

even if to do so had cost me my life.

But this is anticipating.

For half an hour we were busy getting our boat trim for her voyage. She

was a somewhat old craft, in which for many years past we had been wont

to cruise down the seaward reaches of the Colven, carrying one lug-sail,

and with thwarts for two pairs of oars. She was steady on her keel,

and, as far as we had been able to judge, sound in every respect, and a

good sailor. Certainly, on a day like this, a cockleshell would have

had nothing to fear, and we were half sorry we had not a lighter boat

than the one we were in to take us across to Shargle.

Hall, who assumed the command from the first, impressed us not a little

by the businesslike way in which he set to work to get everything ship-

shape before starting. He knew clearly the use of each rope and pulley;

he knew precisely the necessary amount of ballast to be taken, and the

proper place for stowing it; he discoursed learnedly on knots and

hitches, and aroused our sympathy by his laments on the absence of a

bowsprit and foresail. Hutton was sent ashore to buy provisions.

Charlie was set to baling out the boat. I occupied myself with mopping

the seats, and generally "swabbing her up," as Hall called it, so that

in due time we were ready to sail, well provisioned and well equipped,

on our eventful voyage.

Up went the sail; we watched it first flap wildly, and then swell

proudly in the wind as the sheet rope was drawn in, and Hall's hand put

round the helm. Then, after a little coquetting, as if she were loth to

act as desired without coaxing, she rose lightly to the rippling waves,

and glided forward on her way.

"Adams," said Hall, "you'd better make yourself snug up in the bows;

Hutton, sit where you are, and be ready to help me with the sail when we

tack. Charlie, old boy, come down astern, beside me; sit a little

farther over, Hutton. Now she's trim."

Trim she was, and a strange feeling of exhilaration filled my breast as

we now darted forward before the steady breeze, dancing over the waves

with a merry splash, tossing them to either side of our prow, and

listening to them as they gurgled musically under our keel.

"There's Neil!" cried Charlie, as we passed the coastguards' boathouse,

"spying at us through the telescope."

"Let him spy," laughed Hall; "I dare say he'd like to be coming too.

It's slow work for those fellows, always hanging about doing nothing."

"What's he waving about?" inquired I from the bows, for we could see

that the sailor had put down his glass, and was apparently trying to

catch our attention by his gesticulations.

Hall looked attentively for a moment, and then said--

"Oh, I see, he's pointing up at the flagstaff to show us the wind's in

the north-east. I suppose he thinks no one knows that but himself."

"Let's see," said Hutton, "we are going north-west, aren't we?"

"Yes, so we shall be able to make use of the wind both ways, with a

little tacking."

"He's shouting something now," said Charlie, with his eyes still on

Neil.

"Oh, he's an old woman," said Hall, laughing; "he's always wanting to

tell you this and that, as if no one knew anything about sailing but

himself." And he took off his hat and waved it ceremoniously to the old

sailor, who continued shouting and beckoning all the while, though

without avail, for the only words that came to us across the water were

"fresh" and "afternoon," and we were not much enlightened by them.

"I'm afraid he's fresh in the morning," laughed Hutton.

A short sail brought us to the bar mouth, over which, as the tide was in

and the sea quiet, we passed without difficulty, although Hall had bade

us have the oars ready in case of emergency, should it be necessary to

lower our sail in crossing. But of this there was no need, and in a

minute we were at last in the bay, and fairly at sea.

"Do you see Parkhurst over the trees there, you fellows?" cried Charlie,

pointing behind us. "I never saw the place from the bay before."

"Nor I," I answered; "it looks better here than from any other side."

We were all proud of the old school-house, and fully impressed with its

superiority over any other building of the kind in the kingdom.

The view in the bay was extremely beautiful, Shargle Head stood out

opposite us, distinct and grand, towering up from the water, and

sweeping back to join the moorland hills behind. On our left, close

beside the bar mouth, rose Raven Cliff, where we so often had been wont

to lie and look out on this very bay; and one by one we recognised the

familiar spots from our new point of view, and agreed that from no side

does a grand coast look so grand as from the sea.

Our boat scudded along merrily, Hall keeping her a steady course, well

up to the wind. After a few lessons we got to know our respective

duties (so we thought) with all the regularity of a trained ship's crew.

With the wind as it was, right across our course, we had not much need

to tack; but when the order to "stand by" did arrive, we prided

ourselves that we knew how to act.

Hall let go the sheet, and Hutton lowered the sail, Charlie put round

the helm, and I in the bows was ready to aid the others in shifting the

canvas to the other side of the mast and hauling up the sail again.

Then Hall resumed charge of the helm and drew in the sheet, Charlie and

Hutton "trimmed" over to the other side of the boat, and once again our

little craft darted forward.

We were all in exuberant spirits that lovely summer morning; even

Charlie seemed to have forgotten his uneasiness at first starting, for

he was now the life and soul of our party.

He told us wonderful stories about this very bay, gathered from some of

his favourite histories. How, after the defeat of the Spanish Armada,

when the proud vessels of Spain were driven partly by tempest, partly by

the pursuit of our admiral, headlong along: this very coast, one of them

had got into Colveston Bay, and there been driven ashore at the base of

Raven Cliff, not one man of all her crew surviving that awful wreck.

And he repeated one after another the legends connected with Druce

Castle, whose ruined turrets we could discern away behind us, and of all

the coves and crags and caves as we passed them, till, in our

imagination, the bay became alive once more with ships and battle, and

we seemed to watch the gleam of armour on the castle walls, and the

glare of beacons on the headlands, and to hear the thunder of cannon

from the beach; when presently Hall's cheery call to "stand by" wakened

us into a sudden recollection of our present circumstances. And then

what songs we sang! what famous sea stories Hall told us! how Hutton

made us roar with his recitations! how the time seemed to fly, and the

boat too, and we in it, until at last we found the Great Shargle

towering over our heads, and knew we had all but reached our

destination.

Hall looked at his watch.

"That was a good run, boys," said he; "not quite two hours--an

uncommonly good run for an old tub like this. Now where shall we land?"

"I vote we land on Welkin Island," said Charlie.

Welkin Island was separate about three-quarters of a mile from the

mainland, famous for its caves and shells.

"All serene," said Hall, putting the boat about; "stand by."

So we made our last tack, and very soon were close up at the island.

After some cruising we selected an eligible creek for landing, into

which Hall ran our boat as neatly as the most experienced helmsman in

Her Majesty's Navy.

Then we landed, and dragging ashore our hamper of provisions, picnicked

at the edge of the rocks, with the water on three sides of us, with

Shargle Head across the narrow channel rising majestically above us, and

the great amphitheatre of the bay extended like a picture beyond.

Need I say what a jovial repast it was; what appetites we had, what zest

our situation lent to our meal, how each vied with each in merriment!

But Charlie was the blithest of us all.

Then we wandered over that wonderful island. We waded into the caves,

and climbed to the cliff tops; we filled our pockets with shells, we

bathed, we aimed stones into the sea, we raced along the strand, we cut

our names in a row on the highest point of the island, in commemoration

of our expedition, and there they remain to this day.

"I say, I hope it's not going to rain," said Hutton, looking up at the

clouds, which had for some time been obscuring the sun.

"Who cares if it does?" shouted Charlie. "Hullo, there goes my roof!"

cried he, as a sudden gust of wind lifted his hat from his head, and

sent it skimming down the rocks.

"I think it's time we started home," said Hall hurriedly.

There was something in the uneasy look of his face as he said this which

made me uncomfortable.

So we turned to embark once more in our boat.

We could not conceal from ourselves, as we made our way to the creek

where we had left her moored, that the weather, which had thus far been

so propitious to our expedition, was not holding out as we could have

wished. The wind, which had been little more than a steady breeze

during the morning, now met us in frequent gusts, which made us raise

our hands to our hats. A few ugly-looking black clouds on the horizon

had come up and obscured the sun, threatening not only to shut out his

rays, but to break over the bay in a heavy downpour of rain. Even on

the half-sheltered side of the island where we were, the water, which

had hitherto moved only in ripples, now began to heave restlessly in

waves, which curled over as they met the breeze, and covered the sea

with little white breakers. There was an uncanny sort of moan about the

wind as it swept down the hollows of the rocks, and even the seagulls,

as they skimmed past us on the surface of the now sombre water, seemed

uncomfortable.

However, the sea was not rough, and though the sun happened to be hidden

from us, we could see it shining brightly away in the direction of

Parkhurst. The wind, too, though stronger than it had been in the

morning, was still not violent, and we had little doubt of making as

quick, if not a quicker passage back than we had already made.

So, although in our secret hearts each one of us would perhaps have

preferred the weather of the earlier part of the day to have continued,

we did not let our uneasiness appear to our fellows, or allow it to

interfere with our show of good spirits.

"I tell you what," said Charlie, laughing, as we came down to our boat,

"it would be a real spree to have a little rough water going back, just

for the fun of seeing old Hutton seasick."

"I shall be very pleased to give you some amusement," replied Hutton;

"and perhaps Adams will assist, for I saw him looking anxiously over the

bows once or twice as we were coming."

"So did I," said Charlie; "he must have seen a ghost in the water, for

he looked awfully pale."

"Shut up, you fellows," cried I, who was notoriously a bad sailor, and

easily disturbed by a rough sea; "perhaps we shall all--"

"I say," called out Hall from the boat, where he was busy tying up a

reef in our sail, "I wish you fellows would lend a hand here, instead of

standing and chaffing there."

We obeyed with alacrity, and very soon had our boat ready for starting.

"Now, Adams and Hutton, take the oars, will you? and pull her out of

this creek: we had better not hoist our sail till we are clear of these

rocks."

As we emerged from our little harbour the boat "lumped" heavily over the

waves that broke upon the rocks, and we had a hard pull to get her clear

of these and turn her with her stern to Shargle.

"Now stand by," shouted Hall.

We shipped our oars, and in a moment the sail, shortened by one reef,

was hauled up, and the boat began to scud swiftly forward.

"You'll have to sit right over, you two," said Hall to Hutton and me,

"to keep her trim. Look sharp about it!"

As he spoke a gust took the sail, and caused the boat to heel over far

on to her side. She righted herself in an instant, however, and on we

went, flying through the water.

"How do you feel, Adams?" called out Charlie mischievously, from his end

of the boat.

"Pleasant motion, isn't it?" put in Hutton, laughing.

"Look here, you fellows," said Hall abruptly, "stop fooling now, and

look after the boat."

"Why, what's the row?" said Hutton, struck with his unusually serious

tone. "It's all right, isn't it?"

"It's all right," said Hall curtly, "if you'll only attend to the

sailing."

Our merriment died away on our lips, for it was plain to be seen Hall

was in no jesting humour.

Then several things struck us which we had not previously noticed. One

was that the wind had shifted farther north, and was blowing hard right

into the bay, gathering strength every minute. Hall, we noticed, was

sailing as close as possible up to it, thus making our course far wider

than that which had brought us in the morning.

"Why are you steering out like that?" I ventured to ask.

"Because if I didn't-- Look out!" he exclaimed, as a sudden gust caught

the boat, making her stagger and reel like a drunken man. In an instant

he had released the sheet rope, and the sail flapped with a tremendous

noise about the mast. It was but an instant, however, and then we saw

him coolly tighten the cord again, and put back the helm to its former

course. After that I did not care to repeat my question.

Reader, have you ever found yourself at sea in an open boat, a mile or

so from land, in a gathering storm; with the wind in your teeth and the

sea rising ominously under your keel; with the black clouds mustering

overhead, and the distant coastline whitening with breakers? Have you

marked the headlands change from white to solemn purple? Have you

listened to that strange hiss upon the water, and that moaning in the

wind? Have you known your boat to fly through the waves without making

way, and noted anxiously by some landmark that she is rather drifting

back with the current, instead of, as it seems, tearing before the wind?

If so, you can imagine our feelings that afternoon.

It was useless to pretend things were not as bad as they looked; it was

useless not to admit to ourselves we were fairly in for it now, and must

brave it out as best we could; it was useless to maintain we had not

been foolish, wickedly foolish, in starting on so venturesome an

expedition; it was useless to deny that it would have been better had we

remained at Shargle, or returned to Parkhurst by land.

We were in for it now.

The one thing which gave us confidence was Hall's coolness, now that the

danger was unmistakable. He neither allowed himself to get flurried nor

alarmed, but sat with closed lips watching the sail--one hand on the

tiller and the other grasping the sheet, ready to let it go at a

moment's notice.

As for us, we wished we could do anything more active than sit still and

trim the boat. But even that was some use, and so we remained, watching

anxiously the clouds as they rolled down the sides of the hills and half

obscured Shargle Head from our view.

Presently, however, Hall said--

"Get the oars out, will you? we haven't made any way for an hour."

No way for an hour! Had we then been all that time plunging through the

waves for nothing? With what grim earnestness we set to work to row

through this unyielding current!

But to no effect--or scarcely any. The little white cottage on Shargle,

which we looked round at so anxiously from time to time, to ascertain

what progress had been made, remained always in the same position, and

after twenty minutes' desperate pulling it seemed as if the total

distance gained had been scarcely half a dozen yards.

It was disheartening work, still more so as the sea was rising every

minute, and the rain had already begun to fall.

"We're in for a gale," said Hall, as a wave broke over the side,

drenching Hutton and me, and half-filling the bottom of the boat with

water. "Look sharp, Charlie, and bale out that before the next comes."

Charlie set to work with a will, and for a time we rowed steadily on,

without saying a word.

"What's the time?" I asked presently of Hall, as I saw him take out his

watch.

"Five," said he.

It was an hour after the time we had expected to be back at Parkhurst,

and we were not yet clear of Shargle. The same thought evidently

crossed the minds of the other three, for they all glanced in the

direction of Raven Cliff, now scarcely visible through the heavy rain.

"I wish we were safe home," muttered Hutton, the most dispirited of our

crew. "What fools we were to come!"

We said nothing, but pulled away doggedly at the oars.

Now it really seemed as if we were making some progress out of that

wretched current, for the white cottage on the cliff appeared farther

astern than it had done since we began to row, and we were beginning to

congratulate ourselves on our success, when Hall, who had for some time

been anxiously watching the shore, cried out--

"For goodness' sake pull hard, you fellows! we are drifting in fast.

Here, Charlie, take the helm, and keep her the way she is, while I get

down the sail. It's no use now. Mind your heads, but don't stop

rowing," he shouted to us, as he let down the sail suddenly, and lowered

the mast. "Keep her head out, Charlie, whatever you do. Let go that

rope beside you. That's right. Now take hold of that end of the mast

and slip it under the seat."

So saying he managed to get down the mast and stow it away without

impeding either the rowing or the steering, and immediately the

advantage of the step was manifest in the steadier motion of the boat,

although we groaned inwardly at the thought of having now all the

distance to row. At least I groaned inwardly. Hutton was hardly as

reserved.

"I tell you what," he said to me, stopping rowing, "I don't know what

you and the other fellows intend to do, but I can't row any more. I've

been at it an hour together."

"What are we to do, then?" inquired I.

"Why shouldn't Hall take a turn? He's been doing nothing."

"He's been steering," replied I, "and he's the only fellow who knows

how, and Charlie's not strong enough to row."

"Well, all I can say is, I don't mean to row any longer."

All this had been said in an undertone to me, but now Hall cried out--

"What are you shopping for, Hutton? Pull away, man, or we shall never

get out of this."

"Pull away yourself!" said Hutton sulkily. "I've had enough of it. You

brought us here, you'd better take us back!"

Hall's face at that moment was a study. I fancy if this had been a ship

and he the skipper, he would not have hesitated an instant how to deal

with this unexpected contingency. But now he did hesitate. It was

bitter enough punishment to him to be there exposed to all the dangers

of a sudden storm, with the safety, and perhaps the life, not only of

himself, but of us whom he had induced to accompany him, on his hands;

but to have one of those comrades turn against him in the moment of

peril was more than he had looked for.

"I'll take an oar," said Charlie, before there was time to say anything.

"No," said Hall, starting up; "take the helm, Charlie. And you," added

he, to Hutton, "give me your oar and get up into the bows."

The voice in which this was spoken, and the look of scorn which

accompanied it, fairly cowed Hutton, who got up like a lamb and crawled

into the bows, leaving Hall and me to row.

"Keep her straight to the waves, whatever you do! it's all up if she

gets broadside on!" said the former to Charlie.

And so for another half-hour we laboured in silence; then almost

suddenly the daylight faded, and darkness fell over the bay.

I rowed on doggedly in a half-dream. Stories of shipwrecks and

castaways crowded in on my mind; I found myself wondering how and when

this struggle would end. Then my mind flew back to Parkhurst, and I

tried to imagine what they must think there of our absence. Had they

missed us yet? Should I ever be back in the familiar house, or--but I

dared not think of that. Then I tried to pray, and the sins of my

boyhood came up before my mind as I did so in terrible array, so that I

vowed, if but my life might be spared, I would begin a new and better

life from that time forward. Then, by a strange impulse, my eyes rested

on Charlie, as he sat there quietly holding the tiller in his hands and

gazing out ahead into the darkness. What was it that filled me with

foreboding and terror as I looked at the boy? The scene of the morning

recurred to my mind, and my halfhearted effort to prevent him from

accompanying us. Selfish wretch that I had been! what would I not now

give to have been resolute then? If anything were to happen to Charlie,

how could I ever forgive myself?

"I think we've made some way," he cried out cheerily. "Not much," said

Hall gloomily; "that light there is just under Shargle Head."

"Had we better keep on as we are?" I asked. "I don't see what else is

to be done. If we let her go before the wind, we shall get right on to

the rocks."

"You've a lot to answer for," growled Hutton from where he lay, half-

stupid with terror, in the bows.

Hall said nothing, but dashed his oar vehemently into the water and

continued rowing.

"I wonder if that light is anywhere near Parkhurst?" presently asked

Archer. "Do you see?"

We looked, and saw it; and then almost instantly it vanished. At the

same time we lost sight of the lights on Shargle Head, and the rain came

down in torrents. "A mist!" exclaimed Hall, in tones of horror. Well

indeed might he and we feel despair at this last extinguisher of our

hopes. With no landmark to steer by, with wind and sea dead in our

teeth, with the waves breaking in over our sides, and one useless

mutineer in our midst, we felt that our fate was fairly sealed. Even

Hall for a moment showed signs of alarm, and we heard him mutter to

himself, "God help us now!" Next moment a huge wave came broadside on

to us and emptied itself into our boat, half filling us with water. In

the sudden shock my oar was dashed from my hand and carried away

overboard!

"Never mind," said Hall hurriedly, "it would have been no use; put her

round, Charlie, quick--here, give me the tiller!"

In a moment the boat swung round to the wind (not, however, before she

had shipped another sea), and then we felt we were simply flying towards

the fatal rocks.

"Bale out, all of you!" shouted Hall; and we obeyed, including even

Hutton, who seemed at last, in very desperation, to be awakening to a

sense of his duty.

The next few minutes seemed like an age. As we knelt in our half-

flooded boat scooping up the water there in our hats, or whatever would

serve for the purpose, we could hear ahead of us the angry roar of

breakers, and knew every moment was bringing us nearer to our doom.

By one impulse we abandoned our useless occupation. What was the use of

baling out a boat that must inevitably in a few minutes be dashed to

pieces on the rocks? Hutton crawled back into the bows, and Charlie and

I sat where we were on the seat and waited.

I could not fail, even in such a situation, to notice and admire Hall's

self-possession and coolness. Desperate as our case was, he kept a

steady hand on the helm, and strained his eyes into the mist ahead,

never abating for a moment either his vigilance or his courage. But

every now and then I could see his eyes turn for a moment to Charlie,

and his face twitch as they did so, with a look of pain which I was at

no loss to understand.

"How far are we from the rocks?" asked Charlie.

"I can't say; a quarter of an hour, perhaps."

"Whereabouts are we?" I asked.

"When the lights went out we were opposite Raven Cliff," replied Hall.

We were silent for another minute; then Hall took out his watch.

"Eight o'clock," said he.

"They'll be at prayers at Parkhurst," said Charlie; and in the silence

that followed, need I say that we too joined as we had never done before

in the evening prayers of our schoolfellows?

"Charlie, old boy," said Hall, presently, "come and sit beside me, will

you?"

Poor Hall! had it been only _his_ own life that was at stake, he would

never have flinched a muscle; but as he put his arm round the boy whom

he had led into danger he groaned pitiably.

"I wonder if Neil's out looking for us," Hutton said from the bows.

"Not much use," said Hall. "If only this mist would lift!"

But it did not lift. For another five minutes we tore through the

waves, which as we neared the shore became wilder and rougher. Our

boat, half full of water, staggered at every shock, and more than once

we believed her last plunge had been taken.

On either side of us, for the little distance we could see through the

mist, there was nothing but white foam and surging billows; behind us

rushed the towering waves, overtaking us one by one, tossing us aloft

and dashing us down, till every board of our boat creaked and groaned.

Above us the rain poured in torrents, dashing on to our bare heads, and

blinding us whenever we turned our faces back.

Then Hall cried out, "Listen! those must be breakers behind us!"

Assuredly they were! On either side we could hear the deafening thunder

of the surf as it dashed over the rocks.

"Then, thank God!" exclaimed Hall, "we must have got in between two

reefs; perhaps we shall go aground on the sand!"

The next two minutes are past description. Hutton crawled down beside

me where I sat, and I could feel his hand on my arm, but I had no eyes

except for Charlie, who sat pale and motionless with Hall's arm round

him.

"Now!" shouted Hall, abandoning the tiller, and tightening his hold on

the boy.

There was a roar and a rush behind us, our boat swooped up with the

wave, and hung for a moment trembling on its crest, then it fell, and in

an instant we were in the water.

Hutton was beside me as the rush back of that huge wave swept us off our

feet. I seized him by the arm, and next moment we were struggling to

keep our heads up. Then came another monster, and lifted us like

straws, flinging us before it on to the strand, and then rolling and

foaming over us as we staggered to our feet.

Hutton, half stunned, had been swept from my hold, but mercifully was

still within reach. Clutching him by the hair, I dragged him with all

my might towards the land, before the returning wave should once more

sweep us back into the sea. By a merciful Providence, a solitary piece

of rock was at hand to aid us; and clinging to this we managed to

support that terrific rush, and with the next wave stagger on to solid

ground.

But what of Charlie? Leaving my senseless companion, I rushed wildly

back to the water's edge, and called, shouted, and even waded back into

the merciless surf. But no answer: no sign. Who shall describe the

anguish of the next half-hour? I was conscious of lights and voices; I

had dim visions of people hurrying; I felt something poured down my

throat, and some one was trying to lift me from where I sat. But no! I

would not leave that spot till I knew what had become of Charlie, and in

my almost madness I shrieked the boy's name till it sounded even above

the roaring waves.

Presently the lights moved all to one spot, and the people near me moved

too. Weak as I was, I sprang to my feet and followed.

Good heavens! what did I see? Two sailors, half naked, stooped over

something that lay on the sand between them, What, who was it? I cried;

and the crowd made way for me as I fought my way to the place.

Two figures lay there; the smaller locked in the arms of his protector!

But dead or living? Oh, if I could but hear some voice say they were

not dead! Another person was kneeling over them beside me. Even in

that moment of confusion and terror I could recognise his voice as that

of the Parkhurst doctor.

"Look after this one here," he said; "he has a broken arm. Carry up the

little fellow to the cottage."

Then I knew Charlie was dead!

It was weeks before I was sufficiently recovered in body or mind to hear

more than I knew. Then the doctor told me:--

"Hall is getting better. He broke his arm in two places, trying to

shield the boy from the rocks. He will not speak about it himself, and

no one dares mention Archer's name to him. There was neither bruise nor

scratch on the little fellow's body, which shows how heroically the

other must have tried to save him."

I soon recovered, but Hall was ill for many weeks--ill as much from

distress of mind as from the injuries he had received. He and I are

firm friends to this day; and whenever we meet, we speak often of little

Charlie Archer. Hall is a sea captain now, and commands his own vessel

in distant seas; but though he has been through many a peril and many a

storm since, I can confidently say he never showed himself a better

sailor than he did the night we sailed back from the Shargle.

CHAPTER SIX.

"FIVERS" VERSUS "SIXERS" AT PARKHURST.

"I tell you what it is, you fellows, I shall learn to swim!" The

speaker was Bobby Jobson, a hero of some thirteen summers, who, in

company with four of us, his schoolfellows, sat on the bank of the

Colven, under some willows, dabbling his shins in the clear water of the

river.

The summer had been tremendously hot. Cricket was out of the question,

and boating equally uninviting. The playground had been left deserted

to bake and scorch under the fierce sun, and the swings and poles in the

gymnasium had blistered and cracked in solitude. The only place where

life was endurable was down by the river, and even there it was far too

hot to do anything but sit and dabble our feet under the shelter of the

trees, and think of icebergs!

A few of the fellows, to our unbounded envy, bathed. They could swim,

we could not; and if any rule at Parkhurst was strict, it was the rule

which forbade any boy who could not swim to bathe in the river, except

with special leave and under the care of a master. And so, like so many

small editions of Tantalus, we sat on the bank and kicked our heels in

the water, and bemoaned the fate which had brought us into the world

without web-feet.

Young donkeys that we were! The idea of _learning_ to swim had never

occurred to any of us till Bobby Jobson, in a happy moment, gave birth

to the idea in his ejaculation, "I tell you what it is, you fellows, I

shall learn to swim!"

"How?" I inquired.

"How?" said Jobson; "why, you know, how does every body learn?" and then

he was polite enough to call me a duffer.

"I'll tell you the way," said Ralley, one of our set. "Lie across a

desk on your stomach, two or three hours every day, and kick out with

your arms and legs."

"Corks and bladders," mildly suggested some one else.

"Get old Blades," (that was the boatman) "to tie a rope round your

middle and chuck you into the Giant's Pool," kindly proposed another.

"Just tumble in where you are," said Ralley, "and see if it doesn't come

naturally."

"Ugh!" said Jobson, with a grimace, giving a sidekick in the water in

the direction of the last speaker. "I'm not sure that _that_ dodge

would pay."

While he spoke, to our unbounded horror, the bank on which he and his

next neighbour were sitting suddenly gave way, and next moment, with a

shout and a splash, our two comrades were floundering helplessly in five

feet of water!

Help, happily, was at hand, or there is no saying what might have been

the end of the adventure. We did all we could by reaching out our hands

and throwing them our jackets to help them, while, with our shouts, we

summoned more effective aid. Old Blades, who providentially happened to

be passing, was with us in less than a minute, and fished out the two

poor half-drowned boys, scarcely a moment before they needed it. They

were more frightened, I fancy, than damaged; anyhow, we smuggled them

home, dripping as they were, and helped them to bed; and when, next

morning, they turned up as usual, nothing the worse for their first

swimming lesson, we were, as you may imagine, infinitely relieved.

This little adventure was the origin of the Parkhurst Swimming Club.

The doctor, on hearing of the affair, took the proper course; and,

instead of forbidding us the river, he secured the services of one or

two instructors, and had us all taught the art of swimming. For three

months, every day of the week, the School Creek was full of sputtering,

choking youngsters. Every new boy was hunted down to the river in turn,

and by the end of the year there was hardly a boy at Parkhurst who could

not keep his chin up in deep waters.

But this is a long introduction.

One day, two summers after that in which young Jobson and his friend had

tumbled into the Colven, a large party of us were down at the bathing-

place, indulging in what had now become a favourite summer pastime. It

so happened that our party was made up entirely of boys in the two

senior classes of the school--the fifth and the sixth. Most of us were

landed and dressing, and while so occupied had leisure to watch the

performances of those who still remained in the water.

Two of these specially interested us, who were swimming abreast about a

hundred yards from the landing-place, evidently racing home. One of

these chanced to be a sixth-form boy and the other a fifth, and a sudden

impulse seized us of the latter class to cheer our man vehemently, and

back him to be the first to reach home. The sixth-form fellows, thus

challenged, became equally excited in backing _their_ man, and so,

without premeditation, a regular match was made. The two swimmers,

hearing our shouts, entered into the spirit of the thing, and a

desperate race ensued. They came on, neck and neck, towards us, cheered

like mad by their respective supporters, both sides deeming the honour

of his form at stake in the event. Within a yard or two of the finish

they were still level, when the sixth-form man put on a terrific spurt,

to our huge disgust, and just landed himself in a nose ahead.

Of course, we were not going to be beaten thus, and there and then

demanded our revenge. Whereupon the company--half of them in a very

elementary stage of dressing, and the other half in no stage at all--

resolved itself into a meeting on the spot, and fixed that day week for

a formal trial of prowess between the two classes. Three events were to

be contested--a half-mile race, a hundred yards, and a duck hunt--and,

of course, the winner of two out of the three would carry the day.

Then, in great excitement, we finished our toilets and hurried back to

the school, where, naturally, the news of the coming contest spread like

wildfire and caused a great commotion. The school divided itself

forthwith into two factions, calling themselves the "fivers" and

"sixers." The selection of representatives to compete in the races was

a matter of almost as much excitement as the races themselves, and I

need hardly say it was a proud day for me when I was informed I was to

act in the capacity of "hunter" for the fifth in the duck hunt. I

accepted the honour with mingled pride and misgivings, and spent a busy

week practising for my arduous duties.

Well, the eventful day came at last, and nearly the whole school

mustered at Cramp Corner to see the sport. For the half-mile race,

which was to come off first, there were only two fellows competing. Our

man was Barlow--of paper-chase celebrity--while the sixth were very

confident of winning with Chesney, a hero nearly six feet high.

Certainly, as the two stood on the spring-board waiting the signal to

go, there seemed very little chance for the small Jim against his lanky

antagonist, although some of us comforted ourselves with the

contemplation of our man's long arms and the muscles in his legs. The

course was to be once up Cramp Reach and back--just half a mile. The

swimmers were at liberty to swim in any manner they chose, and bound

only to one rule--to keep their right side.

They were not long kept waiting in their scanty attire on the planks.

The doctor himself gave the signal to start, and at the word they darted

with two "swishes" into the water. Jim's head was up first, and off he

started at a steady chest-stroke, meaning business. Chesney's dive was

a long one, and, considering he had a half-mile race before him, a

foolish one, for he taxed his breath at the outset, which might have

been avoided, had he thought less about elegance and more about the

race. However, he did not seem at first to be any the worse off for he

took a slight lead of Jim, going through the water swiftly and easily,

with as pretty a side-stroke as any fellow's at the school. In point of

style there was no comparison between the two. Jim pounded along

monotonously, but steadily, with a square front, preserving all along

the same regular stroke, the same pace, and the same dogged expression

of countenance with which he had entered the water. His rival, on the

other hand, delighted the spectators by all kinds of graceful variety.

Now he darted forward on his side, now on his back. Sometimes he

refreshed himself by a swift dive, and sometimes he swung his arms like

a windmill. In fact, there was scarcely any accomplishment possible in

rapid swimming which he did not give us the benefit of.

But it was evident some of his friends did not approve of his style. I

heard one of them, running near me, growl, "I wish he would give over

his capers and swim like a rational animal."

"Rational or not, he's keeping his lead," said another, and so he was.

Plodding Jim, with his everlasting chest-stroke, was half a dozen yards

or so behind, and did not look like picking up either. Nevertheless, we

cheered him like mad, and kept up our hopes that he would "stay out" the

better of the two.

When both turned at the top of the reach, Chesney gave up his fanciful

swimming, and, to our alarm, settled down to a side-stroke, which for a

time looked powerful and effective. But he had been too confident all

along, and now, when he reckoned on shaking off his opponent and getting

a clear lead, he found out he was destined to do just the reverse. What

long faces the "sixers" pulled as their man began to puff and slacken

pace! A half-mile race is no joke, believe me; and so Chesney began to

find out. Before half the distance back was covered he showed

unmistakable signs of going to pieces, and--a very ominous sign--took to

changing from one side to another at very frequent intervals.

Of course we "fivers" howled with delight! Our man had never turned a

hair, and was now pulling up at every stroke. As he drew level, Chesney

gathered up all his remaining strength for a spurt. But it came to

nothing. Jim held on his way almost remorselessly, and headed his man

fifty yards from the winning-post; and the next thing we saw was Chesney

pulling up dead, and making for the bank in a very feeble condition.

Jim quietly swam on amid our frantic plaudits, and landed pretty nearly

as fresh as when he started.

So far so good. Loud and long were our exultations, for we had hardly

expected to win this race; we had put our chief confidence on the

hundred yards, which was to follow. In this race three a side were

entered, and of our three we knew no one in the school who could beat

Halley at a hundred yards. It was rumoured, indeed, that Payne, one of

the three "sixers," had been doing very well in training, but the

reports of him were not sufficiently decided to shake our faith in our

own hero.

It was an anxious moment as they stood there waiting for the doctor's

signal. If only we could win this race, we should have our two races

out of the three in hand without further combat.

"Go!" cried the doctor; and at the word six youthful forms plunge into

the water, and for a second are lost to sight. But the moral of the

half-mile race has evidently been taken to heart by these six boys.

They waste neither time nor wind under the surface, but rising quickly,

dash to their work. After the first few strokes Payne showed in front,

greatly to the delight of the "sixers," who felt that everything

depended on their man. We, however, were glad to see our man sticking

close up, and keeping stroke for stroke after his rival. Of the others,

one only--little Watson--of the sixth seemed to hold his own, and that

was a good three yards in the rear of Halley: while the three others

fell off hopelessly from the very beginning.

The race was short, but eventful. To our delight, Halley overhauled

Payne before half-way was reached, and we felt now absolutely sure of

the race. It never occurred to us to think of young Watson at all. But

all of a sudden it became apparent that that young man meant business.

He changed his front, so to speak, in a very unexpected manner, and just

as we were beginning to exult over our man's certain victory, he lay

over on his side, and, with a peculiar, jerky side-stroke, began to work

his little carcase through the water at a wonderful pace.

Before long he had overtaken his fellow-"sixer," and almost immediately

drew up to our champion. We were in consternation. Twenty yards more

would end the race, and if only our man could hold out and keep his

lead, we were all right. At first it looked as if he would, for,

encouraged by our cheers, and seeing his peril, he spurted, and kept a

good yard ahead of this audacious young "sixer." But the latter put one

spurt on to another, and drew up inch by inch. Ten yards from home they

were level; then, for a stroke or two, there was a frantic struggle;

then the "sixers" sent forth a shout that must have frightened the very

fishes; and well they might, for their man had won the race, a yard and

a half clear ahead of our champion.

One race each! And now for the "duck hunt" to settle the match. But

before I go further I ought to explain, for the benefit of those who

have not been initiated into the mysteries of the pastime, how a duck

hunt was managed at Parkhurst.

The part of the river selected was close to the mouth, where the stream

at high water is about a quarter of a mile broad. Two boundary boats,

one above and one below, were anchored at half a mile distance, and

between these limits the hunt was to take place. The "duck" was

provided with a little punt, about five feet long and pretty wide, in

which he was to escape as best he might from a cutter manned by four

rowers and a coxswain, and carrying in its bows a "hunter." As long as

he chose, or as long as he could, the duck might dodge his pursuers in

his punt; but when once run down he would have to take to the water, and

by swimming make good his escape from his pursuers, whose "hunter" would

be ready at any moment to jump overboard and secure him. If, however,

after twenty minutes the duck still remained uncaught, he was to be

adjudged winner.

Such was the work cut out for us on this memorable afternoon. The duck

on the present occasion was a sixth-form fellow called Haigh, one of the

best divers and swimmers in the school, while, as I have already said, I

had been selected to act as hunter on behalf of the fifth.

The duck, arrayed in the slightest of costumes, was not long in putting

in an appearance in his little punt, which, being only five feet long,

was so light that it seemed to jump through the water at every stroke of

the oars; while a single stroke either way sufficed to change its course

in a moment. The cutter, in the prow of which I (as slenderly attired

as the duck) was stationed, was also a light boat, and of course, with

its four rowers, far swifter than the punt; but when it came to turning

and dodging, it was, because of its length, comparatively unwieldy and

clumsy.

All now was ready for the chase. The duck was to get a minute's clear

start, and at the signal off he darted up the stream. The minute seemed

to us in the cutter as if it were never going to end, and we watched

with dismay the pace at which our lively fugitive was "making tracks."

"Ready all, in the cutter!" cries the doctor. "Off!" and next moment we

are flying through the water in full cry. As we gradually pull up to

the duck he diminishes his pace, and finally lies on his oars and coolly

waits for us.

"Put it on, now!" calls out our coxswain, and our boat shoots forward.

When within a few yards, the duck, apparently alive to his danger,

dashes his oars into the water and darts ahead. But we are too fast for

him. Another two strokes and we shall row him down.

"Now then!" cries our coxswain.

Ah! At a tremendous pace our boat flew forward over the very place

where, a second before, our duck had been. But where was he? By a turn

of the hand he had twisted round his punt, and as our fellows dug their

oars wildly into the water and tried to pull up, there was he, calmly

scuttling away in an opposite direction, and laughing at us!

In due time we had swung round, and were after him again, the wiser for

this lesson.

Next time we overhauled him we made our approach in a far more gingerly

manner. We kept as little way as possible on our boat, determined not

to lose time again by overshooting our mark. As long as he could, our

duck led us down stream, then, when we had all but caught him, he made a

feint of swooping off to the right, a manoeuvre which our coxswain

promptly followed. But no sooner was our rudder round than the rogue

deftly brought his punt sharp to the left, and so once more escaped us.

This sort of thing went on for a long time, and I was beginning to think

the hunt was likely to prove a monotonous affair after all, when our

coxswain suddenly called to me down the boat--

"Be ready, Adams."

Then it began gradually to dawn on me our coxswain after all knew what

he was about. There was a rather deep bay up near the top of the

course, bounded by two prominent little headlands, and into this bay the

duck, in a moment of carelessness, had ventured. It was a chance not to

be let slip. A few strokes brought our cutter up to the spot, and once

there, our cunning coxswain carefully kept us pointed exactly across the

bay. The duck, seeing his danger, made a dash to one corner, hoping to

avoid us; but he was too late, we were there before him, and before he

could double and make the other corner our boat had back-watered to the

spot. Thus gradually we hemmed him in closer and closer to the shore,

amid the cheers of our friends, until at last it was evident to every

one the punt was no longer of use.

Still, he let us sidle close up to him before he abandoned his craft;

then with a sudden bound he sprang overboard and disappeared from view.

It was no use going after him, I knew, till I could see where he would

rise, and so I waited, ready for a plunge, watching the water where he

would probably turn up. Several seconds passed, but there were no signs

of him. He was a good diver, we all knew, but this was surely a very

long dive. Had an accident happened to him? A minute elapsed, two, and

yet he never appeared! We in the boat were aghast; he must have come to

grief. Ah! what were the people on the bank laughing at? Could there

be some trick? Next instant the coxswain called out, laughing--

"He's hanging on to the rudder; over you go, Adams!"

At the word I slipped overboard and gave chase. And now began an

exciting pursuit. Haigh, though perfectly at home in the water, was not

a rapid swimmer; but in point of diving and dodging he had a tremendous

advantage over any of his pursuers. The moment I got near him, and just

as I was thinking to grab him, he would disappear suddenly and come up

behind me. He would dive towards the right and come up towards the

left. He would dodge me round the boat, or swim round me in circles,

but no effort of mine could secure him. The time was getting on, and I

was no nearer having him than before. With all his dodges, too, he

never seemed to take his eyes off me for an instant, either above or

below the water.

Once, as I was giving him chase, he suddenly dived, and the next

intimation I had of his whereabouts was a sly pinch of my big toe as he

came up behind me. This was adding insult to injury, so I dashed round,

and made at him. Again he dived; and this time, without waiting an

instant, I dived too. I could see him distinctly under the water,

scuttling away in a downward direction just below me. Shutting my lips

tight, I dug my way down after him; but, alas! under water I was no

match for Haigh. I felt an irresistible temptation to gasp; my nose

smarted, and the water round my head seemed like lead. As quickly as

possible I turned my hands up, and struck out for the surface.

What ages it seemed before I reached it! A second--half a second

longer, and I should have shipped a mouthful, perhaps a chestful of

water. I reached the surface at last, and, once above water, felt all

right again. I looked about anxiously for my duck. But he was still

down below. I reckoned, from the direction in which he had dived, that

he would not be able to go far to either side, and therefore would rise

close to me, probably exhausted, and if so, I had a good chance at last

of catching him. So I waited and watched the place, but he never came.

Remembering my own sensations, and how nearly I had come to grief, I

took a sudden fright, and concluding he must be in straits down below,

shouted to the boat to come to the place, and then dived. I groped

about, and looked in all directions, but saw no sign of him, and

finally, in a terrible fright, made once more for the surface.

The first thing I was conscious of, on getting my head up, was a great

shouting and laughing, and then I caught sight of that abominable duck,

who had come up behind me, and had been laughing all the while behind my

back, while I had been hunting for him in a far more serious way than I

need ever have done!

Before I could turn and make towards him "Time!" was shouted from the

bank; and so the Parkhurst Swimming Contest ended in a lamentable,

though not disgraceful, defeat of the "fivers."

CHAPTER SEVEN.

ATHLETIC SPORTS AT PARKHURST.

The last Saturday before the summer holidays was invariably a great day

at Parkhurst. The outdoor exercises of the previous ten months

culminated then in the annual athletic sports, which made a regular

field-day for the whole school. Boys who had "people" living within a

reasonable distance always did their best to get them over for the day;

the doctor--an old athlete himself--generally invited his own party of

friends; and a large number of spectators from Parkhurst village and the

neighbourhood were sure to put in an appearance, and help to give

importance to the occasion. Athletic sports without spectators (at

least, so we boys thought) would be a tame affair, and we were sure to

get through our day's performances all the better for a large muster of

outsiders on the ground.

The occasion I am about to recall was specially interesting to me, as it

was the first athletic meeting in which I, a small boy just entering my

teens, ever figured. I was only down to run in one of the races, and

that was the three-legged race; and yet I believe there was not a boy in

the school so excited at the prospect of these sports as I was. I

thought the time would never come, and was in positive despair when on

the day before it a little white cloud ventured to appear in the blue

sky. A wet day, so I thought, would have been as great a calamity as

losing the whole circle of my relatives, and almost as bad as having my

favourite dog stolen, or my fishing-rod smashed; and I made a regular

fool of myself in the morning of the eventful day by getting up first at

two a.m., then at three, then at four, and four or five times more, to

take observations out of the window, till at last my bedfellow declared

he would stand it no longer, and that since I was up, I should stay up.

Ah! he was an unsympathetic duffer, and knew nothing of the raptures of

winning a three-legged race.

Well, the day was a splendid one after all--a little hot, perhaps, but

the ground was in grand order, and hosts of people would be sure to turn

up. My race yoke-fellow and I went out quite early for a final spin

over the course, and found one or two of the more diligent of our

schoolfellows taking a similar advantage of the "lie-abeds." Of course,

as _we_ were of opinion that the three-legged race was the most

important and attractive of all the day's contests, we paid very little

heed to what others were doing, but sought out a retired corner for

ourselves, where, after tying our inside legs together, and putting our

arms round one another's necks in the most approved fashion, we set to

and tore along as fast as we could, and practised starts and falls, and

pick-ups and spurts, and I don't know what else, till we felt that if,

after all, we were to be beaten, it would not be our faults. With which

comfortable reflection we loosed our bonds and strolled back to

breakfast.

Here, of course, the usual excitement prevailed, and one topic engrossed

all the conversation. I sat between a fellow who was in for the Junior

100 yards, and another who was down for the "hurdles." Opposite me was

a hero whom every one expected to win in throwing the cricket-ball, and

next to him a new boy who had astonished every one by calmly putting his

name down for the mile race before he had been two hours at Parkhurst.

In such company you may fancy our meal was a lively one, and, as most of

us were in training, a very careful one.

The first race was to be run at twelve, and we thought it a great

hardship that the lower school was ordered to attend classes on this of

all days from nine to eleven. Now I am older, it dawns on me that this

was a most wholesome regulation; for had we small chaps been allowed to

run riot all the morning, we should have been completely done up, and

fit for nothing when the races really began. We did not do much work, I

am afraid, at our desks that morning, and the masters were not

particularly strict, for a wonder. The one thing we had to do was to

keep our seats and restrain our ardour, and that was no easy task.

Eleven came at last, and off we rushed to the mysteries of the toilet.

What would athletic sports be like without flannel shirts and trousers,

or ribbons and canvas shoes? At any rate, we believed in the importance

of these accessories, and were not long in arraying ourselves

accordingly. I could not help noticing, however, as we sallied forth

into the field, that fine feathers do not always make fine birds. There

was Tom Sampson, for instance, the biggest duffer that ever thought he

could run a step, got up in the top of the fashion, in bran-new togs,

and a silk belt, and the most gorgeous of scarlet sashes across his

shoulders; while Hooker, who was as certain as Greenwich time to win the

quarter-mile, had on nothing but his old (and not very white) cricket

clothes, and no sash at all. And there was another thing I noticed

about these old hands: they behaved in the laziest of manners. They

sprawled on the grass or sat on the benches, appearing disinclined for

the slightest exertion; while others, less experienced, took preliminary

canters along the tracks, or showed off over the hurdles. Fine fellows,

no doubt, they thought themselves; but they had reason to be sorry for

this waste of energy before the day was out.

Programmes! With what excitement I seized mine and glanced down it!

There it was! "Number 12. Three-legged Race, 100 yards, for boys under

15. 1, Trotter and Walker (pink); 2, White and Benson (green); 3, Adams

and Slipshaw (blue)." Reader, have you ever seen your name in print for

the first time? Then you may imagine my sensations!

Things now begin to look like business. The doctor has turned up, and a

party of ladies. The visitors' enclosure is fast filling up, and there

is a fair show of carriages behind. Those big fellows in the tall hats

are old Parkhurstians, come to see the young generation go through its

paces, and that little knot of men talking together in the middle of the

ground consists of the starter, judge, and umpire. Not a few of us,

too, turn our eyes wistfully to that tent over yonder, where we know are

concealed the rewards of this day's combats; and in my secret heart I

find myself wondering more than once how it will sound to hear the names

"Adams and Slipshaw" called upon to receive the first prize for the

three-legged race.

Hark! There goes a bell, and we are really about to begin. "Number 1,

Junior 100 yards, for boys under 12," and 24 names entered! Slipshaw

and 1, both over 12, go off to have a look at "the kids," and a queer

sight it is. Of course, they can't all, 24 of them, run abreast, and so

they are being started in heats, six at a time. The first lot is just

starting. How eagerly they toe the line and look up at the starter!

"Are--" he begins, and two of them start, and have to be called back.

"Are you ready?" he says. Three of them are off now, and can't

understand that they are to wait for the word "Off!" But at last the

starter gets to the end of his speech and has them fairly off. The

little fellows go at it as if their lives depended on it. Their mothers

and big brothers are looking on, their "chums" are shouting to them

along the course, and the winning-post is not very far ahead. On they

go, but not in a level row. One has taken the lead, and the others

straggle behind him in a queer procession. It doesn't last long. Even

a Junior 100 yards must come to an end at last, and the winner runs,

puffing, into the judge's arms, half a dozen yards ahead of the next

boy, and 50 yards ahead of the last. The other three heats follow, and

then, amid great excitement, the final heat is run off, and the best man

wins.

For the Senior 100 yards which followed only three were entered, and

each of these had his band of confident admirers. Slipshaw and I were

very "sweet" on Jackson, who was monitor of our dormitory, and often

gave us the leavings of his muffins, but Ranger was a lighter-built

fellow, and seemed very active, while Bruce's long legs looked not at

all pleasant for his opponents. The starter had no trouble with them,

but it was no wonder they all three looked anxious as they turned their

faces to him; for in a 100 yards' race the start is everything, as poor

long-legged Bruce found out, for he slipped on the first spring, and

never recovered his lost ground. Between Ranger and Jackson the race

was a fine one to within twenty yards of home, when our favourite's

"fat" began to tell on him, and though he stuck gallantly to work he

could not prevail over the nimble Ranger, who slipped past him and won

easily by a yard.

This was a damper for Slipshaw and me, who, as in duty bound, attended

our champion back to where he had left his coat, and so missed the

throwing of the cricket-ball, which was easily won by the favourite.

But though we missed that event, we had no notion of missing the high

jump, which promised to be the best thing (next to the three-legged

race) that day. Four fellows were in for it, and of these Shute and

Catherall were two of the best jumpers Parkhurst had ever had; and it

was well known all over the school that in practice each had jumped

exactly 5 foot 4 inches. Who would win now? The two outsiders were

soon got rid of, one at 4 foot 10 inches, and the other at 5 foot; and

the real interest of the event began when Shute and Catherall were left

alone face to face with the bar. Shute was a tall fellow, of slight

make and excellent spring. Catherall was short, but with the bounce of

an india-rubber ball in him, and a wonderful knack of tucking his feet

up under him in jumping. It was a pretty sight to watch them advance

half-inch by half-inch, from 5 foot to 5 foot 3 inches. There seemed

absolutely nothing to choose between them, they both appeared to clear

the bar so easily. At 5 foot 3½ inches. Shute missed his first jump,

greatly to the dismay of his adherents, who saw Catherall clear it with

complete ease. If he were to miss the second time, he would be out of

it, and that would be a positive tragedy. So we all watched his next

jump with breathless anxiety. He stood looking at the bar for a second

or two, as if doubting his own chance. Then his face cleared up, and he

sprang towards it. To our delight he rose beautifully and cleared it

easily. At 5 foot 4 inches both missed the first jump, but both cleared

it at the second trial. And now for the tug of war. Both had

accomplished the utmost he had ever hitherto achieved, and it remained

to be seen whether the excitement of the occasion would assist either or

each to excel himself. Shute came to grief altogether at 5 foot 4½

inches, and again, to our dismay, Catherall bounded over the bar at his

first effort. Shute's friends were in despair, and if that hero had

been a nervous fellow he might have been the same. But he was a very

cool fish, and instead of losing his nerve, sat down on the grass and

tightened the lace of his shoe. Then he slowly rose to his feet and

faced his task. At that moment I forgot all about the three-legged

race, and gave my whole heart up to the issue of this jump. He started

to run at last, slow at first, but gathering pace for his final leap.

Amid breathless silence he sprang forward and reached the bar, and

then--then he coolly pulled up and walked back again. This looked bad;

but better to pull up in time than spoil his chance. He kept us waiting

an age before he was ready to start again, but at last he turned for his

last effort. We could tell long before he got to the bar that this

time, at any rate, he was going to jump, whether he missed or no. Jump

he did, and, to our unbounded delight, just cleared the bar--so narrowly

that it almost shook as he skimmed over it. That was the end of the

high jump; for though both attempted the 5 foot 5 inches, neither

accomplished it, and the contest was declared to be a dead heat.

After this several unimportant races followed, which I need hardly

describe. Number 12 on the list was getting near, and I was beginning

to feel a queer, hungry sort of sensation which I didn't exactly like.

However, the mile was to be run before our turn came, and that would

give me time to recover.

For this race we had many of us looked with a curious interest, on

account of the new boy, of whom I have spoken, being one of the

competitors in it. He didn't look a likely sort of fellow to win a

race, certainly, for he was slightly bow-legged and thick-set, and what

seemed to us a much more ominous sign, was not even arrayed in flannels,

but in an ordinary white shirt and light cloth trousers. However, he

took his place very confidently at the starting-post, together with

three rivals, wearing respectively black, red, and yellow for their

colours.

The start for a mile race is not such a headlong affair as for a hundred

yards, and consequently at the word "Off!" there was comparatively

little excitement among us spectators.

Yellow went to the front almost immediately, with red and black close

behind, while the new boy seemed to confirm our unfavourable impression

by keeping considerably in the rear. The mile was divided into three

laps round the field, and at the end of the first the positions of the

four were the same as at starting. But it was soon evident yellow was

not destined to continue his lead, for before the half distance was

accomplished, red and black, who all along had been neck and neck, were

up to him and past him, and by the end of the lap the new boy had also

overtaken him.

And now we became considerably more interested in the progress of this

new boy, who, it suddenly occurred to us, seemed to be going very

easily, which was more than could be said of red, who was dropping a

little to the rear of black. A big boy near me said, "That fellow's got

the wind of a balloon," and I immediately began to think he was not far

wrong. For in this third lap, when two of the others were slacking

pace, and when the third was only holding his own, the new boy freshened

up remarkably. We could watch him crawl up gradually nearer and nearer

to red, till a shout proclaimed him to be second in the running. But

black was still well ahead, and in the short space left, as the big boy

near me said, "He could hardly collar his man."

But see! The fellow is positively beginning to tear along! He seems

fresher than when he started. "Look out. Black!" shout twenty voices.

All very well to say, "Look out!" Black is used up, and certainly

cannot respond to this tremendous spurt. Thirty yards from home the new

boy is up to his man, and before the winning-post is reached he is a

clear ten yards ahead.

"Bellows did it," said the big boy; "look at his chest"; and then for

the first time I noticed where the secret of this hero's triumph lay.

But, horrors! the next race is Number 12, and Slipshaw and I scuttle off

as hard as we can go, to get ready.

How miserable I felt then! I hated athletic sports, and detested

"three-legged races." As we emerged from the tent, we and the other two

couples, ambling along on our respective three legs, a shout of laughter

greeted our appearance. I, for one, didn't see anything to laugh at,

just then.

"Adams," said Slipshaw, as we reached the starting-place, "take it easy,

old man, and mind you don't go over."

"All right," said I, feeling very much inclined to go over at that

instant. Then that awful starter began his little speech.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

"Not at all," inwardly ejaculated I.

"Off!" he cried; and almost before I knew where I was, Slipshaw and I

were hopping along on our three legs amid the cheers of the crowd.

"Steady!" said he, as I stepped out rather _too_ fast.

Alas! we were last. The other two couples were pounding along ahead at

a wonderful pace.

"Steady!" growled Slipshaw again, as I began to try to run, and nearly

capsized him.

You may laugh, reader, but it was no joke, that three-legged race. The

others ahead of us showed no signs of flagging; they were going hard,

one couple close at the heels of the other, and we a full five yards

behind. I was giving one despairing thought to the pots and prizes in

the tent, when a great roar of laughter almost made me forget which foot

to put forward.

What could it be?--and Slipshaw was laughing too!

"Steady, now," he said, "and come along!"

The laughter continued, and looking before me, I suddenly detected its

cause. The leading couple in a moment of over-confidence had attempted

to go too fast, and had come on their noses on the path, and the second

couple, too close behind them, had not had time to avoid the obstacle,

but had plunged headlong on to the top of them! It was all right now!

Slipshaw and I trotted triumphantly past the prostrate heap, and after

all won our prize! You may fancy I was too excited to think of much

else after that, except indeed the hurdle race, which was most exciting,

and won most cleverly by Catherall, who, though he came to grief at the

last hurdle, was able to pick himself up in time to rush in and win the

race by a neck from the new boy, whom we found to be almost as good at

jumping as he was at running.

Then followed a two-mile race--rather dull to watch--and with that the

sports were at an end.

Need I say how proudly Slipshaw and I marched up arm-in-arm to receive

the prize for our race, which consisted of a bat for me and a telescope

for my companion?--or how the new boy was cheered?--or how Shute and

Catherall were applauded?

Before I left Parkhurst I was an old hand at athletic sports, but I

don't think I ever thought any of them so interesting as the day on

which Slipshaw and I, with our legs tied together, came in first in the

three-legged race!

CHAPTER EIGHT.

THE SNEAK.

Sneak! It's an ugly name, but not ugly enough, believe me, for the

animal it describes.

Like his namesake, the snake, he may be a showy enough looking fellow at

first sight, he may have the knack of wriggling himself into your

acquaintance, and his rattle may amuse you for a time, but wait till he

turns and stings you!

I am at a loss how to describe in a few words what I--and, I expect,

most of us--mean when we talk of a sneak. He is a mixture of so many

detestable qualities. There is a large amount of cowardice in his

constitution, and a similar quantity of jealousy; and then there are

certain proportions of falsehood, ingratitude, malice, and officiousness

to complete his ugly anatomy, to say nothing of hypocrisy and self-

conceit. When all these amiable ingredients are compounded together, we

have our model sneak.

How we detest the fellow! how our toes tingle when he comes our way! how

readily we go a mile round to avoid him! how we hope we may never be

like _him_!

Let me tell you of one we had at our school. Any one who did not know

Jerry would have said to himself, "That's a pleasant enough sort of

fellow." For so he seemed. With a knack of turning up everywhere, and

at all times, he would at first strike the stranger as only an extremely

sociable fellow, who occasionally failed to see he wasn't as welcome as

one would think he deserved to be. But wait a little. Presently he'd

make up to you, and become very friendly. In your pleasure at finding

some one to talk to after coming away from home to a new and lonely

place, you will, in the innocence of your heart, grow confidential, and

tell him all your secrets. You will perhaps tell him to whom your

sister is engaged; how much pocket-money your father allows you. You'll

show him a likeness of the little cousin you are over head and ears in

love with, and tell him about the cake your old nurse has packed up

among the schoolbooks in your trunk. He takes the greatest interest in

the narration; you feel quite happy to have had a good talk about the

dear home, and you go to bed to dream of your little sweetheart and your

new friend.

In the morning, when you wake, there is laughter going on in the beds

round you. As you sit up and rub your eyes, and wonder where you are--

it's all so different from home--you hear one boy call out to another--

"I say, Tom, don't you wish you had a nurse to make you cakes?"

That somehow seems pointed at you, though addressed to another, for all

the other boys look round at you and grin.

"Wouldn't I?" replies the Tom appealed to. "Only when a chap's in love,

you know, he's no good at cakes."

"Cakes!" "in love!" They must be making fun of you; but however do they

know so much about you? Listen! "If _I_ had a sister, I'd take care

_she_ didn't go and marry a butter-man, Jack, wouldn't you?"

It must be meant for you; for you had told Jerry the evening before that

your sister was going to marry a provision merchant! Then all of a

sudden it flashes upon you. You have been betrayed! The secrets you

have whispered in private have become the property of the entire school;

and the friend you fancied so genial and sympathising has made your

open-hearted frankness the subject of a blackguard jest, and exposed you

to all the agony of schoolboy ridicule!

With quivering lips and flushed face, half shame, half anger, you dash

beneath the clothes, and wish the floor would open beneath you. When

the getting-up bell sounds, you slink into your clothes amid the titters

of your companions. It is weeks before you hear the end of your nurse,

your pocket money, your sister, and your sweetheart; and for you all the

little pleasure of your first term at school has gone.

But what of Jerry? He comes to you in the morning as if nothing had

happened, with a "How are you, old fellow?"

You are so indignant you can't speak; all you are able to do is to glare

in scorn and anger.

"Afraid you're not well," remarks the sneak; "change of scene, you know.

I hope you'll soon be better."

Just as he is going you manage, though almost bursting with the effort,

to stammer out--"What do you mean by telling tales of me to all the

fellows?" He looks perplexed, as if at a loss for your meaning. "Tell

tales of you?" says he. "I don't know what you mean, old chap."

"Yes, you do. How did they all know all about me this morning, if you

hadn't told them?"

Then, as if your meaning suddenly dawned upon him, he breaks into a

forced laugh, and exclaims--

"Oh, the chaff between Tom and Jack! I was awfully angry with Jack for

beginning it--awfully angry. We happened to be talking last night, you

know, about home, and I just mentioned what you had told me, never

thinking the fellow would be such a cad as to let it out."

You are so much taken aback at the impudence of the fellow, that you let

him walk away without another word. If you have derived no other

advantage from your first day at school, you have at least learned to

know the character of Jerry. And you find it out better as you go on.

If you quarrel with him, and threaten him with condign punishment, he

will report you to the doctor, and you'll get an imposition. If you sit

up beyond hours reading, he'll contrive to let the monitors know, and

your book will be confiscated; if you happen to be "spinning a yarn"

with a chum in your study, you will generally find, if you open the door

suddenly, that he is not very far from the keyhole; if you get up a

party to partake of a smuggled supper in the dormitory, he will conduct

a master to the scene, and get you into a row. There's no secret so

deadly he won't get hold of; nothing you want kept quiet that he won't

spread all round the school. In fact, there's scarcely anything he does

not put his finger into, and everything he puts his finger into he

spoils.

If, in a weak moment of benevolence, you take him back into your

confidence and friendship, no one will be more humble and forgiving and

affable; but he will just use your new favour as a weapon for paying

back old grudges, and sorely will you repent your folly.

In fact, there is only one place for Jerry--that place is Coventry.

That city is famous for one sneak already. Let Jerry keep him company.

There he can tell tales, and peep and listen and wriggle to his heart's

content. He'll please himself, and do no one any harm.

A sneak has not always the plea of self-interest for his meanness.

Often enough his tale-bearing or his mischief-making can not only do his

victims incalculable harm, but cannot do him any possible good.

What good did the snake in the fable expect who, having been rescued,

and warmed and restored to life by the merciful woodcutter, turned on

his deliverer and stung him? No wonder the good fellow knocked him on

the head! I knew another sneak once who seemed to make a regular

profession of this amiable propensity. He seemed to consider his path

in life was to detect and inform on whatever, to his small mind, seemed

a culpable offence. In the middle of school, all of a sudden his raspy

voice would lift itself up in ejaculations like these, addressed to the

master,--

"Please, sir," (he always prefaced his remarks with "Please, sir"),

"Please, sir, Tom Cobb's eating an apple!"

"Please, sir, Jenkins has made a blot!"

"Please, sir, Allen junior is cutting his name on the desk!"

Perhaps the indignant Allen junior would here take occasion to

acknowledge his sense of this attention by a private kick under the

desk. Then it would be--

"All right, Joe Allen; _I'll sneak of you_, you see if I don't!"

No one could do it better.

Amiable little pet, how we all loved him!

Sneaking seems to be a sort of disease with some people. There's no

other way of accounting for it. It sometimes seems as if the mere sight

of happiness or success in others is the signal for its breaking out.

As we have said, its two leading motives are cowardice and jealousy.

Just as the cur will wait till the big dog has passed by, and then,

slinking up behind, give a surreptitious snap at his heels, so the

sneak, instead of standing face to face with his rival, and instead of

entering into fair competition with him, creeps up unobserved and

inflicts his wound on the sly.

Thus it has been with all traitors and spies and deserters and mischief-

makers since the world began. What a list one could give of the sneaks

of history, beginning at that arch-serpent who marred the happiness of

Eden, down to some of the informers and renegades of the present day!

Boys cannot be too early on their guard against sneaking habits. No

truly English boy, we are glad to think, is likely to fall into them;

still, even among our own acquaintance, it is sad to think how many

there are who are not wholly free from the reproach.

The child in the nursery who begins to tell tales to his mother of his

little brothers and sisters will, if not corrected, grow up to be just

such another sneak as Jerry; and Jerry, unless he cures himself of his

vice, will become a mere odious meddler and scandalmonger in society,

and may arrive at the unenviable distinction of being the most detested

man of his generation.

Every disease has its cure. Be honest, be brave, be kind, and have

always a good conscience, and you _cannot_ be a sneak.

CHAPTER NINE.

THE SULKY BOY.

We all know him. He might be a good-looking fellow, perhaps, if it

weren't for the scowl over his eyes and the everlasting pout about his

lips. He skulks about with his hands in his pockets, and his head hung

down. We all make room for him, and give him a wide berth; no one is

anxious to be chosen upon the same side with him at chevy, or to get the

desk next his in school. It's a fact we are all afraid of him, though

we all despise him. He makes everybody unhappy, by being miserable

himself for no reason at all.

Sometimes, indeed, he can be jolly enough--when he chooses. No one

could tell at such times that there was anything queer about him; but

then all of a sudden he shows in his true colours (and dingy enough

colours they are), and then it is all up with enjoyment till he takes

himself off, which he generally does before long.

All this is very sad; and if I say a word or two about sulkiness now, it

will be in the hope of inducing my readers to give no encouragement to

so ugly a vice.

There are two ways of showing anger, when one is unfortunate enough to

be under the necessity of being angry. You can't always help it. Some

people are never put out. However much you rile them, they are always

good-humoured, always cool, always friendly. You might as well try to

talk the sun behind a cloud as to get them in a rage. Happy the few who

have this art! They always get the best of it, they always win the

greatest respect, they always are the least likely people for any one to

quarrel with.

I don't count these among the two classes of angry people, because they

are not angry. But angry people are generally either in a rage or in

the sulks. Neither is pleasant to meet, yet for my own part I would

sooner have to do with the fellow in the rage. There's no deception

about him; he's angry, and he lets you know it; he's got a grievance,

and he blurts out what it is; he hits straight out from the shoulder,

and you know what you've to expect. With such a one it is generally

soon all over. Just as the April shower, sharp enough while it lasts,

gives place in time to the sun, so Will Hothead generally gets all right

as soon as he has let the steam off; and when he shakes hands and makes

it up, you are pretty sure he thinks none the worse of you, and bears no

malice.

Don't imagine I'm trying to justify exhibitions of temper. Far from it.

I say every boy who can't control his temper has yet to learn one of

the greatest lessons of life. What I want to show is that even passion,

bad as it is, is not so bad as sulkiness.

For just consider what a miserable sort of boy this Tom Sulks, that we

all of us know, is. Why, almost before he could speak he had learned to

pout. If a toy was denied him, he neither bellowed like his little

brother nor raved like his little sister, but toddled off and sulked in

a corner all day long. When he grew a little older, if he was not

allowed to play in the garden because it was damp, he refused to play in

the nursery, he refused to come down to the dining-room, he refused to

say his prayers at bedtime. When he was old enough to go to school, he

would either play marbles the way he was used to (which was the wrong

way), or not at all. If found fault with for not knowing his lesson, he

pushed his books from him, and endured to be stood in the corner, or

punished some other way, rather than learn his task. The vice only

became worse and worse as time went on, and to-day Tom is an odious

fellow. Look at him playing at cricket. He steps across the wickets to

hit at a ball, but, instead, stops it with his foot. "How's that,

umpire?" cries the bowler. "Out, leg before," is the answer.

Tom still keeps his place.

"Out, do you hear, leg before?"

"It wasn't!" growls Tom.

"The umpire gives it out," is the unanswerable reply.

Thereupon Tom's face clouds over, his eyebrows gather, and his lips

shape themselves into a pout, as he drops his bat and walks from the

wicket without a word. No one takes any notice of him, for the event is

too common, alas, to occasion surprise. We know what his sulks mean.

No one will get a word from him for hours, perhaps a day; no attempts at

conciliation will tempt him back to the game, no friendly talk will

chase the cloud from his face. There he goes, slouching up the

playground into the house, and he will skulk upstairs to his study and

slam the door, and that's all we shall see of Tom till suppertime.

Once, I remember, young Jim Friendly, a new boy, tried hard to coax Tom

back into good humour. They had been having a match at something, I

forget what, and Jim happened to say that something Tom did was against

the rules. Tom, as usual, grew sulky and walked off.

"What, you aren't going in?" said Jim, disconcerted. No answer. "I

didn't mean to offend you, old fellow; you may be right, after all." No

answer. "I beg your pardon, Tom. I wouldn't have said it if I thought

you'd have minded." No answer. "Don't be angry with a fellow, I didn't

mean--"

No answer. And so Jim went on apologising, as if he had been all in the

wrong and the other all in the right, and getting no word in reply, only

the same scowl and uncompromising sullenness. "I'll take jolly good

care not to stroke that fellow the wrong way again," said Jim,

afterwards; "and if I should, I won't waste my time in stroking him the

right way."

Just fancy what sort of man such a fellow as Tom is likely to turn out.

Is he likely to have many friends? Unless he can get a few of his own

sort, I'm afraid he'll be rather badly off in that respect. And then,

oh, horrors! fancy half a dozen Tom Sulks together! What a happy family

they would be! When Tom goes to business, he had better make up his

mind to start a concern of his own, for I'm afraid he would have some

difficulty in getting a partner, or, at any rate, keeping one. I could

quite fancy some important question arising where Tom and his partner

might hold different views. Tom insists he's right, the partner insists

he's right. Tom consequently stays away for a week from the office,

during which the poor partner has to manage as best he can.

Whatever Tom will do about marrying I don't know; and when he is

married, what his wife will do, I know still less--it's no use

speculating on such a matter. But now, letting Tom be, let us inquire

whether the sulky boy is more to be blamed than pitied. That he is an

odious, disagreeable fellow, there is no doubt. But perhaps it's not

_all_ his own fault. Some boys are of duller natures than others. The

high-spirited, healthy, sanguine fellow will flare up at a moment's

notice, and let fly without stopping to think twice of the injury done

him, while the dull boy is altogether slower in his movements: words

don't come to his lips so quickly, or thoughts don't rush into his mind

as promptly as in others; he is like the snail who, when offended,

shrinks back into its shell, leaving nothing but a hard, unyielding

exterior to mark his displeasure. A great many boys are sulky because

they have not the boldness to be anything else; and a great many others

are so because to their small minds it is the grandest way of displaying

their wrath. If only they could see how ridiculous they are!

I once knew two boys who for some time had been firm friends at school.

By some unlucky chance a misunderstanding occurred which interrupted

this friendship, and the grievance was, or appeared to be, so sore, that

neither boy would speak to the other. Well, this went on for no less

than six months, and became the talk of the whole school. These silly

boys, however, were so convinced of the sublimity of their respective

conducts that they never observed that every one was laughing at them.

Daily they passed one another, with eyes averted and noses high in the

air; daily they fed their memories with the recollection of their smart.

For six months never a word passed between them. Then came the summer

holidays, in the course of which it suddenly occurred to both these

boys, being not altogether senseless boys, that after all they were

making themselves rather ridiculous. And the more they thought of it,

the more ashamed of themselves they grew, till at last one sat down and

wrote,--

"Dear Dick, I'm sorry I offended you; make it up," to which epistle

came, by return post, a reply,--

"Dear Bob, _I'm_ sorry _I_ offended you; let's be friends."

And the first day of next term these two met and shook hands, and

laughed, and owned what fools they had both been.

A great many of the faults of this life come from the lack of a sense of

humour. Certainly, if sulky boys had more of it, they would be inclined

to follow the example of these two.

But, although there is a great deal about the sulky boy that merits pity

rather than blame, there is much that deserves merciless censure. Why

should one boy, by a whim of selfish resentment, mar the pleasure, not

only of those with whom he has his quarrel, but with every one else he

comes in contact with? "One dead fly," the proverb says, "makes the

apothecary's ointment unsavoury"; and one sulky boy, in like manner, may

destroy the harmony of a whole school. Isn't it enough, if you must be

disagreeable, to confine your disagreeableness to those for whom it is

meant, without lugging a dozen other harmless fellows into the shadow of

it? Do you really think so much of your own importance as to imagine

all the world will be interested in your quarrel with Smith, because he

insisted a thing was tweedledum and you insisted it was tweedledee? Or,

if you have the grace to confine your sulkiness to Smith alone, for his

private benefit, do you imagine you will convince him of the error of

his ways by shutting yourself up and never looking or speaking to him?

It used to be a matter of frequent debate at school what ought to be

done to Tom Sulks.

"Kick him," said some. "Laugh at him," said others. "Send him to

Coventry," put in a third. "Lecture him," advised others. "Let him

alone," said the rest.

And this, after all, is the best advice. If a sulky fellow won't come

round of his own accord, no kicks, or laughs, or snubs, or lectures will

bring him.

Surely none of the readers of this chapter are sulky boys! It is not to

be expected you will get through life without being put out--that is

sure to happen; and then you've three courses open to you: either to

take it like a man and a Christian, not rendering evil for evil, not

carried away by revengeful impulse, but bearing what can honourably be

borne with a good grace; and for the rest, if action is necessary,

righting yourself without malice or vindictiveness; or else you can fly

into a rage, and slog out blindly in wild passion; or you can sulk like

a cur in a corner, heeded by no one, yet disliked by all, and without a

friend--not even yourself.

You will know which of the three best becomes a British boy. Be

assured, that which worst becomes him is _sulking_.

CHAPTER TEN.

THE EASY-GOING BOY.

It is a common complaint in these degenerate days that we live harder

than our fathers did. Whatever we do we rush at. We bolt our food, and

run for the train; we jump out of it before it has stopped, and reach

the school door just as the bell rings; we "cram" for our examinations,

and "spurt" for our prizes. We have no time to read books, so we

scuttle through the reviews, and consider ourselves up in the subject;

we cut short our letters home, and have no patience to sit and hear a

long story out. We race off with a chum for a week's holiday, and

consider we have dawdled unless we have covered our thirty miles a day,

and can name as visited a string of sights, mountains, lakes, and

valleys a full yard long.

If such charges are just (and they are, we fear, not wholly unfounded),

it is at least a satisfaction to know that there is one brilliant

exception to the rule, and that is in the person of Master Ned Easy.

Whatever other folk do, _he_ has no notion of hurrying himself. Some

one once said of him that he was a fellow who looked as if he'd been

born with his hands in his pockets. He takes his time about everything

he does. If the breakfast bell rings before he is dressed, then--well,

breakfast must wait. If breakfast is over before he has well begun,

then everybody else must wait while he, in a leisurely way, polishes off

his viands. In the classes, his is sure to be the last paper to be

handed up; and when the boys are dismissed, he saunters forth to the

playground in the rear of all the others. When he is one of a fishing-

party, and everybody but he is ready, he keeps them all waiting till

their patience is completely exhausted, while he gets together his

tackle, laces his boots, and selects his flies.

"Come on! look alive!" is the cry that is for ever being hurled at him,

"All serene, old fellow; what's the hurry?" is his invariable reply.

I well remember the first time I made Ned's acquaintance, and I will

recall the incident, as giving a fair specimen of the fellow and his

peculiarity.

It was a big cricket match, the afternoon was far advanced, the light

was getting uncertain, and time was almost up. Our school's ninth

wicket had fallen, and yet there were five runs to get to win, which we

could just do, if our last man in was quick.

"Now, Ned!" calls out our captain, coming up to the tent; "look sharp

in."

Ned coolly sat down on the bench in our tent and proceeded to put on a

pad.

"Never mind about that! there's no time," said our captain impatiently,

"and they are bowling slow."

"Oh, it won't take a minute," says Ned, discovering he had been putting

the pad on upside down, and proceeding to undo it. We stood round in

feverish impatience, and the minute consumed in putting on those

miserable leg-fenders seemed like a year.

Ned himself, however, did not seem in the least flurried by our

excitement.

"Pity they don't make these things fasten with springs instead of

straps," he observed, by way of genial conversation.

Oh, how we chafed and fumed!

"_Will_ you look sharp, if you're going to play at all?" howls our

captain.

"All _right_, old chap; I can't be quicker than I am; where are the

gloves?"

The gloves are brought like lightning, but not like lightning put on.

No, the india-rubber gauntlets must needs be drawn with the greatest

care and deliberation over his fingers, and even then require a good

deal of shifting to render them comfortable. Then he was actually (I

believe) going to take them off in order to roll up his shirt sleeves,

had not two of us performed that office for him with a rapidity which

astonished him.

"Upon my word, this is too bad," says our captain, flinging down the bat

he was holding, and stamping with vexation. "We might as well give the

whole thing up!"

"I'm awfully sorry," drawled Ned, in an injured tone; "but how could I

help it? I'm ready now."

"Ready! I should hope you were. Off you cut now; it only wants five

minutes to the time."

He starts to go, but turns before he has well left us, and says--

"Oh, I say, Jim, lend us your bat, will you? This one is sprung, and

one of the--"

"Here you are," we shout, running to him with a dozen bats at

once--"only look sharp."

"I only want one," he says. "Let me see this; no, this will do.

Thanks, old man," and off he saunters again.

The other side is lying comfortably on the grass, very well satisfied at

the delay which every moment adds to their chance of victory. What

centuries Ned appears to be taking in strolling up to the wickets!

"I wish I was behind him with a red-hot poker," says one; "I'd make him

trot!"

"Not a bit of it," growls our captain; "Ned would want more than that to

start him."

Look at him now, getting "middle" as if he'd the whole afternoon before

him! And that done, he slowly and deliberately taps the end of his bat

on the place till we almost yell with rage.

"It's no use now!" groans our captain in absolute despair; and so,

indeed, we and our smiling adversaries all thought.

"Play!" cries the bowler.

"Wait a bit," says the aggravating Ned, dipping his hands in the

sawdust! "now!"

The ball comes at last, and Ned lets fly. It is a grand hit; the ball

comes whizzing right past where we stand, and with delight as great as

our previous agony we cheer till we are hoarse.

Three runs are added to our score, and now we only want one more to

equal our opponents, and two to win; but we shall never do it in the

time, unless fortune favours us strangely. For see, it is "over," and

the fielders will consume half of the remaining two minutes in changing

their position.

Then again "play" is called.

Would you believe it? Ned calls out for "middle" again at the new

wicket, and repeats the same pottering operation when he has got it.

"Well, if ever _I_ saw--"

What our captain is about to say no one ever hears, for at that moment

the ball is delivered, and Ned blocks it dead.

There is just time for one ball more, and on that all our hopes depend.

It comes, and Ned bangs at it! It's a run! No, it isn't! yes it is!

The fielder has missed it. Hurrah! we are equal!

Actually they are running another! They won't do it. Up comes the ball

to the wicket-keeper, and forward darts Ned's bat over the crease.

"How's that, umpire?" cries the wicket-keeper.

"Not out!"

"Time's up!"

Oh, how we cheer! How we rush forward and shoulder Ned home to the

tent. Never was such a close shave of a match!

Ned himself by no means shares in the general excitement.

"Why, what a hurry you fellows were in!" he says. "Look here, George,

I'll show you now what I meant about the springs on the pads."

Now you will understand what a very aggravating fellow this Ned Easy

was; and yet he generally managed to come off best in the end. He

generally managed to scrape in at the finish of whatever he undertook.

I am certain that if he were a prisoner of war _let_ out on parole, with

a pledge to return in one hour or suffer death, he would turn up cool

and comfortable on the sixtieth tick of the sixtieth minute of that

hour, and look quite surprised at the men who were loading their muskets

for his execution.

But some day the chances are he will be late in earnest, and then he

will have to repent in a hurry of his bad speed.

A fellow who is easy-going about his time is generally easy-going about

his friends, his money, and his morals.

Not that Ned is the sort of fellow to turn out a rascal exactly. He has

not the energy, even if he had the inclination. A rascal, to be at all

successful, must be brisk, and an observer of times and seasons, and

that is altogether out of Ned's line. No; he'll be careless about what

he does, and about what people think of him; he will lend a sovereign

with as little idea of getting it back as he has of returning the pound

he himself had borrowed; he will think nothing of keeping a friend

waiting half a day; neither will he take offence if his own good nature

is drawn on to an unlimited extent.

He is, after his fashion, an observer of the golden rule, for although

he is constantly annoying and exasperating people by his easy-going

ways, he is never afflicted if others do _to him_ as he does to them.

He goes through life with the notion that every one is as complaisant

and comfortable as himself. "Easy-going-ness" (if one may coin a word

for the occasion) is, many people would say, a combination of

selfishness and stupidity, but I think such people judge rather too

hardly of Ned and his compeers. It's all very well for some of us, who

perhaps are of an active turn of mind, to talk about curing oneself of

this fault; but perhaps, if we knew all, we should find that it would be

about as easy as for a fair-complexioned person to make himself dark.

Ned's disposition is due more to his constitution than his upbringing,

and those who are blindly intolerant of his ways do him a wrong. I'm

sure he himself wishes he were as smart as some boys he sees, but he

can't be, and you might just as well try to lash an elephant into a

gallop as Ned into a flurry.

It is generally found that what he does he does well, which in a measure

makes up for the length of time he takes in doing it; he is good-

natured, brave, harmless, and cheery, and has lots of friends, whom he

allows full liberty both to abuse and laugh at him (and what can friends

want more?) and for the rest, he's neither vicious nor an idiot; and if

nobody were worse than he is, the world would perhaps be rather better

than it is.

An artificial "easy-going-ness" is undoubtedly a vice. It's a forgery,

however, easily detected, and generally brings its own punishment. I

advise none of my readers to try it on. If they are naturally energetic

and smart, they have a much better chance of rising in the world than

Ned has; but let them, when they laugh at Ned and abuse him, remember

the fable of the hare and the tortoise.

I must just tell one more story of Ned in conclusion.

One night our whole school was startled by an alarm of "Fire!" We

sprang from our beds, and, without waiting to dress, rushed to the

quarter from which the cry had proceeded. It was only too true; a barn

at one end of the buildings was in flames, and there seemed every

prospect of the school itself catching fire.

We hurried back in a panic towards the staircase leading to the front

door, and in doing so discovered Ned was not with us.

One of us darted off to the dormitory, where he lay in bed sound asleep.

A rough shake roused him.

"What's the row?" he drawled, stretching himself.

"Get up quick, Ned; there's a fire!"

"Where?" asked Ned, without stirring.

"In the doctor's wing."

The doctor's wing was that farthest removed from our dormitories.

Ned yawned.

"Then it couldn't possibly reach here for half an hour. Call us again

in twenty minutes, Ben, there's a good fellow!"

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

THE BOY WHO IS "NEVER WRONG."

One might fancy at the first blush, that such a boy is one to be envied,

admired, and caressed above all others. Never wrong! What would not

some of us give to have the same said of us? Aren't _we_ always

blundering and losing our way and making asses of ourselves every day of

our lives? What wonder then if to us a being who is "never wrong"

should appear almost superhuman in his glory?

But, so far from being the noble, delightful creature one would expect,

the boy I am speaking of is an odious fellow, and as ridiculous as he is

odious, and I will tell you why.

The principal reason is, because he requires us to believe, on his own

unaided testimony, that he is the infallible being he professes to be;

and the second and hardly less important reason is, that, so far from

being always right, he is as often, if not oftener, wrong than other

people; in short, he's a hum!

"Never wrong," indeed! If all the British Association were to declare

as much of any one man, we should hardly be inclined to swallow it; but

when our sole authority in the matter is Master Timothy Told-you-so

himself, it becomes a joke, and a very poor joke too.

Let us just take stock of Timothy for a minute or two, to explain what

we mean.

He's in class, and the lesson is history. He does not look happy, but

of course that can't be because he doesn't know the lesson. Timothy not

know a lesson indeed!

"Timothy," says the master, "tell me in whose reign the Reformation was

introduced into England, will you?"

"James the First," replies Timothy.

"Next boy?"

"Henry the Eighth."

"Right; go up."

"Oh, sir," says Timothy, "that's what I meant; _I mistook the name_ for

a moment!" And he goes down with the air of an injured and resigned

boy.

In the geography class which follows Tim has another opportunity of

displaying his learning.

"On what river does Berlin stand?" is the question.

Tim hums and haws. "On the--oh--the--the, on the--er--the--"

"Next boy?"

"Berlin is on the Spree, sir."

"Ah, of course! It slipped me," mutters Tim with a thoughtful frown.

"Any one knows Berlin is on the Spree!" And down he goes again, as if

it were the common lot of all clever boys.

Arithmetic ensues. "Tell me, Timothy, if a man earns four shillings and

sixpence halfpenny a day, how much does he make in a week of six days?"

This enormous problem Tim takes due time to cogitate. Of course he

could tell you straight off if he chose; but as it is the practice to

work out sums in the head, he condescends to the common prejudice. At

length the oracle speaks.

"One pound three and two pence halfpenny."

"Quite wrong; what do you make it, Edward?"

"One pound four."

"Wrong. Next?"

"One pound seven and threepence."

"That's right."

"Oh yes, to be sure!" exclaims Tim, with the gesture of one who clutches

at the very words of his own lips uttered by another; "of course,

_that's what I meant_!"

"Timothy," says the master, gravely, "if you meant it, why did you not

say it?"

Why not, indeed? That is one of the very few questions, reader, in all

this world's philosophy which Timothy is unable to answer.

Of course every one laughs at Timothy, but that does not afflict him.

So fortified is he in the assurance of his own infallibility, that the

scorn of the ignorant is to him but as the rippling of water at the base

of a lighthouse.

Do not mistake me, Tim is not a dunce. For every question he answers

wrongly, perhaps he answers half a dozen correctly. If he chose to take

his stand on his general proficiency, he would pass for a fairly clever

fellow. But that will by no means satisfy him. He will never admit

himself beaten. There is always some trivial accident, some unforeseen

coincidence, without which his success would have been certain and

recognised; but which, as it happens, slightly interfere with his

triumph.

It is the same in games as in the class-room. If he is beaten in a

race, it is because he has slipped in starting; if he is clean bowled

first ball at cricket, it is because there was a lump in the grass just

where the ball pitched; if he lets the enemy's halfback pass him at

football, it is because he made sure Perkins had collared him--

otherwise, of course, he would have won the race, made top score at the

wickets, and saved his goal. As it happens, he does neither.

There is a touch of dishonesty in this, though perhaps Tim does not

intend it. Why cannot he own he is "out of it" now and then? His

fellows would respect him far more and laugh at him far less; he would

gain far more than he lost, besides having the satisfaction of knowing

he had not tried to deceive anybody. But I sometimes think, when Tim

makes his absurd excuses, he really believes what he says; just as the

ostrich, when he buries his head in the sand, really believes he is

hidden from the sight of his pursuers.

It is natural in human nature not to relish the constant admission of

error or failure. Who of us is not glad to feel at times (even if we do

not say it) that "it's not our fault"? The person who is always making

little of himself, and never admitting what small merit he might fairly

claim, is pretty much the same sort of deception as Tim, and we despise

him almost as much. We would all of us, in fact (and what wonder?) like

to be "always right," and perhaps our tendency is to let the wish become

father to the thought rather too often.

But to return to Timothy. Nothing, of course, could astonish him;

nothing was ever news to him; nothing could evoke his applause. "Tim,"

perhaps some one would say, "do you know old Grinder (the head master)

is going to be married, and we are to get a week extra holiday?"

"Ah," says Tim, to whom this is all news, "I always thought there was

something of the kind up. For my own part, I thought we should get a

fortnight extra."

"Buck made a good jump yesterday, Tim," says another. "Five feet and

half an inch."

"Sure it wasn't three-quarters of an inch?" is Tim's provoking answer.

Of all irritating things, perhaps the most irritating is to have your

big bundle of news calmly opened and emptied, and its contents

appropriated without scruple or acknowledgment.

Tim this very day has the gratification of amazing half the school with

the news of Dr Grinder's approaching marriage and the consequent extra

holidays, and of seeing the enthusiastic astonishment of others to whom

he retails the latest achievement of the athletic Buck.

But he did not always come off so easily. Once he was made the victim

of a joke which, in any one less self-satisfied, might have effectually

checked his foolish propensity. It was a wet day, and the boys were all

assembled in the big play-room, not knowing exactly what to do, and

ready for the first bit of fun which might turn up.

"Couldn't somebody draw Tim out?" one of us whispered.

The idea caught like wildfire, and after a brief pause Tidswell, the

monitor, said, amid the hushed attention of the company--

"By the way, Tim, wasn't that a queer account of the sea-serpent in the

paper the other day?"

"Awfully queer," replied the unsuspecting Tim; "I didn't know you had

seen it."

"Fancy a beast a mile and a half long from head to tail!"

"It's a good size," said Tim, "but nothing out of the common for a sea-

serpent, you know."

"Now I come to think of it, though," said Tidswell, "it didn't say that

the _serpent_ was a mile and a half long; it was a mile and a half from

the ship when it was seen, wasn't that it?"

"Yes, a mile and a half from the ship. I _thought_ you were drawing the

long bow in saying it was so big as all that."

"They saw it a mile and a half off, and just fancy feeling its breath at

that distance?"

"I'm not astonished at that," said Tim, "for all those beasts have

enormous lungs."

"How absurd of me! I should have said it seemed to all appearances

lifeless when they saw it," said Tidswell.

"Yes; dead, in fact," put in Tim, getting into difficulties.

"And then suddenly it stood erect on its tail, and shot forward towards

the vessel."

"Shows the strength of their backs. I couldn't help thinking that when

I saw the account."

"What am I talking about?" exclaimed Tidswell, hastily correcting

himself; "it was the ship stood in towards the monster and shot at him."

"Ah, yes; so it was. I made the same mistake myself, see. Yes, they

fired a broadside at him."

"No; only one shot at his head."

"That was all. Isn't that what you said?"

"And then he turned over in the water--"

"Dead as a leg of mutton!" put in Tim.

"No; the shot missed him, and he wasn't touched."

"No. I meant they all thought he was as dead as a leg of mutton; but he

was not so much as grazed."

All this while the amusement of the listeners had been growing gradually

beyond control, and at this point smothered explosions of laughter from

one and another fell on Tim's ears, like the dropping of musketry fire.

But he did not guess its meaning, and continued turning towards

Tidswell, and waiting for the conclusion of the story.

"And the last they saw of him," resumed that worthy, his voice quailing

with the exertion to keep it grave and composed--"the last they saw of

him was, he was spinning away at the rate of twenty knots an hour, with

his tail in his mouth, in the direction of the North Pole."

"I fancied it was only eighteen knots an hour," put in Tim seriously.

Another moment, and the laughter would assuredly burst upon him.

"Not in the account I saw. What paper did you see it in, Tim?"

"Eh? Why, the same as you," replied Tim hurriedly, beginning to suspect

the crimson faces of his comrades meant something more than admiration

of his wisdom. "Where did you get the tale from? I forget."

"I got the tale out of my head--like the serpent, you humbug!" roared

Tidswell; and for the next five minutes Tim sat on his stool of

repentance, amid the yells of laughter with which his companions hailed

his discomfiture.

When silence was restored, of course he tried to explain that "he knew

all along it was a joke, and only wanted to see how far he could gammon

the fellows, and fancied he succeeded," and presently quitted the room,

an injured but by no means humiliated boy.

One last word. Timothy and his friends are amusing up to one point, and

detestable up to another point; but when they come to you in the hour of

your deepest sorrow and distress, and, with bland smile, say to you, "I

told you so!" they are beyond all endurance, and you hope for nothing

more devoutly than that you may never see their odious faces again.

The best cure possible for Tim is a homoeopathic one. Find some other

boy equally conceited, equally foolish, equally unscrupulous, and set

him at Tim. I will undertake to say that--unless the two devour one

another down to the very tips of their tails, like the famous Kilkenny

cats--they will bring one another to reason, and perhaps modesty, in

double-quick time.

The great and wise Newton once said of himself that, so far from knowing

all things, he seemed to himself to be but as a boy gathering pebbles on

the seashore, while the great ocean of truth lay all undiscovered before

him.

Newton was, in his way, almost as fine a fellow as Timothy Told-you-so,

and if Timothy would but stoop to have more of Newton's spirit, he might

in time come to possess an atom or two of Newton's sense.

CHAPTER TWELVE.

THE UNTIDY BOY.

Look at him! You could tell he was an untidy fellow at a single glance.

One of his bootlaces is hanging loose, and the band of his scarf has

slipped up above his collar. Though it is a fine day, his trouser legs

are splashed up to the knee; and as for a parting to his hair, you might

as well expect an Indian jungle to be combed. His hands are all over

ink, and the sticky marks about his mouth tell their own tale. In

short, Jack Sloven is a dirty boy, and is anything but a credit to the

school he belongs to.

I wish you could see his school books. The pages look like well-used

drum parchments, and I am certain Jack must often find it hard to

decipher the words upon them. His exercises look as if they had been

left out in an ink shower, and the very pen he uses is generally wet

with ink up to the very tip of the handle, which, by the way, he usually

nibbles when he's nothing better to do. Who shall describe his desk?

It is generally understood that a schoolboy's desk is the receptacle for

a moderately miscellaneous assortment of articles, but Jack's seemed

like a great pie, into which everything under the sun was crammed and

stored up. The lid never shut; but if you were to open it, its contents

would astonish you as much as the contents of that wonderful pie in the

nursery rhyme astonished the king when he lifted the crust.

There were books, papers, hooks, balls, worms, stale sandwiches,

photographs, toffee, birds' eggs, keys, money, knives, cherry stones,

silkworms, marbles, pencils, handkerchiefs, tarts, gum, sleeve links,

and walnut shells. Any one venturesome enough to take a header through

these might succeed in reaching the layer of last year's apple peel

below, or in penetrating to the crumb heaps in the bottom corners; but

few there were who possessed that amount of boldness. Of course, Jack

had no notion of what his worldly goods consisted. He had a way of

shying things into his desk and forgetting them; and only when it became

so full that the lid stood nearly wide open did he apprehend the

necessity of a "clear-out."

But if there was ever anything more awful to behold than Jack's desk, it

was one of these "clear-outs." The event generally got wind when it was

about to happen, and never failed to create a sensation in the school.

All who had a right took care to be present at the ceremony, and I do

believe if Jack had had the sense to issue reserved seat tickets, he

might have made a nice thing out of it. At any rate, he made a nice

thing out of that desk.

Quite indifferent to our presence and laughter, he began leisurely to

take out its contents and spread them in glorious array upon the floor,

with a view (as he was kind enough to explain to some one who asked him)

"to sort them up." The books and papers went in a pile by themselves;

all loose papers were thrust inside the covers of the books; and all

books without covers were jammed into all the covers without books that

seemed likely to fit. Then all the pens and pencils were put into a

pencil case, and if any happened to be too long, they were broken to the

required shortness. This being satisfactorily done, Jack used next to

turn his attention to the miscellaneous articles of food of which he

found himself possessed. The sandwiches, if not more than a week old,

he either ate or generously offered to some of us; the toffee he put

into his pocket, and the tarts (if the jam were not already dried up) he

put aside for private consumption hereafter. The shells, stones, peel,

etcetera, he heaped up in one place on the floor, and trusted to

Providence to dispose of them. The fish-hooks and baits, the birds'

eggs that were not broken, the silkworms, the photographs, pencils,

knives, and other articles of use or ornament, he sorted carefully, and

then put back into the desk. By this time it would occur to him he had

been long enough over this business, so he shovelled the books and

papers in anyhow, and anything else which happened still to be left out,

and then finding that the lid would shut within an inch, he sighed with

the relief of a man who has well discharged a painful duty.

How was it to be expected Jack could ever find anything he wanted?

Sometimes he would sit grubbing in his desk, or among his books, to find

a certain exercise or paper for half an hour, and finally, when

everything was upside down, he would remember he had it in his waistcoat

pocket, from the recesses of which he produced it crumpled, greasy, and

almost illegible. On Sundays he always had a hunt for his gloves; and

at the end of the term, when he undertook his own packing, he generally

first of all contrived to pack up his keys in the very bottom of the

trunk, and so had to take everything out before he could get them, and

then when (with the aid of some dozen of us sitting on the top of the

unfortunate receptacle, to cram down the jumble of things inside to a

shutting point) he had succeeded in triumphantly turning the lock, it

was a wonder if he had not to open and unpack it all again to find his

straps.

As to his dress, I can safely say that, though Jack always had good

clothes, he always looked much less respectable than other boys whose

parents could not afford them anything but common material. Not only

did he lose buttons, and drop grease over his coat and trousers, but he

never folded or brushed them, or had them mended in time, as a tidy boy

would have done. We were quite ashamed to be seen walking with him

sometimes, he looked so disreputable, but no reproofs or persuasions

could induce him to take more pains about his appearance.

"A place for everything, and everything in its place," was a lesson Jack

could not learn; the result was constant and incalculable trouble. If

people could only realise the amount of time lost by untidiness, I think

they would regard the fault with positive horror. Why, Jack Sloven, at

the very mildest computation, must have lost half an hour a day. Half

an hour a day, at the end of the year, makes a clear working fortnight

to the bad, so that in twenty-five years, if he goes on as he has begun,

he will have one year of which it will take him all his time to give an

account.

But not only does untidiness waste time, and render the person who falls

into it a disreputable member of society, but it seriously endangers his

success in life. Jack Sloven was naturally a clever fellow. When he

could find his books, he made good use of them; none of us could come up

to him in translations, and he had the knack of always understanding

what he read. If it had not been for this wretched habit, he might have

got prizes at school, and still higher honours in after life; but as it

was, he always came to grief. The notes he had made on his work were

never to be found; he spent more time in collecting his materials than

he had to spare for using them; most of his work had to be scrambled

through at the last moment, and was accordingly imperfect. If Jack goes

to business, he has a very poor chance of getting on, for untidiness and

business will no more go together than oil and water. Few things are

more against a man in business than untidiness; people fight shy of him.

If his dress is untidy, his letters slovenly, his habits unpunctual,

and his accounts confused, he will be regarded as a man not reliable,

and not to be trusted, and people will refuse to transact with him. If

he has a house of his own, he will never succeed in keeping his servants

long, for they--so they say--have quite enough to do without unnecessary

work. In fact, I don't see how Jack is to get on at all unless he mends

his ways.

Is it possible for an untidy boy to become tidy? Try. And if at first

you don't succeed--try again. You are sure to succeed if you stick to

it. Don't aim at apple-pie order--everything in lavender--never to be

touched, and all that sort of thing. That's as bad as the boy who once

possessed a desk, which he would never use, for fear of marking the

blotting-paper, and breaking the paper bands round the envelopes.

No; if you can get into the way of always putting the book you read back

into its place on the shelf, and the paper you want where you will be

certain to find it again--if you encourage a jealousy of rubbish, and a

horror of dirt--if you take to heart the proverb I quoted just now, "A

place for everything, and everything in its place"--you will be as tidy

as you ever need be; and Jack Sloven's troubles and misfortunes will

never be yours.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

THE SCAPEGRACE.

The fellow's always in a row! No matter what it's about; no matter

whose fault it is; no matter how he tried to keep out of it; it's always

the same--he's in a row.

To fancy him not in a row would involve a flight of imagination of which

we, at any rate, are utterly incapable. He has lived in an atmosphere

of rows--rows in the nursery, rows at the dinner table, rows in the

schoolroom, rows in the playground. His hands are like leather, so

often have they been caned; his ears are past all feeling, so often have

they been boxed; and solitary confinement, impositions, the corner, and

the head master's study, have all lost their horrors for him, so often

has he had to endure them.

Sam Scamp of our school was, without exception, the unluckiest fellow I

ever came across. It was the practice in the case of all ordinary

offences for the masters of the lower forms to deal out their own

retribution, but special cases were always reserved for a higher court--

the head master's study. Hither the culprits were conducted in awful

state and impeached; here they heard judgment pronounced, and felt

sentence executed. It was an awful tribunal, that head master's study!

"All hope abandon, ye who enter here," was the motto--if not written, at

least clearly implied--over the door. The mere mention of the place was

enough to make one's flesh creep. Yet, somehow or other, Sam Scamp, was

always finding himself there. He must have abandoned hope once a week

at least during his school life, and before he left school I am certain

he must have worn that awful carpet threadbare, for all _his_ offences

were special offences. When half a dozen boys had spent one afternoon

in throwing stones over a certain wall, the stone which broke the

doctor's conservatory window was, as might be expected, Sam's. On the

occasion of the memorable battle of the dormitories--that famous fight

in which fifteen boys of Ward's dormitory, arrayed in their nightgowns

and armed with bolsters, engaged at dead of night in mortal combat with

twenty boys of Johnson's dormitory for the possession of a certain new

boy who had arrived that day with a trunk full of cakes--when the

monitors appeared on the scene, one boy, and one only, was captured, and

that was Sam. When a dozen fellows had been copying off one another,

the exercise book from which the discovery was made would be sure to be

Sam's; and when, in the temporary absence of the master, the schoolroom

became transformed into a bear-garden--as it sometimes will--if suddenly

the door were to open the figure which would inevitably fall on the

master's eye would be that of Sam, dancing a hornpipe in the middle of

the floor, shouting at the top of his voice, and covered from head to

foot with the dust he had himself kicked up.

On such occasions he was led off to the doctor's study. I happened to

be there once when he was brought up, and so had an opportunity of

witnessing a scene which, if new to me, must have been very familiar to

my unfortunate schoolfellow. (By the way, the reason _I_ was in the

doctor's study was merely to return a book he had lent me, mind that,

reader!)

"What, here again, Samuel?" said the doctor, recognising his too-well-

known visitor.

"I'm very sorry, sir," says Sam, humbly. "I can't make out how it is.

I try all I know--I do indeed--but somehow I'm always in trouble."

"You are," replies the doctor. "What is it about this time, Mr

Wardlaw?"

"I can tell you, sir--" begins Sam eagerly.

"Be silent, sir! Well, Mr Wardlaw?"

"The boy has been very disrespectful, sir. When I came into the class-

room this morning and opened my desk, I found it contained a guinea-pig

and two white mice, who had--"

Here the unlucky Sam, after a desperate effort, in the course of which

he has almost choked himself with a handkerchief, bursts into a laugh.

"What do you mean, sir?" thunders the doctor.

"Oh, sir, I couldn't help it--really I couldn't; I would rather have

choked than do it--it's just like me!"

And he looks so distressed and humble that the doctor turns from him,

and invites Mr Wardlaw to resume his impeachment.

"I have only to say that this boy, on being charged with the deed,

confessed to having done it."

"Oh yes, sir, that's all right--I did it; I'm very sorry; somehow I

can't make out how it is I'm so bad," says Sam, with the air of one

suffering from the strain of a constant anxiety.

"Don't talk nonsense, sir!" says the doctor, sternly; "you can make it

out as well as I can."

"Shall I hold out my hand, sir?" says Sam, who by this time has a good

idea of the routine of practice pursued in such interviews.

"No," says the doctor. "Leave him here, Mr Wardlaw; and you," adds he,

for the first time remembering that I was present--"you can go."

So we departed, leaving Sam shivering and shaking in the middle of the

carpet. It was half an hour before he rejoined his schoolfellows, and

this time his hands were not sore. But somehow he managed to avoid

getting into scrapes for a good deal longer than usual. But there is no

resisting the inevitable. He did in due time find himself in another

row; and then he suddenly vanished from our midst, for he had been

expelled.

Now, with regard to Sam and boys like him, it is of course only natural

to hold them up as examples to others. No boy can be a scamp and not

suffer for it some way or other; and as to saying it's one's misfortune

rather than one's fault that it is so, that is as ridiculous as to say,

when you choose to walk north, that it is your misfortune you are not

walking south.

But, in excuse for Sam, we must say that he was by no means the worst

boy in our school, though he did get into the most rows, and was finally

expelled in disgrace. If he had been deceitful or selfish, he would

probably have escaped oftener than he did; but he never denied his

faults or told tales of others. We who knew him generally found him

good-natured and jovial; he looked upon himself as a far more desperate

character than we ourselves did, and once I remember he solemnly charged

me to take warning by his evil fate.

Still, you see, Sam sinned once too often. Even though his crimes were

never more serious than putting guinea-pigs into the master's desk, yet

that sort of conduct time after time is not to be tolerated in any

school. The example set by a mischievous boy to his fellows is not

good; and if his scrapes are winked at always, the time will come when

others will be encouraged to follow in his steps, and behave badly too.

Sam, no doubt, deserved the punishment he got; and because one bad boy

who is punished is no worse than a dozen bad boys who get off, that does

not make him out a good boy, or a boy more hardly treated than he

merited.

Scapegraces are boys who, being mischievously inclined, are constantly

transgressing the line between right and wrong. Up to a certain point,

a boy of good spirits and fond of his joke, is as jolly a boy as one

could desire; but when his good spirits break the bounds of order, and

his jokes interfere with necessary authority, then it is time for him to

be reminded nothing ought to be carried too far in this world.

One last word about scapegraces. Don't, like Sam, get it into your

heads that you are destined to get into scrapes, and that therefore it

is no use trying to keep out of them. That would be a proof of nothing

but your silliness. I can't tell you how it was Sam's stone always

broke the window, or why the master's eye always fell on him when there

was a row going on; but I can tell you this, that if Sam hadn't thrown

the stone, the window would not have been broken; and that if he had

behaved well when the master's eye was turned away, he would not have

cut a poor figure when the door was opened. Some boys make a boast of

the number of scrapes they have been in, and fondly imagine themselves

heroes in proportion to the number of times they have been flogged.

Well, if it pleases them to think so, by all means let them indulge the

fancy; but we can at least promise them this--nobody else thinks so!

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

THE UNORIGINAL BOY.

It takes one a long time to discover that there is something wanting in

the character of Ebenezer Ditto; and it takes a longer time still to

make out exactly what that something is. He's an ordinary-looking and

ordinarily-behaved boy. There's nothing amiss with the cut of his

coat--it's neither extra grand nor extra shabby; there's nothing queer

about his voice--he doesn't stammer and he doesn't squeak; there's

nothing remarkable about his conversation or his actions--he's not a

dunce, though he's not clever; he's not a scamp, though he's not goody;

he never offends any one, though he never becomes great friends with any

one. What is it makes us not take to Ebenezer? Why is it, on the

whole, we rather despise him, and feel annoyed when in his society?

For, it is the truth, we _don't_ much care about him.

Well, the answer to this question may be, as I have said, not very

readily discovered; but if you watch Master Ditto carefully, and make up

your mind, you will get at the bottom of the mystery, you will find that

it is this very "ordinary" manner about him to which you object. The

fellow is dull--he is unoriginal.

You feel sometimes as if you would give a sovereign to see Ebenezer

stand on his head, by way of variety. It annoys you when he sits there

with his eyes on you, smiling when you smile, frowning when you frown,

talking about the weather when you talk about the weather, and when you

whistle "Nancy Lee" whistling his everlasting "Grandfather's Clock." It

is a relief, by the way, even to hear him whistle a different tune, for

it is about the only thing in which he does take an independent course.

But, if truth were known, it would come out he only knows this one tune,

and that is the reason. He has not originality enough in him to learn a

second.

It _is_ an annoying thing to be copied and imitated by any one, most of

all by a fellow one's own age. We can understand the little child

imitating its father, and we enjoy seeing what capers it sometimes cuts

in the attempt, but there's nothing either interesting or amusing in the

way Ebenezer goes on. When, for instance, by a sudden inspiration of

genius, you take it into your head to shy a slice of apple across the

room at Jack Sleepy just while he is in the act of yawning, with his

mouth open wide enough to let a wheelbarrow down, it is not pleasant

that immediately afterwards some one at your side should hurl a walnut

at the same person and wound him seriously in the eye. Besides making a

row, it takes away from the fun of your achievement, and makes the whole

affair more than a joke. Or, being asked, let us suppose, to name your

favourite hero in fiction, you are careful to select a somewhat out-of-

the-way name, and reply, "Sidney Carton." You are rather pleased to

think you have thereby not only named some one whom no one else is

likely to hit upon, but also you have delicately let your master see you

have lately read a very good book. It is rather vexing when Ebenezer

replies to the same question, "Sidney Carton," in a knowing sort of

manner, although you are positive he has never read the _Tale of Two

Cities_, and doesn't even know that Dickens was its author. Of course,

your distinction in the matter has gone, and if your answer is judged

the best, you only get half the credit you deserve. Or, to take one

more example, supposing one day, being utterly sick of Ebenezer's

society, and longing to get a little time by yourself, you decline the

tempting offer of a cricket match in which you know he also is likely to

play. You mean to read this afternoon, you say. Well, isn't it too bad

when next moment you hear that wretched Ebenezer saying, in answer to

the same invitation, "Very sorry, but I mean to read this afternoon,"

and then have him come and sit down on a bench beside you with his book?

And the worst of it is, you know if you now change your mind and go in

for the match after all, he will change _his_ mind and do the same.

The most aggravating thing about unoriginal fellows is that you cannot

well get in a rage with them, for if you find fault with them, you find

fault with yourselves.

"What a young ass you are not to play in the match!" you say to

Ebenezer, hardly able to contain yourself.

"Why aren't _you_ playing in it?" he replies.

"Oh! I've some particular reading I want to do," you say.

"So have I," replies he.

You cannot say, "You have no business to read when cricket is going on,"

nor can you say, "What do you mean by it?"

Clearly, if _you_ do it, you are not the person to say _he_ shall not.

I doubt if Ebenezer knows to what an extent he carries this trick of

his. It is so natural for him to do as he sees others do that he fails

to see how his actions appear in the same light as that in which others

see them. Sometimes, indeed, he appears to be conscious of following

his copy pretty closely, for we catch him trying to make some slight

variation which will prevent it being said he does exactly the same.

For instance, if you give a little select supper party in your study to

two friends off roast potatoes and sardines, he will probably have three

friends to breakfast off eggs and bread and jam; or if you hang up the

portraits of your father and sister over your mantelpiece, he will

suspend the likenesses of his mother and brother on his wall. He

generally, you will find, tries to improve on you--which, of course, is

not always hard to do. But sometimes he comes to grief in the attempt,

as happened in the case of his wonderful "hanging shelves." Ted Hammer,

quite a mechanical genius, had made to himself a set of these shelves,

which for neatness, simplicity, and usefulness were the marvel of the

school. Of course Ebby got to know of it, and was unhappy till he could

cap it with something finer still. So he made all sorts of excuses for

coming constantly into Ted's room and inspecting his work of art, till

at last he felt quite sure he could make a set for himself. So he

started to manufacture a set, twice the size, and with double the number

of shelves. In due time he had it done and suspended on his wall, and

it seemed as if Ted's nose was completely out of joint, for Ebby's

shelves held not only his books, but his jam-pots and tumblers, and all

sorts of odds and ends besides. But that very night there was a crash

in his room, the like of which had never been heard before. We all

rushed to the place. There were books, jam pots, ink pots, tumblers, in

one glorious state of smash on the floor, and the unlucky shelves on the

top of them; for Ebenezer had driven the small nail that supported the

structure into nothing better than ordinary loose plaster. The only

wonder was how the thing stayed up two minutes. So Ted Hammer's nose

was not out of joint after all.

This reminds us of the story of the two rival shoemakers, who lived

opposite one another, and always strove each to outdo the other in every

branch of their trade. One day, one of the two painted over his door

the highly appropriate Latin motto, "Mens conscia recti." His neighbour

gnashed his teeth, of course, and vowed to improve on the inscription.

And next day, when cobbler Number 1 and the world awoke, they beheld

painted in huge characters over the fellow's shop-front the startling

announcement, "_Men's and Women's_ conscia recti."

It is the easiest thing possible (where the operator is not quite such a

fool as this shoemaker) to improve on another's production. When some

genius brings out a machine over the plans of which he has spent half an

anxious lifetime, a dozen copyists will in a year have out a dozen

"improved machines," each of them better than the first one, and

therefore each helping to ruin the inventor. He had all the labour and

all the knowledge. All the others did was to add a few slight

improvements, for which they get all the credit due to the man without

whom they would not have had an idea. This is, alas! very common, and

cannot be avoided.

You can't make a law against one boy imitating another, or even against

his stepping into the credit due to you.

It is as easy to be unoriginal as it is hard at times to be original.

Everybody falls into the fault more or less. Why is it we can never

find anything to begin a conversation with except the weather?

Somebody, I suppose, began on that topic once. Why is it we always wear

the shaped coats that everybody else does? Somebody must have

astonished the world by setting the fashion in the first instance.

There is a touch of envy in Ebenezer, I'm afraid; but the kindest way of

accounting for his annoying ways is to believe he is not clever. No

more he is. If he were, he would at least see how ridiculous he

sometimes makes himself. The original boys, on the other hand, _are_

clever, and they are quick in their ideas, which Ebenezer is not. The

great thing in originality is to have your idea out before any one else.

As long as it's in your head and no one knows of it, you are no better

off than the unoriginal many; but give your idea a shape and a name, and

you are one of the original few. And the glory of being one of them is

that you are sure to have one or two of Ebenezer's sort at your tail!

Unoriginality is more a failing than a crime. Sometimes it may lead to

actions which do real injury to another, but injury is rarely intended.

It is stupidity more than anything else. But there is a point at which

unoriginality may become a sin. Every boy has in him the power to say

"Yes" or "No," and he has also the conscience in him which tells him

when he ought to say the one or the other. Now, when every one is

saying "Yes" to a thing about which your conscience demands that you

shall say "No," it becomes your positive duty for once in your life to

be original, and say it.

After all, most of us are medium sort of fellows. We are not geniuses,

and we trust we are not dolts. The best thing we can do is to look out

that we don't lose all our originality while knocking through this

world. The more we can keep of it, the more good we shall do; and if we

find we have enough of it to entitle us to some "followers," let us see

to it we turn them out, if anything, better fellows than they were when

first they "jumped up behind."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

THE DUFFER.

What school is without its duffer, I wonder? Of course, none of us

answer to the name, but we all know somebody who does, and it's a

curious thing nobody ever thoroughly dislikes a duffer. Why? Well, one

reason may be that there's nothing as a rule objectionable about such

fellows, and another is that we are always ready enough to forgive one

who makes us laugh; but I have an idea that the best reason why we are

all so tolerant of duffers is that we are able to remind ourselves, when

laughing at them, how very much the reverse of duffers we are ourselves.

However that may be, we had a glorious duffer at our school, who got

himself and us into all sorts of scrapes, and yet was quite a favourite

among his schoolfellows.

Billy Bungle (that was his name) was not by any means an idiot. He knew

perfectly well that two and two made four, and yet, such a queer chap as

he was, he would take any amount of pains to make five of it.

If there were two ways of doing anything, a right way and a wrong way,

he invariably selected the latter; and if there seemed only one way, and

that the right way, then he invented a wrong one for the occasion.

One day, one of the little boys in the school had a letter telling him

to come home at once. He was not long in packing up his carpet bag, and

getting the doctor's leave to depart. But the doctor was unwilling for

such a little helpless fellow as he to undertake the long journey all

alone. He came down to the playground where we were, and beckoning to

Billy, who happened to be the nearest at hand, said, "Bungle, will you

go with this boy to the station, and see him off by the twelve train to

X--? Here is the money to get his ticket; and carry his bag for him,

there's a man."

Billy readily accepted the commission, and we watched him proudly

marching from the playground with his small charge on one side and the

carpet bag on the other. The station was a mile off, and it was nearly

one o'clock when he returned home. We were in class at the time.

"Well, did you see him off?" asked the doctor.

"Yes, sir, all right; we caught an earlier train than the one you said--

at a quarter to," replied Billy, with the tone of a clever man.

"But the quarter to doesn't go to X--. Didn't I tell you to see him off

by the twelve train?"

"I thought it would be all the better to catch the early one."

"Stupid boy, don't you know that train doesn't _go to_ X--?"

"No one said it didn't, sir," put in Billy, with an injured face.

"Did any one say it did?"

"I didn't hear," said Billy; "shall I go back and ask?"

"That would not be the least use," said the master, too vexed almost to

speak.

Billy stood before him, staring at him, and looking anything but

cheerful.

"I shall have to go down to the station myself," said the doctor. "You

are the stupidest boy I ever had to do with."

Billy looked resigned; then fumbling in his waistcoat pocket, he pulled

out a bit of blue cardboard. "Oh, here's the ticket, sir."

"What! Wasn't it enough to send the poor boy off by a wrong train,

without keeping his ticket? Go away, sir, this instant, to your room,

and stay there till I give you leave to quit it!"

Billy obeyed, evidently unable to make the affair out.

By dint of telegrams and messengers, the missing boy turned up again;

but it was a long time before Billy was allowed to forget the way he had

"seen him off."

This is just one specimen of our unlucky schoolfellow's blunders. He

was always in some trouble of the kind. He had to cease taking lessons

in chemistry, because one time he nearly succeeded in blowing himself

and three or four of us up by mixing certain combustibles together by

mistake; and another time he upset a bottle of sulphuric acid over his

clothes.

He was always very near the bottom of his class, because he _would_

prepare the wrong lessons, or misunderstand the questions asked him.

And yet he was always anxious to get on. Once, I remember, he

confidentially asked me, if he were to learn Liddell and Scott's Lexicon

by heart, whether I thought he would be able to get the Greek prize?

But he bungled more in the playground than anywhere. Perhaps it was

because we laughed at him and made him nervous.

It was rarely any one cared to have him on their side at cricket. He

missed the easiest catches, he got leg before wicket, he stopped still

in the middle of a run to see if he would have time to finish it, and

whenever he did manage to score one he was sure, in his excitement, to

knock down his own wicket with a flourish of his bat.

In football it's no exaggeration to say he was more often on the ground

than the ball itself, and was invariably of more service to the other

side than to his own. In fact, the possession of him got to be quite a

joke.

"Who's going to win?" asks some one, before a match begins.

"Which side is Billy Bungle on?" is the counter question.

"Oh, he's on our side."

"Then of course the other fellows will win," is the uncomplimentary

conclusion; and Billy, poor boy, who overhears it, half chokes with

wounded feelings, and tucks up his sleeves and goes into the game,

determined for once he will disappoint those who mock at him. Alas I

scarcely has the ball been kicked off than he gets in the way of

everybody he ought not to get in the way of, and lets the others pass

him; he collars his own men, and kicks the ball towards his own goal,

and falls down just in time to cause half a dozen of his side to tumble

over him, and just as the ball rises, straight as an arrow, to fly over

the enemy's goal, his unlucky head gets in the way and spoils

everything. No wonder he is in very poor demand as an ally.

Now, the question is, is it altogether Billy's fault he is such a

duffer? Of course it is, say nineteen out of every twenty of my

readers. Any one with an ounce of brains and common sense could avoid

such stupid blunders. But the twentieth is not quite so positive.

"Perhaps it's not altogether Billy's fault," he says. And I must

confess I am inclined to agree with this. Of course, a great deal of

his "duffingness" (I believe that's the proper word) is due to his

carelessness. If he took the trouble to think about what he was doing,

he would never translate a French exercise into Latin, or learn his

arithmetic by heart instead of his history; he would never mix together

(under his nose) two chemicals that would assuredly explode and nearly

blow his head off. For he has a few brains in that head, which makes

such blunders all the less excusable. But I am not sure if a good deal

of his bad luck is not due to the merciless way in which he was laughed

at, and called "duffer," and taught to believe that he could no more do

a thing right than a bull could walk through a china-shop without making

a smash. He got it into his head he was a duffer, and therefore did not

take the pains he might have done.

"What's the use of my bothering? I'm sure to make a mess of it!"

Fancy a boy saying this to himself at cricket, while a ball is flying

beautifully towards him, an easy catch, even for a duffer. Do you

suppose he will catch it? Not he. He will stand where he is, and put

up his hands, and look another way. In fact, he won't do his best. And

why? Because all of us never expect him to catch it; and if he did, we

should probably call it a "fluke," and laugh at him all the more. Yes,

it's our fault in a certain measure that Billy is the awful "duffer" he

is.

Sometimes, as in the game of football we have referred to, he does make

up his mind to do his best; but even then the idea that "destiny" is

against him, and that everybody is expecting him to make a fool of

himself, as usual, is enough to make any fellow nervous and a duffer.

However, whatever excuses we may make for Billy, he was undoubtedly a

duffer. I have named one reason of his bad luck--want of thought--and

another was hurry. In fact, the two reasons become one, for it was

chiefly because Billy would never give himself time to think that he

made so many mistakes. All his thinking came after the thing was done.

As soon as the chemicals had blown up, for instance, it entered his head

he had mixed the wrong ingredients, and as soon as the ball was flying

to the wrong goal it occurred to him he had kicked it in a wrong

direction.

And this really brings me to the moral of my discourse. Don't despair,

if you are a duffer, for you may cure yourself of it, if you will only

_think_ and _take your time_. If we are not quick-witted, it does not

follow we have no wits, and if we only use them carefully, we shall be

no greater duffers than some of our sharp fellows.

The great philosopher Newton once appeared in the light of a great

duffer. He had a cat, and that cat had a kitten, and these two

creatures were continually worrying him by scratching at his study door

to be let either in or out. A brilliant idea occurred to the

philosopher--he would make holes in the bottom of his door through which

they might pass in or out at pleasure without troubling him to get up

and open the door every time. And thereupon he made a big hole for the

cat and a little hole for the kitten, as if both could not have used the

big hole!

Well, you say, one could fancy Billy Bungle doing a thing like that, but

what an extraordinary error for a philosopher to fall into! It was, but

the reason in both cases is alike. Neither thought sufficiently about

what he was doing. Newton was absorbed with other things, and Billy was

thinking of nothing, and yet both he and Newton were duffers, which goes

to prove that without care any one may belong to that class.

How many men who have begun life as reputed "duffers" have turned out

great men! but you will find that none of them ever did themselves any

good till they had cured themselves of that fault. That's what you, and

I, and Billy Bungle must all do, boys.

Just two words more about Billy. We all liked him, as I have said, for

he was imperturbably good-tempered. He bore no malice for all our

laughing, and now and then, when he was able to see the joke, would

assist in laughing at himself.

And then he never tried to make himself out anything but what he was.

Of all detestable puppies, the duffer who tries to pass himself off for

a clever man is the most intolerable; for nothing will convince him of

his error, and nothing will keep him in his place. He's about the one

sort of character nobody knows how to deal with, for he sets everybody

else but himself down as duffers. What can anybody do to such a one?

But there is another extreme. Billy's great fault was that he was too

ready to believe others who called him a duffer. Don't take it for

granted you are a duffer because any one tells you so. Find it out for

yourself, and when you've found it out--"don't be a duffer!"

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

THE DANDY.

Fine feathers make fine birds. This is a proverb which a great many

people in our country--especially young people--most devoutly believe

in, and they show their belief in a very emphatic way. They rig

themselves out in the height of the fashion, no matter how ridiculous it

is, or how uncomfortable; they take airs upon themselves which do not

properly belong to them; they try to pass for something finer than they

are, and if they do not end by being laughed at it is no fault of

theirs.

You never saw such a dandy as we had at our school. He rejoiced in the

name of Frederick Fop, and seemed possessed of the notion that his

dainty person was worthy of the utmost amount of decoration that any one

person could bestow upon it. No one objects to a fellow having a good

coat and trousers, and a respectable hat; but when it comes to canary-

coloured pantaloons, and cuffs up to the finger ends, and collars as

high as the ears, and a hat as shiny as a looking-glass, the fellow gets

to be rather a nuisance. Indeed, we had just as much objection to

walking out with Fred Fop as we had with Jack Sloven; one was quite as

unpleasantly conspicuous as the other.

It was often a marvel to some of us how it came to be allowed for a boy

to dress as Fred did. You should have seen him coming down the stairs

on Sunday, as we were about to start for church, putting on a lavender

glove, and taking a couple of minutes to adjust his hat to the proper

angle on his head.

How he minced along the pavement, dreading to speck his exquisite boots,

and how artlessly he would carry one glove in his hand, in order to show

off his elegant ring. His umbrella was the size of an ordinary young

lady's parasol, and as for his collars--of course it was impossible to

turn his head one way or the other with those things sticking up on

either side. He always insisted on having the inside of the pavement,

in order to avoid the splashing of the cabs; and invariably entered

church last, having occupied a certain time in the porch (so it was

said) to make sure his necktie was properly tied, and that the corner of

his handkerchief was hanging sufficiently far out of his breast-pocket,

and that the expression of his countenance was sufficiently interesting.

Having satisfied himself on these points, he advanced up the aisle in

procession with himself, and scented the whole building in his triumphal

progress.

It is hardly to be wondered at that Master Fop became the victim of all

sorts of practical jokes. If by any chance one of the fellows should

happen to be pitching water out of the window, it was an extraordinary

coincidence that Fred in his grand hat was nearly always walking

underneath. Another time, when some of the elder boys were allowed to

attend a grand concert in the village, Fred of course was in his glory,

and took every means to create a sensation by his elaborate toilet. And

so he did! For as he sauntered beautifully up the hall to his seat in

front, he was wholly unconscious that a startling label was hanging

gracefully on the back buttons of his coat with this legend inscribed

thereon--

"Look here! Our noted 50 shilling suit! A bargain!"

It was not till he went to sit down that he discovered the heartless

joke, and then--but we may as well draw a veil over his confusion.

Suffice it to say he did not enjoy the concert a bit.

But he was by no means cured of his vanity. No, not even by a

subsequent and still more embarrassing adventure.

Several of the boys, among whom were Fred and Jack Sloven, were one day

down at the river bathing, when a sudden thought seized certain of

Fred's tormentors to play him a very unkind trick. So while he was

swimming by himself some distance off, they scuttled ashore and made

off, taking with them Jack Sloven dressed up in Fred's clothes, and, of

course, leaving that disreputable young gentleman's garments behind for

the dandy. They made home as fast as they could, and Jack, as quickly

as possible, divested himself of his unwonted finery, and put on another

of his own suits. Then the conspirators assembled in the playground

with as many of us as had heard what was going on, and awaited the

return of poor Fred. He was a long time coming, and before he arrived

the head master and two ladies had appeared on the scene.

But the end came to our suspense at last, and we saw our hero march home

in state. Such a spectacle you never saw! being rather tall, Sam's

greasy and ink-stained breeches came down only half-way below his knees,

and fitted as tight as gloves. The elegant wrists, usually shrouded

beneath their snowy cuffs, now stuck out like skewers from two very

short, very tight, and very shabby sleeves. Fred had not attempted to

don the shirt and collar which had been left for him, and it was pretty

evident by the way he shivered that if any one had unbuttoned the coat

and grimy waistcoat he would not have discovered much more in the shape

of vestments. But he had Jack's great muddy boots on, and his

disgracefully caved-in hat. In this guise he had to perambulate the

village, and now, worst of all, he found himself face to face not only

with a whole body of his schoolfellows, but with the doctor and two

ladies!

If the whole scene had not been so ludicrous, one would have felt

sympathy for the poor fellow; as it was, every one burst out laughing

the moment he appeared. Even the doctor had to turn suddenly and walk

towards the house.

But we heard of the affair again presently; for the doctor always

visited severely any act of unkindness done even in joke, and the

offenders in this case were duly punished. To his credit be it said,

Fred did not exult over his vindication; the only revenge he took was

when he had arrayed himself once more in his usual faultless get-up. He

came down to the schoolroom where we were all assembled, and walking up

to Jack Sloven, drawled out in a voice which everybody could hear, "Oh,

you'll find your things in the bath-room--all but your shirt. I really

couldn't touch _that_, so it's lying on the river bank still, where you

left it!"

There is one peculiarity about dandies. They are hardly ever persons of

great minds. When the exquisite, on being asked how on earth he came by

the wonderful necktie he had got on, replied, "Well, you see, I gave my

whole mind to it!" he probably spoke the truth. But then you know a

mind that exhausts all its energy in the production of a "choker,"

however remarkable, cannot be a great one.

I should be sorry to hurt any one's feelings, but it is nevertheless a

fact that an unhealthy craving after finery is very often a symptom of

something not very far short of idiocy. I do not mean to say Fred Fop

was an idiot. He had a certain amount of sense; but he would have had a

vast deal more if he had not given so much of his mind to the decoration

of his person. And with it all he never succeeded, at school at any

rate, in passing himself off for any one more important than he was. It

is as much a sign of being no gentleman to over-dress as to dress like a

sloven, but, as in every other case, the secret is to find the golden

mean. I have often seen working-men dressed in a more gentlemanly way

than certain gorgeous snobs of my acquaintance; not that their clothes

were grander or cost more, but because they were _neat_. That really is

the secret. It always seems to me a sign of a man being well dressed

when one never notices how he is dressed at all. If he were badly

dressed, or if he were over-dressed, one would notice it; and it is a

sure sign of his having hit the happy mean when his dress leaves no

impression on your mind at all.

But I am not going to set up as a tailor, and so I will bring this paper

to a close with this one piece of advice; when there is nothing else

left to think about, then by all means let us give our whole mind to the

cut of our coats.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

THE GROWLER.

Who doesn't know Growler, of our school? He was a sort of fellow

nothing and nobody could satisfy. If Growler were a week in an African

desert without a drop of water to drink, and some one were then to come

and offer him a draught, you may depend upon it the fellow would have

something to find fault with. The rim of the bowl would be too thick,

or there would be a flavour of sand in the water, or the Good Samaritan

who held it to his parched lips wouldn't tilt it up exactly when he

ought to do so. If his rich uncle were to give him a splendid gold

hunter watch and chain, he would growl because there wasn't a seal

hanging on the latter. If he were to succeed in getting a third prize,

he'd growl because he had not got the second. If he got the second,

he'd growl because he had not got the first. And if he should win the

first prize of all, then he would growl because there was not a higher

one possible. Was ever such a hopeless fellow to have to deal with!

I dare say you have heard the story of the Scotch elder who, on the

question being raised what service he could render at the church

meetings, replied briskly, "I can always object." Well, Growler's one

strong point was his talent for objecting, and gallantly he used it.

He was one of those fellows who think a great deal more about the thorn

of the rose than the flower, and who, feeing quite sure that nothing

under the sun is perfect, set themselves to discover the imperfections

in all things.

I remember once a lot of us had planned a most delightful picnic for a

certain holiday. We were to take two boats some miles up the river to a

certain little island, where we proposed to land and erect a tent. Each

fellow was to bring some contribution to the picnic, which we were to

partake of with grand ceremony under the willows. Then we were to have

some music, and generally take it easy. Afterwards we were to bathe,

and then row some mile or two farther up to the woods, and have a

squirrel hunt; and towards evening, after a picnic tea, drift down with

the stream in time for the nine o'clock bell. It seemed a perfect plan,

and as we sat and discussed it our spirits rose, and we found ourselves

already enjoying our picnic in prospect. But presently Growler came

into the room, and as he was to be one of the party, we had to go over

all the plans again to him. Well, it was too bad! Not a single detail

in our programme pleased him.

"Row?" he said; "don't we get enough rowing, without having to give up

holidays to it? besides, what's the fun of sitting in a tent, or eating

your food among all the wasps and gnats up in that place? You surely

aren't going to take that wretched concertina; that'll be enough to give

us the blues, even if it doesn't rain, which it's pretty sure to do. I

suppose you know the island's about the worst place for bathing--"

"Come, now, old man, it's a first-rate place."

"Well, you may think so; I don't. In fact, I don't see the fun of

bathing after dinner at all. You don't expect _me_ to make a fool of

myself hunting squirrels, do you, in those horrid woods? And you'll

have to have tea, as you call it (though you might as well make one meal

do for both), jolly early if you expect to drift down here by nine.

Why, you won't do it in anything like the time, and fine fun it will be,

sitting like dummies in a boat going at a mile an hour."

This was cheerful, and no amount of argument would do away with our

desirable friend's objections. The result was, we went, but tried to

alter our programme in some points to please him: But he growled all the

more, and would not enjoy the day himself, nor let us do so; and our

grand picnic, thanks to him, was quite a failure.

It wouldn't have been so bad if the result of Growler's grumblings had

been to give us something better in place of what he wanted us to give

up. But that is a thing he never did. He could pick holes to any

extent, but he couldn't fill them up. There was no scheme or project he

couldn't pull to pieces with the utmost industry, but I never remember

his originating any scheme of his own to take its place. This was

hardly fair. If you take something away from a person, and give him

nothing in exchange, it is robbery, and in this respect Growler was an

awful thief.

Isn't it true that if you set yourself to it, you could find fault with

nearly everything? But in order to do it, you would have to be very

selfish in the first place, and very hard-hearted in the next. The dog

in the manger is a good type of this happy combination. He trampled on

the hay that the cows thought so sweet, and wouldn't touch it himself,

and he wouldn't let them touch it either; and that is precisely the

charge to which Growler lays himself open. Let us hope he is not quite

such a bad sort as this dog. He had got into a regular habit of

growling, and it would be against his nature altogether to praise

anything cordially.

Supposing Growler to be grown to a man, now; what a desirable creature

he must be! What a fine man to get on to a committee, or into

parliament! What a delightful partner to have in business! Why, he'd

wear out an ordinary man in a month. What complainings, and

questionings, and disapprovals, and censures would he ever be loading on

the head of his colleagues!--how ready people would be to avoid him and

give him a wide berth! For, assuredly, if in anything there was to be

found a fault, Growler was the boy to find it. I remember a fairy tale

about some folk who wanted to find out if a certain lady were a fairy

princess or not; and the way they did it was to lay a pea on the floor

of her room, and cover it with twenty feather beds one on the top of the

other. Next morning they asked how she slept.

"Not at all," said she, "for there was a dreadful lump in the bed."

Then they knew she must be a fairy! Perhaps it would be a little too

much to compare Growler with a fairy; but he certainly had a wonderful

knack of discovering peas under the bed; and where there were none to

discover, he found out something else. Now, you and I, I expect, in

talking of the sun, would speak of it as a glorious light and heat-

giving orb, without which we could none of us get on for a moment. But

Growler's version of the thing would be quite different.

"A thing full of great ugly spots, that goes scorching up one part of

the earth and leaving another in the cold, and is generally hidden by

clouds from all the rest."

Such is the genial, bright view of things taken by our old schoolmate.

There are two sorts of growlers. There is the man who honestly attacks

what is really wrong for the sake of making it right, and there is the

man who instinctively grumbles at everything for the mere sake of

growling. The former class is as useful as the latter is tiresome, and

if we must growl, by all means let us find out some real grievance to

attack. Grumbling is a habit that grows quickly and with very little

encouragement, and those who go in for it must make up their minds to

have to do with very few friends. For who would consent to be the

friend of a growler? It would be as bad as becoming the servant of a

man who kept an electrical machine--he would always be trying it on you!

And he must be content also to find that very few people sympathise

with him. For when a man is a confirmed grumbler at everything, no one

afflicts himself much about his lamentations, but puts it all down to

his infirmity.

"Poor fellow, his digestion isn't good, or his liver's out of order!"

they will say, and think no more about it.

Growler of our school was an able fellow in his way; and successful,

too, but he wasn't liked. Some were afraid of him, some detested him,

and most cared very little about him. I don't suppose he will ever do

much good in the world, for this reason--his influence is so small. One

would like to know if he is really as unhappy as he would make every one

believe. I have a notion he is not, but is the victim of a habit which

he has allowed to grow on him till it is past shaking off. Moral, boys:

When you catch yourselves grumbling, make sure the grievance is a real

one. If it is, don't be content with grumbling, but follow it up till

the wrong is put right. But if you find yourself growling merely

because it sounds a fine thing to do, then let growl number one be not

only the first but the last performance of the kind; and no one then

will be able to growl at you.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

THE BULLY.

There are bullies and bullies. There is the big brother, for instance,

who considers it as much part of his duty to administer an occasional

cuff to his youthful relative, as he does to stroke his own chin for the

first sign of a beard, or to wear his tall hat on Sundays. That is not

the sort of bullying any one complains of. Pretty sort of fellows some

of us would have turned out if we hadn't come in for a little wholesome

knocking about in our day! What's the use of big brothers, we should

like to know, if it's not to chastise youngsters! and what are younger

brothers made for, if they are not to be occasionally "whopped!"

When I first reached a "bullyable" age, I found myself number three of a

set of five boys. I had looked on in awe at the discipline inflicted by

my eldest brother on number two; I had been a trembling spectator of

scuffles and tears, and pulled ears and sore knuckles, and knew my turn

for the same hardships was coming. And so it did. Number one went to

college, and then number two was cock of the walk, and didn't I catch it

then? The ears that had recently smarted between another's finger and

thumb were now deaf to my lamentations, and the knuckles that I had seen

bruised and sore now played on my poor countenance as if it had been a

tambourine. It wasn't pleasant while it lasted, of course; but then it

was all in the regular course of things, and had to be grinned at and

borne; and besides it was a splendid training for me, when I came to be

left ruler of the roost with young number four at my mercy. Poor number

four! he had a hard time of it. He was a meek sort of fellow, and took

a lot of bullying. I've a broken-backed lexicon to this day which often

used to fly across the room at his devoted head, and which he as

regularly picked up and handed back to me.

Never was a czar more absolute than I during the brief years of my

supremacy.

But it was monotonous work bullying a fellow who never showed fight; and

one day, in reply to a touching lamentation on his part, I demanded,

"Why don't you say you won't, then, and stick to it?" Would you believe

it? the ungrateful fellow took me at my word! Next time I issued a

decree, he made my hair stand on end by shouting, "Shan't!" I could not

believe my wits; and when he not only refused, but (in accordance with

my own unlucky advice) positively defied me, I was fairly nonplussed!

In vain the lexicon performed its airy flight; in vain my ruler

flourished over his knuckles; in rain I stormed and raged. No martyr at

the stake was ever more sublimely firm; and from that day my reign was

over.

It was over as far as he was concerned; but as he resolutely declined to

do his duty in knocking about number five, I had to sacrifice myself for

the family good, and take that young scamp in hand too, and as he was

the youngest, he had nothing to do but wait till he grew up, and then--

when he suddenly discovered he was six feet high--he took a turn at

bullying me, who by that time was a married man with a family.

Now, perhaps, this sort of bullying within ordinary bounds does no great

harm. In our case we almost seemed to like one another the better for

it, though each in his turn rent the air with his howls and

lamentations. Perhaps, however, we were exceptional boys, and I am not

going to recommend the system.

The dog mother who routs up her little pup from his comfortable nap, and

shakes him with her teeth, and knocks him down and rolls him over and

worries him till he yaps and yelps as if his last day had come, is not

such a bully as the cat who holds a mouse under his paw, and plays with

it and torments it previous to making a meal of it.

In one case the discipline is salutary and serves a good end; in the

other it is sheer cruelty.

Just let me introduce you to a bully of the true sort--one whom we might

call a _professional_ bully--as contrasted with the _amateur_ big-

brother bullies of whom I have been speaking.

Bob Bangs of our school was a big, ill-conditioned, lazy, selfish,

cross-grained sort of fellow. He was nearly the tallest fellow in the

fifth form, but by no means the strongest. He was narrow across the

chest, and shaky about the knees, though we youngsters held him too much

in awe to take this into account at the time. To the big boys of the

sixth form Bob was cringing and snivelling; nothing was too menial, so

only as he could keep in their good graces. If he had known how, I dare

say he would have blacked their boots or parted their hair; as it was,

he laid himself out to fetch and carry, to go and come just as their

lordships should direct; and their lordships, I have a notion, winked at

one another and gave him plenty to do.

But to us youngsters Bob was wholly different. For one of us to come so

much as across his path was sufficient provocation to his spite. Like a

spider in its web, he would waylay and capture the wretched small fry of

our school and haul them away to his den. There he would screw their

arms and kick them, just for the pleasure of seeing their faces and

hearing their howls. Generally, indeed, he managed to invent some

pretext for his chastisement. This one had made a grimace at him across

the room yesterday; that one had spilt some ink on his desk; poor Jack

Flighty had had the cheek to laugh outside his door while he was

reading; or Joe Tyler had bagged his straw hat instead of his own.

One day, I remember, I, a little unfortunate of ten summers, fell into

his awful clutches.

"Come here, you young beggar!" I heard him call out.

I dared not disobey, and stood before him shaking in my shoes.

"What are you laughing at?" he says.

"I'm not laughing," I said, feeling anything but in the humour for

jocularity.

"Yes, you are, I tell you--take that!" and a smart box on the ear

followed.

I writhed, but tried hard to suppress my ejaculation of pain.

"What's that you called me?" demanded the bully.

"Nothing," I faltered, rubbing my head.

"Yes, you did," he said; "take that for telling a cram, and that for

calling me names!" and suiting the action to the word he bestowed one

cuff and one kick on my unoffending person, each of which I acknowledged

by a howl.

"Now then," said he, "what did you mean by borrowing Tom Groby's

_Gulliver's Travels_ yesterday when you knew I wanted to read it, eh?"

And he caught hold of my hand and gave my arm a suggestive preliminary

screw.

"I didn't," I said.

"Yes, you did," said he, tightening the pressure, so as to make me catch

my under lip in my teeth. "You knew well enough I was half through it."

"I mean, I _didn't_ borrow it. I never saw the book," I shrieked, truly

enough too, for this was clearly a case of mistaken identity.

"Yes, you did, for I was told so."

"I didn't; oh, let me go!" I cried, twisting under the torture; "it

wasn't me!"

"I tell you it was;" another screw, and another dance and howl from me;

"and what's the use of you saying it wasn't?"

"Indeed it wasn't!" I yelled, for by this time I was on my knees, and

half dead with agony. "Oh! You'll break my arm! Oh! Oh!"

"Say you took it, then," replied my tormentor.

"It wasn't me," I shrieked. "Oh! _Yes it was_! Let go!"

Then he let go, and catching me by the collar of my coat with one hand,

pulled my ear with the other, saying--

"What do you mean by telling lies, you young cub?"

"I only said I took it," whimpered I, nursing my sore arm, "because you

made me."

"Then you mean to say you didn't, do you?" cried the bully, with another

grab at my hand.

What would have become of me I don't know, had not a sixth-form fellow

come by at that moment, at the sight of whom Master Bangs let go my arm,

smiled benevolently on me and cringingly on him, and then slunk away to

his den, never to find me again within reach of his ten fingers if I

could help it.

It would be hard to say what object Bob had in this conduct. He

certainly had not much to gain. Sometimes, indeed, he succeeded in

compelling his victims to empty their pockets to him, and hand over the

little treasures in the way of eatables, penknives, or india-rubber to

which he might take a fancy, but this was comparatively rare. Nor was

his bullying actuated by the lofty motive of administering wholesome

discipline on his young schoolfellows. In fact, so far from doing them

good, he made sneaks and cowards of a good many of them, and, as

happened in my case, led them to tell falsehoods in order to escape his

clutches.

I should be sorry to think that Bob Bangs was influenced by sheer spite

and cruelty of heart, or by a wanton delight in witnessing and

contributing to the suffering of others; yet so one was often forced to

believe. It is bad enough when one fellow stands by and, without

lifting a finger to help, lets another suffer; but when, instead of

that, he actually makes himself the instrument of torture, he is nothing

short of a brute.

Perhaps, however, it would hardly be fair to say that Bob was quite so

bad as this. We are bound to give the worst characters their due; and

without attempting to excuse or justify a single blow the Bully ever

struck, we must bear in mind this one thing.

There is a certain class of people to whom power becomes a ruling

passion. Somebody must be made to feel, and somebody must be brought to

acknowledge it. These people are generally those who have the greatest

possible aversion to enduring oppression in their own persons, or who

have themselves in their time been roughly handled. They love to see

others quail before them, as they themselves would be ready to quail

before those they hold in awe; and it is no small set-off against their

own terrors to feel themselves in turn objects of terror to others.

People of this sort are of course generally cowards and toadies, and in

bullying they find the fullest gratification of their craving for power.

Bob may sometimes feel a passing pity for the poor little wretch he is

tormenting; but until that poor little wretch consents to knuckle under,

to apologise, to obey, to accuse himself, in the manner Bob selects, he

must not be spared.

Boys who want to understand what real bullying is, should call to mind

that parable about the servant who, having quailed and cringed and

implored before his lord until he was forgiven his huge debt, forthwith

pounced on a poor fellow-servant who happened to owe him a few

shillings, and, deaf to the very entreaties which he himself had but a

minute before used, haled him off to gaol till the last farthing should

be paid.

He was bad enough; but the wolf in Aesop's fable was still worse. The

poor lamb there owed nothing; it only chanced to be drinking of the same

stream.

"What do you mean by polluting my water?" growls the wolf.

"I am drinking lower down than you," replies the innocent, "and so that

cannot be."

"Never mind, you called me names a year ago."

"Please, sir, a year ago I wasn't born."

"Well, then, it was your father, and it's all the same thing; and,

what's more, you need not think I'm going to be done out of my breakfast

by your talk--so here goes!" And we all know what became of the poor

lamb. A gentleman cannot be a bully, and a bully cannot be a gentleman.

By gentleman I mean not the vulgar use of the word. The rich snob who

keeps his carriages, and counts his income with five or six figures, and

considers that sufficient title to the name, may be, and often is, a

bully. His servants may lead the lives of dogs, his tradesmen dread the

sound of his voice, and his dependants shake in their shoes before him.

But a gentleman--a man (or boy) of honour, kindliness, modesty, and

sense--could no more be a bully than black could be white.

Bullying is essentially vulgar, and stamps the person who indulges in it

as ill-conditioned and stupid. He tries to pass off his lack of brains

with bluster, and to make up by tyranny for the contempt which his ill-

bred manners would naturally secure for him. But he deceives nobody but

himself. The youngsters tremble before him; but they despise him; in a

year or two they will laugh at him, and after that--thrash him.

Yes; I am sorry to counsel that physic for anybody, but really it is the

only one which can possibly cure the bully. The time must come when the

little boy will find himself grown up and possessed of a muscle, and

then the bully will find, to his astonishment, that he has tried his art

once too often.

So it was with Bob Bangs. He found himself on his back one day with a

small army of youngsters executing a war dance round him. He got

roughly used, poor fellow, and at last changed his tune from threats to

whines, and eventually, with the aid of a few parting kicks, was

permitted to depart in peace. And he never tried on bullying with us

again, except indeed when he was fortunate enough to get hold of one of

us singly in a lonely comer. And even then he generally heard of it

afterwards.

But, boys, mind this. There's nothing more likely than that in your

struggle for independence you will, if victorious, be tempted to become

bullies yourselves. In your anxiety to "pay out" your old enemy, you

may forget that you are yourselves falling into the very transgression

for which you have chastised him. That would be sad indeed. A boy that

can bear malice, and refuse quarter to a fallen foe, is very little

different from a bully himself.

Rather be careful to show yourselves Christians and gentlemen, even in

the way you rid yourselves of bullies. It is one thing, in self-

defence, to right yourself, and it is another to return evil for evil.

The best revenge you can have is, instead of dancing on his prostrate

body, to set him an example of forbearance and self-control in your own

conduct, which shall point him out a surer road to respect and authority

than all the bullying in the world could ever give him.

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

WILLIAM THE ATHELING; OR, THE WRECK OF THE "WHITE SHIP."

The eager crowd thronged the little Norman seaport of Barfleur. Knights

in armour, gay ladies and merry children mingled in the narrow streets

which led down to the bustling harbour, in which lay at anchor a gay

fleet of ships, decked with pennons and all the marks of festivity and

rejoicing. One man's name was on every lip, and in expectation of that

man's arrival this brave company lined the seashore and its approaches.

Presently was heard a distant trumpet note, and then a clatter of many

horses.

"He comes!" shouted the crowd. "Long live our Duke Henry!" And at the

shout there appeared the royal troop, with King Henry of England at its

head, followed by his sons and daughter and nobles, amid the plaudits of

the loyal crowd.

"All bids fair," said the king to one who was near him, as he rode

slowly towards the harbour; "the sea is calm and the wind is propitious;

an emblem of the happy peace we have concluded with France, and the

prosperous years that he before us."

"Long live Henry of England!" shouted the crowd again. With that the

troop reached the sunny harbour.

Here ensued all the bustle and confusion of an embarkation. Baggage and

horses and armour were transferred speedily from the shore to shipboard.

Henry himself inspected the vessel which was to convey him and his

household across the sea, while the loyal Norman crowd pressed round,

eager to bid their liege good speed on his voyage.

The afternoon was advancing, and the order had already been given to

embark, when, through the crowd which thronged King Henry, there

struggled forward a man dressed in sailor guise, who advanced and fell

on one knee before his sovereign.

"My liege," said he, "a boon for me!"

"Who art thou?" inquired the king.

"My lord duke, Stephen, my father, served thy father, William of

Normandy, all his life. He it was who steered the vessel which carried

the duke to the conquest of England. Permit me, my lord, a like honour.

See where my `White Ship' waits to receive her captain's noble

sovereign."

Henry looked in the direction pointed, and saw the gallant vessel,

gleaming like silver with its white poop and oars and sails in the sun;

surely as fair a ship as ever crossed the sea.

"Brave son of a brave father," replied the king, "but that my word has

been given, and my baggage is already embarked on another's vessel, thy

request should not have been in vain. But, to show that I hold thy

father's son worthy of his name, see, I entrust to thee my son William,

heir to my throne, in all confidence that thou wilt conduct him safely

over. Let him go with thee, while I myself do set sail in the vessel I

had chosen."

Fitz-Stephen bowed low, and the young Prince William, a lad of eighteen

years, stepped forward gaily towards him, and cried--

"Come, comrade! thou shalt find a king's son as good company as his

father. In token of which, bid thy brave men feast at my charge with as

much to eat and drink as they have a fancy to. Then, when that is done,

we will start on our merry voyage."

Almost immediately afterwards King Henry embarked, leaving the Prince

William, and two other of his children, Richard and Adela, to follow

that same night in the "White Ship."

"Farewell, my father!" shouted the young prince, as the oars of the

king's vessel struck the water; "perchance I shall be on the farther

side before thee!"

So the king started.

It was late before the merrymakers on board the "White Ship" set their

faces seaward. The prince himself had honoured the feast, and bidden

every man to fill his cup and drink deep and long. So when about

midnight they addressed themselves to the voyage, the rowers splashed

wildly with their oars, and the crew pulled at the ropes with unsteady

hands.

Far across the calm waters might have been heard the song and the

laughter of the two hundred voyagers. In a few hours, thought they, we

shall be across, and then will we renew our feast in England.

"Fitz-Stephen!" cried the prince, flushed with wine himself, and in a

tone of excitement--"Fitz-Stephen, how far say you is my father's ship

before ours?"

"Five leagues," replied the sailor, "or more."

"Then may we not overtake him before the night is past? You know this

coast; can we not steer closer in, and so gain on them?"

"My lord," said Fitz-Stephen, "there are many sunken rocks on this

coast, which the mariner always avoids by keeping out to sea."

"Talk not to me of rocks on a night when the sea is calm and the wind so

gentle it scarce fills the sails, and the moon so clear we can see a

mile before us! What say you, my men? Shall we overtake the king?

Fitz-Stephen," he added, "thou earnest a king's son to-night. If thou

and thy men can set me on English ground before my father, I will never

sail more, as long as I live, save in thy ship."

The sailor yielded, and turned his helm nearer to the coast, and the

crew, clamouring loudly with excitement, pulled wildly at the oars,

while the prince and the nobles, with song and laughter, made the quiet

night to resound. So they went for two hours. Then the prince's sister

Adela, Countess of Perche, stepped up to him timidly, and said--

"My brother, what sound is that, like the roar of distant thunder?"

"It is nothing, my sister; go down again and sleep."

"It sounds like the breaking of wares on the rocks."

"How can that be, when the sea is scarcely ruffled?"

"I fear me we run a risk, sailing so close to shore," said the maiden.

"I myself heard Fitz-Stephen say that the currents ran strong along this

coast of Normandy."

"Be easy, sister; no danger can befall a night like this."

Louder and louder rose the shouting and the revelry. The rowers sang as

they rowed. And the knights and nobles, who made merry always when the

prince made merry, sang too.

But all the while the maiden, as she lay, heard the roar of the breakers

sound nearer and nearer, and was ill at ease, fearing some evil.

"Now, my merry men," shouted the prince, "row hard, for the night is

getting on!"

Fitz-Stephen at that instant uttered an exclamation of horror, and

wildly flung round his helm. There was a sudden roar ahead, and a gleam

of long lines of broken water.

"Pull for your lives!" shouted the captain, "or we shall be on the Ras

de Catte!"

It was too late. The treacherous current swept them on to the reef.

There was a sudden tossing of the "White Ship," then a great shock as

she struck--then a cry of terror from two hundred lips.

King Henry in his vessel, three leagues away, heard that sudden awful

cry across the still waters. But little guessed he that it was the

death cry of his own beloved children.

Every man on board the "White Ship" was startled by that shock into

instant sobriety. The brave Fitz-Stephen left the now useless helm, and

rushed to where the prince, entrusted to his care, was clinging to the

mast of the fast-filling vessel. With his own hand he cut loose the

small boat which she carried, and by sheer force placed William in it,

and a few of the crew.

"Row for the shore!" he shouted to the men, waving his hand; "lose not

a moment!"

William, stupefied and bewildered, sat motionless and speechless.

The men had already dipped their oars, and the frail boat was already

clear of the sinking vessel, when there fell on the prince's ear the

piercing shriek of a girl.

Looking behind him, he saw his poor sister clinging to the deck of the

doomed ship, and stretching a hand appealingly in the direction of his

boat.

In an instant his senses returned to him.

"Put back, men!" he cried, frantically.

"It is certain death!" cried one of the crew.

"Must William the Atheling order a thing twice?" thundered the prince,

in a tone so terrible, that the men immediately turned and made for the

wreck.

"My sister!" shouted William, as they came under the spot where Adela

clung; "throw yourself into my arms!"

She did so; but, alas! at the same moment, fifty more, in the

desperation of terror, jumped too, and the little boat, with all that

were in her, turned over, and was seen no more.

Then the waters poured over the "White Ship," and with a great plunge

that gallant vessel went down.

With her went down all the souls she carried save three. One of these

was the brave Fitz-Stephen. Rising to the surface, he saw the two

others clinging to a spar. Eagerly he swam towards them.

"Is the prince saved?" he asked.

"We have seen nothing of him," replied they.

"Then woe is me!" exclaimed he, as he turned in the water and sank

beneath it.

Of the other two, one only, a butcher, survived to carry the dreadful

news to England.

For many days, Henry, impatient for his son's arrival, waited in

ignorance of his sad fate.

Then went to him a little child, who, instructed what to say, told him

in his own artless way the whole story; and King Henry the First, so

they say, after he had heard it, was never seen to smile again.

CHAPTER TWENTY.

JOHN PLANTAGENET, THE BOY WHO BROKE HIS FATHER'S HEART.

A youth was pacing restlessly to and fro in a wood bordering on the old

town of Tours, in France. He was scarcely twenty years of age, and of a

forbidding countenance. Cruelty and cunning were stamped on his

features, and as he strode aimlessly among the trees, muttering to

himself, and striking often with his sheathed sword at the bushes and

twigs in his path, he seemed to be the victim of an evil passion, with

nothing to make a man love him or desire his acquaintance.

His muttering not unfrequently rose to the pitch of talking aloud, when

one might have heard sentences like these.

"Why should I longer delay? Am not I John, the son of Henry of England,

a man? and shall I submit to be treated for ever as a child? Are my

brothers, who have rebelled against their father, to have ah the spoil,

and I, who have remained obedient, to go portionless and penniless?

What means my father's meeting here with the King of France, who has

espoused the cause of Richard, my brother, in his rebellion, if it be

not to yield to the traitor the kingdoms _I_ have earned by my

obedience? But I will delay no longer. I have been obedient too long!

Henceforth this sword shall be my obedience!"

And as he spoke he unsheathed his weapon, and struck savagely at the

graceful branch of a fir tree before him, and brought it down crashing

at his feet. At the same instant there appeared coming towards him a

man of middle age, clad like a soldier, who saluted respectfully the

young prince.

"Whence come you, Ralph Leroche?" inquired John.

"From the meeting of the Kings of France and England."

"And what went forward there?" asked the prince, leading his companion

in among the trees.

"I know only what I am told," said the knight, "for the meeting of your

father and King Philip was secret."

"And what have you been told?" inquired John, impatiently, and with

clouding brows.

"I have been told that the King of France demanded that your father

should do him homage, and should acknowledge your brother Richard as

King of England."

"And what said my father?" broke in John.

"He said that Richard, by his conduct, deserved only the death of a

traitor, but--"

John's brow darkened as he seized Ralph's arm, and ejaculated, "But

what? did he yield? Speak!"

"But for the sake of peace he would receive him back to the heart which

he by his disobedience had wellnigh broken, and make him heir to his

crown."

"He said so, did he?" almost shouted the prince, his face livid with

fury.

"I am told so by one who knows," replied the other.

"And did he say more?"

"He blessed heaven before them all that he had one son left him who was

true to him, and in whose love he might end the shattered remnant of his

life."

Loud and cruelly laughed Prince John at those words, till the woods

echoed again. "Is it thus you comfort yourself, my father?" he

exclaimed. "Ralph," added he, in tones thick with passion, "all my life

till now I served my father, and never failed in my duty to him. Henry,

my brother, rebelled, and died in his rebellion while I was a child.

Geoffrey rebelled too, and is dead. Richard for years has been in arms

against his parent. I, of all his sons, have never lifted hand against

him. Had not I a right to look for my reward? Had not I a right to

count upon the crown which my brothers' disobedience had forfeited? Had

not--"

He stopped, unable from the vehemence of his passion to proceed, and

Ralph Leroche answered calmly: "Obedience is its own reward, and worth

more than a kingdom. It is not obedience that calculates on profit.

But you know not, prince, what your father may yet have in store for

you."

"Speak not to me of my father," exclaimed John; "I hate him!"

"Heaven forgive you that word!" replied the fearless knight. "Be

advised, I entreat; and repent--"

"Dotard!" exclaimed the prince, as in blind rage he struck him in the

mouth with his clenched fist. "Keep thy advice for dogs, and not for

princes!"

How the scene would have ended, one cannot say. At that moment a

flourish of trumpets raised the echoes of the wood, and a gay procession

passed down the forest road towards Tours.

Alas, for Prince John! He recognised in the two men who rode at its

head, Philip of France, his father's enemy, and Richard, his own rebel

elder brother. Goaded by passion, burning with resentment towards his

father for the supposed injustice he had suffered, he rushed recklessly

into the arms of this sudden temptation. Striding through the thickets,

and heedless of the warnings of the loyal Ralph, he emerged on to the

road in front of the cavalcade.

The leaders halted their horses in sudden surprise.

"What brave lad have we here?" asked Philip, perplexed.

John stepped forward, and answered for himself.

"I am John Plantagenet, once son of the King of England, but now vassal

to the King of France!"

Great was the astonishment on every face, and on none more than on those

of Philip and Richard.

The latter flushed, half in anger, half in shame, as he exclaimed, "Boy,

thou art mad!"

"Nay," said Philip, "the lad is a lad of sense, and bears a worthy name

that will serve our cause exceedingly."

So saying, he summoned one of his knights, and bidding him dismount,

gave the young prince his horse, and made him ride beside him.

"But tell us, lad," he said, when they had proceeded a little way, "how

is it thy father's dutiful and cherished son (for so I have heard him

speak of thee) comes thus among the ranks of his foemen, and that at a

time like this, when peace has been almost completed?"

"Ask me no questions," replied the prince, gloomily; "I am here because

I choose."

And so they rode into Tours.

A few days later, a silent group was standing round the sickbed of the

King of England, listening to the broken utterances which fell from the

lips of that old and wellnigh worn-out warrior. Those who thus stood

round him were his favourite knights and barons, not a few of whom were

moved to tears as he spoke.

"I have sinned, and I have had my punishment. My kingdom is gone, and

my glory. Henceforward Henry Plantagenet will be the name but of a

vanquished and feeble old man. The one whom I loved, and would have

forgiven as many times as they had asked forgiveness, have all, save

one, left me and turned against me. I am like a man, wrecked and

tempest-tossed, clinging for hope to a single spar. Yet I bless Heaven

for that. Ruin I can submit to, dishonour I can survive, defeat I can

endure, while yet there is one child left to me of whom it can be said,

`He loved his father to the end.' And such a son is John. I charge you

all, honour him as you honour me, for though I have sworn to yield the

crown of England to his brother, Normandy, and all I possess besides,

belongs to _him_. But where is he? Why tarries he? A week has passed

since he was here. Where stays he?"

Before any of the attendants could reply, a knocking was heard without,

and entrance demanded for the messengers of Philip of France. "We are

come," said they, "from our sovereign with the articles of treaty

between yourself and him, arranged at your late conference, and which

now await your ratification."

Henry motioned to them to proceed to business; and as each article was

read--declaring his allegiance to the crown of France and his cession of

his own crown to Richard--he inclined his head mechanically in token of

his assent, manifesting little or no interest in the proceeding. But

his attention became more fixed when the article was read which provided

for the free pardon of all who had in any way, secretly or openly, been

engaged in the cause of his rebel son.

He turned in his bed towards the reader, and said: "A king must know the

names of his enemies before he can pardon them. Read me, therefore, the

list of those who have rebelled, that I may forgive them each and all,

beginning with the noblest, down to the meanest."

He lay back on his bed, and half closed his eyes as he listened.

The messenger of Philip then said, "The first and foremost of your

majesty's enemies is John Plantagenet, your youngest son."

He sprang with a sudden cry of pain into a sitting posture, and

trembling in every fibre, and with a voice half choked, cried, "Who says

that?" Then glaring wildly at the envoy, he whispered, "Read it again!"

"The first and foremost of your majesty's enemies is John Plantagenet,

your youngest son."

"Can it be true?" gasped the poor father, in helpless despair. "Has he

also deserted me? Then let everything go as it will; I care no more for

myself, nor for the world."

So saying, with his heart broken, he sank back upon the bed, from which

he never rose again.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

ARTHUR OF BRITTANY, THE BOY WHO SHOULD HAVE BEEN KING OF ENGLAND.

The fierce storm beats down on the gloomy Norman Castle of Falaise, in a

deep dungeon of which lies imprisoned the boy Prince Arthur, lawful heir

to the crown of England, but now, alas! a helpless victim of the cruelty

and injustice of his bad uncle, John Plantagenet, the usurper of his

throne. The thunder peals so loudly, and the wind rages so angrily,

that Hubert de Burgh, the warden, does not for a long time distinguish

the sound of a knocking and shouting at the outer gate of the castle.

Presently, however, in a lull of the wind, his ears catch the noisy

summons, and he instantly gives orders to his men to let down the

drawbridge, and admit the new-comers. These were three in number: one

attired as a king's messenger, and mounted on a richly caparisoned

horse; the other two in the garb of common men, and on foot. When they

had come into the presence of the warden, the king's messenger said--

"I am charged by His Majesty King John of England to deliver to you this

letter, and require your faithful discharge of its commands."

So saying, he handed to Hubert de Burgh a sealed letter, which the

latter eagerly broke open and read. As he read, his face clouded. It

was a long letter, and couched in vague terms, but its substance was

this. That whereas the peace of England and of King John's possessions

in France was constantly being disturbed by the partisans of the young

Prince Arthur, desiring to see him king instead of his uncle, and taking

up arms to enforce their claim, it was necessary, in order to put an end

to this rebellion, that the young prince should be rendered unfit for

governing; and as no people would be likely to choose a blind boy for

their king, Hubert de Burgh was instructed to have Arthur's eyes put

out; and the two men who had arrived with the king's messenger were

come, so the letter said, to carry out this design.

Hubert de Burgh said nothing as he put by the letter, and dismissed his

three visitors from his presence. Cruel man as he had been, his heart

had still some pity left, and he shrank from obeying his master by so

brutal an act of cruelty upon the innocent boy in his charge.

However, the order of the king was peremptory; and if the deed must be

done, thought he, the sooner the better.

So he ordered the two villains to get ready their instruments, and

follow him to the dungeon.

"Stay here," said he, as they reached the young prince's door, "while I

enter alone and prepare him for his fate."

So those two set down their fire and the red-hot irons, and waited

outside for their summons.

When Hubert entered the dungeon, the poor boy was just waking from a

sleep. He sat up and rubbed his eyes, being dazzled by the light which

Hubert carried in his hand.

"You are welcome," said he (for Arthur, with so few to love him, loved

even his surly, though not unkind, jailor). "I have been in my dreams

away in merry England, where I thought I was living in a beautiful

palace, with food and servants, and rich clothing, and that there was a

crown on my head. And so it shall be some day, Hubert, when I get my

rights; and then because you have not been as unkind to me as some in my

adversity, you shall be a great and rich man. But why look you so

solemn? What ails you?"

The warden stood silent for some moments before he spoke, and then his

voice was thick and hoarse.

"Prince," he said, "take your last look on the light, for you may never

see it again."

The boy sprang from his bed, and seized Hubert by the knees.

"What! Are they going to kill me? Must they take away my life?"

"Not so," said Hubert; "it is not thy life that is required, but thine

eyes." And as he spoke he stamped on the floor, as the signal to those

two who waited without to enter.

At sight of their horrid instruments, the cords which were to bind him,

and the cruel faces of the executioners, Arthur fell on his knees and

implored mercy of the stubborn Hubert.

It was a strange and pitiful sight to see that weak and helpless boy

kneeling, and with tears entreating that stout old warrior, whose bosom

heaved and whose ringers twitched, and whose face winced, as he

listened; while the two others stood motionless, grasping their irons

and cords, ready for the word of command to step forward and do their

cruel deed.

But the cries and entreaties of the helpless and beautiful prince

prevailed. Hubert wavered and hesitated; he bade the men advance, and

then bade them withhold; he looked at the prince, and he looked at the

glowing irons; he pushed the suppliant from him, and then suffered him

to cling to him. The executioners themselves were moved to pity, and

lay down their instruments. Finally, with a mighty effort, the warden

yielded, and said, "Retire, men, and take with you your tools, till I

require you." Then turning to Arthur, he said, "Prince, thou shalt keep

thy sight and thy life while I am by to protect thee." And the rough

hand of the old warrior stroked the hair of the weeping boy as it might

have been his own son's.

The answer that Hubert de Burgh sent back that day by the king's

messenger was an earnest appeal for mercy on behalf of his young and now

beloved charge.

But King John was a stranger to all feelings of pity, and his vengeance

was quick and dreadful. Foiled of his cruel design upon the eyesight of

his hapless nephew, he determined now to have his life. So he ordered

him to be removed from Falaise, and the custody of the humane De Burgh,

to the castle of Rouen, under whose walls flowed the waters of the River

Seine. But the prince did not remain long there. One night a jailor

entered his dungeon, and, waking him from his sleep, ordered him to

follow him. The boy obeyed in silence, as the jailor conducted him down

the winding staircase which led to the foot of the tower, beside which

the Seine flowed. A boat was waiting at the bottom, in which sat two

men. The torch of the jailor cast a sudden glare over the dark waters,

and by its light Arthur recognised, with horror and despair, in one of

the two the cruel features of his Uncle John. It was useless for him to

pray and entreat; it was useless for him to struggle or cry out. They

dragged him into the boat, and held him fast as she drifted under the

shadow of those gloomy walls into mid stream. What happened then no one

can tell; but had any listened that still, dark night, they might have

heard a boy's wild cry across the waters, and then a dull, heavy

splash--and that was all.

The story is that of those two, King John with his own hand did the foul

deed. However that may be, Arthur of Brittany was never even heard of

more.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

RICHARD THE SECOND, THE BOY WHO QUELLED A TUMULT.

A vast, disorderly rabble thronged the great open space of Smithfield,

in London, on one side of which stood the venerable Abbey of Saint

Bartholomew, now occupied by the hospital of that name. The men who

composed it were rough and wild, and, for the most part, shouted and

clutched their clubs and bows in a meaningless sort of way, which

plainly showed that they were not very clear in their own minds as to

the object of their assembling together, but that they came and shouted

and threatened because their leaders did so.

These leaders were few in number, and but that they were mounted, and

armed with swords and daggers, not to be distinguished from their

followers, for they were rough, wild men--men too whose occupation

seemed to be more in the way of herding cattle and plying their hammers

than leading an army of 20,000 rioters, or brandishing their swords

against a government.

Yet, though many of these rebels seemed not to comprehend the why and

the wherefore of their demonstration, there were not a few who looked

very much--nay, cruelly--in earnest, who talked vehemently and scowled,

and seemed, by the way they gripped their arms, determined to enforce

their demands against any man, be he noble, or baron, or king. From

some of the groups one might have heard excited utterances like the

following:--

"We will have our rights or die! Why do our leaders halt?"

"The king is expected!"

"Nay, then, let us slay him, who is the head of all our wrongs!"

"Not so; the king has already granted what we first demanded; and we are

gathered now because Wat Tyler demands yet more."

"God save Wat Tyler! Was it not he who struck the first blow against

the tyrant?"

"It was. The nobles demanded a poll tax on every man, woman, boy, and

girl in the land; and when one of their collectors would exact it from

Wat Tyler, at his place in Dartford, and (disbelieving his word

concerning the age of his young daughter) vilely insulted the maiden, he

arose and slew the wretch with his hammer. And so this business began."

"Huzzah for Wat Tyler! Down with the tyrant!"

"Nay, friend; our cause was a good one when it began, but since then Wat

and his friends have, to my mind, done us and themselves damage by their

bloodthirstiness and their unreasonableness. Have they not demolished

palaces and temples? Have they not butchered an archbishop and nobles

and harmless citizens? Have they not insulted noble ladies? And now,

when their demands have all been satisfied by the young king, they

demand yet more, and become themselves the tyrants."

"A traitor!--a traitor! Who speaks against our brave Wat Tyler? Kill

the traitor! Down with tyranny! Death to the king! God save the

people!"

With such clamour and angry talk did the crowd agitate itself, till

suddenly there arose a cry. "The king comes!"

And there rode up fearlessly, at the head of sixty men, a boy, only

fifteen years old, at sight of whom these rebels hung their heads and

let their wild clamour die on their lips. A few of the most determined

looked black as they regarded the royal boy, and noted the effect his

frank carriage had on their followers.

"I am come," said King Richard, rising on his horse at a few paces from

the front of the crowd, "as I promised, to confer with my subjects and

hear their grievances. Let your leader advance and speak with me."

Then Wat Tyler turned to his followers and said to them, "I will go

speak with him; do you abide my signal, then come on and slay all save

the young king; he will serve us better as a humble captive in our

hands, to lead through the land and bring all men to our service, than

as a slaughtered tyrant at our feet."

So he put spurs to his horse and advanced towards the king, whom he

approached so close that the flank of the horse touched that of the

king's. Richard, nothing daunted by this threatening demeanour, turned

courteously towards him and waited for him to speak.

"Do you see this concourse of people?" began Wat, rudely, pointing

towards the now silent crowd.

"I see them," said the boy. "What have you to ask on their behalf?"

"These men," said Tyler, "have sworn, one and all, to obey me in all

things, and to follow in whatever enterprise I shall lead them, and they

will not go hence till you grant us our petition."

"And I will grant it," replied the boy, frankly, for the demands to

which Wat Tyler now alluded had reference to the rights of the people to

hunt and fish on common lands. "I will grant it."

What followed history does not very clearly record. Among the followers

of the king, Wat, it is said, caught sight of a knight whom for some

reason he hated. Turning his attention from the king, he glared angrily

at his enemy, and, putting his hand on the hilt of his dagger,

exclaimed, "By my faith, I will never eat bread till I have thy head!"

At that same instant up rode Sir William Walworth, the Lord Mayor of

London, who, seeing the menacing gesture of the insurgent leader, and

hearing his threatening speech, immediately concluded he was about to

attack the person of the young king. Quick as thought, Sir William drew

his dagger, and before any one could interpose or hold him back, he

struck Wat Tyler in the throat, and his attendants following with

repeated blows, the leader of the people fell from his horse a dead man!

All this was so suddenly done, and so astonished the onlookers, that

Wat Tyler was already dead before a hand was moved or a voice raised on

either side. Then there rose an angry shout from those twenty thousand

rebels, as they saw their leader down. "We are betrayed!" they cried;

"they have killed our leader!" And with that they raised their bows and

pointed their shafts at the heart of the young king.

But they lowered them in amazement when, instead of shrinking and

cowering behind his knights, they saw the lad put spurs to his horse and

gallop, all by himself, up to the very place where they stood. "Men,"

he cried, "follow me; I am your king, and I will be your captain! Wat

Tyler was a traitor; no ill shall befall you if you make me your

leader."

The brave words disarmed that great crowd as if by magic; the men who

had just now shouted, "Long live Wat Tyler!" now shouted with a mighty

shout, "Long live our King Richard!"

The insurrection was at an end, the confidence of the people returned

once more to their rulers, and they marched that day from Smithfield,

under the leadership of their young king, as far as the country hamlet

of Islington, there quietly to disperse to their own homes and resume

once again their ordinary pursuits.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

RICHARD WHITTINGTON, THE SCULLERY BOY WHO BECAME LORD MAYOR.

A poor boy, meanly clad, and carrying in his hand a small bundle,

trudged sadly along the road which led over the moor of Finsbury to

Highgate. The first streak of dawn was scarcely visible in the eastern

sky, and as he walked, the boy shivered in the chill morning air. More

than once he dashed from his eyes the rising tears, and clutched his

little wallet and quickened his pace, as if determined to hold to some

desperate resolve, despite of all drawings to the contrary. As the road

rose gradually towards Highgate, the sun broke out from behind the

clouds on his right, and lit up fields and trees and hills with a

brightness and richness which contrasted strangely with the gloom on the

boy's face, and the poverty of his appearance. The birds in the hedges

began to sing, and the cattle to low and tinkle their bells; the whistle

of the herdsmen came up from the valley, and all nature seemed to wake

with a cry of gladness to greet the new day.

Even poor Dick Whittington could not wholly resist the cheering

influence of that bright summer morning. It was impossible to believe

that everything was miserable in the midst of so much gladness, and

Dick's face brightened and his step became brisker almost without his

knowing it, as he trudged higher and higher up that steep road. His

thoughts, too, took a less desponding turn.

"After all," said he to himself, "perhaps I am foolish to be running

away from my master's house. I had better be the scullery boy of good

Master Fitzwarren, although his cook does ill-treat me and lead me a

dog's life, than the vagabond idle boy which I am now. And yet I cannot

endure the thought of returning to that cruel woman. Would that I knew

what to do!"

Thus he thought and questioned with himself, when he came to a stone set

by the wayside; and here he sat to rest, and ruminate further upon his

evil fortune.

"If some voice would but say `Return,' I would return," said he, "even

though she scold and beat me, for I know not what to do, without a

friend in the world. Was ever such a wretched boy as I?"

And he buried his face in his hands and gave himself over to his misery.

Suddenly in the quiet morning air there came to his ears a wonderful

sound, up from the valley, where, in the sun, shone the towers and

steeples of London town.

It was the sound of distant bells, and as the boy listened, it came

clearer and clearer, and seemed to fill the air with the very voice for

which he had but a minute since been longing. But what a strange voice

and what a strange story the bells told!--

Turn again, Whittington, Thrice Lord Mayor of London!

Over and over again they said the same words. Over and over again Dick

persuaded himself he was dreaming, yet felt sure he was awake. "Turn

again!" that was plain enough, and he could believe it, even though Bow

Bells said it. But--"Thrice Lord Mayor of London!" what could that

mean? That was never meant for the poor ill-used scullery boy of Master

Fitzwarren, the mercer in the Minories! And yet what could be more

distinct than the voice of those bells?

He sprang from his seat, turned his face in the direction of that

wonderful sound, and ran. And that morning, when the family of Master

Fitzwarren assembled for their early meal, and the scolding cook took

possession of the kitchen, Dick Whittington was in his place, scouring

the pots and pans in the scullery, singing to himself a tune no one had

ever heard before.

Only a few days after this adventure of Dick's, news came of the arrival

in port of one of Master Fitzwarren's vessels with a valuable cargo on

board. Now it was the custom in those days, in some houses, for all the

servants of a family to invest something in the fortunes of any vessel

their master might send out; and when, many months before this, Master

Fitzwarren had been equipping the vessel now in question, he had

summoned all his servants together, and beginning with the chief, had

called upon them to put their savings into his venture, promising each a

fair return of whatever profit his share should entitle him to at the

end of the voyage.

Dick, poor boy, had no money; nothing in the world but a cat, whom he

loved as his only friend, and to whom he owed no common gratitude for

the manner in which she had protected him against the rats that infested

his garret. When it came to his turn to put his share into the voyage,

he had not the heart to offer this companion--and he had nothing else he

could call his own--so he begged to be excused. His master, however,

insisted that, as his servant, he must put down whatever he had, however

little, and even though this cat had cost only a penny, to sea she must

go, and Dick should have full value for her when the voyage was over.

Dick wept at this, and the young daughter of Master Fitzwarren, being

moved to pity, offered from her own money what would preserve to the lad

his four-footed friend. But not even this would the stern merchant

allow, and Dick therefore had to bid a tearful farewell to his

favourite, and resign himself to his loss.

All this had taken place many months ago.

Now when the "Unicorn"--that was the name of the vessel--returned to

port, great was the astonishment of everybody (and no one's greater than

Dick's) to find that the principal portion of the treasures on board

belonged to the little scullery boy of Master Fitzwarren.

The very first day of its arrival there was brought to the house a

cabinet of jewels, forming part of the boy's share, which was considered

too precious to be left on board ship. And the men who brought it told

this marvellous story:

When the ship reached Algiers, in Africa, the ruler of the land ordered

all the crew to wait upon him with presents, which accordingly they did,

after which he prepared a feast, and invited them all to partake. But

no sooner were the covers removed then a swarm of rats, attracted by the

scent of the good things, came and devoured all the victuals before

their very faces. This, the governor told them, was no unusual thing,

for rats were the plague of his land, and he would give any price to

know of a means to be rid of them. Then one of the sailors bethought

him of Dick Whittington's cat--who had already distinguished herself on

shipboard by her industry in her art--and accordingly next day, when the

feast was served, and the rats, as usual, prepared to make away with it,

puss was produced, and not only drove away the pest, but killed a

considerable number. This happening for several days, his highness was

so delighted that he instantly offered an enormous sum for the

possession of so remarkable an animal, and loaded the crew with

presents, in token of his joy and gratitude.

Such was the story of the men, which explained this wonderful prize

which fell to the share of the fortunate Dick Whittington.

He, poor lad, could not understand it all, and went on with his drudgery

in the scullery as if nothing had happened, until his master compelled

him to quit it, and from being his boy-of-all-work made him his partner

in business.

Then Dick remembered the words the bells had sung to him a while ago,

and rejoiced that he had obeyed their call.

He rejoiced at another thing too, which was that the kind young daughter

of Master Fitzwarren, who had pitied him in his poverty, did not avoid

him in his prosperity, but smiled happily upon him when he took his seat

at the family table to eat out of the dishes he had so recently scoured.

So this scullery boy became a rich merchant, and being just and

honourable as well as wealthy, he gained the respect and love of all

with whom he had to do. When he grew to be a man, he married the kind

Miss Fitzwarren, which made him happier than all his wealth.

Not only did merchants look up to him, but nobles and even kings came to

him in their money difficulties, and he was the same upright gentleman

to all men. Honours increased, and at last the prophecy of Bow Bells

came true, and Sir Richard Whittington was made Lord Mayor of London.

In that capacity he grew still in riches and fame; and when his first

term was expired, his admiring fellow-citizens, after a few years, made

him Lord Mayor for a second time, and when the second term was past, for

a third. His third mayoralty happened in 1419, when King Henry the

Fourth was on the throne of England; and then it was his honours rose to

their highest pitch, for he entertained at his own table the king and

queen of the land in such grand style that Henry said of him, "Never

king had such a subject."

And never poor had such a friend. He never forgot the little forlorn

boy on Highgate Hill, and it was his delight to his latest day to make

the hearts of the needy glad, and show to all that it is not for money

nor grandeur but for an honest soul and a kind heart that a man is to be

loved and honoured by his fellows.

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

EDWARD THE BLACK PRINCE, THE BOY WHO WON A BATTLE.

The sun rose brightly over the little village of Crecy on the morning of

Saturday, August 26, 1346. The golden corn was standing in the fields,

the cattle were quietly grazing in the meadows, the birds were

twittering in the woods, and in the still morning air rose the gentle

murmur of a joyous stream. Everything spoke of peace that bright summer

morning; little could one have dreamed that before that sun should have

set in the west the din and thunder of battle would wake the echoes of

those quiet woods, or that those sunny fields would be torn and

desolated by the angry tread of thousands of feet, or strewn with heaps

of dead or dying! Yet so it was to be. A large army was even then

halting in the cover of the forest over against the village, and far,

far away, if any one had listened, might have been heard, mingling with

the voices of the morning, the sound of a great host of horsemen and

soldiers advancing in hot pursuit, with now and then a trumpet blast

which echoed faintly among the hills.

The English soldiers, as they rose from their beds of turf and grass,

heard those far-off sounds, and knew--who better?--they must fight like

men to-day or perish.

So they sprang to their feet and seized their arms and armour, ready at

any instant to obey the summons to action.

Suddenly along the ranks came the cry, "The king and the prince!" and

directly afterwards appeared the great King Edward the Third of England

riding slowly down the line of his army, and at his side a stately boy

of sixteen years, dressed in black armour and mounted on a black horse.

Never was king more honoured or king's son more loved than were these

two as they passed with cheery word and dauntless bearing among their

loyal and devoted soldiers.

The king stopped when he had reached a spot from which a good portion of

his host could hear him, and raised his hand.

Every man stood silent as he spoke.

"My loyal subjects, we must meet to-day a host greater than we in

number, but not greater in valour. Fight, I charge you, for the honour

of your country. My son here leads the first division of my army. This

is his first battle, and sure I am he will quit himself like a man. Do

you the same, and God will give us the victory."

With such encouraging and confident words the king addressed his men,

who cheered him and the brave prince long and loud.

Then every man took his helmet and his bow, and waited for the enemy.

The morning passed, but still no foe appeared. But the distant murmur

was now grown to a loud and ever-increasing din; and as they sat the

English could hear shouts and the neighing of horses and the tumult of

many voices, which betokened the near approach of the host of King

Philip of France.

It was not till about three in the afternoon that the French army came

in sight of Crecy. They had had a rapid and fatiguing march since

daybreak, and were now in no condition, even with their vastly superior

numbers, to grapple with the refreshed and inspirited Englishmen. So

thought and said many of Philip's officers, and did their best to

persuade him to put off the encounter till next day.

But however much Philip might have been inclined to adopt this good

advice, his army was in such a state of confusion and disorder, owing to

their rapid march, that they were quite unmanageable. When the officers

bade those in front to halt, those behind, shouting and impatient, still

pressed on, so much so that the king and all his nobles were carried

along with them into the very face of the English, who stood awaiting

the attack.

When Philip saw the collision could not be put off, that the battle was

inevitable, he shouted loudly, "Bring forward the Genoese bowmen!"

Now these bowmen, 15,000 in number, on whom Philip depended to scatter

and drive from the field the main portion of his enemy's force, were in

no sort of condition for beginning a battle after their long, fatiguing

march, and with the strings of their crossbows all loose with damp, and

with a dazzling sun now glaring full in their eyes. But Philip, too

confident to heed any such trifles, impatiently, nay, angrily, ordered

them to the front, and bade them shoot a volley against the English

archers, who stood opposite.

So these foreigners stepped forward, and, as their manner was, gave

three leaps in the air, with the idea of terrifying the foes, and then

raised their bows to their cheeks, and let fly their arrows wildly in

the direction of the English.

The trusty English archers, with the sun behind them, were not the men

to be intimidated by leapings into the air, nor panic-struck by a

discharge so ill-aimed that scarce one arrow in ten even grazed their

armour.

Their reply to the Genoese was a sudden step forward, and a sharp,

determined twang of their bow-strings. Then the air was white with the

cloud of their arrows, and next moment the foremost ranks of the Genoese

were seen to drop like one man.

This was enough for those already dispirited hirelings. They fell back

in panic disorder; they cut their bow-strings; they rushed among the

very feet of the horsemen that Philip, in his rage, had ordered "to ride

forward and cut down the cowardly villains!" Then the confusion of the

French army was complete.

The English followed up their first advantage steadily and quickly.

Knight after knight of the French dropped from his horse, troop after

troop fell back, standard after standard tottered.

Nowhere was the fight fiercer than where the young Black Prince led the

van of the English; and from a windmill on a near hill, the eager eyes

of King Edward watched with pride that figure clad in black armour ever

in the thick of the fight, and never halting an instant where danger or

duty called.

It would be too long to tell of all the fighting that day. Philip, with

his great army, could not dislodge his compact foe from their position;

nor could he shelter his men from the deadly flight of their arrows.

Bravely he rushed himself into the fray to rally his men, but to no

avail. Everywhere they fell back before their invincible enemy.

Once, indeed, it seemed as if his brave knights would surround and drive

back the division of which the boy prince was leader. An English noble

sent post-haste a message to Edward to say, "Send help; the prince is in

danger."

But Edward knew more of battles than most of his officers. He replied

coolly--

"Is the prince slain?"

"No."

"Is he wounded?"

"No."

"Is he struck down?"

"No."

"Then go, tell him the battle he has won so far shall be his, and his

only. To-day he must win his own spurs."

The words flew like wildfire among the English ranks, and our brave men

fought with renewed valour.

That evening, as the sun was getting low in the west, Philip and his

host turned their backs on Crecy and fled--all that were left of them--

anywhere to be out of the reach of the army of that invincible boy.

Horsemen and footmen, bag and baggage, they fled, with the English close

at their heels, and never drew rein till night and darkness put an end

to the pursuit.

Meanwhile, there were rejoicing and thanksgiving on the field of Crecy.

The English king hastened from his post of observation, and, in the

presence of the whole army, embraced his brave son, and gave him the

honours of that glorious victory, wherein two kings, eleven princes,

1,200 knights, and 30,000 men had fallen. A sad price for glory!

"Sweet son," said he, "God give you good perseverance. You are my true

and valiant son, and have this day shown yourself worthy of a crown."

And the brave boy bowed low before his father, and modestly disclaimed

the whole glory of the victory.

Loud and long did the loyal knights and soldiers cheer their brave king

and their heroic prince; and when they saw the latter bind on his helmet

the plume of three ostrich feathers, worn by the most illustrious of his

slain foemen, John, King of Bohemia, with the noble motto _Ich dien_ ("I

serve") beneath, their enthusiasm knew no bounds. And the motto has

descended from prince to prince since then, and remains to this day as a

glorious memorial of this famous boy, who earned it by doing his duty in

the face of danger, and setting an example to all about him that "he who

serves rules."

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

HENRY OF MONMOUTH, THE PRINCE WHOM A JUDGE SENT TO PRISON.

A strange crowd thronged the Court of King's Bench one memorable day

four and a half centuries ago. Nobles and commoners alike jostled their

way into the sombre hall, every one intent on securing a good place,

some talking loudly, others arguing angrily, all highly excited and

impatient. It was evident that the trial about to take place was one of

unusual interest and extraordinary importance, for the gloomy court was

not used to be so crowded, and seldom attracted so mixed and so eager a

throng as that which now filled it.

Suddenly a lull fell on the scene, heads were uncovered, the jostling

and wrangling ceased, and order prevailed.

The judge, Lord Justice Gascoigne, entered and took his seat. He was a

grave, quiet man, but there was something in his look so dignified and

so firm, that it awed into respectful silence all within that place as

if by a spell. Then he said--"Bring hither the prisoner."

All eyes turned now to the door by which the officer of the court went

out to obey the order.

Presently it swung back, and there entered, between two jailors, a man

of dissipated appearance and reckless demeanour, whose flushed cheeks

and extravagant attire told only too plainly their own sad tale of

intemperance and debauchery.

He regarded with an indifferent look judge, jury, and the crowd which

his trial had drawn together, and took his place at the bar rather with

the air of a man harassed and ill-used than of one guilty and overawed.

The trial began. The story of the man's crime was a short and simple

one. He had been ringleader in a highway robbery lately committed, and

taken in the very act, with the booty upon his person. The evidence was

clear as daylight; no one attempted to dispute it or deny the

accusation.

Was this, then, all that had brought the assembly together? The man was

of a name known to comparatively few of those present. His crime was an

ordinary felony, and his defence appeared to be hopeless. It was

evidently something else than this for which these onlookers had crowded

into court, and it was not long before their curiosity was satisfied.

A witness stood forward to be questioned as to the associates of the

prisoner. He gave several names, and then stopped.

"Have no others joined him in these expeditions?" inquired the judge.

The witness hesitated.

"The law requires that you shall tell the whole truth," calmly said the

judge. "Have no others joined the prisoner in these expeditions?"

Then the truth came out.

"The Prince Henry of Wales has borne the prisoner company on divers

occasions."

What! A Prince of Wales, the coming King of England, implicated in a

disgraceful, discreditable highway robbery! Though the crowd had heard

of it already, a buzz of astonishment passed through their midst, as the

fact was thus clearly and indisputably established.

"Was the prince concerned in the robbery for which the prisoner is now

charged?"

Witness could not say.

In reply to further questions, however, it was stated that the prince

frequently formed one of the party which indulged in these illegal

practices; that he was as lawless and desperate as the worst of them;

and that he was known to boast among his boon companions of his exploits

as a common highwayman, and to exhibit proudly the plunder he had thus

acquired.

It was enough. The judge reminded the court that they were met to try,

not the prince, but the prisoner at the bar; and painful as the fact

was, it was no affair of theirs at that time to investigate the conduct

of another man, except in as far as it threw light on the present case.

The good judge was not the only man in England who had watched the

dissipated career of the young prince with sorrow and concern. All to

whom the honour of their country was dear bewailed the wasted youth and

misused talents of this boy, whom his father's jealousy and illiberality

had driven into courses of riot and debauchery. They longed for the

time to come, ere it was too late, when the serious duties of the camp

or the throne would call out those better traits of his disposition

which at present lay hidden beneath what was discreditable and wretched.

They saw in him a nobility disfigured and a chivalry marred, still

capable of asserting itself, but which as yet every rebuke and every

warning had failed to arouse; and on this account the good people of

England sorrowed with a jealous sorrow over their "Prince Hal," and

looked forward with trembling to see how all this would end.

But to return. The case against the prisoner was full and complete, and

nothing now remained but to pronounce him guilty, and sentence him to

the penalty his crime required. This duty the judge was proceeding to

discharge, when at the door of the court was heard a commotion. For a

moment the judge's words were drowned in the shuffling of feet and the

sound of voices; then the door opened, and in walked a youth, scarcely

more than a boy, tall, slender, and handsome, with flushed cheeks and

wild eye, fashionably dressed, with a sword at his side and a plumed hat

upon his head.

"The Prince of Wales!" broke from the lips of a score of onlookers, as

they recognised in that youth the heir to the crown, towards whose

delinquencies their thoughts had that moment been turned.

He advanced gaily and recklessly to the bench, the crowd falling back on

either side to give him passage. As he passed the bar at which the

prisoner stood awaiting his sentence, he stopped, and, nodding

familiarly, exclaimed--

"What ho, comrade! I heard thou wast in trouble, and have come myself

to ease thee; so cheer up, lad!" Then approaching the judge, he said,

"Good Master Gascoigne, your prisoner is a friend of mine, too gay a

comrade to languish in bonds for a trifling scrape like this. Spare

yourself, therefore, further pains on his account, and come, solace your

gravity with a party of boon companions who assemble to-night to

celebrate their hero's emancipation from your clutches!"

Gravely and sorrowfully the judge regarded the prince who thus

flippantly defied the law of which he was the guardian, but his face was

firm and his voice authoritative as he replied--

"Prince, my duty is to defend the laws of the king, your father, not to

break them. As you entered, I was passing the sentence of imprisonment

on the prisoner which he has merited by his evil deeds. That sentence

must now be put in force."

Prince Henry's face clouded, and he scowled as he exclaimed--

"What I would you defy the Prince of Wales to his very face? Liberate

my comrade, I charge you, at once, or it shall be the worse for you!"

"Be warned, prince. They who obstruct the law incur the penalties of

the law, be they princes or peasants. Officers, remove the prisoner."

Henry flushed angrily, and his eyes glared like fire. Advancing a step,

he laid his hand on the hilt of his sword, and drew it from its

scabbard.

The judge rose quietly to his feet, and laying his hand gently on the

foolish boy's shoulder, said, in a voice calm and clear, which all could

hear--

"Henry, Prince of Wales, I arrest thee in the name of the king, your

father, whose laws you have defied, and whose court you have insulted!

Officers, remove the prince in custody."

There was a strange and solemn pause as the judge resumed his seat, and

all eyes turned on Henry. The firmness of the judge had touched the

right chord at last. The sword dropped back into its sheath, the scowl

of passion gave place to the flush of shame, the wild eyes sought the

ground, and the haughty head hung down in confusion. Without a word he

submitted to the officers of the court, and accompanied them to the

place of his confinement, humble and repentant.

Years after this a gay throng of courtiers were assembled at court to do

homage to King Henry the Fifth of England on his accession to the

throne. There were there princes and nobles and ladies--some the

friends of the late king, some the friends of the new. In the faces of

not a few of the former might be detected traces of uneasiness and

anxiety; while the latter talked and looked, for the most part,

confident and triumphant. It was easy to guess the cause of this

strange variety of feeling. The gay young reveller was now king. There

were some there who had made no secret of their disapproval of his wild

courses as a prince. How would he regard them now the crown was on his

head? Others there were who had borne him company in his excesses,

drinking from the same bowl, and sharing in all the lawlessness of his

lawless youth. Was not the time for their advancement come, now that

the fountain of honour was in the person of their own boon companion and

comrade?

Amid waving and acclamation, the young king stepped into the presence

chamber to receive the homage of his subjects.

In general appearance he was not much changed from the tall, handsome

youth who, a few years ago, had openly defied the law and insulted its

dignity; but the more serious expression of his face, and the more

sedate pose of his lips, betokened an inward change of no small

importance. And now that the whole court was eagerly looking for some

indication of his conduct under the new honours and duties which had

this day devolved upon him, he was not long in satisfying their

curiosity in a decided and significant manner.

Glancing for a moment among the gay throng which surrounded him, his eye

lit on a grave, dignified man, with clear eye and firm mouth, now

advanced in years, and clad in the robes of a judge.

King Henry stepped towards him, and, with a friendly smile, took him by

the hand.

"Good Master Gascoigne," he said, "I know you of old. What my father

said of you, let me say too, in the hearing of all these people. _Happy

is the king that has such a man who dares to execute justice even on the

king's son_. You did well by me when you once committed me to prison;

you shall still be my councillor and the trusted guardian of my laws."

The judge bowed low as he replied, "My lord, your father added yet

another word to that you have yourself recalled. _Happy_, said he, _the

king that has such a son, who will submit even his princely self to the

hand of justice_."

And a tear stood in the grave man's eye as he kissed the hand of him who

had once been his prisoner, but was now his king and his friend.

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

LAMBERT SIMNEL, THE BAKER'S BOY WHO PRETENDED TO BE A KING.

A scene of unwonted excitement was being enacted in Dublin. The streets

were thronged with people, the houses were gay with flags, soldiers

lined the paths, and nobles in their grand carriages went by in

procession. The common folk shouted till they were hoarse, and pressed

forward on every hand towards the great church of the city, to witness

the ceremony which was taking place there.

Whence was all this excitement? How came the Irish capital into such a

state of festivity and holiday-making? The story is a short one and a

strange.

Some weeks before, a man in the dress of a priest, accompanied by a

good-looking boy, had landed in Dublin, and made his way to the

residence of the governor of the place, with whom he sought an

interview. On being admitted, he much astonished that nobleman by the

tale he told.

It was well known that Richard the Third had during his lifetime shut up

in prison the young Earl of Warwick, his nephew, whose title to the

crown was better than his own. The cruel uncle, who seemed unable to

endure the presence of any of those whom he had so basely robbed of

their inheritance, had already, as is well known, murdered those other

two nephews whose claims were most prominent and unmistakable. The

young Earl of Warwick, however, was allowed to keep his life, but

remained a close prisoner in a castle in Yorkshire.

When Henry the Seventh took the crown from Richard and became king, he

was by no means disposed to liberate a prince who was clearly nearer to

the throne than himself. So he had him removed from Yorkshire to the

Tower of London, where he remained almost forgotten amid the bustle of

coronation festivities of the new king.

Now the story told by the priest was that this prince had succeeded in

escaping from the Tower, and indeed was none other than the lad who now

stood at his side, having made his way to Ireland in the company of his

tutor and friend, to beg the aid of the Governor of Dublin in an effort

to recover his lawful inheritance.

The Earl of Kildare (that was the governor's name) looked in

astonishment from one to the other, and bade them repeat their story,

asking the boy many questions about his childhood and the companions of

his youth, which the latter answered so glibly and unhesitatingly that

the foolish governor was fully persuaded this was no other than the

rightful King of England.

He caused the lad to be treated with all the honour due to royalty; he

gave him a guard of soldiers, he showed him to the populace, who

welcomed him with enthusiasm, and he set to work to organise an army

which should follow to enforce his claim to the throne of England.

The boy took all this sudden glory in a half-bewildered manner, but

adhered so correctly to his plausible story that none of those generous

Irish folk doubted that he was any other than the disinherited prince he

professed to be.

Had they only known that the youth about whom they were so enthusiastic

was no better than a baker's son, named Lambert Simnel, they might have

been less pleased.

Well, in due time it was decided to crown the new king with all honour.

And this was the occasion about which, as we have seen, Dublin was in

such a state of festivity and holiday.

The boy was conducted with great pomp to church, amid the shouts of the

people, and there crowned with a diadem taken from a statue of the

Virgin Mary. Afterwards, according to custom, he was borne on the

shoulders of a huge Irish chieftain back to the castle, where he lived

as a king for some time.

All this while the real Earl of Warwick was safe in the Tower, and now

when the rumour of Lambert Simnel's doings in Ireland reached King

Henry, he had him brought out from his prison and exhibited in public,

so that every one might be convinced of the imposture of the boy who set

himself up to be the same person.

But though the people of England were thus kept from being deceived, as

the Irish had been, there were a good many of them who heartily disliked

King Henry, and were ready to join in any movement against him,

irrespective of right or wrong. The consequence was, Lambert Simnel--or

rather the people who instigated him in his falsehood--found they might

count on a fair amount of support even from those who discredited their

story; and this encouraged them to attempt an invasion of England, and

venture their scheme on the field of battle. So, with a force of about

8,000 men, they landed in Lancashire. There is no need to tell the

result of this expedition. After many disappointments occasioned by the

reluctance of the people to join them, they encountered the king's army

near Newark, and after a desperate battle were defeated, and lost all

their leaders. Lambert Simnel and the priest were taken prisoners, and

for a time there was an end of this silly attempt to deceive the nation.

In the following years of Henry's reign, any one entering the royal

kitchens might have observed a boy, meanly dressed, following his

occupation as a turnspit; and that boy, had he felt disposed to give you

his history, would have told you how once upon a time he was crowned a

king, and lived in a palace, how nobles bowed the knee before him, and

troops fought at his bidding. He would have told how people had hailed

him as King Edward of England, and rushed along beside his carriage,

eager to catch so much as a glance from his eye. And then he would go

on to tell how all this was because designing men had put into his head

foolish ambitions, and taught him to repeat a likely-looking story. And

if one had questioned him further, doubtless he would have confessed

that he was happier far now as a humble turnspit than ever he had been

as a sham king, and would have warned one sadly that cheats never

prosper, however successful they may seem for a time; and that

contentment with one's lot, humble though it be, brings with it rewards

infinitely greater than riches or power wrongly acquired.

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

EDWARD AND RICHARD PLANTAGENET, THE BOYS WHO WERE MURDERED IN THE TOWER.

A horseman stood at the gate of the Tower of London, and demanded

entrance in the name of the king, Richard Iii.

On hearing the summons, and the authority claimed by the stranger, the

governor, Sir Thomas Brackenbury, directed that he should be admitted,

and deliver his message.

"Read this," said the man, handing a missive sealed with the royal

seal.

Sir Thomas read the document hastily, and as he read his face grew

troubled. For a long time he was silent; then addressing the king's

messenger, he said--

"Know you the contents of this letter?"

"How should I know?" replied the other evasively.

"The king directs me here," said Sir Thomas, "to do a deed horrible and

unworthy of a man. He demands that I should rid him of the two lads now

lying in this Tower in my custody."

"And what of that?" said the king's messenger. "Is it not necessary to

the country's peace? And will _you_, Sir Thomas, render so base an

ingratitude for the favours you have received at the king's hands by

refusing him this service?"

"Not even with the sanction of a king will Thomas Brackenbury hire

himself out as a butcher. My office and all I have," he added, "I hold

at His Majesty's pleasure. He may take them from me if he will, but my

hands shall at least stay free from innocent blood!"

With that he bade the messenger return to his master and deliver his

reply.

When Richard, away in Gloucestershire, heard of the refusal of the

Governor of the Tower to execute his commands, he was very wroth, and

vowed he would yet carry out his cruel purpose with regard to his two

helpless nephews.

These two boys, the sons of Edward the Fourth, were the principal

obstacles to Richard's undisturbed possession of the throne he had

usurped. The elder of them, a boy of thirteen, had already been crowned

as Edward the Fifth, but he was a king in name only. Scarcely had the

coronation taken place when his bad uncle, under the pretence of

offering his protection, got him into his power, and shut him up, with

his young brother Richard, in the Tower, while he himself plotted for

the crown to which he had neither right nor title.

How he succeeded in his evil schemes history has recorded.

By dint of falsehood and cunning he contrived to make himself

acknowledged king by an unwilling people; and then, when the height of

his ambition had been attained, he could not rest till those whom he had

so shamefully robbed of their inheritance were out of his path.

Therefore it was he sent his messenger to Sir Robert Brackenbury.

Foiled in his design of making this officer the instrument of his base

scheme, he summoned to his presence Sir James Tyrrel, a man of reckless

character, ready for whatever might bring him profit or preferment; and

to him he confided his wishes.

That same day Tyrrel started for London, armed with a warrant entrusting

him with the Governorship of the Tower for one day, during which Sir

Robert Brackenbury was to hand over the fortress and all it contained to

his keeping.

The brave knight had nothing for it but to obey this order, though he

well knew its meaning, and could foretell only too readily its result.

In a lofty room of that gloomy fortress, that same summer evening, the

two hapless brothers were sitting, little dreaming of the fate so nearly

approaching.

The young king had indeed for some time past seemed to entertain a vague

foreboding that he would never again breathe the free air outside his

prison. He had grown melancholy, and the buoyant spirits of youth had

given place to a listlessness and heaviness strangely out of keeping

with his tender years. He cared neither for talk nor exercise, and

neglected both food and dress. His brother, two years younger than

himself, was of a more hopeful demeanour, perhaps realising less fully

the hardships and dangers of their present imprisonment. As they sat

this evening in their lonely chamber, he tried to rally his elder

brother from his melancholy.

"Look not so black, brother; we shall soon be free. Why should we give

up hope?"

The young king answered nothing, and apparently did not heed his

brother's words.

"Nay," persisted the latter, "should we not be glad our lives are spared

us, and that our imprisonment is made easy by the care of good Sir

Robert, our governor?"

Still Edward remained absorbed in his own gloomy reflections, and the

younger lad, thus foiled in his efforts at cheerfulness, became silent

too, and sad, and so continued till a warder entered their chamber with

food, and remained to attend them to bed.

They tasted little that evening, for the shadow of what was to come

seemed already to have crept over their spirits.

"Will Sir Robert come to see us, as is his wont, before we retire to

rest?" inquired Richard of the warder.

"Sir Robert is not now Governor of the Tower," curtly replied the man.

Now indeed they felt themselves utterly friendless, and as they crept to

their bed they clung one to the other, in all the loneliness of despair.

Then the warder took his leave, and they heard the key turn in the lock

behind him, and counted his footsteps as he descended the stairs.

Presently sleep mercifully fell upon their weary spirits, and closed

their weeping eyes with her gentle touch.

At dead of night three men stole up the winding staircase that led to

their chamber, armed, and carrying a light. The leader of these was Sir

James Tyrrel, and his evil-looking companions were the men he had hired

to carry out the cruel order of the king. The key turned in the door,

and they entered the apartment.

It was a sight to touch any heart less hard than those of the three

villains who now witnessed it, to see those two innocent boys sleeping

peacefully in each other's arms, dreaming perhaps of liberty, and

forgetting the sorrow which had left its traces even yet on their closed

eyes. But to Tyrrel and his two assassins, Forest and Deighton, the

spectacle suggested neither pity nor remorse.

At a signal from Tyrrel, who remained outside the room while the deed

was being done, the ruffians snatched the pillows from under the heads

of the sleepers, and ere they could either resist or cry out the poor

lads were stifled beneath their own bedclothes, and so perished.

Then these two murderers called to Tyrrel to enter and look on their

work, and bear witness that the king's command had been faithfully

executed.

The cup of Richard's wickedness was now full. He concealed for some

time the fate of his two victims, and few people knew what had become of

their rightful king and his brother. But the vengeance of Heaven fell

on the cruel uncle speedily and terribly. His own favourite son died,

his family turned against him, his people rebelled: the kingdom so

evilly gained was taken from him, and he himself, after months of

remorse, and fear, and gathering misfortunes, was slain in battle,

lamented by none, and hated by all.

Two centuries later, in the reign of King Charles the Second, some

workmen, digging in the Tower, discovered under the stairs leading to

the chapel of the White Tower a box containing the bones of two

children, corresponding to the ages of the murdered princes. These were

found to be without doubt their remains, and in a quiet comer of

Westminster Abbey, whither they were removed, a simple memorial now

marks their last resting-place, and records the fact of their cruel

murder by perhaps the worst king who ever sat upon the throne of

England.

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.

EDWARD OF LANCASTER, THE BOY WHOSE LIFE A ROBBER SAVED.

A terrible scene might have been witnessed near the small town of

Hexham, in Northumberland, one May afternoon in the year 1464. A great

battle had just been fought and won. Civil war, with all its hideous

accompaniments, had laid desolate those fair fields where once cattle

were wont to browse and peasants to follow their peaceful toil. But now

all was confusion and tumult. On the ground in heaps lay men and

horses, dead and dying--the vanquished were crying for mercy, the

victors were shouting for vengeance. The country for miles round was

alive with fugitives and their pursuers. Women, children, and old men,

as well as soldiers, joined in that panic flight; and shrieks, and

shouts, and groans told only too plainly of the slaughter and terror of

the pursuit. To slaughter the victors added robbery and outrage. Far

and wide they scoured the country in quest of victims and booty; houses

were burned, villages were desolated, fields were laid bare, nor till

night mercifully fell over the land did that scene of terror end. War

is indeed a terrible scourge, and civil war the most terrible of all.

But while many of those who pursued did so in a blind thirst after

plunder and blood, there were others more determined in their going,

whose object was rather to capture than to slay, who passed without

heeding the common fugitives, and gave chase only to such parties as

seemed to be covering the flight of persons of distinction from the

scene of their disaster. Of such parties one was known to contain the

King of England, nobles, and officers, whom the victors desired to make

captive and get into their power; while it was also rumoured that the

Queen herself, with her youthful son, was among the fugitives. The

soldiers of the Duke of York would indeed have been elated, had they

succeeded in getting into their power the king and his son, whose throne

they had seized for their own leader, and so they followed hard after

the flying host in all directions.

That same evening, as the sun was sinking, and the distant sounds of

battle were growing faint in the air, a tall, stately woman, leading by

the hand a boy of scarcely six years, walked hastily in the direction of

a wood which skirted the banks of the River Tyne. It was evident from

her dress and the jewels she wore that she was a lady of no ordinary

importance, and a certain imperious look in her worn face seemed to

suggest that she was one of those more used to ruling than obeying, to

receiving honour rather than rendering it. The boy who accompanied her

was also richly dressed, and reflected in his handsome face the proud

nature of his mother, as this lady seemed to be. Just at present,

however, his expression was one of terror. He clung eagerly to the hand

of his protectress, and once and again cast a frightened look behind, as

if expecting to get sight of the pursuers, from whose clutches they were

even now seeking shelter.

"Mother," said the lad, as they entered the wood, and for the first time

abated somewhat of their hurried progress, "I am weary and hungry. May

we not rest here awhile and eat something?"

"My child," said the lady, "there is naught here to eat, and we must go

farther ere we are safe from our cruel foes."

So they went on, deep into the gloomy shade of the wood, till they were

far beyond the sight of the outer world, and where the rays of the

setting sun scarce gave the feeblest light.

"Mother," said the boy presently, "this is an awful place; we shall die

here."

"Fear not, my child," replied the lady bravely. "Heaven will protect us

when none else can."

"But do not robbers abound in these woods? Have I not heard you say

so?"

"It is true; but they will not hurt thee or me. Remember whose son thou

art."

"Ay, I am the king's son; but I would fain have a morsel to eat."

Just then there was a crackling among the underwood, and a sound of

voices approaching the spot.

The boy clutched his mother's hand and trembled. She stood pale and

motionless.

The sound of feet grew nearer, and presently the voices of those who

spoke became distinguishable.

"Some will be sure to find their way to this wood," said one.

"I hope such as do may have full purses," said another. "I have taken

nothing these three days."

"Ay, truly, and these wars have made folk so poor, they are not worth

robbing when we do find them."

"Soft! methought I heard a voice!" suddenly said one of the speakers.

The band halted and listened, and then, hearing nothing, pushed on.

"It's as likely as not we might fall in with royalty itself this night,

for I hear the king's rout has been complete at Hexham."

"And more than that, he has fled from the field in one direction, while

his queen and son have sought another!"

"Hist!" again cried he who had spoken before. "I certainly heard a

voice. This way, my men; follow me."

And advancing at as rapid a pace as the wooded ground allowed of, he

conducted them in the direction of the voices. Suddenly they emerged

into a clearing, where confronted them the lady and her boy.

Loud laughed these greedy robbers, for they spied the jewels on the

lady's person and the rich robes on her and her son.

Like cowardly ruffians, as _they_ were, they rushed forward, heedless of

the sex or age of their victims, and threatening to slay them should

they resist, tore away jewels, and gold, and silk--all that was of

value, roughly handling the two in so doing, and meeting every attempt

to speak or resist with the menace of a drawn sword.

It was a rich plunder, for the lady's jewels were large and precious,

and, besides, she bore about her no small quantity of gold and other

treasure. When they had taken all they could lay their wicked hands on,

the men fell to dividing among themselves their ill-gotten booty,

glorying as they did so in their crime, and laughing brutally at the

expense of their two defenceless victims.

As might be supposed, the task of dividing the spoil was one not quietly

accomplished. The robbers began to argue as to the division, and from

arguing they went on to disputing, and from disputing they came to

fighting, in the midst of which the lady and her boy took an opportunity

to escape unobserved into the thicket, and hasten as best they might

from the reach of their plunderers.

Thus they fled, robbed and penniless, exposed to the cold evening air,

famishing for lack of food, smarting under insult and wrong, and not

knowing where next to turn for shelter or safety.

The courage of the lady, hitherto so conspicuous, now fairly gave way.

She sat down on the ground, and taking her boy to her arms, abandoned

herself to a flood of tears. "My son," she cried, "better if we had

died by the sword of our enemies, than die a shameful death in these

woods! Alas! was ever woman so miserable as I?"

"But, mother," said the boy, who now in turn took upon him the office of

comforter, "the robbers left us with our lives, and we shall surely find

some food here. Cheer up, mother; did you not tell me God would take

care of us when no one else could?"

The mother's only answer was to take her boy in a closer embrace and

kiss him passionately.

Suddenly there appeared before them a man of fierce aspect, holding in

his hand a drawn sword.

Escape was impossible; robbed as they already were, they had nothing but

their lives to offer to this wild ruffian. And would he scruple to

murder where he could not rob?

The courage of the lady, in this desperate case, returned as quickly as

it had lately deserted her.

A sudden resolution gleamed in her face; then, rising majestically to

her feet, and taking by the hand her trembling boy, she advanced proud

and stately towards the robber. The man halted wonderingly. There was

something in the imperious bearing of this tall, beautiful lady--

something in the appealing looks of the gallant boy--which for a moment

cowed his lawless resolve, and made him hesitate.

Noticing this, the lady advanced close to him, and said in clear,

majestic tones,--

"Behold, my friend, I commit to your care the safety of your king's

son!"

The man started back in astonishment, the sword dropped from his hand,

and a look, half of alarm, half of perplexity, took possession of his

face.

Then he fell on one knee, and respectfully bowed almost to the earth.

"Art thou, then, our good Queen Margaret?"

"I am she."

"And this youth, is he indeed our royal master's son?"

"Even so."

Once more the wild man bowed low. Then the queen bade him arise, told

him how she and the young prince had come into the plight, and ended by

asking if he could give them food and shelter for a short time.

"All I have is your majesty's," said the man, "even my life. I will at

once conduct you to my humble dwelling." And he lifted the weary boy

tenderly in his arms, and led the queen to his cottage in the wood,

where they got both food and shelter, and every care and attention from

the robber's good wife.

"Mother," said the young prince that night, "thou saidst right, that

Heaven would protect us."

"Ay, my boy, and will still protect us!"

For some days they rested at the cottage, tended with endless care by

the loyal robber and his wife, until the pursuit from the battle of

Hexham was over. Then, with the aid of her protector, the queen made

her way to the coast, where a vessel waited to convey her and the prince

to Flanders. Thus, for a time they escaped from all their dangers. Had

the young prince lived to become King of England, we may be sure that

the kind act of the robber would not have been suffered to die

unrewarded. But, alas! Edward of Lancaster was never King of England.

The Wars of the Roses, as we all know, resulted in the utter defeat of

the young prince's party. He was thirteen years old when the rival

Houses of York and Lancaster fought their twelfth battle in the meadow

at Tewkesbury. On that occasion Edward fought bravely in his own cause,

but he and his followers were completely routed by the troops of King

Edward the Fourth. Flying from the field of battle, he was arrested and

brought before the young king.

"How dared you come here?" wrathfully inquired the usurper.

"To recover my father's crown and my own inheritance," boldly replied

the prince.

Whereat, the history says, Edward struck at him with his iron gauntlet,

and his attendants fell upon him and slew him with their swords.

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.

EDWARD THE SIXTH, THE GOOD KING OF ENGLAND.

It was a strange moment in the history of England when the great King

Henry the Eighth. ("Bluff King Hal," as his subjects called him)

breathed his last. However popular he may have been on account of his

courage and energy, he possessed vices which must always withhold from

him the name of a _good_ king, and which, in fact, rendered his reign a

continuous scene of cruelty and oppression. People were sick of hearing

of the king and his wives--how he had beheaded one, and put away

another, and ill-treated another, for no reason at all but his own

selfish caprice. And men trembled for their lives when they remembered

how Wolsey, and More, and Cromwell, and others had been sacrificed to

the whimsical temper of this tyrannical sovereign. England, in fact,

was tired out when Henry the Eighth died.

It was, at any rate, a change for them to find that their new king was

in every respect the opposite of his father. Instead of the burly, hot-

headed, self-willed, cruel Henry, they were now to be ruled by a frail,

delicate, mild boy of nine, inheriting neither his father's vices nor

his faults, and resembling him as little in mind as in body. But the

chief difference of all was this--that this boy-king was _good_.

A _good_ King of England. It was indeed and, alas! a novelty. How

many, counting back to the day when the country first knew a ruler,

could be so described? Had not the sceptre of England passed, almost

without exception, down a line of usurpers, murderers, robbers, and

butchers, and was it not a fact that the few kings who had not been

knaves had been merely fools?

But now England had a good king and a clever king, what might not be

expected of him?

On the day of his coronation all sorts of rumours were afloat respecting

young Edward. Boy though he was, he was a scholar, and wrote letters in

Latin. Young in years, he was mature in thought, he was a staunch

Protestant, an earnest Christian. Tudor though he was, he loved peace,

and had no pleasure in the sufferings of others. Was ever such a king?

"Alas," said some one, "that he is but a boy!"

The sight which presented itself within the walls of that gloomy

fortress, the Tower of London, on the day of Edward the Sixth's

proclamation, was an impressive one. Amidst a crowd of bishops and

nobles, who bowed low as he advanced, the pale boy-king came forward to

receive the homage of his new subjects.

Surely, thought some, as they looked, that little head is not fitted to

the wearing of an irksome crown. But, for the most part, the crowd

cheered, and shouted, "God save the king!" and not one was there who

found it in his heart to wish young Edward Tudor ill.

The papist ceremony which had always before accompanied the coronation

of English kings was now for the first time dispensed with. With joy

the people heard good old Archbishop Cranmer urge the new king to see

God truly worshipped, according to the doctrines of the Reformed

religion; and with joy they heard the boy declare before them all his

intention to rule his country according to the rules of God's Word and

the Protestant faith.

Still, as we have said, many in the midst of their joy sighed as they

looked at the frail boy, and wondered how so young a head would bear up

amid all the perils and dangers of kingship; and well they might pity

him.

The reign of Edward the Sixth is chiefly a history of the acts of his

uncle, the Duke of Somerset, the Protector, and of the dissensions which

embittered the government of that nobleman, leading finally to his death

on the scaffold. Of Edward himself we do not hear much. We have

occasional glimpses of him at his studies, under tutors chosen and

superintended by Cranmer; but he does not seem to have taken much part--

how could a boy of his age be expected to do so?--in the active duty of

governing.

We know that such acts as the removal of popish restrictions from the

clergy and people, the publication of the Book of Common Prayer, and the

discouragement of all idolatrous and superstitious practices, had his

hearty sympathy. In these and in such-like useful measures he

interested himself, but as for the troubles and commotions of his reign,

he had nothing to do with them.

His nobles, on the other hand, were by no means so passive. They made

war in the king's name on Scotland, to capture a baby-wife for the poor

boy, who was scarcely in his teens; they--accused and impeached one

another; they brought their death warrants to Edward to sign, whether he

liked or no (and he never did like); they persecuted those who disagreed

with them; they goaded the common people into rebellion; they schemed

how they should make their own fortunes after the young invalid was

dead, and to that end worked upon his weakness and his timidity actually

to disinherit his own sisters.

In the midst of all this disturbance, and scheming, and distress, we can

picture the poor, confused, sickly boy seeking refuge in his books,

shrinking from the angry bustle of the court, and spending his days with

his grave tutors in quiet study. Reluctantly, once and again, he was

forced to come out from his retreat to give the sanction of his

authority to some act of his ambitious nobles. With what trembling hand

would he sign the death warrants they presented! with what weariness

would he listen to their wrangles and accusations! with what distress

would he hear discussions as to who was to wear that crown of his when

he himself should be in the grave!

That time was not long in coming. He was not fifteen when an attack of

smallpox laid him on his deathbed; and while all the court was busy

plotting and counterplotting as to the disposal of the crown, the poor

boy-king lay there almost neglected, or watched only by those who waited

the moment of his death with impatience. As the disease took deeper and

fatal hold of him, all forsook him save an incompetent quack nurse; and

how far she may have helped on the end no one can tell.

But for him death was only a happy release from a world of suffering. A

few hours before his end he was heard to speak something; and those who

listened discovered that the boy, thinking himself alone, was praying.

One has recorded those closing words of that strange, sad life: "Lord,

deliver me out of this wretched and miserable life, and take me among

Thy chosen: howbeit not my will, but Thine be done. Lord, I commit my

spirit to Thee. O Lord, Thou knowest how happy it were for me to be

with Thee; yet, for the sake of Thy chosen, send me life and health,

that I may truly serve Thee. O my Lord God, bless Thy people, and save

Thine inheritance. O Lord God, save Thy chosen people of England. O my

Lord God, defend this realm from papistry, and maintain Thy true

religion, that I and my people may praise Thy holy name, for Thy Son

Jesus Christ's sake."

And with these words on his lips, and these prayers for England in his

heart, the good young king died. Who knows if by his piety and his

prayers he may not have brought more blessing to his country than many a

battle and many a law of less Godfearing monarchs?

What he would have done for England had he been spared to manhood, it is

not possible to say. A diary which he kept during his life affords

abundant proof that even at his tender age he possessed not a little of

the sagacity and knowledge necessary to good kingship; and a manhood of

matured piety and wisdom might have materially altered the course of

events in the history of England of that time.

One boon at least he has left behind him, besides his unsullied name and

example. Scattered about the counties of England are not a few schools

which bear his name. It is possible that a good many of my readers are

to be found among the scholars of the Bluecoat School, and of the King

Edward Grammar Schools in various parts of the country. They, at least,

will understand the gratitude which this generation owes to the good

young king who so materially advanced the learning of which he himself

was so fond, by the establishment of these schools. He was one of the

few of his day who saw that the glory of a country consists not in its

armies and exchequers, but in the religious and moral enlightenment of

its people; and to that glory his own life was, and remains still, a

noble contribution.

CHAPTER THIRTY.

HENRY STUART, THE BOY WHOM A NATION LOVED.

In the courtyard of a Scottish castle, over which floated the royal

banner, a curious scene might have been witnessed one morning nearly

three centuries ago. The central figures of the scene were a horse and

a boy, and the attendant crowd of courtiers, grooms, lackeys; while from

an open window, before which every one in passing bowed low, an

ungainly-looking man watched what was going on with a strangely anxious

excitement. The horse was saddled and bridled, but, with an ominous

roll of his eyes, and a savage expansion of his nostrils, which bespoke

only too plainly his fierce temper, defied every attempt on the part of

the grooms to hold him steady. The boy, scarcely in his teens, was

evidently a lad of distinction, as might be inferred from his gallant

dress, and the deferential demeanour of those who now advanced, and

endeavoured to dissuade him from a rash and perilous adventure.

"Beware, my lord," said one, "how you peril your life in this freak!"

"The animal," said another, "has never yet been ridden. See how even

now he nearly pulls the arms of the grooms from their sockets."

"Lad," cried the ungainly man from the window, "dinna be a fool, I tell

ye! Let the beast be."

But the boy laughed gaily at them all.

"Such a fuss about an ordinary horse! Let him go, men, and leave him to

me."

And he advanced and boldly took the rein, which the grooms unwillingly

relinquished.

There was something about the resolute bearing of the boy which for a

moment seemed to impress the horse himself, for, pricking his ears and

rolling his bloodshot eyes upon him, he desisted from his struggles and

stood still.

The lad put out a hand and patted his neck, and in doing so secured a

firm clutch of the mane in his hand; the next instant his foot was in

the stirrup, and the next he had vaulted into the saddle, before the

horse had recovered from his astonishment.

Once in, no effort of the untamed beast could succeed in ousting him

from his seat. In vain it reared and plunged; in vain it pulled and

careered round the yard; he stuck to his seat as if he grew there, and

with cool eye and quiet smile seemed even to enjoy his position. After

many unavailing efforts the horse seemed to yield his vicious will to

the stronger will of his rider, and then the boy, lashing him into a

gallop, fairly put him through his paces before all the spectators, and

finally walked him quietly up to the window at which the ungainly man,

trembling, and with tears in his eyes, had all the while watched his

exploit. Here he halted, and beckoning to his attendants, dismounted

and gave back the horse to their charge, saying as he did so--

"How long shall I continue a child in your opinion?"

Such is one of the recorded characteristic anecdotes of Prince Henry

Stuart, eldest son of James the First of England.

Henry was only nine years old when a certain event entirely changed the

prospects and circumstances of his early home. Instead of being the

poor king of a poverty-stricken country, his father suddenly became

monarch of one of the richest and most powerful countries of Europe. In

other words, on the death of Queen Elizabeth James the Sixth of Scotland

found himself James the First of England.

He came to the throne amid the mingled joy and misgivings of his new

subjects. How soon he destroyed the one and confirmed the other,

history has recorded, and we are not going to dwell upon that here,

except to say that one of the few redeeming points about James the First

in the eyes of the people was that he had a son who promised to make up

by his virtues for all the vice and silliness of his father. They could

endure the whims of their ill-conditioned king all the better for

knowing that after him was to come a prince after their own heart, one

of English sympathies and English instincts; one who even as a boy had

won their hearts by his pluck, his frankness, and his wit, and who, as

he grew up, developed into a manhood as vigorous and noble as that of

his father was mean and imbecile.

Henry was, as we have said, emphatically an English boy--not in birth,

for his father was Scotch and his mother a Dane--but in every other

respect in which an English boy has a distinctive character. He was

brave and honest, and merry and generous; his delight was in athletic

exercise and manly sports; the anecdote we have quoted will testify to

his skill and pluck. We read of him living at one time at Richmond, and

swimming daily in the Thames; of his riding more than 100 miles in one

day; of his hunting, and tennis playing, and shooting. The people could

not fail to love one who so thoroughly entered into their sports, or to

admire him all the more for his proficiency in them.

But, unlike some boys, Henry did not cultivate physical exercises at the

expense of his mind. Many stories are related of his wit and his

learning. A joke at his expense was generally a dangerous adventure,

for he always got the best at an exchange of wit. Among his friends

were some of the greatest and best men of the day, notably Raleigh; and

in such society the lad could not fail to grow up imbued with principles

of wisdom and honour, which would go far to qualify him for the position

he expected to hold.

His ambition was to enter upon a military career, such as those in which

so many of his predecessors had distinguished themselves. In this he

received more encouragement from the people than from his own timid

father, who told him his brother Charles would make a better king than

he, unless Henry spent more time at his books and less at his pike and

his bow. The people, on the other hand, were constantly comparing their

young prince with the great Henry the Fifth, the hero of Agincourt, and

predicting of him as famous deeds as those recorded of his illustrious

namesake. However, as it happened, there was no war into which the

young soldier could enter at that time, so that he had to content

himself with martial exercises and contests at home, which, though not

so much to his own taste, made him no less popular with his father's

subjects.

In Henry Stuart the old school of chivalry had nearly its last

representative. The knightly Kings of England had given place, after

the Wars of the Roses, to sovereigns whose strength lay more in the

council chamber than on the field of battle; but now, after a long

interval, the old dying spirit flickered up once more in the person of

this boy. Once again, after many, many years, the court went to witness

a tournament, when in the tiltyard of Whitehall, before king and queen,

and lords and ladies, and ambassadors, the Prince of Wales at the head

of six young nobles defended the lists against all comers. There is

something melancholy about the record--the day for such scenes had gone

by, and its spirit had departed from the nation. The boy had his sport

and his honestly earned applause; but when it was all over the old

chivalry returned to the grave, never to appear again.

Henry himself only too soon, alas! sunk into that grave also. The

closing years of his life leave many a pleasing trace of kindness, and

justice, and earnestness. The boy was no mere boisterous schoolboy. He

pondered and prepared himself for what he thought was his path in life;

he foresaw its responsibilities, and he faced its duties, and set

himself like a man to bear his part as a true king should.

It was not to be. Suddenly his health failed him--the tall boy had

overgrown his strength before he knew it. Heedless of fatigue and

exposure, he pursued his vigorous exercises, and what had been his life

became his death. A cold taken during a game of tennis, when he was in

his eighteenth year, developed into a fever, and for days he lay between

life and death. The nation waited with strange anxiety for the issue,

and a cloud seemed to fall over the length and breadth of the land.

Then he became worse.

"My sword and armour!" he cried; "I must be gone!" and after that the

brave boy died.

The people mourned him as their own son; and years after, when England

was plunged deep in the miseries and horrors of civil war, many there

were who cried in their distress,--

"If but our Henry had lived, all this had not been!"

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.

THE TROUBLES OF A DAWDLER.

I was born a dawdler. As an infant, if report speaks truly, I dawdled

over my food, over my toilet, and over my slumbers. Nothing (so I am

told) could prevail on me to stick steadily to my bottle till it was

done; but I must needs break off a dozen times in the course of a single

meal to stare about me, to play with the strings of my nurse's cap, to

speculate on the sunbeams that came in at the window; and even when I

did bring myself to make the effort, I took such an unconscionable time

to consume a spoonful that the next meal was wellnigh due before I had

made an end of a first.

As to dressing me in the morning, it took a good two hours. Not that I

rebelled and went on strike over the business, but it was really too

much of an effort to commit first one foot and then the other for the

reception of my socks, and when that operation was accomplished a long

interval always elapsed before I could devote my energy to the steering

of my arms into sleeves, and the disposal of my waist to the adjustment

of a sash. Indeed, I believe I am doing myself more than justice when I

put forward two hours as the time spent in personal decoration during

those tender years.

But of all my infant duties the one I dawdled over most was going to

sleep. The act of laying me in my little cot seemed to be the signal

for waking me to a most unwonted energy. Instead of burying my nose in

the pillows, as most babies do, I must needs struggle into a sitting

posture, and make night vocal with crows and calls. I must needs chew

the head of my indiarubber doll, or perform a solo on my rattle--

anything, in fact, but go to sleep like a respectable, well-conducted

child.

If my mother came and rocked my cradle, I got alarmingly lively and

entered into the sport with spirit. If she, with weary eyes and

faltering voice, attempted to sing me to sleep, I lent my shrill treble

to aid my own lullaby; or else I lay quiet with my eyes wide open, and

defied every effort to coax them into shutting.

Not that I was wilfully perverse or bad--I am proud to say no one can

lay that to my charge; but I was a dawdler, one who from my earliest

years could not find it in me to settle down promptly to anything--nay,

who, knowing a certain thing was to be done, therefore deferred the

doing of it as long as possible.

Need I say that as I grew older and bequeathed my long clothes and cot

to another baby, I dawdled still?

My twin brother's brick house was roofed in before my foundations were

laid. Not that I could not build as quickly and as well as he, if I

chose. I could, but I never chose. While he, with serious face and

rapt attention, piled layer upon layer, and pinnacle upon pinnacle,

absorbed in his architectural ambition, I sat by watching him, or

wondering who drew the beautiful picture on the lid of my box, or

speculating on the quantity of bricks I should use in my building, but

always neglecting to set myself to work till Jim's shout of triumph

declared his task accomplished. Then I took a fit of industry till my

tower was half built, and by that time the bricks had to be put away.

When we walked abroad with nurse I was sure to lag behind to look at

other children, or gaze into shops. Many a time I narrowly escaped

being lost as the result. Indeed, one of my earliest recollections is

of being conducted home in state by a policeman, who had found me

aimlessly strolling about a churchyard, round which I had been

accompanying the nurse and the perambulator, until I missed them both, a

short time before.

My parents, who had hitherto been inclined to regard my besetting sin

(for even youngsters of four may have besetting sins) as only a childish

peculiarity, at last began to take note of my dawdling propensities, and

did their best to cure me of them. My father would watch me at my play,

and, when he saw me flagging, encourage me to persevere in whatever I

was about, striving to rouse my emulation by pitting me against my

playmates. For a time this had a good effect; but my father had

something better to do than always preside at our nursery sports, and I

soon relapsed into my old habits.

My mother would talk and tell stories to us; and always, whenever my

attention began to fail, would recall me to order by questions or direct

appeals. This, too, as long as it was fresh, acted well; but I soon got

used to it, and was as bad as ever. Indeed, I was a confirmed dawdler

almost before I was able to think or act for myself.

When I was eight, it was decided to send me and Jim to school--a day

school, near home, presided over by a good lady, and attended by some

dozen other boys. Well, the novelty of the thing pleased me at first,

and I took an interest in my spelling and arithmetic, so that very soon

I was at the top of my class. Of course my father and mother were

delighted. My father patted me on the head, and said, "I knew he could

be diligent, if he chose."

And my mother kissed me, and called me her brave boy; so altogether I

felt very virtuous, and rather pitied Jim, who was six from the top,

though he spent longer over his sums than I did.

But, alas! after the first fortnight, the novelty of Mrs Sparrow's

school wore off. Instead of pegging along briskly to be in time, I

pulled up once or twice on the road to investigate the wonders of a

confectioner's window, or watch the men harness the horses for the

omnibus, till suddenly I would discover I had only five minutes to get

to school in time, and so had to run for my life the rest of the way,

only overtaking Jim on the very doorstep. Gradually my dawdling became

more prolonged, until one day I found myself actually late. Mrs

Sparrow frowned, Jim looked frightened, my own heart beat for terror,

and I heard the awful sentence pronounced, "You must go to the bottom of

the class."

I made up my mind this should be the last occasion on which such a

penalty should be mine. But, alas! the very next day the confectioner

had a wonderful negro figure in his window made all of sweets, his face

of liquorice and his shirt of sugar, his lips of candy and his eyes of

brandy-balls. I was spellbound, and could not tear myself away. And

when I did, to add to my misfortunes, there was a crowd outside the

omnibus stables to watch the harnessing of a new and very frisky horse.

Of course I had to witness this spectacle, and the consequence was I got

to school half an hour late, and was again reprimanded and stood in the

corner.

This went on from bad to worse. Not only did I become unpunctual, but I

neglected my lessons till the last moment, and then it was too late to

get them off, though I could learn as much in a short time as any of the

boys. All this grieved poor Mrs Sparrow, who talked to my parents

about it, who talked very seriously to me. My father looked unhappy, my

mother cried; Mrs Sparrow (who was present at the interview) was

silent, and I wept loudly and promised to reform--honestly resolving I

would do so.

Well, for a week I was a model of punctuality and industry; but then the

confectioner changed his sugar negro for an elephant made all of toffee,

and I was once more beguiled. Once more from top of my class I sank to

the bottom; and though after that I took fits and starts of regularity

and study, I never was able for long together to recover my place, and

Mrs Sparrow fairly gave me up as a bad job.

What was to be done? I was growing up. In time my twelfth birthday

arrived, and it was _time_ I went to boarding school.

I could see with what anxiety my parents looked forward to the time, and

I inwardly reproached myself for being the cause of their trouble.

"Perhaps," thought I, "I shall get all right at Welford," and having

consoled myself with that possibility I thought no more about it. My

father talked very earnestly to me before I left home for the first time

in my life. He had no fears, he said, for my honesty or my good

principles; but he had fears for my perseverance and diligence. "Either

you must conquer your habit of dawdling," he said, "or it will conquer

you." I was ready to promise any sacrifice to be cured of this enemy;

but he said, "No, lad, don't promise, but remember and do!" And then he

corded up my trunk and carried it downstairs. I cannot to this day

recall my farewell with my mother without tears. It is enough to say

that I quitted the parental home determined as I never was before to do

my duty and fight against my besetting sin, and occupied that doleful

day's journey with picturing to myself the happiness which my altered

habits would bring to the dear parents whom I was leaving behind.

I pass over my first week at Welford. It was a new and wonderful world

to me; very desolate at first, but by degrees more attractive, till at

last I went the way of all schoolboys, and found myself settled down to

my new life as if I had never known another.

All this time I had faithfully kept my resolution. I was as punctual as

clockwork, and as diligent as an ant. Nothing would tempt me to abate

my attention in the preparation of my lessons; no seductions of cricket

or fishing would keep me late for "call over." I had already gained the

approval of my masters, I had made my mark in my class, and I had

written glowing letters home, telling of my kept resolutions, and

wondering why they should ever before have seemed difficult to adhere

to.

But as I got better acquainted with some of my new schoolfellows it

became less easy to stick steadily to work. I happened to find myself

in hall one evening, where we were preparing our tasks for next day,

seated next to a lively young scapegrace, whose tongue rattled

incessantly, and who, not content to be idle himself, must needs make

every one idle too.

"What a muff you are, Charlie," he said to me once, as I was poring over

my _Caesar_ and struggling desperately to make out the meaning of a

phrase--"what a muff you are, to be grinding away like that! Why don't

you use a crib?"

"What's a crib?" I inquired.

"What, don't you know what a crib is? It's a translation. I've got

one. I'll lend it to you, and you will be able to do your _Caesar_ with

it like winking."

I didn't like the notion at first, and went on hunting up the words in

the dictionary till my head ached. But next evening he pulled the

"crib" out of his pocket and showed it to me. I could not resist the

temptation of looking at it, and no sooner had I done so than I found it

gave at a glance the translation it used to take me an hour to get at

with the dictionary. So I began to use the "crib" regularly; and thus,

getting my lessons quickly done, I gradually began to relapse into my

habits of dawdling.

Instead of preparing my lessons steadily, I now began to put off

preparation till the last moment, and then galloped them off as best I

could. Instead of writing my exercises carefully, I drew skeletons on

the blotting-paper; instead of learning off my tenses, I read _Robinson

Crusoe_ under the desk, and trusted to my next-door neighbour to prompt

me when my turn came.

For a time my broken resolutions did not effect any apparent change in

my position in the classes or in the eyes of my masters. I was what

Evans (the boy who lent me the "crib") called lucky. I was called on to

translate just the passages I happened to have got off, or was

catechised on the declensions of my pet verb, and so kept up

appearances.

But that sort of thing could not go on for ever, and one day my exposure

took place.

I had dawdled away my time the evening previously with one thing and

another, always intending to set to work, but never doing so. My books

had lain open before me untouched, except when I took a fancy to

inscribing my name some scores of times on the title-page of each; my

dictionary remained shot and unheeded, except when I rounded the corners

of the binding with my penknife. I had played draughts clandestinely

with Evans part of the time, and part of the time I had lolled with my

elbows on the desk, staring at the head of the fellow in front of me.

Bedtime came, and I had not looked at my work.

"I'll wake early and cram it up," thought I, as I turned in.

I did wake up, but though the book was under my pillow I let the half-

hour before getting up slip away unused. At breakfast I made an effort

to glance at the lesson, but the boy opposite was performing such

wonderful tricks of balancing with his teaspoon and saucer and three

bread-crusts, that I could not devote attention to anything else. The

bell for classes rang ominously. I rushed to my place with _Caesar_ in

one hand and the "crib" in the other. I got flurried; I could not find

the place, or, when I found the place in the _Caesar_, I lost it in the

"crib."

The master, to add to my misery, was cross, and began proceedings by

ordering Evans to learn twenty lines for laughing in school-time. I

glanced at the fellows round me. Some were taking a last peep at their

books. Others, with bright and confident faces, waited quietly for the

lesson to begin. No one that I could see was as badly off as I. Every

one knew something. I knew nothing. Just at the last moment I found

the place in the "crib" and in the _Caesar_ at the same time, but

scarcely had I done so when the awful voice of the master spoke:

"Stand up!" All dictionaries and notes had now to be put away; all

except the Latin books.

I had contrived _to get_ off the first two lines, and only hoped the

master might pitch on me to begin. And he did pitch on me.

"Charles Smith," I heard him say, and my heart jumped to my mouth,

"stand forward and begin at `_jamque Caesar_.'"

"Please, sir, we begin at `_His et aliis_,'" I faltered.

"You begin where I tell you, sir," sternly replied he.

A dead silence fell over the class, waiting for me to begin. I was in

despair. Oh, if only I had not dawdled! I would give all my pocket-

money for this term to know a line of that horrid _Caesar_.

"Come, sir, be quick," said the master.

Then I fetched a sigh very like a sob, and began--

"_Que_, and--" I heard the master's foot scrape ominously on the floor.

"_Que_, and--" I repeated.

"_And_ what, sir?" thundered the master, rising in his seat and leaning

across his desk towards me. It was awful. I was never more miserable

in my life.

"_Caesar_, Caesar," I stammered. Here at least was a word I could

translate, so I repeated it--"_Que_, and--_Caesar_, Caesar."

A dead silence, scarcely broken by a titter from the back desks.

"_Jam_," I chokingly articulated, and there stuck.

"Well, sir, and what does _jam_ mean?" inquired the voice, in a tone of

suppressed wrath.

"_Jam_"--again I stuck.

Another dead silence.

"_Que_, and--_Caesar_, Caesar; _jam_"--It was no use; the only jam I

knew of I was certain would not do in this case, so I began again in

despair; "_Que_, and--_Caesar_, Caesar; _jam_--_jam_--_jam_."

The master shut his book, and I knew the storm had burst.

"Smith, have you prepared this lesson?"

"No, sir," I replied, relieved to be able to answer any questions,

however awful.

"Why not, sir?"

Ah! that I could not answer--not to myself, still less to him. So I was

silent.

"Come to me after school," he said. "The next boy come forward."

After school I went to him, and he escorted me to the doctor. No

criminal at the Old Bailey trembled as I did at that interview. I can't

remember what was said to me. I know I wildly confessed my sins--my

"cribbing," my wasting of time--and promised to abjure them one and all.

The doctor was solemn and grave, and said a great deal to me that I was

too overawed to understand or remember; after which I was sent back to

my class--a punished, disgraced, and marked boy.

Need I describe my penitence: what a humble letter I wrote home, making

a clean breast of all my delinquencies, and even exaggerating them in my

contrition? With what grim ceremony I burned my "crib" in my study

fire, and resolved (a resolution, by the way, which I succeeded in

keeping) that, come what might, I would do my lessons honestly, if I did

them at all!

I gave Evans to understand his company at lesson times was not

desirable, and was in a rage with him when he laughed. I took to rising

early, to filling every spare moment with some occupation, and

altogether started afresh, like a reformed character, as I felt myself

to be, and determined _this_ time, at any rate, my progress should know

no backsliding. How soon I again fell a victim to dawdling the sequel

will show.

I had a long and painful struggle to recover my lost ground at Welford.

When a boy has once lost his name at school, when his masters have put

him on the black book, when his schoolfellows have got to consider him

as a "fellow in a row," when he himself has learnt to doubt his own

honesty and steadiness--then, I say, it is uphill work for him to get

back to the position from which he has fallen. He gets little sympathy,

and still less encouragement. In addition to the natural difficulty of

conquering bad habits, he has to contend against prejudices and

obstacles raised by his own former conduct; no one gives him credit for

his efforts, and no one recognises his reform till all of a sudden,

perhaps long after its completion, it makes itself manifest.

And my reform, alas! consequently never arrived at completion at

Welford.

For a few weeks all went well enough. My lessons were carefully

prepared; my exercises were well written, and my master had no more

attentive pupil than I. But, alas! I too soon again grew confident and

self-satisfied. Little by little I relaxed; little by little I dawdled,

till presently, almost without knowing it, I again began to slip down

the hill. And this was in other matters besides my studies.

Instead of keeping up my practice at cricket and field sports, I took to

hulking about the playground with my hands in my pockets. If I started

on an expedition to find moths or hunt squirrels, I never got half a

mile beyond the school boundaries, and never, of course, caught the

ghost of anything. If I entered for a race in our school sports, I let

the time go without training, and so was beaten easily by fellows whom I

had always thought my inferiors. The books I read for my amusement out

of school hours were all abandoned after a chapter or two; my very

letters home became irregular and stupid, and often were altogether

shelved.

And all this time (such is the blindness of some people) I was imagining

I had quite retrieved my lost reputation! I shall never forget,

however, how at last I discovered that my time at Welford had been

wasted, and that, so far from having got the better of my enemy, I had

become a more confirmed dawdler than ever.

I had come to my last half-year at school, being now seventeen. My

great desire was to go to Cambridge, which my father had promised I

should do if I succeeded in obtaining a scholarship, which would in part

defray the cost of my residence there. On this scholarship, therefore,

my heart was bent (as much as a dawdler's heart can be bent on anything)

and I made up my mind to secure it.

The three fellows who were also going in for it were all my juniors, and

considerably below me in the doctor's class; so I had little anxiety as

to the result.

Need I say that this very confidence was fatal to me? While they were

working night and day, early and late, I was amusing myself with boxing-

gloves and fishing-rods. While they, with wet towels round their heads,

burnt the midnight oil, I sprawled over a novel in my study. Of course,

now and then I took a turn at my books, and each inspection tended to

satisfy me with myself better than ever. "Those duffers will never be

able to get up all that Greek in the time," I said to myself, "and not

one of them knows an atom of mechanics."

Well, the time drew near. My father had written rejoicing to hear of my

good prospects, and saying how he and mother were constantly thinking of

me in my hard work, and so on.

"Yes," thought I, "they'll be pleased, I know." About a week before the

examination I looked at my books rather more frequently, and, now and

then (though I would not acknowledge it even to myself), felt my

confidence a trifle wavering. There were a few things I had not noticed

before, that must be got up with the rest of the subjects, "However, a

day's work will polish them off," said I; "let's see, I've promised to

fish with Wilkins to-morrow--I'll have a go in at them on Thursday."

But Thursday found me fishing too, and on Friday there was a cricket-

match. However, the examination was not till Tuesday, so there was half

a week yet.

Saturday, of course, was a half-holiday, and though I took another look

at some of my books, and noted one or two other little things that would

have to be got up, I determined that the grand "go in" at, and

"polishing off" of, these subjects should take place on Monday.

On Monday accordingly I set to work.

Glancing from my window--as I frequently did while I was at work--whom

should I see, with a fly-net over his shoulder, but Wilton, one of the

three fellows in against me for the scholarship! And not long after him

who should appear arm-in-arm in cricket costume, but Johnson and Walker,

the other two!

"Ho! ho!" said I to myself, "nice boys these to be going in for an

exam.! How can they expect to do anything if they dawdle away their

time in this way! I declare I quite feel as if I were taking an unfair

advantage of them to be grinding away up here!"

Had I realised that these three fellows had been working incessantly for

the last month, and were now taking a breath of fresh air in

anticipation of the ordeal of the following day, I should have been less

astonished at what I saw, and more inclined to work, at any rate this

day, like mad.

But I allowed my benevolent desire not to take an unfair advantage to

prevail, and was soon far up the stream with my fishing-rod.

So Monday passed. In the evening I had another turn at my books, but an

unsatisfactory one.

"What's the use of muddling my brain? I had better take it easy, and be

fresh for to-morrow," thought I, as I shut them up and pushed my chair

back from the table.

Next morning brought me a letter from my father:

"This will reach you on the eventful day. You know who will be thinking

of their boy every moment. We are happy to know your success is so

sure; but don't be _too_ confident till it's all well over. Then we

shall be ready to rejoice with you. I have already heard of rooms at

Cambridge for you; so you see mother and I are counting our chickens

before they are hatched! But I have no fears, after what you have told

me."

This letter made me unhappy; the sight of my books made me unhappy; the

sight of Wilton, Johnson, and Walker, fresh and composed, made me

unhappy; the sight of the doctor wishing me good morning made me

unhappy. I was, in fact, thoroughly uncomfortable. The list of those

one or two little matters that I had intended to polish off grew every

time I thought of them, till they wellnigh seemed to eclipse the other

subjects about which I felt sure. What an ass I had been!

"The candidates for the Calton Scholarship are to go to the doctor's

class-room!"

To the doctor's class-room we four accordingly proceeded.

On the way, not to appear nervous, I casually inquired of Wilton if he

had caught any specimens yesterday.

"Yes," he said gaily. "I got one splendid fellow, a green-winged moth.

I'll show him to you in my study after the exam, is over."

Here was a fellow who could calmly contemplate the end of this day's

ordeal. I dared not do as much as that!

The doctor affably welcomed us to his room, and bade us be seated.

Several quires of blank paper, one or two pens, a ruler, and ink, were

provided at each of our four desks.

Then a printed paper of questions was handed to each, and the

examination began.

I glanced hurriedly down my paper. Question 1 was on one of those

subjects which had escaped my observation. Question 2 was a piece of

translation I did not recognise as occurring in the Greek book I had got

up, and yet I thought I had been thoroughly through it. Question 3--

well, no one would be able to answer that. Question 4--oh, horrors!

another of those little points I had meant to polish off. Thus I

glanced from top to bottom of the paper. Here and there I fancied I

might be able to give some sort of answer, but as for the rest, I was in

despair. I dashed my pen into the ink, and wrote my name at the head of

a sheet of paper, and ruled a line underneath it. Then I dug my fingers

in my hair, and waited for an inspiration. It was a long time coming.

In the meantime I glanced round at the other three. They were all

writing hard, and Wilton already had one sheet filled. Somehow the

sight of Wilton reminded me of the moth he had spoken of. I wondered if

it was a finer specimen than I had got at home--mine had blue wings and

a horn. Funny insects moths were! I wondered if the doctor used to

collect them when he was a boy. The doctor must be nearly sixty now.

Jolly to be a doctor, and have nothing to do but examine fellows! I

wondered if Walker's father had written him a letter, and what sort of

nib he (Walker) must be writing with, with such a peculiar squeak--

rather like a frog's squeak. I wouldn't mind being a frog for some

things; must be jolly to be equally at home on dry ground or in water!

Fancy eating frogs! Our French master was getting more short-tempered

than ever.

And so I rambled on, while the paper in front of me remained empty.

The inspirations never came. The hours whizzed past, and my penholder

was nibbled half away. In vain I searched the ceilings, and my thumb-

nails; they gave me no help. In vain I read over the examination paper

a score of times. It was all question and no answer there. In vain I

stared at the doctor as he sat quietly writing; he had no ideas for me.

In vain I tried to count, from where I sat, how many sheets Johnson had

filled; that did not help to fill mine. Then I read my questions over

again, very closely, and was in the act of wondering who first decided

that p's should turn one way in print and q's another, when the doctor

said, "Half an hour more!"

I was electrified. I madly began answering questions at random.

Anything to get my paper filled. But, fast as I wrote, I could not keep

pace with Wilton, whose pen flew along the paper; and he, I knew, was

writing what would get him marks while I was writing rubbish. Presently

my attention was diverted by watching Walker gather up and pin together

his papers. I looked at my watch. Five minutes more. At the same time

the doctor took out his. I could not help wondering if it was a Geneva

or an English watch, and whether it had belonged to his father before

him, as mine had. Ah! my father, my poor father and mother!

"Cease work, please, and hand in your papers."

I declined Wilton's invitation to come and see his moth, and slunk to my

room miserable and disgusted.

Even now I do not like to recall the interval which elapsed between the

examination and the declaration of the result. To Johnson, Wilton and

Walker it was an interval of feverish suspense; to me it was one of

stolid despair. I was ashamed to show my face among my schoolfellows;

ashamed to write home; ashamed to look at a book. The nearer the day

came the more wretched I grew; I positively became ill with misery, and

begged to be allowed to go home without waiting for the result.

I had a long interview with the doctor before I quitted Welford; but no

good advice of his, no exhortations, could alter my despair.

"My boyhood has been a failure," I said to him, "and I know my manhood

will be one too."

He only looked very sorrowful, and wrung my hand.

The meeting with my parents was worst of all; but over that I draw a

veil.

For months nothing could rouse me from my unhappiness, and in indulging

it I dawdled more than ever. My prospects of a college life were

blighted, and I had not the energy to face business. But, as was always

the case, I could not for long together stick to anything; and in due

time I emerged from my wretchedness, an idle, dawdling youth, with no

object in life, no talents to recommend me, nothing to do.

It was deplorable, and my father was nearly heart-broken. Heroically he

strove to rouse me to activity, to interest me in some pursuit. He did

for me what I should have done for myself--sought occupation for me, and

spent days and days in his efforts to get me settled in life. At last

he succeeded in procuring a nomination to a somewhat lucrative

government clerkship; and, for the first time since I left Welford, my

father and mother and I were happy together. Despite all my demerits, I

was now within reach of a position which many a youth of greater ability

and steadier character might well have envied; and I believe I was

really thankful at my good fortune.

"I will go with you to-morrow," said my father, "when you have to appear

before the head of the department."

"All right," said I; "what time is it?"

"Half-past eleven."

"Well, I must meet you at the place, then, for I promised to see Evans

early in the morning."

"Better go to him to-day," said my mother; "it would be a thousand

pities to be late to-morrow."

"Oh, no fear of that," said I, laughing; "I've too good an eye to my own

interests."

Next morning I went to see Evans, and left him in good time to meet my

father at the stated hour. But an evil spirit of dawdling seized me as

I went. I stopped to gaze into shops, to chat with a passing

acquaintance, and to have my boots blacked. Forgetting the passage of

time altogether, I strolled leisurely along, stopping at the slightest

temptation, and prolonging my halts as if reluctant to advance, when

suddenly I heard the deep bell of Westminster clock chime a quarter. "A

quarter past eleven," thought I; "I must look sharp." And I did look

sharp, and reached the place of appointment out of breath. My father

was at the door. His face was clouded, and his hand trembled as he laid

it on my shoulder, and said, "Charlie, will _nothing_ save you from

ruin?"

"Ruin!" said I, in amazement; "what do you mean? What makes you so

late?"

"Late! it's not half-past yet; didn't you tell me half-past eleven was

the time?"

"I did; and it is now just half-past twelve! The post you were to have

had was filled half an hour ago by one of the other applicants."

I staggered back in astonishment and horror. Then _it_ flashed on me

that I had dawdled away an hour without knowing it, and with it the

finest opening I ever had in my life.

I must pass over the next two years, and come to the conclusion of my

story. During those two years I entered upon and left no less than

three employments--each less advantageous than the former. The end of

that time found me a clerk in a bank in a country town. In this

capacity my besetting sin was still haunting me. I had several times

been called into the manager's room, and reprimanded for unpunctuality,

or cautioned for wasting my time. The few friends who on my first

coming to the town had taken an interest in me had dropped away,

disgusted at my unreliable conduct, or because I myself had neglected

their acquaintance. My employers had ceased to entrust me with any

commissions requiring promptitude or care; and I was nothing more than

an office drudge--and a very unprofitable drudge too. Such was my

condition when, one morning, a telegram reached me from my mother to

say--"Father is very ill. Come at once."

I was shocked at this bad news, and determined to start for London by

the next train.

I obtained leave of absence, and hastened to my lodgings to pack up my

few necessaries for the journey. By the time I arrived there, the shock

of the telegram had in some way abated, and I was able to contemplate my

journey more calmly. I consulted a time-table, and found that there was

one train which, by hurrying, I could just catch in a quarter of an

hour, and that the next went in the afternoon.

By the time I had made up my mind which to take, and inquired where a

lad could be found who would carry down my portmanteau to the station,

it was too late to catch the first train, and I therefore had three

hours to spare before I could leave. This delay, in my anxious

condition, worried me, and I was at a loss how to occupy the interval.

If I had been wise, I should never have quitted that station till I did

so in the train. But, alas! I decided to take a stroll instead. It

was a sad walk, for my father's image was constantly before my eyes, and

I could hardly bear to think of his being ill. I thought of all his

goodness and forbearance to me, and wondered what would become of us if

he were not to recover. I wandered on, broken-hearted, and repenting

deeply of all my ingratitude, and the ill return I had made him for his

love to me, and I looked forward eagerly to being able to throw myself

in his arms once more, and beg his forgiveness.

Thus I mused far into the morning, when it occurred to me to look at my

watch. Was it possible? It wanted not half an hour of the time for the

train, and I was more than two miles from the place. I started to walk

rapidly, and soon came in sight of the town. What fatal madness

impelled me at that moment to stand and look at a ploughing match that

was taking place in a field by the roadside? For a minute or two my

anxiety, my father, the train, all were forgotten in the excitement of

that contest. Then I recovered myself and dashed on like the wind.

Once more (as I thought but for an instant) I paused to examine a gipsy

encampment on the border of the wood, and then, reminded by a distant

whistle, hurried forward. Alas! as I dashed into the station the train

was slowly turning the corner and I sunk down in an agony of despair and

humiliation.

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

When I reached home at midnight, my mother met me at the door.

"Well, you are come at last," she said quietly.

"Yes, mother; but father, how is he?"

"Come and see him."

I sprang up the stairs beside her. She opened the door softly, and bade

me enter.

My father lay there dead.

"He waited for you all day," said my mother, "and died not an hour ago.

His last words were, `Charlie is late.' Oh, Charlie, why did you not

come sooner?"

Then she knelt with me beside my dead father. And, in that dark lonely

chamber, that night, the turning-point of my life was reached.

Boys, I am an old man now; but, believe me, since that awful moment I

have never, to my knowledge, dawdled again!

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO.

A NIGHT ON SCAFELL PIKE.

Off at last! Hard work to get off, though; as if a fellow of fifteen

wasn't old enough to take care of himself. Mother cut up as much as if

I'd asked leave to go to my own funeral--said I was too young, and knew

nothing of the world, and all that sort of thing. But I don't see what

knowing the world has to do with a week's tramp in the Lakes; not much

of the world there--anyhow, where I mean to go.

I've got it all up in the guide-book, and written out my programme, and

given them my address for every day, and promised to keep a diary, and

always sleep between blankets, for fear the sheets shouldn't be aired--

and what more can a fellow do?

Well, then mother said I must promise to keep in the valleys, and not

attempt to climb any of the mountains. Oh, ah! lively work that would

be. I might just as well stay at home and walk round Russell Square

fifty times a day; and I said so, and repeated off from memory what the

guide-book says about the way up Helvellyn. This last fetched them

rather, and convinced them I wasn't undertaking what I didn't know all

about. So at last father said, "Let the boy go, it may do him good and

teach him self-reliance."

"But what'll be the good of that," sobs mother, "if my Bartholomew falls

over a precipice and never comes home?"

"Oh, I'll promise not to fall over a precipice," said I.

And at last it was settled, and here I am in the train, half-way to

Windermere.

Just been looking through my knapsack. Frightful nuisance! Had it

weighed at Euston, and it weighs 4 pounds 8 ounces. I wanted to keep it

under 4 pounds! Must be the spare shirt the girls insisted on my

bringing, as if I couldn't wash the one I've got on in half a dozen

waterfalls a day, and just run myself dry afterwards! Don't see what I

can throw out. Must take the guide-book, and boot-laces, and needle and

worsted for my blisters, and a collar for Sunday, and a match-box, and

this diary book and a night-shirt. Bother that extra eight ounces.

I'm certain it will drag me down. By the way there are the sandwiches

and apples! Suppose I eat them now, that'll make it all right. Good

thought that. Here goes!

Getting near Windermere now--be there in an hour. May as well put on my

knapsack, so as to be ready. By the way, I hope my money's all right,

and I hope father's given me enough. He paid for my return ticket down

here, and he's given me 6 shillings a day for the rest of the time.

Says he did the Lakes once on 5 shillings a day when he was a boy.

Somehow don't fancy there'll be much change for me out of the 6

shillings, if the guide-book says right; but you won't catch me spending

more! Shan't ride anywhere where I can walk, and don't mean to tip any

waiters all the time! Shall have to shut up now and look at the scenery

at page 52 of the guide-book.

8 p.m., Ambleside.--The "Green Unicorn." Here at last, very fagged. I

mean to have a row with the shoemaker when I get home about the hobs on

my boots. Two of them are clean out, and all the rest are beginning to

get worn already. Anyhow, I sold the coach people by walking. They

thought I was bound to drive, but I didn't. Wouldn't have minded it,

though, once or twice between Windermere and here, for of course I'm not

in training yet.

Hope this inn isn't a dear one. It's the smallest I could find in the

place, and I don't think they're likely to charge for attendance; if

they do, it'll be a swindle, for I ordered eggs and bacon an hour ago,

and they've not come yet. I wonder what they'll charge for the eggs and

bacon. Suppose there are two eggs, that'll be 2 pence; and a slice of

bacon, 2 pence; bread, 1 penny; tea, 1 penny; that's 7 pence; oughtn't

to be more than 10 pence at the outside.

Ah, here it comes.

Good supper it was, too, and not much left at the end.

Mean to do Scafell to-morrow. Highest mountain in England, guide-book

says. Two fellows in the inn are going, too; but I don't intend to hang

on to them, as they seem to think no end of themselves. They're

Cambridge fellows, and talk as if they could do anything. I'd like to

take the shine out of them.

Tuesday, 8 a.m.--Just fancy, the swindlers here charged me 2 shillings

for that tea, 2 shillings 6 pence for my bed, and 1 shilling for

attendance--5 shillings 6 pence! I call it robbery, and told them so,

and said they needn't suppose they could take _me_ in. They said it was

the usual charge, and they didn't make any difference for small boys, as

they found they ate quite as much as grown-up people. The two Cambridge

fellows seemed to find something to laugh at in this, and one of them

said I didn't mind being taken in, but I didn't like being taken in and

done for. I suppose he thought this was a joke. Some idiots can grin

at anything.

I told the hotel people I should certainly not pay for attendance, as I

didn't consider I had had any. The waiter said very well, my boots

would do as well, and they would keep them till I settled the bill, and

they had no time to stand fooling about with a whipper-snapper. Of

course I had to shell out, as my boots were worth more than the whole

bill--although my bootmaker has taken me in pretty well over the

hobnails. I told them I should take good care to tell every one what

sort of people they were, and I wouldn't have any breakfast there to pay

them out.

Fancy this made them look rather blue, but the lesson will be good for

them. Catch me getting done like that again! I'm going to start now, 8

a.m., as I want to get ahead of the Cambridge idiots. Page 54 of the

guide-book has all about the scenery at Ambleside.

12 o'clock, Dungeon Ghyl.--Stopping here for lunch. Awful grind up the

valley in the sun with an empty stomach. Going in for a 9 pence lunch

here. The fellow says the weather is going to break this afternoon, and

I'd better mind what I'm up to, going up Scafell Pike. He wants me to

take a guide, that's his little dodge. As if I couldn't take care of

myself! I've got it all up in the guide-book, and guess I could find

the top blindfold. I'll laugh if I get up before the Cambridge fellows.

They'll probably funk it, though, or miss the way, and have to get me

to give them a leg up. It'll be a good lesson for them.

Don't think much of the inn here, so I'm glad I shan't be putting up

here for the night. The waiter looks as if he expects to be tipped for

everything. He seemed regularly cut up when I told him I was going on

to Wastdale Head from the top, and shouldn't be staying here. Of course

he tried to get me to come back, and said I could never get over to

Wastdale this night. All stuff, I know, for it's no distance on the

map. "Oh," he said, "don't you believe in the maps; they're no guide.

Take my advice, and don't try to go to Wastdale, my boy." I was a good

mind to be down on him for being so familiar, but what was the use? As

if he knew better than the guide-books! Ah! here comes my lunch.

4 p.m., top of Rosset Ghyl.--Had to pay 1 shilling for that 9 pence

lunch after all, as they charged 3 pence for attendance in the bill.

Didn't care to have a row, as the Cambridge fellows turned up just that

minute. Beastly the way they always grin when they see me. As if they

couldn't grin at one another. I cleared out as soon as they came, and

started up here.

There was a mile or so of pretty level path to the bottom of this

ravine, and then it was a tremendous climb up to the top. You have to

scramble nearly straight up among the rocks on each side of the

waterfall, and if one of my hobnails went off, I'm certain half a dozen

did. I'll tell my father not to pay that cobbler at all. I can't make

out how the sheep manage to go up and down this place as they do. I

know I'm glad I'm not coming back this way. I thought I was over once

or twice as it was, owing to those wretched boots.

The Cambridge duffers caught me about half-way up, trying to look as if

they weren't fagged. I knew better--never saw fellows so blown. They

appeared to be greatly amused because I happened to slip backwards down

a grass slope just as they passed, as if there was anything funny in

that. One of them called out, "It's the other way up, youngster," and

the other said, "We'll tell them you're on the way at the top." I was a

good mind to shut them up, but I got some earth in my mouth at the

moment, and as they didn't wait, it wasn't any use going after them.

However, I expect I shall find them regularly done up when I get a

little higher, and then perhaps they'll be sorry they cheeked me. All

about the view from Rosset Ghyl in page 72 of the guide-book. Awful

sell; it's coming on to rain, and quite misty, too. I'd better go on,

or I shan't get the view from the top.

6 o'clock.--Don't exactly know where I am. Regular Scotch mist come

down over the hills, and I can't see twenty yards. Only sitting down

now because I'm not quite sure whether I'm right or wrong. Been looking

it up in the guide-book, but there's not much to guide you there when

you can't see your way. The only thing is, it says there are little

cairns marking the way up to the top, every fifty yards or so. It would

be rather a tip to find one of them.

The wind is making a noise, exactly like the sea, against the side of

the mountain. I saw the side a little while ago, like a great black

cliff, but it's too misty to see it now. Hope it'll clear up soon, or I

may be late getting down to Wastdale. By the way, I wonder if they call

this heap of stones I'm sitting on one of the cairns? Good idea! it

must be.

Yes, it's all right; I left my traps here and went fifty yards further

on up the slope, and there's another cairn there--very lucky! I had a

job to find my way back here in the mist, though. However, I'm on the

right track now. Wonder what's become of those Cambridge fellows.

They're sure not to be up to my tips, and most likely they're wandering

about lost. Poor duffers!

7 o'clock.--Hope I'm right, but it's getting more misty than ever, and I

can hardly stand up in the wind. It's an awful job, too, feeling one's

way along by these cairns; for you can't see one from the other, and the

chances are you may now and then lose sight of both, and then you're

lost. I've been lost several times, but luckily I've got into the track

again. Fancy I must be getting on towards the top, for the rocks are

getting bigger and tumbled about in all directions, and the guide-book

says that's what the top of Scafell Pike is like. Shan't I be glad to

get to the top! I'm frightfully cold and wet here, and there's scarcely

a hob left on my wretched boots. I wish I had that cobbler here!

All about the view going up to the top of Scafell Pike on page 76 of the

guide-book. Sounds rather like a joke when you can scarcely see your

hand in front of you, to read that behind you stretches the beautiful

vista of the Langdale Valley, with Wansfell in the distance, and an

exquisite glimpse of the waters of Windermere sparkling in the sun; to

your right Helvellyn towers amidst its lesser brethren, while to the

left the gloomy dome of Coniston lends a serious grandeur to the scene.

Sounds all very fine, but it's a pity they don't put in the view on a

day like this as well.

I quite miss the dashing of the wind against the cliffs. They're far

behind now, and the wind seems to dash against me instead. Whew! I'd

better peg on, or the tea will be cold at Wastdale Head! No sign of the

Cambridge fellows. Wonder where they are. Half wish I was with them--

idiots as they are.

8:30 o'clock.--Top at last! I'm black and blue all over, with tumbling

among those brutal rocks. Don't know however I got up, and now I'm up,

don't know how I shall get down. It's just dark now, and I can scarcely

see the paper I'm writing on. Jolly fix I'm in. Can't positively see

the big cairn, though I'm sitting on it, and haven't a notion which way

I came up to it, or which way I have to go down to Wastdale.

I wish those Cambridge fellows would turn up. They weren't bad fellows

after all. In fact, I rather liked one of them. Don't know what to do.

By the way, may as well eat one of the biscuits I have in my knapsack.

Think of sitting up here on the highest spot of England eating a

biscuit, and not knowing how to get home! Enough to make any one feel

down in the mouth. Wish I was down in the valley. All about the view

from the top on page-- Bah! that's too much of a joke. Wish I could see

anything! Only thing I can see is that I'm stuck here for the night,

and shall probably be found frozen to death in the morning. What an ass

I was to snub those jolly Cambridge fellows! Fancy how snug it would be

to be sitting between them now. I suppose they're down at the hotel

having a good tea before a blazing fire. My word, it makes one blue

to--

11 o'clock.--Just had the presence of mind to wind up my watch. Had to

sit on my hands a quarter of an hour before I could feel the key in my

waistcoat pocket. Ugh! wish the wind would shut up. Never felt so up a

tree all my life. Those Cambridge fellows will be curling up in bed

now, I expect. Can't write more.

12 o'clock.--It suddenly occurred to me there was no absolute necessity,

if I must stick up here all night, to stick at the tip-top. So I

crawled down gingerly among the rocks on the side away from the wind and

looked, or rather felt, for a sheltered place. Presently I slipped and

toppled down between two great boulders and nearly killed myself.

However, when I came to, it struck me I might as well stay here as

anywhere else. It's right out of the wind and pretty dry, as the mist

doesn't seem to be able to get down into it. Then the lucky idea

occurred to me I had two candles in my knapsack and a box of matches,

and I might as well light up. So I lit one of the candles, and I've

been warming my fingers and toes at it for the last half-hour; also been

reading the guide-book, and find that the Isle of Man is visible from

this place. Jolly comforting to know it, when I can't even see the tip

of my own nose. Got sick of the guide-book after that, and thought it

would warm me to say over my Greek irregular verbs. Been through them

once, but not quite successful 4,000 feet above the level of the sea.

They remind a fellow rather too much of home. Wonder what they'd think

there if they saw me up here. Wish I saw them, and could get a blanket!

I promised them to sleep between blankets every night. It's awful not

being able to keep one's promise.

The one thing that does comfort me is, I shan't have to pay anything for

attendance to-night. In fact, I never spent such a cheap night

anywhere... Booh! had to stop just now and sit on my hands again. Find

it warmer even than the candle. How I wish those two Cambridge fellows

were here! We could be quite jolly in here, and play round games, and

that sort of thing. I've been trying one or two songs to pass the time,

but they didn't come off. Made me homesick to sing, "Here in cool grot"

and "Blow, gentle gales." That reminds me, the wind's dropped since I

got in here. Sorry for it. It was some company to have it smashing all

round one. Now it's so quiet it makes a fellow quite creepy. They do

talk of mountain-tops being haunted. I know Scafell Pike is, and I'm

the haunter. Wonder if there's any chance of anybody turning up? I've

a good mind to go on to the cairn and howl and wave my candle about for

a bit; it might fetch some one. The only thing is, it might frighten

them away. I'll try it, anyhow, and I hope whoever comes will have some

grub in his pocket and a pair of gloves.

1:30.--No go. Been howling like a hyena for half an hour till I've no

voice left, and I'm all over spots of wax with the waving of my candle.

Heard nothing but my own voice. Not an echo, or a dog barking, or

anything. The mist lifted a bit, but I don't suppose any one could see

the candle down at Wastdale. Ugh! ugh! Perhaps there'll be an article

in a scientific paper about a curious phenomenon on the top of Scafell

Pike. Wish I knew how to warm phenomenons! I've put on the spare shirt

over my coat, and stuffed my feet into my knapsack, and wrapped last

Friday's _Daily News_ round my body and legs. Oh-h-h! why _did_ I make

a beast of myself to those two dear Cambridge fellows? Think of them

now, with blankets tucked round their chins, and their noses in the

pillow, snoring away; and their coats and bags lying idle about in the

room. I do believe if I had their two suits on over my own I might keep

warm. Hullo, what's that!

Never got such a fright. Thought it was thunder, or an earthquake, or

the cairn coming down on the top of me, or something of that sort.

Turned out to be the _Daily News_ crackling under my clothes.

Everything's so quiet, it startles one to move a foot. I'll give it

up--I'll--there goes my last candle!

3:30.--Actually been asleep--at least, I don't know what's been going on

the last two hours. That _Daily News_ was rather a tip, after all. I

might have been frozen to death without it. Hurrah for the Radicals!

Rather crampy all the same about the joints, and must get up and shake

myself, or I shall be no good for the rest of the day. Ugh! What a

state my mother would be in if she heard that cough! I'm certain I

hadn't caught it before I went to sleep.

Just been up to the top and had a look round. Mist is nearly all away,

and there are some streaks in the sky that look like the beginning of

morning. May hold out, after all. Never know what you can do till you

try. I'll just put on my _Daily News_ again and wait here another half-

hour, and then try out again. Wish it was daylight. Mustn't go to

sleep again if I can help it, as I might catch cold.

4:30.--Hurrah! Just seen the sun rise! No end of a fine show. Long

bit of poetry about it in the guide-book, cribbed from Wordsworth or

somebody. Can't say the page, as I tore out the leaf last night to put

inside my boot, to help to keep my toes warm. Never expected to see the

sun rise from the highest spot in England. Awful good score for me,

though--very few do it, I fancy. Think of those lazy Cambridge fellows

curled up in bed and missing it all; just the way with these fellows,

all show off.

The sun's warm already, and I've left off my _Daily News_ and spare

shirt, and I'm just going to take the paper out of my boots; that is, if

I can ever get down to my toes--but I'm so jolly stiff.

Never mind, I've done it, and--bother that cough, it's made me break the

point of my pencil.

5 a.m.--Been sharpening the pencil with my teeth. Rather a poor

breakfast; never mind, I shall have a rousing appetite when I get to the

bottom. May tip that waiter possibly, if he brings the grub up sharp.

Now I'm starting down. I shall go down to Dungeon Ghyl the way I came,

I fancy. If I went down to Wastdale, I might meet those Cambridge

fellows again, and I wouldn't care for that. It would mortify them too

much to know what they've missed. Ta! ta! Scafell Pike, old man, keep

yourself warm. I'll leave you my _Daily News_, in case you want it.

8 a.m.--Been all this time getting half-way down. Can scarcely crawl.

Going up hill's nothing, but the bumping you get coming down, when

you're as stiff as a poker, and coughing like an old horse, is a

caution. Had a good mind to ask a shepherd I met half an hour ago to

give me a leg down, but didn't like to; so I told him I'd just been to

the top to see the sunrise, and it was a fine morning. All but added,

"I suppose you haven't got a crust of bread in your pocket?" but pulled

up in time. Pity to spoil my appetite for breakfast at Dungeon Ghyl.

Ugh! if I sit here I shall rust up, and not be able to move. _Must_ go

on.

10 a.m.--Top of Rosset Ghyl. Not very swell time to get from the top of

the Pike here in five hours. All a chance whether I get down at all,

now--I'm about finished up. Wish those Cambridge fellows--

Here the diary ends abruptly; but, in case our readers are curious to

know the end of our hero's adventure, they will be interested to learn

that at the identical moment when the writer reached this point in his

diary, the Cambridge fellows _did_ turn up. They had, indeed, been out

searching the hills from very early morning for the wanderer. As he did

not arrive the night before at Wastdale, they had concluded he had given

up the ascent, and returned to Dungeon Ghyl. But when early that

morning a guide had come over from Dungeon Ghyl, and reported that the

young gentleman had certainly not returned there, the two 'Varsity men

became alarmed, and turned out to search. There was no sign of him on

the Wastdale side of the mountain; and, getting more and more alarmed,

they went on to the summit. There they discovered a crushed-up _Daily

News_ and two or three stained pages of a guide-book. Glad of any clue,

they followed the track down towards Dungeon Ghyl, and at last came upon

the poor fellow, fairly exhausted with hunger, fatigue, and rheumatism.

They gave him what partially revived him, and then with the care and

tenderness of two big brothers carried him down the steep side of Rosset

Ghyl, and so on to the hotel. There they kept him under their special

care, day and night, and never left him till he was well enough to

return home to his anxious family.

Since then Bartholomew Bumpus has made several ascents of Scafell Pike,

but he has never again, I believe, stayed up there all night to see the

sunrise. Nor has he, when he could possibly help it, gone up

unaccompanied by at least one Cambridge fellow.

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE.

VERY MUCH ABROAD.

_Being the impressions of foreign travel, communicated chiefly to a

particular friend by Thomas Hooker, minor, of Rugby, during the course

of a Continental tour in France and Switzerland in the company of his

brother, James Hooker, major, also of Rugby_.

London, _July_ 31.

Dear Gus,--Here's a spree! The pater's got an idea into his head that

young fellows ought to see something of foreign parts, and store their

minds with the beauties of Nature in her grandest--I forget what--

anyhow, we backed him up; and Jim and I are to start abroad on our own

hooks on Friday. How's that for luck? The pater has settled what

hotels we go to in Paris and Switzerland, and he's sketched out a route

for us every day we're away. The grind is, he's awfully particular we

should write home every day and keep accounts. Jim will have to do

that, and I'll keep you up. It really is a very good thing for fellows

to travel and expand their minds, you know. We're starting from Holborn

Viaduct at 9:30 on Friday. I'll write and let you know my impressions,

as the pater calls it; and you might let your young sister see them too,

if you like.

Yours truly, T. Hooker.

Paris, _August_ 3.

Dear Gus,--We had an awful squeak for the train at Holborn, owing to

Jim's hatbox falling off the cab and his insisting on going back to pick

it up. It seems to me rather humbug taking chimneys at all, but he says

that's all I know of foreign travel; so I caved in and brought mine too.

Another thing that nearly lost the train was a row about the luggage.

The fellows wanted to do me out of two bob because they said my

portmanteau was four pounds overweight! There was nearly a shindy, I

can tell you, only Jim said we'd better walk into the chap on our way

back. Anyhow, I wasn't going to be done, so I unlocked my portmanteau

and took out my spare jacket and a pair of bags, and carried them over

my arm, and that made the weight all right. The fellows tried to grin,

of course, but I fancy they were rather blue about it.

Our tickets cost 45 shillings 6 pence each, not counting grub on the

way, which about finished up a £5 note for the two of us.

Jim and I had a stunning time in the train. There was only one other

old chap in the carriage. When the fellow came for the tickets outside

Dover, Jim happened to be up on the luggage rack, and the fellow would

never have spotted him if the rack hadn't given way. Then he got

crusty, and we all but got left behind by the steamer.

Beastly tubs those steamers are! I wonder why they don't make some that

go steady. And they ought to make the seats facing the side of the

vessel, and not with your back to it. You miss such a lot of the view.

I sat with my face to the side of the vessel most of the way. I don't

exactly know what became of Jim. He said afterwards he'd been astern

watching the English coast disappear. I suppose that accounted for his

looking so jolly blue. We weren't sorry to clear out of that boat, I

can tell you.

Jim was first up the gangway, and I was third, owing to dropping my

spare bags half-way up and having to pick them up. There was an awfully

civil French fellow at the top of the gangway, who touched his hat to

me. I couldn't make out what he said, but I fancied he must be asking

for a tip, so I gave him a copper. That seemed to make him awfully

wild, and he wanted to know my name. I had to tell him, and he wrote it

down; but as he didn't get my address, I hope there won't be a fuss

about it. I didn't see any harm in tipping him, but I suppose it's

against French law, and I don't mean to do it any more.

There was an awfully rum lot of chaps in our carriage between Calais and

Paris. You'd have thought they had never seen a pair of bags before in

their life; for they stared at mine all the way from Calais to Amiens,

where we got out for refreshment. I thought it best to take my bags

with me to the buffet, as they might have humbugged about with them if

I'd left them in the carriage.

They ought to make English compulsory in French schools. The duffers in

the buffet didn't even know what a dough-nut was! Not even when Jim

looked it up in the dixy and asked for _noix a pate_. The idiot asked

us if we meant "rosbif," or "biftik," or "palal"--that's all the English

they seemed to know, and think English fellows feed off nothing else.

However, we did get some grub, and paid for it too. When we got back to

the carriage I took the precaution of sticking my bags on the rack above

Jim's head; so all the fellows stared at him the rest of the way, and I

got a stunning sleep.

We had an awful doing, as Bunker would call it--by the way, did he pull

off his tennis match against Turner on breaking-up day?--when we got to

Paris. The row at Holborn was a fool to it. Just fancy, they made Jim

and me open both our portmanteaux and hat-boxes before they would let us

leave the station! I can tell you, old man, I'm scarcely cool yet after

that disturbance, and if it hadn't been for Jim I guess they'd have

found out how a "Rug" can kick out! Jim says it's the regular thing,

and they collar all the cigars they can find. All I can say is, it's

robbery and cool cheek, and I wish you or some of the fellows would

write to the _Times_ or the _Boy's Own Paper_ and get it stopped. We

had to turn every blessed thing out on the counter, and pack up again

afterwards. It's a marvel to me how the mater stowed all the things

away. I couldn't get half of them back, and had to shove the rest into

my rug and tie it up at the corners like a washerwoman's bundle. Jim's

too easy-going by half. I'm certain, if he'd backed me up, we could

have hacked over the lot of them; and I shouldn't have lost that spare

pair of bags, which I forgot all about in the shindy. I hope there'll

be a war with France soon. We were jolly fagged when we got to the inn,

I can tell you. The old woman had got the pater's letter, so she

expected us. She's rather an ass, and must have been getting up her

English for our benefit, for she's called us "nice young Englese

gentilman" about a hundred times already.

I don't think Jim's got over the blues he had watching the English coast

yesterday. He's asleep still, so I'm writing this while I'm waiting for

him to come to breakfast. I shall not wait much longer, I can tell you.

Ta-ta! Remember me to any of the old crowd you see; also to your young

sister.

Yours truly, Thomas Hooker.

P.S.--By the way, see what your French dixy says for doughnut, and let

me know by return. We're going on to Switzerland in a day or two.

Paris, _August_ 6.

Dear Gus,--The dictionary word of yours won't wash here. We've tried it

all round Paris, and you might as well talk Greek to them. I don't

believe there's any word in the language for dough-nut. Jim's not bad

at French, either. We should be regularly floored if it wasn't for him.

And I expect they guess by his accent he comes from Rugby, for fellows

all touch their hats to him.

You know the pater gave us a list of places to go and see in Paris--the

Louvre and the Luxembourg, and all that. Well, he never stuck down

where they were, and we've had to worry it out for ourselves. Jim

stopped a fellow this morning and asked him, "Ou est la chemin pour

Luxembourg?" The fellow took off his hat and was awfully civil, and

said, "Par ici, messieurs," and took us a walk of about three miles, and

landed us at a railway station. He thought we wanted to go to

Luxembourg in Germany, or wherever it is--fare about three cool sovs.

The fellow hung about us most of the rest of the day, expecting a tip.

Likely idea that, after the game he'd had with us! We couldn't shake

him off till we bolted into one of the swimming baths on the river.

That smoked him out. Most of these chaps draw the line at a tub. Would

you believe it? at our inn, they never seem to have heard of soap in

their lives, and we got quite tired of saying "savon" before we found

some in a shop. Jim thinks they use it all up for soup. What we get at

the inn tastes like it.

Jim is rather a cute beggar. We went to a cafe yesterday to get some

grub, and he wanted a glass of milk. We had both clean forgotten the

French for milk, and we'd left the dixy at the inn. We tried to make

the fellow understand, but he was an ass. We pointed to a picture of a

cow hanging on the wall and smacked our lips; and he grinned and rubbed

his hands, and said, "Ah, oui. Rosbif! jolly rosbif!" Did you ever

hear of such a born idiot? At last Jim had an idea and said, "Apportez-

nous du cafe-au-lait sans le cafe." That fetched it. The fellow

twigged at once. Not bad of Jim, was it?

Jolly slow place Paris. The swimming baths are the only place worth

going to. Jim went in off the eight-foot springboard. You should have

seen the natives sit up at the neat dive he made.

I hope the pater's not going to ask too much about the Louvre, because

we scamped it. The fact is, there was a little unpleasantness with one

of the fellows, owing to Jim's cane happening to scratch one of the

pictures by a chap named Rubens. It was quite an accident, as we were

only trying to spike a wasp on the frame, and Jim missed his shot. The

fellow there made a mule of himself, and lost his temper. So we didn't

see the fun of staying, and cut.

Montreux, Lake of Geneva, _August_ 10.

Couldn't finish this before we left Paris. We meant to start for here

on Friday, but settled to come on on Thursday night after all. You

needn't go telling them at home, but between you and me it was a bit of

a bolt.

The fact was, we went to a church called Notre Dame in the morning--not

nearly such a snug place as Rugby Chapel, and they charge a penny apiece

for the chairs. So we cut the inside and thought we'd go up to the top.

It wasn't a bad lark, and you get a stunning view. The swimming baths

looked about the size of a sheet of school paper. There was a door open

into the belfry, and as nobody was about, we never thought it would be

any harm to have a ring up. We couldn't get the big bell to go, but

most of the others did, and it was enough to deafen you.

I suppose they must have heard the row below, for when we looked down we

saw a regular crowd of fellows in the square underneath looking up our

way. After that we thought we might as well shut up, and were just

going to cut down, when a fellow belonging to the place, who had been

somewhere on the top, came rushing round the parapet, flourishing a

stick and yelling like a trooper in awfully bad French. We had a good

start of him, especially as we shut the door at the top of the stairs

behind us. Besides he was fat; so we easily pulled it off.

There was an old woman at the bottom who kept the ticket place. She

twigged _it_ was a bolt, and tried to stop us; but she couldn't _get_

out of her box. So we strolled out easily and cabbed it back to the

inn. It was an awful game to see the crowd still staring up at the

tower as we drove off. The fat fellow got down just as we were turning

the corner. I don't think he guessed we were cabbing it. Anyhow, we

didn't see any one chasing the cab. Jim said we were rather well out of

it; and we settled we might as well drive on to the swimming baths and

stay there for an hour or so till things had quieted down, and then go

on to Switzerland by the evening train, especially, Jim said, as the

pater might not like to get his name mixed up in a French row.

Beastly uncomfortable carriages on the Swiss railway from Paris. There

was the same humbug about the luggage at a little station in the middle

of the night, but we were too fagged to cut up rough. We were jolly

glad to get here at last, I can tell you.

I must shut up now, as I've got to write to pater. It's a regular go.

We forgot he'd be sending the money to Paris, and now we've only got

about half-a-sov. between us! Remember me to your young sister.

Yours truly, T. Hooker.

Montreux, _August_ 10.

Dear Father,--We didn't see the Luxembourg, as a fellow directed us to

the wrong place. We had several bathes in the Seine. Jim got on very

well with his French, and I think we are both improved. We should be

glad of some more money, as we are nearly out. I bought a present for

you in Paris, which I think you will like when you see it. If you could

send the money here by return it would do. I suppose what you sent to

Paris missed us, as we came here a day sooner than we expected.

We went up Notre Dame the last day we were in Paris. There is a fine

view from the top. It is surprising how few of the French you meet in

the swimming baths. We had the place to ourselves one day. It's eight

feet at the deep end. Jim and I both think foreign travel is good for a

fellow, and we shall hope to have a reply to this by return.

Your loving son, Tom.

Montreux, _August_ 11.

Dear Gus,--We're regularly stuck up, as the money hasn't come yet. I

hope it will come soon, or the old girl at the inn here will think we're

cadgers. We had a stunning row on the lake yesterday; the boats are

only a bob an hour, so we thought we might go in for it. We raced a

steamer for about half a mile, and weren't done then, only Jim's oar

came off the pin (they haven't such things as row-locks here), and that

upset us.

Of course it didn't matter, as we could swim; but the fellows in the

steamer kicked up an awful shine about it, and came and hauled us up,

boat and all. It was rather awkward, as we had nothing to tip them

with. We got out at a dismal sort of place called Chillon. We told the

captain if he was ever in London the pater would be glad to see him.

We had a grind getting back here with the boat, as it came on dark and

misty, and we couldn't see where Montreux had got to. Jim got rather

chawed up too by the cold, so I sculled. The wind was against us, and

it was rather a hard pull, especially when you couldn't see the land at

all. I managed to keep pretty warm with rowing, but old Jim's teeth

chattered like a steam-engine. It came on a regular squall, and I

didn't see the fun of sculling after about a couple of hours. So Jim

and I huddled up to keep warm, and let her drift. We were jolly glad to

see a light after a bit, and yelled to let them know where we were.

They didn't hear, though, so we just stuck on and chanced it. The old

tub drifted ashore all right, side on, though she upset just as we got

to land. It was lucky the water was shallow, as we were too cold to

swim. As it was, old Jim nearly came to grief. It was no end of a job

hauling in the boat. She was rather knocked about. We had drifted back

to Chillon, exactly where we started from.

The keeper of the castle put us up for the night and was no end of a

brick. There was rather a row with the boat fellow when we got back to

Montreux. He got crusty about the boat being damaged, and wanted about

two sovs! As it happened, we hadn't got anything, as we gave the fellow

at the castle five francs, and that cleared us out. We told the boat

fellow to call at the inn to-morrow, and I hope to goodness the money

will have turned up, as it's a bit awkward. Jim has a cold.

Yours truly T. Hooker.

Please remember me to your young sister.

Montreux, _August_ 13.

Dear Father,--Thanks awfully for the money; it was jolly to get it, and

mother's letter. It is very hilly about here. Jim's cold is getting

better. Would you mind telegraphing to us who is the winner of the

Australian cricket match to-morrow, and how many Grace scored? In

haste, Your loving son, Tom.

Riffel Hotel, _August_ 18.

Dear Gus,--We're awfully high up here--awful rum little inn it is. It

was chock full, and Jim and I have to sleep under the table. There are

about a dozen other fellows who have to camp out too, so it's a rare

spree.

We're going to have a shot at the Matterhorn to-morrow if it's fine. It

looks easy enough, and Jim and I were making out the path with a

telescope this afternoon. It's rather a crow to do the Matterhorn.

Some muffs take guides up, but they cost four or five pounds, so we're

going without.

That boat fellow at Montreux got to be a regular nuisance. In fact,

that's why we came on here a day earlier. He came up twice a day to the

inn, and we couldn't shake him off. We gave him a sov., which was twice

what he had a right to. He swore he'd have two pounds or bring up a

policeman with him next time. So we thought the best way was to clear

out by the early train next morning, and I guess he was jolly blue when

he found us gone. I send with this a faint sketch of some of the

natives! What do you say to their rig?

It was a pretty good grind up to Zermatt, and we walked it up the

valley. There wasn't much to see on the way, and it's a frightfully

stony road. There were some fellows playing lawn-tennis at the hotel at

Zermatt. One of them wasn't half bad. His serves twisted to the leg

and were awfully hard to get up. Jim and I wouldn't have minded a game,

only the fellows seemed to think no one wanted to play but themselves.

We may get a game to-morrow on our way to the Matterhorn. It was a

tremendous fag getting up here from Zermatt. I don't know why fellows

all come on, as there's no tennis court or anything up here.

There's an ice-field up here called a glacier, but it's an awful fraud

if you want skating--rough as one of Bullford's fields at Rugby. A

fellow told me it bears all the year round, but it's got a lot of holes,

so we don't think we'll try it. I expect we shall be home next week, as

the pater thinks we've run through our money rather too fast. Remember

me to your people and your young sister.

Yours truly, T. Hooker.

Zermatt, _August_ 20.

Dear Gus,--We didn't do the Matterhorn after all, as Jim screwed his

foot. He's awfully unlucky, and if it hadn't been for the accident we

might have got to the top; and of course it stops tennis too. We did

get one game before we started up. Jim gave me fifteen in two games

each set. I pulled off the first, but he whacked me the other two.

It's a beastly rough court, though, and the mountain was awfully in the

light.

We hadn't much difficulty finding the way to the Matterhorn, as there

was a sign-post at the end of the village. We thought we might as well

take the easy side, as the front of the hill is pretty stiff. Of course

we had to take a good long round, which was a nuisance, as we meant to

be back for _table d'hote_ at seven. When we got properly on to the

side we put it on, but it was a good long grind, I can tell you. We

weren't sorry to get up to a snow slope and cool ourselves.

They ought to sweep a path across the snow, or fellows are very likely

to lose their way. We lost ours, but we had a good lark on the snow

snowballing. It got deep in one part, so we had to clamber up the rocks

at the side to get to the top of the slope. It's rather deceptive,

distance, on the snow, for it took us an hour to do what seemed only a

few yards. We got on to a flat bit after awhile, and had another turn

on the snow.

It was rather a game rolling things down the slope. They went at an

awful pace. The nuisance is the snow has a way of slipping from under

you, and that's how Jim and I came to grief. We were sitting on the

edge of the slope watching a boulder slide, when we began to slide

ourselves. We hadn't our spikes on, or we might have pulled up. As it

was, we got up no end of a speed down that slope. It was no joke. I

yelled to Jim to lie flat, and not sit up, or he might pitch on his

head. I don't remember how we got on after that; I must have bumped my

head, for when I pulled myself together I found I was sitting in the

middle of a grass field with a jolly headache, and pretty well black and

blue.

I was able to get up though, and looked about for old Jim. I can tell

you it was no joke. I couldn't see him anywhere, and thought he must

have been buried in the snow. I can tell you, old man, it was rough on

me for a quarter of an hour or so. But I found him at last, about a

quarter of a mile down the field. He rolled, he said; he couldn't get

up, as his foot was screwed. So it was a pretty go, as I couldn't carry

him. If I hadn't been quite so knocked about I might have tried; but

Jim's a good nine stone, so I might have dropped him. Luckily, some

fellows came--they'd come to look for us, in fact, as we'd told the

waiter we were going up the Matterhorn, and might not be back in time

for dinner; and when we didn't turn up, they guessed, I suppose, we

might have come to grief. It was a good job they came, as Jim's foot

was rather bad. All the hotel turned out to see us get back. I had to

be carried too, the last bit of the way, as I got fagged. It's a sell

we couldn't get to the top, as it's rather a crow to do the Matterhorn.

Jim's foot is better to-day, but he'll have to shut off tennis the rest

of this season. I wish mother was here. She could look after Jim

better than I can. In fact, the doctor here, rather a jolly fellow,

says she and the pater had better come at once. I got him to write to

the pater himself, as I was afraid it might make them think something

was wrong if I did.

Please to remember me to your young sister.

T. Hooker.

Zermatt, _August_ 22.

Dear Gus,--There's a telegram from the pater to say they'll be here to-

morrow night. I'm rather glad, as Jim is feverish. The pater will have

a good deal of tipping to do, as everybody here's no end civil. Can't

write more, as I'm fagged. Remember me to your young sister.

T.H.

P.S.--I fancy we shall spend next summer in England--Jim and I. We

don't either of us think much of Switzerland.

CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR.

BILK'S FORTUNE--A GHOST STORY.

CHAPTER I. SUPERSTITION.

We had a fellow at Holmhurst School who rejoiced in the name of

Alexander Magnus Bilk. But, as sometimes happens, our Alexander the

Great did not in all respects resemble the hero to whom he was indebted

for his name. Alexander the Great, so the school-books say, was small

in stature and mighty in mind. Bilk was small in mind and lanky in

stature. They called him "Lamp-post" as a pet name, and as regarded his

height, his girth, and the lightness of his head, the term conveyed a

very fair idea of our hero's chief characteristics. In short, Bilk had

very few brains, and such as he had he occupied by no means to the best

advantage. He read trashy novels, and believed every word of them, and,

like poor Don Quixote of old, he let any one who liked make a fool of

him, if he only took the trouble to get at his weak side.

I need hardly say the fellows at Holmhurst were not long in discovering

that weak side and getting plenty of fun out of Alexander Magnus. He

could be gammoned to almost any extent, so much so that after a term or

two his persecutors had run through all the tricks they knew, and the

unhappy youth was let alone for sheer want of an idea.

But one winter, when things seemed at their worst, and it really

appeared likely that Bilk would have to be given up as a bad job, his

tormentors suddenly conceived an idea, and proceeded to put it into

practice in the manner I am about to relate in this most veracious

history.

The neighbourhood of Holmhurst had for some weeks past been honoured by

the presence of a gang of gipsies, who during the period of their

sojourn had rendered themselves conspicuous by their diligence in their

triple business of chair-mending, fowl-house robbing, and fortune-

telling. In the last of these three departments they perhaps succeeded

best in winning the confidence of their temporary neighbours, and the

private seances they held with housemaids, tradesmen's boys, and

schoolgirls had been particularly gratifying both as to attendance and

pecuniary result.

It had at length been deemed to be for the general welfare that these

interesting itinerants should seek a change of air in "fresh fields and

pastures new," and the police had accordingly hinted as much to the

authorities of the camp, and given them two hours to pack up.

More than ever convinced that gratitude is hopeless to seek in human

nature, the gipsies had shaken the dust of Holmhurst from the soles of

their not very tidy feet, and had moved off, no one knew whither.

These proceedings had, among other persons, interested Alexander Magnus

Bilk not a little, and no one mourned the rapid departure of the gipsies

more than he. For Bilk had for some days past secretly hugged the idea

of presenting himself to the oracle of these wise ones and having his

fortune told. He had in fact gone so far as to make a secret

observation of their quarters one afternoon, and had resolved to devote

the next half-holiday to the particular pursuit of knowledge they

offered, when, lo! cruel fate snatched the cup from his lips and swept

the promised fruit from his reach. In other words, the gipsies had

gone, and, like his great namesake, Alexander, Magnus mourned.

Among those who noticed his dejection and guessed the cause of it were

two of his particular persecutors. Morgan and Dell had for some months

been suffering affliction for lack of any notion how to get a rise out

of their victim. But they now suddenly cheered up, as they felt the

force of a mighty idea moving them once more to action.

"Old chap," said Morgan, "I've got it at last!"

"What have you got?" asked "the old chap"; "your back tooth, or measles,

or what?"

"I've got a dodge for scoring off the Lamp-post."

"Have you, though? You are a clever chap, I say! What is it?"

What it was, Morgan disclosed in such a very low whisper to his ally

that the reader will have to guess. Suffice it to say, the two dear

lads put their heads together for some time, and were extremely busy in

the privacy of their own study all that evening.

Bilk, little dreaming of the compassion and interest he was evoking in

the hearts of his schoolfellows, retired early to his sorrowful couch,

and mourned his departed gipsies till slumber gently stepped in and

soothed his troubled mind. But returning day laid bare the old wound,

and Alexander girded himself listlessly to the duties of the hour, with

a heart far away.

He was wandering across the playground after dinner, disinclined alike

for work and play, when Dell accosted him. Bilk might have known Dell

by this time, but his memory was short and his mind preoccupied, and he

smelt no rat, as the Irish would say, in his companion's salutation.

"Hullo! where are you off to, Lamp-post? How jolly blue you look!"

"I'm only taking a walk."

"Well, you don't seem to be enjoying it, by the looks of you. I've just

been taking a trot over the common."

"I suppose the gipsies have all gone?" inquired Bilk, as unconcernedly

as he could.

"Yes, I suppose so," answered Dell, offhand. "Anyhow, they've cleared

off the common."

"But I was told," said Bilk rather nervously, "they'd gone quite away."

"Not all of them, anyhow," said Dell. "But of course they can't now

show up the way they used to."

"Where are they, then?" asked Magnus, with a new hope breaking in upon

him.

"How can I tell? All I know is there are some hanging about still, and

I shouldn't wonder if they weren't far from here."

"Really, I say! I wonder where?"

"I'd as good as bet you'd come across one or two of them after dark in

Deadman's Lane, or up at the cross roads, any evening for a week yet.

They don't clear out as fast as fellows think. But I must be off now,

as I've a lot of work to do. Ta, ta!"

Alexander stood where the other left him, in deep meditation. Those few

casual observations of his schoolfellow had kindled anew the fire that

burned within him. Little could Dell guess how interesting his news

was! After dark! The afternoon was getting on already. The school

clock had struck half-past four nearly a quarter of an hour ago, and by

five it would be quite dark. Tea was at a quarter-past five, and for

half an hour after tea boys could do as they liked. Yes, it would be

foolish to throw away such a chance. At any rate, he would take the air

after tea in Deadman's Lane, and if there he should meet--oh! how he

wondered what his fortune would be! Tea was a feverish meal for Bilk

that evening. He spoke to no one, and ate very little; and as the hand

of the clock worked round to a quarter to six he began to feel

distinctly that a crisis in his life was approaching. He was glad

neither Dell nor Morgan, whose studies probably kept them in their

study, were at tea. They were such fellows for worrying him, and just

now he wanted to be in peace.

The meal was over at last, and the boys rushed off to enjoy their short

liberty before the hour of preparation. Bilk, who had taken the

precaution to put both a sixpence and a cricket-cap in his pocket,

silently and unobserved slid out into the deserted playground, and in

another minute stood beyond the precincts of Holmhurst.

Deadman's Lane was scarcely three minutes distant, and thither, with

nervous steps, he wended his way, fumbling the sixpence in his pocket,

and straining his eyes in the darkness for any sign of the gipsies.

Alas! it seemed to be a vain quest. The lane was deserted, and the

cross roads he knew were too far distant to get there and back in half

an hour. He was just thinking of giving it up and turning back, when a

sound behind one of the hedges close to him startled him and sent his

heart to his mouth. He stood still to listen, and heard a gruff voice

say--or rather intone--the following mysterious couplet:

Ramsdam pammydiddle larrybonnywigtail

Wigtaillarrybonny keimo.

This could be no other than an incantation, and Bilk stood rooted to the

spot, unable to advance or retreat. He heard a rustling in the hedge,

and the incantation suddenly ceased. Then a figure like that of an old

man bent with age and clad in a ragged coat which nearly touched the

ground advanced slowly, saying in croaking accent as he did so--

"Ah, young gentleman, we've waited for ye. We couldn't go till we'd

seen ye; for we've something to tell ye. Come quietly this way, and say

not a word, or the spell's broken--come, young gentleman; come, young

gentleman;" and the old man went on crooning the words to himself as he

led the way with tottering steps round the hedge, and discovered a sort

of tent in which sat, with her face half shrouded in a shawl, an old

woman who wagged her head incessantly and chattered to herself in a

language of her own. She took no notice of Bilk as he drew near

tremblingly, and it was not until the old man had nudged her vehemently,

and both had indulged in a long fit of coughing, that she at last

growled, without even lifting her head--

"I see nothing unless for silver."

It said a great deal for Bilk's quickness of apprehension that he at

once guessed this vague observation to refer to the sixpence he had not

yet offered. He drew it out and handed it to the old woman, and was

about to offer an apology at the same time, when the man put his hand to

his mouth and snarled--

"Not a word."

The old woman took the coin in her trembling hand, and bent her head

over it in silence. Bilk began to get uneasy. The time was passing,

and he would have to start back in a very few moments. Could it be

possible these gipsies, now they had his sixpence, were going to refuse

to tell him the fortune for which he had longed and risked so much?

No! After a long pause the old woman lifted up her hand and said

something in gibberish to her partner. It was a long time coming, for

they both coughed and groaned violently during the recital. At length,

however, the old man turned to Bilk and said gruffly--

"Kneel."

The boy obeyed, and the old man proceeded.

"She says a great danger threatens you this night. If you escape it,

you will live to be a baronet or member of parliament, and perhaps you

will marry a duke's daughter; but she can't be certain of that. If you

don't escape it, you will be in a lunatic asylum next week, and never

come out. Not a word," added he, as Bilk once more showed signs of

breaking silence. "Wait till she speaks again."

Another long pause, and then another long recital in gibberish by the

old woman, broken by the same coughing and groaning as before. Then the

man said--

"Stand up, and hold your hands above your head."

Bilk obeyed.

"You want to know how to escape the peril?" said the man.

Bilk, with his hands still up, nodded.

"To-night at nine o'clock you will hear a bell."

Again Bilk nodded. Fancy the gipsies knowing that!

"You will go up to a small room with a chair and a bed in it, and

undress."

A pause, and another nod from the astonished Bilk.

"You will put on a long white robe coming down to your ankles. At half-

past nine the place will be dark--as black as pitch."

Bilk shuddered a little at the prospect.

"Then will be the time to escape your peril, or else to fall a victim.

To escape it you must go quietly down the stairs and out of the house.

The being who rules your life will be away for this one evening, and you

will escape through his room by the window, which is close to the

ground."

Bilk started once more. _He_ knew the doctor was to be out that

evening, but what short of supernatural vision could tell the gipsies of

it?

"You must escape in the long white robe, and run past here on to the

cross roads. No one will see you. At the cross roads there is a post

with four arms. You must climb it and sit on the arm pointing this way

until the clock strikes twelve. The peril will then be past, and your

fortune will be made. Not a word. Go, and beware, Alexander Magnus

Bilk!"

The legs of the scared Alexander could scarcely uphold him as he obeyed

this last order, and sped trembling towards the school. The gipsies sat

motionless as his footsteps echoed down the lane and died slowly away

into silence.

Then they rose to go also; but as they did so other footsteps suddenly

sounded, approaching them. With an alacrity astonishing in persons of

their advanced age they darted back to their place of retreat; but too

late. The footsteps came on quickly, and followed them to their very

hiding-place, and next moment the light of two bullseyes turned full

upon them, and the aged couple were in the hands of the police.

CHAPTER THIRTY FOURCHAPTER TWO.

De Prudhom did not often allow himself the luxury of an evening out

during term time. But on this particular evening he was pledged to

fulfil a long-standing engagement with an old crony and fellow-bachelor,

residing about two miles from the school. By some mysterious means the

worthy dominie's intentions had oozed out, and Bilk was by no means the

only boy who had heard of it. Mice seem to find out by instinct when

the cat is away, and fix their own diversions accordingly.

I merely mention this to explain that as far as Alexander Magnus was

concerned no night could have been more favourable for carrying out the

intricate series of instructions laid down by the gipsy for the making

of his fortune. With this reflection he consoled himself somewhat as he

ran back to the school.

The doctor had already started for his evening's dissipation, if dining

with Professor Hammerhead could be thus described. This eccentric old

gentleman combined in one the avocations of a bachelor, a man of

science, and a justice of the peace. He rarely took his walks abroad,

preferring the solitude of his library, and the occasional company of

some old comrade with whom to talk over old times, and unburden his mind

of the scientific problems which encumbered it. On the present occasion

he had lit upon a congenial spirit in worthy Dr Prudhom, and the two

spent a very snug evening together over the dessert, raking up memories

of the good old days when they lived on the same staircase at Brasenose;

and plunging deep into abstruse questions of natural and physical

science which even the sherry could not prevent from being dry.

The professor's present craze was what is commonly termed ethnology.

Anything connected with the history and vicissitudes of the primitive

races of mankind excited his enthusiasm, and he was never tired of

inquiring into the languages, the manners, the customs, the dress, the

ceremonies, and the movements generally of various branches of the human

family, of whom the most obscure were sure to be in his eyes the most

interesting.

It was only natural, therefore, that when Dr Prudhom made some casual

reference to the recent incursion of gipsies, his host should seize the

occasion to expatiate on the history of that extraordinary race; tracing

them from the Egyptians downwards, and waxing eloquent on their tribal

instincts, which no civilisation or even persecution could eradicate or

domesticate.

"Fact is," said he, with a chuckle, "they had me to thank that they were

allowed here so long. Police came to me end of first week and said they

were a nuisance. I told the police when I wanted their opinion I'd ask

it. End of second week police came again and said all the farmyards

round had been robbed. I said I must inquire into it. He! he! All the

time I was making glorious observations, my boy; a note-book full, I

declare. End of third week inspector of police came and said he should

have to apply at head-quarters for instructions if I wouldn't give them.

Not a place was secure as long as the vagabonds stayed. Had to cave in

then, and issue a warrant or so and get rid of them. Sorry for it.

Much to learn ye: about them, and the few specimens brought before me

weren't good ones. Young gipsies, you know, Prudhom, aren't up to the

mark. You only get the true aboriginal ring about the old people. Yes,

I'm afraid they're breaking up, you know. Sorry for it."

Dr Prudhom concurred, and mentioned as a somewhat significant fact

that very few old gipsies had accompanied the late visitation, which

consisted almost altogether of the young and possibly degenerate members

of the tribe.

The discussion had reached this stage, and the professor was about to

adduce evidence from history of a similar period of depression in the

race, when there came a ring at the front bell, followed by a shuffling

of feet in the hall, which was presently explained by the appearance of

the servant, who announced that there were two constables below who

wished to see his worship.

Now his worship was anything but pleased to be interrupted in the midst

of his interesting discussion by a matter of such secondary importance

as an interview with the police.

"Can't see them now," said he to the servant; "tell them to call in the

morning." The servant retired.

"Strange thing," observed the justice of the peace; "you can shut up

your school at five o'clock every night, and every cheesemonger and

tinker in the place can do the same; but we've got no time we can call

our own. Pull your chair up to the fire, old fellow. Let's see, what

were we saying?" The servant appeared again at this point, and

said--"Please, sir, they've got a couple of the gipsies, and want--"

"Eh, what!" exclaimed the professor, jumping up. "Why didn't you say so

before? Gipsies! Why, Prudhom, my boy, could anything be more

opportune? Show them into the library, and set a chair for the doctor.

Do you hear? How fortunate this is! Now while I'm examining them,

watch closely, and see if you do not observe the peculiar curve of the

nostril I was speaking to you about as characterising the septentrional

species of the tribe. Come away, doctor!"

And off trotted the man of science to his library, closely followed by

the scarcely less eager dominie.

At the far end of the dimly-lighted room stood the constables, on either

side of an aged couple of vagabonds. The old man was arrayed in a long

coat which nearly reached the ground, leaving only a glimpse of a

stained and weather-beaten pair of pantaloons and striped parti-coloured

stockings beneath. The old woman wore a shawl, gipsy fashion, over her

head, and reaching to her feet, which were shod in unusually large and

heavy hob-nailed boots. The faces and hands of both were black with

dirt, and bronzed with heat, and as they stood there trembling in the

grasp of the law, with chattering teeth and tottering knees, they looked

a veritable picture of outcast humanity.

"Prudhom, my boy," whispered the magistrate to his guest, with a most

unjudicial nudge, to emphasise his remarks, "they're old ones. Was ever

such luck! Knowing ones, too, I guess: they'll try to trick us with

their gammon, you see. He! he! Now, constable, what have you got

here?"

For the first time the elderly couple lifted their heads and looked

towards the Bench. As they did so they uttered an incoherent

ejaculation, and attempted to spring forward. But the active and

intelligent servants of the law checked them by a vigorous grip of their

arms, and crying "Silence!" in their most majestic and menacing tones,

reduced them at last to order.

"See that?" whispered the professor to the doctor; "most characteristic.

Simulation is of the very essence of their race. Oh, this is

beautiful! Did you catch what they said just then? It was an

expression in the Maeso-Shemitic dialect, still to be found in the south

of Spain and on the old Moorish coast of Africa. I know it well. Well,

constable?"

"If you please, your honour, I was passing near the school about half-

past five this afternoon along with my brother officer when I observe

the defendants crawling along beside the wall. I keeps my eye on them,

and observe them going in the direction of Deadman's Lane. I follows

unobserved, and observes them crawl behind a hedge. I waits to observe

what follows, and presently I observe a young gentleman walking down the

lane. As I expects, the male defendant comes out and offers to tell him

his fortune, and I observes the young gentleman give the parties money.

I waits till he leaves, and then with my brother officer we arrest the

parties. That's all, your worship. Stand still, you wagabone you; do

you hear?"

This last observation was addressed, not to his worship, but to the

female prisoner, who once more made an effort to step forward and speak.

The grip of the constable kept her where she was, but, heedless of this

threatening gesture, she cried out, in a shrill, trembling voice--

"Please, sir--please, doctor, we're two of your boys."

The doctor, who had been intently looking out for the curved nostril

alluded to by his host, started as if he had been shot.

"Eh, what?" he gasped; "what was that I heard?"

"Why," said the professor, in ecstasy, "it's just as I told you.

Dissimulation is second nature to the tribe. No he is too big for them.

The old lady says she and the other rogue are your children. Doctor,

there's a notion for you!--an old bachelor like you, too! He! he!"

"We are indeed!" cried the old man, echoing the shrill tones of his

helpmeet. "I'm Morgan, Dr Prudhom, and he's Dell. Indeed, we're

speaking the truth. We only did it--"

"There, you see," once more observed the delighted professor; "it's the

very thing I knew would happen. They know you are a schoolmaster, and

they want you to believe-- Oh, this is really most interesting."

The doctor seemed to find it interesting. He changed colour several

times, and looked hard at the two reprobates before him. But their

weather-and-dust-beaten countenances conveyed no information to his

mind. Their voices certainly did startle him with something like a

familiar sound; but might not this be part of the deep dissimulation

dwelt upon with so much emphasis by his learned friend?

"I wouldn't have missed this for twenty pounds," said the magistrate,

beaming on his guest; "my theories are confirmed to the letter."

"We only did it for a lark, sir, and we're awfully sorry," cried the old

man. "We really are, aren't we, Dell?"

"Yes, sir," cried the old lady; "please let us off this time."

"Upon my word," said the doctor, getting up and advancing towards the

prisoners. "I don't know--"

"Don't be a fool, Prudhom; I know them of old. Sit down, man.

Constable, I shall commit the prisoners. Where are my papers?"

"Oh, doctor, please save us!" cried the old lady again. "We are

speaking the truth. Let us wash our faces and take off our cloaks, and

you'll see we are. Oh, we'll never do it again!"

And before the doctor could reply, or the scandalised constables could

prevent it, the two gipsies cast off their outer garments, and presented

themselves to the bewildered spectators in the mud-stained jerseys and

knickerbockers of the Holmhurst football club! I draw a veil over the

explanations, the lectures, and the appeals which followed, as also I

forbear to dwell upon the consternation of the man of science, and the

cruel disorganisation of all his cherished theories. It is only fair to

say that the professor bore no malice, when once he discovered how the

matter stood, and used his magisterial influence with the doctor to

procure at any rate a mitigated punishment for the culprits.

The delinquents were ordered off to the lavatory, and left there with a

can of hot water and a cube of soap, to remove the wrinkles and sunburn

from their crestfallen countenances. Which done, they humbly presented

themselves in the library, where the doctor, looking very stern, stood

already accoutred for the journey home. The leave-taking between the

two old gentlemen was subdued and solemn, and then in grim silence Dr

Prudhom stalked forth into the night, followed at a respectful distance

by his trembling disciples.

Till that moment the thought of Bilk had never once crossed the minds of

the agitated amateur gipsies, but it flashed across them now as the

doctor strode straight for the cross roads. What if the miserable

Alexander Magnus should have swallowed the absurd bait laid for him, and

be in the act of making his fortune on the very spot they were to pass!

They held a hurried consultation in whisper on this terrible

possibility. "We shall be expelled if it comes out!" groaned Dell.

"Yes; we may as well tell him at once," said Morgan. "He may not be

there, you know; perhaps we'd better wait and see, in case."

So they went on in the doctor's wake, nearer and nearer to the fatal

cross roads at every step.

Suddenly, as they came within a hundred yards of the signpost, the

doctor stood still and uttered an exclamation, the meaning of which they

were able to guess only too readily. Straining their eyes in the

direction indicated, they could discern a white shadowy form hovering in

the road before them. "What's that?" exclaimed the doctor in a whisper.

Dell was conscious of a secret nudge as Morgan gasped--"Oh, it looks

like a ghost! Oh, doctor!" and the two boys clung wildly to the

doctor's arm, trembling and gasping with well-feigned terror.

Dr Prudhom trembled too, but his agitation was unfeigned. The three

stood still breathless, and watched the dim figure as it hovered across

their path, and then vanished into the darkness.

"What can it be?" said the doctor, bracing himself up with an effort,

and preparing to walk on.

"Oh, please, sir," cried the boys, "don't go on! do let us turn back!

Oh dear! oh dear!"

"Foolish boys!" said the doctor; "haven't you sense enough to know that

no such thing as--ah! there it is again!"

Yes, there it was again. A faint beam of the moon broke through the

clouds, and lit up the white figure once more where it stood close to

the sign-post. And as they watched it seemed to grow, rising higher and

higher till its head nearly touched the cross-bars. Then suddenly, and

with a groan, it seemed to drop into the earth, and all was darkness

once more. The boys clung one on each side to the doctor, who trembled

hardly less than themselves. No one dared move, or speak, or utter a

sound.

Again the moon sent forth a beam, as the figure once more appeared and

slowly rose higher and higher. For a moment it seemed as if it would

soar into the air, but again with a dull crash it descended and

vanished.

"Boys," said the doctor hoarsely, "I confess I--I am puzzled!"

"I--I wonder," said Dell, "if I ever dare go and see what it is. I say,

M-m-organ, would you g-g-go with me--for the d-d-doctor's sake?"

"Oh, Dell! I'm afraid. But--yes, I'll try."

"Brave boys!" said the doctor, never taking his eyes off the spot where

the ghost last vanished.

The two boys stole forward on tiptoe, holding one another's arms; then

suddenly they broke into a rush straight for the sign-post.

There was a loud shriek as the white figure rose up to meet them.

"Bilk, you idiot, cut back for your life! here's the doctor! We were

only having a lark with you. Do cut your sticks, and slip in quietly,

and it'll be all right. Look alive, or we're all three done for!"

The ill-starred Bilk needed no further invitation. He started to run as

fast as his long legs would carry him, his night-gown flapping in the

evening breeze, and his two persecutors following him with cries of

"Booh!"

"Scat!"

"Shoo!" and other formulae for exorcising evil spirits.

After a hundred yards or so the two heroes gave up the chase, and

returned to the slowly-reviving doctor.

"Come along, sir," said Dell; "there's nothing there; it vanished as

soon as we got to it. Let us be quick, sir, in case it comes back."

The remainder of the walk home that evening, I need hardly observe, was

brisk; but it was not so brisk as the same journey accomplished by

Alexander Magnus Bilk, who had reached the school a full quarter of an

hour before his pursuers, and was safe between his blankets by the time

that they peeped into his room on their way to bed, and whispered

consolingly, "It's all up with the duke's daughter now, old man!"

The doctor may have had some dim suspicion of the real state of affairs;

but if so, he gave no sign, and the boys, happy in their escape from

what might have proved a grave matter, were content to forego all

further practical jokes of the kind for the rest of the session.

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE.

A NIGHT IN THE DREADNOUGHT.

Chapter I. Stowaways.

We were spending the winter of 185--, my young brother Jack and I, with

our grandfather at Kingstairs, a quiet little seaside village not a

hundred miles from the Nore.

I am not quite clear to this day as to why we were there--whether we

were sent for a treat, or for a punishment, or whether I was sent to

take care of Jack, or Jack was sent to take care of me. I can't

remember that we had committed any unusually heinous offence at home.

Indeed, since our attempt a week or two previously to emulate history by

smothering the twins, after the manner of the princes in the Tower, we

had been particularly quiet, not to say dull, at home. For the little

accident of the squib that went off in the night nursery in the middle

of the night counted for nothing, nobody being hurt, and only the head

nurse and our aunt having hysterics.

So that when, the day after we had broken up for the holidays, our

father told us we were going to spend Christmas at grandfather's, there

was nothing in our past conduct to suggest that the step was to be

regarded in the light of a punishment.

All the same, it was no great treat. At least it would have been far

more of a treat to spend Christmas at home, and carry out our long-

cherished design of digging at the bottom of the garden till we reached

the fire in the middle of the earth, an operation which we reckoned

would occupy at least a week; to say nothing of the usual Christmas

parties, which we did not see the fun of missing, and the visits to the

Tower and the Monument, which always seemed to be part of every

Christmas holiday.

However, as it was all settled for us, and everybody seemed to think it

a great treat for us, and further, as Jack had a boat which wanted

sailing, we yielded to the general wish, and reminding everybody that

the presents could be sent down in a trunk a day or two before the 25th,

we took our leave and repaired to Kingstairs.

Our father came with us, just to see us settled down, and then returned

to town. And it was not till after he had gone that we began to think

it rather slow to be left alone down there with only grandfather and

Jack's boat for company.

Grandfather was very old. We always used to put him down at a round

hundred years, but I believe he was only seventy-five really. However,

he was not as young as we were, and being rather infirm and subject to

rheumatism, he preferred staying indoors near the fire to coming with us

over the rocks and sailing Jack's boat in mid-December.

He little knew the pleasure he missed, of course! Happily, he did not

insist on our staying indoors with him, and the consequence was we

managed to do pretty much as we liked, and indeed rather more so than he

or any one else interested in our welfare supposed.

Kingstairs, as any one who has been there knows, is not a very exciting

place at the best of times. In summer, however, it is a pleasant enough

retreat, where family parties come down from town for a week or so, and

spend their days boating in the pretty bay, or else basking on the sands

under the chalk cliffs, where the children construct fearful and

wonderful pits and castles, and arm-chairs for their mothers to sit in,

or canals and ponds in which to sail their craft. In fine weather

nothing is so enjoyable as a day on the rocks, hunting for crabs and

groping for "pungars," or else strolling about on the jetty to watch the

packet-boat go out to meet the steamer, or see the luggers coming in

after a week's fishing cruise in the German Ocean.

All this is pleasant enough. But Kingstairs in July and Kingstairs in

December are two different places.

The lodging-houses were all desolate and deserted. The boats were all

drawn high and dry up on the jetty. The bathing-machines stood dismally

in the field behind the town. Not a soul sat in an arm-chair on the

sands from morning to night. No one walked along the cliffs except the

coastguardsmen. The London steamer had given up running, and no one was

to be seen on the jetty but an occasional sailor, pipe in mouth and

hands in pockets, looking the picture of dismalness.

You may fancy Jack and I, under these depressing circumstances, soon got

tired of sailing the boat. And when one day, after we had waited a week

for the water to calm down, we started it, with all sail crowded, before

half a gale of wind, from the jetty steps, and watched it heel over on

to one side and next moment disappear under the foam of a great wave

which nearly carried us off our feet where we stood, we decided there

was not much fun to be had out of Kingstairs in December.

It was often so rough and stormy that it was impossible to get to the

end of the jetty; and on these occasions we were well enough pleased to

take shelter in the "look-out," a big room over the net-house, reached

by a ladder, where there was generally a fire burning, and in which the

sailors and boatmen of the place always congregated when they had

nothing else to do.

We struck up acquaintance with one or two of these rough tars, who,

seeing perhaps that we were in rather a dismal way, or else glad of

anything in the way of a variety, used to invite us up to warm ourselves

at the fire. We very soon got to feel at home in the "look-out," and

found plenty of entertainment in the yarns and songs with which the men

whiled away the time.

A great deal of what we heard, now I remember it, was not very

improving; the songs, many of them, were coarse, and as for the yarns,

though we swallowed them all at the time, I fancy they were spun mostly

out of the fancy of the narrators. Wonderful stories they were, of

shipwreck, and battle, and peril, over which we got so excited that we

lay awake at night and shuddered, or else dreamed about them, which was

even worse.

One man, I remember, told us how he fought with a shark under water in

the South Seas, and stabbed it with the knife in his right hand, just as

the monster's teeth were closing on his other arm. And to make his

story more vivid he bared his great shaggy arm, and showed us an ugly

white scar among the tattoo marks above the elbow. Another man told us

how he had stood beside Nelson on the "Victory," just as the admiral

received his death-wound; and it never occurred to us to wonder how a

man of not more than thirty-five could have been present at that famous

battle, which took place fifty years ago! But the yarn that pleased us

most was the one about the wreck of the "Wolf King," when the Kingstairs

lifeboat, the "Dreadnought," put out in a tremendous gale, and reached

her just as she was going down, and rescued sixteen of her crew. This

story we called for over and over again, till we knew it by heart. And

many a time, as we lay awake at night, and heard the wind whistling

round the house, we wondered if it was a storm like this when the "Wolf

King" went down, or whether any ship would be getting on to the Sands

to-night.

It was Christmas Eve--a wild, blustering night. It had been blowing up

hard for several days now, and we were used to the howling of the wind

and the roar of the waves on the beach. We had gone to bed tired and

excited, for the promised hamper had arrived that afternoon, and we had

been unpacking it. What a wonderful hamper it was! A turkey to begin

with, and a _Swiss Family Robinson_, and a tool-box, and a telescope,

and a pair of home-made socks for grandfather. We were fain to take

possession of our treasures at once, but the old gentleman forbade it,

and made us put them all back in the hamper and wait till the morning.

So we went to bed early, hoping thereby, I suppose, to hasten the

morning. But instead of that, the hours dragged past as though the

night would never go. We heard nine o'clock strike, and ten, and

eleven. We weren't in the humour for sleeping, and told one another all

the stories we knew--finishing up, of course, with the wreck of the

"Wolf King." Then we lay for a long time listening to the storm

outside, which seemed to get wilder and wilder as the night dragged on.

The tide, which had been only just turned when we went to bed, sounded

now close under the house, and the thunder of the great waves as they

broke on the sand seemed to make the very earth vibrate.

Surely it must have been a night like this when the "Wolf King"--

"Tom!"

"What?"

"Are you awake?"

"Yes."

"It's a storm, isn't it?"

There was a silence for some time, and I supposed Jack had dozed off,

but he began again presently. "Tom!"

"What?"

"Hadn't we better go on the jetty?"

"Why?"

"There might be a wreck, you know."

"So there might."

Next moment we were out of bed and dressing quietly.

We need not have minded about the noise, for the roar of the storm

outside would have prevented any one from hearing sounds twenty times

louder than those we made, as we crept into our clothes and pulled on

our boots.

"All ready, Jack?"

"Yes; mind how you go down."

We crept downstairs, past grandfather's room, where a light was burning,

down into the hall, and through the passage to the back door. We pulled

the bolts and opened it carefully. Fortunately, it was on the sheltered

side of the house. Had it been the front, the blast that would have

rushed in would certainly have discovered our retreat.

We stepped cautiously out and closed the door behind us. We were

surprised to find how still it seemed at first, compared with what we

had imagined. But next moment, as we got past the back of the house and

came suddenly into the full force of the wind, we knew that the storm

was even fiercer than we supposed. At first we could barely stand, as

with heads down and knees bent we struggled forward. But we got more

used to it in a little while, and once in Harbour Street we were again

in shelter.

Harbour Street was empty. No one saw us as we glided down it towards

the jetty. We heard the church clock strike half-past eleven, the

chimes being swept past us on the wind.

As we turned out of Harbour Street on to the jetty the force of the gale

once more staggered us, and we had almost to crawl forward. There were

lights and the cheery glow of a fire in the "look-out," and we knew

there must be plenty of sailors there. But somehow at this time of

night we did not care to be discovered even by our friends the sailors.

So we kept on, holding on to the chains, towards where the red light

burned at the jetty-head.

We were too excited to be afraid. One of those strange spirits of

adventure had seized upon us which make boys ready for anything, and the

thought of standing alone at midnight at the pier-head in a storm like

that did not even dismay us.

But before we were half-way along we found that it was not the easy

thing we imagined. A huge wave struck the jetty behind the wall under

which we crept, and next moment a deluge of spray and foam shot up and

fell, drenching us to the skin. And almost before we knew what had

happened another and another followed.

We turned instinctively towards the "look-out," but as we did so a

fourth wave, huger than all the rest, swept the jetty from end to end,

and but for the chain, on to which we clung, we should have been washed

off.

Our only chance was to run for the nearest shelter, and that was the lee

of the tarpaulin-covered lifeboat, which lay up on its stocks, out of

the reach of the spray, and seeming to us to offer as much protection

ashore as it could do afloat.

Half a dozen staggering steps brought us to it. But even in this short

space another wave had drenched us. We were thankful to creep under its

friendly shelter, and once there we wondered for the first time how we

were ever to get back. Our hearts were beginning to fail us at last.

We were cold and shivering, and wet through, and now the rain came in

gusts, to add to our misery.

"Couldn't we get inside?" said Jack, with chattering teeth.

As he spoke a shower of salt spray leapt over the boat and deluged us.

Yes; why not get inside under the tarpaulin, where we could shelter at

once from the cold, and the wet, and the wind? Nobody could see us, and

if any one came we could jump out, and presently, perhaps, the storm

might quiet down, and we could get back to bed.

Jack had already clambered up the side, and lifted a corner of the

tarpaulin. I followed, and in a minute we were snugly stowed away, in

almost as good shelter as if we had never left our bedroom.

Then we sat and listened drowsily to the wind raging all round, and

heard the spray falling with heavy thuds on the tarpaulin above us.

"It must be past twelve, Jack," said I; "a Merry Christmas to you."

But Jack was fast asleep.

Chapter II. The Rescue.

How long Jack and I had lain there, curled up under the bows of the

"Dreadnought" that stormy Christmas morning, I never knew. For I, like

him, had succumbed to the drowsy influence of the cold and wet, and

fallen asleep.

I remember, just before dropping off, thinking the storm must be

increasing rather than otherwise, and vaguely wondering whether the wind

could possibly capsize the boat up here in the top of its runners.

However, my sleepiness was evidently greater than my fears on this

point, and I dropped off, leaving the question to decide itself.

The next thing I was conscious of was a strange noise overhead, and a

sudden dash of water on to the floor of the boat just beside me. Then,

before I could rub my eyes, or recollect where I was, the "Dreadnought"

seemed suddenly alive with people, some shouting, some cheering, while

the loud bell at the pierhead close by mingled its harsh voice with the

roar of the storm.

"Stand by--cut away there!" shouted a hoarse voice from the boat. Then

it flashed across me! The "Dreadnought" was putting out in this fearful

storm to some wreck, and--horrors!--Jack and I were in her!

"Wait, I say, wait! Jack and I are here. Let us out!" I cried.

In the noise, and darkness, and confusion, not even the nearest man

noticed me as I sprang up with this terrified shout.

I shook Jack wildly and shouted again, trying at the same time to make

my way to the stern of the boat.

But before I had crossed the first bench, before the two men seated

there with oars up, ready for the launch, perceived us, there was a

cheer from the jetty, the great boat gave a little jolt and then began

to slide, slowly at first, but gaining speed as she went on, and I knew

she was off.

That short, swift descent seemed to me like an eternity. The lights on

the jetty went out, the cheers were drowned, and--

A rough hand caught me where I stood half across the bench and drove me

back down beside Jack, who was yet too dazed to stir. Next instant with

a rush and a roar we plunged into the tempest, and all was blackness!

It seemed to me as if that first plunge was to be the last for the

gallant boat and all in her. The bows under which we crouched, clinging

for dear life to a ring on the floor, were completely submerged. The

water rushed over us and around us, nearly stunning us with its violence

and deafening us with its noise.

But presently we rose suddenly, and the boat shot up till it seemed to

stand on end, so that, where we sat, we could see every inch of it from

stem to stern, and the dim outline of Kingstairs jetty behind. At the

same moment the ten oars dropped into their rowlocks, the coxswain, with

his sou'-wester pulled down tight on his head, and a hand raised to

screen his eyes from the sleet, shouted something--the boat soared

wildly up the wave, and once again all was darkness for us.

How the brave boat ever got through that first half-mile of surf is a

mystery to me. Every wave seemed as though it would pitch it like a

plaything across to the next. Now we shot up till we looked down on the

coxswain below us as from the top of a mast, and next instant we looked

up at him till it seemed a marvel how he held to his place, and did not

drop on to us. All the while the men tugged doggedly at the oars,

heeding neither the waves that broke over them and flooded the boat, nor

the surf that often nearly knocked the oars from their hands.

And what of Jack and me? We crouched there, close together, clutching

fast at the friendly ring, looking out in mute terror on to this fearful

scene, too stupefied to speak, or move, or almost to think. Had any one

seen us? or had the hand which drove me down at the launch saved me from

my danger by accident? I began to think this must be so, when the man

nearest us, whom even in his cork jacket and sou'-wester I recognised as

the hero of the shark story in the "look-out," turned towards us.

He was not one of the rowers, but had been busily drawing in and coiling

a line close beside us during those first terrific plunges of the boat

after she had taken the water. But now he turned hurriedly to where we

sat, and without a word seized me roughly by the arm and drew me to my

feet. I made sure I was to be cast overboard like Jonah into that

fearful sea. But no. All he did was to throw a cork jacket round me,

and then thrust me down again to my old place, just as a great wave

broke over the prows and seemed almost to fill the boat. As soon as

this had passed and the water swirled out from the boat, he seized Jack

and equipped him in the same way. Then throwing a tarpaulin coat over

us, he left us to ourselves, while he mounted his watch in the bows and

kept a look-out ahead.

The cork jackets, if of no other use, helped to warm us a bit, as also

did the coat, and thankful for the comfort, however small, we settled

down to see the end of our adventure and hope for the best.

Settled down, did I say? How could any one settle down in an open boat

on a sea like that, with every wave breaking over our heads and half

drowning us, and each moment finding the boat standing nearly

perpendicular either on its stem or its stern? How the rowers kept

their seats and, still more, held on to their oars and pulled through

the waves, I can still scarcely imagine. But for the friendly ring on

to which Jack and I held like grim death, I am certain we should have

been pitched out of the boat at her first lurch.

The "Dreadnought" ploughed on. Not a word was spoken save an occasional

shout between the coxswain and our friend in the bows as to our course.

I could see by the receding lights of Kingstairs, which came into sight

every time we mounted to the top of a wave, that we were not taking a

straight course out, but bearing north, right in the teeth of the wind;

and I knew enough of boats, I remember, to wonder with a shudder what

would happen if we should chance to get broadside on to one of these

waves. Presently the man by us shouted--"You're right now. Bill!"

The coxswain gave some word of command, and we seemed to come suddenly

into less broken water. The men shipped their oars, and springing to

their feet, as if by one motion, hoisted a mast and unfurled a

triangular sail.

For a moment the flapping of the canvas half deafened us. Then suddenly

it steadied, and next minute the boat heeled over, gunwale down on the

water, and began to hiss through the waves at a tremendous speed.

"Pass them younkers down here!" shouted Bill, when this manoeuvre had

been executed.

Jack and I were accordingly sent crawling down to the stern under the

benches, and presented ourselves in a pitiable condition before the

coxswain.

He was not a man of many words at the best of times, and just now, when

everything depended on the steering, he had not one to waste.

"Stow 'em away, Ben," he said, not looking at us, but keeping his eyes

straight ahead.

Ben, another of our acquaintance, dragged us up beside him on the

weather bulwarks, and here we had to stand, holding on to a rail, while

the boat, with her sail lying almost on the water, rushed through the

waves.

We were no longer among the breaking surf through which we had had to

straggle at starting, although the sea still rolled mountains high, and

threatened to turn us over every moment as we sailed across it. But the

gallant boat, thanks to the skilful eye and hand of the coxswain, kept

her head up, and presently even we got used to the situation, and were

able to do the same.

Where was the wreck? I summoned up courage to ask Ben, who, no longer

having to row, was standing composedly against the bulwarks by our side.

"Not far now. Straight ahead."

We strained our eyes eagerly forward. For a long time nothing was

visible in the darkness, but presently a bright flash of light shot

upward, followed almost immediately by a blaze on the surface of the

water and a dull report.

"They're firing again!" said Ben; "we'll be up to them in a jiffey!"

"What are we to do?" asked Jack dismally.

"Hold on where you are," said Ben; "and if we upset stay quiet in the

water till you're picked up."

With which consoling piece of advice Jack and I subsided, and asked no

more questions.

The sight of a column of lurid flame and smoke made us wonder for a

moment whether the vessel in distress was not on fire as well as

wrecked. But I recollected that the "Wolf King" had burned tar-barrels

all night long as a signal of distress, and this we rightly concluded

was what was taking place on board "our" wreck.

Ben's "jiffey" seemed a good while coming to an end, and long before it

did we passed once more into broken water, and the perils of the start

were repeated, with the aggravation that we were now across the wind

instead of being head on. Wave after wave burst over us, and time after

time, as we hung suspended on the crest of some great billow, it seemed

as if we never could right ourselves. But we did.

"Stand by!" cried the coxswain, when at last a great dim black outline

appeared on our starboard.

Instantly the men were in their seats; oars were put out; the mast and

sail came down, and the clank of the anchor being got ready for use fell

on our ears from the bows.

The wreck was now right between us and the shore, we being some distance

to the windward of it. My knowledge of the story of the wreck of the

"Wolf King" gave me a pretty good notion of what was going on, and even

in the midst of our peril I found myself whispering to Jack--

"They're going to drop the anchor, you know, and blow down on to her--"

"Hope they've got rope enough," said Jack. For in the case of the "Wolf

King" it took three attempts to get within the right distance. The

coxswain of the "Dreadnought" was evidently determined not to fall into

his old error this time, and, with her head to the wind and the oars

holding the water, he allowed her to drift to within about eighty yards

of the wreck. Then he shouted--

"Pay away, there!" and instantly we heard the cable grinding over the

gunwale.

Would it hold? Even to inexperienced boys like Jack and me the suspense

was dreadful as the cable ran out, and the rowers kept the boat's head

carefully up.

The grinding ceased. There was a moment's pause, then came a welcome

"Ay, ay!" from the bows, and we knew it was all right.

It didn't take the wind long to drive us back on our cable, stern

foremost, on to the wreck, which now loomed out huge and ghostly on the

wild water. As we drifted down under her stern we were conscious,

amidst the smoke of the burning tar-barrels and the spray of the waves

which broke over her, of a crowd of faces looking over her sides, and

fancied we heard a faint cheer too. Our men still kept their oars out,

and when, always holding on to our cable, we had drifted some twenty

yards or so on to the lee side of the wreck, the order was given to pull

alongside.

It was no easy task in the face of the wind; but the men who had taken

the "Dreadnought" through the surf off Kingstairs jetty were not likely

to fail now. A few powerful strokes brought us close under the lee of

the wreck, ropes were thrown out fore and aft, and in a few minutes we

lay tossing and kicking, but safely moored within a yard or two of the

ill-starred vessel.

Half a dozen of our men were up her sides and on board in a moment, and

we could hear the cheers with which they were greeted as they sprang on

deck. No time was to be lost. The wreck was creaking in every timber,

and each wave that burst over her, deluging us on the other side,

threatened to break her in pieces. One mast already was broken short,

and hung helplessly down, held only by her rigging to the deck. The

other looked as though it might go any moment, and perhaps carry the

wreck with it.

If she were to capsize now, what would become of us?

It seemed ages before our men reappeared.

One of them shouted down--

"There's twenty. Germans."

"Any women?"

"Two."

"Look sharp with them."

We could see a cloaked figure lifted on to the bulwarks of the wreck and

held there. A wave had just passed. As the next came and lifted us up

with a lurch towards her, some one cried "Jump!" and she obeyed wildly--

almost too wildly, for she nearly overleaped us. Mercifully there were

stout arms to catch her and place her in safety. The other woman

followed; and then one after another the crew, until, with thankful

hearts, we counted twenty on board.

Our work was done. No! There was a report like a crack of thunder over

our heads, a shout, a shriek, as the mainmast of the wreck gave way with

a crash, and swayed towards us.

"Jump!" shouted the coxswain to our men, who were waiting for the next

wave to bring the boat to them. "Cut away for'ard, there!"

Another moment and the mast would be on us and overwhelm us! They

jumped, although we were down in the trough of the wave, yards below

them. At the same moment the rope in the stern was cut loose, and the

boat swung round wildly, just in time to clear the mast as it fell with

a terrific crash overboard. But our men? Four of them landed safely in

our midst; but the others? Oh! how our hearts turned cold as we saw

that two were missing, and knew that they mast be in that boiling,

furious water! We sprang wildly to the side, in the mad hope of seeing

them, or perhaps even reaching them a hand but a stern order from the

coxswain sent us back to our places.

A minute of awful suspense followed. The oars were put up, and, still

held by her stern cable, the boat was brought up again alongside. In a

minute a shout from the prow proclaimed that one at least of the missing

ones was discovered, and presently a dripping form clambered over the

side of the boat close to us and coolly sat down to his oar, as if

nothing had happened.

Another shout--this time not from the boat, but from the water. Our

other man had been carried the wrong side of us by the wave, and could

not reach us. But a rope dexterously pitched reached him where he

floated, and we had the unspeakable joy of seeing him at last hauled

safely on board, exhausted, but as unconcerned as if drowning were an

ordinary occurrence with him.

How thankfully we saw the last cable which held us to the wreck cast

loose, and found ourselves at length, with our twenty rescued souls on

board, heading once more for Kingstairs! Little was said on that short

voyage home. Sail and oar carried us rapidly through the storm. The

waves that broke over us from behind were as nothing to those that had

broken over us from in front. And as if in recognition of the gallant

exploit of the tough old "Dreadnought," the very surf off Kingstairs

beach had moderated when we reached it.

As we sighted the jetty we could see lights moving and hear a distant

shout, which was answered by a ringing cheer from our men, in which Jack

and I and the eighteen Germans and the two women joined. What a cheer

it was! At the jetty-head we could see a large crowd waiting to receive

us, and as we passed a stentorian voice shouted, "Ahoy! Have you got

them two boys on board?"

"Ay, ay!" cried the coxswain; "safe and sound--the rascals!"

Rascals, indeed! As we clambered up the ladder, scarcely believing that

we touched _terra firma_ once more, and found our poor old grandfather

almost beside himself with joy and excitement at the top, we considered

we deserved the title.

"Thank God you're safe!" he cried, when at last he had us before a

blazing fire and a hot breakfast in his dining-room. "Thank God, you

rascals!"

We had done so long ago, and did it again and again, and thanked Him,

not only for ourselves, but for the brave old "Dreadnought" too, so true

to her name and the work she had done that night.

Before we went to bed Jack said, "Same to you, Tom." I knew what he

meant. I had wished him a "Merry Christmas" at five minutes past twelve

that morning, and this was his answer six hours after. What a lot may

happen in six hours!

CHAPTER THIRTY SIX.

HANNIBAL TROTTER THE HERO--A CHAPTER OF AUTOBIOGRAPHY.

We know that it always is, or should be, embarrassing to a hero to

recite the history of his own exploits. So if this simple narrative

strikes the reader as defective, he must excuse it for that reason. For

I am in this painful position, that as no one else will recount my

adventures for me, I have nothing left but to do it myself. It has

surprised me often that it should be so, for there have been times when

I have even pictured myself reading the twentieth edition of my own

memoirs, and the reviews of the Press on the same. I am not offended,

however, but I am sorry, for it would have been good reading.

Without appearing immodest, may I say that the reader has really no idea

what a hero the world has possessed in the person of me, Hannibal

Trotter? It has been my misfortune never to be anything else. How

often have I sighed for an unheroic half-hour!

I was born a hero. Glory marked me for her own from the first hour of

my career. I wish she had let me alone. Had I captured a city, or

rescued a ship's crew, I could not have been made more of than I was for

the simple exploit of being a baby. Nobody else was thought of beside

me; everybody conspired to do me honour. A fictitious glory settled

upon me then, from which I have never escaped. They called me Hannibal.

I was not consulted, or I should have opposed the name. It confirmed

me in a false position. There was no chance of not being a hero with

such a name, and I was in for it literally before I knew where I was.

The day I first walked, General Havelock was a fool to me. I must have

been eighteen months at the time, but when the word went forth,

"Hannibal walks!" I was simply deafened by the applause which greeted

my feat. It wasn't much better when, at the very unprecocious age of

two, I gave vent to an inarticulate utterance which, among those who

ought to have known better, passed for speech. I assure you, reader,

for the next few months I had the whole family hanging on my lips. How

would you like your whole family hanging on your lips? But then you

weren't born a hero.

Well, it went on. My infancy was one sickening round of glory. Did I

build a house of bricks four courses high? Archimedes wasn't in it with

me. Did I sing a nursery rhyme to a tune all one note? Apollo was a

dabbler in music beside me. Did one of my first teeth drop out without

my knowing it? Casabianca on the burning deck couldn't touch me for

fortitude. Did I once and again chance to tell the truth? Latimer,

Ridley, George Washington, and Euclid might retire into private life at

once, and never be heard of again!

It was a terrific _role_ to have to keep up, and as I gradually emerged

from frocks into trousers, and from an easy-going infancy into an

anxious boyhood, the true nature of my affliction began to dawn upon me.

Hannibal Trotter, through no choice of his own, and yet by the

undoubted ordering of Fate, was a hero, and he must act as such. He

must, in fact, keep it up or give it up; and a fellow cannot lightly

give up the only _role_ he has.

In due time, after heroic efforts, I was, at about the age of ten, able

to read to myself, and my attention was at once directed to a class of

stories congenial to my reputation. It would hardly be fair to inflict

upon the patient reader a digest of my studies, but the one impression

they left upon my mind was that a young man, if he is to be worth the

name, must on every possible occasion both be a hero and show it.

This conclusion rather distressed me; for while the first condition was

easy and natural enough, the second was no joke. I knew I was a hero; I

could not doubt it, for I had been brought up to the business, and to

question it would be to question the veracity of every relative I had.

But try all I would I couldn't manage to show it.

After a considerable amount of patient study, my conceptions of a hero

had resolved themselves into several leading ideas, which it may be of

use to the reader if I repeat here:--

1. He must save one life or more from drowning.

2. He must stop runaway horses.

3. He must rescue people from burning houses.

4. He must pull some one from under the wheels of a train.

5. He must encounter and slay a mad dog in single combat.

6. He must capture a burglar; and 7. He must interpose his body

between the pistol of the assassin and the person of some individual of

consequence.

In my researches I had collected a mass of information under each of

these heads, and was perfectly acquainted with what was becoming in a

hero in each emergency.