CHAPTER V

THIS IS CHRISTMAS

For half a minute, as it seemed afterwards, no one

spoke. Then Matty flew to her mother, and flung her

arms around her neck, and kissed her again and again.

Tom hardly knew what he was doing; but he recovered

self-command enough to know that he must try to be manly

and businesslike,--and so he rushed downstairs to find

the man who brought the note. It proved to be a man he

did not know. Not a messenger from the bureau, not one

from the Navy Department, least of all, an aid of

the Assistant Marshal's. He was an innocent waiter from

the Seaton House, who said a gentleman called him and

gave him the note, told him to lose no time, and gave him

half a dollar for coming. He had asked for an answer,

though the gentleman had not told him to do so.

Tom wrote: "Hurrah! All's well! All at home.--T."

and gave this note to the man.

They all talked at once, and then they sat still

without talking. The children--must it be confessed?--

asked all sorts of inopportune questions. At last Tom

was even fain to tell the story of the bear himself, by

way of silencing the Brick and Laura; and with much

correction from Horace, had got the bear well advanced in

smelling at the almond-candy and the figs, when a

carriage was heard on the street, evidently coming

rapidly towards them. It stopped at the door. The bear

was forgotten, as all the elders in this free-and-easy

family rushed out of the parlor into the hall.

Papa was there, and was as happy as they. With papa,

or just behind him, came in the man with the rough coat,

whose face at church had been so dirty, whose face now

was clean. To think that papa should have brought the

Deputy-Marshal with him! For by the name of "the Deputy-

Marshal" had this mysterious stranger been spoken of in

private by the two young men since the fatal theory had

been advanced that he had come into the church to arrest

Mr. Molyneux.

The unknown, with great tact, managed to keep in the

background, while Mrs. Molyneux kissed her husband, and

while Matty kissed him, and while among them they pulled

off his coat. But Mr. Molyneux did not forget. He made

a chance in a moment for saying, "You must speak to our

friend who has brought me here; no one was ever so

welcome at a Christmas dinner. Mr. Kuypers, my dear, Mr.

Kuypers, Matty dear; these are my boys, Mr. Kuypers."

Then the ladies welcomed the stranger, and the boys

shook hands with him. Mr. Molyneux added, what hardly

any one understood: "It is not every friend that travels

two thousand miles to jog a friend's memory."

And they all huddled into the parlor. But in a

moment more, Mrs. Molyneux had invited Mr. Kuypers to go

upstairs to wash himself, and he, with good feeling,

which he showed all the evening, gladly took himself out

of the way, and so, as Tom returned from showing him to

his room, the parlor was filled with "those God made

there," as the little boy used to say, and with none

beside.

"Now tell us all about it, dear papa," cried Tom.

"I was trying to tell your mother. But there is not

much to tell. Poor Mr. Kuypers had travelled all the way

from Colorado, the minute he heard I was in trouble.

Yesterday he bought the `Scorpion' in the train, and

found the Committee was down on us. He drove here from

the station as soon as the train came in. He missed you

here, and drove by mistake to Trinity. That made

him late with us, and so, as the service had begun, he

waited till it was done."

"Well!" said Bev, perhaps a little impatiently.

"But so soon as we were going out he touched me, and

said he had come to find me, in the matter of the Rio

Grande vouchers. Do you know, Eliza, I can afford to

laugh at it now, but at the moment I thought he was a

deputy of the Sergeant-at-Arms?"

"There!" screamed Tom, "I said he was a deputy-marshal!"

"I said, `Certainly;' and I laughed, and said they

seemed to interest all my friends. Then he said, `Then

you have them? If I had known that, I would have spared

my journey.' This threw me off guard, and I said I

supposed I had them, but I could not find them. And he

said eagerly--this was just on the church steps--`But I

can.'

"Then he said he had a carriage waiting, and he bade

me jump in.

"So soon as we were in the carriage he explained,

what I ought to have remembered, but could not then

recollect for the life of me, that after General Trebou

returned from Texas, there was a Court of Inquiry, and

that there was some question about these very supplies,

the beans and the coffee particularly; they had nothing

to do with the landing nor with the Mexicans. And the

Court of Inquiry sent over one day from the War

Department, where they were sitting, to our office for an

account, because we were said to have it. Mr.

Kuypers was their messenger to us, and because we had

bound them all together, the whole file was sent as it

was. He took them, and as it happened, he looked them

over, and what was better, he remembered them. Where our

receipt is, Heaven knows!

"Well, that Court of Inquiry was endless, as those

army inquiries always are. Mr. Kuypers was in attendance

all the time. He says he never shall forget it, if other

people do.

"So, as soon as he saw that we were in trouble at the

bureau--that I was in trouble, I mean," said Mr.

Molyneux, stoutly, "he knew that he knew what nobody else

knew,--that the vouchers were in the papers of that Court

of Inquiry."

"And he came all the way to tell? What a good

fellow!"

"Yes, he came on purpose. He says he could not help

coming. He says he made two or three telegrams; but

every time he tried to telegraph, he felt as if he were

shirking. And I believe he was right. I believe we

should never have pulled through without him. `Personal

presence moves the world,' as Eli Thayer used to say."

"And you found them?" asked Mrs. Molyneux, faintly

essaying to get back to the story.

"Oh Yes, we found them; but not in one minute. You

see, first of all, I had to go to the chief clerk at the

War Department and get the department opened on a

holiday. Then we had no end of clerks to disturb at

their Christmas dinners, and at last we found a good

fellow named Breen who was willing to take hold with Mr.

Kuypers. And Mr. Kuypers himself," here he dropped his

voice, "why, we have not three men in all the departments

who know the history of this government or the system of

its records as he does.

"Once in the office, he went to work like a master.

Breen was amazed. Why! We found those documents in less

than half an hour!

"Then I sent Breen with a note to the Secretary. He

was good as gold; came down in his own carriage,

congratulated me as heartily--well almost as heartily as

you do, Tom--and took us both round, with the files, to

Mr. McDermot, the Chairman of the House Committee. He

was dining with his mess, at the Seaton House, but we

called him out, and I declare, I believe he was as much

pleased as we were.

"I only stopped to make him give me a receipt for the

papers, because they all said it was idle to take copies,

and here we are!"

On the hush that followed, the Brick made his way up

on his father's knee and said,--

"And now, papa, will you tell us the story of the

bear? Tom does not tell it very well."

They all laughed,--they could afford to laugh now;

and Mr. Molyneux was just beginning upon the story of the

bear, when Mr. Kuypers reappeared. He had in this short

time revised his toilet, and looked, Mr. Molyneux said in

an aside, like the angel of light that he was. "Bears!"

said he, "are there any bears in Washington? Why,

it was only last Monday that I killed a bear, and I ate

him on Tuesday."

"Did you eat him all?" asked the Brick, whose

reverence for Mr. Kuypers was much more increased by this

story than by any of the unintelligible conversation

which had gone before. But just as Mr. Kuypers began on

the story of the bear, Chloe appeared with beaming face,

and announced that dinner was ready.

That dinner, which this morning every one who had any

sense had so dreaded, and which now seemed a festival

indeed!

Well! there was great pretence in fun and form in

marshalling. And Mr. Kuypers gave his arm to Matty, and

Horace his to Laura, and Beverly his to Flossy, and Tom

brought up the rear with the Brick on his shoulders. And

Mr. Molyneux returned thanks and asked a blessing all

together. And then they fell to, on the turkey and on

the chicken pie. And they tried to talk about Colorado

and mining; about Gold Hill and Hale-and-Norcross, and

Uncle Sam and Overman and Yellow Jacket. But in spite of

them all, the talk would drift back to Bundy and his

various signs, "Our House" and Tom and Jerry; to the wife

of Mr. Whilthaugh; to Commodore Benbow; to old Mrs.

Gilbert and Delaware Avenue. And this was really quite

as much the fault of Mr. Kuypers as it was of any of the

Molyneux family. He seemed as much one of them as did

Tom himself. This anecdote of failure and that of

success kept cropping out. Walsingham's high-bred and

dignified enthusiasm for the triumph of the office, and

the satisfaction that Eben Ricketts would feel when he

was told that the Navy never had the vouchers,--all were

commented on. Then Mr. Molyneux would start and say, "We

are talking shop again. You say the autumn has been mild

in the mountains;" and then in two minutes they would be

on the trail of "Search and Look" again.

It was in one of these false starts that Mr. Kuypers

explained why he came, which in Horace's mind and perhaps

in the minds of the others had been the question most

puzzling of all.

"Why," said Horace, bluntly, "had you ever heard of

papa before!"

"Had I heard of him? " said Mr. Kuypers. "I think

so. Why, my dear boy, your father is my oldest and

kindest friend!" At this exclamation even Mrs. Molyneux

showed amazement. Tom laid down his fork and looked to

see if the man was crazy, and Mr. Molyneux himself was

thrown off his balance.

Mr. Kuypers was a well-bred man, but this time he

could not conceal his amazement. He laid down knife and

fork both, looked up and almost laughed, as he said with

wonder,--

"Don't you know who I am?"

"We know you are our good angel to-day," said Mrs.

Molyneux, bravely; "and that is enough to know."

"But don't you know why I am here, or what sent me?"

Mr. Molyneux said that he understood very well that

his friend wanted to see justice done, and that he had

preferred to see to this in person.

"I thought you looked queer," said Mr. Kuypers,

frankly; "but still, I did not know I was changed. Why,

don't you remember Bruce? You remember Mrs. Chappell,

surely."

"Are you Bruce?" cried Mr. Molyneux; and he fairly

left his chair and went round the table to the young man.

"Why, I can see it now. But then--why, you were a boy,

you know, and this black beard--"

"But pray explain, pray explain," cried Tom. "The

mysteries increase on us. Who is Mrs. Chappell, and, for

that matter, who is Bruce, if his real name be not

Kuypers?"

And they all laughed heartily. People got back their

self-possession a little, and Mr. Kuypers explained.

"I am Bruce Kuypers," said he, "though your father

does not seem to remember the Kuypers part."

"No," said Mr. Molyneux, "I cannot remember the

Kuypers part, but the Bruce part I remember very well."

"My mother was Mrs. Kuypers before she married Mr.

Chappell, and Mr. Chappell died when my brother Ben was

six years old, and little Lizzy was a baby."

"Lizzy was my godchild," said Mrs. Molyneux, who now

remembered everything.

"Certainly she was, Mrs. Molyneux, and last month

Lizzy was married to as good a fellow as ever presided

over the melting of ingots. We marry them earlier at the

West than you do here."

"Where Lizzie would have been," he said more gravely,

addressing Tom again, "where my mother would have been,

or where I should have been but for your father and

mother here, it would be hard to tell. And all to-day I

have taken it for granted that to him, as to me, this has

been one part of that old Christmas! Surely you

remember?" he turned to Mrs. Molyneux.

Yes, Mrs. Molyneux did remember, but her eyes were

all running over with tears and she did not say so.

"Mr. Molyneux," said Bruce Kuypers, again addressing

Tom, "seventeen years ago this blessed day, there was a

Christmas morning in the poor old tenement above

Massachusetts Avenue such as you never saw, and such as

I hope you never may see.

"There was fire in the stove because your father had

sent the coal. There was oatmeal mush on the table

because your father paid my mother's scot at your

father's grocer.

"But there was not much jollity in that house, and

there were no Christmas presents, but what your mother

had sent to Bruce and Ben and Flora, and even to the

baby. Still we kept up such courage as we could.

It was a terribly cold day, and there was a wet storm.

"All of a sudden a carriage stopped at the door, and

in came your father here. He came to say that that day's

mail had brought a letter from Dr. Wilder of the navy,

conveying the full certificate that William Chappell's

death was caused by exposure in the service. That

certificate was what my mother needed for her pension.

She never could get it, but your father here had sifted

and worried and worked. The `Macedonian' arrived

Thursday at New York, and had Dr. Wilder on board, and

Friday afternoon your father had Wilder's letter, and he

left his own Christmas dinner to make light my mother's

and mine. That was not all. Your father, as he came,

had stopped to see Mr. Birdsall, who was the Speaker of

the House. He had seen the Speaker before, and had said

kind things about me. And that day the Speaker told him

to tell me to come and see him at his room at the Capitol

next day. Oh! how my mother dressed me up! Was there

ever such a page seen before! What with your father's

kind words and my dear mother's extra buttons, the

Speaker made me his own page the next day, and there I

served for four years. It was then that I was big enough

to go into the War Department, and Mr. Goodsell--he was

the next Speaker, if you remember--recommended me there.

"After that," said Bruce Kuypers, modestly, if I did

not see you so often, but I used to see you

sometimes, and I did not think"--this with a roguish

twinkling of the eye--"that you forgot your young friends

so soon."

"I remember you," said Tom. "I used to think you

were the grandest man in Washington. You gave me the

first ride on a sled I ever had, when there was some

exceptional fall of snow."

"I think we all remember Mr. Kuypers now," said

Matty, and she laughed while she blushed; "he always

bought things for our stockings. I have a Noah's Ark

upstairs now, that he gave me. In my youngest days I had

a queer mixture of the name Bruce and the name Santa

Claus. I believe I thought Santa Claus' name was

Nicholas Bruce. I am sure I did not know that Mr. Bruce

had any other name."

"If you had said you were Mr. Chappell," said Mr.

Molyneux, "I should have known you in a minute."

"But I was not," said the young man, laughing.

"Well, if you had said you were `Bruce,' I should

have known."

"Dear me, yes; but I have been a man so long, and at

Gem City nobody calls me Bruce, but my mother and Lizzy.

So I said `Mr. Kuypers,' forgetting that I had ever been

a boy. But now I am in Washington again, I shall

remember that things change here very fast in ten years.

And yet not so fast as they change at the mines."

And now everybody was at ease. How well Mrs.

Molyneux recalled to herself what she would not

speak of that Christmas Day of which Mr. Kuypers told his

story! It was in their young married life. She had her

father and mother to dine with her, and the event was

really a trial in her young experience. And then, just

as the old folks were expected, her husband came dashing

in and had asked her to put dinner a little later because

he had had this good news for the poor Widow Chappell,

and she had to tell her father and mother, when they

came, that they must all wait for his return.

The Widow Chappell was one of those waifs who seem

attracted to Washington by some fatal law. It had been

two or three months before that Mr. Molyneux had been

asked to hunt her up and help her. A letter had come,

asking him to do this, from Mrs. Fales, in Roxbury, and

Mrs. Fales had sent money for the Chappells. But the

money had gone in back rent, and shoes, and the rest, and

the wolf was very near the Chappells' door, when the

telegraph announced the "Macedonian." Mr. Molyneux had

telegraphed instanter to this Dr. Wilder. Dr. Wilder had

some sense of Christmas promptness. He remembered poor

Chappell perfectly, and mailed that night a thorough

certificate. This certificate it was which Mr. Molyneux

had carried to the poor old tenement of Massachusetts

Avenue, and this had made happy that Christmas Day--and

this.

"Why," said Mr. Bruce Kuypers, almost as if he were

speaking aloud, "it seems so queer that Christmas

comes and goes with you, and you have forgotten all about

that stormy day, and your ride to Mrs. Chappell's!

"Why, at our place, we drink Mr. Molyneux's health

every Christmas Day, and I am afraid the little ones used

to think that you had a red nose, a gray beard, and came

down the chimney!"

"As, at another place," said Matty, "they thought of

Mr. Bruce--of Noah's Ark memory."

"Anyway," said Mr. Molyneux, "any crumbs of comfort

we scattered that day were BREAD UPON THE WATERS."

Of Mr. Kuypers's quick journey the main points have

been told. Six days before, by some good luck, which

could hardly have been expected, the "Gem City Medium's"

despatch from Washington was full enough to be

intelligible. It was headed, "ANOTHER SWINDLER NAILED."

It said that Mr. Molyneux, of the Internal Improvement

office, had feathered his nest with $500,000 during

the war, in a pretended expedition to the Rio Grande. It

had now been discovered that there never was any such

expedition, and the correspondent of the Associated Press

hoped that justice would be done.

The moment Bruce Kuypers read this he was anxious.

Before an hour passed he had determined to cross to the

Pacific train eastward. Before night he was in a

sleeping-car. Day by day as he met Eastern papers, he

searched for news of the investigation. Day by day he

met it, but thanks to his promptness he had arrived in

time. It was pathetic to hear him describe his

anxiety from point to point, and they were all hushed to

silence when he told how glad he was when he found he

should certainly appear on Christmas Day.

After the dinner, another procession, not wholly

unlike the rabble rout of the morning, moved from the

dining-room to the great front parlor, where the tree was

lighted, and parcels of gray and white and brown lay

round on mantel, on piano, on chairs, on tables, and on

the floor.

No; this tale is too long already. We will not tell

what all the presents were to all the ten,--to Venty,

Chloe, Diana, and all of their color. Only let it tell

that all the ten had presents. To Mr. Kuypers's

surprise, and to every one's surprise, indeed, there were

careful presents for him as for the rest, but it must be

confessed that Horace and Laura had spelled Chipah a

little wildly. The truth was that each separate person

had feared that he would feel a little left on one

side,--he to whom so much was due on that day. And each

person, severally, down to the Brick himself, had gone

secretly, without consulting the others, to select from

his own possessions something very dear, and had wrapped

it up and marked it for the stranger. When Mr. Kuypers

opened a pretty paper, to find Matty's own illustrated

Browning, he was touched indeed. When in a rough brown

paper he found the Brick's jack-knife labelled "FOR THE

MAN," the tears stood in his eyes.

The next day the "Evening Lantern" contained this

editorial article:--

"The absurd fiasco regarding the accounts of Mr.

Molyneux, which has occupied the correspondents of the

periodical press for some days, and has even been

adverted to in New York journals claiming the title of

metropolitan, came to a fit end at the Capitol yesterday.

The wiseacre owls who started it did not see fit to put

in an appearance before the committee. Mr. Molyneux

himself sent to the Chairman a most interesting volume of

manuscript, which is, indeed, a valuable historical

memorial of times that tried men's souls. The committee

and other gentlemen present examined this curious record

with great interest. Not to speak of the minor details,

an autograph letter of the lamented Gen. Trebou gives

full credit to the Bureau of Internal Improvement for the

skill with which they executed the commission given them

in a department quite out of their line. Our brethren of

the `Argus' will be pleased to know that every grain of

oats and every spear of straw paid for by, the now famous

$47,000, are accounted for in detail. The authenticated

signatures of the somewhat celebrated Camara and Gazza

and the mythical Captain Cole appear. Very valuable

letters, throwing interesting light on our relations with

the Government of Mexico, from the pens of the lamented

Adams and Prigg, show what were the services of those

Spanish turncoats and their allies.

"We cannot say that we regret the attention which has

thus been given to a very important piece of history, too

long neglected in the rush of more petty affairs.

We take the occasion, however, to enter our protest

once more against this preposterous system of

`Resolutions,' in which, as it were in echo to every

niaiserie of every hired pen in the country, the

House degrades itself to the work of the common

scavenger, orders at immense expense an investigation

into some subject where all well informed persons are

fully advised, and at a cost of the national treasure,

etc., etc., etc. to the end of that chapter.'"

But I fear no one at the Molyneux mansion had "the

lantern." They had "found a man," and did not need a

lantern to look farther.

It was as Mr. Molyneux had said: he had cast his

Bread upon the Waters, and he had found it after many

days.

THE LOST PALACE

THE LOST PALACE

[From the Ingham Papers.]

"Passengers for Philadelphia and New York will change

cars."

This annoying and astonishing cry was loudly made in

the palace-car "City of Thebes," at Pittsburg, just as

the babies were well asleep, and all the passengers

adapting themselves to a quiet evening.

"Impossible!" said I, mildly, to the "gentlemanly

conductor," who beamed before me in the majesty of gilt

lace on his cap, and the embroidered letters P. P. C.

These letters do not mean, as in French, "to take leave,"

for the peculiarity of this man is, that he does not

leave you till your journey's end: they mean, in

American, "Pullman's Palace Car." "Impossible!" said I;

"I bought my ticket at Chicago through to Philadelphia,

with the assurance that the palace-car would go through.

This lady has done the same for herself and her children.

Nay, if you remember, you told me yourself that the `City

of Thebes' was built for the Philadelphia service, and

that I need not move my hat, unless I wished, till we

were there."

The man did not blush, but answered, in the well-

mannered tone of a subordinate used to obey,

Here are my orders, sir; telegram just received here

from headquarters: `"City of Thebes" is to go to

Baltimore.' Another palace here, sir, waiting for you."

And so we were trans-shipped into such chairs and berths

as might have been left in this other palace, as not

wanted by anybody in the great law of natural selection;

and the "City of Thebes" went to Baltimore, I suppose.

The promises which had been made to us when we bought our

tickets went to their place, and the people who made them

went to theirs.

Except for this little incident, of which all my

readers have probably experienced the like in these days

of travel, the story I am now to tell would have seemed

to me essentially improbable. But so soon as I

reflected, that, in truth, these palaces go hither, go

thither, controlled or not, as it may be, by some distant

bureau, the story recurred to me as having elements of

vraisemblance which I had not noticed before. Having

occasion, nearly at the same time, to inquire at the

Metropolitan station in Boston for a lost shawl which had

been left in a certain Brookline car, the gentlemanly

official told me that he did not know where that car was;

he had not heard of it for several days. This again

reminded me of "The Lost Palace." Why should not one

palace, more or less, go astray, when there are thousands

to care for? Indeed had not Mr. Firth told me, at

the Albany, that the worst difficulty in the

administration of a strong railway is, that they cannot

call their freight-cars home? They go astray on the line

of some weaker sister, which finds it convenient to use

them till they begin to show a need for paint or repairs.

If freight-cars disappear, why not palaces? So the story

seems to me of more worth, and I put it upon paper.

It was on my second visit to Melbourne that I heard

it. It was late at night, in the coffee-room of the

Auckland Arms, rather an indifferent third-class house,

in a by-street in that city, to which, in truth, I should

not have gone had my finances been on a better scale than

they were. I laid down, at last, an old New York

"Herald," which the captain of the "Osprey" had given me

that morning, and which, in the hope of home-news, I had

read and read again to the last syllable of the

"Personals." I put down the paper as one always puts

down an American paper in a foreign land, saying to

myself, "Happy is that nation whose history is

unwritten." At that moment Sir Roger Tichborne, who had

been talking with an intelligent-looking American on the

other side of the table, stretched his giant form, and

said he believed he would play a game of billiards before

he went to bed. He left us alone; and the American

crossed the room, and addressed me.

"You are from Massachusetts, are you not?" said he.

I said I had lived in that State.

"Good State to come from," said he. "I was

there myself for three or four months,--four months

and ten days precisely. Did not like it very well; did

not like it. At least I liked it well enough: my wife

did not like it; she could not get acquainted."

"Does she get acquainted here?" said I, acting on a

principle which I learned from Scipio Africanus at the

Latin School, and so carrying the war into the enemy's

regions promptly. That is to say, I saw I must talk with

this man, and I preferred to have him talk of his own

concerns rather than of mine.

"O sir, I lost her,--I lost her ten years ago! Lived

in New Altoona then. I married this woman the next

autumn, in Vandalia. Yes, Mrs. Joslyn is very well

satisfied here. She sees a good deal of society, and

enjoys very good health."

I said that most people did who were fortunate enough

to have it to enjoy. But Mr. Joslyn did not understand

this bitter sarcasm, far less resent it. He went on,

with sufficient volubility, to give to me his impressions

of the colony,--of the advantages it would derive from

declaring its independence, and then from annexing itself

to the United States. At the end of one of his periods,

goaded again to say something, I asked why he left his

own country for a "colony," if he so greatly preferred

the independent order of government.

Mr. Joslyn looked round somewhat carefully, shut the

door of the room in which we were now alone,--and

were likely, at that hour of the night, to be alone,--and

answered my question at length, as the reader will see.

"Did you ever hear of the lost palace?" said he a

little anxiously.

I said, no; that, with every year or two, I heard

that Mr. Layard had found a palace at Nineveh, but that

I had never heard of one's being lost.

"They don't tell of it, sir. Sometimes I think they

do not know themselves. Does not that seem possible?"

And the poor man repeated this question with such

eagerness, that, in spite of my anger at being bored by

him, my heart really warmed toward him. "I really think

they do not know. I have never seen one word in the

papers about it. Now, they would have put something in

the papers,--do you not think they would? If they knew

it themselves, they would."

"Knew what?" said I, really startled out of my

determination to snub him.

"Knew where the palace is,--knew how it was lost."

By this time, of course, I supposed he was crazy.

But a minute more dispelled that notion; and I beg the

reader to relieve his mind from it. This man knew

perfectly well what he was talking about, and never, in

the whole narration, showed any symptom of mania,--a

matter on which I affect to speak with the intelligence

of the "experts" indeed.

After a little of this fencing with each other, in

which he satisfied himself that my ignorance was not

affected, he took a sudden resolution, as if it were a

relief to him to tell me the whole story.

"It was years on years ago," said he. "It was when

they first had palaces."

Still thinking of Nimrod's palace and Priam's, I said

that must have been a great while ago.

"Yes, indeed," said he. "You would not call them

palaces now, since you have seen Pullman's and Wagner's.

But we called them palaces then. So many looking-

glasses, you know, and tapestry carpets and gold spit-

boxes. Ours was the first line that run palaces."

I asked myself, mentally, of what metal were the

spit-boxes in Semiramis's palace; but I said nothing.

"Our line was the first line that had them. We were

running our lightning express on the `Great Alleghanian.'

We were in opposition to everybody, made close

connections, served supper on board, and our passengers

only were sure of the night-boat at St. Louis. Those

were the days of river-boats, you know. We introduced

the palace feature on the railroad; and very successful

it was. I was an engineer. I had a first-rate

character, and the best wages of any man on the line.

Never put me on a dirt-dragger or a lazy freight loafer,

I tell you. No, sir! I ran the expresses, and nothing

else, and lay off two days in the week, besides. I don't

think I should have thought of it but for Todhunter,

who was my palace conductor."

Again this IT, which bad appeared so mysteriously in

what the man said before. I asked no question, but

listened, really interested now, in the hope I should

find out what IT was; and this the reader will learn. He

went on, in a hurried way:--

"Todhunter was my palace conductor. One night he was

full, and his palace was hot, and smelled bad of whale-

oil. We did not burn petroleum then. Well, it was a

splendid full moon in August; and we were coming down

grade, making up the time we had lost at the Brentford

junction. Seventy miles an hour she ran if she ran one.

Todhunter had brought his cigar out on the tender, and

was sitting by me. Good Lord! it seems like last week.

"Todhunter says to me, `Joslyn,' says he, `what's the

use of crooking all round these valleys, when it would be

so easy to go across?' You see, we were just beginning

to crook round, so as to make that long bend there is at

Chamoguin; but right across the valley we could see the

stern lights of Fisher's train: it was not more than half

a mile away, but we should run eleven miles before we

came there."

I knew what Mr. Joslyn meant. To cross the mountain

ranges by rail, the engineers are obliged to wind up one

side of a valley, and then, boldly crossing the head of

the ravine on a high arch, to wind up the other side

still, so that perhaps half an hour's journey is

consumed, while not a mile of real distance is made.

Joslyn took out his pencil, and on the back of an

envelope drew a little sketch of the country; which, as

it happened, I still preserve, and which, with his

comments, explains his whole story completely. "Here we

are," said he. "This black line is the Great

Alleghanian,--double track, seventy pounds to the yard;

no figuring off there, I tell you. This was a good

straight run, down grade a hundred and seventy-two feet

on the mile. There, where I make this X, we came on the

Chamoguin Valley, and turned short, nearly north.

So we ran wriggling about till Drums here, where we

stopped if they showed lanterns,--what we call a flag-

station. But there we got across the valley, and worked

south again to this other X, which was, as I say, not

five-eighths of a mile from this X above, though it had

taken us eleven miles to get there."

He had said it was not more than half a mile; but

this half-mile grew to five-eighths as he became more

accurate and serious.

"Well," said he, now resuming the thread of his

story, "it was Todhunter put it into my head. He owns he

did. Todhunter says, says he, `Joslyn, what's the use of

crooking round all these valleys, when it would be so

easy to go across?'

"Well, sir, I saw it then, as clear as I see it now.

When that trip was done, I had two days to myself,--one

was Sunday,--and Todhunter had the same; and he came

round to my house. His wife knew mine, and we liked

them. Well, we fell talking about it; and I got down the

Cyclopaedia, and we found out there about the speed of

cannon-balls, and the direction they had to give them.

You know this was only talk then; we never thought what

would come of it; but very curious it all was."

And here Mr. Joslyn went into a long mathematical

talk, with which I will not harass the reader, perfectly

sure, from other experiments which I have tried with

other readers, that this reader would skip it all if

it were written down. Stated very briefly, it amounted

to this: In the old-fashioned experiments of those days,

a cannon-ball travelled four thousand and one hundred

feet in nine seconds. Now, Joslyn was convinced, like

every other engineman I ever talked to, that on a steep

down-grade he could drive a train at the rate of a

hundred miles an hour. This is thirteen hundred and

fourteen feet in nine seconds,--almost exactly one-third

of the cannon-ball's velocity. At those rates, if the

valley at Chamoguin were really but five-eighths of a

mile wide, the cannon-ball would cross it in seven or

eight seconds, and the train in about twenty-three

seconds. Both Todhunter and Joslyn were good enough

mechanics and machinists to know that the rate for

thirty-three hundred feet, the width of the valley, was

not quite the same as that for four thousand feet; for

which, in their book, they had the calculations and

formulas; but they also knew that the difference was to

their advantage, or the advantage of the bold experiment

which had occurred to both of them when Todhunter had

made on the tender his very critical suggestion.

The reader has already conceived the idea of this

experiment. These rash men were wondering already

whether it were not possible to leap an engine flying

over the Chamoguin ravine, as Eclipse or Flying Childers

might have leaped the brook at the bottom of it. Joslyn

believed implicitly, as I found in talk with him,

the received statement of conversation, that Eclipse, at

a single bound, sprang forty feet. "If Eclipse, who

weighed perhaps one thousand two hundred, would spring

forty feet, could not my train, weighing two hundred

tons, spring a hundred times as far?" asked he

triumphantly. At least, he said that he said this to

Todhunter. They went into more careful studies of

projectiles, to see if it could or could not.

The article on "Gunnery" gave them just one of those

convenient tables which are the blessing of wise men and

learned men, and which lead half-trained men to their

ruin. They found that for their "range," which was, as

they supposed, eleven hundred yards, the elevation of a

forty-two pounder was one degree and a third; of a nine-

pounder, three degrees. The elevation for a railway

train, alas! no man had calculated. But this had

occurred to both of them from the beginning. In

descending the grade, at the spot where, on his little

map, Joslyn made the more westerly X, they were more than

eleven hundred feet above the spot where he had made his

second, or easterly X. All this descent was to the

advantage of the experiment. A gunner would have said

that the first X "commanded" the second X, and that a

battery there would inevitably silence a battery at the

point below.

"We need not figure on it," said Todhunter, as Mrs.

Joslyn called them in to supper. "If we did, we

should make a mistake. Give me your papers. When I go

up, Monday night, I'll give them to my brother Bill. I

shall pass him at Faber's Mills. He has studied all

these things, of course; and he will like the fun of

making it out for us." So they sat down to Mrs. Joslyn's

waffles; and, but for Bill Todhunter, this story would

never have been told to me, nor would John Joslyn and

"this woman" ever have gone to Australia.

But Bill Todhunter was one of those acute men of whom

the new civilization of this country is raising thousands

with every year; who, in the midst of hard hand-work, and

a daily duty which to collegians and to the ignorant men

among their professors seems repulsive, carry on careful

scientific study, read the best results of the latest

inquiry, manage to bring together a first-rate library of

reference, never spend a cent for liquor or tobacco,

never waste an hour at a circus or a ball, but make their

wives happy by sitting all the evening, "figuring," one

side of the table, while the wife is hemming napkins on

the other. All of a sudden, when such a man is wanted,

he steps out, and bridges the Gulf of Bothnia; and people

wonder, who forget that for two centuries and a half the

foresighted men and women of this country have been

building up, in the face of the Devil of Selfishness on

the one hand, and of the Pope of Rome on the other, a

system of popular education, improving every hour.

At this moment Bill Todhunter was foreman of Repair

Section No. II on the "Great Alleghanian,"--a position

which needed a man of first-rate promptness, of great

resource, of good education in engineering. Such a man

had the "Great Alleghanian" found in him, by good luck;

and they had promoted him to their hardest-worked and

best-paid section,--the section on which, as it happened,

was this Chamoguin run, and the long bend which I have

described, by which the road "headed" that stream.

The younger Todhunter did meet his brother at Faber's

Mills, where the repair-train had hauled out of the way

of the express, and where the express took wood. The

brothers always looked for each other on such occasions;

and Bill promised to examine the paper which Joslyn had

carefully written out, and which his brother brought to

him.

I have never repeated in detail the mass of

calculations which Bill Todhunter made on the suggestion

thus given to him. If I had, I would not repeat them

here, for a reason which has been suggested already. He

became fascinated with the problem presented to him.

Stated in the language of the craft, it was this:

Given a moving body, with a velocity eight thousand

eight hundred feet in a minute, what should be its

elevation that it may fall eleven hundred feet in the

transit of five-eighths of a mile?" He had not only

to work up the parabola, comparatively simple, but he had

to allow for the resistance of the air, on the

supposition of a calm, according to the really admirable

formulas of Robins and Coulomb, which were the best be

had access to. Joslyn brought me, one day, a letter from

Bill Todhunter, which shows how carefully he went into

this intricate inquiry.

Unfortunately for them all, it took possession of

this spirited and accomplished young man. You see, he

not only had the mathematical ability for the calculation

of the fatal curve, but, as had been ordered without any

effort of his, he was in precisely the situation of the

whole world for trying in practice his own great

experiment. At each of the two X X of Joslyn's map, the

company had, as it happened, switches for repair-trains

or wood-trains. Had it not, Bill Todhunter had ample

power to make them.

For the "experiment," all that was necessary was,

that under the pretext of re-adjusting these switches, he

should lay out that at the upper X so that it should run,

on the exact grade which he required, to the western edge

of the ravine, in a line which should be the direct

continuation of the long, straight run with which the

little map begins.

An engine, then, running down that grade at the

immense rapidity practicable there, would take the switch

with its full speed, would fly the ravine at precisely

the proper slopes, and, if the switch had been

rightly aligned, would land on the similar switch at the

lower X. It would come down exactly right on the track,

as you sit precisely on a chair when you know exactly how

high it is.

"If." And why should it not be rightly aligned, if

Bill Todhunter himself aligned it? This he was well

disposed to do. He also would align the lower switch,

that at the lower X, that it might receive into its

willing embrace the engine on its arrival.

When the bold engineer had conceived this plan, it

was he who pushed the others on to it, not they who urged

him. They were at work on their daily duty, sometimes

did not meet each other for a day or two. Bill Todhunter

did not see them more than once in a fortnight. But

whenever they did meet, the thing seemed to be taken more

and more for granted. At last Joslyn observed one day,

as he ran down, that there was a large working-party at

the switch above Drums, and he could see Bill Todhunter,

in his broad sombrero, directing them all. Joslyn was

not surprised, somehow, when he came to the lower switch,

to find another working-party there. The next time they

all three met, Bill Todhunter told them that all was

ready if they were. He said that he had left a few

birches to screen the line of the upper switch, for fear

some nervous bungler, driving an engine down, might be

frightened, and "blow" about the switch. But he said

that any night when the others were ready to make

the fly, he was; that there would be a full moon the next

Wednesday, and, if there was no wind, he hoped they would

do it then.

"You know," said poor Joslyn, describing it to me, "I

should never have done it alone; August would never have

done it alone; no, I do not think that Bill Todhunter

himself would have done it alone. But our heads were

full of it. We had thought of it and thought of it till

we did not think of much else; and here was everything

ready, and neither of us was afraid, and neither of us

chose to have the others think he was afraid. I did say,

what was the truth, that I had never meant to try it with

a train. I had only thought that we should apply to the

supe, and that he would get up a little excursion party

of gentlemen,--editors, you know, and stockholders,--who

would like to do it together, and that I should have the

pleasure and honor of taking them over. But Todhunter

poohed at that. He said all the calculations were made

for the inertia of a full train, that that was what the

switch was graded for, and that everything would have to

be altered if any part of the plan were altered.

Besides, he said the superintendent would never agree,

that he would insist on consulting the board and the

chief engineer, and that they would fiddle over it till

Christmas.

"`No,' said Bill, `next Wednesday, or never! If you

will not do it then, I will put the tracks back

again.' August Todhunter said nothing; but I knew he

would do what we agreed to, and he did.

"So at last I said I would jump it on Wednesday

night, if the night was fine. But I had just as lief own

to you that I hoped it would not be fine. Todhunter--

Bill Todhunter, I mean--was to leave the switch open

after the freight had passed, and to drive up to the

Widow Jones's Cross Road. There he would have a lantern,

and I would stop and take him up. He had a right to stop

us, as chief of repairs. Then we should have seven miles

down-grade to get up our speed, and then--we should see!

"Mr. Ingham, I might have spared myself the hoping

for foul weather. It was the finest moonlight night that

you ever knew in October. And if Bill Todhunter had

weighed that train himself, he could not have been better

pleased,--one baggage-car, one smoking-car, two regular

first-class, and two palaces: she run just as steady as

an old cow! We came to the Widow Jones's, square on

time; and there was Bill's lantern waving. I slowed the

train: he jumped on the tender without stopping it. I

`up brakes' again, and then I told Flanagan, my fireman,

to go back to the baggage-car, and see if they would lend

me some tobacco. You see, we wanted to talk, and we

didn't want him to see. `Mr. Todhunter and I will feed

her till you come back,' says I to Flanagan. In a

minute after he had gone, August Todhunter came forward

on the engine; and, I tell you, she did fly!

"`Not too fast,' said Bill, `not too fast: too fast

is as bad as too slow.'

"`Never you fear me,' says I. `I guess I know this

road and this engine. Take out your watch, and time the

mile-posts,' says I; and he timed them. `Thirty-eight

seconds,' says he; `thirty-seven and a half, thirty-six,

thirty-six, thirty-six,'--three times thirty-six, as we

passed the posts, just as regular as an old clock! And

then we came right on the mile-post you know at Old

Flander's. `Thirty-six,' says Bill again. And then she

took the switch,--I can hear that switch-rod ring under

us now Mr. Ingham,--and then--we were clear!

"Wasn't it grand? The range was a little bit up,

you see, at first; but it seemed as if we were flying

just straight across. All the rattle of the rail

stopped, you know, though the pistons worked just as true

as ever; neither of us said one word, you know; and she

just flew--well, as you see a hawk fly sometimes, when he

pounces, you know, only she flew so straight and true!

I think you may have dreamed of such things. I have; and

now,--now I dream it very often. It was not half a

minute, you know, but it seemed a good long time. I said

nothing and they said nothing; only Bill just squeezed my

hand. And just as I knew we must be half over,--for I

could see by the star I was watching ahead that we

were not going up, but were falling again,--do you think

the rope by my side tightened quick, and the old bell on

the engine gave one savage bang, turned right over as far

as the catch would let it, and stuck where it turned!

Just that one sound, everything else was still; and then

she landed on the rails, perhaps seventy feet inside the

ravine, took the rails as true and sweet as you ever saw

a ship take the water, hardly touched them, you know,

skimmed--well, as I have seen a swallow skim on the sea;

the prettiest, well, the tenderest touch, Mr. Ingham,

that ever I did see! And I could just hear the

connecting rods tighten the least bit in the world behind

me, and we went right on.

"We just looked at each other in the faces, and we

could not speak; no, I do not believe we spoke for three

quarters of a minute. Then August said, `Was not that

grand? Will they let us do it always, Bill?' But we

could not talk then. Flanagan came back with the

tobacco, and I had just the wit to ask him why he had

been gone so long. Poor fellow! he was frightened enough

when we pulled up at Clayville, and he thought it was

Drums. Drums, you see, was way up the bend, a dozen

miles above Clayville. Poor Flanagan thought we must

have passed there while he was skylarking in the baggage-

car, and that he had not minded it. We never stopped at

Drums unless we had passengers, or they. It was what

we call a flag-station. So I blew Flanagan up, and

told him he was gone too long.

"Well, sir, at Clayville we did stop,--always stopped

there for wood. August Todhunter, he was the palace

conductor; he went back to look to his passengers. Bill

stayed with me. But in a minute August came running

back, and called me off the engine. He led me forward,

where it was dark; but I could see, as we went, that

something was to pay. The minute we were alone he

says,--

"`John, we've lost the rear palace.'

"`Don't fool me, August,' says I.

"`No fooling, John,' says he. `The shackle parted.

The cord parted, and is flying loose behind now. If you

want to see, come and count the cars. The "General

Fremont" is here all right; but I tell you the "James

Buchanan" is at the bottom of the Chamoguin Creek.'

"I walked back to the other end of the platform, as

fast as I could go and not be minded. Todhunter was

there before me, tying up the loose end of the bell-cord.

There was a bit of the broken end of the shackle twisted

in with the bolt. I pulled the bolt and threw the iron

into the swamp far as I could fling her. Then I nodded

to Todhunter and walked forward just as that old goose at

Clayville had got his trousers on, so he could come out,

and ask me if we were not ahead of time. I tell you,

sir, I did not stop to talk with him. I just rang `All

aboard!' and started her again; and this time I run

slow enough to save the time before we came down to

Steuben. We were on time, all right, there."

Here poor Joslyn stopped a while in his story; and I

could see that he was so wrought up with excitement that

I had better not interrupt, either with questions or with

sympathy. He rallied in a minute or two, and said,--

"I thought--we all thought--that there would be a

despatch somewhere waiting us. But no; all was as

regular as the clock. One palace more or less,--what did

they know, and what did they care? So daylight came. We

could not say a word, you know, with Flanagan there; and

we only stopped, you know, a minute or two every hour;

and just then was when August Todhunter had to be with

his passengers, you know. Was not I glad when we came

into Pemaquid,--our road ran from Pemaquid across the

mountains to Eden, you know,--when we came into Pemaquid,

and nobody had asked any questions?

"I reported my time at the office of the master of

trains, and I went home. I tell you, Mr. Ingham, I have

never seen Pemaquid Station since that day.

"I had done nothing wrong, of course. I had obeyed

every order, and minded every signal. But still I knew

public opinion might be against me when they heard of the

loss of the palace. I did not feel very well about it,

and I wrote a note to say I was not well enough to take

my train the next night; and I and Mrs. Joslyn went

to New York, and I went aboard a Collins steamer as

fireman; and Mrs. Joslyn, she went as stewardess; and I

wrote to Pemaquid, and gave up my place. It was a good

place, too; but I gave it up, and I left America.

Bill Todhunter, he resigned his place too, that same

day, though that was a good place. He is in the Russian

service now. He is running their line from Archangel to

Astrachan; good pay, he says, but lonely. August would

not stay in America after his brother left; and he is now

captain's clerk on the Harkaway steamers between Bangkok

and Cochbang; good place he says, but hot. So we are all

parted.

"And do you know, sir, never one of us ever heard of

the lost palace!"

Sure enough, under that very curious system of

responsibility, by which one corporation owns the

carriages which another corporation uses, nobody in the

world has to this moment ever missed "The Lost Palace."

On each connecting line, everybody knew that "she" was

not there; but no one knew or asked where she was. The

descent into the rocky bottom of the Chamouin, more than

fifteen hundred feet below the line of flight, had of

course been rapid,--slow at first, but in the end rapid.

In the first second, the lost palace had fallen sixteen

feet; in the second, sixty-four; in the third, one

hundred and forty-four; in the fourth, two hundred and

fifty-six; in the fifth, four hundred feet; so that

it must have been near the end of the sixth second of its

fall, that, with a velocity now of more than six hundred

feet in a second, the falling palace, with its

unconscious passengers, fell upon the rocks at the bottom

of the Chamoguin ravine. In the dead of night, wholly

without jar or parting, those passengers must have been

sleeping soundly; and it is impossible, therefore, on any

calculation of human probability, that any one of them

can have been waked an instant before the complete

destruction of the palace, by the sudden shock of its

fall upon the bed of the stream. To them the accident,

if it is fair to call it so, must have been wholly free

from pain.

The tangles of that ravine, and the swamp below it,

are such that I suppose that even the most adventurous

huntsman never finds his way there. On the only occasion

when I ever met Mr. Jules Verne he expressed a desire to

descend there from one of his balloons, to learn whether

the inhabitants of "The Lost Palace" might not still

survive, and be living in a happy republican colony

there,--a place without railroads, without telegrams,

without mails, and certainly without palaces. But at the

moment when these sheets go to press, no account of such

an adventure has appeared from his rapid pen.

99 LINWOOD STREET

A CHRISTMAS STORY

A gray morning, the deck wet, the iron all beaded with

frost, all the longshoremen in heavy pea-jackets or

cardigans, the whole ship in a bustle, and the favored

first-class passengers just leaving.

One sad-looking Irish girl stands with her knit hood

already spotted with the rime, and you cannot tell

whether those are tears which hang from her black

eyelashes or whether the fog is beginning to freeze

there. What you see is that the poor thing looks right

and left and up the pier and down the pier, and that in

the whole crowd--they all seem so selfish--she sees

nobody. Hundreds of people going and coming, pushing and

hauling, and Nora's big brother is not there, as he

promised to be and should be.

Mrs. Ohstrom, the motherly Swedish woman, who has

four children and ten tin cups and a great bed and five

trunks and a fatuous, feckless husband makes time,

between cousins and uncles and custom-house men and

sharpers, to run up every now and then to say that Nora

must not cry, that she must be easy, that she has spoken

to the master and the master has said they are three

hours earlier than they were expected. And all this

was so kindly meant and so kindly said that poor Nora

brushed the tears away, if they were tears, and thanked

her, though she did not understand one word that dear

Mrs. Ohstrom said to her. What is language, or what are

words, after all?

And the bright-buttoned, daintily dressed little

ship's doctor, whom poor Nora hardly knew in his shore

finery,--he made time to stop and tell her that the ship

was too early, and that she must not worry. Father, was

it, she was waiting for? "Oh, brother! Oh, he will be

sure to be here! Better sit down. Here is a chair.

Don't cry. I am afraid you had no breakfast. Take this

orange. It will cheer you up. I shall see you again."

Alas! the little doctor was swept away and forgot

Nora for a week, and she "was left lamenting."

For one hour went by, and two, and three. The

Swedish woman went, and the doctor went, and the girl

could see the captain go, and the mate that gave them

their orders every morning. The custom-house people

began to go. The cabs and other carriages for the gentry

had gone long before.

And poor Nora was left lamenting.

Then was it that that queer Salvation Army girl, with

a coal-scuttle for a bonnet, came up again. She had

smiled pleasantly two or three times before, and had

asked Nora to eat a bun. Poor Nora broke down and

cried heartily this time. But the other was patient and

kind, and said just what the others had said. Only she

did not go away. And she had the sense to ask if Nora

knew where the brother lived.

"Why, of course I do, miss. See, here is the

paper."

And the little soldier lass read it: "99 Linwood

Street, Boston."

"My poor child, what a pity you did not let us see it

before!"

Alas and alas! Nora's box was of the biggest. But

the army lass flinched at nothing.

An immense wagon, with two giant horses, loaded with

the most extraordinary chests which have been seen since

the days of the Vikings. Piled on the top were many

feather-beds, and on the top of the feather-beds a

Scandinavian matron. With Mike, the good-natured

teamster, who was at once captain and pilot of this

craft, the army lass had easily made her treaty, when he

was told the story. He was to carry Nora and her outfit

to the Linwood Street house after he had taken these

Swedes to theirs. "And indade it will not be farr, miss.

There 's a shorrt cut behind Egan's, if indade he did not

put up a tinimint house since I was that way." And with

new explanations to Nora that all was right, that indeed

it was better this way than it would have been had her

brother been called from his work, she was lifted,

without much consent of her own, to the driver's seat,

and her precious "box" was so placed that she could

rest her little feet upon it.

Nora had proudly confided to the friendly lass the

assurance that she had money, had even shown a crisp $2

bill which had been sent to her for exigencies.

But when the lass made the contract with Mike

Dermott, the good fellow said he should take Nora and her

box for the love of County Cork. "Indade, indade, I

don't take money from the like of her."

And so they started, with the Swedish men walking on

one side of the cart with their rifles, keeping a good

lookout for buffaloes and red Indians and grizzly bears,

as men landing in a new country which they were to

civilize. More sailing for there was the ferry to cross

to old Boston. Much waiting, for there was a broken-down

coal-wagon in Salutation Alley. Long conference between

Nora and Mike, in which he did all the talking and she

all the listening, as to home rule and Mr. McCarthy, and

what O'Brien thought of this, and what Cunniff thought of

that. Then an occasional question came in Swedish from

the matron above their heads, and was followed by a reply

in Celtic English from Mike, each wholly ignorant of the

views or wishes of the others. And occasionally the

escort of riflemen, after some particular attack of

chaff, in words which they fortunately did not

understand, looked up to their matron, controller, and

director, exchanged words with her, and then studied

the pavement again for tracks of buffalo. A long hour of

all this, the stone and brick of the city giving way to

green trees between the houses as they come to

Dorchester.

Poor Nora looks right and looks left, hoping to meet

her big brother. She begins to think she shall remember

him. Everybody else looks so different from Fermoy that

he must look like home.

But there is no brother.

There is at last a joyful cry as the Swedish matron

and the riflemen recognize familiar faces. And Mike

smiles gladly, and brings round the stout bays with a

twitch, so that the end of the cart comes square to the

sidewalk. Somebody produces a step-ladder, and the

Swedish matron, with her bird-cage in her hand, descends

in triumph. Much kissing, much shaking of hands, much

thanking of God, more or less reverent. Then the cords

are cut, beds flung down, the giant boxes lifted, the

sons of Anak only know how. The money covenanted for is

produced and paid, and Mike mounts lightly to Nora's

side.

"And now, Nora, my child, wherr is the paper? For in

two minutes we 'll soon be therr, now that this rubbish

is landed."

And he read on the precious paper, "John McLaughlin,

99 Linwood Street."

Strange to say, the paper said just what it had said

two hours before.

"And now, my dear child, we will be therr in ten

minutes, if only we can cross back of Egan's."

And although they could not cross back of Egan's, for

Egan had put up a "tinimint" house since Mike had passed

that way, yet in ten minutes Linwood Street had been

found. No. 99 at last revealed itself, between Nos. 7

and 2,--a great six-story wooden tinder-box, with

clothes-lines mysterious behind, open doors in front,

long passages running through, three doors on each side

of a passage, and the wondering heads of eleven women who

belonged to five different races and spoke in six

different languages appearing from their eleven windows,

as Mike and Nora and the two bays all stopped at one and

the same moment at the door.

Mike was already anxious about his time, for he was

to be at the custom-house an hour away or more at eleven

sharp. But he selected a certain Widow Flynn from the

eleven white-capped women; he explained to her briefly

that John McLaughlin was to be found; he told Nora for

the thirty-seventh time that all was right and that she

must not cry; he looked at his watch again, rather

anxiously, mounted his box, and drove swiftly away.

He was the one thread which bound Nora to this world.

And this thread broke before her eyes.

Mrs. Flynn affected to be cheerful. But she was not

cheerful. Mrs. Flynn was a prominent person in her

sodality. And well she knew that if any John

McLaughlin in those parts were expecting any sister from

home, she should know him and where he lived. Well she

knew, also, that John McLaughlin, the mason, was born in

Glasgow; that John McLaughlin, who is on the city work,

had all his family around him, and, most distinct of all,

she knew that no McLaughlin, sisterless or many-sistered,

lived in this beehive which she lived in, though it were

99 Linwood Street. Into her own cell of that beehive,

however, she took poor, sad, desolate Nora. Into the

hallway she bade the loafing neighbor boys bring Nora's

trunk; in a language Nora could hardly understand she

explained to her that all would be well as soon as the

policeman passed by. She sent Mary Murphy, who happened

to be at home from school, for a pint of milk, and so

compelled Nora to drink a cup of tea and to eat a biscuit

and a dropped egg, while they waited for the policeman.

Of course he knew of seven John McLaughlins. He even

went to the drug-store and looked in the Boston Directory

to find that there were there the names of sixty-one

more. But not one of them lived in Linwood Street, as

they all knew already. All the same Nora was charged not

to cry, to drink more tea and eat more bread and butter.

The "cop" said he would look in on three of the Johns

whom he knew, and intelligent boys now returning from

school were sent to the homes of the other four to

interrogate them as to any expected sister. Within an

hour, now nearly one o'clock, answers were received

from all the seven. No one of them expected chick or

child from Fermoy.

But the "cop" had a suggestion to make. His pocket

list of names of streets revealed another Linwood

Street--in Roxbury; not this one in Dorchester. Be it

known to unlearned readers, who in snug shelter in

Montana follow along this little tale, that Roxbury and

Dorchester are both parts of that large municipality

called Boston. Though no John McLaughlin was in the

directory for 99 Linwood Street, Roxbury, was not that

the objective? Poor Nora was questioned as to Roxbury.

She was sure she never heard of it.

But the clue was too good to be lost, and the

authority of the friendly "cop" was too great to be

resisted. He telephoned to the central office that Nora

McLaughlin, just from Ireland, had been found, in a

fashion, but that no one knew where to put her. Then he

stopped a milkman from Braintree, who delivered afternoon

milk for invalids.

Was he not going through Roxbury?

Of course he was.

Would he not take this lost child to 99 Linwood Street?

Of course he would. Milkmen, from their profession,

have hearts warm toward children.

Well, if he were to take her, he had better take her

trunk too.

To which illogical proposal the milkman

acceded--on the afternoon route there is so much

less milk to take than there is in the morning.

So Nora was lifted into the milk-wagon. In tears she

kissed good Mrs. Flynn. The boys and girls assembled to

bid her good-by, and even she had a hope for a few

moments that her troubles were at an end.

At 99 Linwood Street, Roxbury, they were preparing

for the Review Club.

The Review Club met once a fortnight at half-past two

o'clock at the house of one or another of the members.

They first arranged the little details of the business.

Then the hostess read, or made some one read, the scraps

which seemed most worthy in the reviews and magazines of

the last issues, and at four the husbands and brothers

and neighbors generally dropped in, and there was

afternoon tea.

"You are sure you have cream enough, Ellen?"

"Oh, yes, mum."

"All kinds of tea, you know, that which the Chinese

gentlemen sent, and be sure of the chocolate for Mrs.

Bunce."

"Indeed yes, mum."

"And let me know just before you bring up the hot

water." Doorbell rings. "There is Mrs. Walter now!"

No, it wasn't Mrs. Walter. She came three minutes

after. But before she came, Howells, the milkman, had

lifted Nora from her seat. As the snow fell fast on the

doorsteps, he carried her carefully up to the door,

and even by the time Ellen answered the bell he had the

heavy chest, dragging it over the snow by the stout rope

at one end.

Ellen was amazed to find this group instead of Mrs.

Walter. She called her mistress, who heard Howells's

realistic story with amazement, not to say amusement.

"You poor dear child!" she cried at once. "Come in

where it is dry! John McLaughlin? No, indeed! Who can

John McLaughlin be? Ellen, what is Mike's last name?"

Mike was the choreman, who made the furnace fire and

kept the sidewalk.

"Mike's name, mum? I don't know, mum. Mary will

know, mum."

And for the moment Ellen disappeared to find Mary.

"Never mind, never mind. Come in, you poor child.

You are very good to bring her, Mr. Howells, very good

indeed. We will take care of her. Is it going to

storm?"

Mr. Howells thought it was going to storm, and turned

to go away. At that moment Mrs. Walter arrived, the

first comer of the Review Club. And Nora's new hostess

had to turn to her guests, while Ellen in the last cares

for the afternoon table had to comfort Nora by spasms.

It was left for Margaret the chambermaid to pump out--or

to screw out, as you choose--the details of the story

from the poor frightened waif, who seemed more astray

than ever.

John McLaughlin? No. Nobody knew anything about

him. The last choreman was named McManus, but he went to

Ottawa three years ago!

And while the different facts and doubts were

canvassed in the kitchen, upstairs they settled the

Bulgarian question, the origin of the natives of

Tasmania, and the last questions about realism.

Only the mind of the lady of the house returned again

and again to questions as to the present residence of

John McLaughlin.

For in spite of the gathering snow and the prospect

of more, the members of the Review Club had followed fast

on Mrs. Walters and gathered in full force.

The hostess, though somewhat preoccupied, was

courteous and ready.

Only the functions of the club, as they went forward,

would be occasionally interrupted. Thus she would read

aloud "as in her private duty bound"--

"`The peasantry were excited, but were held in check

by promises from Stambuloff. The emissaries of the

Czar--'

"Mrs. Goodspeed, would you mind reading on? Here is

the place. I see my postman pass the window."

And so, moving quickly to the front door, she

interviewed the faithful Harrington, dressed, heaven

knows why, in Confederate uniform of gray. For

Harrington had served his four years on the loyal side.

Four times a day did Harrington with his letter-bag

renew the connection of this household with the world and

other worlds.

"Dear Mr. Harrington, I thought you could tell us.

Here is a girl named Nora McLaughlin, and here is her

trunk, both left at the door by the milkman, and we do

not know anything about where she belongs."

"Insufficient address?" asked Harrington,

professionally.

"Exactly. All she knows is that her brother is named

John."

"A great many of them are," said Harrington, already

writing on his memorandum book, and in his memory fixing

the fact that a large, two-legged living parcel,

insufficiently addressed, had been left at the wrong door

for John McLaughlin; also a trunk, too large for delivery

by the penny post.

"I will tell the other men, and if I was you I would

send to the police."

"Would you mind telling the first officer you meet?

I hate to send my girls out." And so she returned to

Bulgaria.

But Bulgaria was ended, and Mrs. Conover handed her

an article on "Antarctic Discovery." She was again

reading:--

"Under these circumstances Captain Wilkes, who had

collected a boatload of stones from the front of the

glacier," when she gave back the "Forum" to Mrs. Conover.

"Would you mind going on just a minute? " she said, and

ran out to meet the icecream man. So soon as he had

left his tins she said,--

"Mr. Fridge, would you mind stopping at the Dudley

School as you go home and telling Miss Lougee that there

is a lost girl here?" etc.

Good Mr. Fridge was most eager to help, and the

hostess returned, took the book again and read on with

"the temperature, as they observed it, was 99 degrees C.;

but, as the alcohol in their tins was frozen at the

moment, there seemed reason to suspect the correctness of

this observation."

And a shiver passed over the Review Club.

Thus far the powers of confusion and error seemed to

have been triumphant over poor Nora, or such was the

success of that power who uses these agencies, if the

reader prefer to personify him.

But the time had come to turn his left flank and to

attack his forces in the rear, for the postman now took

the field,--that is to say, Harrington, good fellow,

finished his third delivery, four good miles and nine-

tenths of a furlong, snow two inches deep, three, four,

six, before he was done, and then returned to his branch

office to report.

"Two-legged parcel; insufficient address; 99 Linwood

Street! Jim, what ever come to that letter that went to

99 Linwood Street with insufficient address six weeks

ago?"

"Linwood Street? Insufficient address? Foreign

letter? Why, of course, you know, went back to the

central office."

"I guess it did," said Harrington, grimly; "so I must

go there too."

This meant that after Harrington had gone his rounds

again on delivery route No. 6, four more miles and nine-

tenths more of a furlong, 313 doorbells and only 73 slit

boxes, snow now ranging from 6 inches to 12 on the

sidewalks, and breast-deep where there was a chance for

drifting, when all this was well done, so that Harrington

had no more duties to Uncle Sam, he could take Nora

McLaughlin's work in hand, and thus defeat the prince of

evil.

To the central office by a horse-car. Blocked once

or twice, but well at the office at 7.30 in the evening.

Christmas work heavy, so the whole home staff is on

duty. That is well. Enemy of souls loses one point

there.

Blind-letter clerks all here. Insufficient-delivery

men both here. Chief of returned bureau here. All

summoned to the foreign office as Harrington tells his

story. Indexes produced, ledgers, journals, day-books,

and private passbooks. John McLaughlin's biography

followed out on 67 of the different avatars in which his

personality has been manifested under that name. False

trail here--clue breaks there--scent fails here, but at

last--a joyful cry from Will Search:--

"Here you are! Insufficient address. November 1.

Queenstown letter--`Linwood, to John McLaughlin. Try

Dorchester. Try Roxbury. Try East Boston. Try

Somerville'-- and there it stops, and was not returned."

"Try Somerville!"

In these words great light fell over the eager

circle. Not because Somerville is the seat of an insane

hospital. No! But because it is not in the Boston

Directory.

If you please, Somerville is an independent city, and

so, unless John McLaughlin worked in Boston, if he lived

in Somerville, he would not be in the Boston Directory.

Not much! Somerville has its own seven John

McLaughlins besides those Boston ones.

"I say, Harry, Tom, Dick--somebody fetch Somerville

Directory!"

Dick flew and returned with the book.

"Here you be! `John McLaughlin, laborer, 99 Linwood

Street!

"Victory!"

Satan's forces tremble, and as the different officers

return to their desks "even the ranks of Tuscany" in that

well-bred office "can scarce forbear to cheer."

As for Harrington, he bids good-by, wraps his tartan

around him, and is out in the snow again. Where Linwood

Street is he "knows no more than the dead." But somebody

will know.

Somerville car. Draw of bridge open. Man falls into

the river and has to be rescued. Draw closes. Snow-

drift at Margin Street. Shovels. Drift open. Centre of

Somerville. Apothecary's shop open. "Please, where is

Linwood Street?"

"Take your second left, cross three or four streets,

turn to the right by the water-pipe, take the third

right, go down hill by the schoolhouse and take second

left, and you come out at 11 Linwood Street."

All which Harrington does. He experiences one

continual burst of joy that his route does not take him

through these detours daily. But his professional

experience is good for him. We have no need to describe

his false turns. Even aniseed would have been useless in

that snow. At last, just as the Somerville bells ring

for nine o'clock, Harrington also rings triumphant at the

door of the little five-roomed cottage, where his lantern

has already revealed the magic number 99.

Ring! as for a gilt-edged special delivery! Door

thrown open by a solid man with curly red hair, unshaven

since Sunday, in his shirtsleeves and with kerosene lamp

in his hand.

"Are you John McLaughlin?"

"Indade I am; the same."

"And where's your sister Nora?"

The good fellow, who had been stern before, broke

down. "And indade I was saying to Ellen it's an awful

night for 'em all in the gale off the coast in the ship.

The holy Virgin and the good God take care of 'em!"

"They have taken care of them," said Harrington,

reverently. "The ship is safe in dock, and your sister

Nora is in Roxbury, at 99 Linwood Street!"

And a broad grin lighted his face as he spoke the words.

There was joy in every bed and at every door of the

five rooms. Then John hastily donned coat, cardigan, and

ulster. He persuaded Harrington to drink a cup of red-

hot tea which was brewing on the stove. While the good

fellow did so, and ate a St. Anne's bun, which Mrs.

McLaughlin produced in triumph, John was persuading

Hermann Gross, the expressman next door, to put the gray

into a light pung he had for special delivery. By the

time Harrington went to the door two lanterns were

flitting about in the snow-piled yard behind the two

houses.

Harrington assisted in yoking the gray. In five

minutes he and John were defying the gale as they sped

across the silent bridge, bound south to Roxbury. Poor

little Nora was asleep in the parlor on the sofa. She

had begged and begged that she need not be put to bed,

and by her side her protector sat reading about the

antarctic. But of a sudden Harrington reappeared.

Is it Santa Claus?

Indeed it is! Beard, hat, coat, all white with snow!

And Santa Claus has come for the best present he will

deliver that evening!

Dear little Nora is wrapped in sealskins and other

skins, mauds and astrakhan rugs. She has a hot brick at

her feet, and Pompey, the dog, is made to lie over them,

so John McLaughlin No. 68 takes her in triumph to 99

Linwood Street.

That was a Christmas to be remembered! And Christmas

morning, after church, the Brothers of St. Patrick, which

was the men's society, and the Sodality of St. Anne's,

which was the women's, determined on a great Twelfth-

night feast to celebrate Nora's return.

It was to show "how these brethren love one another."

They proposed to take the rink. People didn't use

it for skating in winter as much as in summer.

Nora was to receive, with John McLaughlin and his

wife to assist. The other 74 John McLaughlins were to

act as ushers.

The Salvation Army came first, led by the lass who

found Michael.

Procession No. 2 was Mike and the teamsters who

"don't take nothing for such as she."

Third, in special horse-cars, which went through from

Dorchester to Somerville by a vermilion edict from the

West End Company, the eleven families of that No. 99.

They stopped in Roxbury to pick up Ellen and the hostess

of the Review Club.

Fourth, all the patrolmen who had helped and all who

tried to help, led by "cop" No. 47.

Fifth, all the school children who had told the story

and had made inquiries.

Sixth, the man who made the Somerville Directory.

Seventh and last, in two barouches, Harrington and

the chiefs of staff at the general post-office. And the

boys asked Father McElroy to make a speech to all just

before the dancing began.

And he said: "The lost sheep was never lost. She

thought she was lost in the wilderness, but she was at

home, for she was met by the Christmas greeting of the

world into which the dear Lord was born!"

NOTE.--It may interest the reader to know that the

important part of this story is true.

IDEALS

CHAPTER I

IN ACCOUNT

I have a little circle of friends, among all my other

friends quite distinct, though of them. They are four

men and four women; the husbands more in love with

their wives than on the days when they married them,

and the wives with their husbands. These people live

for the good of the world, to a fair extent, but much,

very much, of their lives is passed together. Perhaps

the happiest period they ever knew was when, in

different subordinate capacities, they were all on the

staff of the same magazine. Then they met daily at the

office, lunched together perforce, and could make

arrangements for the evening. But, to say true, things

differ little with them now, though that magazine long

since took wings and went to a better world.

Their names are Felix and Fausta Carter, Frederic and

Mary Ingham, George and Anna Haliburton, George and Julia

Hackmatack.

I get the children's names wrong to their faces--

except that in general their name is Legion, for they are

many--so I will not attempt them here.

These people live in very different houses, with very

different "advantages," as the world says. Haliburton

has grown very rich in the rag and paper business, rich

enough to discard rag money and believe in gold. He even

spits at silver, which I am glad to get when I can.

Frederic Ingham will never be rich. His regular income

consists in his half-pay as a retired brevet officer in

the patriot service of Garibaldi of the year 1859. For

the rest, he invested his money in the Brick Moon, and,

as I need hardly add, insured his life in the late

Continental Insurance Company. But the Inghams find just

as much in life as the Haliburtons, and Anna Haliburton

consults Polly Ingham about the shade of a flounce just

as readily and as eagerly as Polly consults her about the

children's dentistry. They are all very fond of each

other.

They get a great deal out of life, these eight,

partly because they are so closely allied together. Just

two whist-parties, you see; or, if they go to ride, they

just fill two carriages. Eight is such a good number--

makes such a nice dinner-party. Perhaps they see a

little too much of each other. That we shall never know.

They got a great deal of life, and yet they were not

satisfied. They found that out very queerly. They have

not many standards. Ingham does take the "Spectator;"

Hackmatack condescends to read the "Evening Post;"

Haliburton, who used to be in the insurance business, and

keeps his old extravagant habits, reads the "Advertiser"

and the "Transcript;" all of them have the

"Christian Union," and all of them buy "Harper's Weekly."

Every separate week of their lives they buy of the boys,

instead of subscribing; they think they may not want the

next number, but they always do. Not one of them has

read the "Nation" for five years, for they like to keep

good-natured. In fact, they do not take much stock in

the general organs of opinion, and the standard books you

find about are scandalously few. The Bible, Shakespeare,

John Milton; Polly has Dante; Julia has "Barclay's

Apology," with ever so many marks in it; one George has

"Owen Felltham," and the other is strong on Marcus

Aurelius. Well, no matter about these separate things;

the uniform books besides those I named, in different

editions but in every house, are the "Arabian Nights" and

"Robinson Crusoe." Hackmatack has the priceless first

edition. Haliburton has Grandville's (the English

Grandville). Ingham has a proof copy of the Stothard.

Carter has a good copy of the Cruikshank.

If you ask me which of these four I should like best,

I should say as the Laureate did when they gave him his

choice of two kinds of cake, "Both's as good as one."

Well, "Robinson Crusoe" being their lay gospel and

creed, not to say epistle and psalter, it was not queer

that one night, when the election had gone awfully, and

the men were as blue as that little porcelain Osiris of

mine yonder, who is so blue that he cannot stand on

his feet--it was not queer, I say, that they turned

instinctively to "Robinson Crusoe" for relief.

Now, Robinson Crusoe was once in a very bad box

indeed, and to comfort himself as well as he could, and

to set the good against the evil, that he might have

something to distinguish his case from worse, he stated

impartially, like debtor and creditor, the comforts and

miseries, thus:--

EVIL.

I am cast upon a horrible

desolate island, void of all

recovery.

I am singled out and separated,

as it were, from all the world, to

be miserable.

GOOD.

But I am alive, and not

drowned as all my hope of

ship's company were.

But I am singled out,

too, from the ship's crew

to be spared from death.

And so the debtor and creditor account goes on.

Julia Hackmatack read this aloud to them--the whole

of it--and they agreed, as Robinson says, not so much for

their posterity as to keep their thoughts from daily

poring on their trials, that for each family they would

make such a balance. What might not come of it? Perhaps

a partial nay, perhaps a perfect cure!

So they determined that on the instant they would go

to work, and two in the smoking-room, two in the dining-

room, two in George's study, and two in the parlor, they

should in the next halfhour make up their lists of good

and evil. Here are the results:--

FREDERIC AND MARY INGHAM.

GOOD. EVIL.

We have three nice boys But the door-bell rings all

and three nice girls. the time.

We have enough to eat, But the coal bill is awful,

drink, and wear. and the Larrabee furnace has

given out. The firm that made

it has gone up, and no castings

can be got to mend it.

We have more books than But our friends borrow our

we can read, and do not care books, and only return odd

to read many newspapers. volumes.

We have many very dear But we are behindhand 143

friends--enough. names on our lists of calls.

We have health in our But the children may be

family. sick. The Lowndes children are.

We seem to be of some But Mrs. Hogarth has left

use in the world. Fred $200 for the poor, and he

is afraid he shall spend it wrong.

The country has gone to the

dogs.

GEORGE AND ANNA HALIBURTON.

GOOD. EVIL.

We have a nice home in You cannot give a cup of

town, and one in Sharon, and coffee to a beggar but he sends

a sea-shore place at Little five hundred million tramps to

Gau, and we have friends the door.

enough to fill them.

We have some of the nicest A great many people call

children in the world. whose names we have forgotten.

We have enough to do, and We have to give a party to

not too much. all our acquaintance every year,

which is horrid.

Business is good enough, We do not do anything we

though complaining. want to do, and we do a great

deal that we do not want to do.

George had added, "And there

is no health in us." But Anna

marked that out as wicked.

The children are all well. People vote as if they were

possessed.

GEORGE AND JULIA HACKMATACK

GOOD. EVIL.

We have eight splendid The plumbers' work always

children. gives way at the wrong time,

and the plumbers' bills are awful.

We have money enough, The furnace will not heat the

though we know what to do house unless the wind is at the

with more. southwest. None of the chimneys

draw well.

George will not have to go We hate the Kydd School.

to Bahia next year. The master drinks and the first

assistant lies. But we live in

that district; so the boys have

to go there.

Tom got through with scarlet Lucy said "commence" yesterday,

fever without being deaf. Jane said "gent," Walter said

"Bully for you," and Alice said

"nobby." And what is coming we

do not know.

Dr. Witherspoon has accepted How long any man can live

the presidency of Tiberias under this government I do

College in Alaska. not know.

FELIX AND FAUSTA CARTER

GOOD. EVIL.

Governments are stronger But as the children grow

every year. Money goes farther bigger, their clothes cost

than it did. more.

All the boys are good and But the children get no

well. So are the girls. good at school, except

They are splendid children. measles, whooping-cough, and

scarlet fever.

Old Mr. Porter died last But the gas-meter lies;

week, and Felix gets promotion and the gas company wants to

in the office. have it lie.

The lost volume of Fichte But the Athenaeum is always

was left on the door-step last calling in its books to examine

night by some one who rang the them, and making us say where

bell and ran away. It is rather Mr. Fred Curtis's books are.

wet, but when it is bound will As if we cared.

look nicely.

The mistress of the Arbella But our drains smell

School is dead. awfully, though the Board of

Health says they do not.