Copyright, 1896, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.
* * * * *
PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 1, 1896. FIVE CENTS A
COPY.
VOL. XVII.--NO. 879. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.
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[Illustration]
IN THE OLD HERRICK HOUSE.
BY ELLEN DOUGLAS DELAND.
CHAPTER I.
There are but few dwelling-houses left which are occupied as such in that
part of Philadelphia which was once so fashionable, the neighborhood of
Independence Square. The rooms within the stately old mansions are now
used by lawyers and other professional men for their offices, and
business signs adorn the brick fronts without. There are one or two
exceptions to this rule, however, and there was one house where the
descendants of a long line of ancestors still lived in the home of their
fathers.
The two Misses Herrick prided themselves upon having been born and
brought up in the old house in Fourth Street, the same house in which
General Washington had so often supped with their great-grandfather,
when the table was adorned with the blue India oyster-dish and the
egg-shell teacups, which were now kept behind the locked glass doors of
the corner cabinet in the dining-room.
In one of the windows of this old house, in a room which fronted on the
street, sat Elizabeth, looking out on the autumn rain, which dripped
dismally through the leafless trees and flooded the brick pavement.
Elizabeth was a niece of the Misses Herrick, and she had lived with them
all her life.
It seemed a very long time, as she looked back upon it, although it was
really only eleven years; but that is a great space of time when one is
waiting; and Elizabeth had been waiting, ever since she had been old
enough to know that she had a father, for his return.
He went away from America, she had been told, when her mother died, and
that was when Elizabeth was a baby. Valentine, her brother, was almost
three years older, and he had been sent to their mother's family in
Virginia. The brother and sister had met but once or twice; for the
aunts in Fourth Street did not like boys, and therefore did not
encourage his coming there, and as Elizabeth had never been allowed to
visit her Southern relatives, they were practically strangers to one
another.
The Misses Herrick always spoke of the children's father as "poor
Edward" when they mentioned him at all. This was when an infrequent
letter arrived bearing a foreign post-mark. Elizabeth did not know why
he should be poor, for his sisters were certainly very wealthy, and she
had an indistinct idea, suggested to her by her old nurse, who was now
dead, that some day she herself would have a great deal of money.
But that made no particular impression on her mind beyond the fact that
if she did own money, she would like to give it all to her father if he
were poor. Perhaps that was the reason he did not come home, because he
could not pay for his passage.
Elizabeth thought it all out as she sat at the window this rainy
afternoon, and she determined to question her aunts on the subject at
the earliest opportunity. Julius Cæsar sat opposite to her, also looking
at the rain. When a gust of wind rattled the window and swirled the dead
leaves on the pavement he gazed out more intently still; for although he
was no longer young, and was extremely dignified, he was not above
playing occasionally with anything so fascinating as a moving leaf.
The little girl would have led a lonely existence had it not been for
Julius Cæsar, the cat.
The trouble was that Aunt Caroline was so occupied with her social
duties, and Aunt Rebecca with the many lectures, concerts, and German or
French classes which she attended, that there was little chance to speak
with them.
Elizabeth did not see them very often, either--only at luncheon, or when
she went out with Miss Herrick to be fitted for her fall or spring
outfit, or after an altercation with Miss Rice, the governess.
On these latter occasions, which, it must be confessed, were very
frequent, Miss Herrick was called in to act as mediator or judge, and
Elizabeth found that she invariably took the part of Miss Rice in the
discussion.
It was while she was thinking thus that her aunt Rebecca entered the
room. Miss Rebecca Herrick was still a young-looking woman, tall and
slender, and always beautifully dressed, and she was rarely seen without
a book of some sort, for her tastes were distinctly literary.
When she came into the room this afternoon her face wore a preoccupied
expression, and she was in evident haste. She did not see her niece
sitting in the deep recess formed by the heavy curtain at the window
until Elizabeth spoke,
"Aunt Rebecca, is it true that my father is poor?"
"Mercy, child, I did not see you there! How you startled me. What did
you say?"
"Is my father a poor man?"
"Elizabeth, how absurd! Poor? Why should he be?"
"Because Aunt Caroline always says, when a letter comes from him, 'Here
is a letter from poor Edward.'"
"Nonsense, Elizabeth! What ridiculous fancies you have! But don't stop
me now with your questions. I am looking for the French book I am
reading with Madame La Pierre. Have you seen it?"
"No," replied Elizabeth, not offering to look for it. "I am going to
write to my father, Aunt Rebecca."
But her aunt, having found the book, had left the room.
"I am going to write to him, Julius," she repeated, stroking the cat's
glistening white breast. "I do wish you were a fairy cat and could
speak. It would be so nice to have some one to talk things over with.
Never mind. When my father comes home, as he surely will when he gets my
letter, I can talk everything over with him. Won't it be lovely,
Julius?"
Then she left the window where she had been sitting so long and went to
the writing-desk--her aunt Caroline's desk, so carefully arranged, with
its silver implements and monogrammed paper. She would write to her
father, as she had said, though she did not know how to address it. But
fortunately her father's last letter, which had come that very morning,
was lying open on the desk, with the date and the name of the place at
which he was stopping written across the top.
She took an envelope and carefully copied the name, addressing it to Mr.
Edward Herrick, and then she wrote the following letter--wrote it
hastily, and without stopping to think what she should say:
"MY DEAR FATHER,--I hope you are well, and that you are coming home
soon. I do not know why you stay away from us so long, unless it is
because you have not enough money to come home with. Aunt Caroline
always calls you poor Edward, so I think that must be the reason. I
want to tell you that we are not poor here at all. Aunt Caroline
and Aunt Rebecca both have lots and lots of money, and I have an
allowance of seventy-five cents a week to spend as I like, only I
have to buy my hair-ribbons out of it, because Aunt Caroline thinks
I lose so many, and it is going to make me take better care of them
if I have to pay for them myself; but it does not make a bit of
difference, for they will get lost.
"I do not suppose that seventy-five cents a week will help you much
to get home, but I am going to tell you something else. My old
nurse Mary Ann, that died, told me once that when I was grown up I
would have lots of money; she said I was an airess. I do not think
that is the way to spell that word, but I will look it out in the
dickshunary before I send the letter. I do not want you to think
that I do not know how to spell, father dear. I read a book about
an airess the other day, and it said she had a great deal of money,
but she could not use it until she was very, very old--twenty-one,
I think.
"Now, father dear, I have a sujjestshun to make. Could not you
borrow some money of somebody to come home with, and tell them you
will pay it back in ten years? I have counted it up, and it will be
ten years before I am twenty-one. It is a very long time, I know,
but perhaps there is somebody who knows you well and will trust
you. You can tell them that you _know_ your daughter will pay it
back.
"It seems strange that my aunts do not give it to you, for they
have a great deal, I think; but I do not like to ask them to. They
are very queer sometimes, father dear, though I do not like to say
anything against your sisters. But won't you come home to me soon?
I want you _so_ much. We could live together, and my brother
Valentine could come home too, and we should be so happy. I have
thought it over ever so many times, and I think it would be too
perfect. I really need you, father, and I will try to be just as
much like my mother as I can possibly be. They say I look like her,
for I have dark eyes and light hair; but I am not pretty, and she
was. Aunt Caroline says I have an unfortunate temper. The words pop
right out so fast when I get mad that I can't stop them, and so
many things make me mad.
"But do come home, father dear. I need you so much; and please do
as I say about the money. Come soon to your very loving and lonely
little daughter,
"ELIZABETH HERRICK.
"P.S.--The nicest thing in this house is Julius Cæsar. He is a cat,
very large and black, with a white breast, four white paws, and one
white spot in the middle of his back.
"E. H."
This was a very long letter, and the unformed childish hand in which it
was written covered several sheets of Miss Herrick's best note-paper.
When it was finished Elizabeth folded it and placed it in the
envelope, forgetting to correct the misspelled words. She found a
five-cent stamp in her aunt's well-filled box--she had seen Miss Herrick
put that kind of a stamp on her letters to "poor Edward"--and then going
into the hall, she took an umbrella from the rack and sallied forth into
the rain to mail the precious missive.
Elizabeth was mistaken when she told her father that she was not pretty.
Her large dark eyes and the hair which hung over her shoulders like a
mass of spun gold formed a striking contrast, but her cheeks were thin
and somewhat pale, and her expression was too old for that of a child of
twelve. Her lonely life was reflected in her face.
Her aunts did not intend to neglect her, but they were busy women whose
own special interests came first in importance, and they did not
understand the child. They thought that to feed and clothe her and to
give her a beautiful home to live in was all that was necessary, in
addition to the education, of which Miss Rice had charge.
They wearied of Elizabeth's questions, the result of long trains of
thought carried on by the alert inquiring mind, and either refused to
answer them or referred her to Miss Rice. The governess was one who
considered it more important to know exactly how far it was in miles
from the meridian of Greenwich to that of Washington, and what was the
date of the eleventh battle of the Thirty Years' War, than to plunge
into the subjects which interested Elizabeth.
Soon after the little girl's return from her expedition to the lamp-post
Miss Herrick came in. She was in out-door dress, and she carried a
card-case in her hand. Although she was rather below medium height, Miss
Herrick's manner of holding her well-shaped head was so stately that she
gave one the impression of being taller. Her features were regular, and
there was not a trace of silver in the smooth dark hair which was never
out of place. The Herricks were all noted for their beauty, and although
Miss Caroline was well over fifty, was still a handsome woman.
"Are you there, Elizabeth?" she asked, in her evenly modulated voice;
"it is a frightful day to go out, but I promised faithfully to go to
Mrs. Ford's tea. Tell me when the carriage comes to the door. My
umbrella seems to be wet. It is very strange. And who has been at my
desk? The pen is still filled with ink, and carelessly flung down on the
clean fresh blotter! Do you know anything about it, Elizabeth?"
"Yes, Aunt Caroline. I have been writing a letter there," said a small
but courageous voice from the window-seat.
"Writing a letter at my desk? May I ask why and to whom? Does not the
desk in your room afford opportunities for your correspondence?"
"It was easier to write it here. My room is so far off, and I wanted to
get it done quickly."
"What nonsense! And to whom did you write?"
"My father."
"Your father! Elizabeth, how dared you, without my permission? Poor
Edward! What will he say?"
"There you go again, Aunt Caroline," said Elizabeth, coming down the
long room and standing at her aunt's side. "Won't you please tell me why
you always call my father poor? Is he really and truly poor? Hasn't he
any money? Do you suppose he is ever--really--hungry, like the Brady
family in the back street?"
She asked these questions slowly and fearfully, and a solemn look came
into the large brown eyes fixed so intently on her aunt's face.
"What nonsense you talk, Elizabeth! Tell me at once what you wrote to
him about."
"Not unless you tell me why you call him poor," returned the little
girl, firmly. "I ought to know something about my own father, I think,
and you ought to tell me."
"You are extremely disrespectful. Leave the room at once."
"Very well; I will, Aunt Caroline. Only I think you might tell me, and I
mean to find out somehow about my father. And I was the one who used
your umbrella. I went out to mail my letter. And I used your stamp,
which I will pay you back. And I got my feet soaking wet, and I don't
mean to change my shoes. So there!"
"What a child she is!" thought Miss Herrick, as her niece disappeared
behind the portière. "I wonder what she has written to poor Edward? What
will he say? I trust he may never receive it. And she said her feet were
wet. That will not do, for she will surely have a sore throat." And she
touched the bell.
"James," she said to the man who appeared, "tell Marie to find Miss
Elizabeth and change her shoes. Her feet are wet."
But it was some time before James told Marie, and still longer before
Marie went in search of Elizabeth, and when she did the child was not to
be found.
The house in Fourth Street was very large, with huge rooms and lofty
ceilings, for it had been built in the generous fashion dear to our
grandfathers. The drawing-rooms occupied the first floor, the
sleeping-rooms of the two Misses Herrick the second, while Elizabeth had
for her own one in the third story.
Then there were the "back buildings," on the first floor of which were
the kitchens, above these the dining-room and library, and still farther
above a number of rooms which were used for various purposes, such as
the storing of furniture, camphor-chests, and the like.
There was one room in this part of the house which, to Elizabeth's
knowledge, had never been opened, and, strange to say, it was fastened
by a padlock. Elizabeth often wandered over the house when she had
nothing else that was particularly interesting to do, and this padlocked
door always possessed a strong fascination for her.
Why was it locked at all, and why was there a padlock on it? Was not an
ordinary lock enough? There must be something very precious in there.
What _could_ it be? The mystery piqued Elizabeth's curiosity immensely.
If she could only see behind that closed door!
On this rainy afternoon when she had been dismissed so summarily from
the drawing-room she mounted the long double flight of stairs toward her
own room. When she reached the third-story landing, however, her glance
fell upon the locked door, which directly faced her.
"What is in that room?" she said to herself. "I must find out. Aunt
Caroline won't tell me about my father, so I am going to discover things
for myself. There is the front door shutting, so she is off, and Aunt
Rebecca is taking her French lesson in the library. No one will hear
me."
She turned and hurried down the thickly carpeted stairs, her flying feet
making not a sound, and ran along the hall to her aunt Caroline's room.
The lofty four-post bedstead, which had been made especially large for
great-grandfather Herrick's famous height, seemed but of ordinary size
in the great chamber, and the massive wardrobe and old-fashioned chests
of drawers consumed but little of the space.
Elizabeth paused in the middle of the room and looked about her. If she
could only see the key-bag which she knew Miss Herrick kept in her room.
She would not like to open any drawers to find it. It did not seem quite
the right thing to go to people's bureau drawers. Fortunately it was not
necessary. The key-bag hung on a rack near the dressing-table.
Elizabeth took it carefully down and ran up stairs again. Slowly and
laboriously she tried each key to the little padlock. Not one of them
would fit. There were thirty keys at least, and yet not one would open
the door. What should she do? Disappointment only made her more anxious
than ever to succeed.
Very dejectedly she returned to Miss Herrick's room and hung the bag
where she had found it. She was turning away when she chanced to see a
small Chinese cabinet of drawers on the dressing-table. It was curiously
inlaid, and the corners were bound with silver, and it consisted of but
two little drawers, the whole standing not more than four inches high.
Elizabeth had noticed it before on the table when she had been in her
aunt's room, and she had always admired it.
She took it up and looked at it. One of the little drawers slipped out
as she held it, and within lay two keys, one large and the other small,
and they were tied together with a ribbon. With a half-suppressed "Oh!"
of delight she seized them and ran up stairs.
One key fitted the lock of the door, the other the padlock. With perfect
ease she turned them and entered the room.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
THE SAILING AND RACING OF THE SMALL BOAT.
BY DUDLEY D. F. PARKER.
A great deal of real solid pleasure may be had from the handling and
racing of the smaller classes of sailing-craft.
[Illustration: THE "TUCK-UP."]
The boat possessing all the peculiarities of the small boat to the
greatest extent is the "tuck-up," a type seemingly a cross between the
ordinary cat and a "Whitehall" row-boat, and having an extremely easy
under-water body. These little boats range from sixteen to nineteen
feet, and have a very moderate beam as compared to the cat-boat, and are
rather deeper. The entrance is sharp, and the stern lines are much cut
away, making a hull that can be driven through the water at a high
speed, though lacking in stability. It is frequently the case that the
spars and sails of these boats are so large that they are top-heavy from
this alone, and often the boat has to be run alongside a dock and a man
hold it right side up whilst the crew clamber aboard. Ropes are
frequently fastened at intervals to the centreboard trunk to assist the
men in hanging on when the boat is away over. In the sketch the crew is
represented as laying flat on the deck for windward work.
They are essentially a "racing-machine," their speed being developed by
a large sail, big centreboard, and all the men and bags available to
keep the whole right side up. The rig is the regular cat, and everything
is very strong. On account of the small displacement of hull and the
large sail and ballast, the motions of the boat are much intensified. A
squall striking the large sail area will throw her down in an instant,
and as soon as it is over she rights as quickly. It will be readily seen
from the foregoing that the crew should watch the boat intently, and be
prepared to hang out over the side or scramble inboard, as the occasion
may require. The problems presented for racing these boats are about the
same as those of the cat-boat (see article in HARPER'S ROUND TABLE No.
827), but there are several things that should always be kept in mind.
These boats are quick in stays, obedient to the helm, and change course
rapidly when gybed. On account of comparative lack of beam, the deck at
the sides is narrow and the coaming is low, so as to permit the men to
lay over the side, and in consequence the danger of taking water aboard
is greatly increased. In fact, it is a frequent sight in a race to see a
man busily engaged in bailing out the water that has dashed in over the
bow or come in over the lee gunwale. The quick manner of heeling of
these boats greatly increases the chances of getting the sail in the
water, and you should keep a sharp lookout for this, as it is liable to
result in an upset. At the same time you do not want to let the wind out
of the sail, or the weight of the men on the upper side will dump the
boat to windward. The principal duty of the crew will be to act as
shifting ballast, and the greater the rapidity with which the motions of
this important duty are performed, the more the boat's speed will be
helped. When the boat starts to heel, it should be met quickly, so as to
prevent her getting away over and wallowing through the seas, the men
lying out or sliding in quickly, as the wind's force varies. The duties
for each man are about the same as in the cat-boat, having a man at the
tiller (captain), sheet-tender, centreboard and halyard man, and if the
day is at all windy a light man had better be assigned to bail the boat
when necessary.
[Illustration: THE ST. LAWRENCE BOAT.]
St. Lawrence skiff-racing is not general, though in some parts of the
country it is indulged in. It will be sufficient, perhaps, to pass over
it with a few words. The boat is in many respects a large canoe, and
hence depends entirely on the crew to hold it up. The rigs employed are
enlarged canoe rigs, _i.e._, two fore-and-aft sails of some
character--"bats' wings," "Mohicans," etc., etc.
The sternmost sail, or "jigger" (sometimes called "dandy"), has a
tendency to throw the boat's head up into the wind, and as there is no
counteracting influence of a jib, these rigs sail very close to the
wind.
In going about, the jigger is a great aid, and should be hauled in flat
when rounding up, and trimmed properly again when on the other tack. In
gybing, the jigger is more of a hinderance than an aid, as in making a
gybe it is necessary for the boat's head to fall off the wind. To make a
neat job, the wind pressure in the jigger should be reduced as much as
possible as the mainsail is coming inboard. In running before the wind
the sails should be placed "wing-an'-wing," that is, on opposite sides
of the boat, so as to get full benefit of the wind and ease the
steering. When running this way you should watch the boat carefully,
lest some small change in wind or course would cause one of the sails to
gybe over.
[Illustration: RACING BATEAU.]
The racing small boat pre-eminent of this section of the coast is the
"bateau"--a half-round-bottom type possessing some of the qualities of
the flat-bottomed row-boat and the sea-skiff. They are usually in the
neighborhood of eighteen feet, and rather narrow, with a sharp bow and
long tapering stern-lines. The bottom board, or "keel," is about
eighteen inches wide in the centre, tapering to a point at each end.
From it the sides are built up out of two or three wide planks riveted
together. The stern is really an overhang, but has a skag built on
underneath, and terminates in a perpendicular stern-board. The rig
generally employed on these boats is the "skiff rig," though
occasionally the mainsail with gaff and halyards is used. The use of a
jib presents many new problems in sailing, and will necessitate some
thought and study on the part of a boy whose experience has been
confined to the handling of a cat-boat. In the jib-and-mainsail rig
there are two opposite forces at work. The mainsail, as in the cat-boat,
throws the boat's head in the wind, only this is more pronounced, as the
mast is stepped further aft. This can readily be seen.
Let us suppose our boat to be a lever pivoted on a fixed point, and free
to swing on this point. The point in the boat that takes the place of
the pivot of the lever is the centre of lateral resistance (resistance
to sliding sideways). This centre will be somewhere amidships, and it is
clear that whichever side of it the greatest wind pressure is exerted on
the sails, that part of the boat will have a tendency to drift with the
wind, so swinging the other end around. In the mainsail the greatest
power is aft of this centre, hence the stern falls off and the bow goes
up into the wind. In the jib the reverse is true. The power here is
applied forward of the centre, and hence the bow falls off. These two
neutralizing forces should be borne in mind when handling a jib and
mainsail, and made judicious use of.
[Illustration: SEA-SKIFF.]
Moderate observation and some thought of this principle will enable a
boy to analyze the behavior of his boat, and to trim his sails so as to
correct errors and get their full benefit. The jib may be trimmed so
that the boat will almost steer itself, though the sail should not be in
so flat that the mainsail cannot cause the boat to luff up when you let
go the tiller. When beating to windward or close-hauled the pressure on
the head-sail must be lessened, and so the jib should be given
considerably more sheet than the mainsail. When you wish to go about,
the rudder and mainsail are handled in the same manner as in a cat-boat.
(See HARPER'S ROUND TABLE No. 827.) After letting go of the tiller and
starting to haul in the main-sheet, and when you notice the boat is
rounding up, let slack the jib-sheets, and when the boat is on the other
tack, trim it in tightly, so as to carry the boat's head over quickly,
and then trim properly after the mainsail fills. In gybing the jib is of
much assistance. The main-sheet and tiller are handled about the same
manner as in the cat, but perhaps another caution should be given about
not forgetting to haul the centreboard up. Never fail to see that the
board is up before throwing the boat off with the rudder. When about to
put the rudder over, after pulling the board up, trim the jib in flat,
and it will aid greatly in swinging the bow off; at the same time, if
kept trimmed in until the boat's course is settled, will check to a
great extent the tendency of the boat to run up into the wind after the
sail goes over. When running off the wind the jib should be in nearly as
flat as the mainsail, but you should always remember not to have the jib
in so tightly as to destroy the luffing power of the boat. If a sudden
squall strikes the boat, let go the jib-sheet, and it will luff up
quickly. When running before the wind the jib may be used as a spinnaker
(see sketch of skiff) by placing the sails "wing-an'-wing," and if there
is not enough wind to hold the jib out, a light pole or an oar may be
used for that purpose. If the racing rules permit, a pole may be set
over the side abreast of the mast, and the jib rigged as a regular
spinnaker.
The crew should be disposed, when possible, so that the boat will set
deeper in the stern than in the bow; that is, the bottom board at the
bow should be about two or three inches under water, so that the
cut-water will part the waves. If the bow is lifted out so as to bring
the flat bottom board in contact with the waves the boat will "smash"
its way through, and each wave will stop the headway. If the bow is too
deeply in, a larger sea than usual is liable to come aboard, and in
addition the rudder will be lifted out to a certain extent, and the boat
will steer badly, on account of lack of rudder area and the increased
lateral resistance of the bow.
[Illustration: RACING SNEAK-BOAT.]
Sneak-boat racing is also popular in some sections. The sneak-boat is
very much like the cat-boat, and is about as uncapsizable as a boat can
be. Its lines are all full, mostly arcs of circles, the sides being
"flaring." The long spoon-shaped bow and broad full stern overhang give
great stability and displacement when heeled over. A fore-and-aft sail
of some character is used, and the boats are handled much like a
cat-boat. Under favorable conditions they develop good speed. They are
unsurpassed as a boat for the beginner in sailing or racing.
Sea-skiff racing is indulged in by the fishermen, and these speedy boats
afford some good sport.
But to leave these special types, and coming to small-boat racing in
general: What qualities are essential to the successful racing skipper?
I should link two together as outweighing all others--good judgment and
spirit. They seem to stand together; one without the other is liable to
lead to unsuccess. Judgment without the spirit to make best use of it
will lead to over-caution. Spirit without judgment verges on rashness,
and cannot but lead to disaster.
The racing-man must think quickly, and act immediately and decisively.
He must train himself to take in situations at a glance and determine
the policy he will pursue immediately.
The boat should be sailed with dash. Your main idea should be to get
speed, and everything else should be subordinated. Injury to boat should
not be considered, unless it is liable to cripple her permanently, and
this risk is very often pardonable. No thought should be given to the
crew's comfort; they should be regarded as machines, for the time being.
In short, the tuck-up, skiff, bateau, or small boat of any character
should be sailed like a large toy boat. If a gust throws her down, get
the crew out over the side if necessary, so that there is only enough
inboard to keep them from falling off. Don't be afraid of taking water
aboard; when there is enough in to be troublesome, bail it out.
A racing-man must be observant. He should notice where the tides are the
strongest, and also which way the flow is at the time of the race. If
possible, he should make himself familiar with all this before the race,
and it should have some effect on the course of his boat. For instance,
suppose one of the legs of the course takes you up a channel, as the
outlet of a river or bay. If the tide is against you, you should hug the
shore and avoid the deep water, as the tide always runs strongest in the
centre. Now suppose you have rounded the mark, then the tide is in your
favor, and it is clearly to your interest to get in the middle of the
channel, so as to have its full benefit. It will easily be seen what
might be lost by a skipper not knowing or observing which way the tide
was flowing. I witnessed a very good example of this last year, in the
Labor Day Races, in the Horseshoe, Lower Bay. The course was a thrash to
windward out to the Sou'-west Spit and return, from a starting-line near
the mouth of the Navesink River. There was a strong flood-tide and a
light wind, causing the fleet to split into two sections, one tacking in
under the Hook, and the other taking the straighter course for the mark.
The latter got the full handicap of the incoming tide, and was left far
behind the boats which had gone inshore to escape it.
At all times you must be on the lookout to take any little advantage an
opportunity offers, and to interfere with an opponent's wind. If
possible, when passing a boat, always go to windward, but do not enter
into one of those senseless luffing matches, which will practically take
the two boats engaged out of the race.
The price of success in racing is vigilance, observation, decision, and
no set rule can be laid down for the racing captain. A great deal will
depend on opportunities and the manner he makes use of them. There is
some luck in boat-racing, but much that is ascribed to luck is due to
the forethought of the captain. Very often you hear that such and such a
boat, with her usual good luck, received the first advantage of the
changing breeze. How is it that in these cases it is usually the same
boat; can we entirely and justly ascribe it to luck?
OLD HAMMER-THE-ROCKS.
BY WILLIAM DRYSDALE.
Down in Brooks County, in southern Georgia, people are still laughing
over the great joke on Dick Weston. Dick is rather a favorite, too,
though he is a Northerner; but people always laugh at a fellow who tries
to play a sharp game and is tripped up.
"Now don't you be like Dick Weston," they tell their boys, "and waste
your time waiting for dead-men's shoes. I want to see you like his
cousin Larry--able to show that you amount to something."
There would not have been any joke on Dick Weston, and perhaps Larry
Weston would not have made his great strike, if it had not been for the
civil war. Major Weston, of Massachusetts, went down to Georgia in the
Union army, and after the war he bought a big plantation in Brooks
County, and made a heap of money. Then years afterward his brother
Henry, a merchant in Boston, went down and bought half the plantation;
and there the two lived, and still live, with every comfort in the
world, except the comfort of good wives; for they are both old
bachelors.
Of course it was common talk in Dick's family, and in Larry's family,
too, that the two bachelor uncles were very rich, and that the two
nephews would most likely be their heirs. Larry never paid any attention
to this talk, for his head was full of other things. But it was very
different with Dick.
"Your nose is out of joint, young man," Larry's father said one day,
giving him a poke in the ribs; "I have a letter from your uncle George,
and he says Dick is going to make his home with them."
"Why shouldn't he, if they want him?" Larry answered. "I'm sure I don't
envy him. For my part, I'd rather make my own way than depend upon
somebody else."
That was two years before Larry's visit to Georgia, and Dick put in two
years of faithful work trying to make himself agreeable to his rich
uncles. Ho was so sweet around the house that his old school-mates would
hardly have known him. His uncles' slippers were always warmed before
the fire on cold mornings; and whatever they liked, Dick liked. If they
had said that cotton grew on chestnut-trees, Dick would have said so
too.
Uncle George and Uncle Henry laughed in their sleeves at Dick's
wonderful affection, for they had been in the world a good while and
knew a thing or two. But they liked him, nevertheless, for he had
pleasant ways and was a handsome fellow; and the neighbors liked him,
though they said, "he's playing for big stakes, and he'll likely win."
All this time Larry was attending strictly to his own business, and
learning a heap about the rocks that lie in the ground. That was his
hobby. Other things he learned because he knew they were necessary; but
mineralogy he studied because he loved it. His ambition was to go out
into the Southwest when he was old enough, and find gold or silver or
some other valuable stuff where nobody suspected its existence. His room
was full of cases of broken rock, and he rarely went out without his
little hammer. It was a standing joke in the house that the police were
looking for him for breaking corners off the curb-stones.
The two uncles evidently kept an eye upon Larry, for as soon as he was
done with school they invited him to spend a month on the plantation.
That was when he was just past eighteen.
"No, _sir_!" he said to his father. "I wouldn't go for a farm. There's
no meaner business in the world than trying to curry favor with rich
relations."
"But think what a chance you'd have to geologize, or metallurgize, or
whatever you call it!" his father suggested. "There must be rocks in
that country, and you could break them by the ton."
That put a new face on the matter. Larry had nicked specimens from the
rocks of Harlem and Manhattanville and the Palisades, but the Georgia
rocks would give him a new field; and for strictly professional reasons
he decided to go.
As Larry had never seen a plantation before, he found everything very
different, of course, from what he expected. It was much larger, to
begin with--more than 4000 acres--and he could roam about all day
without going off his uncles' land. One big cotton-field contained more
than 2000 acres, and one morning he counted eighty-five men, women, and
children at work on it hoeing cotton. At the same time twenty men, with
mules, were cultivating corn on the other side of the place; and the
rows of cabins for the workmen looked like a village. Still he was
rather disappointed. He expected to see beautiful green lawns shaded by
fine old oaks, and beds of brilliant flowers, and everything as smooth
and clean as a rich man's place in the North. There were plenty of oaks
and flowers, to be sure, but there was no skilful gardener to keep them
trimmed smooth. The house was old, and as there was no mistress, the
negro women had their own way, and everything was in disorder.
But the plantation was no more of a disappointment to Larry than Larry
was to the plantation--at first. He was so quiet and thoughtful, not at
all such a "hail-fellow-well-met" with everybody as Cousin Dick. There
were horses to ride and birds to shoot and fish to catch, but he took
no interest in such things. When he could have a bit of rare rock to
examine, and some acids to test it with, he liked that better than the
plantation sports.
"Come, Larry," Uncle Henry said one morning, "and take a gallop with us.
We are just half-way between Quitman and Thomasville here, and we'll go
whichever way you like."
"I don't know much about horses, Uncle Henry," Larry answered, "and
don't want to break my neck. Besides, I have some queer specimens here
that I want to test; so I guess I'll keep house while the rest of you
go."
Dick was suspicious of his cousin, and always ready to make him the butt
of his jokes. Before Larry had been on the plantation a week he had
nicknamed him Post-Pliocene, Alluvium, Kill-Sport, and a dozen other
things; but Old Hammer-the-Rocks was the favorite title, and it was so
appropriate that it always made Larry smile. And Dick's love for his
cousin did not increase at all when he found, after a few days, that the
uncles had discovered that Larry was full of information about many
things, and liked to talk with him on subjects that Dick knew nothing
whatever about.
On the morning of the day when Dick unwittingly played the great joke on
himself, Larry was sitting in the library just after breakfast, looking
over the State Geologist's Report. Dick soon joined him, and burst out
with:
"Come on, Old Hammer-the-Rocks! We're going after birds. Shake yourself
up once and come along."
"I never killed a bird in my life, Dick," Larry answered, "and I'm not
going to begin to-day."
"Ah, indeed!" Dick sneered. "Don't approve of such sport, I suppose."
"No, I can't say that I do," Larry replied, very good-naturedly. "It may
be sport for you, but what must the birds think about it?"
Uncle George, the Major, bustled into the library after his
cartridge-belt just in time to hear this conversation.
"Who's that don't approve of killing birds?" he asked, pretending to be
very angry.
"I don't, Uncle George," Larry replied, "It's a heap more pleasure to
hear them sing in the trees than it can be to kill and eat them."
As he spoke he could hardly keep from laughing outright at the
expression on Dick's face. Dick seemed perfectly horror-stricken to hear
one of his rich uncles reproved in such a fashion.
"Well, there _are_ more important things in the world, that's a fact,"
the Major laughed. "You go ahead with your uncle Henry, Dick, and I'll
join you later. I want to have a little talk with Larry."
"This is a nice state of affairs!" Dick said to himself, as he went out.
"I never contradicted Uncle George in my life, but he never keeps _me_
in the library for a private talk!" and he began to wonder whether a
little independence, after all, could be better than his own way.
"You mustn't let us bore you with our country sports, Larry," the Major
said, when they were alone. "We have nothing else to amuse ourselves
with, but you have. I am glad to see you so much interested in geology
and mineralogy; the knowledge may be useful to you some day. That is all
I wanted to say; I want you to enjoy yourself while you are here, and
enjoy yourself in your own way, whether it's shooting birds or hammering
rocks. Now I'll go and murder a few birds, as I know nothing about rocks
myself."
Left to himself for the whole morning, Larry determined to follow the
little creek that ran southward, and see what its banks had to offer.
Besides, he knew that by following it for three or four miles he would
come to the Florida line, and he wanted to be able to say that he had
been in Florida. So, with his hammer and his little black bag, he set
out.
The Weston place, like most of the big plantations, has its own
gin-house, where the cotton is passed through a machine that separates
the fibre from the seed; and the gin-house is always built over a
running stream, so that the water will turn the big wheel.
He did not imagine, as he followed the gin-house stream, how fate was
arranging everything for him that morning. He had not gone a mile before
the sky began to grow black.
"No matter," he said to himself; "if it should rain hard, there is the
gin-house a mile further on. I can find shelter there."
The rain came in due course, a real Southern downpour, and he hurried
along to the gin-house and went in.
It is a ghostly old place, that Weston gin-house, built of solid timbers
many years ago. The floor is on a level with the ground, and a big
double door lets in light for the machine. But beneath the floor is a
deep gully washed out by the stream, dark and damp. From a trap in the
floor, steps lead down into that black hole, where the big wheel turns,
and a maze of great timbers support the wheel and the building.
Just as Larry stepped into the gin-house and closed the door, Dick
emerged from the woods beyond, hurrying home out of the rain.
"There's Old Hammer-the-Rocks gone into the gin-house," he said to
himself, "and I believe I'll get a little wetter for the sake of giving
him a scare. Instead of going in myself, I'll put the prop against the
door and fasten him in."
The rain made so much noise that there was little danger of his being
heard, and he went boldly up and fastened the doors.
"Now he'll have a time of it," Dick said to himself. "The only way he
can get out is to go down past the wheel, then climb down the timbers to
the bank of the stream, and crawl under the siding and climb up the
rocks. Those timbers are slippery, too; but if he breaks his neck that's
his lookout, not mine."
Up to a certain point everything worked precisely as Dick had foreseen;
but who in the world could have imagined what was to happen afterward?
When the rain let up a little Larry tried to open the doors, but they
would not open. He pushed and pulled, but the heavy doors would not
budge. Then he began to investigate. It was very dark inside, but
through the trap he saw that down below the wheel there was more light.
Though the house was weather-boarded all the way down, there was an open
space at the bottom for the water to run through. That was the only way
to get out.
He felt his way cautiously down the dark stairs to the platform by the
wheel, expecting every minute to put his hand on a lizard or a centipede
or some other unpleasant creature. The wilderness of thick timbers down
there reminded him of some church belfries he had been in, but the
belfry timbers were not so soft and slimy to the touch. From the side of
the wheel he started to walk across a short timber to the wall, so that
he could climb down to the bottom of the gully. But the timber was worse
than he thought--half rotten, slippery with moss and slime. His foot
slipped, and he fell, not into the shallow water, but upon the rocks by
the side of the little stream.
That was just as Dick had more than half wished. Larry lay stunned upon
the rocks beneath the old gin-house.
But then the great joke on Dick Weston that all of Brooks County is
still laughing about began to develop.
[Illustration: LARRY'S DISCOVERY UNDER THE MILL.]
Instead of lying there mangled and bleeding, Larry got up and found that
he had no hurts beyond a few bruises. He was in a spooky place, but he
forgot all about the fall and the mystery of the closed door when he saw
that there were more rocks all around him than he had found before on
the whole plantation. The stream had cut its way between walls of rock,
and the ledge was littered with loose bowlders, large and small.
He picked up some small specimens to put into his black bag, and
something in the feel of them startled him. It was a curious combination
of roughness and smoothness that his fingers touched. He knew he had
felt that species of rock before, but where? Certainly not often. It
must be something uncommon. He picked up as many specimens as the little
satchel would hold, and crawled out into the daylight.
He was twenty feet below the surface, between two walls of rock that
extended as far up the gully as he could see. He touched one of the
rocky walls, and felt again that curious sensation of roughness and
smoothness.
He chipped off a small piece with his hammer, and sat down on a big
bowlder to examine it.
"Now I have it!" he exclaimed. "It was in the Museum of Natural History
that I saw and felt this stuff. But it can't be that this is a great
deposit of--"
He was almost afraid to speak the word, for perhaps he was mistaken,
after all. He took the hammer again and pounded part of his specimen
into powder, felt it, studied of it, and tasted it with his tongue.
Ten minutes later he was hurrying across the wet fields towards the
house, his pockets bulging with specimens broken from a dozen different
places. When he reached home he went straight to his room, and soon
filled the air with the unpleasant odor of acids poured upon pounded
rock.
The Major and Uncle Henry and Dick were in the library when he went down
stairs, talking over their morning's sport.
"Oh, you missed it, Hammer-the-Rocks!" Dick exclaimed. "We had a royal
time."
"I had a pretty good time too," Larry answered. "I explored the cellar
of the old gin-house, and found some very interesting specimens." And he
unloaded his pockets and the satchel upon the library table.
"Specimens!" the Major exclaimed, picking up one of the pieces. "Why,
this is just our common rock. I'm afraid you have fooled yourself this
time, Larry. The whole place is underlaid with this stuff--more's the
pity!"
"Is it?" Larry asked, very coolly; "that's good. What name do you give
it?"
"Oh, we don't give it any particular name," the Major replied, tossing
the specimen back to the table; "just ordinary rock."
"Then you won't mind my giving it a name, Uncle George," Larry went on.
"I call it wavellite; it is worth about eight dollars a ton, just as it
lies."
"What?" both the uncles exclaimed together, springing to their feet.
"Eight dollars a ton!" And Cousin Dick began to look uncomfortable.
"Fully that; perhaps more," Larry continued. "I consider it a better
find than a vein of gold, for it is safer. It is the most valuable
phosphoric rock known to commerce, and has never been found anywhere but
on one little island in the West Indies. Wavellite, or Redondo mineral,
is the commercial name of it. But you must not depend solely on my
opinion. Have the specimens examined by an expert."
The bird pie received little attention that day. Uncle Henry took an
afternoon train to Savannah with half a pack of specimens, and returned
two days later with the expert's verdict: "Wavellite beyond doubt." Soon
acres of growing cotton were turned into big holes in the ground where
the mining was done. The beauty of the plantation was spoiled by the
heaps of rock thrown up, but its value was increased many times over.
It was only last week that the Major wrote to Larry's father:
"Of course you will not think of calling Larry home. He has charge of
all our mining operations, with a ten-per-cent. interest in the output
that will make him a rich man in two or three years. Dick, I am glad to
say, is making himself useful too; he is Larry's clerk. I suppose we
should never have known of the wealth under our feet if it had not been
for Larry."
It was Dick's own fault that the story of the gin-house leaked out. He
told one of his intimate friends about his "bad luck," and it was soon
all over Brooks County. As the planters ride past and see him keeping
tally in his little book, they often call to him:
"Hello, Dick! What will you take to fasten somebody in _my_ gin-house?"
A VIRGINIA CAVALIER.
BY MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL.
CHAPTER XII.
As soon as George had spoken he disengaged himself gently from his
mother's arms. She was still weeping, but blessing him.
"God will reward you, my son, for this yielding to your mother!" she
cried.
"I don't know, mother, whether I deserve a reward, or not," he answered,
in the same strange voice in which he had first spoken. "I am not sure
whether I am doing right or not, but I know I could not do otherwise. I
did not yield to your command, but to your entreaty. But let me go,
mother." And before she could stop him he was out of the room, and she
heard his quick step up the stairs and his door locked after him.
He tore off his uniform as if every shred of it burned him, put on his
ordinary clothes, and then sitting down on the bed, gazed blankly before
him.