[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]
Copyright, 1896, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.
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PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, MARCH 3, 1896. FIVE CENTS A COPY.
VOL. XVII.--NO. 853. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.
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[Illustration]
A STOLEN COURT-HOUSE.
BY GEORGE MEASON WHICHER.
Father limped across the dirt floor of our sod house, and painfully sat
down on the edge of his bunk. "Boys," he said, with a little groan, "I
guess you'll have to go after that Durham bull. My rheumatism is so bad
I can't stir!"
"To-night?" asked Barney, eagerly, giving his book a shove.
"Who told you where he is?" I asked, hoping for time enough to look up
one more word.
"They've sent word from Hermann's that he's been around there ever since
that last herd came in from the South. They're going to move on early
to-morrow, and I'm afraid we'll never see him if we don't get him
to-night. Those drovers don't frighten off cattle that insist on going
along."
"Which Hermann's is it?" I asked again. "The ranch south of Alkali?"
"You'd better not be caught calling their town Alkali," interrupted
Barney. "They're touchier than ever about it since we got the
county-seat away from them last election."
"That's the place," answered father; "and I reckon it doesn't take much
of the potash out of their land to quit calling the town Alkali. No more
will they get their county-seat back again by calling the place
Fairlands."
I thrust my Cæsar under the brush thatch of our house where it joined
the sod wall. Barney was rummaging in his bunk and preparing for the
trip with unmistakable pleasure. He had not mourned greatly when
father's health had compelled us to leave our home in far-off Illinois
and settle in western Nebraska. But I had disliked to fall out of my
class in the Pana High-school, and now, after working all summer on our
claim, I was spending the fall and winter evenings in making up some of
the neglected studies, with the secret hope that father would be well
enough to spare me the next year.
"You can get Otto to lend you his ponies and go with you," went on
father. "Take the lower trail to the ranch, so's not to go through
Alkali. They've been feeling pretty ugly toward people from up here
anyway since election, and I hear there's been a row about it this week
and another of their men killed. And you be careful, Milton, and don't
let Barney get into any trouble with the cowboys at the ranch. They're a
dare-devil set; I wouldn't let you boys go if I could help it."
We did not hear all of this speech, I am afraid, for Barney was trying
to get his revolver into his pocket without attracting father's
attention, and I was still struggling with a subjunctive in the speech
of Ariovistus. But we were soon ready for our short walk to Otto's claim
in the section adjoining ours, and slightly nearer the little town of
Garfield. Otto was our nearest neighbor, an honest, hard-working German,
who had given us much assistance in the difficult work of settling on
our claim, and had now promised father to go with us and recover our
precious but troublesome Durham bull.
It must have been ten o'clock when we clattered across the long board
bridge over the Platte, and rode on through the short main street in
Garfield, the newly chosen capital of Black Ash County. We reached the
end of the street and were about to turn west into the wagon-trail
leading to Fairlands, or Alkali, as her triumphant rival persisted in
calling the town.
"What's that new shanty?" asked Barney, pointing to a small building as
we rode past. It could not have been more than twelve feet wide and
twenty feet long, but the gable end facing the street was masked by the
hideous square front of pioneer architecture, and from the top of the
unpainted pine cornice fluttered three or four cheap flags.
"T'at's t'e new court-house," explained Otto, proudly. "T'e sheriff is
alreaty yesterday mit his posse to Alkali gone, und pring t'e gounty
pooks pack."
"Did he bring back his posse?" asked Barney.
"Mostly," said Otto, with a grin; "some, t'ey ko on weiter."
The county-seat feud was a serious matter to the settlers in the towns
concerned, but Otto, like ourselves, could see a ludicrous side to it.
"I'll wager the Alkali gang burn it down," said Barney, as we left the
court-house behind us. "They're bound to do something to get even."
Otto did not reply. On we cantered over the long swells of the prairie,
the night wind blowing fresh and cold in our faces, while the frost
sparkled on the russet and brown grasses along the hard trail. Far off
we caught the shimmer of the moonlight on a "blow-out," where the light
soil showed at the crumbling edge of a bluff, and nearer at hand, on the
lowlands, we could see the straggling line of telegraph poles that
marked the line of the railroad.
We had ridden about half of our eight miles when Otto, who was leading,
suddenly halted. Before us lay a deep draw, as the dry hollows between
the ridges of the prairie are called. At the bottom of the slope, just
where the trail to Hermann's ranch joined the main road, stood a group
of men and horses. The latter were mostly harnessed to two elongated
lumber wagons, while their drivers and one or two horsemen were gathered
around a small fire of cattle chips and sage-brush. We could hear their
loud talk and laughter as we stood looking down upon them. Suddenly they
became silent.
"T'ey see us alreaty," said Otto. "Kome on, poys."
"Whar you'uns goin' this time o' day?" demanded one of the men, as we
rode up and saluted them. We recognized the speaker as Arkansaw Joe, a
saloon-keeper in Fairlands of no particular reputation. Most of his
companions evidently belonged to the same profession, though not so
eminent as their leader; but the horsemen, I felt sure, were cowboys
from the ranch to which we were going. Otto briefly explained our
errand.
"It's only that Dutchman from beyond Garfield and the two tenderfoot
kids," spoke another of the group. "I reckon they're all right."
Any foreigner is a Dutchman to a certain class of Americans. Otto had
long since grown tired of explaining that he came from Bavaria, and no
longer chafed against the classification. We were not so satisfied, but
it did not seem wise to argue about it just then.
"You'll have a dandy time with that critter of yourn," remarked one of
the ranchmen. "Hermann's picketed him for you, and he's tearin' mad.
It'll be a regular circus to see you git him back."
"Wat you t'ink, Milt?" said Otto. "We ko pack for t'e fat'er--nit?"
"I 'low you'uns'll go straight on," interposed Arkansaw, meaningly.
"We'uns are usin' this here trail to the east to-night, and it's all
needed. 'Sides, the kids 'ud miss the fun with the Durham."
There was no mistaking this hint, and we took the trail for the ranch,
Otto evidently worried, and Barney boiling over with indignation.
"Kids!" he exclaimed, scornfully, as we rode up the other side of the
draw. "I'd like to show them--"
The rest remained unsaid, for down the trail came a jingling crowd of
cowboys, and looking back as they rode past us, we saw them join the
group around the fire.
"What on earth are they up to, Otto?" I asked. He shook his head
soberly. Mischief was brewing, and we longed to ride back and see what
was about to happen, but Otto and I at least recognized the danger of
such a plan after the warning we had received.
Our thoughts were effectually diverted from this topic when we reached
the ranch. The bull was not an amiable beast on ordinary occasions, and
we found him in one of his wildest moods. His bellowings had attracted a
score of stray cattle from the outskirts of the ranch, and they were
standing beyond the reach of his horns as he strained on his picket
rope, and they were pawing the ground, pretending to gore one another,
until the bull was wild with rage. It took Otto a long time to get a
second rope around his horns, and meanwhile Barney and I, by the
vigorous use of our quirts, scattered the mavericks over the prairie.
The end of the picket rope was then fastened to my saddle, and we began
our struggle toward home. Again and again the bull would lower his horns
and make a desperate charge at one of his captors, only to be jerked to
his knees by the other. At times he would stand bellowing and snorting
until Barney rode up and plied the lash, when he would plunge ahead like
a runaway locomotive. Only the nimble-footed, long-suffering broncos
could or would have endured the wild work. To increase our trouble the
stray cattle kept close behind us. Many times they came so close that
Otto and I were compelled to halt and hold the bull, while Barney, with
hoarse shouts and language as abusive as he dared use, drove them back.
It was nearly dawn when we halted for this purpose on the edge of the
large draw where we had seen the mysterious gathering. As I watched
Barney dispersing our troublesome followers, I heard Otto muttering to
himself some polysyllabic imprecation on cattle in general and the
Durham bull in particular, and then he stopped short with a gasp of
surprise. Over the ridge on the other side of the draw there struggled
into sight two parallel columns of puffing horses, and then there slowly
climbed against the ruddy eastern sky the outlines of a building. Even
in that imperfect light we recognized it at the first glance as the
court-house deprived of its flags.
"Ach, du liebe Zeit!" gasped Otto. "T'ey shteal t'e gourt-house!"
It had been an easy task to shift it from its flimsy under-pinning to
the lumber wagons, and the horses had dragged it with little difficulty
over the smooth prairie. When necessary, the cowboys had helped pull by
fastening their lariats to the sill, and the party had probably reached
the draw with less exertion than we. I heard the sharp clank of the
drag-chains as they prepared to descend the slope.
"Where on earth are the Garfielders?" said I, and as I spoke we heard
the crack of a revolver from beyond the ridge. The cowboys unfastened
their ropes, and hurried back yelling like fiends and firing their
six-shooters into the air. Afar off the solitary church bell at Garfield
began to jingle wildly.
"Sound the tocsin!" shouted Barney, abandoning his chase and riding back
to see the fun. "What ho! Garfield to the rescue!"
But it was only too apparent that the town had been taken by surprise,
and had few champions in the field as yet. The shots grew fainter, and
in another minute the cowboys came over the ridge laughing and swearing
at the top of their voices, and rode down to help the teams up the
slope.
"Good-by court-house, if they once get her past the draw!" I exclaimed.
"Geewilikins!" said Barney, "I'd like to give 'm a shot," and he began
tugging at his pocket.
"Shtop t'at!" shrieked Otto. "You fool poy, mint t'em shteers!"
But it was too late. Down the trail behind us thundered the cattle. The
bull gave a bellow, and started down into the draw. Taken off our guard,
Otto and I were dragged helplessly after him, while Barney, giving an
Ogallalla war-whoop, fired his revolver as rapidly as he could. The air
fairly quivered with Otto's expostulations, addressed now to the bull
and now to the "verfluchte kid." On we swept in a mad race, and
yielding to a wild impulse, I gave forth my most blood-curdling yells. I
saw, rather than heard, the startled oaths of the teamsters. In the next
moment their horses were plunging and kicking as they heard the roar of
the angry Durham charging down upon them. There was a snapping of
harness and a breaking of axles as the teams swerved sharply apart, and
the new court-house rolled majestically over on its side with a crash of
broken windows. On we dashed, a tangle of horses and men, in the wake of
the bull, with a score of crazy cattle bringing up our rear. Before the
cowboys could recover from their surprise we were upon them. With a
snort of defiance the bull toppled over every horse he could reach, and
ploughed his way through the crowd of squealing broncos, dragging us
after him. As the horsemen scattered I saw Arkansaw Joe rolling out of a
cactus-bed, while his bronco fled in the direction of Alkali.
"Too bad to spoil our circus!" yelled Barney, as he swept past with a
grin. We reached the top of the slope, leaving our cattle train to amuse
our dismounted adversaries.
"Cut t'at lariat," shouted Otto, "and git home."
We urged our ponies to their topmost speed, for we knew only too well
what to expect when the cowboys should have had an opportunity to load
their revolvers. Had they not been empty when we made our charge, we
should hardly have escaped so easily. Luckily we were well out of range
by the time they reached the top of the draw. They galloped after us
about a mile, shouting and firing, until they saw us join a group of
horsemen who had ridden out from Garfield. Others were hurrying up, and
we were soon surrounded by a crowd of indignant citizens. We quickly
told what had happened. In a short time the force was thought large
enough to proceed to the rescue of the court-house, and in spite of
Otto's remonstrance, Barney and I turned back with them. But long before
we reached the scene of our adventure a column of smoke told us the fate
of the stolen building. There was nothing left to do when we rode up to
the blazing pile but to vow vengeance on the thieves, and resolve to
keep a better watch hereafter. When we arrived at our home we found that
the bull had preceded us, much to father's surprise. While I got
breakfast for the family, Barney gleefully related our adventure, and
finished by declaring that the bull ought to be immortalized in history
together with the geese that saved the Capitol. Father looked grave, and
warned us not to go near Alkali. We did not go, except once; but that,
as Mr. Kipling says, is another story.
THE CARE OF A GUN.
BY H. H. BENSON.
Aside from the pride and satisfaction which every sportsman should take
in keeping his favorite weapon bright and free from spots, inside and
out, it pays to keep a gun clean. The residue left in the barrel after
firing contains acids, which will soon eat "pits" or spots in the metal,
and when once started, it is almost impossible to prevent them
increasing in size and number. When badly pitted, the recoil is
increased by the roughness in the barrel. A gun can be cleaned by the
following directions. The cleaning-rod should have at least three
tools--a wool swab, a wire scratch-brush, and a wiper to run rags
through. Have plenty of water at hand--warm if you have it, if not cold
will do nicely. Put the swab on the rod, and some water in a tin basin
or wooden pail. By placing one end of the barrel in the water, you can
pump it up and down the barrel with the swab. When it is discolored take
fresh water, squeeze out the swab in it, and repeat the operation, until
the water comes from the barrel as clear as it went in. If the gun has
stood overnight, or longer, since using, it is best to put on the
scratch-brush after the first swabbing, and a few passes with this will
remove any hardened powder or leading. The next step is to fill the
wiper with woollen or cotton rags, and dry the barrel thoroughly. When
one set becomes wet take another, until they come from the barrel
perfectly dry. Then stand the barrel on end on a heated stove, changing
it from end to end, taking care that it does not become overheated. By
the time it is well warmed up, the hot air from the stove will have
dried out every particle of moisture left in the barrel. If no stove is
at hand, the last set of drying rags used must be plied vigorously up
and down the barrel until it becomes quite warm from the friction.
Drying is the most important part of cleaning, and if the least particle
of moisture is left in the barrel it will be a rust spot the next time
the gun is taken from its case. The gun may now be oiled, inside and
out, with sewing-machine oil or gun grease, which can be had in any
gun-store. The woollen rags used for greasing soak up a great deal of
oil, and should be dropped into the gun cover for future use.
Cartridges can be bought ready loaded, by hand or machinery, but most
sportsmen prefer to load their own, for several reasons. They find it
much cheaper, and the shells can be loaded to suit each one's individual
notion.
In regard to the safe handling of guns, almost all rules centre in that
of always carrying the gun in such a way that if it should be
accidentally discharged it would do no harm. If this rule is borne in
mind, and strictly obeyed in the beginning, it becomes a habit, and is
followed intuitively. The gun may be carried safely on either shoulder,
or in the hollow of either arm, with a sharp upward slant. When
momentarily expecting a bird to rise, and obliged to have the gun
cocked, it should be carried across the breast with a sharp upward slope
to the left. This is the only way the gun should be carried cocked. A
breech-loader is so easily unloaded that there is no excuse for getting
into a wagon or boat, or going around a house, without unloading. Never
hand a loaded gun to any one who asks to look at it. Whenever you pick
up any kind of a gun to examine it, always open it and see if it is
loaded, and the habit will grow so that you will do this almost without
knowing it. It seems needless to say never pull a gun toward you by the
muzzle through a fence or out of a boat or wagon, yet the violation of
this rule is the cause of more accidents than anything else. Never climb
a fence with your gun cocked.
In learning the art of shooting on the wing--and this is the only way in
which a shot-gun should be used--the following suggestions may be of
some help, but no amount of printed directions can teach you to shoot.
Practice is the best teacher. Nine out of ten young sportsmen shoot too
quickly. A game bird rises with a startling whir of the wing (and
sometimes when least expected), which gives the idea that he is making
much greater speed than he really is. Beginners are apt to become
excited, and throw up the gun anywhere in that direction, and blaze away
with no definite aim. For this reason it is best to begin with
blackbirds, ricebirds, and rails.
In almost every shot it is necessary to hold ahead of the bird, to allow
for the time it takes to explode the cartridge and throw the shot to the
bird. Even in this short space of time a cross-flying bird would be
safely out of the shot circle if you aimed right at him. If a bird flies
straight away from you, neither rising nor dropping, you should aim
right at it. If flying straight across, you should hold well ahead of
it. If quartering, still hold ahead, but less.
Many will ask how far to hold ahead, and this is a difficult question to
answer accurately, as we have no means of knowing just how far ahead we
do hold. One might say six feet and another six inches. What might
appear to be an inch at the muzzle of the gun might really be a foot in
front of a bird forty yards away. It must be learned by experience, and
when accustomed to it the aim will be taken almost instantly, governed
by the direction of flight, the speed of the bird, and the distance from
the shooter.
It is best to ask permission of the owner to shoot over his land. You
will seldom be refused, and will frequently be given permission to shoot
over land which is posted "No Shooting." The land-owners know that it is
the lawless hoodlums who do them damage.
Every true sportsman strictly obeys the game laws, and it is to his
advantage to do so, although in many States the laws are practically a
dead letter. Shooting out of season has nearly killed the game in many
localities, when it would still be abundant if the game laws had been
observed.
THE AMERICAN NIGHTS' ENTERTAINMENTS.
THE KITE MASQUERADE.
BY EMMA J. GRAY.
March had come in like a lion, but, contrary to the old prediction, was
going out in the same fashion. At least, so thought Dick Atwater as he
violently pulled his friend Joe Jacobs's door bell. Only a second or
two, and the door opened, when, rapidly passing through, he bounded up
two staircases, and in response to a hasty knock, was joyfully welcomed
in Joe's den, room, sanctum, or whatever the third-floor front might be
denominated.
[Illustration]
"Hello, old chap!" was the cheery, familiar greeting. "What's up now?
for that some scheme's afloat I know"; and immediately Joe commenced to
laugh, though, had any one inquired what at, he could not have told,
unless it was the merry twinkle in Dick's eyes--enough to make a judge
laugh, much less a rollicking, good-natured boy--the hale-fellow
sort--and Dick's boon companion and greatest friend.
So, without further parley, the two boys sat down opposite to each
other, one face all expectancy, knowing he was to hear something awfully
jolly; the other all animation, for so sure he was that he was about to
unfold a really taking scheme.
And this is what Joe heard: "You know April-fool's day will soon be
here, and as it's blowing great guns now, I don't imagine that all the
wind will die down by that time. So my plan is to give a kite masquerade
on the afternoon of that day."
"Fine!" and Joe Jacobs immediately jumped up to get out his new
"sky-scraper," as he called it, though it was altogether perfect; kite,
tail, string, everything was there, and his friend Dick had seen it
possibly fifty times before. But the simple thought of anything novel in
the kite line seemed too much for Joe's excitable temperament; besides,
he was very proud of this kite; it was brand-new, and none of the
fellows, if we will except Dick, knew that he had it.
So Joe, having gotten out his kite, again sat down, and with his
treasure in hand, holding it scrutinizingly up, looking at it most
attentively--indeed, surveying it backwards, forwards, every sort of a
way, even to an occasional unwinding and winding again of the string,
and unfastening of the tail--he yet was full of inquiry to discover
more. And as for Dick, he talked as excitedly, rapidly, and earnestly as
if Joe was as still as the Sphinx. He was not in the very least nervous
or ruffled, so entirely does one boy understand another. The scheme was
to give the exhibition in the lot in which they played baseball, and, as
Dick said, "Wear costumes, with masks, and we'll have lots of fun
fooling one another--just the sport for the 1st of April." And then he
added, "We'll tell the fellows to-morrow; I'm not afraid but what
they'll join us, and they can do as they like about their clothes, but
we'll dress each other up, Joe. What do you say to that for a fool
trick?" and a quick slap on the shoulder added emphasis to the boy's
enthusiasm.
"It's immense, that's what I think, and our kites are boss too. I wonder
if they'll suspect who we are?"
"Not if I can help it."
"I say, what will we wear, though, Dick? I don't care how ridiculous I
make myself."
"I know you don't; and I've thought you might go as an old soldier.
There is your father's cast-off suit--how would that do?"
"But there's some difference in our size."
"Well," laughed his friend, "about a hundred or so pounds. But that will
go for nothing when I get hold of the wadding. What fun I'll have
stuffing you! Fortunately your height's about right. I say, though, Joe,
you'd better wear a mask with a big gray beard, Santa Claus fashion, and
that will cover over any wrinkles there might be about the neck. And
don't forget the sabre. Go as a sure-enough soldier, or don't go as a
soldier at all. And for myself, there is always so much talk about my
leanness, gaunt, hungry-looking style, that I shall wear the costume of
a real down-East Yankee; and in order to make myself look taller than
ever I shall ask my sister to sew several red cloth stripes down my
trouser legs, long-tailed coat, and vest."
"You'll be a sight for mortal eye," complimented Joe, laughing so
heartily that he lost his balance and rolled off his chair full length
onto the new kite, which, however, was not in the least hurt by this
fantastic antic.
"I hope I will. I want to be a sight. And say, Joe, where do you suppose
I can borrow a tall gray beaver hat and a big"--and he held his hands at
arms'-length apart--"red cotton handkerchief?"
"I can get you the bandanna right enough, but the hat's a poser." And
Joe screwed up his mouth thoughtfully awhile; then, with a triumphant
nod, said: "I've got it. Go to Dr. Worth; he always wears 'em, and keeps
'em, too, for centuries almost. I once saw a whole stock of them on the
top shelf in his store-room. He'll let us have one all right enough,
I'll wager."
"That's good, and I'll get the dudest style of false face too, for I
mean to be a dandy; and our fun--well, it will beat a house afire."
After a little more laughter, comment, and explanation, the boys began
to talk about a game that Joe had learned the year before while in
Germany, and that both the boys thought would be a good thing to follow
the masquerade.
"What did you say it was called?"
"Schlaglaufen."
"My jaw is broken," and Dick rapidly raised his left hand, laying it
with a piteous cry across his lower jaw.
[Illustration]
At this action Joe gave him a sharp look; and then came the words. "You
needn't be so gay," and again the boys laughed merrily, Joe afterwards
adding, "Well, another name for the game, and a much more pronounceable
one, is 'Running for the Cap,' because a post is fixed in the ground,
and on it a cap is placed and run for. The boys must be equally divided;
one set is called catchers, the other runners, and these sets must stand
fifty yards apart. The catchers' position is thirty yards from the post,
and the runners' twenty. The call, one, two, three, is given, and on the
second three is spoken one boy from each party runs to the post. The
runner will naturally get there first, and he has to put the cap on his
head, and then replace it. He must do this with the utmost rapidity, as,
should the catcher overtake him on his way back to the position which he
held before starting to run, the boy becomes the catcher's prisoner, and
can no longer play."
[Illustration]
The rest of the time Dick spent in Joe's room was given to
marble-playing. Both boys were experts, and it was oftener than
otherwise a tie game rather than that either boy could honestly be
counted as being ahead of the other. Indeed, so evenly they played, it
was a great delight to play without other boys being in the game, and,
therefore, whenever there was opportunity, they, so to speak, challenged
each other. Joe's floor was carpeted in a square pattern measuring six
inches each way. Having selected a convenient square, an agate was
placed in each of three angles, counting the nearest one ten, the middle
twenty, and the other thirty. Two marbles were then rolled from the
fourth angle, the inside marble being on the angle, the other
immediately back of it, the object being to hit each agate with both
marbles. For this five shots were allowed. When done the numbers were
counted and the agates replaced for the next player. This amusement was
succeeded by the three following games:
_The Bagatelle-board Count Game._--Chalk a floor or mark a space in
exact copy of a bagatelle board ten feet long by three wide. In the
enclosure, at correct distances, mark the numbers; this may be done with
chalk, or the numbers may be painted on thin wooden blocks and laid in
position. Each player must start his marble at the extreme left-hand
corner, and state before starting the number he wishes to roll to.
Should the marble go to that number, and not roll on so as to touch
another, the player counts the number selected, and can then state
another number and play for that, and can so continue for seven minutes,
provided his marble always hits the number selected, and though rolling
on, does not touch or stop at any other. When his time is up his count
is scored, and the next player follows, subject to the same rules.
Should the marble stop on the number selected, it is counted double in
favor of the player. Again, should the marble, having reached the
selected number, still roll on and touch another, no count is allowed,
and the player must stop until his turn comes again.
_Five-arch Discount Game._--A strip of wood two inches thick, five
inches wide, and one yard long will be required. In this cut five
arches, making the centre one four inches in width, the others three
inches each; stand it up on the floor or on a table, and make the
starting-point six feet away. Four marbles may be rolled by each player.
When a marble goes through the centre arch it counts sixty, but if,
instead, it goes through either of the small arches, thirty is counted
off. If a marble fails to pass through either, it is counted out of the
game, and must be removed. The next turn around the player will use only
three instead of four marbles. The boy who has the highest tally has
won; should there be a tie they must roll again.
This game requires practice, or some players will find that they have
lost more than they have made.
_Circle Game._--Make a target of brown wrapping-paper, and put the
number 100 on the bull's eye. Outside of this mark five rings, making
the largest one two feet in diameter, the others proportionately
smaller. Inside of these rings put the numbers 10, 20, 30, 40, 50, the
centre as stated, being 100. Mark out a space on the ground for a base
five feet away; place the target on the ground, blindfold a player, lead
him to the base, turn him around twice, and leave him facing the target.
He is now entitled to roll three marbles, and then remove the blindfold.
His count will be the added numbers in the rings at which his marbles
have stopped. Should any of them stop on a line, he is entitled to the
largest number adjoining. No marbles must be moved, and each boy has the
privilege of trying the ground once with each marble, before being
blindfolded.
* * * * *
At the Zoological Garden Railway Station, in Berlin, a restaurant has
been opened where rolls of bread and various kinds of eatables, etc.,
are dispensed automatically. On depositing in the slots ten-pfennig
pieces or fifty-pfennig pieces--according to the kind of refreshment
required--the apparatus delivers either rolls of bread or glasses filled
with drinkables--cups of coffee, tea, cocoa, etc. The bread rolls are of
different kinds, each kind being in a separate glass machine. In front
of them is a marble counter, and before each machine is a plate. When a
ten-pfennig piece is dropped into the slot the plate sinks below the
surface of the counter, and a roll of bread glides into it. The
restaurant has lately been thronged with customers. On one single Sunday
20,000 glasses and cups were paid for and emptied by the public, and
8000 penny rolls were demanded, and for the most part eaten.
FOR KING OR COUNTRY.
A Story of the Revolution.
BY JAMES BARNES.
CHAPTER XXI.
WHAT LED TO IT.
When George had left Rivington seated in his chaise on the Paulus Hook
Turnpike, he walked on down the narrow lane to which the path had led
him. A number of small houses stood there close together.
An old man was chopping wood in the back yard of the fifth house.
Although it was cold, he was in his shirt sleeves, and the blows of his
axe were sharp and lusty.
George, coming along the fence, observed him for some time before he
spoke. Then he cleared the rails with a left-handed vault, and
approached closer. The old man had stopped his chopping, and George saw
that he had but one leg.
"Good-morning!" George said, quietly. "God save our country!"
"Amen!" was the answer.
It was the patriot greeting.
"Will you help me?" went on George. "I have escaped from prison in New
York."
"You are blunt in the telling of it," said the kindly voice--there was a
twinkle in the sharp black eyes--"and I will be blunt in my answer. _I
will._ But come into the house. The door-yard is no place for the
discussion of state secrets."
When the door had closed behind them, the old man had looked at George's
clothes with interest.
"Were you in the hulks?" he asked. "I should judge not."
"No," returned George; "I was in the sugar-house prison, on Vine Street,
and was treated fairly well."
"Friends at court, eh?" suggested the old man, bobbing quickly over to a
window and letting the light into the room.
"Ay," said George, "and they helped me to escape. I will talk bluntly
again. I am a Lieutenant in the Thirteenth New Jersey Infantry, and was
despatched to New York on special business. I was captured, held
prisoner, and would now return to my command at Morristown."
"What's the news in town?" asked the old man.
"You hear but little in prison, but there are rumors that General Howe
is lazy," George answered.
"'Tis a frightful scandal," chuckled his host, who had now bobbed to the
other side of the room, and was taking down some cold meat and a loaf of
bread from the cupboard.
A door opened, and a young girl came from an inner room. She gave a
little exclamation as she saw that her grandfather had some one with
him.
"Another defender to assist," said the old man, briskly.
"Oh!" said the girl, smiling. "And what can we do for him?"
"Send him on his way rejoicing," was the answer. "Come, sir," he added;
"break bread with us, and I will drive you out of the Debatable District
and start you on your journey."
George murmured his thanks.
"No need of that," said the old man; "you are giving us a privilege.
Harness the old mare, Minnie, lass," he said. "No, don't move. She's as
handy as a whip about a stable," he added, as George had arisen.
The young girl flushed, and patted her grandfather on the shoulder as
she passed.
"It will be ready in a minute," she said, glancing at George out of the
corner of her eye.
"Put her to the sledge, and toss some hay in the bottom of it," called
the old gaffer after her. "I am afraid I shall have to take you part of
the way as cargo," he said, turning, and at the same time filling a
pewter mug full of cool fresh milk. "There's the drink that keeps one
young," he added, pouring out another for himself.
The sledge was waiting in the wood-shed, and George was soon covered
with the light load of hay.
"We have some suspicious neighbors hereabouts," said the girl, as she
lightly tossed the cover so as to conceal the young officer's form.
"Good-by, and an easy journey to you."
"Good-by, and a thousand thanks," came the answer from the depths of the
hay.
"G'long, Molly," said the old man, and the sledge slipped over the
shavings into the snowy road.
They jogged along for an hour or so, when it became evident to George
that they had left the beaten track and were going through deeper snow.
"Whoa up, old sweetheart! Back! back! 'Sh! 'sh!" called the driver,
reining in. "Jump out," he said. "Here's where we change."
They were drawn up alongside of an old log barn in the midst of a
clearing in the woods.
George struggled from his hiding-place.
Searching in the hay, his benefactor drew forth a saddle.
"It is impossible for you to walk, and you must take old Molly and jog
along as best you can. You will have to accept a loan of her, Mr.
Lieutenant. Fifteen miles from here you will find Lyons Farms. Ask for
the house of Pastor Hinchley. You can be as blunt with him as you were
with me. Leave the old mare there. Mr. Hinchley will set you on your
way, and you can proceed on foot. If I am not mistaken, there are some
of our gallant lads not many miles to the westward of Short Hills."
"To whom should I be thankful?" inquired George, quite overcome.
"To the Lord Almighty and His humble servant Peter Wissinck, very much
at your service. My ancestor it was who settled the island of
Manhattan."
The old man had said this proudly.
"That is an honor indeed," replied George, lifting his hat.
"Yes," said the old man, "I am as Dutch as blue china plate. Dutch
backbone and Yankee heart--that's a good combination for you!"
"Good indeed," said George. "But pray tell me how you are going to
return?" he continued, loath at first to accept the kind offer of the
horse.
"Dot and go one," was the answer. "Hop, skip, and a jump. There's no one
can beat me at it. Come, lad, into the saddle."
As George settled himself and reached forward for the reins old Peter
struck the mare a slap on the flank.
"G'long, Molly," he said. "Take good care of him."
Then he turned and started back at a furious pace along the drifted
road. It would have taken a good walker to have caught up with him.
If George had known the adventures that were soon to befall him his
heart might have failed him. He had ridden on for some hours, when he
thought he heard the sound of distant shots ahead. It was past noonday
when he came in sight of Lyons Farms.