ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.
Mrs. Harvey Middleton sat in her boudoir, trying to read a novel. But
it failed to interest her. She felt uneasy, she scarcely knew why.
The evening previous she had been at the Haymarket Theatre, and had
been struck by a boy's face. Ten feet from her sat Tony, with his
friend, George Spencer. He looked wonderfully like his father, as she
remembered him, and she was startled. She did not know Tony, but Rugg's
angry warning struck her.
"Was he right? Can this be the boy I have so much reason to dread?" she
asked herself.
She was thinking of this when the servant entered the room with a card.
"C. Barry," she repeated, "wishes to see Mrs. Middleton on business of
the greatest importance."
"Ask him to come up," she said, uneasily.
It was the lawyer, as the reader may have suspected.
"Mrs. Middleton," he said, with a bow, "I must apologize for my
intrusion."
"You say your business is important," said the lady.
"It is--of the first importance."
"Explain yourself, I beg."
"I appear before you, madame, in behalf of your late husband's cousin,
Anthony Middleton, who is the heir of the estate which you hold in
trust."
It was out now, and Mrs. Middleton was at bay.
"There is no such person," she said. "The boy you refer to is dead."
"What proof have you of his decease?"
"I have the sworn statement of the man who saw him die."
"And this man's name?"
"Is Rudolph Rugg."
"I thought so. Mr. Rugg swore falsely. He is ready to contradict his
former statement."
"He has been tampered with!" exclaimed Mrs. Middleton, pale with
passion.
"That may be," said the lawyer; but he added, significantly, "Not by
us."
"The boy is an impostor," said Mrs. Middleton, hotly. "I will not
surrender the estate."
"I feel for your disappointment, madame; but I think you are hasty."
"Who will believe the statement of a common tramp?"
"_You_ relied upon it before, madame. But we have other evidence,"
continued the lawyer.
"What other evidence?"
"The striking resemblance of my young friend to the family."
"Was--was he at the Haymarket Theatre last evening?"
"He was. Did you see him?"
"I saw the boy I suppose you mean. He had a slight look like Mr.
Middleton."
"He is his image."
"Suppose--suppose this story to be true, what do you offer me?" asked
Mrs. Middleton, sullenly.
"An income of three hundred pounds from the estate," said the lawyer.
"If the matter comes to court, this Rugg, I am bound to tell you, has
an ugly story to tell, in which you are implicated."
Mrs. Middleton knew well enough what it meant. If the conspiracy should
be disclosed, she would be ostracised socially. She rapidly made up her
mind.
"Mr. Barry," she said, "I will accept your terms, on a single
condition."
"Name it, madame."
"That you will give me six weeks' undisturbed possession of the estate,
keeping this matter secret meanwhile."
"If I knew your motive, I might consent."
"I will tell you in confidence. Within that time I am to be married.
The abrupt disclosure of this matter might break off the marriage."
"May I ask the name of the bridegroom?"
"Captain Gregory Lovell."
The lawyer smiled. He knew of Captain Lovell, and owed him a grudge. He
suspected that the captain was mercenary in his wooing, and he thought
that it would be a fitting revenge to let matters go on.
"I consent, upon my own responsibility," he said.
"Thank you," said Mrs. Middleton, with real gratitude.
She would not lose the man she loved, after all.
* * * * * * *
A month later the marriage of Captain Gregory Lovell, of Her Majesty's
service, and Mrs. Harvey Middleton, of Middleton Hall, was celebrated.
There was a long paragraph in the Morning "Post," and Mrs. Lovell was
happy.
When, a week later, at Paris, the gallant captain was informed of the
trick that had been played upon him, there was a terrible scene. He
cursed his wife, and threatened to leave her.
"But, Gregory, I have three hundred pounds income," she pleaded. "We
can live abroad."
"And I have sold myself for that paltry sum!" he said, bitterly.
But he concluded to make the best of a bad bargain. Between them they
had an income of five hundred pounds, and on this they made shift
abroad, where living is cheap. But the marriage was not happy. He was
brutal at times, and his wife realized sadly that he had never loved
her. But she has all the happiness she deserves, and so has he.
Rudolph drank himself to death in six months. So the income which he
was to receive made but a slight draft upon the Middleton estate.
And Tony!--no longer Tony the Tramp, but the Hon. Anthony Middleton,
of Middleton Hall--he has just completed a course at Oxford, and is
now the possessor of an education which will help fit him for the
responsibilities he is to assume. His frank, off-hand manner makes him
an immense favorite with the circle to which he now belongs. He says
little of his early history, and it is seldom thought of now. He has
made a promise to his good friend, George Spencer, to visit the United
States, and will doubtless do so. He means at that time to visit once
more the scenes with which he became familiar when he was A POOR
BOY.
WHITMARSH'S REVENGE.
Roger Blake and Belcher Whitmarsh were both called quite good boys,
but for different reasons. As their friends used sometimes to put it,
Belcher was liked _because_ of his temper, and Roger was liked _in
spite of_ his temper.
Roger was quick to fly into a passion, and as quick to get over it,
while Belcher was almost always good natured, but when once really
offended remembered the offense like an Indian.
The broad play-green in front of the country schoolhouse, where the
boys spent their term times together, was surrounded by trees and rocky
pasture lots. A pretty brook ran through it. On the sides of the brook
and in the rain-gulleys there were plenty of pebbles and small stones.
One noon, when the boys had begun a trial of skill in firing stones at
a mark, an unlucky turn was given to this small "artillery practice" by
the thoughtless challenge of one of the youngsters to a playmate:
"I stump you to hit _me_."
The stones soon began to fly promiscuously, and the play grew more
lively than safe. The boys became excited and ran in all directions,
exclaiming "Hit _me_, hit _me_!" The missiles were dodged with exultant
laughter, and the shots returned with interest.
As must be supposed, some of the players were really hit, and sore
heads, and backs, and limbs made the sham skirmish before long a good
deal like a real battle.
Belcher Whitmarsh was about the only really cool fellow on the ground.
"Come, fellows," he remonstrated, "this is getting dangerous. What's
the good of throwing stones when you're mad? It's poor play, any way."
"Ho, you're afraid," shouted Roger Blake, and in this he was joined by
several others.
Roger had received one rather hard thump, and feeling quite fiery about
it determined to be "even with somebody." He kept on hurling right and
left reckless of consequences.
Belcher paid no attention to the derision with which his words were
treated. He was preparing, with one or two companions, to leave the
playground when he saw Roger near him with a heavy stone in his hand
drawing back for a furious throw.
Partly in sport and partly out of regard for the lad aimed at, he
stepped behind the excited boy and caught his arm.
Roger whirled about instantly in a great heat. As Belcher stepped
quickly backward, laughing, he let fly the stone at him with all his
force, crying:
"Take it yourself, then!"
The stone struck Belcher full in the face, breaking two of his front
teeth and knocking him down.
Seeing what he had done, Blake sobered in an instant and ran to the aid
of his fallen schoolfellow.
"I didn't mean to, Belcher," said Roger, bending over him remorsefully,
and evidently afraid he had killed him.
The boys began to express their indignation quite loudly, but Blake
made no attempt to defend himself, only hanging over the injured lad,
and declaring how sorry he was.
"Come," pleaded he, "try to get up, and let me help you down to the
schoolhouse--I'll pay the doctor anything in the world to make you well
again."
But Whitmarsh, as soon as he recovered a little, showed that he
resented his sympathy as bitterly as he did his blow.
Pushing away his hand spitefully, he staggered to his feet with the
help of another boy, and holding his handkerchief to his bloody face
moved off the green, sobbing with pain and revengeful rage.
By the time school commenced he had been assisted to wash and bind up
his bleeding mouth, when he started for home, giving Roger a look which
was very seldom seen on his face, but which meant plainly enough:
"I'll have the worth of this out of your skin some day, see if I don't!"
That afternoon the boys received a sound lecture from the teacher on
the evil of throwing stones, and a penalty was imposed upon the leaders
in the reckless sport, Roger among them, who, however, in consideration
of his penitence, was only charged with a message to his parents,
making full confession and submitting his case entirely to their
judgment.
Days passed, and everything went on much as before at the school, save
that Belcher Whitmarsh was missed, being at home healing his wound.
Every day that his absence was noticed was to Roger's quick feelings
like a new condemnation.
No one was more pleased, then, than Roger Blake to see Belcher, after a
little more than a week had passed, back at his place in school.
He soon found, however, that bygones were not to be bygones between
them.
Belcher not only refused to respond to his hearty congratulations, but
showed by his manner and words (hissed through his broken teeth) that
so far from forgiving Roger's offense he meant to lay it up against him.
Several times when thrown in close company with him Blake tried to
disarm his dislike.
"Come," he would say, "now, Belch, shake hands and say quits."
But Whitmarsh would only answer with a surly half threat, or grin
significantly, to expose the notch in his gums where the teeth were
gone.
The boys saw this unreasonable dislike, and gradually transferred their
sympathy to Roger.
At last the school closed, and though Belcher was not cordial the
whole affair between the two lads seemed likely to be soon forgotten.
One day during vacation, as Roger was picking whortleberries with two
other boys in a lonely pasture, he was unexpectedly joined by Belcher,
who had come thither on the same errand.
It was not noticed that they greeted each other very differently from
the usual manner of boys, and during the whole time they were together
Belcher behaved himself in a way that made neither Blake nor his
companions feel any the less at ease for his company. Least of all had
they any reason to suspect that he still harbored his old revenge.
A ruined house, many years deserted, stood in sight of the spot where
the boys were picking, and growing tired of their work they agreed to
go and examine the old building, and perhaps take a game of "hi spy"
there.
As they went over the house they found a trap-door opening into
a small vault, which had evidently once been used for the family
cellar--for the ancient dwelling was rather cramped in size and
accommodations--and, boy-like, they all went down into the moldy hole.
As the last boy was descending the rotten ladder tumbled to pieces
under his weight, and the adventurous youngsters found themselves
caught like the fox and goat in the well.
Philip Granger, however, being a lad of quick resources, soon hit upon
the fox's plan of getting out, which was that each should climb the
shoulders of a comrade, and when all but one were safely above ground
these should join in pulling out the last.
The plan was varied a little in practice, as it was awkward business to
decide who of them should be the "goat."
Phil got up first, climbing over Frank Staples, and then aided his
helper out.
Belcher, who had made a ladder of Roger Blake, was performing the
pulling of his generous companion toward the opening, when a sudden
yell was heard outside, and crying out "There come Dirk Avery and Ben
Trench!" Frank and Phil darted away, running as if for their lives.
Seized with their panic, Belcher instantly dropped Roger, and
regardless of his terrified calls rushed from the hut in a twinkling.
The jar of the hurried departure of the boys over the rickety floor
brought down the trap-door with a bang, and Roger was left a prisoner
indeed.
Dirk Avery and Ben Trench were two bad characters who lived a sort of
half-vagabond life, rarely doing any honest work, and whose savage
looks and cruel natures made them the terror of all the children of the
neighborhood.
Their appearance in any place was the signal for a general stampede of
the young people who happened to be about. There was not one in our
little whortleberry party who was not as much afraid of them as if they
had actually worn horns and hoofs.
On this occasion they were out on a fishing tramp, and the contents
of a bottle of cheap rum that each of them carried had made them more
wicked than usual.
Accordingly, they were in just the mood to take all possible advantage
of the fright they had caused, and when the boys fled so precipitately
from the ruined house they pursued them with horrible threats and
shouts of hoarse laughter.
Frank and Phil ran toward the lot where they had hidden their baskets,
the loud voice of Dirk crying, "Skin the rascals! Wring their necks!"
Dirk, however, soon overdid himself, for the two boys were fleet of
foot, and saved their breath. They finally got away, with their berries.
Belcher struck a bee-line for home, forgetting his basket, and though
Ben gave him a hot chase he succeeded in distancing him.
Poor Roger! For some minutes after he found himself shut fast in the
vault his mortal fear of being found by the two roughs left him no
courage to cry out, and gave him no time to think whether he ought to
blame Belcher or not.
Judging his act by his own feelings then, he could not say but he
should have done the same.
But the immediate fright soon passed, and he began to feel the real
misery of his situation.
Nobody but Whitmarsh knew where he was. What if he _should_ leave him
there, for the old grudge? And then it came to him how singular it
was that the one on whom he depended to help him out should be just
_he_--the boy who had threatened him.
Wearily enough passed the time to Roger down there in the dismal hole.
Neither shout nor scream would help him. No one lived within half a
mile of the house; or if his cries should chance to be heard it might
be Avery and Trench, and they would certainly bring him more hurt than
good.
Suddenly he heard footsteps. A hand seized the trap-door and lifted it.
Belcher Whitmarsh's face looked into the vault.
"Hollo," said Roger joyfully, "I thought you'd be back before long. Now
let's get out of this--I've had enough of it, I'm sure."
But Belcher only grinned, showing the vacancy in his front teeth, and
replied coolly:
"Want me to help you out?"
"Of course. Don't be fooling now," pleaded Roger.
"Well," said Belcher, "I've thought it over, and seeing you're in there
so nicely _I've concluded I won't_. I've an old score against you.
Perhaps you'd like to pay it now."
With that he dropped the trap-door, and made off.
He had come after his basket of berries. Would he be heartless enough
to go home now and leave his schoolmate in that damp hole, pestilent
with mildew and haunted, perhaps, by sliding adders and loathsome
creatures?
Meantime the parents of Roger, when the hour passed at which he was
expected home, began to make inquiries for him. Frank Staples and
Philip Granger, who both supposed he had climbed out of the vault and
ran away with Belcher from the hut, were much surprised when asked
where he was, and told that he had not returned.
Their story of the encounter with Dirk Avery and Ben Trench made the
parents still more anxious.
Possibly their boy had come to some harm at the hands of those drunken
ruffians. Would Philip mind going over to the pasture again and showing
just where it all happened?
Philip gladly consented, and getting leave from home accompanied Mr.
Blake to the lot where they had gathered their berries.
Roger's basket was found untouched, precisely where he had been seen to
hide it. Mr. Blake looked pale and Phil began to feel frightened.
"Let's go down to Mr. Whitmarsh's," said Mr. Blake, "and see Belcher."
It was now about sundown, but as the old house lay not far out of the
way it was decided to visit it.
No sooner had they reached it and looked in than Phil exclaimed, "The
trap-door is shut. I'm sure 'twas open when we left it."
In a moment more they had uncovered the vault and found poor Roger.
Overjoyed, they helped him out, a good deal the worse for the hunger
and fear he had undergone.
The story of Belcher's mean revenge was soon noised abroad. He excused
himself by saying he meant to leave Roger only a little while for a
joke, but his father made him go to Mr. Blake's and apologize for his
wanton trick.
We must do Belcher the justice to say that he performed the duty
promptly and with apparent frankness and sincerity. There is no
doubt, however, that he meant harm--not such serious harm as might
have occurred--but sufficient injury to his playfellow to satisfy his
malignant feelings and glut his revenge. The spirit he exhibited was
the same in kind, although not in degree, as that which makes a man a
murderer.
A true man never allows anger to get the permanent control of his
feelings. He knows its mean and dangerous tendencies, and remembers the
words of Him who spake as never man spake: "If ye forgive not men their
trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses."
THE BOY IN THE BUSH.
"The impudent scoundrel! Just look at this, mamma. I should like to see
him at it," exclaimed Sydney Lawson in great wrath, as he handed his
mother a very dirty note which a shepherd had brought home. On coarse,
crumpled grocer's paper these words were written in pencil:
"Master Sidney i Want your Mare the chesnit with the white starr,
soe You Send her to 3 Mile flat first thing Tomorrer Or i Shall
Have to cum an Fetch Her.
"WARRIGAL."
"Sam says," Sydney went on to say, "that the fellow was coward enough
to give it him just down by the slip-panels. He wouldn't have dared to
talk about sticking us up if he hadn't known father was away. Send him
my mare Venus! I seem to see myself doing it!"
Sidney Lawson, who made this indignant speech, was a tall, slim lad
of fourteen. He and his mother had been left in charge of the station
while his father took some cattle to Port Philip.
Sydney was very proud of his charge; he thought himself a man now, and
was very angry that Warrigal, a well-known desperado, should think he
could be frightened "like a baby."
Warrigal was a bushranger who with one or two companions wandered about
in that part of New South Wales, doing pretty much as he liked. They
stopped the mail, and robbed draymen and horsemen on the road by the
two and three dozen together. The police couldn't get hold of them.
The note that Sydney had received caused a great deal of excitement in
the little station.
Miss Smith, who helped Mrs. Lawson in the house, and taught Sydney's
sisters and his brother Harry, was in a great fright.
"Oh! pray send him the horse, Master Sydney," she cried, "or we
shall all be murdered. You've got so many horses one can't make any
difference."
Mrs. Lawson was as little disposed as Sydney to let Mr. Warrigal do
as he liked. She knew that her husband would have run the risk of
being "nabbed," if he had been at home, rather than have obeyed the
bushranger's orders; and that he would be very pleased if they could
manage to defy the rascal.
Still it was a serious matter to provoke Messrs. Warrigal & Co. to pay
the house a visit. She felt sure that Sydney would fight and she meant
to fire at the robbers herself if they came; but would she and Sydney
be able to stand against three armed men?
Not a shepherd, or stockman, or horse-breaker about the place was to
be depended on; and Ki Li, the Chinaman cook, though a very good kind
of fellow, would certainly go to bed in his hut if the robbers came
by day, and stay in bed if the robbers came by night. John Jones, the
plowman, whose wife was Mrs. Lawson's servant, slept in the house, and
he was too honest to band with the bushrangers in any way; "but then,
he's such a _sheep_, you know, mamma," said Sydney.
There was time to send word to the police in Jerry's Town; but who was
to go?
Ki Li would be afraid to go out in the dark, and John Jones would be
afraid to ride anything but one of the plow horses, and that only at an
amble. It wouldn't do for Sydney to leave the place, since he was the
only male on it who was to be depended upon, so what was to be done?
Little Harry had heard his mother and brother talking; and as soon as
he made out their difficulty he looked up and said:
"Why, mamma, _I_ can go. Syd, lend me your stock-whip and let me have
Guardsman."
Neither mother nor brother had any fear about Harry's horsemanship, but
they scarcely liked to turn the little fellow out for a long ride by
night.
However, he knew the way well enough, and if he did not fall in with
any of the Warrigal gang nobody would harm him.
So Sydney put the saddle and bridle on Guardsman and brought him
round to the garden-gate, where Harry stood flicking about Sydney's
stock-whip very impatiently, while his mamma kissed him and tied a
comforter round his neck.
Harry shouted "Good-night," gave Guardsman his head, and was off like a
wild boy.
Sydney stabled Venus, his favorite mare, and--an unusual
precaution--turned the key in the rusty padlock; and when he had given
a look about the outbuildings it was time for him to go in to supper
and family prayers.
He read the chapter and Mrs. Lawson read the prayers. She was a brave
woman, but with her little girls about her and her little boy away she
couldn't keep her voice from trembling a little when she said, "Lighten
our darkness, we beseech thee, O Lord; and by Thy great mercy defend us
from all perils and dangers of this night."
Sydney went into his mother's bedroom and looked at the blunderbuss
that stood by the bedhead (Mrs. Lawson had selected the blunderbuss as
her weapon, because she thought she "must be sure to hit with that big
thing") and he showed her once more how to pull the trigger.
Then he bade her "good-night," and went along the veranda to his own
little room at one end, where he locked himself in, and drew the charge
of his rifle and loaded it again, and looked at the chambers of his
revolver, and put the caps on, and laid it down on a chair, ready to
his hand.
When his preparations were completed he said his prayers and tumbled
into bed with his clothes on.
Harry wasn't expected home until the next day. He had been told to
sleep at the tavern in Jerry's Town, when he had left his message at
the barracks, and come home at his leisure in the morning.
About four miles from Wonga-Wonga, the dreariest part of the road to
Jerry's Town, begins a two-mile stretch of dismal scrub. Harry put his
heels into Guardsman's sides to make him go even faster than he was
going when they got into the scrub, and was pleased to hear a horse's
hoofs coming toward him from the other end.
He thought it was a neighbor riding home to the next station; but it
was Warrigal. As soon as Harry pulled up Guardsman to chat a minute,
Warrigal laid hold of the bridle and pulled Harry on to the saddle
before him.
"Let's see, you're one of the Wonga-Wonga" (that was the name of his
father's station) "kids, ain't you?" said the robber. "And where are
you off to this time of night? Oh, oh, to fetch the traps, I guess; but
I'll put a stop to that little game."
Just then Harry gave a _coo-ey_. He couldn't give a very loud one, for
he was lying on a sack on the robber's horse; but it made Warrigal very
savage.
He put the cold muzzle of a pistol against Harry's face and said, "You
screech again, youngster, and you won't do it no more."
And then Warrigal took Harry and the horses into the scrub, and gagged
Harry with a bit of iron he took out of his pocket, and tied him up to
a crooked old honeysuckle-tree with a long piece of rope he carried in
his saddle-bags.
"Don't frighten yourself, I'll tell yer mar where you are, and you'll
be back by breakfast," said Warrigal, as he got on Guardsman and rode
off, driving his own tired horse before him.
Next morning, just as the day was breaking, Warrigal and his two mates,
with crape masks on, rode up to Wonga-Wonga.
They made as little noise as they could; but the dogs began to bark and
woke Sydney.
When he woke, however, Warrigal had got his little window open, and was
covering him with a pistol.
Sydney put out his hand for his revolver, and though Warrigal shouted,
"Throw up your hands, boy, or I'll shoot you through the head," he
jumped out of bed and fired.
He missed Warrigal, and Warrigal missed him; but Warrigal's bullet
knocked Sydney's revolver out of his hand, and one of Warrigal's
mates made a butt against the bedroom door and smashed it; and he and
Warrigal rushed into the room, and threw Sydney down on the bed, and
pinioned his arms with a sheet.
The other bushranger was watching the horses.
By this time the whole station was aroused. The men peeped out of their
huts, half frightened, half amused; not one of them came near the
house. John Jones and his wife piled their boxes against their room
door, and then crept under the bed.
Miss Smith went into hysterics; and Gertrude and her sisters couldn't
help looking as white as their night-dresses.
Mrs. Lawson had fired off her blunderbuss, but it had only broken
two panes of the parlor window, and riddled the veranda posts; so
Wonga-Wonga was at the bushrangers' mercy.
They ransacked the house, and took possession of any little plate, and
jewelry, and other portable property they could find. When the robbers
had packed up what they called the "swag," and put it on one of their
horses, they pulled Ki Li out of bed, and made him light a fire, and
cook some chops and boil some tea.
Then they marched Mrs. Lawson, and Miss Smith, and Sydney, and his
sisters, and Mr. and Mrs. Jones, and Ki Li, into the keeping-room, and
sat down to breakfast, with pistols in their belts, and pistols laid,
like knives and forks, on the table.
The bushrangers tried to be funny, and pressed Mrs. Lawson and the
other ladies to make themselves at home, and take a good meal. One of
the robbers was going to kiss Miss Smith; but Sydney, pinioned as he
was, ran at him, and butted him like a ram.
He was going to strike Sydney; but Gertrude ran between them, calling
out, "Oh, you great coward!" and Warrigal felt ashamed, and told the
man to sit down.
"We call him Politeful Bill," Warrigal remarked, in apology; "but he
ain't much used to ladies' serciety."
When breakfast was over, Warrigal asked Sydney where the mare was.
"Find her yourself," said Sydney.
"Well, there won't be much trouble about that," answered Warrigal.
"She's in the stable, I know; and you've locked her in, for I tried
the door. I suppose you are too game to give up the key, my young
fighting-cock? But since you're so sarcy, Master Sydney, you shall see
me take your mare. You might as well ha' sent her instead of sending
for the police, and then I shouldn't ha' got the bay horse too;" and he
pointed to Guardsman, hung up on the veranda.
There was no time to ask what had become of Harry.
Warrigal hurried Sydney by the collar to the stable, while the other
men mounted their horses, and unhooked Guardsman, to be ready for their
captain.
Warrigal blew off the padlock with his pistol; but Venus was fractious,
and wouldn't let him put on her halter. While he was dodging about the
stable with her, Sydney heard hoofs in the distance. Nearer and nearer
came the _tan-ta-ta-tan-ta-ta-tan-ta-ta_.
Four bluecoats galloped up to the slip-panels, three troopers and a
sergeant; the sergeant with Harry on his saddlebow.
In a second Harry was down, and in three seconds the slip-panels were
down too.
The waiting bushrangers saw the morning sun gleaming on their carbines,
as the police dashed between the aloes and the prickly pears, and
letting Guardsman go, were off like a shot.
Sydney banged to the stable door; and, setting his back against it,
shouted for help. His mother, Gertrude, and even John Jones, as the
police were close at hand, ran to his aid; and up galloped the troopers.
Warrigal fired a bullet or two through the door, and talked very big
about not being taken alive; but he thought better of it, and in an
hour's time he was jogging off to Jerry's Town with handcuffs on, and
his legs tied under his horse's belly.
If Warrigal had not taken up little Harry, most likely he would not
have been caught; for when Harry had got to Jerry's Town, he would have
found all the troopers away except one. In the scrub, however, Harry
heard the sergeant and his men returning from a wild-goose chase they
had been sent on by the bush telegraphs; and managing at last to spit
the gag out of his mouth, he had given a great _co-oo-oo-oo-oo-ey_.
After that night Miss Smith always called Sydney _Mr._ Sydney; and
Sydney let Harry ride Venus as often as he liked.
THE MIDNIGHT RIDE.
It was half-a-dozen years before the war that Godfrey Brooks made a
visit to his Cousin Sydney in Virginia. It was his first glimpse of
plantation life, and he was not sparing of his questions or comments.
Boys in a strange place find it hard to carry about with them the
politeness or reticence which are such easy fitting garments at home.
The two boys were standing on the piazza one sunny morning looking down
to the distant swamp.
"You mean to tell me," said Godfrey hotly, "that gentlemen hunted their
runaway slaves out of the swamp with bloodhounds? Bloodhounds?"
"No, I don't. Gentlemen, of course, do no such dirty work. In the
first place, our people (we don't call them slaves) never run away.
Why, bless you, old Uncle Peter there, was a boy with my grandfather,
and I'm sure I like him a deal better. Of all the hundreds of men and
women my father owns, there's not one that don't respect and love him.
But there's a class of whites who are not so respected, and when their
people escape they bring them back--that's all."
"It's brutal," muttered Godfrey.
"A man has a right to reclaim his property," said Syd coolly.
Now neither of the boys knew much of the intrinsic merits of the
question. They only echoed the words and arguments their elders threw
back and forth unceasingly. When Syd began to give the details of
the late hunt after a runaway horse-thief in the swamp, therefore,
Godfrey's moral indignation cooled in the borrowed ardor of the chase.
"You see," Syd said in conclusion, "Boosey was really a criminal of
the worst sort, as well as a slave, and he belonged to old Johnson.
Johnson's the man that owns the hounds. That's his place beyond the
hill. He's a whiskey distiller, and raises slaves for the market. Oh,
of course he's tabooed. Even a decent laborer looks down on a man that
raises slaves for the market."
The boys went out fishing presently, and Godfrey looked with a thrill
of horror into the dark thicket of laurel and poisonous ivy as they
passed where Boosey was still hidden. Down in his secret soul there
was an idea of the fierce and terrible zest of hunting anything--even
a man--with a bloodhound, through that tragic dusk and quagmire. It
would be akin to the gladiatorial combats between man and beast of old
Rome, or the bull-fights of the plaza, which his gentle Cousin Anne had
learned to relish in Madrid.
"What do you say to riding over to Col. Page's to-night?" said Syd at
supper. "The girls want to practice some new music before the next
party. It's only six now. We can ride over in an hour."
"All right," said Godfrey.
"Remember, boys," said Dr. Brooks, "you are to be at home and in bed by
ten." For Syd's father, while he bestowed horses, guns, every accessory
to pleasure upon his son with an unstinting hand, yet held a tight rein
on him and never allowed him to fancy that he was a man and not in
reality a child.
"We'll be home by ten, sir," the boys said promptly.
Now Godfrey was but a schoolboy, and at home only snubbed and kept
in place by a half-dozen grown brothers and sisters. This riding out
at night, therefore, on a pony, which for the time was his own; this
calling on young ladies to whom he was known as Mr. Brooks, of New
York, was an ecstatic taste of adult freedom which almost intoxicated
the boy. When nine o'clock came, and Syd beckoned him from the sofa,
where he was reading "Locksley Hall" to Miss Amelia Page, he rose so
unwillingly as to cause Joe Page to look from his game of backgammon.
"It's too bad in the doctor to put your cousin into strict prison
regulations, Syd," he said. "I'll go, however, and see about your
horses."
He came back with a queer twinkle in his eye. "Sam declares he hitched
them securely; but they're gone now. Sit down, boys, sit down. You may
as well make the best of it. The fellows are after them. They'll be
here by and by."
Syd looked annoyed. "I believe Joe unhitched them, himself. I promised
father I'd be back early." However he sat down quietly and waited.
Godfrey had no annoyance to hide.
It wanted but ten minutes to eleven o'clock that night when the ponies
were brought to the door, and the boys, after many hand-shakings and
cordial invitations, were allowed to depart for home.
Then the glow of gallantry and manhood began to cool in Godfrey's
bosom, and the unpleasant tremor to take its place which was wont to
overcome him when he was late at school.
"I say, Syd, I wish we were at home," he said, mounting.
"I wish we were," gloomily.
"Will your father be very angry?"
"It isn't that. But I never broke my word to him before, never. I know
what he thinks of a man that breaks his word. The road is heavy. It's a
good ride for an hour and a half," shutting his watch with a snap.
"Is there no short cut?"
"Yes, there's one," looking at him dubiously; "but it's through
Johnson's place."
"The dogs--they're not loose, eh?"
"That I don't know. He keeps them chained in daytime, of course, but
whether the scoundrel looses them at night or not I never heard. It
would be just like him."
The boys rode on in silence. Suddenly Syd drew up with a jerk. "Here's
the gate into Johnson's, and I tell you what it is I must go this way,
dogs or no dogs. I'm in honor bound to try to keep my promise as nearly
as I can, no matter what lies in the way. You can ride down the hill;
I'll wait for you at the house."
"No, sir; I'm with you," feeling himself every inch a man at the
chance of an adventure. "Open the gate, Syd. Now come on!" and giving
their horses the rein they struck into a gallop down the road leading
close by Johnson's house and stables. It was so heavily covered with
tan-bark that the sound of the hoofs was deadened, and the boys spoke
in whispers, afraid to stir the midnight silence.
Syd nodded toward a low kennel, back of the stables.
"There!" he motioned with his lips. "There's where they were when they
took them to hunt Boosey."
But kennel and stables were silent and motionless in the cold moonlight.
The tan-bark was replaced by pebbles near the house. The boys took
their ponies up on the short velvet turf, on which their swift feet
fell with a crisp, soft thud, a noise hardly sufficient to rouse the
most watchful dog, but which drove the blood from Godfrey's cheeks. His
short-lived courage had oozed out.
"A man one could fight," he thought. "But to be throttled like a beast
by a dog." The gladiatorial fights of Rome did not thrill him so much
now as the thought of them had sometimes done.
Thud--thud. Every beat of the hoofs upon the grass sounded through the
boys' brains. They were up to the kennels--past them--safe. Two minutes
passed and not a sound. Godfrey drew a long breath, when--hark!
A long, deep bay, like thunder, sounded through the night.
"God save us! They're loose and are after us," gasped Syd.
Glancing back they saw two enormous black shapes darting from behind
the shadow of the porch, and coming down the slope behind them.
"Now, Pitch and Tar!" sang out Syd, "it all rests on you." He shouted
as cheerily, Godfrey thought, as though he were chasing a hare. Chasing
and being chased were different matters, both the boys thought; though
there was a reckless, gay defiance about the Southern boy which his
cousin lacked, courageous as he was.
The ponies seemed to catch the meaning of Syd's call. They looked back.
Their feet scarcely touched the sward, their nostrils were red, their
eyes distended.
After the first fierce howl the dogs followed in silence. They had no
time to give tongue; they had work to do.
A long stretch of pebbly road lay before the boys, then there was a
thick patch of bushes, and beyond, the gate.
There was no doubt of the horses keeping up their pace. Terror served
them for muscle and blood. But the hounds were swifter of foot at any
time. They gained with every minute. The distance was about fifty yards.
"Can we do it?" Godfrey asked. His tongue was hot and parched.
"Of course we'll do it, unless the gate is locked."
After this new dread came they were silent. Godfrey thought of home,
his mother, and poor little Nell; wished he had not snubbed her as he
used to do.
Syd felt desperately in his pockets, where he found only a penknife.
Why would not his father let him carry firearms as the other boys?
Suddenly turning to Godfrey he made a gesture, and turned his horse
full on the hedge of privet. It leaped boldly--Godfrey's followed. But
the hounds followed, relentless as fate, and dashed through the lower
branches. They were closer than before.
"The gate! the gate!" cried Syd. He had reached it and fumbled for the
bolt. Godfrey, a dozen paces behind, fancied he felt the tramp of the
powerful beasts shake the ground. He turned, saw them coming with open
jaws, closer, closer.
Would the gate never open? There was a creak and crash, and it rolled
back on its rusty hinges. The horses darted through so violently as to
throw Godfrey on the ground. When he looked up Syd was standing beside
him, and from the other side of the iron bars came the baffled roar of
the angry beasts.
The boys rode home without a word.
"What about reclaiming property by means of bloodhounds, Syd?" asked
Godfrey.
"It's brutal," cried Syd vehemently, and then he laughed. "I tell you,
Godfrey, one must actually take another man's place before he can be
quite just to him, eh?"
A THOUSAND A YEAR.
"I am afraid Daniel must give up his studies," Mrs. Brooks said, sadly.
"I've been thinking how we are to meet the expenses of another year,
and it seems quite impossible to get money enough to do so."
"Oh, it would be such a pity, and brother so nearly through," Susan
said, looking up in a distressed way. "He mustn't leave college now,
when he is so near graduating! There _must_ be a way of helping him
through."
Mrs. Brooks stooped to kiss the pale, tender face upturned to hers.
"You have a wise little head, Susan, but I am afraid there is a problem
here you cannot solve," said the widow, mournfully.
"How much will be needed?"
"At least a hundred dollars besides what he will earn himself. You know
there are always extra expenses for the graduating class."
Susan's countenance fell. It was a great sum in her estimation, and it
was already difficult for them to meet their weekly expenses.
"Everything depends upon brother's success," Susan said, presently.
"We must give up everything for him."
"I cannot forget I have _two_ children," the mother said, kissing the
girl again more tenderly than before.
"Two children; but only one that will be a blessing to you," Susan
said, brushing away a tear.
"Don't say that, Susie. I am proud of Daniel, I do not deny that--but I
love you, too, all the same."
"But you never can be proud of me, weak and deformed as I am! Oh,
mother, why are some flowers made so beautiful and fragrant, and some
so dark and noisome? Why was my brother so fair, so talented, and I so
repulsive?"
"No, no, no, not repulsive; don't say that," the widow cried, putting
her arms around the girl in a sheltering way.
"Do you think Daniel will let me go to see him take his diploma,
mother?"
"You would not be able, dear."
The girl laughed bitterly.
"No; brother would say I was not able, too. But I should be glad, so
very glad to see him graduate. I think I would be willing to die then."
"Hush, my darling," the mother cried, with a sharp pain in her voice.
"When you are gone I shall soon follow. Daniel will be satisfied with
his laurels, but women--ah, my child--women must love something, and
you are all that is left me to love."
Susan nestled her head in her mother's bosom without speaking, and lay
there so long that her mother thought she was sleeping. Suddenly she
opened her eyes and said:
"I have thought it all out, mother. Daniel can graduate, and we will go
see him take his diploma. Mr. Green needs girls to braid straw hats.
You know I am nimble with my fingers, and I could braid a thousand a
year, and that would be how much?"
"But it would be wicked for me to allow you to overtask yourself in
that way, darling. I am not sure but it might ruin your health, feeble
as you are. No, no, it is not to be thought of."
"How many might I undertake, mother?"
"Not half that amount; not a third, even."
"Would Daniel be willing for me to braid, do you think?"
"I don't know. We will ask him."
"Mother," Susan said, looking into her eyes, "I believe this is my
mission, to educate Daniel. You know we have given him everything--my
portion of the property and yours. I think I could hold out to do this
last, and you will consent when you come to reflect upon what it will
be to brother, and to you, when I am gone. But he must not know it. It
would wound his pride, and he would get some false notion in his head
that he could not use money I had earned in that way. Now, promise me,
that let what will come, you will never tell him that I braided straw
hats that he might complete his education."
"I cannot promise _never_ to tell him, darling, because I cannot
foresee the future, but I should not like him to be humbled and
wounded, more than yourself. I am too old to learn readily, but perhaps
I, too, could earn something by braiding."
The determination was now fully settled in the mind of each, that the
young man must graduate, and that the bills must be met by them. The
patronage of Mr. Green was solicited, and it was agreed the work should
be taken home, and that a thousand hats should be braided for ten cents
each, which he assured them was more than he would think of paying to
any one else, and only to Susan in consideration of her infirmity.
We ought, perhaps, to explain that Susan had been early afflicted with
a curvature of the spine, which had sadly deformed her. She would never
have been a beautiful girl, Daniel having inherited not only all the
family talent, but its beauty as well. But her eyes were wondrously
attractive, with their loving, yearning persuasiveness, and few could
remember her deformity who had felt the warmth of her generous nature.
In due time, the anticipated letter of inquiry came from Daniel,
asking what the prospects were for the coming year. It was full of
dismal forebodings and egotistical complaints of the hard fortune that
made him dependent upon his mother, but there was no regret that she
suffered too; no longing to be a man that he might take this lonely
couple in his strong arms and bear them tenderly over the rough places
of life; only vague, ambitious dreamings of what he was to be to the
world, and the world to him.
The widow laid down the letter with a sigh. Susan read the pages over
and over again. So grounded was she in her love for this earthly idol
that the selfishness was less apparent to her than to her mother.
Its sadness seemed like tenderness, and he could not speak too often
or too much of the genius which she believed he possessed, and which
would some time break upon the world like the meteor to which he rather
tritely compared himself.
"Ah, we shall be so proud of him!" Susan said, folding the letter and
laying it away near her heart, where it rested many and many a day,
while she wove the strands of straw in and out, thinking how ten times
ten made one dollar, and how the dollars would some time count up to a
hundred, and that sum, which her fingers had wrought out, would save
her brother from discouragement, if not from despair.
The first twenty-five dollars was earned, and the money was sent the
brother.
"He was very glad of it," he said. "He had begun to fear lest they
would fail him." There was no inquiry how it had been obtained;
no solicitude lest those who loved him had deprived themselves of
luxuries, perhaps necessities, to meet his demands.
The next twenty-five dollars was earned, with greater difficulty. The
widow was awkward at braiding, and her work unsatisfactory, and so
some of it was returned to Susan. She sat up later nights, that her
mother should not see how hard the work pressed upon her; but the
twenty-five dollars came at last, and was sent to the student. Then
there was another letter of thanks.
"If you would but rest, darling," the mother would say, when some look
more wan than another startled her into keener anxiety.
"When it is done we will rest together," was all the reply the
solicitude brought.
It was too late to retract now, the mother thought; and Daniel so
nearly through! So they pinched a little from their daily meals, a
little from the store of candles, a little from the evening fire, and
prayed that every penny might be multiplied like the widow's meal.
One night Mrs. Brooks had gone to bed exhausted and hysterical with
overlabor. Susan pressed the blankets tenderly around her mother's
shoulders, and having given her the good-night kiss, and quieted her
with many promises of soon following her, she went back to the kitchen
fire and resumed the weary braiding.
She had not completed her usual task that week, and the idea occurred
to her that her mother having fallen asleep, she could braid another
hat before retiring. So she set up new strands and the thin fingers
wove them patiently in and out, until sharp pain clutched her with
merciless teeth, and she leaned forward, her head falling upon the
table, in a dead faint.
It was long past midnight when Susan found herself in this position.
Shivering with cold, she crept to her mother's side and lay the
remainder of the night, racked by alternate fevers and chills.
How could the poor child tell her mother of what she knew was creeping
so steadily toward her? Would she make a final effort to save her own
life and let Daniel struggle with his fortunes as he best could?
Poor, brave little heart, with the chill of the grave stealing over
it, but warmed back into life and renewed suffering by the wonderful
strength of its undying love!
Another twenty five dollars was forwarded to Daniel, and a few lines
came flying back by the return post, for Daniel was a man of business
habits, and punctual in all things.
Susan looked it all over carefully for some loving message to her; some
sign answering to what she felt in her own heart toward him, but there
was nothing there but "_With love to Susan, I remain, etc., Daniel._"
A dry sob escaped the poor child as she laid it by, and took up the
weary, rustling braids. The sound rasped upon her nerves now. The very
odor of the strands nauseated her. Every kink in the braids fretted
her; and when one hat was finished and laid aside, it seemed such a
mountainous task to commence another.
Sometimes hours would pass by without a round being accomplished, then
again the nimble fingers would be inspired, and the work would grow as
of old.
"If I could only go and see Daniel take his diploma," she would say,
"I think it would make me strong again. I would wear my white muslin
frock, with the blue sash, and he would not be ashamed of me."
But it was not to be. The one thousand hats were braided, and Susan's
task was done. Nothing remained for her but to lie down in her modest
casket and sleep with folded hands until the blessed Saviour shall bid
her approach to receive His welcome--"Well done, thou good and faithful
servant."
Daniel returned with his collegiate honors only to listen to the sad
story of her labors and death. His mother told it as they stood by the
coffin. There were the worn letters she had cherished, blistered all
over with tears.
He was conscience stricken when he looked them over, and saw how cold
and egotistical they were, and how thoughtless he had always been of
the treasure that death had taken. He took the thin hands in his--the
hands that had braided and plaited while he slept, and wrought out
the treasure-trove that molded the key to his success, and he made
solemn resolutions for the future. Let us hope that, in her broken
life, he learned how beautiful in the sight of God and angels is the
self-sacrifice of the lowly in heart: and how much better it is to
die in the struggle to bless others than it is to live to a selfish,
unloving, unsanctified old age.
THE END.
A. L. BURT'S PUBLICATIONS For Young People BY POPULAR WRITERS.
97-99-101 Reade Street, New York.
+Bonnie Prince Charlie+: A Tale of Fontenoy and Culloden.
By G. A. HENTY. With 12 full-page Illustrations by
GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00.
The adventures of the son of a Scotch officer in French service. The
boy, brought up by a Glasgow bailie, is arrested for aiding a Jacobite
agent, escapes, is wrecked on the French coast, reaches Paris, and
serves with the French army at Dettingen. He kills his father's foe
in a duel, and escaping to the coast, shares the adventures of Prince
Charlie, but finally settles happily in Scotland.
"Ronald, the hero, is very like the hero of 'Quentin Durward.'
The lad's journey across France, and his hairbreadth escapes,
make up as good a narrative of the kind as we have ever read.
For freshness of treatment and variety of incident Mr. Henty has
surpassed himself."--_Spectator._
+With Clive in India+; or, the Beginnings of an Empire.
By G. A. HENTY. With 12 full-page Illustrations by
GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00.
The period between the landing of Clive as a young writer in India and
the close of his career was critical and eventful in the extreme. At
its commencement the English were traders existing on sufferance of
the native princes. At its close they were masters of Bengal and of
the greater part of Southern India. The author has given a full and
accurate account of the events of that stirring time, and battles and
sieges follow each other in rapid succession, while he combines with
his narrative a tale of daring and adventure, which gives a lifelike
interest to the volume.
"He has taken a period of Indian history of the most vital
importance, and he has embroidered on the historical facts a story
which of itself is deeply interesting. Young people assuredly will
be delighted with the volume."--_Scotsman._
+The Lion of the North+: A Tale of Gustavus Adolphus and the Wars
of Religion. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by
JOHN SCHÖNBERG. 12 mo, cloth, price $1.00.
In this story Mr. Henty gives the history of the first part of the
Thirty Years' War. The issue had its importance, which has extended
to the present day, as it established religious freedom in Germany.
The army of the chivalrous king of Sweden was largely composed of
Scotchmen, and among these was the hero of the story.
"The tale is a clever and instructive piece of history, and as
boys may be trusted to read it conscientiously, they can hardly
fail to be profited."--_Times._
+The Dragon and the Raven+; or, The Days of King Alfred. By G.
A. Henty. With full-page Illustrations by _C. J. Staniland, R.I._
12mo, cloth, price $1.00.
In this story the author gives an a count of the fierce struggle
between Saxon and Dane for supremacy in England, and presents a vivid
picture of the misery and ruin to which the country was reduced by the
ravages of the sea-wolves. The hero, a young Saxon thane, takes part
in all the battles fought by King Alfred. He is driven from his home,
takes to the sea and resists the Danes on their own element, and being
pursued by them up the Seine, is present at the long and desperate
siege of Paris.
"Treated in a manner most attractive to the boyish
reader."--_Athenæum._
+The Young Carthaginian+: A Story of the Times of Hannibal.
By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by C. J.
STANILAND, R.I. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00.
Boys reading the history of the Punic Wars have seldom a keen
appreciation of the merits of the contest. That it was at first a
struggle for empire, and afterward for existence on the part of
Carthage, that Hannibal was a great and skillful general, that he
defeated the Romans at Trebia, Lake Trasimenus, and Cannæ, and all but
took Rome, represents pretty nearly the sum total of their knowledge.
To let them know more about this momentous struggle for the empire of
the world Mr. Henty has written this story, which not only gives in
graphic style a brilliant description of a most interesting period
of history, but is a tale of exciting adventure sure to secure the
interest of the reader.
"Well constructed and vividly told. From first to last nothing
stays the interest of the narrative. It bears us along as on a
stream whose current varies in direction, but never loses its
force."--_Saturday Review._
+In Freedom's Cause+: A Story of Wallace and Bruce. By
G. A. HENTY. With full page Illustrations by GORDON
BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00.
In this story the author relates the stirring tale of the Scottish
War of Independence. The extraordinary valor and personal prowess of
Wallace and Bruce rival the deeds of the mythical heroes of chivalry,
and indeed at one time Wallace was ranked with these legendary
personages. The researches of modern historians have shown, however,
that he was a living, breathing man--and a valiant champion. The
hero of the tale fought under both Wallace and Bruce, and while the
strictest historical accuracy has been maintained with respect to
public events, the work is full of "hairbreadth 'scapes" and wild
adventure.
"It is written in the author's best style. Full of the wildest
and most remarkable achievements, it is a tale of great interest,
which a boy, once he has begun it, will not willingly put on one
side."--_The Schoolmaster._
+With Lee in Virginia+: A Story of the American Civil War.
By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE.
12mo, cloth, price $1.00.
The story of a young Virginian planter, who, after bravely proving his
sympathy with the slaves of brutal masters, serves with no less courage
and enthusiasm under Lee and Jackson through the most exciting events
of the struggle. He has many hairbreadth escapes, is several times
wounded and twice taken prisoner; but his courage and readiness and, in
two cases, the devotion of a black servant and of a runaway slave whom
he had assisted, bring him safely through all difficulties.
"One of the best stories for lads which Mr. Henty has yet
written. The picture is full of life and color, and the stirring
and romantic incidents are skillfully blended with the personal
interest and charm of the story."--_Standard._
+By England's Aid+; or, The Freeing of the Netherlands
(1585-1604). By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations
by ALFRED PEARSE, and Maps. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00.
The story of two English lads who go to Holland as pages in the service
of one of "the fighting Veres." After many adventures by sea and land,
one of the lads finds himself on board a Spanish ship at the time of
the defeat of the Armada, and escapes only to fall into the hands of
the Corsairs. He is successful in getting back to Spain under the
protection of a wealthy merchant, and regains his native country after
the capture of Cadiz.
"It is an admirable book for youngsters. It overflows with
stirring incident and exciting adventure, and the color of the era
and of the scene are finely reproduced. The illustrations add to
its attractiveness."--_Boston Gazette._
+By Right of Conquest+; or, With Cortez in Mexico. By
G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by W. S.
STACEY, and Two Maps. 12mo, cloth, price $1.50.
The conquest of Mexico by a small band of resolute men under the
magnificent leadership of Cortez is always rightly ranked among the
most romantic and daring exploits in history. With, this as the ground
work of his story Mr. Henty has interwoven the adventures of an English
youth, Roger Hawkshaw, the sole survivor of the good ship Swan, which
had sailed from a Devon port to challenge the mercantile supremacy
of the Spaniards in the New World. He is beset by many perils among
the natives, but is saved by his own judgment and strength, and by
the devotion of an Aztec princess. At last by a ruse he obtains the
protection of the Spaniards, and after the fall of Mexico he succeeds
in regaining his native shore, with a fortune and a charming Aztec
bride.
"'By Right of Conquest' is the nearest approach to a
perfectly successful historical tale that Mr. Henty has yet
published."--_Academy._
+In the Reign of Terror+: The Adventures of a Westminster
Boy. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by J. SCHÖNBERG.
12mo, cloth, price $1.00.
Harry Sandwith, a Westminster boy, becomes a resident at the chateau
of a French marquis, and after various adventures accompanies the
family to Paris at the crisis of the Revolution. Imprisonment and death
reduce their number, and the hero finds himself beset by perils with
the three young daughters of the house in his charge. After hairbreadth
escapes they reach Nantes. There the girls are condemned to death in
the coffin-ships, but are saved by the unfailing courage of their boy
protector.
"Harry Sandwith, the Westminster boy, may fairly be said to beat
Mr. Henry's record. His adventures will delight boys by the
audacity and peril they depict.... The story is one of Mr. Henty's
best."--_Saturday Review._
+With Wolfe in Canada+; or, The Winning of a Continent. By
G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE.
12mo, cloth, price $1.00.
In the present volume Mr. Henty gives an account of the struggle
between Britain and France for supremacy in the North American
continent. On the issue of this war depended not only the destinies
of North America, but to a large extent those of the mother countries
themselves. The fall of Quebec decided that the Anglo-Saxon race should
predominate in the New World; that Britain, and not France, should take
the lead among the nations of Europe; and that English and American
commerce, the English language, and English literature, should spread
right round the globe.
"It is not only a lesson in history as instructively as
it is graphically told, but also a deeply interesting and
often thrilling tale of adventure and peril by flood and
field."--_Illustrated London News._
+True to the Old Flag+: A Tale of the American War
of Independence. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page
Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00.
In this story the author has gone to the accounts of officers who
took part in the conflict, and lads will find that in no war in which
American and British soldiers have been engaged did they behave with
greater courage and good conduct. The historical portion of the book
being accompanied with numerous thrilling adventures with the redskins
on the shores of Lake Huron, a story of exciting interest is interwoven
with the general narrative and carried through the book.
"Does justice to the pluck and determination of the British
soldiers during the unfortunate struggle against American
emancipation. The son of an American loyalist, who remains true
to our flag, falls among the hostile redskins in that very Huron
country which has been endeared to us by the exploits of Hawkeye
and Chingachgook."--_The Times._
+The Lion of St. Mark+: A Tale of Venice in the Fourteenth
Century. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by
GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00.
A story of Venice at a period when her strength and splendor were put
to the severest tests. The hero displays a fine sense and manliness
which carry him safely through an atmosphere of intrigue, crime, and
bloodshed. He contributes largely to the victories of the Venetians at
Porto d'Anzo and Chioggia, and finally wins the hand of the daughter of
one of the chief men of Venice.
"Every boy should read 'The Lion of St. Mark.' Mr. Henty has
never produced a story more delightful, more wholesome, or more
vivacious."--_Saturday Review._
+A Final Reckoning+: A Tale of Bush Life in Australia, By
G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by W. B. WOLLEN.
12mo, cloth, price $1.00,
The hero, a young English lad, after rather a stormy boyhood, emigrates
to Australia, and gets employment as an officer in the mounted police.
A few years of active work on the frontier, where he has many a brush
with both natives and bushrangers, gain him promotion to a captaincy,
and he eventually settles down to the peaceful life of a squatter.
"Mr. Henty has never published a more readable, a more carefully
constructed, or a better written story than this."--_Spectator._
+Under Drake's Flag+: A Tale of the Spanish Main. By G.
A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE.
12mo, cloth, price $1.00.
A story of the days when England and Spain struggled for the supremacy
of the sea. The heroes sail as lads with Drake in the Pacific
expedition, and in his great voyage of circumnavigation. The historical
portion of the story is absolutely to be relied upon, but this will
perhaps be less attractive than the great variety of exciting adventure
through which the young heroes pass in the course of their voyages.
"A book of adventure, where the hero meets with experience enough,
one would think, to turn his hair gray."--_Harper's Monthly
Magazine._
+By Sheer Pluck+: A Tale of the Ashanti War. By G.
A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE.
12mo, cloth, price $1.00.
The author has woven, in a tale of thrilling interest, all the details
of the Ashanti campaign, of which he was himself a witness. His hero,
after many exciting adventures in the interior, is detained a prisoner
by the king just before the outbreak of the war but escapes, and
accompanies the English expedition on their march to Coomassie.
"Mr. Henty keeps up his reputation as a writer of boys' stories.
'By Sheer Pluck' will be eagerly read."--_Athenæum._
+By Pike and Dyke+: A Tale of the Rise of the Dutch Republic.
By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by MAYNARD BROWN,
and 4 Maps. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00.
In this story Mr. Henty traces the adventures and brave deeds of an
English boy in the household of the ablest man of his age--William the
Silent. Edward Martin, the son of an English sea-captain, enters the
service of the Prince as a volunteer, and is employed by him in many
dangerous and responsible missions, in the discharge of which he passes
through the great sieges of the time. He ultimately settles down as Sir
Edward Martin.
"Boys with a turn for historical research will be enchanted with
the book, while the rest who only care for adventure will be
students in spite of themselves."--_St. James' Gazette._
+St. George for England+: A Tale of Cressy and Poitiers. By
G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE.
12mo, cloth, price $1.00.
No portion of English history is more crowded with great events than
that of the reign of Edward III. Cressy and Poitiers; the destruction
of the Spanish fleet; the plague of the Black Death; the Jacquerie
rising; these are treated by the author in "St. George for England."
The hero of the story, although of good family, begins life as a London
apprentice, but after countless adventures and perils becomes by valor
and good conduct the squire, and at last the trusted friend of the
Black Prince.
"Mr. Henty has developed for himself a type of historical
novel for boys which bids fair to supplement, on their behalf,
the historical labors of Sir Walter Scott in the land of
fiction."--_The Standard._