Estelle could scarcely believe her eyes at the sight of Thomas. Her cry
made Marjorie and Georgie look round. Thomas there! How was it she had
not seen him before? How was it he had not heard their calls to him? Had
Alan had his dangerous climb for nothing?
With a sudden rush of anger, Marjorie was about to call to Thomas, when
another amazing event stopped her. Alan appeared at the entrance of the
cave, and signalling rapidly to her, put his fingers to his lips.
Puzzled and uncertain what he wanted her to do, she remained sitting
near the sand castle, telling Georgie to be quiet till Alan could
explain. Estelle meanwhile had dropped her stones, and, throwing herself
down by her cousin, wanted to know what Alan was doing.
'He will be here in a second,' said Marjorie, trying not to speak
impatiently in her anxiety, 'but he evidently does not wish us to look
as if we saw him. Let us go on playing as if nothing had happened.'
'But why mayn't we meet Alan?' demanded Georgie, stooping that he might
see under his sister's great hat.
'He doesn't want us to. I think he does not like Thomas to know he has
not been with us all the time. But it is all guessing, really, for I
don't know more than you do,' she added, as she saw both children were
about to ply her with questions.
Meantime, Alan, having caught the spirit of the game over which the
others were interested, took up the largest stones he could find, and
came to join the party. It was more than likely that Thomas would
imagine he had been helping with the castle the whole time.
'Well?' said Marjorie, looking up, and at the same time pointing to
where she desired the stones to be placed.
They all began to help in arranging them while Alan spoke in low tones
of his adventure.
'It is really true, Marjorie, that something is up. I don't understand
it yet, and even if I did this is no place to tell you about what I
heard. Just keep quiet about my climb, all of you. Do you hear,
Georgie?' For his little brother was not good at keeping secrets, and
Alan thought this a serious matter.
'Of course I do. I am not deaf.'
'Well, you are not to say a word to anybody, not even to Mother.'
'How did you get down?' asked Estelle, in a whisper.
'On my feet, having no wings,' he laughed. 'How have you all got on?
This is a splendid castle. Let us fill the moat with water.'
Marjorie looked up in surprise. A look in Alan's eyes made her glance
round, and she saw that Thomas was coming towards them over the sands,
to tell them it was time to be going. She saw, too, that Alan did not
wish to speak of his climb up the cliff in Thomas's presence.
Estelle and Georgie were the only talkative ones on their return to the
boat. Marjorie was fully occupied with the difficulties of steering, and
Alan and Thomas in pulling against the incoming tide. Georgie had
crammed his pockets with shells, and now brought them out to show
Estelle that there were real, live creatures in some of the closed ones.
The idea horrified her, and she tried to get him to throw them into the
sea.
'No, certainly not!' cried Georgie, with a teasing laugh. 'I shall ask
Miss Leigh if we can't have them for tea.'
'To eat?' cried Estelle, shrinking with horror, and springing away from
the dirty-looking black shells.
Her violent jump made the boat give a heavy lurch, and she nearly fell
overboard.
'Hullo!' cried Alan, while Marjorie pulled her back to her seat, begging
her to keep still.
'What's the matter? asked Georgie with a laugh, his eyes dancing with
delight at having startled her. 'Why, they are only mussels. Lots of
people eat them, and periwinkles too. You shall taste them yourself.'
'Oh, Georgie, do throw them into the sea! They are horrid!' she
exclaimed, shuddering. 'I don't like this bay, or the dark cruel rocks,
or the waiting for Thomas, with the tide coming in to drown us if he is
late! And now those dirty shells--alive and horrid--which you want to
eat!'
Georgie laughed with such shouts of merriment that Alan told him to shut
up; he would have the boat over if he kicked about in that manner. But
his laugh was so infectious that Estelle was forced into joining,
especially when, to please her, he threw the shells into the waves as
they landed.
The wood, dignified by the name of the Wilderness, led up to the rear of
the Moat House. It was of great extent, reaching to the coastguard path
on the cliffs, and stretching far across the coast-line. In the midst of
it was the old ruined summer-house, in which the children delighted. It
was not in the least like a summer-house, nor could anybody give a
reason for its name. It was, in fact, all that remained of the ancient
rampart which had once surrounded the Moat House. It was fifteen feet
high, and was probably the last of many such three-cornered towers. Now
the flanking walls had either disappeared altogether, or they had become
little moss-covered mounds of stone. Trees and bushwood hid it from view
on one side; broken steps went up a second, which led more or less
perilously to the top, where a table, some rough wooden seats, and a
rustic chair or two showed that it was used by the children, if not by
their elders. On the third side, where the ivy had grown thick with age,
and stood out from the wall like a tree, was a heavy oak door, clamped
with iron and studded with large nails. In front of this spread a soft
carpet of ground ivy and moss, just now starred with celandines and
morning glories, while the bright, fresh green of the slender birches
drooped over it, and cast trembling shadows.
The door had a special attraction for the children. They would often
stand and gaze at it, making up long stories of what might be found
inside. Each in turn had tried to induce the old gardener, Peet, to open
it, but as yet no persuasions or arguments had had any effect upon him.
He refused to let them have even one peep.
Great was Estelle's surprise, then, when passing it on their return from
the boat, to find it open. She rubbed her eyes, and caught hold of Alan
in her excitement, pointing with her other hand towards the little slit.
There was an instant rush for the ruin. Alan, taking the lead, made the
first attempt to push the door open a little wider, and catch a glimpse
of what lay behind it, but he failed. The interior was too dark, and the
door too heavy to move without help. Determined not to give in, however,
he called the others to his assistance, but to their astonishment, it
took the combined strength of the party to push it wide enough to gain
even a glimpse of what was inside. It was amazingly weighty; but when at
last it did move, it swung back quickly and unexpectedly, nearly
knocking the children over. Struggling to their feet again, they gazed
at each other in awe, delight, and wonder, till Alan, overcoming his
amazement, went forward to inspect their discovery, the others following
close at his heels.
Thomas had been left behind with the boat, and would not be up till they
had had time to examine the inside to their hearts' content. That is
what Alan counted upon, at all events. But he had reckoned without his
host.
'I don't think there is much to see,' said Marjorie scornfully. 'It is
very dark and dirty, and oh, do look at the snails!'
'And the mice!' cried Georgie, pointing to one scurrying off under their
very noses.
'And the bats!' exclaimed Estelle, with a shudder 'do you see them up
there? I wonder if they will come down and fasten in our hair if we go
inside and look about?'
'Why should they?' asked Alan, lighting a match he had found in his
pocket. 'They are asleep now, and won't wake at anything we do. Now come
in, and I will have the lantern lighted in a jiffy. I saw one just close
by.'
'I wonder what Aunt Betty or Father would say----,' began Marjorie, but
Alan cut her short.
'You are not going to stop outside, surely!' he exclaimed, with
surprised indignation. 'We shall never get such a chance again, and
there can be no possible harm in it while I am here to take care of
you.'
'Auntie would not like it,' said Estelle. 'She particularly told me I
wasn't to go in at any time, and I don't think I ought.'
'Aunt Betty trusted us,' added Marjorie, decidedly. 'We can look, but
not go in.'
'What rot!' returned Alan, wilfully, not in the best of humours. He had
succeeded in lighting the lantern, and now began to insist on Estelle
coming with him. 'There is no trust in a locked door,' he said. 'At
least the trust is in the door keeping us out; not in us who can't get
in. This is a chance in a thousand.'
'I wonder if I might?' said Estelle, looking at Marjorie.
It was a great temptation. It did seem such a pity to lose this
opportunity; a chance, as Alan said, which might never occur again:
though the children knew they were doing wrong, curiosity began to
overcome them.
'I don't think it would be right,' answered Marjorie, with decision. 'We
can see all we want from here.'
'I'm sure we can't,' said George, excitedly. 'Look at that dark corner.
We don't know what is in there, but there is something, I'm sure.'
'Well, Marjorie,' said Alan, 'if you don't want to come in, don't. But
you need not spoil sport for all the rest of us. You and I will go in,
Estelle, and Marjorie can keep guard outside.'
'I wish I knew if I might!' cried Estelle, clasping her hands on the top
of her head, and dancing up and down in despair. I really and truly
believe Auntie only meant I was not to go in alone. Don't you think so,
Marjorie?'
'No, I don't,' returned her cousin, quietly.
'What on earth does it matter?' cried Alan, impatiently. 'We are losing
all our time and we shall have Peet or somebody down upon us in a
minute. Come on, Estelle.'
But love for Aunt Betty still acted as a restraint, and though she put
her foot on the threshold, she did not step over.
'I would like to--I would like to,' she exclaimed, torn between her
conscience and her wishes, 'if---- '
She broke off, for Georgie was screaming in terror, 'The door--the door!
Look at the door!'
(_Continued on page 47._)
[Illustration: "Alan made the first attempt to push the door open."]
[Illustration: "It became necessary to descend the shaft."]
MARVELS OF MAN'S MAKING.
II.--THE SEVERN TUNNEL.
[Illustration]
If you were bound from England to some town in South Wales, it was very
awkward to have to leave your train on the banks of the Severn and make
a voyage of more than two miles in a slow ferry-boat before you could
take another train on the opposite shore. The Severn tides, too, were so
erratic that there was never any knowing when the ferry-boat would be
able to start. But that was what people had to put up with forty years
ago. So the Great Western Railway Company, in 1871, decided to go under
the fickle waters, as they found it so troublesome to go over them. A
study of the bottom of the river made it clear that the tunnel they
intended to make would have to slope downwards considerably from both
ends, running level for a short distance only under the centre of the
stream. This was because the waters, though shallow near either bank,
are extremely deep in the middle, and to avoid this deeper part, the
engineers had to burrow their way to a depth of one hundred and
forty-five feet below high-water level at spring tide. The tunnel itself
is four and a half miles long.
The work was begun in 1873. The slopes towards the river were made as
gradual as possible, and the tunnel started from both ends at once. In
order to find out what the soil and stone were like through which they
would have to force their way, a shaft or pit, fifteen feet wide and two
hundred feet deep, was dug on the western side of the river. From the
bottom of this the boring or 'heading' (as the beginning of a tunnel is
called) was worked east and west through rock and shale. Gunpowder was
exploded in small holes drilled at frequent intervals to shatter this
material; and when we remember that the 'heading' was only about six
feet high and six feet wide we can imagine how uncomfortable this work
must have been. Various kinds of drills have been invented for attacking
stone, but the one most usually employed consists of a hard steel
collar, round the edge of which black diamonds are fixed. There is no
rock that can withstand this drill.
When the human moles, burrowing under the Severn from opposite sides,
had got to within one hundred and thirty yards of each other, the drills
of those in the western part suddenly broke through into the secret
hiding-place of a great spring. The water gushed forth in cascades
faster than the pumps could pump it out, and in twenty-four hours the
'heading' was filled with water. This was in October, 1879, and for two
months all work was stopped. Then Sir John Hawkshaw was appointed chief
engineer. With great difficulty larger pumps were set in action to draw
the water out, and when this had been partly accomplished, it became
necessary for some one to descend the shaft through thirty feet of
water, grope his way for one thousand feet along the tunnel, and close a
certain door which had been left open when the workmen fled in panic
before the deluge. This door, together with two pipes which ran beneath
it, allowed the passage of large quantities of water from under the
river, the checking of which would enable the pumps to cope with the
rest. A diver named Lambert undertook this task. He required twelve
hundred feet of tubing to convey air to his helmet, and as this was more
than one man could drag after him, two other divers were called upon to
assist. One descended to the bottom of the shaft, while another walked
up the 'heading' for five hundred feet, passing Lambert's air-tube along
as the latter continued the terrible journey alone. Stumbling in the
darkness over the scattered tools which the escaping workmen had thrown
down, he arrived at last within a hundred feet of the door--only to find
that he had not the strength to drag the air-hose any farther! Floating
upwards in the water, it rubbed too hard against the ceiling of the
tunnel to be pulled downwards and onwards. Lambert sat down, and, by a
supreme effort, pulled it a few feet more. But the task was beyond his
strength, and, greatly disappointed, he returned to the bottom of the
shaft.
A few days later he tried again. This time no air-hose was used.
Strapped on his back he carried a vessel filled with condensed oxygen
gas, which he could admit to the helmet in small quantities at will.
Groping his way once more along the narrow, water-choked passage, he at
last reached the door. Passing through to the other side he felt for the
open end of one of the pipes, and turned the screws of its valve. Then,
stepping back, he shut the door behind him. All that now remained to be
done was to seal the second pipe. This had what is called a sluice
valve, and Lambert had been instructed to turn the screw which closed it
round and round, until he found he could turn it no farther; when that
was done, he would know that it was shut. It took some time, but it was
accomplished at last, and the triumphant diver returned to the upper
air. He had been absent one hour and eighteen minutes.
Lambert had done well, and all were ready to acknowledge his great
courage; but the water, strange to say, remained abundant, and it was
only after still further increasing the size of the pumps that it was at
last got rid of. Then the secret came out: no one had told Lambert that
the sluice valve had a left-handed screw, and that, therefore, to close
it he would have to turn it in the opposite direction to the usual one.
So all his heroic labour was expended on opening the valve to its
fullest extent, and thwarting the purpose for which he had undertaken
such a perilous duty.
This spring proved to be the greatest enemy the engineers had. But on
one occasion the sea itself made an attack upon them. A tidal wave burst
over the Severn's banks one night, and, rushing in a volume five feet
high, entered the workmen's cottages, and rose above the beds on which
their children were asleep. They were only saved by being lifted on to
tables and shelves. Then the great mass of water rolled on, to fall in a
huge torrent down the tunnel shaft. At the bottom eighty-three men were
at work. They escaped by running up the sloping tunnel and climbing a
wooden stage or platform at the far end. The water rose to within eight
feet of the tunnel-roof. As soon as the mouth of the shaft could be
reached from above, a small boat was lowered, and upon the gloomy
subterranean river a party of rescuers rowed in search of the imprisoned
men. A huge timber, stretched from side to side of the tunnel, soon
barred the boat's progress, and it became necessary to return to the
shaft for a saw to cut it in two. This they dropped overboard before
accomplishing their purpose, and had to wait while another was obtained.
Eventually, however, the men were reached and removed from their
terrible prison.
But through danger and difficulty alike, the Severn Tunnel was pushed on
with, reaching completion in 1886--fourteen years after its
beginning--and was opened for passenger traffic on December 1st, in that
year.
JOHN LEA.
THE UNDECIDED TRAVELLERS.
'The world is wide,' exclaimed the Goose,
'I think I'd like to travel.'
'And so should I,' the Ass replied,
'I'm tired of loads of gravel.'
'Where shall we go?' inquired Miss Goose;
'Myself, I fancy China.
'Oh, no!' cried Ass; 'in Switzerland
The mountain peaks are finer.'
'A fig for landscapes!' hissed his friend,
'I yearn for fields of paddy;
About my food I must confess
I am a trifle "faddy."'
'They'd make _us_ into food,' cried Ass,
'They'd fry our bones in batter;
I will not walk ten thousand miles
To make a Chinee fatter.'
And as no plan would suit them both,
They have not yet departed,
And I should hear with great surprise
That they had really started.
A. KATHERINE PARKES.
A BRAVE ANSWER.
There was sharp fighting between the English and French in the Windward
Islands in 1778, when General Meadows conquered St. Lucia, not, however,
without himself being severely wounded at the very beginning of the
engagement.
The General, though wounded, would not leave the field for a moment, and
when the action was over, he visited every wounded officer and man
before he would receive the surgeon's attention himself.
His heart was greatly cheered by an answer given to him by a young
subaltern, Lieutenant Gomm, of the Forty-sixth Regiment, who, in the
heat of action, was wounded in the eye.
'I hope you have not lost your eye, Lieutenant,' said the General.
'I believe I have, sir,' replied Gomm, 'but with the other I shall see
you victorious this day.'
The brave young fellow had his wish, and history tells us that the
French General 'was driven back with shame and with loss.'
A QUIET CONSCIENCE.
The famous Dr. Watts once said, when suffering from a dangerous illness,
'I thank God that I can sleep quietly to-night without being uneasy as
to whether I awake in this world or in the next.'
How many of us can say that our consciences are so untroubled as that?
THE SHADOOFS AND DRAW-WHEELS OF EGYPT.
In the greater part of Egypt rain never falls, and if it were not for
the Nile the country would be little better than a desert. But every
year, at exactly the same time, near the end of June, the river begins
to rise and overflow its banks. For three months it continues to swell
and spread, until it floods nearly the whole of the valley in which it
flows. It then begins to fall as steadily as it has risen, and retires
gradually into its proper channel, leaving the land which it has
overflowed covered with fertile mud, which has been brought down from
the interior of the continent, where the Nile rises. This rich soil and
the annual flooding of the valley by the river have made Egypt one of
the most fertile countries in the world.
The Egyptian farmer knows well the advantages which he reaps from the
overflowing of the Nile, and he cuts many canals to lead the water to
his fields, and builds dams to retain it when the river goes down. But
the overflowing of the river, even when helped by canals and dams, is
not enough for the proper irrigation of the land, and the Egyptian
farmers and field-labourers have to spend much of their time in raising
water from the river, or the canals, and distributing it over the
fields, especially upon the higher ground, which the annual flood does
not reach. Along the banks of the river, especially in Upper Egypt, may
be seen great numbers of machines, which are used for raising water from
the river into reservoirs, from which it is distributed through the
fields.
The commonest of these machines is the _shadoof_. It is a sort of
balance, with a weight at one end and a cord and bucket at the other.
The arm of the balance rests upon a bar of wood, which is supported by
two wooden posts, the whole resembling the horizontal bar of a
gymnasium. The posts are about five feet high and two or three feet
apart, and they are set up on the top of a bank, close to the edge, so
that the end of the arm which bears the bucket may project over the
water. This arm is made out of a slender branch of a tree, and is
fastened to the horizontal bar by loops of cord. Its thicker end is
loaded with a large, round ball of mud, while the other carries a long
cord, or even a slender stick, at the end of which is the bucket, or
bowl, in which the water is raised. This bucket is not made of iron, but
of basketwork, usually covered with leather or cloth. The man who works
the shadoof stands near the water's edge, below the slender arm of the
balance. He pulls down the cord to which the bucket is attached, until
the bucket dips into the water and is filled, while at the same time he
raises the lump of mud at the other end of the balance. When the bucket
is filled, he lifts it up, and empties it into a little tank higher up
in the bank, perhaps at the height of his head. The heavy weight at the
other end of the balance aids him a great deal in lifting the bucket,
even if it does not quite balance it. When the bank is high, and the
water has to be raised some distance, several shadoofs are employed.
They are arranged in stages, or steps, one above the other; the second
from the bottom takes its water from the reservoir, into which it has
been emptied by the first, and the third from the reservoir of the
second, and so on. Drawing water with the aid of the shadoof is said to
be very hard work, especially in so hot a country as Egypt. The shadoof
was used thousands of years ago, just as it is to-day, as we know by the
pictures of it which are still to seen painted upon the walls of some of
the ruins of ancient Egyptian buildings.
[Illustration: Egyptian "Sakiyeh."]
Another machine used for the same purpose is the _sakiyeh_, or
draw-wheel. It consists of a horizontal axle, with a wheel at each end.
One of these wheels overhangs the water of a river, a canal, or a well,
and over it there passes a long, hanging loop of cords, to which a
number of earthen pots are fastened. As the axle and the wheel go round,
the pots on the cords are drawn over the wheel, and made to move in a
circle like the buckets of a dredging-machine. The lower end of the loop
of pots dips in the water, and each pot, as it passes through the water,
is filled. It is then slowly drawn up by the turning wheel, and as it
passes over the wheel, and is tilted over, it empties the water into a
tank, or spout, and passes on downwards, empty, to the river again to
take up a new supply. The wheel at the other end of the axle is
connected with a large horizontal wheel, or 'gin,' to which a pair of
oxen may be yoked. These animals, walking round and round, turn the
large wheel, which, by means of cogs, turns the wheel upon the nearer
end of the axle, and so turns the wheel bearing the pots. The machinery
is very rough, and squeaks and groans in the loudest manner when it is
at work; but it raises a great quantity of water, and is not easily put
out of order.
W. A. ATKINSON.
[Illustration: Egyptian "Shadoof."]
[Illustration: "One of the largest pounded upon the wall with his
tusks."]
ELEPHANTS ATTACKING A GRANARY.
A True Anecdote.
A traveller, who was making a tour in India some years back, tells us
that in his wanderings he arrived at a village on the north border of
the British dominions; near this stood a granary, in which was stored a
large quantity of rice. The people of the place described to him how the
granary had been attacked by a party of elephants which had somehow
found out that this granary was full of rice.
Early in the morning an elephant appeared at the granary, acting
evidently as a scout or spy. When he found that the place was
unprotected, he returned to the herd, which was waiting no great
distance off. Two men happened to be close by, and they watched the herd
approach in almost military order. Getting near the granary, the
elephants stopped to examine it.
Its walls were of solid brickwork; the entry was in the centre of the
terraced roof, which could only be mounted by a ladder. To climb this
was not possible, so they stood to consider. The alarmed spectators
speedily climbed a banyan-tree, hiding themselves among its leafy
branches, thus being out of view while they could watch the doings of
the elephants. These animals surveyed the building all round; its thick
walls were formidable, but the strength and sagacity of the elephants
defied the obstacles. One of the largest of the herd took up a position
at a corner of the granary, and pounded upon the wall with his tusks.
When he began to feel tired, another took turn at the work, then
another, till several of the bricks gave way.
An opening once made was soon enlarged. Space being made for an elephant
to enter, the herd divided into parties of three or four, since only a
few could find room inside. When one party had eaten all they could,
their place was taken by another. One of the elephants stood at a
distance as sentinel. After all had eaten enough, by a shrill noise he
gave the signal to retire, and the herd, flourishing their trunks,
rushed off to the jungle.
STORIES FROM AFRICA.
I.--THE STORY OF A CRUSADER.
(_Concluded from page 30._)
The Sultan demanded the fortresses of Syria as a ransom, but King Louis
replied that they were not his to part with, but belonged to the Emperor
of Germany, who bore the title of King of Jerusalem. The Sultan
threatened him with torture, but only received the calm reply, 'I am
your prisoner; you may do what you will with me.'
He had the grievous pain of seeing his followers slain for refusing to
abjure their faith, and the worse sorrow of knowing that some among them
had yielded; and he readily agreed to pay five hundred thousand pounds
as the ransom for his people, the city of Damietta being the price of
his own freedom. The Sultan exclaimed in amazement, when the answer was
returned, 'Right noble is this Frankish king, who pays such a sum
without bargaining. Go, tell him we will lessen it by one-fifth.'
De Joinville was not with his master when he was taken, having been
detained by contrary winds in the river; but he had adventures enough of
his own.
He had struggled up to the deck of his galley, though grievously sick,
to issue his orders, when the boat was boarded by the Saracens. One
friendly Turk counselled him to leap on board the enemy's galley and
give himself up as a prisoner; and afterwards this Turk saved his life,
when the Saracen daggers were at his throat, by passing him off as the
King's cousin. He even secured for him the scarlet furred cloak which
had been his mother's gift, and under which poor Joinville lay,
shivering with fever, and, as he freely owned, with dread of what was to
come. Every hour the lives of the prisoners hung in the balance. De
Joinville saw one old comrade and follower after another slain and
thrown into the river before his eyes. When a grand old Saracen, with a
body of armed followers, entered the tent in which they were confined,
they thought their executioners had come; but the old man, after
solemnly asking them whether they believed indeed in a God Who had risen
from the dead, bade them be of good cheer, for such a God would surely
not desert the servants who suffered in His cause. So, with their faith
and courage strengthened in so strange a way, the Christian prisoners
waited until the good news came of the King's treaty.
Even then the peril was not over. The Sultan who had concluded the peace
was murdered by his guard, and, in the confusion which followed, the
galley to which the prisoners had been removed was boarded by a wild
band, with drawn swords. The French nobles, thinking the end had come,
fell upon their knees.
But again their lives were spared, and, soon after, De Joinville found
himself reunited to his beloved King, who, with scrupulous care, was
collecting and paying to the last farthing the sum promised as ransom.
So end De Joinville's crusading adventures, as far as Africa is
concerned, though he followed his royal master to Acre before Louis
turned his face sadly homeward. When the King set forth, twenty years
later, on his second luckless crusade, De Joinville refused to leave his
vassals, who, he said, had suffered sorely during his last campaign. He
heard from the lips of others how his master died at Tunis, with his
thoughts turning longingly still to that Jerusalem which his mortal eyes
would never see. But of this De Joinville tells us little, being
unwilling, he says, to vouch for the truth of anything that he did not
himself see and hear. And he certainly saw and heard enough to leave us
a story of fights and escapes as fascinating as any romance, and the
portrait of a king, often mistaken, indeed, but always valiant,
high-minded, and pure, whose words and deeds his old followers lovingly
recorded for the sake of generations yet to come.
MARY H. DEBENHAM.
THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.
(_Continued from page 39._)
The children had all been so intent on the going in or staying out, that
they had not noticed how the door was slowly but surely closing on them.
No one had touched it, yet it was moving with great force. Marjorie ran
back out of the way with Georgie clinging to her arm. Alan, seizing
Estelle's hand, had barely time to stumble over the threshold when a
heavy bit of wood was hurled over him, just missing his head, and
landing on the threshold he had quitted the moment before. On this the
door banged with a great crash. It had fallen just in time to prevent
the door shutting. The whole building seemed to shake with the shock of
the banging door. Alan turned, to see Thomas, white and staring, behind
him. The expression on his face recalled to the boy's mind the
conversation in the hollow. For the moment, however, anger prevented any
other thoughts.
'It might have killed me!' he exclaimed, angrily. 'What on earth did you
do that for?'
'I meant no harm, sir,' returned Thomas, hurriedly. 'The truth is, sir,
I--I want to get into that place for a bit. I--I have left something
behind. It's most important. The noise may bring Mr. Peet up here,
and--and--I must get in afore he comes. What's there was left by--by
mistake, sir--only a mistake.'
Thomas spoke in a confused, anxious manner, all the time edging nearer
to the door. 'It would have slammed if I hadn't thrown in the bit of
wood,' he continued, as he pushed back the door to its widest extent.
Sure as he felt that Thomas was deceiving him, Alan was puzzled how to
connect the gardener's anxiety to enter the summer-house with the
conversation he had overheard; but that it _had_ some connection he felt
certain. What could the man want in that dark, uninviting hole? Had he
stolen any valuables and hidden them in there? If so, why did he want
information about them when he must know all about where they were to be
found? Yet the stranger had told Thomas to obtain information, without
which their bargain was useless.
His thoughts were interrupted by the gardeners, who now came running up,
headed by Peet. They were amazed to see the four children staring in
wonder at the strength displayed by Thomas as he set the massive door
open.
'What are you doing with that 'ere door?' shouted the angry head
gardener. 'Who opened it? It isn't anybody's business to go nigh it at
all.'
'The door nearly slammed on the young ladies and gentlemen,' replied
Thomas, sullenly, his tone proving to Alan how keen was his
disappointment. 'I just threw the wood in time to stop it.'
'Who opened it?' demanded Peet, sternly, his eyes wandering round the
group of children and gardeners.
No one answering, Alan said they had found the door open on their return
from boating, and had looked in. 'And if we ever get the chance again
we will go right in,' he added, sulkily, walking away with his head in
the air. His disappointment made him forget himself.
'Stop, Master Alan,' returned Peet, whose naturally cross temper was
continually bringing him into collision with the children. 'The Colonel
and my lady have forbidden all you young ladies and gentlemen to go into
the ruin, and you tell me you will get in if you have the chance?'
'Yes, Peet, I do,' replied Alan, haughtily. 'I am not accountable to you
for what I do or don't do. You mind your own affairs, and find out who
left the door open, or else you will be held responsible.'
Alan marched off, leaving Peet speechless with rage.
'I will speak to the Colonel,' he muttered to himself as the children
disappeared in the direction of the house.
No one knew anything about the door, and, in spite of his anger, Peet
was obliged to admit he himself must have left it open, since none of
the under-gardeners could have got possession of the key. As far as he
knew, they had no interest in going in. The ruin was only used by him
for a secret purpose of his own of which he had spoken to no one. On one
occasion alone had he ever allowed any of his underlings into it. That
was on the day he had made Thomas assist him in erecting some woodwork
in preparation for a gift he had received from his brother in India,
which he desired to keep a profound secret from everybody. Inside the
ruin was a recess large enough for his purpose; but it required a good
deal of adapting to make it available, and this he could not manage
without help. Thomas's action in throwing the piece of wood might or
might not be regarded as suspicious, but since he had been out boating
with the children, he could not have had anything to do with opening the
door. He might desire to get in if his curiosity about the woodwork in
the recess had been roused, but was that likely in such a stupid lout as
Thomas?
There really appeared to be no one on whom he could visit his wrath.
Dismissing the under-gardeners curtly, he was forced to return to his
work in a very unenviable frame of mind, suspicious of everybody.
Meantime the children were greatly taken aback by the quarrel between
Alan and Peet. The two were always more or less at daggers drawn, but it
was seldom that the mutual dislike blazed up into open war.
'I will show Peet a thing or two,' cried Alan with a wilful smile. 'He
must learn he can't speak to me like that. He is Aunt Betty's servant,
worse luck. If he had been Father's, I'd have been down on him with a
vengeance.'
'It is a great pity to quarrel with him,' said Marjorie, though she knew
the remark was not a wise one under the circumstances. 'He is an old
man, he's seen heaps of trouble, and he's soured. That is what Aunt
Betty says. I think it would be nicer--- more like what one would call
_noblesse oblige_--if we let him alone.'
'There's Father!' cried Georgie with a shout. 'We can ask him.'
(_Continued on page 50._)
[Illustration: "'It would have slammed if I hadn't thrown in the bit of
wood.'"]
[Illustration: "Alan intended to make the newts run races."]
THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.
(_Continued from page 47._)
Colonel De Bohun, strolling along smoking his cigar, was at once beset
by the whole party. He was good-natured and kind-hearted; the children
were seldom afraid to take him into their councils. His appearance was
always hailed with delight, and confidences and requests of all kinds
were poured into his ears. In the holidays especially he was a willing
victim, and could be counted on to grant all but the most impossible
demands.
'What are you young monkeys plotting now?' he exclaimed as they ran up
to him.
'Oh, Father!' cried Marjorie, laughing, 'you can't say we are not
reasonable. I heard Mademoiselle telling Miss Leigh so. It was one day
when she was out of temper, and we didn't deserve it.'
'Never mind Miss Leigh,' broke in Georgie. 'I hate her name out of the
schoolroom.'
'Sh--sh!' said his father. 'I can't allow that. Miss Leigh is to be
pitied for having you _in_ the schoolroom.'
'Tell us about the ruined summer-house, Dad,' went on Georgie, eagerly.
'The door was open just now, and we all peeped in. Oh, wasn't Peet
angry.'
'Hullo!' remarked the Colonel. 'Whose fault was that?'
'We found it open upon our return from boating,' Marjorie hastened to
say.
'I don't like that. It shows great carelessness on the part of somebody.
I hope none of you went inside?'
'It wasn't for want of the wish to,' replied Alan; 'but the door nearly
banged on the top of us, so we had to scuttle as fast as we could. Peet
was very rude about it. It was not our fault that the door was open, but
we have every right to go in if it is.'
'No right at all,' answered the Colonel, somewhat sternly. 'The place
belongs to the Moat property, and it is Aunt Betty's desire, as well as
mine, that none of you children should go in. The building is very old,
and every year its condition becomes more and more dangerous. There have
been great falls from the roof already. I will not have you there, not
any one of you. You may as well know at once that there is a passage
from it to some spot---- '
'To the hole in the face of the cliff?' asked Alan, eagerly.
'It can hardly go so far, I fancy. But I am uncertain. I know, however,
that a part of it leads to Aunt Betty's cellars.'
'Could we get in through the cellars?' asked Marjorie.
'Aunt Betty may have the door locked, or, perhaps, permanently closed.
About that I do not know either.'
They had by this time reached the bridge over the moat, the waters of
which reflected the peaceful calm of that beautiful August morning.
Before them lay the Moat House, weather-beaten, dark with age, like an
old soldier at rest after many battles. The original building--the one
which had seen the struggles between the followers of the Red and White
Roses--had been small; but succeeding generations of the Coke family had
added to it, as necessity arose, with the result that the house--an
irregular structure of two stories--extended over a good deal of ground,
and represented every style of architecture.