As time went on and Alan did not return, Marjorie stood up to listen,
wondering what she ought to do. Should she wait, or go at once in search
of him? Before she had made up her mind, however, her hesitation was
brought to an end by a violent bang--a sound she knew only too well.
Springing up the bank, she made her way as rapidly as the brushwood
allowed to the ruin, remembering with dismay that Estelle and Georgie
had been on the roof. When she got there, no one was to be seen. Georgie
had gone away, very deeply hurt that Estelle should have left him in his
sleep, from which he had been startled by the crash of the closing door.
It was some time before Marjorie found him--safe, though
resentful--sitting on a heap of swept-up leaves in the carriage-drive,
talking to one of the gardeners.
She was in too great a hurry to listen to her little brother's
complaints, and only stopped a moment to ask where Estelle was.
'Gone home, I suppose,' returned Georgie, not in the most gentle of
voices. 'Didn't I tell you she was nowhere to be seen when I woke up?'
'If it was anybody else but Estelle, I should be afraid of her being
shut into the ruin, as the door must have been open; but she never
disobeys. So it's all right, and I must rush after Alan.'
Off she went at the top of her speed. She could get to the Smugglers'
Hole more quickly if she ran round by the path to the cliffs. Without
reasoning over it, she understood instinctively that the men would go
there, and Alan after them. With the fleetness of a lapwing, she flew
along the path through the Wilderness, and reached the cliff as the
first flush of sunset was beginning to crimson the western sky. Like a
ghostly ship, the vessel they had seen that morning glided across the
red rippling path of light, the tapering masts dark against the evening
glow, while above it white gulls were winging in circles. So beautiful
was the scene that she paused, and, as she gazed, she saw a tiny boat
leave the ship's side and draw towards the shore. For the moment Alan
was forgotten. Watching the little dinghy, her mind became full of the
idea suggested by her brother. Was Thomas really going to carry his
stolen goods beyond seas?
(_Continued on page 146._)
[Illustration: "Alan seized the box, and ran."]
[Illustration: "She let the dog lead her into the blackness."]
THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.
(_Continued from page 143._)
With the thought that Thomas might put to sea, a multitude of questions
came to Marjorie's mind. How had he managed to let the ship's crew know?
Was its presence there due to Thomas at all? Who was the man with him?
Was he a man who could have a ship when he wanted it, or was he a member
of the crew? Alan said that he talked English perfectly, but with a
slightly foreign accent. Perhaps the man was a Frenchman. The coastguard
had considered the ship was French, with a rig altered since she was
built. That would account for its coming to the help of Thomas, and no
doubt the dinghy was to fetch the two men. She wondered if it was her
duty to tell the coastguard all that she and Alan suspected. 'Perhaps he
would only laugh at me,' she thought.
If the coastguard had been in sight she might yet have done so, but
there appeared to be no one on the cliffs except herself. The pathway
along the edge was quite deserted, and it was a mile or more to the
signal station. Moreover, she had no hat; it had been taken off for
coolness and left in the ditch, forgotten in her fright at the closing
door.
The temptation to watch the little boat was too great to be resisted. If
Thomas and his friend should return in it to the ship, what a grand
piece of news to tell Alan! There was just a chance he might see it for
himself, and she would only get a pinch for stale news; but she hoped
otherwise.
Meantime the dinghy drew nearer, and to her practised eye it became
evident that the men did not know the coast, for they rowed first one
way and then another without finding the entrance to the Bay; they
seemed afraid of submerged rocks, which might be quite covered even at
the half-tide. They crept in, nevertheless, and Marjorie, for a time,
lost sight of them. She crawled closer to the edge of the cliff, but she
knew her position to be dangerous if she attempted to get over the light
railing which had been put up on account of the crumbling condition of
the edge. Further to the right the rail ceased, and the ground became a
steep slope to the sea, but trees and low shrubs prevented so good a
view as she had at present. There was nothing for it, therefore, but to
wait.
Comforting herself with assurances that Alan was far better able to take
care of himself than she was, she climbed to the top of the railing, and
sat watching the strange ship. Suddenly she noticed that every stitch of
canvas was being run up, and a moment later signal flags flew out at the
masthead. In great excitement, she glanced down at the surging water
below her, and sure enough the little boat was shooting into view, and
rowing rapidly away towards the ship. In her efforts to discover what it
all meant she almost forgot to look for Thomas in the boat, but when she
remembered to count the men, she was disappointed to find exactly the
same number that there had been at first.
Greatly puzzled, she gazed at the retreating dinghy. What had been its
business, and why had the signal flown out so suddenly? Marjorie hated
to be puzzled over things. 'There can be but one explanation,' she
thought, 'and that is, Thomas has been too late to catch the boat, and
they could not wait for him. It serves him right.' She hoped he would
now be caught red-handed. The sun had sunk low in the horizon by the
time the dinghy reached the vessel, and nothing could be more beautiful
than the slowly sailing ship moving across the great ball of fire. It
looked like a fairy craft as it sank out of sight.
Marjorie sprang to her feet. 'How late it is!' she thought, with dismay.
'I wonder where Alan is? He will be in a jolly rage when he finds I'm
nowhere to be found; and all for nothing too!'
She ran lightly down the hollow, the wood looking dark and gloomy in the
fading light. Fearing she might miss the way into the Smuggler's Hole,
she walked more cautiously as the shadows deepened; it was fortunate she
did. She had hardly gone ten yards before she heard voices so near that
there was barely time to sink down behind the bushes before Thomas and
his friend passed along the path towards the cliff.
'Well, what do you make of it?' she heard Thomas say in a sullen tone.
'If it was a bargain, why didn't the fellow stop?'
'That's what Fargis has to answer to me for,' returned his companion,
angrily. 'Cutting away like that for no reason at all that I can see,
and leaving us---- '
The voices died away, and Marjorie smiled to think how nearly she had
guessed right. They _had_ missed the boat. Now she would really have
some news for Alan. She resumed her way, though the silence was not
encouraging. She ought to meet Alan if he was still on the track of the
men. What could he be doing if he was not? It took some careful peering
into dark places to discover the entrance to the Smuggler's Hole, and
even then the blackness of the steps made her hesitate. Could she get
down without a ray of light? Not lacking in courage, however, she
ventured to feel her way to the bottom of the first flight. There the
dangers of the descent began, and she dared not proceed.
Deep silence reigned. As she stood listening, she did not know for what,
she suddenly heard a faint patter of paws, and the next moment, with a
whining yelp, a dog jumped up to her and careered round her feet. A
touch showed her it was Bootles--Bootles, distressed and eager; now
whining, now pulling at her dress, as if he wanted something very badly.
Her thoughts flew at once to Alan. Perhaps those horrid men had injured
him. In haste she tied a handkerchief to the dog's collar, and let him
lead her into the blackness till he halted, sniffing and barking, having
attained the object of his desires.
'Alan! Alan!' she called, in terror of what she might hear, yet resolved
to find out why the dog was so restless.
The rocks seemed to send back echoes of her voice, and aroused fears
lest Thomas might hear and return. Nevertheless she stood still and
listened intently; even the dog kept quiet. Was there an answer? She
could not quite make out. She must call again, though it required a
great effort to do so. There was no mistake this time.
'M-a-r-j-o-r-i-e-e-e!'
Muffled, scarcely audible as it was, the voice was no echo. It appeared
to come from the ground, but the dog's pulls and barks confused her. She
was afraid to advance, and little imagined how near she was already to
the unprotected edge of the rocky shaft down which Alan had fallen. She
had seen it during their explorations, but had quite forgotten its
existence. Nevertheless, she stooped to listen, and the dog crouched at
her side.
(_Continued on page 157._)
PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS.
6.--GEOGRAPHICAL LETTER.
Dear (a town in South Australia),--This morning, being up betimes, and
having had an early (town in the West of England) and breakfast, I take
the opportunity of writing to you. Yesterday, my uncle (a city of
Michigan, U.S.) and his daughter (a city of Italy) came to see us. Two
slight accidents marred their visit: to begin with, my cousin fell upon
the (an Ayrshire village), and afterwards, while we were out driving, a
(town in Staffordshire) caused the horse to slip. We were then obliged
to walk, but the way was rough, and presently a stream barred all
progress. However, we discovered an (town near Coalbrookdale) which
enabled us to go (town in Cheshire). After eating an (river of South
Africa) and a (decayed seaport in Kent) apiece, we felt refreshed, and
went on until we came to a tall (parish in East London). Here we sat
(county in Ireland), and uncle amused us by (town in Berkshire). The
rest I will tell you later; till then believe me,--Your affectionate
friend, (An Australian colony) (a market town in Herefordshire).
C. J. B.
[_Answer on page 179._]
* * * * *
ANSWER TO PUZZLE ON PAGE 115.
5.--_Caroline_.
1. C aractacus.
2. A lexander.
3. R oger Bacon.
4. O lney.
5. L atimer.
6. I ndia.
7. N ormandy.
8. E mmet.
THE BARBERRY.
The Barberry is an ornamental shrub, on account of its graceful yellow
blossoms and its bright scarlet berries. The fruit is often prescribed
by village doctors for the jaundice, but from its sourness it is seldom
eaten uncooked. It makes excellent jelly, and is much used in the
manufacture of sugar-plums. The roots and bark yield a yellow dye.
Cattle and sheep eat the leaves, and the flowers are attractive to
insects.
The barberry formerly grew wild, in great quantities, in our English
hedgerows, but it has been extirpated from a belief that it injures the
growth of corn. It is said that the leaves are frequently infested by a
tiny fungus, similar to one which attacks wheat: this is easily
dispersed by the wind, and propagatad amongst the corn, causing it much
injury.
The barberry seems to be widely distributed: it is found in America, and
in most European countries, especially on the shores of the Danube.
MY DREAMS.
My dreams are just like little birds
Which in a cage I keep,
To set them free when bed-time comes,
And I fall fast asleep.
Oh! they are such a pretty sight!
The tiny ones are red,
And in their blue and golden clouds
They flutter round my bed.
They tell me of those wonder things
Which I have never seen;
And to and fro they swiftly dart
As bright as moonlight sheen.
They sing to me so sweet and low,
These dreams I fain would keep--
Then softly crooning, fly away,
When I awake from sleep.
ADVICE TO GOSSIPERS.
It will be quite time enough to talk about the faults and failings of
absent friends when we have assured ourselves that we have none of our
own of which to speak.
THE MUSIC OF THE NATIONS.
V.--THE SHO OF JAPAN AND THE KOU OF CHINA.
National character comes out in a curious way in the music of the
people, and the whistling of the children as they pass along the streets
of China and Japan shows a marked difference between the races. The
proud, shy Chinese wants nothing to satisfy his ears but the weird
melodies of his own land, whilst to the cosmopolitan Japanese the songs
of the world are welcome, and the newest jingle of Paris or London or
New York mingles with the airs of Italian or German Opera. Japanese ears
are curiously true in catching up airs, and they can imitate with great
fidelity.
The national music of Japan finds a place in its mythology, and its
origin is ascribed to the Goddess of the Sun, Amaterasu by name. She,
thinking herself affronted by her fellow divinities, betook herself to a
cavern in the mountains, and declined to come out. Finding the world
gloomy without her warmth and radiance, the gods tried every possible
form of inducement to make her emerge; but without success, until some
original genius hit upon the happy idea of musical sounds, which so
enchanted the angry goddess that indignation gave place to curiosity,
and she came out to listen, when gods and men once more revelled in her
brightness.
Learned Japanese have recently declared Hindostan to have been the
cradle of their national music, whereas it was formerly supposed to have
been brought from China; certainly both instruments and the music
played on them are much alike in these two countries.
In both countries blind men take a large share in performances. They
form unions, much after the fashion of our Trades Unions and Benefit
Clubs, and have officers to look after the general interests as well as
to see that each member receives a fair amount of support. The chief is
a very important person, and has great power over his inferiors. Every
member of the Guild is bound to work at some trade beside music, and to
turn over all his earnings to the Treasurer.
Like music itself, this Japanese method of providing for the blind has a
mythological origin. Teki, a favourite prince, was killed in battle, it
is said, whilst fighting Joritomo, the Japanese god of war. His general
was taken prisoner at the same time, and his captor treated him so well
and kindly that, unwilling to seem ungrateful, and yet unable to endure
the sight of the hand which had killed his beloved master, he put out
his own eyes, and presented them to Joritomo, who, delighted with such
courage and affection, set him at liberty. We, having heard and read
both of the magnificent bravery of the Japanese soldiers in the late war
as well as of their noble and humane treatment of their prisoners, may
see in this story a proof that these virtues are hereditary and
instinctive in the race. Returning to his own province the blind general
sought for new worlds to conquer. He turned musician, and gathered a
large following of persons similarly afflicted, finally forming them
into a Society of Blind Musicians, and giving it the name of 'Teki,' his
dead master.
[Illustration: The Sho.]
The instrument called Sho is blown with the mouth, and corresponds to
the Chinese Cheng or Mouth Organ. The pipes are made of wood, with reed
mouthpieces, and the notes are made by stopping the holes with the
fingers. In some ways the construction is like that of a harmonium, but
it is much more troublesome to play, and the performer, having to use
his own breath to make the sounds, cannot sing at the same time. Unlike
a harmonium also, it is difficult to keep in tune, and Miss Bird, a
well-known traveller, tells of a concert at which the performer was
obliged to be continually warming his instrument at a brazier of coals
placed near. Some years ago a Japanese Commission was appointed to
consider which of the national instruments were most suitable for use
in schools; it rejected the Sho because its manufacture was troublesome
and its tuning even worse.
[Illustration: The Kou.]
Kou is the Chinese word for drum, of which many kinds are used in China,
Japan, and Burmah. Eastern drums differ from those of Europe in having
their heads nailed on, not kept movable as ours are for tuning purposes.
The body is usually made of sandalwood, cedar, or mulberry wood, or else
of baked clay. They are used for many purposes: on State occasions, to
tell the hour during the night, to scare away evil spirits as well as to
invite visits from good spirits, and to play the 'Amens' at the end of
verses in the Confucian services. Tiny drums are also carried by pedlars
when hawking their wares. Etiquette insists that on any occasion when
the Emperor is present all drums must be muffled by being rolled in
folds of cloth.
HELENA HEATH.
MARVELS OF MAN'S MAKING.
V.--THE _GREAT EASTERN_.
[Illustration]
Hard tasks bravely done, are never wholly done in vain; but sometimes
they have been carried out too soon. This was the case in the building
of the _Great Eastern_ steamship. Fifty years ago there was no place in
the shipping world large enough to accommodate her properly, and Mr.
Isambard Kingdom Brunel, who spent hard years of toil planning her
construction, was nearly half a century ahead of his fellow-men. Time
has proved that his ideas were correct.
The monster ship was first thought of by him about the year 1852, for it
was then that he laid his schemes before the Eastern Steam Navigation
Company, and explained to them why large ships would be more profitable
than small.
'When sending a vessel from London to Calcutta,' said he, 'she will go
much more cheaply if she does not have to stop on the way to take in
coal. Now, I propose to build ships capable of carrying enough coal to
take them round the world; or at any rate to Calcutta and back.'
[Illustration: The Great Eastern]
He also made it clear that there is not so much risk with a large ship
as with a small, for damage which would be enough to sink the latter
would have but little effect upon the former. Mr. Brunel had already
proved his skill in designing iron ships, for even at the time of which
we are speaking, the _Great Western_ was steaming between England and
America, and the _Great Britain_ had been upon the rocks on the Irish
coast, suffering little damage by the collision.
His plan was to build the hull with a double skin, leaving a space of
some feet between them, so that if the outside one was burst through,
the water failed to get past the inner coat.
The Directors of the Company agreed with his views, and in December,
1853, work upon the _Great Eastern_ was begun.
At Millwall, in the Isle of Dogs, in the shipyard of Messrs. Scott
Russell & Co., the foundations were laid, and in a very little time,
people passing up and down the river Thames were attracted by the first
signs of the building of the 'big ship.' Up from the river's edge, for a
distance of 330 feet, ran the two sloping 'ways' or slides, and across
these were laid the cradles in which the huge baby was to lie. Each of
the 'ways' was 120 feet broad, and they were separated by a distance of
some 200 feet. Owing to the size of the proposed ship, it was found
impossible to build her, as is usually done, with her stern toward the
water. Mr. Brunel feared that it would not be safe to launch her in such
a position; he decided therefore to plan the erection parallel with the
stream, so that he might lower her gently into the water sideways.
Nothing that had been done before in the way of ship-building could be
taken as a guide, for the increase in size made difficulties that no one
had yet had to encounter. Little did those who only 'looked on' realise
the thought and trouble which this new enterprise meant. Again and again
the engineer had to alter his measurements, as fresh considerations
arose. Among other things he was obliged to take into account the depth
of the water at low tide in the river Hooghly, at Calcutta; for if the
_Great Eastern_ was built so as to sink too low in the water when fully
loaded, she would never be able to enter the port of the capital of
India at all.
But at last all the measurements were decided upon. The ship would be
693 feet long, 83 feet broad, and 58 feet from keel to upper deck;
weighing altogether 13,000 tons. With room in its iron shell for 5000
people, the _Great Eastern_ would be a floating town, containing more
inhabitants than many flourishing communities in England. The frame, or
skeleton, consisted of 'bulkheads,' or huge webs of iron stretching for
400 feet lengthwise of the ship, and crossed by similar bulkheads from
side to side, placed at intervals of about 20 feet. These formed a
strong framework on which to fasten the walls of the ship. There were no
openings between the compartments formed by the bulkheads, except on a
level with the first deck; so that if water did, by any misfortune,
burst through from the bottom, it would not flood the whole ship.
The hull was completed at the end of the summer of 1857, and was ready
for receiving the engines for driving the screw and the two enormous
paddlewheels. The latter were between 50 and 60 feet in diameter. Then
came the preparations for the launching; and little had the engineer
guessed that in the short space of 240 feet, which separated his ship
from the main stream of the Thames, would lie the greatest difficulties
of all. The 'ways' sloped at a gradient of one foot in twelve, and had
iron surfaces. The day before the launch was to take place, these were
well greased. Chains were stretched from the stern and the bow to barges
in the river while hydraulic jacks, for pushing the huge body from the
land side, were anchored firmly to the ground. A careful estimate of how
much strength would be required had been made, and additional
precautions were taken to prevent the ship sliding too swiftly when once
set in motion.
All arrangements being then considered complete, it was decided to
attempt the launch on the 3rd of November. On that day, against Mr.
Brunel's wishes, vast crowds of sightseers pushed their way into the
yard, and even intruded themselves between him and his workmen, so that
the signals he wished to make could not be seen. However, at about noon,
the _Great Eastern_ began to move on its journey to the river. It
slipped a short distance and then stopped. The men on the barges, seeing
the monster sliding towards them, deserted their posts in terror. Had
they known that nearly three months were to elapse before the ship would
be induced to reach the water, they would hardly have given way to such
panic.
The unruly crowd went home disappointed on that November day, and Mr.
Brunel's troubles were increased by the receipt of large numbers of
letters advising him what to do. They mainly came from people who were
quite ignorant of mechanical laws. The engineer knew that strength must
prevail at last, but though he used all he could obtain at the moment,
the ship only moved an inch or two at a time. At last, at the time of
his greatest perplexity, Robert Stephenson visited him at Millwall, and
gave kindly encouragement as well as aid. He provided greater power than
Mr. Brunel had yet been able to obtain, and on January 31st, 1858, the
huge vessel imperceptibly slipped the last few inches into the Thames.
But it seems sad to have to say that the _Great Eastern_ was nearly as
much trouble on the water as she had been on the land. Her designer
never lived to see her face the storm and wave. Anxiety had undermined
his health, and he died on September 15th, 1859, as she steered into
Weymouth on her first trial journey.
The world was not ready for such big ships, and though she made several
voyages to New York (where she was greeted with the flutter of flags and
the welcome of cannon), the _Great Eastern_ did not earn her wages.
After a curious existence of thirty years, during which period she
changed her masters many times, doing good service, in 1865, by laying
the Atlantic cable, she was sold to be broken up as little more than old
iron.
Our steamships now are built even larger than Mr. Brunel's vessel,
though in a slightly different way. But we have better means of
constructing them, and docks large enough for their accommodation.
One of the largest ships yet launched was built for the Cunard Company a
short time ago. It is 760 feet long, and 87 feet broad, and is nearly
thirty times heavier than the _Britannia_--the Company's first ship to
cross the Atlantic sixty-five years ago. Her saloons and dining-halls
are fit apartments for a palace, and are built in a hull measuring sixty
feet from keel to upper deck. Still larger vessels are in course of
construction.
The poor _Great Eastern_--the leviathan of other days--has been
eclipsed; but whatever admiration we may feel for the new, it must not
be allowed to diminish the honour that is due to the old.
THE REWARD OF A GENIUS.
(_Concluded from page 142._)
Britt ran home that evening full of excitement and satisfaction. His cap
was thrown carelessly on one side as the lad rushed into the
sitting-room, and he looked disappointed at finding a maid preparing the
supper-table as the only occupant.
'Where's Mother? Hasn't she come home yet, Mary?' he asked.
'Yes, Master Rupert, your mother got back this afternoon, but she was no
sooner in than Miss Aleyn sent for her to go in there, and she hasn't
come back yet. She sent a note for you, though; it's on the
mantel-shelf, there.'
Britt took the envelope. 'It's jolly rough on a fellow to have his
mother taken away when he hasn't seen her for a week,' he grumbled, as
he opened it.
'My dear boy,' the letter ran, 'I am so sorry not to be with you this
evening. Unfortunately Miss Aleyn has got one of her particularly
fidgety nervous attacks, and I don't like to leave her. She found a
cross chalked on the gate-post this afternoon, and imagines it is a
burglar's mark! She won't listen to reason, and absolutely refuses to
come home with me, so the house is now being barricaded in preparation
for the attack Miss Aleyn confidently expects.'
Rupert read the letter through twice before its meaning dawned on him.
Miss Aleyn, an elderly and very eccentric maiden lady, was their near
neighbour, and a friend of his mother's. Her hobby was curio-collecting,
and she lived in perpetual dread of having her treasures stolen. In
fact, judging by the energy and ingenuity she displayed in hunting for
them, one might well imagine the old lady was desirous of making a
collection of burglars, although so far no success had attended her
efforts. She was an ardent admirer of Sherlock Holmes; to her, as to the
famous detective, every unfamiliar sign or unusual incident meant a clue
to some crime or burglary. Remembering this trait of Miss Aleyn's, Britt
suddenly realised how full of meaning must have appeared the hasty
scrawl he had left on Miss Aleyn s gate-post for the hounds' guidance
that afternoon. He startled the maid-servant by a peal of laughter that
echoed through the small house.
'I'll be back directly,' he exclaimed abruptly, as soon as he could
speak, seizing his cap, and rushing from the house. The prospect of
explaining matters for Miss Aleyn's benefit was no pleasant one. The old
lady had a small opinion of boys, and never hesitated to speak her mind,
as Britt had already been made aware, but he was anxious to have his
mother home once more and eager to tell her of the afternoon's pleasure.
Arriving at the picturesque detached cottage which was his destination,
Britt noticed that the place appeared totally deserted. His vigorous
hammering at both front and kitchen doors was without effect, and Britt
began to wonder whether Mrs. Leslie had persuaded terror-stricken Miss
Aleyn to accompany her home. As a final resource he lifted the flap of
the letterbox and stooped down to it, meaning to shout through; but he
met with an unwelcome surprise. He was greeted by a jet of water from a
well-directed squirt aimed through the opening. He gave himself a
disgusted shake, and ruefully tried to stop the trickling down his neck
with a handkerchief; then cautiously advancing once more, and placing
his lips to the keyhole, he shouted: 'It's me, Mother!--let me in!'
The sentence, brief and ungrammatical, served its purpose. Mrs. Leslie's
voice could be heard inside: 'It's only Rupert, Miss Aleyn. May he come
in for a moment?'
Indistinct murmurs answered the question, and Britt added a further
appeal: 'I've got something important to tell Miss Aleyn.'
This was more to the point, and Rupert, with secret amusement and
enjoyment, heard sounds as of heavy furniture being removed and bolts
and bars drawn back. A small space was made in the doorway and the boy
slipped through. For a moment he paused, bewildered. In the hall was
such a collection of furniture that there was but a few clear yards'
space. A sideboard, several chairs, a music-stool, and two fenders had
evidently been piled up to barricade the door. A frightened maid held
the garden squirt, a pail of water by her side, and in the background
stood Miss Aleyn, poker in hand, with a grim expression that boded ill
for any intruder. Mrs. Leslie regarded her son with some alarm.
Fervently wishing himself in any region away from this one, Britt
blurted out abruptly the reason of his errand. It took Miss Aleyn some
time to understand his meaning, but when she did, Britt bitterly
regretted his wonderful invention. The old lady's tongue was caustic,
and her language eloquent, and this occasion was not one to be lost. For
a truly bad quarter of an hour she instilled into poor Britt a sense of
his folly and faults, and finally demanded his services in replacing the
disordered furniture.
For reasons best known to himself, this unexpected development of his
scheme was never revealed by Britt to the other boys. He did not
encourage a repetition of the game, nor show any pleasure in its
success. As a rule, when new ideas are sought after by Dr.
Simpson-Martyn's pupils, Britt now follows Brer Rabbit's excellent
example: he lies low and says nothing.
[Illustration: "He was greeted by a jet of water."]
[Illustration: "His shoulder caught me as he passed."]
ROUND THE CAMP-FIRE.
IV.--A FIGHT WITH A RHINOCEROS.
(_Concluded from page 131._)
The tragedy (continued Vandeleur) took place _after_ the rhinoceros
adventure, but shall be told before it.
After a fortnight Umkopo was quite himself again, and began to go about
with me on my hunting expeditions into the veldt. At the end of a month
something happened which suddenly ended our relations for the time
being. One day, as I sat at dinner, I heard shoutings outside the camp,
and the sounds of quarrelling among the native attendants. Presently a
man was brought into the zareeba, apparently unconscious; four men
carried him, and a fifth--Umkopo--followed the procession, looking dark
and forbidding; evidently in the worst of humours.
The wounded man was Billy, and the other four Kaffirs brought his
unconscious form and laid him close to me, every man speaking at the
same time, endeavouring to explain what had happened.
It seemed that Billy had somehow offended Umkopo, who had straightway
fallen upon him with his knob-kerri.
I dismissed the Kaffirs, bidding them attend to Billy, and beckoned
Umkopo up to me. He and I had learned to understand one another
wonderfully well during the month of our acquaintance. I showed him that
I was gravely displeased with him, and this evidently was more than he
could bear. Doubtless his uncivilised, untutored mind could not
understand why I should be vexed because he had avenged an insult. At
any rate poor Umkopo was sadly distressed. He left me looking miserable.
He would eat no dinner. Presently, after moping in a corner of the
zareeba for a quarter of an hour or so, he went out into the veldt. I
watched him walk off into the jungle.
Well, he never returned, and when I next saw him it was at an important
moment, which shall be the text of my next yarn. Meanwhile, let me begin
and finish my rhinoceros adventure, in which--some three weeks after his
arrival--Umkopo played a very notable and important part.
We had begun to despair of that 'rhino.' We had hunted in every
direction within a radius of fifteen miles or more of the camp, and
though we had once or twice come across his spoor in wet places--which
proved that he still haunted the neighbourhood--we could never hit upon
the beast. Either he was very shy, or we were very unfortunate.
But one day we three were out after antelope, for the larder required
replenishing. The Kaffir Billy carried my second rifle and a large bag
of cartridges. Umkopo, who had proved himself a splendid hunter, and who
could follow the track of a herd of antelope like a jackal, had taken
upon himself the leadership of the party. He walked in front, I was at
his shoulder, and Billy walked behind.
Suddenly, while crossing a patch of thin jungle, Umkopo stopped and
half-turning towards me, placed his finger on his lip. 'What is it?' I
whispered; 'have you sighted the herd?' Umkopo pointed to a sandy spot
at his feet. I could discern a track of sorts, but the footmark of the
animal was much blurred in the soft sand; I could see that it was not
antelope-spoor, and that was all. Umkopo made a mysterious sign over his
forehead. For a moment I wondered what in the world he meant; then it
occurred to me that he wished to represent a horn.
'Rhinoceros?' I whispered, using the Kaffir word.
Umkopo gravely nodded his head, and moved forward upon the track. For a
few yards he followed it, but the jungle here was very dry and difficult
for tracking; he soon lost the spoor.
'We must separate,' said I; 'I will go to the right, Umkopo to the
left.' Umkopo nodded, and we separated, Billy following me.
Scarcely had we started, one to right, the other to left, when with
bewildering suddenness a huge creature charged straight at me from out
of a dense clump of brushwood, so suddenly and unexpectedly that my
heart seemed to leap into my mouth, and for a moment I felt unable to
move from the spot to which I seemed rooted. This was not the case with
the Kaffir Billy, who instantly vanished (taking, of course, my spare
rifle with him) 'into thin air.'
I recovered my presence of mind just in time to leap aside at the
critical instant; that is, I avoided the huge lowered head armed with
its great, business-like horn.
But though I avoided instant destruction by moving out of the direct
line of his headlong rush, his shoulder caught me as he passed and sent
me head over heels, stiff and bruised and knocked half senseless.
The rifle flew from my hands, and for the moment I could not see it. I
crept, however, with wonderful swiftness behind a small scrub-bush, and
lay an instant with half-closed eyes, trying to recover my full senses,
but sufficiently conscious to be aware that I must make no sound if I
valued my life.
The rhinoceros had charged on meanwhile, his impetus carrying him thirty
yards beyond the spot where he brushed against me in passing. I could
see that he had now turned and stood listening and watching, his two
wicked little eyes moving this way and that.
Would he see me?
I could now make out the barrel of my rifle lying in a patch of thin
grass. The sun had caught the polished steel and caused it to glint
brightly. As for me, I dared not breathe, much less move out of my cover
in order to secure my weapon.
So matters remained for a full minute; the rhino standing listening, the
rifle lying inaccessible to me, though but five yards away; Umkopo
invisible, doubtless hiding somewhere like myself; the Kaffir, as usual
in moments of danger, goodness only knew where, and my spare rifle with
him.
Suddenly, to my horror, I saw Umkopo deliberately step out from behind a
prickly pear, in full view of the rhino, which, of course, instantly
charged him.
Umkopo vanished, and our friend the rhino galloped at steam-engine pace
right through the bush, behind which he seemed to disappear. This, I
felt, was intended by Umkopo as an opportunity for me to recover my
rifle, and I stepped quickly out from my hiding-place and leaped
towards it; I seized it, and looked round.
By all that was horrible, the great beast had heard me, and with
marvellous rapidity had wheeled and was already almost upon me! Well, I
have never done anything so quickly in all my life as at that moment. I
simply flung myself, in a kind of flying leap, back into my thorn-bush,
cleared it, and lay down on the other side.
In a quarter of a second the rhino had passed like a flash of
substantial lightning through the bush and beyond, galloping almost over
me as I lay, and almost kicking me with his hind leg. I twisted myself
round to the other side of the bush while his impetus carried him
forward, and by the time I was able to peer out at him, he was already
twenty-five yards away, and facing once more in my direction.
I pointed my rifle very carefully, and was about to pull trigger, when
the rascal saw me, and instantly he was again in motion. I fired, but
without proper aim, and though my bullet struck him in the chest it did
not stop him.
He was now scarcely fifteen yards from me, and I almost gave myself up
for lost. I was about to pull trigger a second time, when suddenly there
darted between me and the charging brute a human form--Umkopo.
The rhino swerved from his course to follow him, and just missed him as
he turned, Umkopo dodging like a hare; and, turning again, the beast was
in a moment in full pursuit.
Umkopo swerved and dodged, but the rhino, bulky, ponderous,
awkward-looking beast as he was, followed his movements with great
rapidity, gaining upon him, instead of losing ground at each swerve and
turn.
Umkopo's intention was plain: in the first place to deflect the beast's
charge when I was in danger, and, that accomplished, to lead him past my
ambush in order that I might have the opportunity of a flank shot.
The whole thing occupied but sixty seconds or less. They passed my
thorn-bush, Umkopo leading by five yards, and I fired twice at the
brute's shoulder as he hurtled by. At the same instant Umkopo tripped
and fell. The rhino fell also, apparently right over him, but in an
instant Umkopo rose from beneath him, unhurt. The rhino was dead.
Never was a thing better managed; never was a clearer case of the
risking of the life of a man to save another's.
'Umkopo, you're a brick,' said I heartily, 'you saved my life, lad, and
I'm grateful!' I gave him my hand, and Umkopo took it laughing, though
he did not seem to know what to do with it or to understand what I had
said.
Soon after this, Umkopo left the camp in anger, as I have told you, and
I did not see him again for a year or two. One of these evenings I will
tell you about our next meeting, which was at a critical moment of my
life.
* * * * *
Carlyle says, 'Make yourself an honest man, and then you may be sure
there is one rascal less in the world.'
THE RIDDLE OF THE YEAR.
A certain father has twice six sons; these sons have thirty daughters
a-piece, partly coloured, having one cheek white and the other black,
who never see each other's face, nor live above twenty-four hours.
This riddle, which is a very easy one to guess, is said to be by
Cleobulus, one of the seven wise men of Greece, who lived about five
hundred and seventy years before the birth of Christ.
A HUNDRED YEARS AGO.
True Tales of the Year 1806.
V.--A PARLIAMENTARY ELECTION.
'Now greeting, hooting, and abuse
To each man's party prove of use,
And mud and stones and waving hats
And broken heads and long-dead cats
Are offerings made to help the cause
Of Order, Government, and Laws.'
_The Election Day._
People living under the quiet rule of the present-day election laws can
have but little idea of the bribery and turmoil and licence of every
sort that always accompanied a parliamentary election a hundred years
ago.
To begin with, every possible stratagem was resorted to to prevent the
electors from coming to the poll; those electors, for instance, who had
to travel by sea to record their votes, not infrequently found
themselves landed--by a heavily-bribed captain--at some port in Norway
or Holland, or anywhere, so long as it was far enough off to prevent the
elector from making his way back in time for the election.
Those were the days of heavy drinking, many men of all ranks looking
upon drunkenness as no disgrace, and it was no uncommon event for a body
of electors to be 'treated' to such an extent that they were not in a
state to know what happened to them, and they would then be locked up
and kept out of the way in a cellar or out-house till the voting-time
was past.
But even when people got safely to the hustings (as the polling-place
was called), the rioting and horse-play of every sort that was allowed
on these occasions was very great, and often resulted in serious
injuries and even loss of life.
A notable scene of this sort took place in 1806, when Charles James Fox
was elected member for Westminster.
After the High Bailiff had declared Fox duly elected, a chair was
brought in which the new member was to be carried by his enthusiastic
supporters. This chair, of course previously prepared, was covered with
crimson damask, with a great deal of gilding, and a laurel wreath over
the member's head. On this uncomfortable but splendid seat, Mr. Fox was
chaired all round Covent Garden, amidst the cheers of his friends.
Then began the usual practice of pulling down the hustings--the crowd
throwing themselves upon the platform and demolishing it from the
foundations.
With so many inexperienced and excited workmen an accident was only to
be expected, and it came. Very soon the roof of the hustings fell with
a tremendous crash, and though a good number of people managed to spring
aside just in time to save themselves, others were not so fortunate.
Above twenty people were buried amongst the beams and scaffolding, and
it was some hours before all were extricated.
[Illustration: "He was chaired all round Covent Garden."]
There were however no fatal cases, though some broken limbs and cut
faces bore witness to the rough scenes of an election in 1806.
[Illustration: "Marjorie almost ran into Miss Leigh."]
THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES
(_Continued from page 147._)
'Get help,' Marjorie heard in faint accents. It was Alan's voice which
recalled the shaft to her mind, and sent a thrill of terror through her.
With scarcely power to reply, she had to pull herself together before
she could summon up resolution to move. The bottom of the steps was not
far off; she had only to turn round to mount them again, and once in the
open air she was safe. How she stumbled up she never knew; but as soon
as the evening air blew in her face she felt as if a load had been
lifted from her heart. Ordering Bootles to keep guard, she flew up the
path to the cliff, reproaching herself for her long delay there that
afternoon. It would take some time to reach home, and then she must find
her father, and get men and a rope. She did not know if Alan were hurt;
but, in any case, his position was terrible. How had he got there? Was
this also the work of Thomas? Tears were streaming from her eyes as she
reached the cliff, and ran along the path to the entrance of the
Wilderness. The sun had set, but the sky was still glowing, tinting with
its warm colours the long, level clouds. The foreign vessel had
disappeared, and as she flew along the cliff-path, she glanced hastily
towards the spot where she had last seen it. Suddenly the heavy boom of
a gun rent the air. Frightened at the sound, she paused a moment, and
saw the white smoke curling slowly away into the evening haze, as the
dark hull of a gunboat came into sight rounding the rocky promontory.
There was no time, however, to think what it all meant. It was wrong to
have delayed even for an instant. Alan must be rescued before he went
mad with the horrors of that shaft--that dreadful darkness! Through the
Wilderness she ran at the top of her speed, and she was flying across
the lawn when she almost ran into Miss Leigh by a sudden encounter round
the shrubbery walk.
'Where have you been?' cried the governess, angry and excited at the
absence of her pupil from the schoolroom tea, and still more at her
reckless manner of running. 'You might have hurt me very seriously,
Marjorie. How dare you----
But Marjorie, with a wave of her hand, had gone. There was no time for
reproaches; they could very well keep for a more convenient season.
Colonel De Bohun was in his dressing-room, preparing for dinner, when
she rushed in without even a preliminary knock, and poured out her story
with an urgent plea for haste. He quickly resumed his coat, and Marjorie
had the satisfaction of seeing him take the work of rescue in hand at
once. A couple of grooms were soon following them across the lawn,
Marjorie leading, and as they went Miss Leigh wondered what new mischief
the children had been up to.
The rescue party had not gone far before they met Estelle's nurse
looking anxious and 'flustered.' No one could reply to her question
concerning the little girl, but Colonel De Bohun sent her on to Miss
Leigh. It was possible the child might have remained in the schoolroom,
and had tea with Georgie. Marjorie knew better. The Colonel wondered at
her sober face and her silence. He had no suspicion how wrong things
were.
The Smuggler's Hole and the steps to the caves were a revelation to him.
He looked grave when he found the entrance had been discovered. Both
entrances had been carefully blocked up for many years, and he hoped the
secret of their existence had been forgotten. He had not explored that
part of Sir Leopold Coke's property since he was a young man, and he was
not pleased to find that his children had shown more inquisitive
interest in these dangerous places. There was no time for asking how
they made their discoveries. Their energies must be devoted to the
rescue of Alan. Alan, they found, when they let a rope down, weak and
shaken as he was, could yet tie the rope round his waist, and steady
himself as he was drawn up the shaft. He got better as soon as he began
to walk, but the Colonel thought it best to put off all questions till
the morning.
Bootles, after Alan's rescue, left the passage most unwillingly. His
behaviour was inexplicable. He kept running backwards and forwards in
the strangest manner. Marjorie wondered what was the matter with him,
and the Colonel impatiently called him to heel.
'One would imagine something was wrong,' he exclaimed, annoyed by the
dog's whines.
Marjorie related what had happened in the cave.
Scarcely had she spoken when James, Lady Coke's butler, stepped out of
the shrubbery path--
'My lady has sent me for Lady Estelle, sir,' he said.