The next morning was not brighter and clearer than Estelle's face as she
flew about, helping Goody to make everything ready for their early
dinner, specially early that day, as they were to set off for the _fête_
as soon as it was over.
'Julien Matou is going to show me the celebrated elephant, called
"Napoléon,"' announced the little girl, as they were about to start.
Mrs. Wright was casting a careful eye round the room, to see that all
was as it ought to be before she left.
Jack looked up sharply. 'There must be no wandering away from me or
Mother, Missy,' he said, almost sternly. 'Julien Matou is but a boy, and
cannot look properly after you.'
'He says he can,' replied Estelle, dancing along in front of Jack and
Goody, as they descended the steep path to the village. 'He says there
is so much to see, and when you are tired, he will take me. But I would
rather go with you.'
'You see, Jack,' said his mother, as the little girl ran too far in
advance to hear, 'your fears about the child last night did not come to
anything. I don't know why we should be so very particular to-day.
Every one in Tout-Petit knows her, and she is not at all likely to come
to harm among them.'
'Right enough,' returned Jack, quietly; 'that is, as far as our own
people go. But you forget, Mother, this _fête_ brings strangers and
loafers who may be most undesirable. I am glad, and--I must confess
it--very much relieved to find that yesterday evening passed off without
any mishap. I looked in your direction several times, and was glad to
think you had the doctor, M. le Préfet, and Fargis close to you.'
Mrs. Wright laughed. 'I can't help it,' she said; 'it sounds as if we
were threatened with some terrible accident; what these French call "_un
coup de main_," and as if only having our friends with us prevented it.'
Jack made no answer.
'You're not angry, are you, my son? I don't want you to worry yourself
and us by fancies. That's all. Let the child enjoy herself.'
Jack merely said, 'All right, Mother; I understand.' He was walking very
straight and still; his head in the air, his shoulders squared. Mrs.
Wright looked up at the set face so high above her, and was sorry she
had spoken. Jack smiled as she put a caressing hand on to his arm,
though the look in his eyes did not satisfy her. He called Estelle back
to him as soon as they came upon any stragglers from the _fête_, and
took her hand in a way that neither his mother nor the child ventured to
resist.
Estelle was too much interested to think anything about it; indeed, she
preferred the security of his presence.
As they approached the _fête_, the noise of the revellers grew louder,
and soon they came upon the bonfires, where joints of meat, fowls, and
geese were being roasted on spits. The children and young men were
offering assistance, or dashing about amidst a din of voices. A little
further on, a booth, with hot fried potatoes cut in slices, had a crowd
round it.
They were by this time near the great streets of booths, up and down
which the majority of the people strolled; some buying articles long
wished for, but unobtainable at any other time; some eagerly visiting
every show in succession; other shooting at targets for prizes--clay
pipes and piles of thin hardbake in the shape of a cornucopia, five to
each successful shot, or bags of nuts.
Julien Matou met them at the shooting range, which was at the first
booth. He wanted Estelle to walk with him, that he might show her all
the sights that interested him. Jack, however, would not let go of her
hand, and the four had to walk more or less abreast when the pressure of
the passers-by permitted. He did not object to plunging into all the fun
of the fair in a moderate way. There were the mountebanks, and the
dancers, and the driving team of fleas and the little dogs that acted a
play.
Finally, to Estelle's delight, they reached the circus. Here Jack
secured good seats, and for the next hour she and Julien were enchanted
with the riding, the driving, the clown; and lastly the performance of
the great elephant which shot the gun--a mortar which produced an
explosion quite startling for its size. This wound up the entertainment,
though Estelle would have liked it to continue indefinitely. She felt
quite depressed as she followed the rest of the crowd leaving the
marquee, and heard the men proclaiming that the next performance began
at eight o'clock.
She had been charmed with everything. As they forced their way through
the noisy crew, and Jack saw that the streets of booths were full of an
increasing number of persons more or less excited, he proposed to take
the other way back. Passing between two booths, they came out at the
back of the rows, where it was comparatively quiet. It gave them greater
space to move, but it was not pleasant walking. Every now and then they
came across piles of dingy straw, or a bundle of old rags, or odds and
ends of soiled draperies, which had become almost too worn out to use,
or wooden cases which had seen many journeys, and were overflowing with
shavings and paper. This was indeed a contrast to the life and
brightness on the other side.
Here was a man who had sold them some chocolates in the most smiling,
obsequious manner; now he sat huddled up on a wooden case, eating
something out of a grimy, but gaudy cotton handkerchief. At his feet
were two thin, miserable-looking children, both dressed as acrobats. Out
of the grimy handkerchief he handed them some indescribable mess, which
they seized eagerly, and ate hurriedly. A little further on, a woman,
wrapped in a big shawl, was scolding a small girl; she was one of the
children soon to appear in the fairy scene of the play, which was being
acted in the marquee they were passing. The child looked forlorn enough
as she stood sobbing and shivering in her airy muslin dress, her arms
and neck bare, and her feet shod with the thinnest of white shoes. 'They
have stolen my bright franc,' she sobbed. The woman gave her an angry
shake, and it went to Estelle's heart to see how the thin, meagre little
body shrank together after it. A tiny boy in a bright yellow and red
costume, with yellow cap and bells, watched the scene; he had a puckered
little face, down which the tears were washing off the paint. His little
soul was full of anger against the persecutor of his sister, but he was
too tiny to defend her. All he could do was to choke down his wrath like
a man, and comfort her when they should be alone again.
The scene was too much for Jack. He could not go by and let the helpless
suffer. Dropping Estelle's hand for a moment, he went up to the woman,
holding out some coins in his hand.
'How much has the child lost?' he asked sternly.
'It is a new franc that a good lady gave her. She should have brought it
to me!' screamed the woman. Then catching sight of the glitter of silver
in the sailor's hand, she cried in altered tones, 'but, Monsieur, you
see she is but a child, and though I must not let her lose things---- '
'I didn't lose it--it was stolen,' sobbed the child.
'Well, here's your franc,' said Jack, interrupting some exclamation
which the woman was about to make. 'Now let the child alone.'
He was slipping some coins into the hands of the children also, when a
cry from Estelle made him turn hastily.
(_Continued on page 274._)
[Illustration: "'How much has the child lost?' he asked."]
[Illustration: "'Come along with me,' whispered Thomas."]
THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.
(_Continued from page 271._)
Interested in the miserable children, Estelle had moved a little away
from the rest of the party. She wanted to speak to the brave little boy,
and to give him some bonbons for himself and his sister. The little bag
was in her hand, when she saw a dingy curtain on her left pushed aside.
A face looked out at her. In a moment her dream came back: there were
the curtains, wrinkled and dingy. Between them peered the face of the
man after whom the mastiffs had rushed--the face of Thomas! He grinned
in recognition of her; he nodded, and, thrusting open the curtains, came
out into full view. Estelle's eyes opened wide with terror. There was
something in the man's expression which appalled her. Greed; an
eagerness he could not conceal; a cunning smile which was made more
terrible by a stealthy movement towards her. For a moment Estelle was
paralysed. Jack's back was turned; his attention taken up by the scene
he had witnessed. Julien Matou stood with his hands in his pockets,
watching it too. Mrs. Wright had gone on; she wished Jack had not
brought them this way, but, since he had, there was nothing for it but
to hurry out of it as quickly as possible. For the time Estelle was
alone. Thomas was nearer to her than any of her friends, and she was
incapable of even crying out for help.
'You here, my little lady?' whispered Thomas, stretching out his hand.
'Come along with me. I will save you.'
Though she shrank back, she yet managed to summon up courage enough to
push his hand away.
Thomas had no time to lose. Estelle must be seized, and he had hopes
that those behind him would back him up. Fargis would not dare to
refuse, he argued. Had he not come to this outlandish place on purpose
to get employment from him? The skipper had proved to be very unwilling,
and they had come to no terms. Now, however, there were golden reasons
for gaining his consent to anything. Once in possession of Estelle, he
could make his own bargain with Lord Lynwood. How high his hopes had
been when he and the Dutchman had carried off the orchid! The Frenchman
had failed them, but they had managed to get it by boat to the nearest
port, and, unsuspected by the police authorities, had reached Holland
safely with the unique plant. He had been 'done' over that business, had
received but half what he expected. Was it his fault that the paper did
not mention where the plant was discovered? The orchid itself was of
immense value, and the sum paid to Thomas, for his share in its capture,
was by no means a despicable one. Like most ill-gotten gains, however,
it had not remained long in his pocket. Driven by necessity, unable to
return to his own country, and not knowing where else to turn, he
determined to go to Tout-Petit, and seek assistance from Fargis, as his
ally had once advised.
He had no money left to pay his way there, but accidentally hearing
that a caravan, consisting of a circus, mountebanks, and the usual
paraphernalia of a fair, was about to start for Tout-Petit, and that a
strong man was wanted in the circus troupe, he offered his services, and
was accepted.
But times had changed since the Dutchman, Thomas's former
fellow-conspirator, had known Fargis. The past had been effectually
buried, Fargis hoped; the last spark of it was the help his smack was
intended to give in the conveying away of the orchid. Thomas's many
delays in securing the plant had frustrated this plan, but Fargis had
done his best. He considered all indebtedness wiped out henceforward. He
received Thomas ungraciously, therefore, and beyond a vague promise that
he would speak to some other skippers, Thomas had no satisfaction from
his visit. Gloomy, and not a little resentful--for he had come far on
what he considered his friend's misrepresentation--he wandered aimlessly
towards the Fontaine des Eaux. Too busy all day to get away, it was only
when the afternoon was far advanced that he managed to go down to see
Fargis. The dancing had, therefore, begun before he reached the valley.
Strolling up towards the booths, he watched the dancers with a sort of
inward anger because people could be so happy when he was so wretched.
All at once he caught sight of the group in the shed. His first
indifferent glance changed into a look of astonishment. He had not heard
of the loss of Estelle, never having dared to write home to his
broken-hearted mother. He stood staring, puzzled to behold Lord
Lynwood's daughter among all these peasants.
How did she get there? Who were her companions? Why had she been sent
from home? His brain worked over the riddle as he lingered under the
shadow of the trees and gazed at the well-known face of the child. He
found it a hard nut to crack. Suddenly his Dutch friend's question in
the cave, just before their rush to save the box with the orchid,
recurred to his memory: 'Is not the Earl's daughter an heiress?'
She has been stolen, then! For a moment Thomas was 'struck all of a
heap,' as he would have expressed it. He was blinded by the flash that
seemed to reveal to him what had happened.
Creeping up closer, he listened to what the group of strangers around
the little girl were talking about. To formulate any plans on the spur
of the moment, even to take in what this amazing discovery might mean to
him in his fallen fortunes, was beyond the power of Thomas's slowly
working brain. He must have time to think. He must find out how the land
lay. And meanwhile, it would not be wasting precious time if he set
himself to find out who were Estelle's protectors; where they lived;
what facilities their abode offered for approaching the child; and how
he could bring the brilliant but hazy notions now throbbing through his
head into something more than mere dreams. His only clear ideas at
present were, that the Lady Estelle de Bohun was certainly a great
heiress; that the Earl would pay any price, probably, to get her back;
and that he, Thomas, must be the important medium through whom this good
fortune must be brought about. Thomas, too, would be sure that
well-lined pockets did not fail him this time. He had had his lesson in
sharpness.
Beyond this point he had not had time to go. Nothing turned up next day
to help him, till the early stragglers appeared at the fair in the
morning. He was on the alert. He looked and found faces he had seen on
the previous night. He managed to get up a talk with one and another,
during which it was easy to learn a good deal on the subject of the
little waif. Before he saw Estelle again, he found that she lived in the
Caves of the Hospice de la Providence; he discovered that Jack was a
fisherman, and was often away in the boats, sometimes for several nights
together. At such times no one remained on guard except the old
woman--by which term he meant Mrs. Wright. He also found out that
Estelle had not been stolen. He heard the story of her loss of memory
concerning certain vital points, and of the doctor's prophecy that some
little thing would, without doubt, reveal the missing link, and restore
her powers of recollection. This he was rather sorry to hear. It would
have been better if she had remained ignorant till he had made his own
terms with her father. However, she was but a child, and could be
suppressed. He could see to that.
He saw clearly that the most difficult obstacle to the whole of his
somewhat indefinite scheme would be M. le Géant (Mr. Giant), as the
villagers smilingly called Jack. The giant was not a giant to no
purpose. He would show fight. There was absolutely no doubt about that.
He must, therefore, be away whenever it suited Thomas to act. But--and
Thomas thought a great deal over that _but_--would it be possible to
come to some sort of terms with Jack? They might share and share alike.
Thomas was quite willing to do that, provided the sum agreed upon was
large enough. If he refused, and if Estelle were unable to give an
account of herself--that is, if the little something did not occur which
should assist her memory--Thomas considered his course clear. Neither
her name nor her belongings would be revealed. Jack could not take any
steps towards restoring her to her family if he did not know where her
home was. Thomas preferred to manage the whole business single-handed.
The orchid had been a lesson to him against trusting any one with his
secrets. He had come off second-best. Another time it might go even
worse with him. No, he would be his own master in this matter.
Careful as his watch was on the crowds surging through the long street
of booths that day, he had missed Jack and his party. The tears of the
dancing girl, and the loud voice of the woman, he scarcely noticed till
they ceased suddenly. The silence aroused his curiosity as the noise had
not done. Peeping through the curtains, he saw to his delight and
amazement that the child he so longed to seize was standing close by,
alone and unprotected.
The golden egg lay ready to his hand. He would be a fool not to take it.
His eye wandered for one doubtful second to the broad back of the
stalwart sailor. Could he manage it before that giant turned round? It
was worth trying. Oh, if he could only get hold of her without her
screaming! Possession was nine points of the law!
(_Continued on page 286._)
PEEPS INTO NATURE'S NURSERIES.
IX.--SOME FROG NURSERIES.
We do not generally expect such apparently dull and stupid creatures as
fish and frogs to have any very deep parental feelings, yet we shall see
presently that, among the fishes, some are most exemplary parents. And
so it is, also, among the much-despised frogs and toads, and some of
their near relatives. Indeed, I should have to write a very long chapter
if I were to set myself to relate at length every case that is known of
this kind. It must suffice to take a few of the more striking instances.
But, before I begin, let me ask you to try and recall some of the main
facts with regard to the care for the young displayed by the common
frog. This animal, you will remember, formed the subject of the first
article in this series, wherein it was pointed out that the eggs were
laid in huge masses and left to hatch. Beyond seeking out a suitable
place for the eggs, no further trouble is taken by the frog, and it is
on this account that so many hundreds have to be laid. There must be
enough to be eaten by prowling ducks, and enough to hatch into tadpoles,
of which, again, there must be enough to be eaten by hungry animals of
all sorts, and enough to grow safely into frogs.
This waste of life is, however, avoided when the parents take charge of
their eggs, and, in consequence, there is no need to provide so many.
Let us begin with an example or two of nest-building frogs. One of the
simplest of these nests is that of a South American frog known as the
Ferreiro, or 'Smith,' from the remarkable call which it makes during the
spring--a call resembling the sounds made on a smith's anvil. Its nest
is made by the little mother of the family alone, who, from the bottom
of some shallow pool, scoops out a little basin, using the displaced mud
to form a wall or rampart, some four inches high, round the pit, and
employing her hands to smooth the inside of the wall, much as a mason
uses a trowel. After the nest is ready, she lays therein a few eggs, and
then retires with her mate to some secluded spot to watch over her
treasures!
Another little group of South American frogs--the 'Phyllomedusa'
frogs--lay their eggs to the number of about a hundred, in 'pockets'
formed by bringing the edges of a leaf together. Into this 'pocket' the
eggs are dropped by the mother; the jelly-like coat with which the eggs
are covered serves to hold the pocket together.
Some frogs build 'foam' nests. Thus, a little frog that lives in the
West Indies glues her eggs on to a broad leaf, and covers them in a mass
of foam. Similarly, the 'banana-frog' of Malacca lays its eggs in a
leaf, and surrounds them with a mass of yellow froth (which afterwards
becomes steel-grey) as large as a cricket-ball. Herein the eggs develop,
until at last the tadpoles emerge and drop into the water below, as in
the case of the other frogs who attach their eggs to leaves. A Japanese
frog, closely related to the species just described, lays its eggs in a
hole in the ground, and then covers them with a mass of froth and
air-bubbles formed by working up a sticky slime with its feet until this
mass, too, is as large as a cricket-ball!
But many frogs carry their eggs about them. The South American Goeldi's
frog carries its eggs on its back, the skin of which on each side is
raised up to form a wall holding the eggs in position. A near relative
of this species--the pouched frog--has carried this device further, so
that the walls meet each other above the eggs, and form a most wonderful
pouch. Until lately, it seemed impossible to account for the presence of
the eggs in such a strange place, but it is now known that they are
placed there by the frog-mother's mate.
[Illustration: Surinam Toad, with its young ones in "pockets" on its
back.]
In another case--that of a kind of toad which is common on some parts of
the Continent--the father of the family winds the eggs in 'chains'
around his hind legs, and sits with them, during the heat of the day, in
some shady place, emerging with the shade of evening to bathe his
growing brood in dew.
[Illustration: Pouched Frog: the eggs are carried in a chamber on the
back.]
A little frog met with in the Seychelles carries its little ones about
on its back, much as a duck will carry its ducklings. But the curious
Surinam toad of South America has improved on this arrangement, and
lodges each little one in a little pocket in the skin of her back!
[Illustration: The Seychelles Frog, which carries its tadpoles on its
back.]
Lastly, and strangest of all, we have a species--again a native of South
America--in which the father carries first the eggs, and then the young
tadpoles, in a pouch in his throat! This pouch, in the early part of the
year, serves as a voice-organ, or, rather, as a musical organ, for when
filled with air it is capable of making a sound which has been likened
to that of a little bell. Later, he places the eggs therein, and, as
these grow, the pouch increases in size, finally extending down each
side of the body, beneath the skin, as far as the hind legs.
[Illustration: The Obstetric Frog, which carries its eggs twisted round
the hind legs.]
W. P. PYCRAFT, F.Z.S., A.L.S.
THE GRUMBLING ROSE.
[Illustration: "'Is the bird alive or dead?'"]
'It is all very well,' said the Rosebud,
That close against my window lattice leans,
'But April is as false as he is fickle,
And there's never any knowing what he means.
He loitered just before me with a whisper
Of mischief much too cunning to detect;
But when I peeped with wonder at the garden,
It wasn't what he led me to expect;
For the rain fell fast
On a rude and chilly blast,
And it wasn't what he led me to expect.'
'It is all very well,' said the Rosebud,
As April softly sighed a fond adieu;
'But after all, I'm sorry you must leave me,
For May's a month I dread much more than you.
She prates of all the wonders of the summer;
She promises--but only to betray,
And those who tell the truth about the spring-time
Are never complimentary to May;
And e'en a baby Rose
Can be pardoned, I suppose,
For feeling some anxiety in May.'
And thus through all the months of happy summer
This foolish Rose no cause for pleasure found,
And when the winds of autumn swept the garden,
They scattered all her petals on the ground.
Oh, let me urge this on you--to remember
That no one should enlarge upon a wrong,
For those who spend their time in idle grumbling
Will find there's not a moment for a song,
And sadly they'll recall,
When the autumn shadows fall,
The summer that was worthy of a song.
'AS YOU PLEASE.'
In the ancient times there lived a wonderfully wise man, of whom it was
said that he could answer correctly any question put to him. There was
one, however, who thought himself clever enough to outwit the sage. This
man took a poor, captive bird, and clasped it so closely in his hand
that only the head and tail were visible.
'Tell me,' said he to the renowned guesser of riddles, 'is the bird
which I hold in my hand alive or dead?'
If the answer were 'Dead,' thought this artful plotter, he would just
open his hand, and let the bird fly; if the answer were 'Alive,' he
would with one little squeeze crush the poor bird to death.
But the wise man proved himself equal to the occasion, and replied, 'It
is _as you please._'
Each one of you holds within his or her grasp the fair bird of life.
Which is it to be? A blessing or a bane? It is 'as _you_ please.'
THE PENGUIN.
There are several kinds of penguins, and several different names have
been given to the same kinds, so that the number of names is rather
bewildering. We hear of the Great Penguin, the Grey Penguin, the Cape
Penguin, the Jackass Penguin, and several others; but, as they are all
very similar in most respects, we will not trouble much about the kinds,
but learn what we can of the habits and peculiarities of penguins
generally.
These birds live mostly in the cold countries, especially islands, near
the South Pole. They are aquatic birds, spending much of their time in
the water, and living upon the fish which they chase and catch in the
sea. For this reason they congregate upon the rocky shores, where they
may be seen standing in thousands, like regiments of soldiers. Their
webbed feet are placed very far back, close to the stumpy tail, and so
the long body has to stand very straight up in order to balance itself.
This gives them a very odd, man-like appearance. Their wings are small
and narrow, and look more like flappers, or stunted arms, than wings.
They are not covered with feathers, but with stumps, which look more
like bristles or scales, and the wings appear to be set on to the body
almost the wrong way about. They are not of the smallest use for flying,
and the penguin never attempts to do that; but when it takes to the
water, the wings are seen to be admirably formed and placed for
swimming.
The penguin is lighter than the water, yet it swims with its body below
the surface, never at any time having more than its head out. It is
enabled to do this by the peculiar shape of its wings, which will carry
it down and forwards, as the wings of air-birds carry them upwards and
forwards. So well fitted for swimming are these curious wings that the
penguin is more than a match for most fishes in their own element. When
chasing its prey, it comes to the surface with a spring, and dives again
so quickly that it is almost impossible to distinguish it from a fish
leaping in the air. How confident it feels upon the sea may be imagined
when we learn that Sir James Ross once saw two penguins swimming calmly
along a thousand miles from the nearest land.
The penguin is an enormous eater. It has a very long stomach, which
reaches to the lower part of the body, and is capable, in the case of a
large bird, of holding more than two pounds of fish. The largest kind of
penguin may be from three to four feet tall, and will weigh about eighty
pounds. This is only about half the weight of a well-developed man, so
that you may judge the capacity of the penguin's stomach by doubling it
and comparing it with a man's. The bird, like many other birds, appears
to swallow pieces of stone to help it to grind down its food, for Sir
John Ross found ten pounds of granite and other kinds of stone in the
stomach of a penguin which he caught--no light weight for such a bird to
carry about.
On land the penguin uses its wings as fore-legs, and crawls or runs on
four feet, as it were, so quickly that, on a grassy cliff, it might be
mistaken for some kind of quadruped. Living in regions which are rarely
visited by man, these birds have not yet learned to dread him, but often
stand still until they are knocked down with a stick. They are very
courageous. A naturalist tells us how he attempted to stop one as it was
going down to the sea. He intercepted it, but the bird fought him and
drove him backwards step by step. Every step the bird gained it kept,
standing up erect and fearless before the naturalist, and continually
rolling its head from side to side. Nothing short of heavy blows, he
tells us, would have stopped it.
The penguin lays one egg, of a whitish colour, about twice as large as a
goose's egg. It is said that the female bird hatches its egg by keeping
it close between its legs, and that if it be disturbed at this time, it
will carry its egg away with it. While the female bird is hatching its
egg, the male goes to the sea to catch fish for them both; and, when the
young one is hatched, both parents go to sea and bring it food. They do
this so well and so unselfishly that the young bird grows quite fat, and
is scarcely able to walk, while the old birds themselves become thin.
The young bird takes its food in a very curious way. When its mother has
just returned from the sea, she stands up over her little one, and makes
a great noise something between the quacking of a duck and the braying
of an ass. After that has gone on for a minute or so, she puts down her
head and opens her mouth, and the young one thrusts its beak in and
takes out its food.
Living in such cold countries, and spending so much time in the cold
water, the penguin needs to be well protected from the cold. And so it
is. Its short feathers are closely packed, and form a water-proof coat.
Under the skin there is a thick layer of fat, which helps to keep out
the cold; and, as we have already seen, the penguin eats enormous
quantities of food, much of which is no doubt used up in keeping the
bird warm. Some people tell us that the penguin's flesh is not
disagreeable to eat, while others say that it is far too oily to be
pleasant. In Newfoundland it used to be burnt upon the fires in place of
wood. The flesh is, indeed, so oily that in some places a lamp is said
to be made by sticking one end of a piece of moss into the body of a
dead penguin and lighting the other. The penguin's body serves as an
oil-vessel, and the moss as a wick.
W. A. ATKINSON.
CUTTING IT DOWN.
Those who follow their friends' advice in everything soon find that they
have to obey a good many different masters. A man was once setting up in
business as a hatter, and he consulted all his acquaintances as to what
he should set up as a sign outside his shop. He proposed 'John Thomson,
hatter, makes and sells hats for ready money,' with the sign of a hat.
But the first friend he asked suggested that the word 'hatter' was not
wanted, because the rest of the sentence showed that Thomson was a
hatter. So 'hatter' was struck out.
The next remarked that 'for ready money' was unnecessary; few people
desired credit for articles such as hats, and, in any case, the hatter
would know best whether credit could be given. Another omission was
therefore made.
The third friend declared that nobody cared to know who _made_ the hats,
so long as they could be bought. Accordingly, the sentence was cut down
to 'John Thomson sells hats,' with the sign.
But the last friend who was consulted objected to the words 'sells
hats.' 'The sign of the hat,' he said, 'will show your business; and
nobody expects you to give the hats away.'
Thus, by following the advice of all his friends, the hatter cut down
his announcement simply to 'John Thomson,' with the sign of a hat.
'A WILL OF HER OWN.'
Rosa was a Swedish girl. She had so often heard people say, 'Rosa has a
will of her own,' that she began to think it rather a fine thing, and
when people think it is rather a fine thing to be naughty, trouble is
sure to follow.
One beautiful summer day Rosa's mother said to her: 'Put on your Sunday
frock, Rosa, and take these eggs to your grandmother. You may stay to
tea, and play a little; but you must be back by seven o'clock.'
This pleased Rosa, for she was not often sent alone to her
grandmother's, although she lived quite near. Soon she was ready. She
looked very smart in her scarlet petticoat, bright apron, and white
blouse, and started off proudly with her little basket of eggs.
Her grandmother was a beautiful old lady with gold spectacles and
enormous white cap. She thanked Rosa for the eggs, gave her delicious
tea with strawberries, cream, and cakes, and then said, 'You can play in
the garden until the bell rings. Only do not go near the river.'
'Thank you,' said Rosa, meekly, and walked away.
When she had shut, the door, she gave her head a little toss and her
shoulders a little shake, and said: 'I only said "Thank you," not "Yes,
thank you," for I mean to go near the river. There is nowhere else to
play. Mother always lets me go by the river, so why should Grandmother
forbid it?'
Now, the stream where Rosa generally played was only a tributary, and
was not nearly so deep and wide as the main river where she now was.
Rosa stood on the bank watching the great pine-trunks, which, in Sweden,
are always floating down by the rivers to the sea. The woodmen cut the
trees down, mark them, and let them float where they will, and the
owners claim the logs when they reach the Baltic. Rosa and her brother
Rolf used to jump on these trees sometimes when they struck near the
shore, float down the stream a little way, and then jump off again. It
was always a dangerous game for children to play, but much more
dangerous on the large river than on the little tributary.
After a few minutes Rosa saw three large trunks, firmly bound together,
coming close up to her.
'What a lovely boat!' she cried. 'Oh, but I have on my best clothes!'
Rosa loved her clothes--but she loved floating on the river more; with a
skip and a little jump, there she was, perched like a bird on the
tree-trunks, floating away in the middle of the stream, with her scarlet
petticoat held out for a sail.
'Oh! how lovely,' she said to herself. 'I am going ever so much faster
than in our stream, and how far away the banks seem. I am like a big
steamer in the middle of the sea itself.'
For some time Rosa thoroughly enjoyed it. Then she became a little bit
afraid, though she was too proud to admit it, even to herself. There was
nothing on either side of the river, but deep pine forests that she did
not know. There was no sound but the rush of the river; and she wished
her little boat would go near the bank. Perhaps it would catch on that
bit of rock sticking out. No, the river gave it a wicked tug and swept
it round the point with a triumphant gurgle. Could Rosa catch an
overhanging tree? She tried to, but the effort nearly jerked her into
the water, and left nothing but a few crumpled leaves in her hand.
The thought of falling into that dark, cold water thoroughly frightened
her, and she now quite forgot even to pretend to enjoy herself. She
firmly stood on the logs, shutting her eyes tight, so as to try to
forget her fears.
Then a distant roar suddenly made Rosa scream with terror. 'The
waterfall! oh, the waterfall!'
Her father had told her of the great waterfall somewhere on the river.
She must be getting nearer and nearer to it every second. She looked
desperately to the banks; they seemed ever so far away, and the current
was swifter than ever, and looked dreadfully hungry and cruel.
'It will go quicker and quicker,' she thought, 'and the noise will be
louder and louder and louder, and there will be the edge, and then---- '
But Rosa never got any further; there was a jerk and a jar; the logs ran
into something with a bump and Rosa felt herself thrown off them on to
some hard, firm surface. She lay quite still for some time, for the
noise of the waterfall thundered in her ears, and she felt she must hold
on for dear life.
When at last she looked up, to her surprise she found herself on a tiny
beach, lying half in the water. She jumped to her feet, meaning to run
home as fast as she could; but she found that was impossible, for she
was on a little island just a few yards from the edge of the waterfall.
At first she could not think of anything but how glad she was to be on
dry land; but that feeling did not last long. She was soaking wet, and
very hungry; the weather had changed too--it was raining a little, and
the wind sighed through the great forest trees, making them creak and
groan.
All that Rosa could do was to make a poor little supper of a few wild
strawberries and beech-nuts, which grew on her island, rest against a
tree, and try to sleep. She woke early the next morning (for Swedish
summer nights are very short), and after eating some more strawberries
and beech-nuts, ran about in the sunshine to try to get warm.
Suddenly she spied a pair of little black eyes looking at her through
the leaves. It was a squirrel, very surprised to see a little girl in a
scarlet frock running about his island. He began to chatter to her, and
Rosa felt happier now she had a companion. She was so taken up with
watching him running up and down the trees, hunting for breakfast, that
she jumped when she suddenly heard a cry of 'Rosa, Rosa!' being shouted
behind her. It was her father on the mainland. She was so pleased to see
him that she nearly cried for joy. She could not get to him, however,
and it was some time before a boat could breast the current and rescue
her from her island.
Rosa was so pleased to be at home that she almost forgot how naughty she
had been, until her mother told her what a terribly anxious night she
and her father had had, and that they had not been to bed at all. That
made Rosa more sorry than her own unpleasant experiences had done; and
one result of her adventure was that she gave up thinking what a fine
thing it was to have a 'will of her own.'
[Illustration: "She was floating away in the midst of the stream."]
[Illustration: "The carpenter took off his coat."]
A HUNDRED YEARS AGO.
True Tales of the Year 1806.
IX.--A TALE OF A TUB.
[Illustration]
It was a fine June afternoon in the year 1806, and two boys, aged twelve
and thirteen, were strolling idly along the muddy shore of the Thames by
Millbank. There was no Embankment there then, nor indeed for many years
later, and so many strange things, thrown out from incoming ships, were
cast up by the tide on this side of the river, that it was the favourite
resort of the boys of the neighbourhood, especially as there was a
rumour that pearls had been found in several places on the muddy
foreshore.
This, however, must certainly have been romance on the boys' part,
though it was firmly believed in by most of the younger lads--our two
friends, Tom and Roger, being among the number--and they were to-day
walking with their eyes fixed on the mud, in hopes of finding treasure,
till Roger raising his head, exclaimed hastily--
'I say, Tom, look there!'
'Where?' inquired Tom, gazing across the river.
'No, not there!' said Roger, pulling his brother's sleeve to make him
turn round. 'Over there!' and he pointed down the river where a little
crowd was assembled by the side of the water.
'Let's go and have a look!' declared Tom. Away scudded Tom and Roger,
eager to miss nothing of what might be happening. The sight that had
drawn the crowd together was a fool-hardy young carpenter, who, for a
wager, had undertaken to row himself in a washing-tub from Millbank to
London Bridge.
'Will he do it, Tom?' asked Roger anxiously, as he looked at the sturdy
young carpenter, who was just about to step into the big tub which a
friend was holding steady for him.
'He may,' cautiously answered Tom. 'The river is smooth enough to-day,
but I should not care to be in his boat when he gets in the whirl of the
bridges; that tub will spin round like a tee-to-tum.'
The carpenter now took off his coat, and throwing it to his friend said
jokingly, 'It's yours, if I don't come back to claim it.'
'You will come back, right enough,' said his friend, as he handed him a
pair of sculls. Then with a cheer from the crowd--in which Tom and Roger
heartily joined--the tub was started on its adventurous voyage.
There was intense stillness on the part of the crowd as the tub went
rolling uneasily along, but in a minute the tension was relaxed, as
across the water came the notes of 'There was a jolly miller,' sung with
calm unconcern by the voyager in his strange craft.
'He will do it!' said Roger excitedly. 'It's not the first time he's
sailed in a tub, I feel sure, and if he keeps his head at the bridges he
will do it.'
'Let us hurry to London Bridge; we shall hear if he has got safe, even
if we are not in time to see him land,' said Tom.
'All right,' answered Roger, and off ran the two. They knew all the
short cuts through the City, and by dint of hard running they actually
arrived on the scene before the final act.
'There he is! there he is!' shouted Tom, 'and he is still singing. What
a plucky fellow he must be.'
There in the middle of the water was the tub, sure enough; but the worst
part of the journey had still to be done, for the tide swept very
swiftly under the narrow arches of London Bridge, and the tub spun round
and round till it seemed at one time that it would never make the land.
'It will be swamped!' cried impulsive Tom.
'No! no!' answered Roger, 'he's got it into quieter water already.
There! he's bringing it on shore, and close by us! Let's give him a
cheer, Tom.'
And with hearty goodwill the two boys set up a cheer, and then ran down
into the water to help drag up the tub, and to congratulate the hero of
this strange feat of 1806.
MARVELS OF MAN'S MAKING.
IX.--THE MANCHESTER SHIP CANAL.[2]
[Illustration]
The merchants of Manchester were not satisfied with the means they had
for receiving goods from abroad and dispatching their own in return.
They wanted to be nearer to the sea; but as Manchester was much too
large a place to be carried to the coast, it seemed more reasonable to
carry the sea to Manchester, and so turn the town into an inland port.
They had thought and thought about it for a very long time, without
being able to hit upon any satisfactory plan, when, in 1882, a Mr.
Daniel Adamson invited some friends to his house in the suburbs of
Manchester, and made a proposal and a suggestion which led to the
accomplishment of the great design. Mr. Adamson was a gentleman of great
energy and courage, and though cities might stand in the way, he would
bring the sea to Manchester when once he had made up his mind to do so.
It was almost safe to say that he would have cut the canal with his own
hands rather than fail in his determination. It is such men as he who
make England prosperous.
[Footnote 2: The illustrations are based upon photographs kindly
supplied by Mr. Banks, of Manchester.]
Permission having at last been gained from Parliament, a number of steam
dredgers arrived in the mouth of the Mersey, and work was begun. The
distance from the starting-point to Manchester is thirty-five and a half
miles, and over most of these the river itself was followed.
At Eastham, on the south side of the river, foundations were laid for
three locks side by side, and these form the entrance of the water-road
to Manchester. One or two points with regard to them must be mentioned.
In the first place they are not locks in the ordinary sense, as the
water that flows through them is tidal water; but they serve to keep
that tide in the canal at one uniform level. As they are within reach of
boisterous sea-water, there is an additional protecting gate in front of
each, while between them and the shore there are three large sluices to
regulate the passage of unusually heavy tides.
On passing through the Eastham lock, vessels bound for Manchester find
themselves in a channel about one hundred and seventy-two feet wide and
twenty-six feet deep, separated from the broader Mersey by a long
embankment thirty feet wide at the top, and following the curves of the
river for nine miles. But in that nine miles there are several sights to
see, for Eastham is not left very far behind when, on the right, the
river Weaver is reached. This is a broad river flowing into the Mersey,
and its ancient rights could not be taken away, though it was absolutely
necessary to control them. Consequently, all across its wide mouth a
number of sluice-gates, sliding up and down on rollers, had to be
erected. These are worked by hydraulic power, and are raised at suitable
times, according to the condition of the tide, when the water, flowing
from the Weaver across the canal, finds its way into the Mersey through
long openings in the top of the embankment of which we have spoken.
Streams less important than the Weaver are treated in a less dignified
way. Thus, a little farther on we come upon two small rivers which are
carried under the canal in huge cast-iron pipes. At the busy town of
Runcorn we reach the first railway bridge, and the canal is narrowed to
ninety-two feet, flowing in a graceful curve between concrete walls. The
railway bridge, as it stands to-day, was built by the Canal Company, for
the old one was too low for ships to pass beneath. It is now
seventy-five feet above the surface of the water, and all other fixed
bridges that cross the canal must be equally high.
Ten long straight miles beyond Runcorn a vessel comes to a halt in front
of the first lock on the canal proper. It is at a place called
Latchford. We are twenty-one miles from Eastham, and at the end of the
tidal course. Fourteen and a half more miles to Manchester--and in that
distance we have sixty feet and six inches to climb! As we move slowly
into the lock the hydraulic machinery is set in motion; the gate behind
us is closed, and the one in front slowly opens. In rushes the foaming
water, lifting our vessel as it rises in the lock, and in a few more
minutes we are steaming on our way--sixteen feet above the level of the
waters just left behind. We have mounted the first step in the watery
stairway leading to Manchester's front door.
Some seven miles further on another lock is reached, and passing
through this we shortly come in sight of what is, perhaps, the most
interesting engineering feat performed in this great enterprise. It is
the Barton swing bridge, and was constructed to carry the Bridgewater
Canal across the one upon which we are travelling in imagination. About
the year 1756 the young Duke of Bridgewater employed an engineering
genius named James Brindley to make a canal from his coal-mines near
Manchester to the town of Runcorn. With astounding skill, James Brindley
carried out the work, finding his greatest difficulty at the point of
which we are speaking. The river Irwell flowed directly across the
course of his canal and at a considerably lower level. Friends advised
him to lead his canal down to the river by a large number of small
locks, and lift it again on the other side by similar means. 'That is
the usual thing to do,' they said.
But Brindley preferred the _best_ way to the usual way, and boldly
carried his canal over the river on a stone bridge or aqueduct. It was
the first time such a thing had been done in England, and it served its
purpose for nearly one hundred and fifty years. Then the Manchester Ship
Canal comes along the Irwell, and the stone aqueduct must be turned into
a swing bridge, or how is any ship to pass?
'Very well,' said the owners of the Bridgewater Canal, 'but you must not
let much of our water be lost, for we have little to spare.'
And this is how Mr. Leader Williams, the engineer, got over the
difficulty. He built an island in the middle of the Ship Canal for the
iron bridge to turn upon, leaving the two ends free. The bridge itself
he made in the form of a long tank, nineteen feet wide and seven feet
deep, the two ends being hinged so that they would open and close like
doors. Strengthening iron girders, rising to a height of some twenty
feet, form the sides of the bridge, while cross-girders close in the
top. The two ends of the canal proper where it reaches the entrance to
the bridge, are also provided with watertight doors. When the bridge is
in position there is a narrow gap between its two ends and the canal.
This is filled up and made watertight by a ponderous wedge, weighing
twelve tons and shaped like a U, its sides and lower part thus
corresponding in outline with those of the tank and canal. The wedge is
further padded on each side with indiarubber which, when squeezed into
place, effectually prevents any leakage. As soon as a ship is signalled
on the Manchester canal, the doors at each end of the tank-bridge are
closed, together with those at the ends of the canal. Then the U wedge
is lifted from between them, and the bridge (weighing, with the water it
contains, sixteen hundred tons) is swung round on its island pivot till
the channels are open on either side. The ship passes by and the bridge
is swung back to its original position. The towing-path (for all craft
on the Duke of Bridgewater's canal are drawn by horses) is carried
across the bridge on an iron shelf, nine feet above the water.
Beyond Barton the Salford docks are reached, and after passing one more
lock, we sail triumphantly into the magnificent docks of Manchester to
which this thread of silver leads.
[Illustration: Barton Swing Bridge and Aqueduct. A huge Crane at Work.]
[Illustration: The Barton Aqueduct. Coming through the Aqueduct.]
When first the canal was opened Manchester seemed to be taken by
surprise, and hardly knew how to perform the part of a seaport; but that
is all changed now. The docks are growing fast, and only in 1905 their
Majesties the King and Queen opened a new dock two thousand seven
hundred feet long, two hundred and fifty feet wide, making an area of
fifteen and a half acres, and capable of accommodating ten of the
largest steamships entering the canal.
Thus this great city, at a cost of fifteen million pounds, opened its
gateway to the ocean, and receives at its doors rich freights of
merchandise from all quarters of the earth, though it stands thirty-five
miles away from the sound of the sea.
[Illustration: Iron-smelting in India.]
IRON-SMELTING IN INDIA.
In many parts of India iron is made in a very simple way, which has
probably been followed for centuries without much change. The
iron-worker builds a little furnace of clay, in the form of a tower
which is narrower at the top than at the bottom. This tower is only four
or five feet high, so that it is after all no bigger than the towers and
castles which children build in the sand; but its builder makes good use
of it, small though it is. The top of it is open, and at the bottom
there are one or two openings in the side, through which the iron-maker
can blow the air of a pair of bellows. These bellows are goat-skin bags,
which have been made by sewing up whole skins. A hollow bamboo is fitted
into the end of each bag, in order to form the pipes of the bellows and
there is also another opening in each bag which may be closed very
quickly by the man who blows the bellows. He works the bellows by
pressing upon the goat-skin bags with his feet, so as to drive out the
air through the pipe which is fixed in the end of each bag. He works two
bags at one time, pressing first upon one and then upon the other. While
he is pressing one bag, he raises the other, which is empty, and allows
it to fill again through the hole which has been left in it for that
purpose. In this way he contrives to have one bag filling with air,
while he is squeezing the air out of the other.
The smelter, before he can make iron, must have iron ore and fuel, as
well as furnace and bellows. The ore he has already dug from the ground
and arranged in a little heap near his furnace. It is usually a rather
dark-coloured stone, or a soft, red earth. The fuel is charcoal, which
the smelter makes by burning wood in a heap more or less covered with
earth, in such a way that the wood chars rather than burns away.
A very hot fire is needed to change the stony or earthy iron-ore into
iron, or rather to burn out the iron which lies in the ore, and the clay
furnace and the bellows are employed for the purpose of maintaining this
hot fire. The smelter lights the fire inside the bottom of his furnace,
and the tower acts as a sort of chimney. The pipes of the goat-skin
bellows are joined on to clay pipes which pass into the bottom of the
furnace, and lead the draught of air from the bags into the fire. The
bellows-pipes themselves cannot be put into the furnace, because they
would take fire.
When the smelter has got his fire well aglow, he places upon it a layer
of charcoal, and above that a thin layer of iron-ore. On the top of
these he puts another layer of charcoal and another of ore, and thus he
goes on loading his furnace until he thinks that he has filled it
sufficiently full. Then he works away at his bellows for three or four
hours.
At the end of this time the charcoal and much of the ore are burned
away, and there is not much left but glowing embers in the bottom of the
furnace. The smelter breaks a hole through the furnace, and, poking with
his tongs into the ashes, draws out a little red-hot ball of iron,
scarcely as large as a cricket ball, which has been formed from the ore,
partly by the heat of the fire, and partly by the help of the red-hot
charcoal which has acted chemically upon the ore. This little ball of
iron is well hammered, in order to knock out any ashes which may have
lodged in it, and it is then ready to be worked up into an implement, or
to be made into steel for a sword-blade or some other weapon.
THE PRINCESS HAS COME.
The white snow has gone from the vale and the mountain;
The ice from the river has melted away;
The hills far and near
Are less winterly drear,
And the buds of the hawthorn are peeping for May.
I hear a light footstep abroad in my garden;
Oh, stay, does the wind through the shrubbery blow?
There's warmth in the breeze,
And a song in the trees,
And the Princess of Springtime is coming, I know.
The crocus has lighted its lamp in the forest,
Though it shelters its flame with a close-drawn green hood;
The primrose peeps out,
With a shiver of doubt,
And wonders if winter has left us for good.
But hark, from afar comes the sound of a bugle!
Or is it the bee where the rose-bushes grow?
He loiters so long,
With such joy in his song,
That the Princess of Springtime is coming, I know.
The blackbird has climbed to the top of the cedar,
And there in the sunshine he whistles a strain.
'She's coming! She's here!'
Are his messages clear,
As squadrons of swallows sweep by in the lane.
Now the woodlands rejoice with the green-tinted hedges;
The young wheat peeps up and the blue sky looks down.
Then out and away!
Our respects we must pay,
When the Princess of Springtime is wearing her crown.
THE MISUNDERSTOOD POETS.
The village wiseacres of Cumberland, to whom the habits of the poet
Wordsworth and his eccentric friend Coleridge were a mystery, had
decided that they must be terrible scoundrels. One sage had seen
Wordsworth looking fixedly at the moon; another had overheard him
muttering in some strange language. Some thought him a conjuror; some a
smuggler, from his perpetually haunting the sea-beach; while others were
sure that he was a desperate French conspirator.
One day, while on a walking excursion, Coleridge met a woman, who, not
knowing who he was, abused him to himself in unmeasured terms for some
time. 'I listened,' wrote the poet to a friend, 'very particularly,
appearing to approve all she said, exclaiming "Dear me!" two or three
times; and, in fine, so completely won her heart by my civilities, that
I had not courage enough to undeceive her.'
This hostility seems very ludicrous now; but at the time its effect was
such, that the person who had the letting of Allfoxenden House refused
point-blank to re-let it to Wordsworth.
PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS.
II.--AGRICULTURAL ACROSTIC.
My first is very quiet,
My second was very noisy,
My third is very watery,
My fourth is often very fierce,
My fifth is very musical,
My sixth is done to newspapers.
Every week my finals and initials are held in many large towns.
W. S.
[_Answers on page_ 323.]
* * * * *
ANSWERS TO PUZZLES ON PAGE 254.
9.--1. Board.
2. Death.
3. March.
10.--_Lilac_.
1. H e _L_ e n.
2. C r _I_ m e.
3. G a _L_ e n.
4. T r _A_ i n.
5. B a _C_ o n.
THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.
(_Continued from page 275._)
Thomas advanced towards Estelle cautiously, an artful smile on his face.
Before the little girl was aware of his presence, he was close to her.
'Hush!' he muttered, fearing she would cry out; 'you come along with me,
and I will take you home, my lady. It is not true friends that keep you
here. I know my lady is dying to see you.'
He caught her suddenly in his arms, and bore her back into the tent. The
curtains dropped heavily behind him, just as Estelle, the spell of her
terror broken, uttered the cry Jack had heard.
Jack turned at the sound; so did Julien; so did Mrs. Wright. But Estelle
was nowhere to be seen. No further sound betrayed her whereabouts.
But Jack was not a man to be easily disconcerted. Mrs. Wright and Julien
stood still in consternation, but Jack made up his mind at once. He was
naturally impetuous and hasty in thought and action. Only the sore
troubles through which he had passed, and the knowledge that he had
brought so much unhappiness on his mother as well as on himself by his
quick temper, had had power to make him as calm and gentle as he had
shown himself to Estelle. It was as if a fire smouldered within him
always, but was held in restraint by a strong will.
Now, however, calmness was cast to the winds. The child was in danger.
She had no helper but himself. Till her parents were found she was _his_
child--his by right of being her protector, her preserver. On him she
depended for everything; on him and his mother. Who had dared to touch
her? His face flushed, then turned white. His keen eye searched every
corner. There was one place only in which the child could have been
concealed--the tent. She had been standing near it when he turned to
give the coppers to the children.
Without an instant's hesitation he sprang forward, the curtains were
thrust aside, and he was among the tawdry, excited crowd of play-actors.
They had been resting between the performances. Suddenly they were
startled by one of their number rushing through the tent with a child in
his arms, whose cries he was stifling with a large cloak. None
understood what the noise was about, nor had any of the men and women
seen the face of the little girl; therefore none were interested, and
none stirred themselves to ask what had happened. Only one spoke--she
whose cloak had been snatched up to enfold the child. She called out a
rough remonstrance, but Thomas answered her hurriedly, as he tried to
wind the garment closely about Estelle, with small regard as to whether
she could breathe or not.
'The child has been kidnapped,' he said, quickly. 'I know her parents,
and I must---- '
He got no further. Jack was upon him. The sudden appearance of the tall
sailor in hot pursuit caused a sensation among the people standing
about. The men pressed forward to see what would happen, and were
knocked over by the giant. A storm of resentment arose as they struggled
to their feet, and threatening fists were shaken at Jack. None, however,
ventured to attack the broad-shouldered, sinewy sailor, whose gigantic
height and powerful arms inspired awe. At sight of him Thomas caught up
the little girl, the cloak still trailing on the ground and hampering
his movements, and tried to escape through another opening in the
curtains of the tent. He did not require a second look at Jack's enraged
face and blazing eyes to understand that in him Estelle had a mighty
defender, who was not likely to let her kidnapper off easily. It seemed
barely a moment before violent hands were laid on Thomas's collar, the
child torn out of his hands, and himself hurled back among the angry
crowd behind him. A murmur of increasing wrath went up, but Jack paid no
heed to it. Getting rid of the cloak, and taking Estelle in his arms,
he strode out of the tent to where he had left his mother and Julien.
Estelle had fainted, and he was anxious to get her home as quickly as
possible. Her white, unconscious face alarmed him.