A TIMELY ARRIVAL
Would they be pursued this night? Would before the dawn, to race with
him? Thus there be any yacht set sail from Southport, thought Mr.
Carleton. Thus he questioned himself, and answered, “No.”
And yet the good yacht _Viking_ was, all unknown to any one, running a
race. The goal was Stoneland—and the competitor, the yacht _Surprise_.
Thirty miles apart, these two yachts had entered upon this race—and no
one knew it. At about the time the _Viking_ had got under way from out
Southport Harbour, so had the yacht _Surprise_ floated clear. Should they
try to beat back to Stoneland before morning? Why not? The night need not
stop them. The crew knew the way. The yacht _Surprise_ began the long,
ten-mile beat for Stoneland at about twelve o’clock. The yacht _Viking_
was already under way. Would they meet or would they pass?
Harry Brackett, lying miserably on the cabin berth, was suddenly aware
that the yacht had ceased running and had swung up into the wind. Then he
heard the sound of the sail dropping. He sat up in wonder. The next
moment, Mr. Carleton descended into the cabin. The yacht _Viking_ was
drifting before the wind at its own will. There was little sea on, and
Mr. Carleton had abandoned the wheel.
“What—what’s the matter?” stammered poor Harry Brackett.
“Nothing,” replied Mr. Carleton, shortly. He paid no heed to the forlorn
figure on the berth, but hastily proceeded to light another lantern. He
turned the wick up so that it shone brightly, and, carrying it, went
direct to the third starboard locker that had been Squire Brackett’s
undoing. He stooped down and pulled out, first, the larger drawer, and
then the smaller and secret one. By the lantern light, he looked within.
Harry Brackett, gazing at him in amazement, saw a strange and
unaccountable thing. He saw the man’s face, in the lantern’s gleam, pale
to a deathly hue. He saw the drawer that he held drop from his fingers
and fall to the floor. He saw the man stagger back, like one that has
been struck a blow. Then, the man’s face, turned toward him, was so full
of fierce passion and wrath that he shrank back, terrified, and dared not
speak to ask him what it might mean. Now Mr. Carleton advanced to where
he lay.
“Get up! I want you to help me,” was all he said. But Harry Brackett, to
his dying day, would never forget that voice. He scrambled up and
followed the man outside.
“Get that sail up!” said Mr. Carleton.
Harry Brackett seized the halyards. The yacht _Viking_ went on its course
again. But precious moments had been lost.
The man’s face was something fearful to look into. He threw the wheel
over and back, as though he would twist it apart. But he uttered not a
word.
Now they were running near a thin chain of islands. Mr. Carleton brought
forth a chart and spread it out upon the cockpit floor, with the lantern
on one corner.
“Do you know this bay at all?” he inquired, suddenly.
“Ye-es,” answered the boy. “Those are the Pine Islands just ahead, I
think.”
“Right,” exclaimed Mr. Carleton. “I thought so. I’ll go through like a
book.”
Presently he muttered something else, inaudible to Harry Brackett—and
mercifully so. “I’ll do it,” he said. “The boy’s in the way. I’ve got to
go it alone.”
It was quiet water in the channel between the islands, and the _Viking_
skimmed through like a phantom yacht.
“Here, hold this wheel,” said Mr. Carleton, suddenly, turning to Harry
Brackett. “Keep her just as she’s going.”
As the boy obeyed, Mr. Carleton seized the line by which the rowboat was
towing and drew it up close astern.
“Get into that boat!” he said, the next moment.
Harry Brackett gave a howl of terror, and shrank away.
“No, no, oh don’t!” he cried. “Don’t you leave me here. I might have to
stay a week. I’d starve. I’ll do any—”
Harry Brackett’s words were choked off, abruptly. He felt himself
gathered up in two powerful arms. He was half-dragged, half-lifted, over
the stern of the yacht, and tumbled into the boat, headlong. Then, as he
scrambled to his feet, howling for mercy, a knife flashed in the hand of
Mr. Carleton. The rope was severed. The _Viking_ shot ahead. The rowboat
dropped astern. Harry Brackett, alone in the night, beheld the yacht
speeding away like a shadow. A few rods away, the light waves moaned in
upon a sandy beach. There was only the black, desolate island, untenanted
save by sea-birds, to turn to. Like a lost and hopeless mariner, he got
out an oar and paddled in to land, where, upon the beach, abandoned and
overcome, he sank down and wept—a faint-hearted Crusoe, monarch of all
the shadows and dreariness that he surveyed.
And now that he was in turn alone and in sight of no man, Mr. Carleton,
at the wheel of the _Viking_, engaged in strange pantomime. He clenched
his fist and shook it at imaginary foes. He struck his hand again and
again upon the wheel, as though that were alive and could feel the pain
of the blow. If he had suddenly lost his wits he would not have done
stranger things.
“But I’ve got the yacht!” he cried, angrily. “She’ll pay me for what I’ve
spent. I’ll put her through.”
And then a sudden thought struck him. He brought the _Viking_ abruptly
into the wind again, dropped the wheel, and rushed down the companionway.
He threw open the door of the provision locker—and uttered a cry of rage.
It was empty.
Back at the wheel now was Mr. Carleton. The lights of Stoneland Harbour
shone faintly, far, far ahead. He sat, grim and troubled.
“More time wasted!” he muttered. “But I’ve got to stop. And ’twill be
three o’clock before I get in. If they’ve got word there, I’m lost. And
where can a man buy food at that hour of the night? I have it—the big
hotel. There’ll be somebody on watch. I’ll get it by four at the latest.
I’ll play the gentleman yachtsman in distress, and pay handsomely.”
But he had lost time. The night had hindered him. By day, he could have
laid a straighter course. And there had been delays. It was nearly
half-past three when the yacht _Viking_, feeling its way into the harbour
of Stoneland, rounded to off the wharves, and the anchor went down.
Leaving his sail set, and giving the yacht plenty of sheet, to lie easy,
Mr. Carleton lifted the skiff over the rail, jumped in, and rowed ashore.
All safe and clear thus far. No sign of disturbance in the town, as he
rowed in. No launch darting out to seize him. Only a few sluggish
coasters lying near peacefully at anchor. Only a fishing-boat or two
making an early start for the outer islands. Only, far down below, a red
and a green light indistinctly to be seen, as of a small craft beating up
to harbour.
Mr. Carleton rowed in to the wharf, tied his boat in a slip, and vanished
up into the town.
A red and a green light, showing from port and starboard respectively,
came to be seen more distinctly as the time went by. Close to, one might
have seen now that it was a trim yacht, but beating in slowly, as one
goes carefully in darkness, where shipping may lie.
There was also to be seen—if there had been any one to look—that a weary
youth sat at the wheel; that a smaller, but brighter-eyed, nimble
youngster was standing up forward, peering ahead into the darkness.
“I think we can anchor most anywhere here now,” said the boy astern. “I
guess the water isn’t too deep to fetch bottom.”
“Wait a minute, Joe,” answered the boy forward, rubbing one bare foot
against his trousers leg. “I say, there’s a sail, on ahead a few rods.
Luff up a little more, and we’ll run in near to that.”
“All right, Tim, tell me when we’re heading right,” responded the other
boy. But he stared at his small companion in astonishment, a moment
later, when the latter, deserting his post, darted aft, uttering a
warning “hush.”
“What on earth is the matter with you, Tim Reardon?” exclaimed the boy at
the wheel.
“Let her come up and take a look for yourself,” was Tim Reardon’s reply.
“It’s the _Viking_, as sure as you’re alive. They must be asleep. We’ll
get aboard and give Henry Burns one good toot on the horn. He’s fond of
that sort of thing, so he can’t say anything to us. But I wonder what
they’ve left the sail up for. Won’t they be surprised to see us?”
Joe Hinman, bringing the _Surprise_ up into the wind at the other’s
words, himself gave an exclamation of surprise to see the sail set on the
_Viking_.
“That’s queer,” he said. “Tim, you take the tender and go aboard, while I
hold the _Surprise_ where she is. Don’t be a fool, though, and blow any
horn. If they’re as tired as we are, they’ll be mad enough to throw you
overboard.”
Tim Reardon made no reply, as he rowed alongside the _Viking_, but a
mischievous twinkle danced in his eyes.
When he had stepped softly aboard, however, and had crept down into the
cabin, he darted swiftly on deck again.
“Joe,” he called, “this is great! They’ve gone ashore. And they must be
coming back soon. That’s why they’ve left the sail up.”
Then Little Tim Reardon, scampering forward, did a strange thing. Tugging
away at the rope, he brought the anchor off from bottom and clear to the
surface of the water. Taking a few turns of the rope around the bitts, to
secure it, he darted astern, seized the wheel of the _Viking_, and put
her under way.
“Here, you Tim, quit that!” cried Joe Hinman in disgust, from the stern
of the _Surprise_. “You don’t want to be too free with your tomfoolery
with Jack and Henry Burns. Just remember whose yacht we’re sailing.
They’ll be mad clean through, too. It’s no joke to think you’ve lost a
fine yacht.”
Little Tim only chuckled derisively, realizing that his larger companion
could not compel obedience from the deck of another boat.
“I’m doing this,” he said. “We don’t get a chance to play a joke like
this on Henry Burns every day. Wouldn’t he do it quick, himself, though?
Besides, I’m not going far—only up around the end of that long wharf. We
can watch from there and see what happens.”
“You’re a meddlesome little monkey; that’s what you are,” exclaimed Joe
Hinman, too sleepy and weary to see fun in anything. “You’ll catch it
from Jack—and you’ll get what you deserve.”
And yet Joe Hinman, so long as somebody else would smart for it, had just
enough interest in the plot to follow along with the _Surprise_.
Together, the two yachts turned in under the lee of a long wharf, less
than an eighth of a mile ahead, lowered the sails so they should not be
visible, and came to anchor.
“You’ve got to take the blame for this, Tim,” said Joe Hinman, as they
waited together on deck.
“I’ll do it,” chuckled Tim Reardon. “I like a joke as well as Henry Burns
does. He’ll take it all right, too. You see if he don’t.”
They woke the two boys who were sleeping in the cabin of the
_Surprise_—to see the fun. George Baker and Allan Harding came on deck,
sleepy and grumbling. Nor did the joke take on a more hilarious aspect,
as the time went by and no Jack Harvey and no Henry Burns put in an
appearance.
“I’m going to turn in,” said Joe Hinman, at length. “You can have all the
fun to yourself, Tim.”
He went below, the two other boys following his example.
Little Tim, himself, began to lose heart in the joke—when, suddenly, in
the faint gray of the approaching dawn, he espied a boat coming out from
shore toward where the _Viking_ had lain. It was four o’clock. The boat
was a small skiff. There was only one person in it. Whoever he was, he
was rowing furiously. There seemed to be a box of some sort on the seat
in front of him.
Suddenly the man ceased rowing. His head was turned for a moment. Then he
sprang to his feet in the small skiff, with a jump that almost upset the
craft. He peered wildly about him and seemed to be rubbing his eyes, like
a person in a dream or one rudely aroused from sleep. Then he sat down
and rowed a way down the harbour—then across to one side—then in toward
shore again.
“That isn’t either Jack or Henry Burns,” said Tim Reardon; “and yet he
acts as though he had lost something—his head, I guess.”
Little Tim was nearer correct than he knew.
“He looks familiar, too,” thought Tim Reardon. “What man does he look
like? I can’t think.”
But what happened next was more extraordinary than before. The man
suddenly sprang up, gave one glance about on all sides, then picked up
the box on the seat before him and dumped it overboard. He resumed his
seat, seized the oars, and began rowing furiously down the harbour. At a
point some way below where he had first appeared, he ran the boat in to
shore, sprang out, left the boat without tying it or dragging it up on
the beach, and started off, running desperately.
“That’s a crazy man,” said Little Tim to himself—and again spoke not far
from the truth, unwittingly.
“Hang the joke!” cried Tim, finally. “I wish I hadn’t done it now. It
don’t seem so funny after waiting all this time. I’m going to bed, too. I
guess I will catch it, just as Joe said I would.”
He went below, in the cabin of the _Viking_. His companions were aboard
the _Surprise_.
Morning came, and Little Tim awoke with something disturbing his mind.
Oh, yes; now that he was wide awake, he knew. It was that joke. He wished
he hadn’t played it. He wished so more and more when Joe Hinman awoke and
found that Jack and Henry Burns had not put in an appearance.
“You’ve made a nice mess of it, Tim,” he exclaimed. “I wouldn’t be in
your shoes, when Jack gets you. Like as not they’ve come down in sight of
shore and seen that the yacht was gone, and have given out an alarm. The
best thing we can do is to go up into the town and find them, and try to
square things.”
Little Tim, looking very sober, scampered off, followed soon by the
others. More puzzling than ever it became, when a search through the town
failed to yield any trace of the missing yachtsmen. The boys returned to
the yachts, and waited.
Somewhere near eleven o’clock there was a curious coincidence. Joe
Hinman, looking off on the water, suddenly uttered an exclamation of
surprise and pointed to a sailboat that was coming in.
“That’s Captain Sam’s old tub,” he said. “I know her as far as I can see
her.”
But they received a greater surprise, the next moment. A man in some sort
of uniform, passing along by the wharves, also uttered an exclamation and
stopped short.
“Well, if that don’t beat me!” he said. “Of all fool things, to steal a
yacht and bring her in here. That’s her, though: about thirty-eight feet;
white; two jibs, and there’s the name, ‘_Viking_.’ Well, I never saw the
like of this before.”
The man stepped to the edge of the wharf and jumped down on to the deck
of the _Viking_.
“Who’s in charge here?” he asked.
“I am,” replied Little Tim Reardon, emerging from the cabin.
The man laughed.
“You’re the youngest boat-thief on record,” he said, eying Tim
wonderingly. “What put you up to it, boy? Been reading dime-novels?”
“Well, it’s all right, anyway,” replied Little Tim, who had, however,
turned pale beneath his coating of tan. “They’re our friends that own the
yacht. We’re waiting for ’em. Just let ’em know we’re here with the boat,
and they’ll come down and tell you it’s all right.”
The man grinned.
“Say, you’re pretty slick, if you are small,” he said. “But the trouble
is, your friends don’t happen to be in town. They sent a telegram from
Bellport. I guess you’ll have to wait somewhere else for them.”
Little Tim’s eyes bulged out and his jaw dropped. But the next moment he
was standing on his head, with his bare toes twinkling in the air, for
sheer delight.
“Hooray; ’twas the man in the skiff that had her,” he cried—to the utter
amazement of the stranger and of his own companions. “Just wait a minute,
anyway, till that sailboat gets in. It comes from Southport, and perhaps
Captain Sam can explain things.”
But there was some one besides Captain Sam aboard the good old _Nancy
Jane_, to explain things. There were Jack Harvey and Henry Burns,
standing up forward and peering ahead eagerly. And how they did yell when
they saw the crew of the _Surprise_ standing on the wharf, waving to
attract their attention.
And then, ten minutes later, when the _Nancy Jane_, waddling in like a
fat, good-natured duck of a boat, had come alongside, and had let Jack
Harvey and Henry Burns scramble aboard the _Viking_—almost with tears in
their eyes—why then, Little Tim stepped forward and said he was under
arrest for stealing the boat. And wouldn’t they please pardon him, and
get the man to let him go; he wouldn’t do it again; oh, no. He had just
found the yacht down below, with the sail up, and had run it up here for
a joke—he was sorry—
But Little Tim didn’t get any farther, for Henry Burns had him lifted
clear up on his shoulder. And Jack Harvey had him, the next minute, and
between the two he was mauled and hugged and slapped till his shoulders
smarted—and he was almost in tears, too, to discover what he had
accomplished.
As for the official, who had made such an important discovery, he hardly
knew at first whether to be angry or not, at finding that his discovery
was really of a yacht that had already been recovered. But he finally
relented, and patted Little Tim on the back, too, and said he was a good
boy. Then he took Mr. Carleton’s description and hurried up into the
town.
He got trace of Mr. Carleton, too, after a time, at the big hotel, where
Carleton had succeeded in buying some provisions. He traced him from
there, down through the town, to the wharf. Later, he found a man who had
seen such a person come ashore from a skiff, and leave her adrift and run
up the shore. And lastly, the station agent had seen a man answering that
description take the early morning train out of town.
Mr. Carleton had, indeed, vanished—a disappointed, wrathful, frightened
man. A strange and most complete disappearance, too, for neither
Stoneland nor Southport heard of him more. True, there came a message
from the police, a day later, that a man who was much like the missing
Mr. Carleton, had had some trouble over a ticket with the conductor of a
train entering Boston; but the man had got away from the station, and no
arrest had been made.
But it was all one to Henry Burns and Jack Harvey, what should become of
Mr. Carleton, when they had the _Viking_ back. And there, in the course
of the afternoon, when they were preparing to depart, was a canoe to be
seen, coming down alongshore. So they sailed up and met it, and had Tom
and Bob aboard. And there was Little Tim, whom they had taken with them,
to be congratulated. And then, there were the Warren boys in the _Spray_,
to be hunted up among the islands, and told the good news.
Oh, yes, and there was Captain Sam, roaring like a sea-lion over the good
news. And there were the two yachts, the _Viking_ and the _Surprise_,
going up the bay together, to meet the _Spray_ wherever they should find
her.
Then, late that afternoon, as Captain Sam was nearing Grand Island, on
his return voyage, he espied in the distance, close to shore, a forlorn
figure, rowing wearily in the direction of Southport.
“I’m blest if that don’t look like young Harry Brackett,” exclaimed
Captain Sam. “It is, as sure as you’re alive. Ahoy, don’t you want a tow,
there?”
But the boy, turning his head in the direction of the _Nancy Jane_, shook
his head mournfully, and resumed his rowing.
“Well, you don’t have ter,” was Captain Sam’s comment.
Harry Brackett, sore, sleepless, and weary, had his own reasons for not
wishing to face the captain.
One week later, Jack Harvey, sitting on the step of Rob Dakin’s store,
received a letter. He opened and read:
“My dear Jack:—I’ve won the lawsuit and you shall have some money as
soon as things are settled. I wonder how you have got along this
summer. Too bad to cut you off, but I’ll make it up to you by and by.
Let me know how much money you need.
“Affectionately,
“Your father,
“William Harvey.”
For once in his life, Jack Harvey was prompt with an answer. This is what
he wrote:
“Dear Dad:—Glad you won. Much obliged for offering me the money. I
don’t need it. I’ve been earning some, and if you want some ready money
I’ll lend you twenty-five dollars.
“Affectionately,
“Your son,
“Jack.”
They were all aboard the yacht _Viking_, one evening not long after—Henry
Burns and Jack Harvey, the crew, Tom and Bob, and the Warren boys.
“Fellows,” said Harvey, “Henry’s got us all together to tell us a
secret—something he’s discovered, he says. Come on, Henry, out with it.”
Henry Burns, holding one hand in his coat pocket, and looking as grave as
though his communication was to be one of the greatest importance, turned
to his companions, and said:
“I thought, because you were all such warm friends of Squire Brackett,
you might like to know whether he was after that secret drawer in the
_Viking_, and whether he found the lobster-claw.”
The outburst of elation and surprise that followed assured Henry Burns he
was not mistaken.
“Well, I’ve found out,” said Henry Burns. “You see, when we got the yacht
back we saw the drawer on the floor, and the claw, too. That was
Carleton’s work, of course. I didn’t think about the squire’s having the
drawer out, till later. We were all so upset, you know.”
“Jack,” he continued, “do you remember our eating that lobster—the one
that owned the claw we put into the drawer?”
“Why, yes, of course,” replied Harvey.
“And do you remember saying that you’d have eaten both claws if the one
you left hadn’t been so big?”
“Why, yes, I remember that, too,” replied the puzzled Harvey.
“Well, now, which claw was it that you didn’t eat, and that we put into
the drawer?” asked Henry Burns.
“The right one,” answered Harvey. “I remember breaking off the left one
to eat because it was smaller.”
“That’s just as I remember it, too,” said Henry Burns. “Now look here.”
He withdrew his hand from his pocket and produced the claw they had found
on the cabin floor. A roar of laughter greeted its appearance.
It was the left claw of a lobster that Henry Burns held up to view.
THE END.
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Gabriel and the Hour Book. By Evaleen Stein.
Small quarto, cloth decorative, illustrated and decorated in colors by
Adelaide Everhart $1.00
Gabriel was a loving, patient, little French lad, who assisted the monks
in the long ago days, when all the books were written and illuminated by
hand, in the monasteries. It is a dear little story, and will appeal to
every child who is fortunate enough to read it.
The Enchanted Automobile. Translated from the French by Mary J.
Safford.
Small quarto, cloth decorative, illustrated and decorated in colors by
Edna M. Sawyer $1.00
The enchanted automobile was sent by the fairy godmother of a lazy,
discontented little prince and princess to take them to fairyland, where
they might visit their old story-book favorites.
Here they find that Sleeping Beauty has become a famously busy queen;
Princess Charming keeps a jewelry shop; where she sells the jewels that
drop from her lips; Hop-o’-My-Thumb is a farmer, too busy even to see the
children, and Little Red Riding Hood has trained the wolf into a trick
animal, who performs in the city squares.
They learn the lesson that happy people are the busy people, and they
return home cured of their discontent and laziness.
Beautiful Joe’s Paradise; or, The Island of Brotherly Love. A sequel to
“Beautiful Joe.” By Marshall Saunders, author of “Beautiful
Joe,” “For His Country,” etc. With fifteen full-page plates and
many decorations from drawings by Charles Livingston Bull.
One vol., library 12mo, cloth decorative $1.50
“Will be immensely enjoyed by the boys and girls who read it.”—_Pittsburg
Gazette_.
“Miss Saunders has put life, humor, action, and tenderness into her
story. The book deserves to be a favorite.”—_Chicago Record-Herald_.
“This book revives the spirit of ‘Beautiful Joe’ capitally. It is fairly
riotous with fun, and as a whole is about as unusual as anything in the
animal book line that has seen the light. It is a book for juveniles—old
and young.”—_Philadelphia Item_.
’Tilda Jane. By Marshall Saunders, author of “Beautiful Joe,” etc.
One vol., 12mo, fully illustrated, cloth, decorative cover, $1.50
“No more amusing and attractive child’s story has appeared for a long
time than this quaint and curious recital of the adventures of that
pitiful and charming little runaway.
“It is one of those exquisitely simple and truthful books that win and
charm the reader, and I did not put it down until I had finished
it—honest! And I am sure that every one, young or old, who reads will be
proud and happy to make the acquaintance of the delicious waif.
“I cannot think of any better book for children than this. I commend it
unreservedly.”—_Cyrus Townsend Brady_.
The Story of the Graveleys. By Marshall Saunders, author of “Beautiful
Joe’s Paradise,” “’Tilda Jane,” etc.
Library 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated by E. B. Barry $1.50
Here we have the haps and mishaps, the trials and triumphs, of a
delightful New England family, of whose devotion and sturdiness it will
do the reader good to hear. From the kindly, serene-souled grandmother to
the buoyant madcap, Berty, these Graveleys are folk of fibre and
blood—genuine human beings.
PHYLLIS’ FIELD FRIENDS SERIES
_By LENORE E. MULETS_
Six vols., cloth decorative, illustrated by Sophie Schneider. Sold
separately, or as a set.
Per volume $1.00
Per set 6.00
Insect Stories.
Stories of Little Animals.
Flower Stories.
Bird Stories.
Tree Stories.
Stories of Little Fishes.
In this series of six little Nature books, it is the author’s intention
so to present to the child reader the facts about each particular flower,
insect, bird, or animal, in story form, as to make delightful reading.
Classical legends, myths, poems, and songs are so introduced as to
correlate fully with these lessons, to which the excellent illustrations
are no little help.
THE WOODRANGER TALES
_By G. WALDO BROWNE_
The Woodranger.
The Young Gunbearer.
The Hero of the Hills.
With Rogers’ Rangers.
Each 1 vol., large 12mo, cloth, decorative cover, illustrated,
per volume 1.25
Four vols., boxed, per set 5.00
“The Woodranger Tales,” like the “Pathfinder Tales” of J. Fenimore
Cooper, combine historical information relating to early pioneer days in
America with interesting adventures in the backwoods. Although the same
characters are continued throughout the series, each book is complete in
itself, and, while based strictly on historical facts, is an interesting
and exciting tale of adventure.
Born to the Blue. By Florence Kimball Russel.
12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated $1.25
The atmosphere of army life on the plains breathes on every page of this
delightful tale. The boy is the son of a captain of U. S. cavalry
stationed at a frontier post in the days when our regulars earned the
gratitude of a nation.
The author is herself “of the army,” and knows every detail of the life.
Her descriptions are accurate, which adds to the value and interest of
the book.
Pussy-Cat Town. By Marion Ames Taggart.
Small quarto, cloth decorative, illustrated and decorated in
colors $1.00
“Pussy-Cat Town” is a most unusual, delightful cat story. Ban-Ban, a pure
Maltese who belonged to Rob, Kiku-san, Lois’s beautiful snow-white pet,
and their neighbors Bedelia the tortoise-shell, Madame Laura the widow,
Wutz Butz the warrior, and wise old Tommy Traddles, were really and truly
cats, and Miss Taggart has here explained the reason for their mysterious
disappearance all one long summer.
The Sandman: His Farm Stories. By William J. Hopkins. With fifty
illustrations by Ada Clendenin Williamson.
Large 12mo, decorative cover $1.50
“An amusing, original book, written for the benefit of very small
children. It should be one of the most popular of the year’s books for
reading to small children.”—_Buffalo Express_.
“Mothers and fathers and kind elder sisters who take the little ones to
bed and rack their brains for stories will find this book a
treasure.”—_Cleveland Leader_.
The Sandman: More Farm Stories. By William J. Hopkins.
Large 12mo, decorative cover, fully illustrated $1.50
Mr. Hopkins’s first essay at bedtime stories has met with such approval
that this second book of “Sandman” tales has been issued for scores of
eager children. Life on the farm, and out-of-doors, is portrayed in his
inimitable manner, and many a little one will hail the bedtime season as
one of delight.
Transcriber’s Notes
--Silently corrected a few typos (but left nonstandard spelling and
dialect as is).
--Rearranged front matter (and moved illustrations) to a more-logical
streaming order.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Rival Campers Afloat, by Ruel Perley Smith